'Congratulations! You are cleverer than I thought. Now, tell me, what harm have I done you to make you so determined to destroy me? Quite unwittingly, I borrowed your dress. That is a slender grudge!'
'And Morvan? Morvan never took his eyes off you, he cast me aside! You think I would let you take my place?' Gwen flung back savagely.
'Your place? An enviable one to be sure! The mistress of a highway robber, a wrecker who will end his days at a rope's end! It would have been easier for you to help me escape!'
'But not so certain! Only the dead are really safe! And that's why I shall watch you like a hawk until you are unmasked completely and—'
'Much good may it do you!' Marianne sighed irritably. 'Well, guard me if you insist, only let me sleep. I'm going to bed.'
She realized that there was nothing to be gained from Gwen. The girl was too unintelligent and, with her primitive instincts, she knew only one way of getting rid of anyone who was a nuisance to her. They must die. She had released Jean Le Dru in order to cut Marianne off from all help and now she was waiting with cat-like patience for the arrival of the mysterious visitor who, she believed, would finally unmask her enemy and sign the death warrant. Further argument was useless. It was better to try and build up her strength for the next day.
In the great hall the wake was still going on. Even through the thick walls Marianne could hear the slow, mournful chanting. She shivered. The discordant sound of the men's voices might have been the wailing of those very doomed souls which, according to the Breton Legend, emerged at night to haunt the roads and to reproach the living for their selfish pleasures. She did her best to shake off the dismal idea. At this time tomorrow, she hoped to be quit of this gloomy place.
The weather, as the funeral procession left the manor, was quite dreadful. Squalls of wind and rain were flattening the gorse and whin bushes and turning the sodden lane into quagmires. The sky was so grey and lowering that it seemed actually to be pressing down on their heads, and the conditions were so bad that the cart which would ordinarily have been used to take the body to the cemetery had to given up. Instead, four strong men carried the coffin on their shoulders, getting what shelter they could from the rough wood. At the head of the procession rode the parish priest on horseback, saying prayers as he went. The household and friends followed as best they could, backs bent against the unceasing wind on which was carried the faint sound of the passing bell. Only the tailor, crouching over his work, was left in the house. But he was not really a man—
Marianne, wrapped in a thick black cloak with the hood pulled well down over her eyes, walked with the other women, hemmed in on one side by Gwen, still plainly showing her dislike, and on the other by old Siozic who was too busy with her beads to notice her at all. But Marianne was not interested in her neighbours. She watched the small grey granite belfry rise above the heath land and thought of Black Fish. Why was he so anxious to help her escape? She had paid him to take her to France and she was in France. His part of the bargain was fulfilled and she was no longer any concern of his. And yet, he had taken still further risks to get her away from Morvan. What had he to gain? And if she went with him, to what new perils might he lead her? It was all getting stranger and stranger! At any rate, she could not well be worse off. She had seen that in the cold glance Morvan had given her as they set out. His demand that she attend the funeral was purely in order to keep her under his eye. She could not be left at the manor and no one could stay with her.
The little church stood beside clumps of dead trees, surrounded by modest graves with, at one side, a charnel-house built like a shrine. On the summit of a nearby hill, a dolmen crouched, like a beast about to spring. It was built of huge stones like a triumphal arch.
The coffin vanished beneath the low porch and the rest of the cortege followed. Marianne shivered as the icy dampness clutched her. It was dark inside. The only illumination was in the sanctuary, where two great candles made of yellow wax and the small red altar lamp seemed to fill the place with shadows. The big black cloaks of the women, the priest's vestments, Morvan's long cape and funereal mask loomed like a ghostly gathering, barely visible in the semi-darkness of the church. What seemed to Marianne sepulchral voices were raised and the service began.
There, in the dark, under that low-arched roof, they might have been already in the tomb. Only the dead man seemed at home. The cold was intense. Their breath rose in a cloud as Marianne began to feel increasingly unwell. Her hands and feet were frozen but her forehead under the wet homespun cloth, was burning hot and her heart thudding madly. She knew the time had come but she could not breathe for nerves. She felt suddenly very lonely and helpless. She could not see the reassuring bulk of Black Fish anywhere. Why wasn't he there? Had he changed his mind? She had caught sight of him in the procession earlier but since the entry into the church, he seemed to have vanished into thin air.
The thought that something had happened to him, that perhaps he had abandoned her after all, swept over her with such terrifying certainty that for a second she lost control. She knew she must get it over with, or else go mad. In another moment, she would be capable of any foolishness, anything to fight off the rising panic which was threatening to choke her. She had to take the plunge. Then, taking a deep breath, she swayed on her feet and, uttering a loud shriek, fell flat on her back. She hit her head on the bench and hurt herself so badly that for a moment she thought she was going to faint in good earnest but she retained sufficient presence of mind to make no sound and lay quite still with her eyes closed, breathing slowly.
Around her the solemn boredom of the service was shattered. There was a stir of movement and shocked voices. Marianne felt herself being shaken by an ungentle hand.
'What's the matter with you?' Gwen's voice hissed crossly.
'She's very pale,' Soizic said. 'She needs air.'
The feeling of absurdity and unreality gained on Marianne. She was playing a part, as those in a play. The smell of wet cloaks and unwashed bodies filled her nostrils, overcoming the musty odour of damp and hot wax. The sound of sabots scraping on stone, then Morvan's voice saying curtly: 'Take her outside, see to her – this is too much! Let the service go on! May the soul of the departed not return to blame us! We will sing two more psalms.'
Behind her closed lids, Marianne felt a sudden, quite unexpected gaiety bubble up inside her. Oh, if she could only open her eyes and see their horrified faces! How they must be reaching for their beads and frantically crossing themselves. Such appalling sacrilege! Thanks to her, that scoundrel Vinoc would have a funeral he deserved.
Incredibly she found herself being lifted and carried out. The close air of the church gave way to rain-laden wind and the fresh smell of wet leaves. Nearby, women's voices were muttering in Breton. She was set down roughly on the ground. Someone slapped her face. Then came the sound of two short groans followed by Black Fish's voice.
'Quick, up, and let's be going!'
Marianne opened her eyes and leapt to her feet. She was inside the porch of the tiny charnel-house. Gwen and a sturdy peasant woman whose name she did not know lay motionless close by. But there was no time for surprise. She was seized by Black Fish's huge hands and hurried forward irresistibly. Towed by the giant, she began to run towards the dolmen, slipping and sliding on the muddy grass. But each time, her guide's great hand was there to yank her to her feet.
'Keep going,' Black Fish growled. 'Do you think we've time to waste?'
They rounded the dolmen and Marianne gave a cry of joy as she saw two horses standing ready saddled.
'I hope you can ride!' For answer, Marianne tucked up her skirts, put one foot in the stirrup and was up like a feather.
Black Fish grunted approval. 'A real trooper! Now, come on!'
At that moment, the sound of voices shouting broke out from the church porch. Their flight had been discovered. Marianne could hear Morvan's angry voice shouting to her hopelessly to stop. Laughing wildly, she dug her heels into her horse's sides. The animal leapt forward in the wake of Black Fish who was already galloping headlong down the hill. There was the sound of a shot, and then another, but both went wild. Turning, Marianne saw that the village had disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill. In front was only the empty, whin-covered heath with the roaring wind and here and there massive clumps of rock. But Marianne plunged through the rain with a kind of exaltation. Through a break in the ground, she caught a glimpse of the sea throwing up lofty plumes of spray high in the air and it seemed to her that this great, empty landscape was the most intoxicatingly beautiful she had ever seen, and the very image of that freedom which she was vaguely aware of having found at last in this land where she had been born.
Spurring on her horse, she caught up with Black Fish and rode level with him.
'Where are we going?'
'To Brest! I have a little house there. Morvan will never think of looking for you there and besides, I have business in the place. Also – I think it's high time you and I had a little talk.'
'Why did you help me get away from Morvan? You don't even know who I am?'
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