POVERTY'S PRIDE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

                                                                     CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Brice pushed the horse as fast as it could go along the road to the village without seeing a sign of Rosalind Trevellian. He reined in as he reached the apothecary’s cottage and dismounting pounded at the door.

                The old man answered almost immediately, fury in his face as he confronted his visitor.

‘You dratted girl! Be off!’ Fury turned to surprise and then confusion when he saw Brice. ‘Mr Thomas, sir!’

‘Where is she, man?’ Brice snapped at him.

‘Off back where she came from,’ the old man said. ‘I saw her run towards the cliff path not fifteen minutes since. What sin is she guilty of now?’

Without bothering to reply Brice remounted his horse and turning its head towards the road made off again at a gallop. He couldn’t risk taking the horse along the path but in all probability Rosalind was this minute nearing the Cliff House. He rode on, kicking his heels into the horse’s side in an effort to get more speed.

Brice reined in the steaming horse as he neared the gates of Cliff House. The path to the cliffs was well lit by moonlight but there was still no sign of the girl. He was about to ride in towards the stables when a piercing scream ruptured the night air.

Brice sprang from the saddle and dashed towards the cliff path. As he emerged onto the cliff he was astounded to see two struggling figures at the very edge. A man dressed as a monk was holding the girl over the edge.

A jolt of horror shot through Brice’s frame as he saw that there was no ground beneath the girl’s feet and that the only reason she did not tumble to her death was the man’s arm holding her fast. At any moment he would release her and let her fall.

As silently as he could Brice ran forward and with a lunge managed to grasp the girl’s flaying arm, heaving her mightily towards him. The assailant was obviously taken by surprise and almost tumbled forward over the edge but saved himself at the last second.

On the narrow path he whirled to face Brice with a low guttural curse, his shoulders hunched menacingly. Seeing an attack was coming Brice pushed the girl roughly towards the hedgerow out of danger.

‘Come on, then, you murdering scoundrel!’ he shouted while trying to make out the man’s features beneath the folds of the cowl. ‘Try your muscles on a man instead of a helpless girl, or are you too cowardly?’

Silently the man sprang towards him. He was a hefty fellow with an impressive width of shoulder but Brice was not unduly concerned. He was well made himself and he had mastered the art of boxing during his school days atEton.

He let the fellow come on and at the last minute sent a powerful upper cut towards the spot where he judged his chin was. His fist connected with bone and the man gasped, staggering back a step or two. But he wasn’t done Brice saw as the assailant recovered and after a brief pause came forward again at a run.

‘Want more?’ Brice taunted. ‘I’ll oblige you, you steaming pile of horse dung!’

A muffled cry of fury was cut short in the other’s throat and it occurred to Brice that the man had not spoken one word as though afraid his voice might be recognised and he was greatly intrigued.

‘Who are you?’ Brice asked. ‘Some snivelling knave of a labourer?’

The man pitched forward again, arm swinging. Brice evaded the punch easily and threw one of his own, his fist sinking into the man’s belly. As he doubled over Brice let fly with another upper cut to the head putting as much strength behind the blow as he could muster.