Ramage (12 page)

‘Certainly,
Commandante
,’ the Italian said, as if he understood Ramage’s caution. ‘Wait while I light a candle.’

As soon as the light began to flicker, Ramage walked inside. The room was huge, like a cavern, occupying the whole length and width of the Tower. Overhead the domed ceiling was at least twenty feet high. He looked round for the staircase leading to the roof, but there was none: only a small door in the wall on his left – the wall facing the lake. Presumably it led to the staircase, so the wall must be double.

Nino put the candle on a small table, which, with a chair, was the only furniture in the room. Ramage saw a large fireplace just to the left of the entrance door and went over to it. There were some pieces of charcoal in the hearth, but, judging from the cobwebs hanging down like miniature fishing nets, it had not been used for a long time.

‘Well, Nino?’

‘As I told you,
Commandante
, there are difficulties. The message you mentioned,
Commandante
. By chance I met a person who knew something of alabaster but nothing about a little boy and Dante. This person was expecting friends,
Commandante
, but is worried.’

Ramage guessed the Italian was deliberately not referring to the person’s sex. Well, it was many years ago, and there was no particular reason, he supposed, why the Marchesa di Volterra should remember his Dante. But she must remember his mother. Perhaps she was so old her memory had gone. She must be – well, more than seventy now… A sudden thought struck him.

‘This lady of the alabaster, Nino: is she very old?’

Nino’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, she is not old. On the contrary!’ he exclaimed, as if the idea outraged him.

So the person
is
a woman, Ramage thought, and she is very young. Therefore the old Marchesa must be dead, and this is her daughter. Yes! Gina… Gianna: that’s it: she was younger than himself; pretty too, from what he could remember, but impulsive and unpredictable, and very self-possessed for a child. Wasn’t there some bitterness in the family because the old Marchesa had no son? The girl must have inherited the title by some dispensation or other, and those vast estates: hmm, she’ll be a handful for a man to handle unless she’s changed a lot.

‘Nino, perhaps the old lady I refer to is dead and this is her daughter. I cannot be certain.’

‘
Commandante
, name this lady, and tell us yours, or we cannot help you.’

Ramage hesitated: there was sudden tension in the cavernous room: it seemed to reach out from the two brothers, from each dark corner and from the shadowy vaulted ceiling. The Italians, standing by the table, were facing him squarely while Jackson, who had been examining the small door which apparently led to the stairs, quietly turned and watched, recognizing the threatening tone of their voices although not understanding the words.

‘Are we having trouble, sir?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

Ramage looked at Nino straight in the eyes.

‘I give you my name willingly, because it is of no consequence; but’ – he searched for a strong phrase – ‘but may the Madonna strike you dead if you ever repeat the lady’s name. It is – the Marchesa di Volterra.’

‘Ah,’ the relief was obvious in Nino’s voice.

The little door creaked for a moment and was flung wide open. Jackson leapt to one side and as the draught made the candle flicker, putting the room almost in darkness for a few moments, there was a swirl of movement. As the flame recovered, Ramage saw someone almost completely hidden in a long black-hooded cape standing just inside the room.

How it happened, Ramage was not quite sure; but equally suddenly Jackson made a quick cat-like movement which put him behind the hooded figure, the point of his cutlass pressing between the stranger’s shoulder blades. He kicked back and shut the door. Ramage was surprised to see how small the stranger was, compared with Jackson.

A hand – a small hand, Ramage noticed – came from among the folds of the cape, and it was holding a pistol: a pistol whose blue steel barrel, shining dully in the candlelight, was pointing straight at his stomach, and which was cocked, ready for firing. He glanced from the muzzle – which in a moment seemed to have grown to the calibre of a cannon – to the stranger’s face, but it was hidden in the shadows thrown by the hood. Just as he glanced sideways at the candle, measuring the distance to it, the hooded figure spoke.

‘If the gentleman behind me does not remove his sword, I shall be forced to use my pistol.’

The voice spoke in English, but had a heavy accent; it was calm but quite determined; and it was a girl’s voice. From sheer relief Ramage started laughing and just stopped himself in time from gesturing to Jackson: a sudden movement might lead the girl to squeeze the trigger…

‘Stow the cutlass, Jackson.’

The American sheepishly put the cutlass behind his back. The two brothers did not understand what had been said, but smiled when they saw Jackson’s embarrassed movement and heard Ramage’s spontaneous laugh: not, Ramage felt, because they saw anything funny in the situation, but their peasant instinct – stronger and wiser than that of more cultured people – told them only maniacs killed while laughing.

However, the girl in the black cape merely took a few steps sideways to avoid having Jackson behind her, and told the two brothers to stand to one side, which they hastily did. Getting them out of the line of fire, Ramage noted, because the pistol still pointed unwaveringly at his stomach.

She said: ‘Tell your friend to stand beside you.’

‘Come over here, Jackson.’

Ramage had an uneasy feeling the girl not only knew how to handle the pistol but would use it without hesitation. But what had gone wrong? For a moment he had thought she must be the Marchesa; yet now… He wriggled his right forearm slightly to make sure the throwing knife in his sleeve would fly clear, and was thankful he had transferred it there from the sheath in his boot.

Obviously she had been listening at the door – she came in as soon as he mentioned the Marchesa’s name. Why the pistol, then? Perhaps Jackson’s sudden movement had startled her into producing it. Where were the rest of them? Were the men even now waiting behind that door? Supposing they came in and startled the girl, so that she accidentally squeezed the trigger?

‘What,’ the girl said icily, ‘is this about alabaster and “
L’amor che muove il sole
”?’

‘May I introduce myself: I am Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage of the Royal Navy.’ He decided to risk being wrong and continued: ‘I am sorry your mother is dead, madam: she was one of my mother’s closest friends. My message was intended for her: the quotation from Dante was one of her favourites – she often made me recite it when I was a boy and I knew she’d recognize me when she remembered it. I thought it safer not to name names…’

‘And who, sir, was your mother?’

The voice was still icy: she was not a girl who had an attack of vapours when a servant dropped a wine glass: she was used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Hardly surprising, since she was the head of such a powerful family. But why did she not know his name or remember him? Then he realized she would never have heard his family surname, since Father had inherited the earldom long before they lived in Italy.

‘My mother is Lady Blazey. My father is Admiral Lord Blazey. Perhaps you remember me as their son “Nico”?’

The pistol was withdrawn into the folds of the cloak, and with the other hand the girl swept back the hood, shaking her head to tidy her hair. It shone blue-black, like sun on a raven’s wing feathers. Then she looked up at him.

His head swam, and it seemed he had to gasp for breath. God, she was beautiful: not paintings-on-the-wall beautiful, but the beauty of a face moulded by strength of character and determination, assurance and courage, and an expression deriving from the confidence of a woman knowing her own beauty and accustomed to being obeyed.

Even by candlelight he could see the finely chiselled features: high cheekbones, large, widely spaced eyes, a small, slightly hooked nose. The mouth – it was a little too wide, with lips a fraction too full, for classic perfection. It was as though a sculptor had deliberately carved a sensuous goddess. Yes! Except for the nose, she might have been the model for – he searched his memory, Siena – no, Florence: Ghiberti’s beautiful carving of ‘The Creation of Eve’ on the east doors of the Baptistry. Had she the naked Eve’s same bold, slim, body, the same small, jutting breasts, the same glorious shoulders, flat belly and rounded thighs? The girl’s face was certainly a little fuller and more sensuous. Ramage glanced down at her breasts; but the cape…she might as well be wrapped in a parcel.

‘It was fortunate I did not shoot you, Lieutenant Ramage,’ she said calmly.

Goddess! he thought, jerked suddenly back to reality. Diana the Huntress, maybe; not one of the peaceful kind. But she was self-possessed and her mind worked like lightning: Ramage realized there had been a moment’s hesitation before calling him ‘Lieutenant’: she knew an earl’s son might have a courtesy title even if not one in his own right; and although he had introduced himself without using it, she was obviously trying to avoid a mistake in the way she addressed him.

‘It was doubly fortunate,’ he replied, ‘since my man had his cutlass at your back.’

‘Very well, Lieutenant,’ she said, indicating formalities were over. vhis man’ – she indicated Nino – ‘will fetch the others, and then we will sail in your ship for England.’

The impulsive but self-possessed child had not changed in the transition to womanhood, and Ramage knew that he must grab the initiative from her to avoid the next few days being extremely difficult.

‘Madam, there are details to explain before we start.’

‘Very well, but please be brief, because we have waited a long time: you are very late.’

Her tone was so patronizing that as anger flooded through Ramage, he realized he now had both the chance and the wish to reduce this girl to more manageable proportions. He indicated the chair beside the table: ‘Will you please be seated: I repeat – there are some things to explain.’

He waited until she gathered the cape round herself, nonchalantly placed the pistol in her lap as though it was a peacock-feather fan, and then looked up at him coldly, as if he was a tiresome servant. Then he spoke in a voice that surprised him for its bitterness.

‘Madam, to enable me to be here tonight – late as I am – more than fifty of my men have been killed; another fifty have been wounded and taken prisoner by the French; and fifty or more are now rowing for their lives towards Corsica…’

‘Yes?’ her voice was cold, polite and utterly impersonal: it was as if the cook was proposing the menu for the day.

‘Of less importance,’ he said bitterly, ‘is the fact that I have been forced to surrender one of His Majesty’s ships.’

‘That can hardly be your fault: you are too young: your Admiral should not trust the command of a ship to a youth.’

He struggled with his temper, aware of the warning signs for one of his blind rages: he was blinking quickly, rubbing the scar on his brow, and in a moment he’d be fighting to avoid mispronouncing ‘r’.

‘In fact my Admiral did place three officers over me, but they’ve all been killed. No doubt he will consider the loss of life so far a small price to pay for your safety. I mention all this pettifogging detail only to explain my lateness – and why you and your friends are not going direct to England.’

The girl lowered her head, turning slightly away from the candle, so that her face was in shadow. She was smaller, more frail even, than he’d first thought, and his anger passed quickly, spent like a shout echoing down a valley. For all her outward calm, she was young and probably very frightened and now he was embarrassed at his bitter outburst.

‘May I ask why some of the men in your party are not here?’

‘There was no need. The peasant was satisfied you were not French, but the message was garbled… We thought it just possible you were trying to identify yourself to one of the party by referring to a past meeting. Obviously “alabaster” could only mean the mines at Volterra, or the Volterra family; but I remembered nothing of a small boy and “
L’amor che muove ile sole
”.’

‘Why did you come then, not one of the men?’

‘Because the Volterra family were concerned,’ she said impatiently. ‘As soon as I heard you explaining to Nino I realized you thought my mother was still alive. After that, this man’ – she nodded towards Jackson – ‘startled me.’

‘You did not fear a trap?’

‘No, I trusted the judgement of the peasant – his family have worked for us for generations and this’ – she waved her hand – ‘is my land. Anyway, it would have been difficult for you to trap me because on the way to us he searched all this area.’

‘But he didn’t find my men!’

‘Oh yes he did! You have a boat hidden among the rushes and your sentry is just above, on top of the dunes. He was asleep, incidentally, and so were the five men in the boat.’

Ramage glanced at Jackson, who was clearly making a mental note to deal with the man – and, from the look on his face, obviously wished he could deal with the girl as well.

‘If you didn’t think it a trap, I hope you trust me now.’