Authors: Alicia Meadowes
“Non, non,
Madame Straeford. You will stay with us. Do not fear, That so gallant husband of yours will, no doubt, come to your rescue,
eh?”
“So that is it!” Marisa claimed aghast. “I am to be bait in a trap set for my husband!”
“And so, now you begin to understand.
Très intelligent, n’est-ce pas?”
“My husband will kill you for this—you and all your sneaking compatriots. It is your own destruction you engineer with the
fiendish plot!” Marisa declaimed with a bravado she was far from feeling.
“Bravo, madame! You are a captive worthy of the pains we have taken to ensnare you.” He bowed mockingly and the door slammed
closed, leaving Marisa alone to battle her terror in private.
Dusk was falling and soon it would be nighttime. What was going to happen to her?
She had little time to wonder. Within minutes the coach began to move. Marisa could not at first comprehend how this came
to be. The wheel was broken, was it not?
Or was it?
In a lightning shaft of revelation, Marisa realized that she had been the victim of a carefully laid plot to kidnap her. Manuelo
had known all along that the French were waiting for her. He had the pin to the coach wheel the whole time. It was not lost.
It was all a delaying tactic until the French should arrive.
And she had started out so trustingly. Oh the treachery!
And Justin! They were after Justin. Lucy had been given a message for him. They wanted him to know their plans.
The coach was jolting badly. They must have left the main road for a secondary one through the countryside. Dear God! Where
were they taking her?
Her destination, had she known it, would have caused Marisa a rueful smile of irony. The Convent São Margite, one of the 12th
century strongholds of the Knights Templar, was just such an historic landmark as the countess had yearned to explore. The
Templars, who once immured themselves behind the convent’s massive walls, had fought ferociously against the Moors at Santarem
and were instrumental in ousting the infidels from Portugal. The convent contained some of the finest Manueline architecture
of Portugal, including the lacy stonework of ornamental vines, leaves, rosettes and scrolls.
The Knights had transformed the convent, which once housed cloistered Cistercian monks, into a powerful fortress of thick
stone walls and imposing battlements that jutted into the skyline above a prominent mountain ridge of the lower Serra da Estrêla.
On her arrival in the early hours of dusk on the following night, however, Marisa could barely discern the awesome outlines
of her intended prison. The countess was ill and suffering from exposure. She had endured a journey that had transported her
by carriage and then by
flatboat up a stream winding precariously through steep mountain ravines.
The last stage of her journey had been accomplished via donkey through a precipitous passageway in the mountains—the only
access to that elevated eyrie.
The countess was brought before her captor, Colonel Dubois, in a state of near collapse. The room in which she was deposited
seemed to be a former audience chamber at whose far end a monstrous fire blazed in a story-high fireplace. The hall was lighted
by flaming sconces that reflected deep, restless shadows up into the vaulted ceiling. It was an intimidating scene, but Marisa
was beyond fear, so fatigued was she by her arduous journey.
“So, at last, I am presented the very charming lady, the Countess of Straeford,” a silky voice murmured from the far end of
the room where sat the man Lady Straeford’s husband had so grievously wounded at Vimeiro. He studied his captive from a single
dark eye, unconsciously fingering the black patch which concealed the scar that was, in reality, the underlying cause for
the outrage Lady Straeford now suffered. Beside him stood a dusky gypsy whose flashing eyes surveyed the pale countess with
withering scorn.
Marisa swayed and the room shifted out of focus momentarily.
“Here, you,” the colonel motioned to a sergeant standing beside the heavily carved oak table where Dubois sat, “a chair for
Madame Straeford. Please be seated, dear lady. I am sorry to see you have suffered from this… adventure… but you shall soon
be made comfortable. We mean you no harm.”
Marisa, who had sunk gratefully into the chair, did not reply at once, but took time to summon her remaining strength.
“
Monsieur
, you must tell me… please… exactly what you do mean by bringing me here thus.”
There was a low murmur of laughter from Dubois’s companion, Isabella Costanza, who tossed her dark hair haughtily and opened
her mouth to speak, but the colonel intervened.
“Ah, that is a longue histoire that I must relate to
you at another time. For now you shall rest and perhaps partake of some refreshment, eh?” From the soft tones of his voice
and the mildness of his manner, Marisa was having difficulty envisioning him as a villain.
“I cannot bear this uncertainty any longer. You must tell me
now
why I am here. You must!” Marisa claimed passionately, unmindful of the pleading that rang through her words and the continued
scorn of the other woman.
“Please do not fret yourself so,” Dubois advised. “The matter rests between your husband and myself—not you.” For the present,
Dubois was content to see himself as a kind of benign minister of justice. “It is a matter that has long required restitution.
I repeat, no harm will befall you.”
“What!” Marisa claimed fiercely, rising from her chair. “You plot to destroy my husband and
dare
claim that you mean me no harm!” She was trembling from head to foot and was forced to take hold of the chair for support.
“You will make yourself ill,
madame.
I beg of you to calm yourself.” The colonel rose and came around the table to take hold of the countess’s hand.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried vehemently and wrenched her hand free before falling in a dead faint at the colonel’s feet.
Isabella Costanza could no longer restrain her hysterical mirth, and her trill of pure malice echoed off the walls to be lost
in the far reaches of the arching ceiling high above.
At the same time that Marisa lay in a swoon in that remote mountain hideaway, her husband was reading the message delivered
to him in his tent just moments earlier by Josefe, the gardener’s son from the Villa Trudenjos. Major Harding and Lord Straeford’s
Portuguese interpreter, Raoul Garcia, watched nervously as the general perused the epistle held impatiently before the flickering
candle.
The sudden exclamation, “Oh my God!” which was torn from Straeford’s lips sent a thrill of apprehension through the other
two men.
“Justin, what is it?” Harding questioned anxiously, coming to his side.
“Dubois!” Straeford called in a strangled voice and jumped from his chair. “That dog from hell!” Justin raved, his face a
mask of black rage and hate.
“Good God, man, what is it?” Harding shouted, beside himself with shock and fear.
“Marisa! Marisa!” Straeford stared blindly at Harding, not seeing his friend, but his wife’s face frightened and terrified.
He felt physically ill and the color drained from his face.
“Here, Justin, take this,” Harding thrust a tumbler of brandy into his friend’s shaking hand. “Drink it.”
Straeford did as he was bid without thinking and heaved a shuddering sigh as he strove to regain command of himself.
“Now for God’s sake, tell me what has happened,” Harding demanded.
“Colonel Dubois… you know who he is?”
“Yes, the one you wounded at Vimeiro.”
Straeford shook his head vigorously in agreement. “That devil’s spawn has contrived to kidnap Marisa on her way to the Almarez
quinta.”
“Kidnap Marisa… but what of Ann? They have her too?” Harding was aghast.
“No, no,” Straeford answered impatiently. “Ann is still in Lisbon. Marisa was traveling alone…”
“But how did Dubois discover that your wife was traveling to Villa Franca? It makes no sense.”
“More sense than you think,” Lord Straeford admitted in a calmer voice, his mind already working ahead of himself. “Isabella
Costanza acted the spy. She has been in Lisbon these last months and has kept Dubois informed…”
“Costanza? Not that camp-follower who was Dubois’s woman?”
“The very one,” Straeford replied ruefully. “Our sins find us out, don’t they? My vile past is catching up with me.” Straeford
stared hard at his friend and thrust a hand through his black locks. “God!”
“Did they tell you where Marisa is being held? Do they want ransom?”
Justin nodded yes to both questions.
“Ah, now I see what it is all about. Dubois wants you as prisoner in exchange for your wife.”
“Precisely.”
“Where are they holding her?”
“In a convent north of Tomar in the Salvantos mountains…”
“The São Margite?” This came from Lieutenant Garcia, who suddenly burst into the conversation for the first time.
“That’s it, Raoul. You know of it?”
“For certain. I am from Tomar. The Convent São Margite was a fortress of the Knights Templar, but it is now a ruin.”
“Yes, yes. That’s the one. Can you guide me to it?” Lord Straeford broke in eagerly.
“But of course.”
“What are you going to do, Justin?” Harding demanded.
“I’m going there at once. Dubois has given me three days to get there and will permit one other person to accompany me in
order that Marisa will have someone to escort her to safety.” Harding tried to interrupt, but Straeford would not allow it.
“There is only one passage leading to the convent and he has sentries posted to ensure that I come as I am ordered—without
enforcements. There is no choice in the matter.”
“Now hold on, Justin. It’s not like you to act in haste. We must devise a plan…”
“There will be
no plan!
My wife’s life is at stake! Don’t you understand?” Straeford retorted violently.
“General Straeford,
desculpe me,
but if you will permit me to speak.” Lieutenant Garcia paused. “There is more than one passageway to the São Margite. If
we leave tonight we can be at Vilar Fuentes by early morning…”
“Vilar Fuentes?” Straeford queried.
“Sim.
It is but a short distance from São Margite. It is a northern approach seldom used. Only a few local people know of it. We
could surprise the French and break into the fortress before they knew what was happening,” Garcia claimed, excitement gleaming
in his eyes.
“My God, Justin. Do you hear? The very answer.” Harding joined with Garcia hopefully.
“I dare not risk it. What if they were to discover us? They would kill my wife. No. I dare not.” But there was not total rejection
in Justin’s voice, and both Harding and Garcia recognized Lord Straeford’s desire to be convinced of a plan of rescue.
“Justin,” Harding stated firmly, “You must dare… for the countess’s sake. Only think what it would mean to her to lose you
at this time in her life. And what guarantee do we have that Dubois really means to let her go once he has you?”
Straeford had no answer for that argument.
Throughout the dark of night, Straeford and Harding, in concert with Lieutenant Garcia, contrived a plan of rescue whose very
daring purchased it a measure of success. It was almost certain Dubois’s forces were limited, otherwise he could not have
sneaked as far into Portugal as he had. A small band of handpicked light troops should do the trick for the British—a dozen
men capable of doing the job of ten times their number. The whole of their plan depended on surprise and swiftness of attack.
It was finally agreed that Harding would accompany Justin when he presented himself as hostage to Dubois. They planned their
arrival for late in the afternoon of the third day of the stated deadline. The task of escorting Lady Straeford to the safety
of Lieutenant Garcia’s family estate near Vilar Fuentes would fall to Major Harding. Once the countess was removed from danger,
Garcia and the select detachment would attack. The outcome was in the hands of fate.
By dawn the desperate party was already on its way through a valley in the Serra da Estrela. They traveled by horse through
forests of tall pines and scrub oak which impeded their pathway, often forcing them to waste precious time circumventing obstacles.
Nevertheless, by dusk of the second night, they had arrived at the foothills of the Salvantos mountains in whose twisting
folds lay the Convent São Margite.
Straeford and his men wasted little time once they reached this point. It was Lieutenant Garcia who led the
party through the narrow defile between massive boulders that appeared impregnable. To the unpracticed eye there seemed no
entrance to the fortress of rock and trees that presented its forbidding façade. But the young Portuguese showed them the
place where an opening began behind a boulder that did not press against its neighbors as it appeared to do, but actually
stood forward at least six feet, allowing a horse and rider ample passageway behind. From there on, the climb was steep and
precipitous, but by no means impossible. From the midnight sky bright with myriad stars, an impassive full moon cast sharp
shadows on the stealthy travelers wending their way through the mountain crags.
By midnight, after a particularly perilous passage over switch-back trails, they came to the crest of a ridge that overlooked
the Convent São Margite below. The northern wall of the central abbey was actually the back of the mountainside, and it became
obvious that no one would expect access to the convent to be possible from the north. Garcia, however, explained that a trail
of gradual descent was there among the dense trees and thick brush, and that the men could negotiate it easily within a half-hour’s
time. From their position on the ridge above, the whole of the encampment was laid out for ready observation.
“It appears that their number is no greater than we had anticipated when we started out,” Harding said to Straeford.
“I count a total of three sentry outposts by those fires,” Straeford rejoined.