'What do you mean?'
'Last night I had word at last. A messenger from the Comte d'Antraigues will be here before long. Then we shall get your position clear, my beauty. Until then, you will remain under lock and key!'
'What right have you?' Marianne protested. Remembering her ally the tailor, she felt safe in allowing herself to carry the matter with a high hand since she had every expectation of making her own escape that night.
'If someone is coming from London, he can only confirm what I have told you. Then, my friend, it will be up to you to explain why you have kept me here. You are delaying me.'
The assurance in her heart clearly disconcerted the wrecker but he pulled himself together, unwilling to go back on his decision.
'At all events, I shall personally keep a close watch on you. Come. We must go to the house and pay our last respects.'
'To whom?'
'To my lieutenant Vinoc. Your – er, servant killed him as he made his escape.'
The body of the dead man had been laid out on the table in the great hall covered with a white sheet. All the chests, bales and packages of all descriptions that generally cluttered the room had been removed for the occasion and large sheets had been hung from the ceiling on either side of the table, making a kind of white chapel around the body. Death had brought little nobility to the wrecker. Even when shaved, brushed and dressed in his best embroidered clothes, he retained, in his everlasting stillness, an immense ugliness and an expression of deep cunning. Marianne thought she had rarely seen such a dislikeable corpse. All those she had previously beheld had had about them something quiet, gentle and noble which took away anything frightening about them. But this man had gone into the next world wearing the same ferocious expression that had been his in life. Old Soizic must have some similar thoughts to Marianne's because she wagged her head sorrowfully as she looked at the dead man.
'Died with all his sins upon him! You can see it in his face—'
None the less, she had placed the dead man's hands together and wound a boxwood rosary, but with an evident lack of enthusiasm.
At Morvan's command, Marianne stayed with the other women of the household, who were praying round the corpse in accordance with the strict funeral rites of the region. She had to exchange her bright clothes for a dress of black wool, probably also borrowed from Gwen, a black shawl and a headdress of the same colour. She had raised no objections to all this. Kneeling on a prie-dieu by Vinoc's feet with Gwen opposite her, pretending to tell her beads, she had at least a chance to think. On a stool between the two women stood a bowl of holy water with a sprig of dried boxwood in it. Marianne kept her eyes firmly fixed on it rather than on the dead man's unattractive feet. Whenever she looked up, she found Gwen watching her with a mocking, triumphant expression equally unpleasant to behold, although it undoubtedly gave food for thought. Why should the Bretonne girl look so pleased with herself? Because Morvan was treating Marianne as a prisoner at last or – she wondered suddenly whether there was very far to seek for the mysterious hand which had opened the barn door, sawn through Jean le Dru's chains and been responsible for his otherwise inexplicable flight. Short of being an utterly contemptible hypocrite, he had no reason to escape alone especially after Marianne had refused to go without him. No, there was something else – whoever had opened the door for him must have had to shake him awake and persuade him to go. Something told Marianne that she had won him over last night, and that at the cost of her own disillusionment she had gained his complete allegiance. To his simple, unsophisticated way of thinking, the fact that she had given herself to him made everything straightforward. Then what had been said to him to make him abandon her so callously, even putting her life in danger? It smacked of a woman's revenge.
Footsteps came and went behind her bent back, the clatter of sabots on the worn flagstones, the scrape of hobnailed boots; from time to time, a hand appeared, picked up the box twig and piously sprinkled the corpse. The villagers and local peasants were coming, as custom demanded, to pay their respects to their brother's earthly remains. That, in his lifetime, he had been an out and out villain made no difference. He was a Breton and he was dead and that, for all other Bretons, made him sacred.
In fact, it was really rather moving except that, hearing Morvan solemnly inviting everyone who came to the wake, Marianne began to feel anxious again. With all these people about, how would she ever manage to escape? Would she even be allowed to keep her room to herself? Morvan had promised that he would keep her under close watch in future, which was distinctly unpromising. Moreover, if it were Gwen who had been responsible for Le Dru's flight, she would be unlikely to stop there. Marianne could read in her spiteful expression that she would not rest until she had got rid of the intruder. To be sure, there was still – saving your presence – her friend the tailor, but would he be able to help her this time? With all this in mind, Marianne began to pray in good earnest, but for herself rather than for a dead man who was no concern of hers. She stood in dire need of heavenly aid.
A huge, hairy black hand took hold of the box twig and a deep base voice began intoning:
'De profundis clamavi ad te domine
Domine exaudi vocem meam…'
Marianne felt as though the great bell of the cathedral had sounded in her ear and clapped her hand to her mouth to hold back a cry. The man was a peasant of gigantic size. He wore the traditional Breton costume of wide, pleated breeches, caught in at the knee, embroidered waistcoat under a short cloth jacket with a goatskin coat over all. His long, black hair fell to his shoulders but beneath the blue bonnet of the men of Goulven, she recognized the face of Black Fish.
He was leaning on a massive cudgel, his eyes cast upwards, intoning as fervently as though he had done nothing else all his life. The peasants looked at him with some respect and even Gwen gazed up at him in fascination, enabling Marianne to overcome the inevitable shock at this sudden reappearance of one she had presumed drowned. How had he come there? By what miracle had he escaped the storm, the rocks and the wreckers? These questions were unanswerable but since she and Jean Le Dru had escaped unhurt it seemed quite natural, after all, that a force of nature like Black Fish should have done so as well.
The peasants were now responding in chorus to the prayer for the dead and Marianne made an effort to remember the ritual words but she was far too agitated. Her mind remained a blank. Not that it mattered much. She was certain that Black Fish's coming was an answer to her prayer.
The prayer ended, Morvan left his place of honour in the room and came forward to greet the newcomer.
'I have not seen you before, my man. Who are you?'
'His cousin,' Black Fish answered pointing with one hairy finger to the dead man. 'Like him, I am from Goulven. I was coming to see him when I heard the news. Poor Vinoc! Such a good fellow!'
Before Marianne's astonished eyes, he wiped away what must have been quite imaginary tears. But he was convincing enough, for Morvan had no suspicions. He even made him welcome, bowing instinctively to the strict laws of baronial hospitality.
'In that case, remain. Watch with us and share in this night's meal.'
Black Fish bowed without speaking and moved back to join the group of peasants. With shoulders hunched, and both hands leaning heavily on his pen bas, [4] he was hardly distinguishable from the other men and Marianne returned to her prayers without being able to meet his eye. From that moment on, she could think of nothing but the silent figure upon whom so much might depend. She had no idea how he came there, or why, but she was convinced it was for her. She was a prey to a fever of excitement that soon made it quite impossible for her to remain on her knees any longer. She rose, putting on an agonized expression as if she were suffering from a pain in her knees. At once a peasant woman came to take her place. Morvan frowned but told her in a low voice to go and join Soizic in the kitchen. Marianne asked nothing better, but, much as she longed to make contact with Black Fish, she dared not pass too close to him on her way out. They had no chance to communicate until after nightfall, when the whole household gathered round the old woman whose part it was to intone a kind of funeral chant in honour of the dead man. There was, inevitably, a certain amount of confusion as everyone gathered around the bier and Marianne felt a touch on her elbow. A voice whispered in English: