Page 50 of A Night of Secret Surrender
‘Yes.’
* * *
An hour later, Shay thought that they were probably safe. For the moment at least, though there was still the worry of identity cards and a cordon which undoubtedly would be erected around any means of escape. It was also a long way off until the darkness, which was another problem. A good tracker dog would be able to find them, even though he had made sure to use any ditches filled with water as a way of masking their scent.
Celeste was as pale as he had ever seen her, the bright red blood at the back of her head still streaming. He’d tried to stem it with his necktie, but the wound would not close with her upright stance and movement and right now there was no alternative to travelling slowly.
They’d need the night as well if they had any chance of escape and they would have to ditch the horse. In the groins of the hills behind them were thickets of forest, and if he used these to climb into the next valley and then the next one, they might elude an enemy hellbent on finding them.
Checking the position of the sun, he determined the time to be just after two in the afternoon. There was a stream up ahead, he could hear the gurgling of the water and it was this he made for. He’d let the horse go on the other side of the river and Celeste and he would strike on along the bed. Two diverging sets of tracks would waste time and he needed as much as he could get.
She looked a little better now, less shaky at least, though her skin was still a deathly white.
‘We will be fine,’ he found himself saying. ‘The countryside here is perfect to disappear into and after it gets dark they will never find us.’
He noticed her hands were red with blood from where she had been touching her injury.
‘The flow is slowing, Celeste, and if you leave it alone, I am sure it will stop altogether.’
She glanced at him, her head nodding up and down. He saw the bravery on her face and in the way she sat up even straighter and was relieved.
At the river, he helped her off the horse and watched as she dipped her head and hands in the water. It was cold but effective. After a moment or two there was barely any sign still of blood.
Tying the reins into the saddle, he faced the horse the way he wanted it to run and slapped its rump hard. Within a moment the steed was lost to their sight.
‘Now we climb,’ he told her and took her arm. He knew how sick she was when she allowed him to help her, for normally she would not have countenanced any such aid.
* * *
‘My father’s journal is gone.’ She felt ill with the realisation. ‘It must have been lost when they pulled at my jacket.’
He stood so still she could almost see his mind ticking. ‘Was there anything in it that could be damaging?’
‘I hope not. It was mostly his thoughts and feelings...’
‘About you?’
‘No. About my mother.’
‘A man who writes confidential things down in a world of secrets is a foolish one. Let us hope no one makes the connection that he was your father for Brigitte Guerin has enough troubles of her own.’
‘Guy Bernard is dead. Apart from him I don’t think anyone else could guess I was someone else, save Caroline Debussy, of course.’
He turned at that, a heavy frown on his forehead as he lifted the bag and gestured her to follow him.
The river was deep in parts and cold, but she walked doggedly on into the afternoon, pushing up and up into the hills until she felt a disconnection between her body and her mind.
‘I...think I need...to stop.’ It was the head injury, no doubt, and the loss of blood. She had never been unfit in her life and had traversed the Parisian streets for hours without tiring.
The vortex of darkness surprised her, coming through her vision without warning. One moment she could see and the next she could not, the same roaring in her ears as before. As she fell she reached out to try to hold something, long zigzagged waves broken into light.
* * *
He heard a noise behind him, just a quiet expelling of breath, and as he turned he saw Celeste fall softly into a leafy shrub, the branches catching at her body and holding her up. He reached her in a second, extracting her from the greenness and laying her down on the track. Her head had begun to bleed again and, grabbing Caroline Debussy’s bag, he shoved it beneath her feet, elevating them.
She came to after a few seconds, her eyes fluttering against the light and her hand rising from the dust.
‘I am...fine now.’ She struggled to sit up, but he held her down, his hand splayed across her middle.
