Then his hand flew to his side. Yes—hot! Something was burning in the pocket of his new tunic. Frantically he pulled it out. He had been awakened by the Whispering Shell!
Without stopping to wonder how or when it had come there, he clapped it to his ear while it was warm. Words, clear and sharp as though the speaker were beside him! His very heart seemed to stand still to help him listen with all the attention of his soul. For it was the voice of Barbara that he heard.
‘The King’s Finder. He is very clever, very skilful. But I do not believe he can find us here. No, not now. For this is the end of the journey.’
Who could it be that she was speaking to? thought Giles . . . The voice went on gently, sadly:
‘How clear the water was! And such a beautiful day! Do you remember the wide green sward sweeping up to the castle hill, the oak trees clumped about the slope, the soft warm air, the glorious scent of the wet lilies? No? But you cannot have forgotten him, the young man, tall and strong, the King’s Finder, who threw sticks into the lake for you to bring ashore?’
There came a high, sharp bark.
Mollie!
It was to her dog the Countess Barbara was speaking. Then the jingling of a silver collar. The spaniel was scratching her ear, humbly thoughtful, no doubt, of that great battle in the lake where she had lost the swimming championship to Maggie. A pause of silence followed. And Giles found his hand trembling like a leaf as the shell cooled slowly. Was the beloved voice going to say no more? What had she meant by ‘the end of the journey’? Was he not to learn after all where that journey ended, where she was now?—Where, where, where?
But suddenly the heat glowed up again within his palm. And the words ran on:
‘Sir Giles Waggonwright, the truest man in the royal service. I hope this does not injure him at the Court: failing but once, after succeeding so faithfully and long. They’ll all be wondering what has befallen me—thinking maybe I am dead. My poor father, the good Queen Mother and the King. It is wrong of me to keep them thus in ignorance. Yet it couldn’t be helped. And oh, my Mollie dear, I want so to sit out here on the grass a while longer, before we go in. They will all learn soon enough where we are, even if the Finder could not trace us. It will not matter now, a short while still in freedom, under the stars and the little wide-roaming moon.’
Something that might have been a sob broke into the words. But almost instantly, growing brave and firm again, the voice went on:
‘Yes, soon we’ll go in. You too, my Mollie. I think they’ll let me bring you with me. I’ll ask the Lady Abbess. She was a friend of my mother’s years ago. You shall be a nun too—though you’ll have to be less frisky, even if you don’t wear the veil and gown. Yet we must not delay too long, lest Sir Giles overtake us after all. A few minutes more and we’ll ring the bell at the big gate there . . . We’ll go in. . . . Then we’ll be Sisters, Sisters of Saint Bridget.’
Giles sprang off the bed. Thrusting the shell still warm into his pocket he leapt across the room and pulled the door open.
‘Host!’ he yelled. ‘Hulloa, below there!—Host!’
‘Coming, Sir, coming,’ called a voice in the distance. In another moment the innkeeper’s face appeared, with a candle held beside it, peering open-mouthed from the foot of the staircase.
‘Saddle the black mare,’ Giles shouted. ‘Quick! Don’t stand there gaping. Bring Midnight to the door. Run, I tell you, run!’
11 The ebb-tide
Luke had just come in from the stables. It was while he was still in the little dining-room, looking over the supper laid out there, that he heard Giles shout. He immediately came into the hall to see if he could be of any help. There he was bumped into, first by the innkeeper dashing for the yard, and then by Giles himself leaping down the stairs two steps at a time. His master grabbed him by the arm and poured words into his ear as though his very life depended on their speed.
‘Get yourself a fresh horse, Luke, and ride for the castle at once. You’ll have to travel all night. Change mounts a dozen times if need be. Beg, borrow or take them—I’ll look after that later. Don’t go round by the Harbour Turnpike. Take the short cut across the moors. You ought to reach the palace by daybreak, or soon after. Tell the King Barbara is safe and unharmed. There was no kidnapping. That’s all I know now. But you can promise him that if everything goes as I hope I’ll bring her back before sunset tomorrow. Where’s that fool of an innkeeper? Why doesn’t he hurry? Here’s some money. You pay the reckoning here. And tell me, did you put anything in the pocket of this tunic when you packed it?’ (Luke shook his head.) ‘No, of course not. Well, never mind that now. There isn’t a second to lose. Where is that man?—Ah, I hear Midnight now. He’s bringing her to the front door here. Goodbye, Luke. May good luck travel with us both!’
The door opened and slammed. The rest was a clatter of horse’s hoofs galloping down the road.
While the dazed Luke tried to pull his wits together, his speeding master was thinking of that ferry-boat. Would it be this side or the other side of the river?
Barbara so near! Who would have guessed it? Up there at the convent gate. And he wondering just a little while ago if she had crossed the seas! Finder’s luck!
In five minutes he had reached the landing. No boat in sight. He would not wait for it. It was a slow craft anyhow. He gauged the distance across the river with his eye. Yes, Midnight had swum farther than that in her day. Now, at the light touch of his spur, she leapt clean from the wharf’s edge into the dark water. Then with long steady strokes she churned her way out into the stream.
Giles, as he had often done before, slipped out of the saddle. This was to free her of his weight. And with his right hand twined in her flowing mane, he half swam and was half towed beside her. He peered ahead, upwards, at the lights of the convent chapel. The distance looked greater from here than it had from the boat-landing.
Presently, nearly in mid-river, a current was felt. It grew in strength, with almost overpowering suddenness. Both beast and man were being borne downstream at a terrifying speed. The thought of the sea, so close, flashed into Giles’s mind. What if they should be swept clear out into the ocean? The tide was certainly at full ebb.
He thought of letting Midnight go, free to gain the shore of her own accord without the drag of his body. A good swimmer himself, he could likely reach the shore alone. But he decided that once separated, they might have difficulty finding one another again in the darkness on the land. It was a risk; and at best would mean a loss of precious time.
No, he would cling on; and together they must do their best. He could hear her breathing hard as she changed direction a little, to head more upstream and make the crossing aslant. For Midnight, too, knew the danger of that ebb-tide, with the smell of the sea so near. Close by her neck, he gasped endearing words up into her ear to cheer her on. And, in answer, her mighty heels kicked at the evil, dragging current with still greater strength.
Soon, wriggling his arms out of the sleeves, he pulled off his tunic and stuffed it into one of the saddle-bags. He could swim better so, he hoped, and give the mare more help. But it did not seem to make much difference. His heavy spurred riding boots were his greatest hindrance. He should have thought to take them off before he leapt his horse into the stream. The current was getting stronger and the mare’s breath shorter. The lights in the convent chapel seemed to be going farther away, inland, instead of coming nearer. From this point he could now see the dark-grey horizon-line of the sea, stretching across the rivermouth.