The Nightingale Legacy (47 page)

She stumbled and flew forward. She flung her arms out, breaking her fall, then rolled to the bottom of the path. She lay there just an instant, hoping she hadn’t broken a leg, then she rose. She looked back to see the cloaked man at the top of the path, looking down at her. Then he was coming down, as fast and recklessly as she had, his black cloak billowing about him, making him look like he was flying, looking like the Devil himself.

She ran as fast as she could over the wet clinging sand, looking wildly for a weapon, anything really, and she saw it then, a thick branch, but not too thick for her to grasp firmly. She grabbed it up, never breaking stride, and headed for the back of the beach. There were overhanging layers of shale sandstone, thick slabs of it, the porous rock cut away over the centuries deeply back under the cliff.

She would be trapped, she thought, stopping just a moment, her breath harsh in her ears, ripping pain through her chest. What to do? Then she knew that it was dark under that cutaway cliff and that would give her protection. But he would come for her and he was stronger. She would have to surprise him.

The black clouds suddenly cleared overhead and the moon shone down. She even heard a lone kestrel as it hovered. It was then she saw the vague indentations going upward beside the overhang. North had never mentioned this, nor had she noticed the outlines that surely would allow a person to climb upward. She didn’t question why the outlines, which were really actual footholds and handholds, were there or who fashioned them there. She didn’t think
further, but raced to the first outline and hoisted herself upward.

Her foot fit quite nicely into the foothold. She grabbed a rock, surely a handhold there to aid the climber, and pulled herself up to the next foothold when she realized she couldn’t climb and carry the branch at the same time. She turned, saw the man below her, and threw the branch down at him with all her strength. She didn’t have much leverage, but she did the best she could. No, her chance lay in getting up there, before he did, perhaps she could get to his horse.

She heard him curse when the branch struck him, not hard enough, but it slowed him for just a moment.

She found a handhold and dragged herself upward to each foothold. Up and up she went until she was a good thirty feet above the beach. If she fell from here she’d surely die.

She stopped just a moment to catch her breath. She looked down to see him coming, sure and fast. She had to hurry. She looked up. Only about twenty more feet to the top. She just had to keep climbing and she would beat him. She’d have time to get his horse and ride away.

Suddenly there were no more handholds, no more footholds. They simply disappeared, or they’d never been there in the first place. She felt betrayed by the ancient people who had carved this upward climb. Why had they stopped? It made no sense. She looked about frantically, her bloody hands digging into the dirt around the jagged rocks, searching, searching.

To her right, yes, just to her right and straight beside her there was a foothold, but it would take all her strength to drag herself over to it.

Suddenly she heard a shout from above her, a man’s shout, and it was familiar. She felt a wild spurt of hope. Then she heard the report of a gun from below her. There was nothing else from above, not a whimper, nothing.

The man below her had shot her rescuer. North? Oh God, she couldn’t bear to think about that. She stretched as far as she could to her right, then heaved herself sideways, her hands frantically clutching at jagged rocks that seemed just beyond her reach, pulling herself until her feet found a hold. Then there was another, and it too was going sideways, back in nearly a straight line across the cliff edge. It made no sense, but she didn’t care. She just kept going, not thinking now, just making herself move.

She heard the man beneath her. She knew that he’d reached the end of the vertical handholds and footholds, knew that he wouldn’t have to take the time to discover they turned sharply sideways, going back along the face of the cliff.

Then, without warning, her foot slipped and she was hanging there, clinging to the rocks above her head, her legs dangling now, trying desperately to get a foothold but not finding one. Then he was there beside her, not more than six feet away from her, and she knew he was laughing because she would fall and she would die. Her hand slipped. She was flailing wildly but it was no use. She lost her remaining grip and fell, her scream of failure hurtling into the howling wind.

S
HE GRABBED WILDLY
at a gorse bush growing out of the cliff, and caught it. It slowed her but nothing more, then when it ripped out, she rocked hard sideways, her hip slamming against the cliff. It seemed to tremble beneath her weight. Then it gave, collapsing beneath her. She felt herself falling sideways, down, down, into dry musty air now, for the cliff had simply crumbled under her. She landed on her side on an incline and rolled another six feet to a smooth sandy flat ground. She lay there, panting hard, not wanting to know what had happened, not yet, simply because it had happened too quickly, a cliff collapsing beneath her and now she was inside the cliff itself, and she couldn’t seem to bring herself to accept it, much less understand it.

Her breathing finally slowed. The stitch in her side lessened. She felt her belly, but there was no pain there, no hint of cramping. The babe was all right, at least for the moment. Very slowly, she turned and sat up. The only light was from the moon high above the jagged opening her body had made when she’d burst through the earth.

She looked around, wondering what the devil this place was, then realized it had to be a cave, but it didn’t really look like any cave she’d ever seen before, not that she’d seen many, just one, and it had been small and dark and very damp. This cave was dry, the earth beneath her feet sandy and flat. She stood there, just looking around,
querying her body, but all was well. Her hands were bloody and raw, but that didn’t matter. In fact, she welcomed the stinging pain. It meant she was alive.

The man would somehow get down here, then he would kill her, for she was now indeed trapped. If only she had a light. She walked away from the cliff face, inward, and she could still make out shapes. Perhaps the cave twisted back onto itself and gave out again onto the cliff and there was another opening. Of course there really hadn’t been an opening here, it had simply given way beneath her weight.

But surely the handholds and footholds had been planned apurpose just to get to this cave. But what had happened? It struck her then that there simply had to be another way out of here and maybe that way was upward.

She just had to find it. She kept walking slowly, looking, listening for the man, because she knew it wouldn’t be long before he found a way to climb down and get into the opening of the cave.

Whom had he shot atop the cliff? No, she just knew it hadn’t been North. But whom?

Suddenly she tripped. She didn’t fall, just stumbled and caught herself. By her foot there was something shiny sticking up out of the smooth, dry, sandy earth. She knelt down and freed it. It seemed to be circular and very smooth. It was shiny, a piece of jewelry of some kind. She wished she could go back to see what she had, but she had no intention of taking such a chance.

She slipped the jewelry into her cloak pocket and kept walking into the darkness.

From behind her, she heard an eerie call, like a ghost’s taunt on All Hallows’ Eve, a specter’s cry, all muffled and distorted by the cave walls. It echoed deep and dark, that voice that called like a beguiling siren, “Caroline,
Caroline, you might as well stop now. I will have you soon enough and I will make you die very, very slowly. That damned brat in your belly, that little bastard, will die with you.”

She began to shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself, felt the keening cries from deep within her bubble up, choking her, making her wheeze with fear. She forced herself through sheer strength of will to remain silent as the rocks on all sides of her. The voice came again, echoing and threading through the darkness, closer now, “Come here, Caroline. You’re more resourceful than the others, or perhaps you’re just luckier. Let me tell you about that pathetic woman, Elizabeth Godolphin. She whimpered, she was on her knees to me, begging me not to kill her, but I did, of course. She was even a worse slut than your aunt. I’ll tell you all about how your dear aunt died once I have you, Caroline. I want to see your face while I tell you how she tried to save herself, but she didn’t stand a chance. But her death was justice, she deserved it. No more about her now, not until I have you. Come out now, Caroline. You don’t want to make me angry.”

She shivered more violently. There was madness in that echoing eerie call. Madness and determination.

A weapon. She had to find something. She kept walking back into the cliff. The ceiling lowered, but it was still at least ten feet high. She turned a corner to the left. Suddenly it wasn’t quite so dark. She could make out shadows. Another opening, she knew it, there had to be another way, and she’d found it. She hurried now, running toward the vague glittery light, then stopped so fast she nearly fell over her own feet.

There, in front of her, on a long, very wide flat rock lay piles of gold—coins, jewelry, many armlets, bracelets,
necklaces, so many of them—and there were loose jewels as well, spilling out of several gold chalices. And in the middle of all these jewels a mighty sword rose at an angle a good foot and a half into the air, its handle encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. It seemed to be embedded in the rock at least half its length. Good God, the sword must be at least four feet long. She just stared, her terror at bay for a brief second, realizing what she’d found.

It was King Mark’s treasure trove, it had to be. The Nightingale men had been right. His treasure was here, buried a thousand years before, more treasure than a single mortal man deserved.

She walked closer, her hand stretched out to touch the sword. But she held back. She was afraid of it, it was that simple. What was it doing here, buried in that stone? She knew it was something beyond what a human should know, beyond what a human should see and experience. It wasn’t of this earth, of this time, yet it was here, as if it was waiting. It glittered like gold but it was made of steel. It was magnificent: hard and long, ferocious. Its blade was a glittering silver in its sharpness, the brilliant edge glittering. It still looked deadly after one thousand years.

She stared at that sword. There was something about it that drew her. Without really thinking, she clasped her hands around the hilt and tugged. To her absolute astonishment, the sword moved. She pulled harder now and the sword simply slipped out of the stone, and she realized that the stone couldn’t be solid as it appeared. There had to be a chamber built within it for the sword, a scabbard for it, a place of honor for it, to display it as she’d displayed the armlet. But for whom?

She’d pulled it free, and now just stared at it lying there atop the stone amid all those incredible gems, those piles
of gold. How could she lift it? It was at least four feet long, perfectly straight, its top so pointed, so deadly, that just looking at it made her shiver.

But it was a weapon.

She gingerly tried to raise it with both hands wrapped around the handle. Again, to her astonishment, she discovered she could lift it easily. She brought it up with but one hand clutching about the jewel-encrusted handle. It fit well into her palm. Her fingers closed easily around it. But it had looked so big, so foreboding thrust into the rock. She swung it. It weighed so little, but that didn’t make sense, simply couldn’t be real. She didn’t care. She swung it again. It seemed an extension of her arm, flowing and smooth. She felt powerful; she felt the strength of it, or she fancied she did. She felt as if it had been fashioned for her and only her.

She smiled. Now she had a chance. Then she remembered the shot. The man had a gun. Even this wonderful sword would have no chance against a gun. She turned again toward the light, the other opening. She could escape him.

She followed the shadow light. To her despair, not six feet behind the stone slab she stood beneath the light. It was not more than a small circular opening, more a narrow tunnel that seemed to twist back on itself, back toward the edge of the cliff. There was nothing else.

She felt bowed by defeat. Then, very carefully she eased the sword behind her back and walked forward again, back toward her killer. The sword felt so light. It lay so easily pressed against her legs, her single hand holding it without effort. Odd that the handle had looked so massive, but it wasn’t. It didn’t strain her arms at all to keep it from dragging on the ground.

She walked now toward the light from where she’d
crashed through the cliff, back toward the man who wanted to kill her, the man who was insane, the man whose voice terrified her, drew at her confidence, her strength.

She heard him call again, his voice soft now, echoing deep and dark, forming and reforming like shadows off the rock walls. “Caroline, how much longer can you hide from me? Come to me now and I will slip my knife quickly into your heart. You won’t suffer, Caroline, and Lord Chilton will be free of you, all of us will be free of you, me most of all.”

She was closer to the man now and his voice sounded that much more frightening, more inhuman, more like a specter’s than a human being’s. She pulled back close to the wall, becoming part of the darkness, and sang out softly in a voice that made her shiver herself, “Why has a madman come into my burial chamber? It is forbidden. You are not one of the chosen. That girl who dared enter now lies dead, as will you very soon now.”

She heard a yelp, she was certain of it. She heard a quickening of breath, she heard no more movement. She pressed herself even closer against the wall.

“Well? Who are you? Why do you come here?”

The killer’s voice now, coming like a thread of fear, low and hoarse, fright filling it: “I will leave but I must have the girl’s body. She is an abomination. If I leave her here, she will be a scourge to this chamber. Her very presence will curse you. I will take her.”