Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [45]
By the time I reached the gallery above the Great Hall, Tony was halfway down the stairs. I waited in the shadows; I could see all right, thanks to the moonlight, but the Hall was an eerie place. If I hadn’t known it was Tony up ahead, the shadowy figure gliding down the stairs would have scared hell out of me. At any rate, the countess wasn’t walking tonight. There was a flash of reflected light from the row of armoured figures against the wall, but no movement except for Tony.
Tony walked out into a patch of moonlight that lay quivering across the floor. He looked as uneasy as I felt; he kept glancing over his shoulder at the shadowy area under the stairs. I couldn’t move without his seeing me, so I stayed put, but I didn’t like my location. Almost half the area of the Hall was hidden from my sight by the gallery. If Tony went back under the stairs I might lose him.
One of the suits of armour got down off its pedestal and started walking towards Tony.
Chapter Seven
A RATIONALIST IS AT a disadvantage when events are irrational. One of the count’s contemporaries would have howled with terror and bolted. Tony wasted several vital seconds trying to tell himself that what he saw wasn’t really happening.
I could see the armour quite clearly in the moonlight. It was armed cap-à-pie, and the metal plates clanked musically with each stiff stride. The visor was closed. I saw the right arm go up; the fan-shaped piece of steel at the elbow spread like a peacock’s tail. The mailed hand held a long dagger.
At long last, Tony moved. He moved backwards, and I didn’t blame him a bit. Unfortunately, his retreat took him into the hidden area under the stairs; and when the armour followed him I couldn’t see either of them. I heard a clank, and a howl from Tony, and deduced, through a haze of horror and disbelief, that the idiot had swung at the armour, which was a damned silly thing to do . . .
The whole episode didn’t take very long. Even so, my paralysis was inexcusable, and what I did next was even worse. Instead of rushing down the stairs to Tony’s rescue, I ran the other way.
I could claim I was going for help; and, in fact, some vaguely sensible instinct led me to the doctor’s door. I banged on the door with both fists and yelled. The door was locked, or I would have rushed in. Finally Blankenhagen answered me. I shouted something – it was incoherent, but forceful. Then I got a grip on myself. I turned and ran back.
I had a flashlight, which I had completely forgotten in all the hullaballoo. By its light I located Tony. He was flat on his back on the floor under the stairs – his eyes closed, his face white, and blood all over his shirt.
Maybe I’m not the type for a heroine, but then I behaved like the worst stereotype of the feeble female. I flopped down on the floor beside Tony, held his hand, and insisted that he wake up. I think I cried. I was sure he was dead, and it was all my fault; I had talked him into this crazy escapade, I had jeered at him and dared him.
Blankenhagen had to push me out of the way to get at Tony. I sat on the floor snivelling while the doctor, fully dressed, poked interestedly at Tony’s shoulder.
‘You took long enough,’ I said nastily. ‘A fine doctor you are. Do you have to put on a tie while somebody is bleeding to death?’
‘Be still,’ said Blankenhagen coldly. ‘He is not dead.’
As if to prove it, Tony opened his eyes.
‘Well,’ I said, hastily wiping my face on my sleeve. ‘Are you with us again? That was a dumb thing to do, Tony.’
I don’t think Tony heard me, which is probably just as well. His eyes focused on something behind me. I turned. There was George, wearing a dressing gown. His shanks were bare, and as hairy as a gorilla’s.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
Poor Tony considered the question.
‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he mumbled.
George turned to Blankenhagen.
‘What’s wrong with him, Doc?’
‘He hit his head falling,’ said Blankenhagen, with a ruthless