The Messenger of the Black Prince
by Thomas A. H. Mawhinney · English · Gutenberg #50193 · 358,406 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Messenger of the Black Prince
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Messenger of the Black Prince
Author: Thomas A. H. Mawhinney
Release date: October 13, 2015 [eBook #50193]
Most recently updated: October 22, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50193
Credits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Dave Morgan, Ron Box, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MESSENGER OF THE BLACK PRINCE ***
By
_THOMAS A. H. MAWHINNEY_
THE SWORD OF THE HOUSE OF DE MARILLAC
ENGLISH OAK AND SPANISH GOLD
[Illustration: The Lance Was Almost Torn From His Grasp]
THE MESSENGER
OF THE
BLACK PRINCE
By
THOMAS A. H. MAWHINNEY
Illustrated by
Manning deV. Lee
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1928
COPYRIGHT 1928
BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
Made in the U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The King’s Fool 7
II. I Am Attacked in the Woods 22
III. A Visitor in the Night 31
IV. A Trickster 36
V. What I Learned in the Woods 48
VI. We Hunt the Wild Boar 59
VII. The Black Prince 69
VIII. The Silver-Hafted Dagger 82
IX. A Solitary House in the Woods 91
X. The Highwayman of Tours 107
XI. I Find a Companion 117
XII. The Three Crows Inn 123
XIII. The Silver-Hafted Dagger 133
XIV. Pursued 141
XV. The Scrivener Disappears 150
XVI. The Scrivener Turns Traitor 162
XVII. On the Highway 172
XVIII. Escape! 183
XIX. On the Island 190
XX. No Man’s Land 198
XXI. The Defense of the Cave 206
XXII. Trapped! 227
XXIII. The Fight in the Inn 239
XXIV. Besieged 247
XXV. Friends and Enemies 257
XXVI. The Abbot of Chalonnes 270
XXVII. The Black Prince Again 283
XXVIII. Victory ... and Home 292
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Lance Was Almost Torn From His Grasp _Frontispiece_
The Arrow Struck With a Click 78
They Came Into View From Among the Thick Trunks 146
His Countenance Was Black With Anger 218
The Messenger of the Black Prince
CHAPTER I
THE KING’S FOOL
I remember the beginning of it as though it were yesterday. My brother
André had sent me to the armorer’s to have some broken links mended in
his gear. I was standing near the forge watching Le Brun send the sparks
flying from his anvil and marveling with what strength and ease he was
able to turn the stubborn bits of steel, when a man appeared at the door
and with a smile bid us the time of day. There is nothing strange in
that, to be sure. But yet the manner of his saying it struck us both,
for his tone held a kind of sharpness as of mockery. I looked around
quickly. Le Brun eased off the stroke as it came down. With a scowl upon
his brow he leaned his weight upon the hammer. His big chest heaved as
he glared towards the door.
“I agree, stranger,” he said. “It is a fair day.” He waved with his
hand. “You will find the inn about half a league further down the road.”
It was a strong hint for the man to be on his way, but he took no more
notice of it than if Le Brun were a child. Three quick steps and he was
beside the bellows with the smile broader than before.
“Do I look like a man who could eat in an inn?” he demanded. At the same
time he pointed to his clothes which were indeed only rags. He took the
soiled cap from his head and threw it on the floor. Then, without a word
he placed the palm of his hand upon it and turned the swiftest
somersault that you could imagine. When he was standing upright again,
he gazed into our faces with an expression as though he had performed
the cleverest trick in the world.
“Look here!” growled the armorer with a frown. “You were here yesterday.
I gave you a piece of silver to get rid of you. You are back again. Do
you think——”
The fellow threw his hand in the air.
“Of course I am back again,” he cried. “Is it a crime for me to want to
pay my debt?” With that he fumbled in the lining of his coat and brought
forth a shining piece of gold. “There!” he called, flinging it on the
anvil till it rang. “You have three times and more the sum you gave me!”
The slow-witted Le Brun looked at me and I at him. Both of us were
sorely puzzled. The armorer shook his head.
“A beggar one day—a rich man the next,” he began. “There is but one
conclusion——”
“Ah!” interrupted the other. “Do not say the word. It is ugly and I’d
rather say it for you. The long and short of it is that you take me for
a thief.”
“Gold doesn’t grow on trees,” remarked Le Brun darkly. “Listen, sir
stranger,” he said advancing a step, “have you no honest calling?”
I thought the fellow would flare into a rage, but to my surprise he
threw back his head and laughed a long trilling laugh almost like the
song of a bird. When he ceased, he laid his palms on his hips and bowed
mockingly at us.
“I told you yesterday that I was a fool,” he said. “I am the same
today—a king’s fool. Look!” He put his hand into his coat again and drew
out a silly-looking cap, which he placed over one ear, and a bauble with
tiny bells. He shook it with the glee of a child. The more it tinkled,
the broader grew his grin. As though he was actually captivated by the
sound, he began to caper about and finally struck into a quickly moving
dance.
He stopped as suddenly as he began. Then he bowed once more.
“Now,” he exclaimed, “can you tell me, sirs, where I can find a
position?”
“—as a fool?” I asked with a smile.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Why,” I replied, “by what I have seen you are clever enough to amuse
the King of France himself.”
He jerked his head around and shot a look at me. For one second I saw a
flash of hate and anger. In the next a wise smile curled about his
mouth.
“Strange words,” he muttered and repeated it. “Strange words to fall
from the lips of a Norman lad. Have you all grown so weak? There was a
time when the gentry of Normandy thought the only way to amuse the King
of France was with spears and swords and battle-axes, not with such toys
as these.”
He spoke slowly and with a half smile, but under it lay a sting that cut
me to the bone. I cast a sidelong glance at Le Brun who stood scowling
as black as night, but withal puzzled. He was no good hand at solving of
riddles nor in the sifting of double meaning statements. His way was
with a cuff or blow, and there an end to it.
“Is this a jest, sir Fool?” I asked. “Would you have the Norman barons
arm themselves and fight when there is no need for it?”
For a reply all that he did was to break into a long low whistle and
toss the bauble into the air. When it came down, he caught it with great
deftness and twirled it about in his fingers. Then he shrugged his
shoulders.
“There was a meeting at Rouen——” he said and curled his brows, as though
I ought to understand the rest.
“I know that,” I replied quickly. “There was a meeting of the Norman
barons at Rouen——” Here I stopped and eyed him closely. “Such things
were better left to themselves. For all I know, sir Fool, to give you a
short answer, I may even be talking to a King’s spy.”
The man tossed his head to one side and uttered a little painful laugh.
“The Black Prince of England,” he went on as though he would brush my
objection aside, “has left Bordeaux. He is ranging along the western
coast of France. There is no one to oppose him. Not a soldier of the
King is within a hundred leagues. He is toppling over one castle after
the other——Suppose,” he said closing one eye and looking at me
cunningly, “the King of France were to rush towards the west to destroy
him? Would any of you Normans come to his aid?”
It was a question far too deep for my boyish brain. Besides I knew that
silence was the beginning of caution, so I flung my hand in the air as
though the affair were of no importance to me.
“From what I have heard,” I said, “the Black Prince is well able to care
for himself.”
I saw an expression of contempt gather on his face.
“The meeting at Rouen was a blow to your country,” the man went on with
more perseverance than ever. “A good dozen of your finest blood lost
their lives. It’s a good thing,” he added with biting scorn, “that you
were not there yourself!”
I was growing angry.
“Why?” I demanded.
“Because,” he replied with cutting deliberation, “you would not have had
the courage to raise an arm in your own defence!”
The hot blood stole slowly to my neck and face. I saw out of the corner
of my eye that the armorer was rolling his sleeves up over his elbows,
while one hand reached out for the hammer that lay alongside the anvil.
“Have you come here to pick a quarrel?” I demanded.
“As you wish,” he said and spat derisively upon the ground.
It was a challenge flung into my teeth. I was but a lad, of course, but
for all that of big bone and strong from the life which I had lived in
the open. My opponent was a man full grown and, from what I had just
seen, as quick and slippery in his actions as an eel. For the moment in
my wrath I took little heed of these things but knotted my fists
together and advanced towards him.
I thought that if I could strike the first blow I could settle him once
for all and so end his insolence. With a lunge that ought to have
carried him off his feet I made at him. To my surprise I beat only into
the empty air. The fellow had slipped to the one side with a light
gliding motion that for quickness fairly took my breath away. Then, to
add fire to my discomfiture, he calmly placed his hands flat upon his
hips and stood smiling at me.
“A Norman calf!” he cried. “If the rest of your race can fight no better
than that, it is no wonder that the King of France will soon devour
you!”
I made no answer. The taunt struck me with the sharpness of a knife. If
I was full of wrath before, I was boiling with anger now. I steadied
myself on the balls of my feet and looked the fellow in the eye. Then,
with greater quickness than at first, I rushed again upon him. But he
was ready, even more than I had expected. Instead of leaping to the
side, he jumped back and, as I came towards him, struck me a sharp blow
on the face with his open hand.
By this time I was fighting mad, but rather at my own bungling than at
his adroitness. I would have given my right arm to have caught him a
single stunning crash. I plunged forward, reckless and determined to the
last degree. Now he slipped past me so close that I was able to touch
the sleeve of his coat. Again his hot breath touched my face. He came in
so near that he gave my arm a twist. But with all my effort I could not
lay a finger on him. It was like a game—a contest with speed on one side
and strength on the other——
“Henri!”
It was Le Brun’s voice coming like a warning. I knew I had to be on the
alert. But before I realized what my opponent was about, he had caught
me by sliding his arm entirely under mine. I felt a twang run across my
shoulder as though it was being wrenched from the socket. My feet loosed
themselves from the ground and in the next second I was rolling over
towards the anvil of the armorer.
But I was not entirely gone. With a kind of instinct I extended my hand
to grasp whatever might save me from utter humiliation. It was mere
luck, I know, but even at that I had to grit my teeth and hang on with
what strength was still in me. My fist was closing around the Fool’s
wrist and the surer I was of myself, the harder I held on. A sudden jerk
brought him slightly towards me. A hard steady pull bent him still
further. With a twist I threw myself with my back upon the ground. I had
two hands free now and I wrapped both around his wrist with the sureness
of a vise. He struggled like an animal taken in a trap. With the fingers
of his free hand he tried to pry my grip loose. He twisted and squirmed.
He dug his nails into my flesh. He jumped from one position to another.
He pretended to fall towards me and then with his arms relaxed sprang
suddenly back again. But I clung to him as though it were my only hope
for life until his tugs and pulls spent themselves and I grew the more
confident of victory.
His breath was getting shorter and a paleness overspread his face. It
was now or never for me, so with one firm effort I drew him steadily
down until his face was near mine and his feet kept tapping at my ribs.
Then, he fell. His whole body covered mine. His knees dug into my
stomach and the crook of his elbow fastened itself in my throat.
For a moment I feared I would choke. I had to let go his wrist with one
hand to clear myself of his weight. As soon as I had shoved him away, I
reached out to grasp him by the throat if I could, but in the same
moment I felt him clutching at mine.
We were struggling with every sinew, each for the mastery. With a
quickness that I might have been expecting, my opponent gave one final
lurch. It was an effort that wrenched free the hand which I held in my
grip. I tried again and again to clutch it, but I succeeded only in
closing my fist in the air. I caught his body between my knees in the
hope that I could squeeze the breath out of him. I squirmed this way and
that. Now I had his arm or his wrist between my fingers, but before I
was sure of myself he had twisted out of danger. We rolled over locked
together like tangled pieces of twine, but with every rolling it was he,
because of his adroitness, who came uppermost and it was I who was prone
upon my back upon the ground.
At last the end came. By a piece of mere chance I had slid my arm
forward with its entire length under his. Then with a twist of my wrist
I laid my hand around his throat. His shoulder was like the resting
place of a lever. I began to press steadily. His chin went back and his
eyes turned upwards. A little more and his mouth opened showing a row of
even white teeth. I was on the verge of tossing him from me when he
squirmed once more, this time to the one side. He slid from out the vise
that was closing in on him and almost with the same effort sprang
quickly to his feet.
I jumped up of course, for I thought the conflict but begun when he
raised his hand as though to tell me that he had enough and between the
heavings of his breath called in a shaking voice, “I did not come here
to fight!”
I almost laughed in his face.
“Why, then, did you come?” demanded Le Brun with a growl.
“I came to make friends!” was the answer.
“——to make friends?” I echoed. “Do you think a man makes friends through
jibes and insults?”
By this time both of us had somewhat recovered our breath. In the most
serious manner imaginable he threw his hands apart and looked from the
armorer to me.
“It’s an unfortunate habit I have,” he exclaimed. “It lies in my
disposition to dig to the bottom of things—to prod people till they
squirm.”
“Some day,” said I by way of admonishment, “you’ll prod the wrong
person. In such dangerous times as these, when everyone is the other’s
enemy, it’ll likely cost you your life.”
He paid no more heed to me than if I had not spoken. As though he was
aroused by a sudden curiosity, he half closed his eyes and made a mental
measurement of me as I have often seen a buyer measure a horse. He took
a step or two to the rear. He circled around me. I saw his lips move as
though he was noting this or that to himself. Then, with the same ease
and confidence as though we had been life-long friends, he came up to me
and laid his fingers on the upper part of my arm.
“All brawn,” he said. “Tough. Great endurance, but a trifle slow in
action.” And with a smile of satisfaction he clapped me heartily on the
shoulder. “Can you fight?” he demanded.
I wrinkled my brows.
“I held my own with you, didn’t I?” I asked.
“Na. Na. Lad. Not that,” he said. “That was no fight. It was only a
little rolling in the dirt. What I mean is this: Are you good with a
sword, an ax or a dagger?”
“Well,” I answered slyly, “a bit ago you made an accusation. You
upbraided me for being a Norman.”
His head came up with a jerk and the fire flashed from his black eyes.
“That was only a bit of my prodding,” he replied quickly. “I wanted to
stir you up. Oh,” he cried when I looked questioningly at him, “you’ll
all need stirring up. What skill you have in the handling of weapons
will soon be sorely useful. Can’t you realize that the King of France is
watching you like a cat watches a mouse?”
“I know,” I answered rather downcast, “he would like to add our
territories to his own.”
By this time the armorer had returned to his forge. His great hairy arm
lay along the shaft of the bellows. The sparks from the coals of peat
flew like tiny shooting-stars towards the rafters. He was like a great
ox, patient and plodding, that did not realize its strength.
“You are too much like him,” came the answer as the Fool pointed to Le
Brun, “—powerful, but not far-sighted. What you ought to have is a bit
of cunning to match your wits against your foes.”
I said not a word for I did not know exactly what he was driving at.
With a toss of my head I ambled slowly towards the door. The Fool went
with me talking and jabbering at my elbow. When we came to the
threshold, he slid his body carefully along the wall and like a thief
peered up and down the road with more than usual circumspection. Then as
though he was thoroughly alarmed he spun about and took me anxiously by
the arm.
“You won’t say that I have been here, will you?” he begged.
“Why,” I laughed, “as far as that goes I shall forget all about you
within an hour.”
The expression on his face fell. He looked at me as though I had dealt
him a terrible blow.
“No you won’t,” he exclaimed. “The fact is that you’ll remember me till
your dying day. You’ll tell your children about me long after I’m dead.”
Here he seized my arm again even more firmly than before. “I must be
off,” he cried. “And you won’t forget, will you? Never breathe to a soul
that I’ve been here!”
I was puzzled but yet more amused. I was sure that it was some whim or
other that had taken hold of his fancy. So to flatter him I promised
that his presence here would never be mentioned. With that he seemed
pleased and with a skip and a hop he made his way around to the back of
the forge where he was quickly lost among the trees.
To satisfy my own curiosity I gazed a long time up and down the road.
There was nothing as far as I could see that could have given him cause
for alarm. The whole highway was as void as a desert save that on the
brow of the hill, like a speck in the sky, there came riding towards us
a solitary horseman, booted and spurred, in all likelihood a guest for
the village inn for the night. At most he was only a passing stranger
like hundreds of others. I smiled at myself that I had taken the Fool so
seriously. I went back to have my laugh out with Le Brun and to wait for
my brother’s gear.
CHAPTER II
I AM ATTACKED IN THE WOODS
It was late in the afternoon when I left the armorer’s. The sky was
covered with low dark clouds. A fine rain fell which cut through the
skin with the keenness of a sharp knife.
Our house (where I lived alone with my brother André) lay above a mile
from the village around a long bend in the road—a track I rarely
traveled, for I knew a shorter path through the woods. So with my
brother’s armor slung lightly over my shoulder I started briskly on my
way.
I was without a serious thought. The birds, in the face of the oncoming
night, were settled in their nests. The branches of the trees began to
drip moisture over my face and neck. The grass and the underbrush were a
bit soggy under my feet, but even with that the lightness of my heart
prompted me to whistle a little tune.
I had gone about half way. The thoughts of a bright fire and warmth were
uppermost in my brain. Save for the dripping of the rain the woods were
as silent as an empty tomb.
A sound startled me—a swish like the hurry of a deer or a wild-boar
scurrying through the weeds. I stopped and peered carefully through the
gathering gloom. The sound was repeated, directly in front of me. Quite
instinctively I backed away to seek the protection of the nearest tree,
and waited. But for a second all I could hear was the thumping of my
heart against my ribs.
After a little I began to feel that my fear was founded on imagination,
so with cautious steps I slowly ventured once more ahead. I had not gone
five strides when the swish came again to my ears, this time more
distinct and very near. I was about to swerve to my left to avoid the
danger that might be threatening me, when a rough-looking fellow stepped
out of the semi-darkness and made towards me.
As well as I could distinguish, he was of the commoner type, clad in the
wooden shoes of the peasantry and with a coat and breeches of some black
material almost threadbare, crumpled and soiled from being lived and
slept in. His hair hung out in clumps from under the edges of an old cap
and around his neck was knotted a ragged scarf.
I caught all this in a flash, you may be sure. But what attracted me
most was neither his clothes nor even his threatening aspect, for I
started with terror when I caught a glimpse of a dagger that he held
grasped in his right hand.
I stopped and drew a long breath. But he came on with the weapon raised
on a level with his shoulder, and with his heavy eyes glaring at me as
though I were a wild animal that was to be stricken to death. I shifted
to the one side and he shifted likewise with me. I saw him moisten his
lips and half-shut his eyes. With what quickness I could, I sprang
further on and dodged safe for the moment behind a tree.
“My name is La Mar!” I called. “I am Henri La Mar. I live in that house
over there at the edge of the woods.” I stopped long enough for him to
understand. Then, “Surely you have made a mistake,” I cried still
louder. “You must be waiting here for someone else!”
He lunged stupidly after me. The breath was coming from between his lips
in a kind of a wheeze. At the same time he uttered in a deep growl, “La
Mar. The old Count of Gramont—the rest of them”—and something which
sounded like an oath, but which I was not able to understand.
We were within five feet of each other. All the time he held the dagger
on high always ready to strike. It flashed through my senses that I was
dallying long enough, so with a jump I flew away from my tree and made
deeper into the woods.
But it seemed that I had run into a trap. I had not gone twice the
length of my body when a second fellow, dressed the same as the first,
confronted me. If you had stood the two together you could not have told
the one from the other. And this one, too, had a dagger like the first
and stood with his legs spread out to block my way.
I was as good as dead. I came to a stop as though I had struck a stone
wall and then veered over to the one side as I did before. At the same
instant I bent low and ran as fast as I could in the hope that, if my
assailant made a lunge at me, there might be some chance that it would
only be a glancing blow and do me little harm.
I had calculated too rashly on the sloth of my enemy. Indeed he was as
sure of me as a hunter is of game that is already brought to earth. As I
passed, he took one leap after me. His hand came down with the speed of
an arrow and the next thing I knew I felt a jar in the middle of my back
that sent the stars before my eyes and flattened me on my stomach on the
ground. Then a shriek echoed among the trees that sent the blood
curdling through my veins and after that the woods were still again.
I was partly dazed by my fall. To tell you the truth, by every right I
ought to have been killed. But the armor which I had slung so lightly
over my shoulder had saved me. When the blow struck, the point of the
dagger caught in the meshes of the twisted links. The weapon was a
straight knife with no cross piece to form a protection for the hand.
The impact was so sudden and so unexpected that my enemy lost his grip
on the haft. His hand slipped down the blade and, as I learned
afterwards, was cut along the fingers and the palm. It was the pain of
it that made him cry out and to that the frenzy of it caused him to take
to his heels and run away.
There was danger on every side of me. I had no time to breathe a word of
thanks for my deliverance but got up as quickly as I could and made
forward in the direction I was bent on. Then came my third surprise. I
had started at a fairly good gait when an arrow whistled past my face
and buried itself in the trunk of a great tree. My flesh crept from the
very terror of my situation. There was one thing to do, I thought, and
that was to take the bridle in my teeth and make the best of it.
I plunged on ahead recklessly. I am sure that I was as white as a ghost.
It is one thing to have an enemy in front of you with whom you are
matched on even terms. It is another to be beset by lurking foes who are
able to strike unseen and who have every advantage in position and in
weapons. But even at that the spirit of desperation was strong within
me, for I was resolved to use my last speck of strength to worm myself
through the woods and to make for home.
But my resolutions were nipped in the bud before I had fairly formed
them. I was just getting into full career when another arrow passed my
face, this time closer than the first and whistled on among the trees.
But I did not stop. I bent my head low to the ground. I grasped the
piece of mail more firmly in my hand. I was breathing hard, but more
from the strain I was under than from actual labor. Three strides
further and a third arrow buried itself in the turf straight before me
and snapped with a little click.
I could not help looking down for my face was directed towards the
ground. To my amazement, even in the gloom of the woods, I spied a piece
of parchment tied in a hard knot on the haft of the missile.
“A message,” I thought. “Is it a warning from a friend? Or a threat from
a hidden foe?”
As quick as a flash I stooped and snatched it open. There I read in
letters scrawled as coarsely and as rudely as a child would write the
words:
GO BACK BY THE ROAD
I trembled a little, I must confess. Whether from friend or foe, it was
wisest to obey. If I insisted on going on ahead, I knew I would surely
be killed. If I were to go back—well, there was a ray of hope.
I turned. I was as much in the hands of Fate as ever was any man alive.
This time I did not run but kept on at a steady gait. At every step I
was in expectation of some fresh attack, to be confronted by one of the
two men who had assailed me, or by a knife darting through the air, or
even by an arrow. But to my surprise the woods were as calm as when I
first entered them. The rain dripped slowly from the overhanging
branches and the light wind fanned and cooled my heated cheeks.
I was soon past the place where I had met my first foe. To my
imagination it was like a tale I had heard of a superstitious person’s
passing a place haunted by a ghost. My eyes were on the alert. At any
second I expected a fresh attack. I thought I heard a low groan. I let
the thought pass as though it were the promptings of fear. Then I heard
it again and with it some words that I could not understand. I looked
about and there to my amazement I saw the fellow who had first
threatened me with his back to a tree. A strong cord held his wrists
tied together, while another wrapped around his body held him firmly
fastened against the trunk.
At the sight of me he cleared his throat.
“Come here!” he commanded.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Will you loose these bonds?” he said.
“I know when I’m safe,” I replied. “I’ll do nothing of the kind.”
He growled something under his breath.
“If you do,” he went on half coaxingly and half in a threat, “I’ll tell
you a story that’s worth while.”
“You’ve told me enough already,” said I, and started on my way.
But he was insistent.
“Wait,” he commanded once more. “Will you give me a mouthful of water,
then?”
“There’s enough dripping from the trees,” I shot back at him. “Turn your
face up and you’ll easily slacken your thirst.”
He growled deeper than before but he realized that I was not to be taken
as lightly as he thought. I went on. There was no more interruption. The
fellow with the wounded hand might have been lurking somewhere in the
neighborhood. He might even be standing behind a tree. But as far as I
was concerned, he did not appear and in quicker time than I had come in,
I was out of the woods and on the road that led in a roundabout way to
my home.
I breathed a great sigh of relief when I tramped up the gravel walk that
led to the house. With no ado I pushed open the front door and entered.
In the great hall there were two men, the one my brother André and the
old Count of Gramont who lived in the castle on the hill. They had just
finished lighting the candles. There was no fire in the open hearth and
the room was cold and chilled with the damp. The old Count was pacing
nervously up and down the floor muttering to himself in his deep rolling
tones. My brother’s face was as white as chalk and lines of worry lay
across his forehead. He was standing at the long oaken table that stood
in the centre of the room winding a piece of linen about his lower arm.
I did not speak for at the first glance I noticed that, as he wound, the
blood kept oozing through the bandages from the place where he had been
wounded.
CHAPTER III
A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT
I stood stock still in the middle of the floor. My brother looked at me
from head to foot.
“Le Brun has been here, Henri,” he said calmly. And then in a low voice,
“I was afraid that something had happened to you, you return so late.”
“Something has happened,” I burst forth and in shaking tones told him of
my adventures in the woods.
“They are agents of the King,” cried the old Count. “They are everywhere
about us. They are not satisfied that they have taken my son. They
will——”
My mouth fell open in amazement.
“They have taken Charles?” I asked. “Is it true then that he was at the
meeting at Rouen? You can——”
“It was a meeting of the nobles of Normandy,” he interrupted. “I thought
I was too old to go myself so I sent my only son. They were to make
plans to protect us against the aggressions of the King. But the secret
leaked out. Some traitor in our ranks betrayed us. Every man in the
gathering was taken. A full dozen were beheaded behind the walls of the
town. A few were sent off as prisoners, to be scattered among the
castles of the King.”
“—and Charles?” I cried.
The old man sighed and ground his teeth.
“He is on his way down the valley of the Loire,” he rumbled deep in his
throat, “to be mewed up till the crack of doom.”
The blood left my face. A chill of horror ran through every limb.
“We shall bring him back, Henri,” said André with a ring in his voice.
“If it takes the last drop of blood of the last Norman, we shall bring
him back. But we shall have to wait.”
The old Count flung his hand in the air. The fire flashed from his eyes
and he began to stride again across the floor.
“Wait!” he demanded. “Wait! That is the only word you know. We have
waited long enough already. I’ll not bide another day.” He turned wildly
towards the rack that held my brother’s arms. “I’ll take this,” he cried
laying his strong hand upon a battle-ax. “I’ll go to the King, where he
sits upon his throne. I’ll demand of him why he dared to lay his finger
upon my son. I’ll offer him his choice, whether he will give me my son
back—or perish at my feet.”
Here André raised his hand for peace.
“If you do that,” he said quietly, “you will only be playing into their
nets. It will mean the destruction of us all.”
The Count flung himself into a chair.
“There’s one last fight in me yet, André,” he growled in his heavy
voice. “I’ll summon a thousand archers from the countryside. I’ll find
the castle where they have him prisoner. We’ll storm it and burn it to
the ground.”
But André, who ever was on the side of wisdom, saw the folly of his
intentions.
“If you do,” he warned, “it will only be a signal for an attack. The
armies of France will sweep us from our homes.”
He took two or three paces to and fro in the room and returned to me.
There was a smile of sadness on his face as he spoke.
“The Black Prince of England is our only hope,” he said.
“He is ravaging the western coast of France,” I told him. “It is his
presence there that holds the King in check.”
He opened his mouth to answer but the long whine of one of the dogs out
of doors interrupted him. We kept silent until the sound died away. Then
he took up a tinder and went to the hearth.
“I shall make a fire,” he said. “The chill of the air has pierced me to
the bone.”
I looked at his wounded arm.
“How did you get that, André?” I asked.
He laughed.
“We were attacked by knaves as we came along the road.”
The whine of the dog began again. Then like a chorus there arose a
barking and yelping as though the whole pack of them had gone suddenly
mad.
“There is someone in the yard,” muttered the old Count without raising
his head. “I thought I heard the crunching of the gravel on the walk.”
With a kind of instinct I turned towards the window. I could not see
clearly what it was, but there flashed across the pane what seemed to be
the image of a man’s face. By the suddenness with which he moved away,
it struck me that he must have been loitering there, peering in. My
heart rose in my throat for I thought of the enemies who were lurking
about the house.
I was on the verge of raising my hand to point and call out, when amid
the sharp howling of the dogs there came a rapping on the panels of the
door. Like a flash André sprang forward. Without a single weapon in case
he was attacked he jerked the door open. The light of the candles shone
dimly into the haze. For all that, I was able to see the figure of a man
standing on the stone step. He was booted and spurred and clad from neck
to heels in the long black cloak of a traveler. He wore a broad brimmed
hat with a feather in it. When he saw the anxious expression on my
brother’s face he smiled and touched his forehead like a salute. Then he
bowed with the gravity of a courtier.
“May I come in out of the rain?” he asked.
CHAPTER IV
A TRICKSTER
Of all the men I ever saw this stranger struck my fancy to the highest
degree. He strode into the room with as much confidence and poise as
though he were the actual master of the house and we the humblest of his
servants. He looked neither to the right nor the left. Yet, as he passed
us, without shifting his gaze, he seemed to sweep each of us out of the
corner of his eye with a glance that measured us from head to heel.
He stopped at the great oaken table and raised his hat with a sort of
mincing delicacy. With a swish through the air he knocked the water from
it and laid it carefully down. When he took off his cloak we saw that he
carried a silver mounted sword and wore a doublet and breeches of the
finest velvet ornamented about the edges with a fine lace. He curled his
moustache with his thumb and forefinger. Then, with his hand over his
heart and a bland smile on his face he turned and bowed with as much
reverence as you would pay to a king.
“I’ll never forget this,” he said, but there his voice dropped so that
the rest of it sounded like hollow mockery,“—this unexpected
hospitality.”
André was the first to speak.
“It’s a sour night,” said he carefully eyeing the stranger’s wet boots
and dripping clothes, “for a man to be abroad.”
The visitor gave a short laugh.
“A little warmth,” he replied with a nod towards the hearth, “would add
greatly to my comfort.” He began to chafe his hands the one in the other
as though he were frozen to the marrow. “Will you please bestir
yourself!”
There was a ring of insolence in his tone. His words, though uttered
smoothly, had a kind of sly meaning at the bottom that touched us to the
quick. It was clear that he intended to nettle us. The old Lord of
Gramont squared his shoulders. He let out a low quiet whistle and walked
away. But André, who was quicker and more easily hurt, flushed the color
of scarlet and knotted his fists.
For a moment there was empty silence. Our visitor looked at each of us
in turn with the corners of his lips curved in a taunting smile. He
strutted past the hearth with his spurs clanking and glanced with a
sneer about the room.
“I have often heard that the cattle in Normandy were better housed than
their masters,” he began. “It’s even colder here than it is out of
doors.”
“That is one reason why we are so healthy,” replied my brother looking
him full in the face. “And that is why we are so strong.”
The stranger broke out into a loud laugh.
“Why, man,” he exclaimed, “you have more wit than I imagined.” He bowed
low again. “It is to your credit, sir.”
André yawned.
“It is indeed cold,” he said. “But your tongue has a chill all of its
own. Do you know, my friend, I should have had a fire going by this time
if you——” But he stopped short, knowing that as a host he should not be
the first to openly offend.
But the stranger tossed back his head. He clapped my brother soundly on
the shoulder.
“I shall finish it for you,” he cried. “You meant to say, ‘—if I had not
come into the house.’” He flung his arm in the air in a wild gesture of
mirth. “You too have a tongue in your head. To tell you truly I am
amazed, for at first sight of you I thought you nothing but a country
dullard!”
With that he stared brazenly into André’s face. Then with the lightness
of a feather, he spun around and threw himself into one of the chairs.
My brother went as white as chalk. For a second he seemed stupefied.
Then a redness swept over him. He walked deliberately to the rack that
held the arms. The old Lord of Gramont halted where he had been pacing
half way across the room and looked sharply back. As for me my breath
stuck in my throat.
André returned bearing a naked sword in his hand.
“There is no light outside of the house,” he said. “We must finish, what
we have begun, here.”
The other arose. The same taunting smile played around his mouth.
“I had not thought you would have the courage,” he remarked. And then,
“Will you stain the floor of the house with your own blood?”
My brother took his position but, for a second, the old Count of Gramont
interfered.
“Will you tell us your name?” he asked the stranger. “In case anything
happens, it will be well to know.”
“My name?” repeated our visitor laying his finger-tips on his chest, and
with the shadow of a bow. “I am called the Sieur De Marsac. To all with
whom I am acquainted, a faithful servant of his Majesty, the King.”
There were no words more. The swords rang in the air. De Marsac began as
though it were only a fancy play, my brother with all the seriousness of
his nature. There was a difference between the two that was soon seen.
Our visitor had the advantage in litheness and in trickery. André was
the better in strength of wrist and in driving into his enemy with force
and steadiness.
The fight began with a few light thrusts and parries that on each side
were only trials of the other’s skill. Then of a sudden De Marsac
unleashed a savage attack. His sword came darting in like the fangs of a
snake with the point directed towards André’s heart. A part of a second
and it would have been too late, but my brother, who, I saw, was making
sure of his defense, swung his weapon to the side and caught his enemy’s
blade, steel against steel. The swords locked at the pommels like the
horns of deer and for a second the two stood glaring into each other’s
eyes.
It was here that André’s sturdiness showed itself, for it was a test of
the one man’s brawn against the other’s. My brother’s jaws came together
with determination. The veins in his neck swelled. He raised himself
slowly on the balls of his feet and pressed forward with all his might.
A cold look came into De Marsac’s eyes and a frown crossed his forehead.
I saw him go back little by little on his heels. His arm was bending in
towards his body. André took a step forward and our enemy to save
himself from being thrown off his balance sprang quickly backwards.
De Marsac began anew. His smile of confidence faded into seriousness. He
tried again with a few feints to find an opening in my brother’s
defense. Each time he was blocked with neatness and surety. Each time he
drew back with a scowl. The color in his face gave way to a pallid
white. His breath came short. But there was a look of gathering hate on
his countenance and a shifting expression in his eyes that roused me in
alarm.
“Look out for a trick, André!”
It was foolish for me to cry out. It is no thing to do when men are in a
conflict that means life or death, for in the second when he heard my
voice, my brother shot a look towards me that told me as plainly as
words that he knew what he was about. But I had given De Marsac his
opportunity. In that brief moment when my brother’s eyes were turned,
our enemy sprang forward with the quickness of a tiger. The light of the
candles ran like a flash along his blade. His arm, the sleeve of black
velvet and fancy lace, straightened itself in the direction of my
brother’s chest.
But for the terror that I felt, I would have closed my eyes, for in the
next breath I expected to see André fall. But instead he showed a
nimbleness that I never dreamed was his. Like a spring he was down and
up again. By the breath of a hair De Marsac’s weapon passed over his
shoulder. Our enemy’s body was open for the fatal blow and my brother,
heated with the conflict, wrapped his knuckles about his sword to strike
his insulter to his feet.
His sword came forward. He had put one foot before the other to drive
home the blow with all the might that lay in him. The point caught De
Marsac in the middle of the chest as straight as ever a thrust was aimed
and, I am sure with as much power behind it as any average man can put.
I expected to see our enemy crumble to the floor—dead. To our extreme
amazement, as André struck, we heard a sharp click. The sword which De
Marsac held, fell, to be sure, rattling to the floor. But no blood
flowed, and his body, as though it had been violently pushed, or struck
by a man’s fist, tumbled back. He tried to keep on his feet but was too
far gone. He measured his length on the floor and in falling knocked his
head against one of the legs of the long oaken table.
It was the old Count of Gramont who spoke first.
“A coat of linked mail!” he cried running over to him. “He wears a coat
of mail under his velvet jerkin.”
De Marsac was stunned. The old Count caught him roughly by the shoulder
and jerked him to his feet.
“A trickster!” he shouted in his face. “You are a low-born coward.”
De Marsac never uttered a word. He blinked and ran his hand over his
eyes till they cleared. The old smile of cunning curled around his lips,
but this time it was mingled with contempt and hate.
“You Norman dogs!” he hissed. “Do you think I would match my life with
yours?”
The old man went white with anger. He held his big hand out at arm’s
length. He curled it slowly into a knot of a fist and took a deep
breath. With what force he could summon he whirled about and struck De
Marsac a hard blow in the face. We had not expected it and I think De
Marsac was taken by surprise too. His knees sagged under him and his
arms fell limp at his side. He would have fallen, had not the old Count
caught him again by the shoulder and pushed him into a chair.
“You are not the first of your breed that this fist has struck down,” he
cried. “In the days gone by it has wielded a battle-ax that laid dozens
of your countrymen low. If the time comes,” he added darkly, “it is
still strong enough to match itself with another foe.”
He took to pacing once more up and down the hall. André walked quietly
to the rack and put his sword away. When he came back he picked up De
Marsac’s weapon where it had fallen and handed it to him.
“You will have no further need of this,” he said in an even tone, “—at
least while you are here.”
Of the four of us in that room it was De Marsac who first regained his
poise. The sting of the rebukes which had been flung into his face soon
faded away. He arose without a look at any of us and took his coat over
his arm. Then he put his hat upon his head and snapped his sword back
into its scabbard. Without a word he walked towards the door and as he
went I thought I saw his former jauntiness returning.
“Gentlemen,” he said with his fingers on the latch and in a voice of
sneering mockery. “You have won tonight, for it is difficult for a man
to fight two against one. There will come another meeting when there
will be fairer odds. At that time I promise you a different ending to
the story.”
None of us answered. He closed the door behind him quietly and with no
show of anger passed out of the house.
I breathed a long sigh.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” I said.
My brother and the old Count exchanged glances.
“There’s something back of that fellow,” said André. “We must be on our
guard for I think we shall hear from him again.”
We sat for almost an hour. None of us stirred except André who busied
himself in making a fire. When the blaze had spread warmth about the
room he came and sat down with us again. A tiny spot of blood was oozing
through the bandages.
“It’s from the exertion,” he explained with a smile. “I wonder if the
fellow who attacked us on the road was a hireling of De Marsac?”
At that the dogs began barking and yelping as they did before. The old
Count of Gramont started to the door, but before he reached it, it flew
wide open. It was De Marsac who burst into the room. He must have fallen
into the mud for his velvet breeches were splattered with clay. A wild
look shone from his eyes and he was of the color of death.
“An attack has been made upon my life!” he cried.
We rose from our seats.
“I was making down the road towards the armorer’s where I left my horse.
I was set upon by a band of men. Look here!” he exclaimed and drew an
arrow from under his cloak. “But for the coat of mail I was wearing this
would have gone through my heart!”
“Have you enemies in the neighborhood?” demanded the old Count.
“There are enemies following me,” declared De Marsac. “There is one who
would snap out my life as you would snap a piece of straw. But this is
not his work. This is the work of another.” Terrified, he looked around
the room. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’?” he asked.
“No. Who is he?” we cried together.
“A highwayman,” he answered. “—a bold desperate highwayman. For a month
at a time he terrifies the countryside. Then he disappears. Miles and
miles away he is heard from again. He is seldom seen. He works alone. It
is his disguises that trick people. He can masquerade as a nobleman, a
beggar, a soldier—anything.”
He flung himself into a chair but was up in a flash again.
“Gentlemen, we have had our little dispute,” he said hurriedly. “It is
all over now and done with. You see I cannot venture out into the night
without fear for my life. In the name of your hospitality I am going to
ask you to let me rest here until the morning.”
The old Count looked warningly at my brother and silently shook his head
‘no.’ But André, who was easily touched on the softer side, arose and
bowed.
“I offer you every courtesy,” he said quietly. “It is past midnight and
no doubt you are weary from your ride. I shall light you to your room.”
He took the candle and went before. In a few minutes he was down again.
“I could not do otherwise,” he explained.
“He is not to be trusted, André,” I said.
“The man’s a rogue,” added the Count of Gramont. “If I were you, André,
I would put a guard about the house. There’s something brewing that we
have no knowledge of.”
“I shall have one of the servants watch in the hall upstairs,” my
brother said. “Another will stay here during the night. We must learn
what his purpose is so that we can meet the situation. In the morning if
he smiles again, I shall be like honey to him. I think that is the
better way.”
The old Count laughed in his throat and grunted.
“If this were my house,” he said, “I would make short work of him.”
And he made a sign that meant that he would string him to a tree.
We were all tired. One by one we bade each other goodnight and went to
bed.
CHAPTER V
WHAT I LEARNED IN THE WOODS
The next morning when I awoke the sun was shining big and fairly warm.
The chill of the night before had yielded to a gentle breeze that blew
now steadily from the south.
I heard the clatter of pots and pans in the pantry below. The fresh odor
of small bacon was wafted to my nostrils. In fits and starts the low
rumble of men’s voices arose like the heaviness of distant thunder here
and there between a loud laugh that echoed high against the rafters.
By this I knew it was time that I was stirring. As fast as I could I
washed and dressed myself and hurried down the stairs. I laid my hand on
the latch to enter when another burst of laughter louder than the others
smote upon my ears. I thought that some travelers or friends from the
neighborhood were making a morning call, so I jerked open the door and
with a smile of greeting entered the room.
In the next breath I stood stock still. There were but three men at the
table—the old Count of Gramont, my brother André and the intruder of the
night before. But what struck me first was that they were in the
merriest of moods. The old Count was grinning and staring hard before
him. André with his face in his palms was smiling like a pleased child.
And De Marsac, as vivacious as a young colt, was babbling and talking
like a running brook. His face was flushed. He was waving his hands as
wildly as a windmill.
I never saw men so completely changed. It was all sham I knew—a kind of
play in which the one was trying to beguile the other. There was no
sincerity in their actions or their words. For a second I was amazed.
De Marsac must have seen the puzzled expression on my face. He leaped
from his seat and hastened towards me. With the same show of outward
delight with which you would greet an old acquaintance, he clapped my
hand in his and tucked it under his arm.
“A sound sleeper,” he cried. “An easy mind.” And then, as though it were
an amusing thing for a lad of my age to have a mind at all, he turned
with a knowing gesture and broke into a laugh.
I flushed uncomfortably. I tried to withdraw from his grasp. But the
more I pulled, the more firmly I felt the pressure of his arm. At length
the two of us reached the seat which I usually occupied. Here he let go.
As I sat down he continued to stand before me. With his hand over his
heart he bowed pretty much as he had done the night before. Then he
straightened himself again and laid his palm upon my shoulder.
“Here is what I call the makings of a man,” he said to the Count and
André in tones like an orator. “Strong arms. Sturdy limbs.” He let his
eye run the length of my body. “A great fighter some day—and a stubborn
one. Is it not true, Henri?”
I smiled a sour smile, for his mockery was all too clear. He was, to my
discomfort, treating me like a baby. He took his seat next to me. Then
he began to pile my platter high with meat and wheaten cakes and poured
a noggin full of whey. I sat there like a log, boiling within and
wishing him out of the way.
“We’ll be great friends yet, won’t we, Henri?” he said in a soft
sneering tone. “You know I was down to the armorer’s long before you
were out of bed. My horse has gone lame. It’ll be three or four days
before he’ll be well again. In the meantime I’m going to be your guest.”
He stopped and drummed lightly on the table. “You’ll be glad of that,
won’t you, Henri?”
I went on eating.
“I’ll be sorry,” said I, “—for the horse.”
At that he turned to the Count and my brother, breaking out into a loud
laugh, like a father whose child has said something unusually clever.
“Henri and I are going into the woods today,” he went on in the same
annoying voice. “After that we’ll pay a visit to the forge. I want to
show him my horse.” Then he added slowly, “You can ride, can’t you,
Henri?”
“As well as any of them,” I answered and went on hurrying through my
meal.
De Marsac saw that I was nettled. He dared not drive his cajolery too
far, for my brother was looking at him with half closed eyes, and the
old Count had arched one brow gazing at me to see how I was standing his
thrusts.
At length our visitor turned his conversation to the older men. He
chattered like a magpie. One story followed the other with flashes of
wit between. The spirit of merriment which was in the air when I entered
the room came back. I saw my chance. As quietly as I could I arose and
slipped softly out of the door.
With a feeling of relief I turned the corner of the house and was making
down the gravel path when I heard a crunching of the stones behind me. I
cast a glance over my shoulder. To my discomfort there was De Marsac
coming quickly after me. He had his head thrown back and with his eyes
towards the sky was whistling an air.
“Ah,” he exclaimed when I turned, “you are going somewhere?”
I stopped.
“To the armorer’s,” I said shortly. Then in the hope that he would leave
me to myself, “I have business there—of a private nature.”
My hint fell flat. In a kind of running walk he caught up to me and
said, “That’s fine. We’ll go together.”
I would have run away had I been able. Why was I to be bothered by a man
who was nothing but a nuisance and a pest? I tried to think of one
excuse or other to rid myself of him. None came, so for the while I made
the best of it.
We went on in silence. He had his head in the air looking brightly
about. I had mine down for I hated even the sight of his face. After a
little he made a jab or two but they failed. When he saw that his
nonsense was of no purpose he turned serious and prodded me with all
kinds of questions.
He showed an interest in the extent of our land. In a sly way he got out
of me how far it ran and what crops it bore. Then he mentioned the old
Count of Gramont and the size of his estates. He touched on the strength
of his castle on the hill—the number of men which he kept under arms—the
revenues that came from his possessions in the valley and what wealth he
was said to have.
You may be sure that I told him as little as I could. In some respects I
was as good a play-actor as he, for to most of his questionings I had
but one stupid answer, “I don’t know.” If it was his intention to treat
me like a dunce, I was more than willing to act the part of one.
Finally a fresh thought came to me. I halted of a sudden and stepped
away from him.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I’m not going to the armorer’s. I’m
going through the woods.”
He let his arms fall to his sides.
“—through the woods?” he asked. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“I had an accident there last night,” I replied. “I should like to see
what became of a certain man.”
He rolled his eyes as though he was thinking—trying to measure me in his
mind.
“What’s your game, Henri?” he asked. His voice was low but I felt a
threat lurking in it.
I began to explain.
“You see, as I was coming home last night, I happened upon two men who
were quarreling in the woods,” said I, watching his face closely.
“Yes,” he answered.
“The one got the better of the other,” I went on, “and the man who lost
was tied by the victor to a tree.”
He did not change his expression, but looked steadily into my eyes.
“Dead?” he demanded.
“No. Alive.”
The breath came back to him. He tried not to show it but a faint smile
of satisfaction played around his mouth.
“I understand you now, Henri,” he went on. “You have a good heart. If he
is still there, you want to set him free.”
With that he clapped my arm under his as he had done just before
breakfast. With a little more hurry than was necessary he made with me
towards the woods.
I led him to the spot where I thought the man was lashed to the tree.
But the only trace of him we found was a length of rope. It was frayed
and worn at the ends. No doubt he had set himself free by hours of
rubbing against the rough bark. The ground about the trunk was stamped
and torn as though by the marching of a hundred feet.
“The villain’s gone,” I remarked.
“Why do you call him a villain?” De Marsac came back at me with his soft
sneer.
“Because, Sieur De Marsac,” said I with more boldness than caution, “he
tried to take my life.”
De Marsac whistled.
“And he failed?” he said. His voice flattened as though it was a thing
he regretted. Then he came close to me. “Do you know, Henri,” he
continued in the same slow tone, “any of us might be killed without a
moment’s warning. There is a man following me at this very minute who is
thirsting for my life.”
“It might be the same fellow,” I suggested craftily.
“No,” he said, “your fellow is an ordinary lout—stupid. He has made a
mess of his work. The man who is following me is far deadlier. He never
misses—and never fails.”
I drew cautiously away, for De Marsac’s words and the snake-like
subtlety of them threw me on my guard.
“What do you mean,” said I, “when you say that ‘he has made a mess of
his work’? Is it your opinion that I really ought to have been killed?”
His eyes sharpened. Like a man ready to strike a blow his face grew red
with anger and he shifted forward.
“You are a smart lad, Henri,” he said drawing his eyes together till
they were almost closed, “but you should be taught to speak more
respectfully to your betters.”
I hardly knew what to say. There was no good in the man. He was
underhand in his actions. He had something up his sleeve that he was
going to have out with me. It struck me that the sooner it was over the
better.
“You are not plain enough, Sieur De Marsac,” I said, “for me to answer
you.” Then rashness got the upper hand of me and I burst out, “Why did
you follow me this morning, anyway?”
He only stood glaring at me. His lips tightened. A wicked glint gathered
in his eyes and he stepped in towards me. I was now truly alarmed. I
looked from one side of me to the other for a way of escape. I saw him
finger at his belt for his dagger. His answer came like a thunderbolt.
“—to finish the bungling of last night!” he hissed.
I was entirely on the defensive for I had no weapons. As he reached out
to grasp me, I sprang to one side. Then I turned to run for it. We were
somewhat aside of the path and the underbrush was matted and tangled. I
made a leap, thinking to get as far from him as possible. My foot caught
in a weed or trailing vine which held it as though it were tied there.
In the next second my legs were knocked from under me. I fell forward on
my hands and face. Then I got another jolt as though someone were
thumping me on the side and shoulders with a heavy log. I could not see,
for the undergrowth was sharp and I was forced to close my eyes. A deep
grunt and a squeal started near me. A brushing of the weeds and vines
followed. Terror crept into my soul for I realized that it was an animal
which I had startled and disturbed.
My heart was jumping like a hammer. I rose on one elbow and looked
fearfully around. To my amazement and horror, as I scrambled to my feet,
I saw a wild boar with its snout to the ground make its way through the
underbrush and disappear deeper into the woods.
Then came another surprise. De Marsac was standing as white as a corpse.
He seemed to have forgotten me entirely. His eyes were fastened on the
direction which the boar had taken. His whole body was moving nervously
as though he were greatly excited. From what I had noticed before I knew
a fresh thought had started in his mind. Like a flash he was over
helping me to my feet.
“Henri,” he called. “You can thank me for saving your life! If I hadn’t
warned you in time, you would have been gored to death!”
I made no reply for the thoughts were scared out of me.
“We’ll go home now, Henri,” De Marsac said in a trembling voice.
I went along with him. From the time we left the woods he spoke not a
word to me nor did he seem conscious of my presence. There was something
brewing in his mind. He continually snapped his fingers as though he was
impatient. He muttered under his breath and shook his head in approval
of what was stirring in his thoughts.
Once I heard him mumble, “The wild boar. The very thing. We’ll hunt the
wild boar.” Again, when he appeared forgetful that I was there, he
growled, “It will be an easier way—when we hunt the wild boar.” He
laughed confidently to himself. “We’ll start tomorrow—at dawn.” When we
came to the gravel path that led to the house, he clapped me on the
shoulder.
“Tomorrow will be my lucky day—eh, Henri?” he said.
CHAPTER VI
WE HUNT THE WILD BOAR
We reached home in the early afternoon. It was then that I got a clearer
vision of De Marsac’s duplicity and of the game that he was playing. No
sooner had we laid eyes upon my brother and the Count, when he began to
tell of our adventure in the woods in the most excited fashion. He drew
a most vivid picture of the danger I had been in. He painted himself in
the rôle of my rescuer. His voice took on a high tremulous tone as
though he too had suffered from the shock and were really alarmed at my
nearness to death. Every now and then he turned to me to bear him out in
this or that assertion but went rapidly on again before I had time to
utter a sound. He clapped me on the back. He tugged me by the elbow. He
looked beamingly into my face. To see and hear him you would have
thought that I was lucky to be alive and you would have considered him
the bravest man in the world.
At last with a fine frenzy he concluded.
“We must track this monster to his lair,” he shouted. “We must drive him
to his death.”
I was like a fish floundering on dry land. To me this man was all fraud
and froth. I looked appealingly towards my brother with the hope that he
would see beneath it all.
The old Count rose and stretched himself.
“André,” he said with a sly wink, “it’ll be a fine day’s sport. What do
you say?”
“We shall have everything ready by the morning, Sieur De Marsac,” he
said dryly. Then he turned to the old Count and said, “We must drive
this monster to its doom.”
With that he grinned and walked away.
That was final, I knew. I went off to the barn and busied myself during
the afternoon with odds and ends that interested me. The day passed and
the night came. We lighted the candles. Until the time for bed we sat in
the great hall exchanging worthless gossip.
I dragged myself upstairs first, tired and weary. But I managed to keep
awake until I heard the others follow one by one. When I thought them
fast asleep, I crept noiselessly into André’s room and sat softly down
on the side of his bed. To my surprise he had not closed his eyes.
“I was expecting you, Henri,” he said.
“I came to speak to you about De Marsac,” I began. “Don’t you think he
is bent on harm?”
“Are you worried?” he asked.
“I have good reason to be,” I replied. “It was only by a lucky chance
that I was not killed today.”
He sat bolt upright in the bed and took me by the arm.
“By him?” he demanded.
“Yes.” And I told him of the happenings in the woods.
“That is going too far,” he said. “Tomorrow must be his last day among
us. He must forth from the house.”
“Why does he linger here, André?” I asked. “Do you know?”
“I can only guess,” he answered.
“It is to get possession of our estate,” I ventured, “—ours and the
estate of the Count of Gramont. There is a plot hatching. The men who
set upon me in the woods are in it. And I believe that De Marsac is the
leader.”
“I rather thought,” said he, “that he was an agent of the King.”
“He is that and more too,” I replied. “André, you may take my word for
it. De Marsac wants this place for himself.”
He made no answer. We sat there in the dark for a long time. At length
he laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“Henri,” he said, “we must give the matter deep thought. But this I
promise you, come what may, after the boar hunt tomorrow I shall drive
this schemer from the house.”
With that I went slowly to my room. My sleep was fitful. All night long
I dreamed the wildest dreams so that when morning came I was not half
rested. I leaped from my bed with my heart thumping, for there below I
heard the cocks crowing in the yard. There was a clamor of men shouting
to each other. The horses’ hoofs clattered on the ground. There was the
clang of steel against steel. The animals snorted as they sensed the
excitement in the air. And above all I heard André’s voice shout a
command. I knew that it was high time for me to be about and stirring.
I slipped down the stairs fastening my belt as I went. In less time than
it takes to tell I was across the yard and was leading out the roan
which I had always claimed as my own.
We were divided into two parties. I was to accompany the one led by the
Count of Gramont, while André, with De Marsac, was to take the other.
Our enemy was in high spirits. He had borrowed one of André’s horses and
to display himself made it cavort and caper about with the glee of a
child. I fastened a look on him. I am sure I felt nothing but contempt
for a man so vain. I let my eye run from his hat with the feather in it
to the spurs upon his boots. The rest of us wore tight-fitting jerkins
of smooth leather, but he had on his long black cloak. It struck me as
being quite strange. I was beginning to wonder if he had a motive for it
when I saw that it was another trick of his, for beneath the skirts I
discovered that he had brought along with him his sword!
I did not think twice. I slipped from my horse and ran into the hall. In
a second I was back again with the weapon which my brother had used only
two nights before. I went to André where he was among the others and
tugged at his sleeve.
“Take this,” I urged. “Later on I’ll tell you the reason why.”
With that I was on my horse again. A long loud blast of the horn and we
were off. André and De Marsac swerved far to the west. The Count of
Gramont and our followers turned towards the south.
We were soon in the woods. The dogs ran hither and thither searching for
a scent. We rode where the trees were furthest apart lest the branches
that hung low might knock us from our saddles. Here and there the ground
was soggy, but for the most part we were not troubled with our footing
for we followed a road that the woodsmen had made, rough, irregular, to
be sure, but known to me and my companions.
Deeper and deeper we went into the forest. The smell of moss rose to my
nostrils and the odor of logs, rotted on the damp ground. The dogs
spread out more and more like a fan, with their noses to the earth,
eager and tense.
Presently one of them raised his head in the air. He let out a long
quivering bark that echoed strangely through the woods. Then the others
followed. The whole pack jumped and yelped as though they had suddenly
gone mad, and ran heedlessly forward. I was in need of no one to tell me
that they had caught the scent and were flying after their prey.
Then, after another short while, the sound of a horn floated high
through the branches of the trees. It seemed very far away. We rode on
and on. The heat of the excitement was showing in our faces. The horses,
too, snorted as though they were conscious of the strain.
The blast of the horn came again. This time it seemed nearer and more
prolonged, with a quivering at the end that sounded like jubilation.
“They’ve stirred the boar,” the old Count said to me, turning in his
saddle, and with a motion of his hand he gave the signal to one of his
followers to answer with a returning blast.
We were in the very thick of the woods. We had left the path and were in
places where the underbrush was dense. The trees, too, seemed larger and
of greater girth. Now and then a bird circled over our heads and flew
chattering about us.
A quarter of an hour passed, with the horn sounding now and then to give
us the direction. The dogs were running with their tongues hanging wet
and red from their mouths. The going was getting more and more
difficult.
Suddenly a blast, so loud that it shook us in our saddles, resounded in
our ears. The shouts of men came to us through the trees. The barking of
the dogs, sharp like the cracking of a whip, cut in between.
Before we knew it we were out in the open. That is we came to a place
where few trees grew. All was covered with a soft marsh that was like
ooze under the horses’ feet. The weeds and vines were waist high and so
knotted and enmeshed that we must go carefully through them.
The shouts came again. This time they were so near that I was able to
distinguish the words. I looked ahead to catch a glimpse of André and
his men. I saw the brush part at a spot not far away. Then, to my
amazement, I heard the angry snort of a boar and, directly following,
the long hairy back of the animal burst upon my vision.
I reined in my horse. The old Count of Gramont (who was to the fore of
me) caught his spear by the haft. The dogs came pouring into the opening
like rain. One of them ventured in close to the boar and in the next
second was sent yelping back with a wound in his shoulder where he had
been pierced by a white tusk.
The animal was foaming at the mouth from frenzy. He knew that he was
beset by enemies on all sides. He lowered his head till it touched the
ground and made a mad plunge forward.
At the same moment I saw André appear through the trees. At his side
rode De Marsac. They let out a shout and looked swiftly over to us. The
old Count and I raised our spears on high. I knew that in a moment the
boar was doomed, for between us there was little chance of his escape.
While I leaned back to get the greatest force behind my blow, I caught
sight of my brother and our enemy opposite. A smile started on my face
but it died away again. Both men whipped their spears aloft. Without a
moment’s delay they whirled sidewise in their saddles. Their arms shot
back and then forward again. The bright steel darted through the air
like long glistening threads. They crossed in their flight as shears are
crossed when you open them, and flitted onward. At the same time I let
mine go too and fixed my eyes upon the boar.
Only one of the spears struck, but it was hurled with such force that it
caught the boar in the middle of the back and pierced clean to the
region of his heart. While it was in full career, it faltered in its
plunge. Stumbling, it dug its tusks into the earth. Then it rolled over,
kicking among the underbrush, and stretched out dead.
You must remember that all this happened in a very brief time. A feeling
of triumph ran along every nerve. I turned towards the old Count with my
face beaming with delight, when I saw him swaying unsteadily in his
seat. He had gone ashen pale. The spear had dropped from his hand and
his fingers were clutching at the empty air. Then, unable to steady
himself any longer, he leaned far to the one side and tumbled headlong
from his saddle.
On the instant I forgot all about the boar. I was down from my horse
like a flash and at his side. To my horror the fresh blood was flowing
in a steady stream from a wide-open gash in his chest. I raised his head
and laid it in the hollow of my bended arm and looked around appealingly
for help. His lips moved as though he would speak. But no words came.
His eye-lids quivered. Then, with a gasp, he fell back.
In the meantime André and De Marsac were at my side. My brother stooped
down and spoke to the old Count. That other stood aloof. His glance was
turned half-way towards us and half-way towards the woods. The faintest
trace of a smile flickered on his face and his eyes beamed as though
with inward satisfaction.
“Is he dead?” he demanded finally.
I laid the old Count gently down. André and I stood for a moment with
our heads bowed to breathe a prayer.
“He has been killed!” replied my brother with anger and bitterness
bursting his heart.
To our amazement De Marsac stepped forward and touched André on the arm.
“You will have to answer for this deed with your life, André La Mar,” he
said coldly. “You are the murderer of one of the foremost barons of
Normandy!”
CHAPTER VII
THE BLACK PRINCE
André drew back like a man taken unawares as though he would avoid a
blow. He stood motionless for a moment to gather his dazed thoughts. A
silence fell over us like the hollowness of an empty tomb, with only the
long strained cawing of a crow overhead to break the tenseness.
Then a clearness came into his eyes and with it a hardness about his
mouth and jaws. He took one step forward and blazed a look of hate at
our enemy.
“I know now, De Marsac,” he said, “why you have come among us. You
planned this from the beginning.”
That other shifted his gaze and pointed to where the old Count of
Gramont lay.
“You understand what this means?” he asked with a glare in his eyes.
“Better than you imagine,” answered my brother, with his voice lifting
high among the trees. “By foul means young Charles of Gramont—that man’s
son—was lured into a snare and carried off, a prisoner of him you choose
to call your King. By fouler means still you crept into our house like a
viper under pretense of hospitality. You picked a quarrel with me the
moment you arrived, thinking you would kill me in the fight. You were
thwarted in that. You tried to murder Henri there in the woods.” He cast
a look in the direction of the old Count. A smile of scorn curled about
his mouth when he faced De Marsac again. “The only plan of yours to
succeed was in the slaying of an old man. Pshaw! I never dreamed a human
being could stoop so low!”
A flush of wrath colored De Marsac’s face, but slowly died out to a dead
white. With his eyes shifting and shining, I thought with murder in
them, he flouted my brother once again.
“You are wasting words, my friend La Mar,” he sneered. “The whole brood
of you is like a dying candle. It is hardly worth the snuffing out.”
My brother heard this with the coolness and firmness of a rock. When the
last syllable of De Marsac’s scorn faded in the air, André planted his
feet squarely on the ground. Then, with his open palm, he struck that
other a stinging blow across the face.
“You have brought your sword, De Marsac,” he said in an even voice. “By
good fortune I also have brought mine.” Here he laid his hand upon the
pommel. “We were interrupted once. We can continue——”
Before he could end the sentence the steel was in the air. Both men in
their eagerness stepped in close to each other. The blades rang out as
they crossed up to the hilts. They both drew back again and made a
wicked exchange of thrust and parry. They played fast and furiously at
arm’s length. They shifted swiftly on the loose ground. Then, after De
Marsac missed his aim at a point above the heart, André touched him
lightly with the point of his sword upon the ear.
“Your armor, De Marsac,” he cried with a mocking laugh, “makes it
difficult. To kill you I must strike you in the neck or face.”
De Marsac, at the first blood, had drawn back. He was gathering his
sword in his hand for another trial, when a dark shadow came towards us
from behind the trees. It was the figure of a man with an oaken staff in
his hand. And before any of us could stir he called out in a deep voice
as though he was applauding the stroke he had just seen the single word:
“Bravo!”
I gave a little start, for the suddenness of his appearance surprised
me. And as though they had heard a command both my brother and De Marsac
lowered their blades and gazed, one with curiosity, the other with alarm
at the stranger.
He was clad entirely in black from the close-fitting cap upon his head
to the toes of his fine leather boots. His doublet encircled his chest
with the tightness of a drum and was of a rich cloth, durable but
severely plain. As far as I could see he was without weapons of any sort
save the knotted staff which he had in his hand.
He was what you might call of medium height and build. But the longer
you looked at him, the more you grew aware of some hidden strength that
lay within. His face was square and large boned and of a ruggedness of
color that bespoke a life in the open. His eyes were deep set in their
sockets. When he looked at you the steadiness of his gaze was midway
between a frown and a scowl. He moved like a man who was accustomed to
time his actions to the moment, but withal with such lightness and ease
that constantly reminded you that, at the slightest need, he could
spring forward with the litheness of a tiger and strike with the
swiftness of lightning.
He remained for a while standing looking from my brother to De Marsac.
Then, of a sudden he laughed. But it was a laugh that had no mirth in it
but which rang like a mocking echo through the trees.
“Still at your old tricks, I see, De Marsac,” he said as he advanced.
“You have profited little from the lesson that I so lately taught.”
De Marsac’s hand shook. He rested his sword with the point upon the
ground. He shifted uneasily, glancing in one direction then another. The
flush on his face died out to the whiteness of parchment.
He breathed. “Ah!” he cried, but his voice choked. “You!”
The man in black folded his arms across his chest and let his club swing
lightly from between his fingers.
“Yes,” he said. “We have a little argument to settle between us. You
will remember we began one but never finished.”
De Marsac flashed a look of hate at the man.
“I have not done with him there,” he said, pointing at André. “After
this——”
The stranger grinned and raised his brows.
“From what I have seen, De Marsac, there may be no ‘after this’,” he
said. “You know how disappointed I would feel to see you die!—that is by
hands other than my own! Would you have me call you a coward in the
presence of these witnesses?”
“‘Coward’?” echoed our enemy. “You can’t say that. You know I fought you
like a man until——”
The stranger mocked him again.
“Yes,” he said. “You did. That is—until you ran away!”
De Marsac’s eyes sought the ground. He was like a rat that is cornered.
A heavy frown crossed his brows and he ground his teeth in rage.
“Come!” The man in black coaxed him. “I shall give you every advantage.
You have a sword there in your hand. I have only an oaken staff. Could I
offer you easier terms?”
There was no way out of it. This our enemy saw. Like a man who will risk
all on one cast, without a sign of warning, he sprang with all his
quickness with his sword pointed outwards at his foe. So fast was he
that I feared he would kill him on the spot. But the man in black must
have expected such a move. As lithely as a cat he stepped to one side.
De Marsac, with no object to bring him to a stop, plunged furiously
headlong and fell stumbling to the turf.
It was as ridiculous a situation as I ever saw. My brother and I,
forgetful of the seriousness of the moment, let out loud peals of
laughter. The stranger hardly stirred and that only to follow his enemy
guardedly with his eyes. De Marsac was filled with shame and wrath that
he had been so smoothly outwitted. He raised himself cautiously on his
hands and knees and looked around. Then, seeing that he was not
threatened, he sprang again to his feet and faced his foe.
There followed a single exchange that I shall not forget as long as I
shall draw the breath of life. De Marsac raised his sword on high, as
you would a battle-ax, and with all the force he could summon started a
blow. If it had ever reached its mark, it would have split the
stranger’s skull in twain. But the man in black was this time even more
alert than he had been before. With a quick step he jumped in close to
his foeman’s body. He raised the oaken staff over his head. He caught
the blade on it as it descended. The edge of the steel must have cut
deep into the wood, for it held there as firmly as though it were in a
vise. A quick twist of the wrist and it was torn from De Marsac’s grasp
and flew twirling and spinning in the air. Like a bird that has been
pierced by an arrow it came down and clattered to the earth.
The man in black showed no more concern than if he were plucking a
flower from a field. He went over and took the sword in his hand. He ran
his fingers along the blade and wiped away the clay that had stuck to it
where it had fallen. Then with the utmost deliberation, he snapped it
across his knee and tossed the pieces contemptuously at De Marsac’s
feet.
“I could crush the life out of you now, De Marsac,” he said, “with this
club of mine. Or for a second time I might let you go.” He hesitated as
though he was thinking and with a snap of his fingers said, “Pshaw! What
are you to me but a worm crawling on the ground.”
De Marsac uttered not a word. He stood with his arms at his side, his
body swaying slightly waiting for a new turn in the affair. The man in
black took to pacing up and down. For a moment he was deep in thought as
though he had forgotten our existence. Then he looked suddenly up and
with heavy brows addressed our enemy.
“Go back to your King, De Marsac,” he growled, and with a sweep of his
hand as commanding as an emperor. “Tell him that I defy him to his
teeth. Tell him that before the year’s end I shall sweep him from his
throne.”
De Marsac frowned. He glared at the stranger with hate and anger in his
eyes. Then, hesitating with every step, he made slowly towards the
trees. When he felt himself secure, he faced us and raised his arm on
high.
“It is you who will be blotted from the earth,” he cried. “Before the
year’s end we shall meet again. We shall see then who will have the
upper hand.”
With that he disappeared among the trees.
The man in black continued his pacing up and down upon the ground. What
André and I had seen and heard cautioned us to keep our peace. At length
he stopped and raised a finger in warning.
“I caution you,” he said, “that that fellow will be back again. He’ll
scheme and plan until he gets revenge. That’s the kind of vermin the
King of France sends out to stir up trouble among the Norman barons. You
did wrong to let him cross the threshold of your house.”
Once more he paced to and fro. No doubt he was thinking some matter to
the bottom. We stood open-mouthed, wondering at his confidence and his
bearing. The next time he halted it was of another matter that he spoke.
“The heir of Gramont is gone,” he said. “He was taken a prisoner down
the valley of the Loire. Is it to your interest to have him back?”
“He was like a brother to us,” said André, “and the son of my father’s
warmest friend. We would gladly give our lives for him. I am sure in
like predicament he would do the same for us.”
The man’s eyes lit up with a kind of fire. His jaws tightened. By the
flicker of a smile that played about his mouth I was sure he was pleased
with André’s answer.
“The old spirit of the Norman race is with you yet,” he said, “tough and
stubborn to the last. It is a good sign. If you will bring Charles of
Gramont back, let one of you go down the valley of the Loire. It will be
a dangerous undertaking, for you will be among the enemies of your
country. Above all, take heed of what you see and hear. Beyond Angers
the open territory is dominated by a man called the Abbot of Chalonnes.
It will be your business to find him. And it will be he who will return
to you the lad you seek—young Charles.”
We looked at each other, André and I.
“It may be a fool’s errand,” remarked my brother. “How will the Abbot
know?—what sign or token shall we give?”
The man in black spun on his heels like a top. He said nothing, only
ripped open his doublet wide across his chest. To our amazement we saw
that underneath instead of a shirt he wore the tanned hide of an
animal’s skin with the hair turned outward. With his hand he reached
down and from under his belt brought forth a fine yellow plume such as
great leaders wear on their helmets on the field of battle.
[Illustration: The Arrow Struck With a Click]
“Do you know this?” he cried, holding it before us.
“It is the tail of a leopard made into a plume,” said André.
“It will be enough, then,” he said shortly, “to say to the Abbot of
Chalonnes that you have seen this.”
He made to go.
“One word more,” called André after him. “Is it too much for us to know
your name?”
The stranger stopped on the fringe of the woods. He turned and looked
back.
“My father sits upon the English throne,” he said. “I am known as the
Black Prince!”
Slowly and sadly, with the body of the old Lord of Gramont borne
tenderly among us, we wended our way towards our home. We had much to
talk about, but in our grief we held our tongues. We passed each other
with bowed heads and sorrowful faces. There was a gloom about the place
like the coldness of death.
We laid the old warrior away in the tomb of his fathers. In the evening
we sat alone together—André and I—in the light of the candles. The early
September day had been unusually warm and the casements were flung wide.
The servants had long since gone to bed. There was scarcely a sound
except our own breathing.
“I must go, Henri, to the Abbot of Chalonnes,” said my brother, breaking
the silence. “There must be no more delay.”
“If you go,” I answered, “De Marsac will appear again. There will be no
one left to defend the estate.”
André bit his lips but did not answer. He walked across the room and
stood at the side of the great oaken table in the centre of the room. I
arose, too, and stood opposite him.
“Let us toss for it, André,” said I taking a newly-minted groat from my
pocket. “If it fall heads, you go, shields, I go.”
I flung the piece in the air. It fell, but fell on its edge and rolled
down from the table across the room. I was about to go after it when an
arrow came floating through the open window. It struck with a click and
fastened its point in the hard wood. Upon the shaft, wound with a tight
cord, was tied a small piece of parchment.
André drew back.
“Another enemy!” he cried. “Will there never be an end?”
“No,” said I. “You are wrong. This time it is a friend.”
With feverish fingers I drew the arrow from the wood and unrolled the
parchment. With a kind of inward triumph I spread it open before my
brother’s eyes. At the bottom there was drawn the figure of a leopard,
very roughly to be sure, but still as plain as day. Above it in a scrawl
so crude that it could hardly be deciphered were these words:
“Send the lad!”
“There, André!” said I. “Will this decide it?”
My brother waved his hand in the air like a man who yields to the will
of Fate and moved across the room.
“I stay,” he said, and sank into the nearest chair.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SILVER-HAFTED DAGGER
That night I slept but little. The excitement of the day had been too
much for me. The old Count’s death, the treachery of De Marsac, and the
appearance in our parts of so great and widely known a man as the Black
Prince—all this set my brain in a swirl and kindled in it a kind of
fire. Besides, too, there was the prospect of the long journey that lay
before me, visions of the strange characters I would meet, the odds and
ends of places through which I should surely pass, and by no means least
of all, the snares and pitfalls that were certain to be a menace to my
unwary feet.
At the first grey of dawn I was up from my bed. As quickly as I was able
I dressed myself in the same clothes that I had worn on the day of the
boar-hunt—a jerkin of strong sewed leather, a doublet that would keep
out both wind and rain, breeches of soft deer-hide, knitted stockings of
our home-spun wool, a pair of shoes that were oiled and worked until
they were as pliant as the skin upon my hand—plain clothes, but strong
and lasting, clothes that would draw no comment either for their
richness or their meanness. And as a last touch I set a little cap with
a feather in it upon my head.
I breakfasted on a cold meat-pie that was left over from the night
before. All was quiet about the house. I thought that as yet there was
no one stirring. But when I walked into the open to my surprise there
was André coming from the stables, leading a horse on either hand—his
own and the one I was accustomed to call mine.
“I will ride with you as far as the brow of the hill,” he said, and that
in a voice that was almost at a breaking point.
I would have answered but a lump as big as an apple rose to my throat,
so that without a word I took the reins that he offered me and swung
into the saddle.
We started down the road at a slow canter. The freshness of the morning
air sent the blood tingling through my veins. The brightness of the sun
shone on every dewy leaf. The easy motion of the horse had a charm of
its own. But with all this I could not scatter the cloud of seriousness
that had come between us.
Presently we fell into an easy talk, but it was a talk that hid rather
than revealed what lay deepest in our bosoms. Not a word was spoken of
the happenings of the past week nor of the mission I was on until after
more than an hour’s ride. We came to the crest of the hill that rises
southward from our home. Here we slowly gathered in the reins. We halted
our horses and sat side by side for a moment in silence. Then André drew
a long breath and extended his hand.
“Good-by, Henri,” he said, and added in a faltering voice, “You will
come safe home to me, I know.”
That was all. I took his hand in mine. Our eyes met. But I had to turn
mine quickly aside again.
“I shall do my best,” I replied. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was
as brave a speech as I was able to bring over my lips. The truth is my
tongue failed me. When I looked up again a little wistful smile lay in
the corners of my brother’s mouth and he was drawing in the reins to
turn about.
We parted. I urged the roan forward and started off down the other side
of the hill. Now and then the impulse rose within me to turn and wave a
last farewell, but ever as it did, new strength came to me and I set my
face resolutely forward.
The horse broke into a loose trot. Faster and faster I went over the
uneven road. More than once I thought I would be pitched headlong from
my mount. I entered a sharp bend in the hills. As I turned the horse’s
head the tall trees stood between me and my home like a great black
wall. Within an hour or two I realized that I was treading on new
ground. Yet the further I went, the freer I felt. I was like a bird
loosed from long confinement in a cage. The joy of exploration was
lending me fresh thoughts and my dependence on those at home was shaken
gradually from me like the last threads of an old garment.
The highway was like a country in itself. It had its inhabitants and its
customs, its laws and traditions. Its population, too, began to strike
me as singularly fanciful. Traveler after traveler passed me, the one on
the heels of the other. But all of them of interest. Indeed so different
were they from one another that I was soon set speculating and wondering
what manner of life they led and above all where in the world could they
be going.
The first person worth mentioning whom I came across was a scrivener.
That is to say, one of those wandering scholars—a man skilled in the art
of writing. He was sitting on a stone near a little brook that ran
bubbling from the cool of the trees. He was munching at some bread and
cheese as contentedly as you could wish. Alongside of him in the grass
lay a long round bundle wrapped in a dirty cloth. Beside this lay a
handful of quills and a horn in which he carried his ink. His appearance
was nothing to boast of. His forehead and hands were streaked and
smeared black and a full week’s growth of beard covered his face. And
the worst thing about him was his clothes—an ill-fitting suit of velvet
of dark blue, spotted and ragged, which some one had given him.
At the first sight of me his jaw fell agape. The bread which he had just
stuffed into his mouth fell in crumbs over his knees. His eyes glared at
me as though they would start from their sockets. I thought a kind of
fright had overtaken him, but in the next second he jumped to his feet
with the lightness of a hare and laid his hand over his heart in a way
that reminded me strongly of De Marsac. Then he swept the ground with
his soiled cap and bowed.
“My Lord,” he said with the utmost seriousness, “I am alone. I lack
company. Will you be gracious enough to dine with me?”
At that he straightened up and smiled.
“I am no lord,” I answered with a twinkle in my eye. “Nor am I hungry. I
have a long ride ahead of me and must be on my way.”
With that I made to be off. But the scrivener seemed to have no hearing.
He clapped his cap upon his head and with a skip was out in the middle
of the road.
“If you are not a noble,” he said with his grin spreading from ear to
ear, “you ought to be. But I am sure of one thing——” He let the last
words trail in the air as though he would puzzle me.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your horse is!” he cried. And then he bent over and laughed as though
he had made the smartest remark in the world.
I was feeling uneasy. The thought came to me that I was wasting my time
with a madman and the sooner I could get off from him the better.
“Well,” I replied dryly, “maybe he is. But don’t let me interrupt your
meal.”
I looked down the road to let him know that I was anxious to be off. The
hint was wasted, for he stepped in close to the roan and started to
stroke him on the neck, muttering and mumbling to himself words of the
highest praise.
He twisted his head to the one side like a bird on a perch and winked at
me knowingly.
“Do you know what I’d give for this horse?” he demanded.
“He’s not for sale,” I said with some abruptness. But he went on as
though I had not spoken.
“I’d give everything I have,” he burst out. “I’d give my parchment, my
inkhorn and my quills. And I’d be willing to forget all I know of the
art of writing, if I could call him my own!”
I almost laughed in his face.
“You’re generous, master scrivener,” said I, and once more gathered in
the reins.
But he was not to be so easily shaken off. He made a pretense of great
affection for the animal. He laid his cheek against its head. He took to
stroking its mane. Then he looked up into my face with a cunning leer.
“Do you know,” he began slyly, “I don’t believe the horse is yours at
all.”
“What!” said I. “Do you take me for a thief?”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, raising his brows. “I’ve hit a soft spot, now,
haven’t I? Why, it’s true then that you gentlemen of the road are as
touchy as a flock of crows.”
I was almost overcome. That I would be taken for a highwayman was far
from what I had ever dreamed.
“Look here!” I called. “Take your hand from that horse. I’ll give you
till I count ‘three.’ If you’re not out of the way then, I’ll ride you
down.”
The scrivener paid me no more attention than he would a fly. Without
taking his eyes from me, he reached into his belt and drew forth a
dagger. As he held it in the air, I saw that it was of unusual value and
workmanship. The blade was as thin as a blade of grass and rang to his
touch like the finest steel. Besides, the haft shone with a brightness
that could hardly be believed, for it was not only of the clearest
silver but was set with a scattering of brilliant stones.
“Let’s start the bargaining over again, my lord,” he said. “Will you
exchange your horse for this?”
I was at my wit’s end. I was sure now that he was not only a madman but
a knave as well. The longer I lingered there with him, the more
dangerous seemed my situation. I set my jaws in resolution. He must have
noticed the expression on my face, for he reached out and grasped the
bridle firmly in his hand. At the same time he held out the weapon in
the hope it would strike my fancy.
“Who is the thief now, master scrivener?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to have it?” he questioned with another sly wink.
“It’s yours for the taking—if you will only give me your horse.”
At that he began tossing the dagger over his head and with much deftness
catching it again in his hand. I sat watching him with anger swelling in
my heart. Higher and higher the dagger went. The more difficult the
catch, the easier it seemed to him. At length it rose far over his head,
spinning and twirling like a leaf in the wind. Then a thought came to
me. With one grasp I reached far out. By merest chance I caught the
weapon by the hilt. I sank my heels into the horse’s flank. In his
amazement the scrivener loosed his hold on the bridle and I was free
from him.
Before I was out of hearing I drew the horse to a stop. I turned and saw
the scrivener standing in the middle of the road. He had his hands flat
over his hips and was grinning with all his might.
I held the dagger on high.
“Do you see this?” I called. “I am going to keep it until I find the man
to whom it belongs.”
His answer sent the chills down my spine.
“Fine!” he shouted. “Take it to the Abbot of Chalonnes!”
CHAPTER IX
A SOLITARY HOUSE IN THE WOODS
The rest of that day passed pleasantly enough. To be sure, there were
wayfarers whom I met. I remember most distinctly a few scattered
soldiers with heavy beards who talked deep and boastingly in their
throats. Then there came a barber with a satchel in his hand. He had a
white curled wig on his head and a comb tucked jauntily in the side of
it over his ear. No doubt he was going the rounds among his customers,
the gentry of the neighborhood. By the mincing way in which he walked,
the fancy lace upon his sleeves and collar, together with the display of
a red waistcoat and a pair of polished silver-buckled shoes he must have
thought himself equal to any doctor of Physic of the great university of
Bologna.
He doffed his cap to me with some show of delicacy. He began to ask me
if any great houses lay in the direction from which I had come, where he
could earn a handful of groats. He told me that if there were any sick
in the neighborhood, he could make them well again by the skill he had
in cupping and leeching. I knew that barbers had the reputation as idle
gossips, so I answered as evasively as I could. Then, when he saw that
he was strumming on the wrong string, he grew bolder and more direct. He
said flatly that I needed a little care myself. He invited me down from
the horse. He assured me that, if I would sit on a stone on the side of
the road for the space of half an hour, he would make a new man of me by
the application of his art.
But my experience with the scrivener had been enough. I knew that it was
best to deal with this new nuisance as deftly as I might. I first said
that he looked the master of his trade in every way. At which he puffed
up like a pigeon and seemed highly flattered. Then I slowly let him know
that my stock of money was very low, that I could hardly reckon on a
resting place for the night (which of course was true) and that I was
cautioned to be careful in the expenditure of every single coin.
I might have gone further. But when my lack of money became known to
him, he dropped his smile and shot a look at me that had poison in it.
He picked up his satchel, grumbling and growling under his breath, and
with a remark about beggars riding on horseback, quickly strode away.
The next was a fellow with a cart, or rather a wagon on two wheels. He
had shafts to it and instead of a horse had fastened himself to them by
a strap similar to a yoke which reached over his shoulders. He was twice
the size of an ordinary man. The rolls of fat hung under his chin and
across his stomach in great layers. He came along puffing and snorting
and mopping the sweat from his brow. At the same time he seemed as happy
as a lark, for he was whistling a light tune as merrily as could be.
He no sooner saw me than he lowered the cart on two props and disengaged
himself from his harness. I was now so near that I saw that he had a
kind of traveling show such as often stopped in our village in the early
Spring. Only this fellow had no performing bear on a rope or a monkey or
an acrobatic clown, but piled high on the cart, row after row, were
small wooden cages. In each cage was a bird. Along the bottom were the
parrots and then the further up they went the smaller the birds became
until at the top sat perched the tiniest of wrens.
I was agog with curiosity. When I came within earshot the big fellow
stepped out into the middle of the road. His smile spread the width of
his broad face. He bowed to me from afar and then screwed his mouth into
a knot and puffed out his cheeks. With such suddenness that it startled
me he ran the gamut of a score of notes from the lowest to the highest,
lingering now and then to warble and trill some of them in the most
entrancing fashion.
At the first sound of the man’s whistling there was a flutter in all the
cages. Before he had uttered half a dozen notes the birds began to sing.
When he had no more breath and was forced to let off, they had reached a
harmony that was truly surprising. The sounds rose higher and higher. It
was like the early morning at home when I awoke but even more thrilling
and delightful. Then, just as I approached, the fellow put his knuckle
in his mouth. He blew one loud shrill blast. The birds in the next
instant were as silent as the grave.
I could not help smiling. And the man himself was even more pleased than
I. He stood in the road grinning like a great calf. His eyes sparkled.
He was beaming with joy as though he had just performed a truly
remarkable feat. He stuck his thumb under his arm and straightened
himself up as proud as an emperor.
“Greetings, sir Traveler,” he cried, “from the King of the Birds.”
I drew in my horse. He took this as a sign that I was interested. He
screwed up his mouth again and let out a short shrill note. Of a sudden,
as though they had been waiting for it, every bird in the cages started
once more to sing. They were soon at the highest point. The fellow had
his head cocked on one side with his ear turned towards the cages like a
music master trying to detect a false note. Then, as he did before, he
put his knuckle in his mouth. He blew one quick blast and the sounds
died away as quickly as though the birds had been stricken dead.
“Sir,” said the King of the Birds with a wave of his hand, “the parrot
there can tell your fortune. He is like the owl, one of the wisest of
birds.” To suit his action to his words he tapped the parrot on the
head. He placed a box which held a number of pieces of parchment before
it. The parrot bent over and with its beak tossed one of the small
sheets out on the ground. The King pounced upon it and held it out
before my astonished eyes.
“Unfold it, sir, and read it at your leisure,” said the man. “It may
help you on your way.”
With that he bowed and stood rubbing his hands. I smiled of course at
his simplicity. A sort of pity took hold of me. In bulk he was almost
the size of an ox. Without doubt he was as poor as any of his birds. He
was dependent for all that he got upon his ability to amuse those who
fell across his path. Yet, with all that, the seriousness of the world
had no resting place upon his shoulders. In his own province he was, as
he claimed, as absolute as a king, and to my way of thinking far happier
than any of whom I have ever heard.
I did not want to wound his feelings. With the pretext that I must be
going, I leaned over and tossed a handful of small silver into his
hands. At the same time I clapped my heels against the horse’s flanks
and with a wave of my arm bade him “Adieu.”
I thought I had done with him. I had given him more than he had counted
on, I am sure. I had no other idea but that he would gather up his cart
and make his way to the nearest village. But my horse had scarcely
carried me ten steps when there fell upon my ears the same whistling
with which he had first greeted me. Then followed the chorus of the
birds. I turned in the saddle and looked back. The great fellow was
standing in the middle of the road. His hands were extended towards me.
His chest was heaving like a bellows and the sweat was streaming from
his forehead. For all that he was smiling like a pleased child. His
little eyes were twinkling and blinking in the light of the sun. When he
saw that I had turned about, he struck still higher notes and the birds
with him.
I rode slowly on and on. I turned now and then to wave back at him. At
each turning I saw the same figure in the middle of the road and heard
the same trilling sounds. They grew fainter and fainter. The man himself
grew dimmer and dimmer. At length the warbling ceased. For the last time
I waved “farewell.” But as I did, there he was with his head thrown
back, his thumb under his arm and one foot proudly before the other.
When he realized that I would soon be out of sight he threw both arms
out towards me to wish me good fortune on my way.
So it went with me. On that great highway I found myself in a new and
varied world. One strange character passed after the other with each
quite different from the one before. At first I thought them only the
odds and ends of all humanity driving forward without aim or purpose.
But after a while I had to acknowledge that of the people I met, I was
the least in experience of them all. I began to make a fresh estimate of
men and their manners. They soon impressed me with the thought that they
knew what they were about as well as I. The only difference between them
and me was that they had interests other than my own. And to cap it all
a certain shrewdness warned me that if I were to continue to cope with
them, I must sharpen my wits to the keenness of theirs.
I went on and on. I took time to feed my horse and eat a bite myself in
the shade of the trees. The afternoon came and went. The sun was
dropping behind the hills. An uneasiness took hold of me lest I be
forced to lie out in the open exposed to the uncertainties of the night.
It was rapidly getting dark. My uneasiness was turning into fear, when I
came upon a bend in the road and behind it a broad stretch of thick
woods.
I stopped and looked circumspectly around. I might have passed on, but,
as I gazed, I spied a little house or cottage hidden far in among the
trees. Not a soul was in sight. It seemed a place deserted. The walls
were of stone and very old for they were covered with moss in patches
here and there. There was a blackness about them from the dust of the
road, besides, on the corners and the window-ledges they were worn with
pieces knocked off. The windows themselves were hardly visible. They
were matted with cobwebs and dirt so that it was scarcely possible that
any light could shine through them.
An old slab of stone served as a door-step, but it was surrounded with
weeds that grew waist-high even as far as the edge of the road. There
was little inviting about the house. Indeed, the more I examined it, the
more I felt that I should leave it as it was.
I was about to give my horse the rein when I observed a thin curl of
smoke lifting lazily in the air from a chimney in the rear. I knitted my
brows in surprise. I looked again to make certain. Then, with curiosity
getting the better of me, I got down from the horse, led him by the
bridle and tied him to the nearest tree.
I cannot tell you why I did it. I suppose it was the mystery and the
strangeness about the place, but before I gave thought to the
consequences, I had brushed my way through the weeds and was knocking at
the antiquated door.
I drew a deep breath and stood waiting. The time seemed very long
indeed. My heart began to flutter in my breast. A feeling that my
actions were rash stole over me. The horse neighed. The sound struck me
like a warning that I ought to let well enough alone and be further on
my way. I was about to turn when I heard a board creak within. The quick
shuffling of feet came to me through the door. Then there fell a silence
that was like the hollowness of an empty cave.
I was curious and fearful alike. I walked back to the middle of the
road. The smoke came from the chimney in a thicker volume than before. I
shifted in my mind to reason out the situation. When I had considered
every side of it, I laughed at my fears.
“It is only some poor peasant,” I thought, “—probably too deaf to hear.”
With my mind fixed I strode boldly back. I knocked more loudly and
resolutely than before. But no sound came. I waited a moment and knocked
again. The only answer was the cawing of a crow that passed soaring over
my head. My impatience burst its bounds. I took the latch in my hand,
thinking to rattle it, when to my surprise the door yielded to my touch.
As by some magic it swung slowly open and I beheld the interior of the
room.
I expected to find the place within as uninviting as it was without. A
fire was burning at the far end and over it hung on a chain a pot which
was bubbling and boiling and giving out a most savory odor. At the side
of the wall stood a chair, but of the kind you might think belonged not
in a peasant’s hut but in the palace of a king. It was of the finest
make. The legs and back were curved and scrolled and gilded like new and
the cushions of a velvet delicately blue. In that one flash I saw, too,
a table standing in the middle of the room. The top reflected the shine
of the fire, for it was polished like wax.
If I was surprised at the first glance, I was the more amazed as my eyes
got accustomed to the semi-darkness of the interior. The walls, instead
of being black or grimy were as white and cheerful as though they were
entirely new and instead of the stone flags which I expected to find,
the floor was laid in the smoothest wood.
“Whoever lives here,” I said half aloud, “has gone out for a while. I’ll
take a seat. When they return, we can strike a bargain for a lodging for
the night.”
To suit the purpose I shut the door. It was swinging slowly when of a
sudden it was dashed past my face and struck the door-jam with a bang.
The unexpectedness of it made me wink. When I opened my eyes there was a
man standing before me. His brows were drawn into an ugly frown. The
look on his face was of the blackness of night. His jaws were set but
his lips were curled back in a snarl and his fists knotted in anger as
though he was about to strike.
“Dog!” The word came from between his teeth in a hiss.
I was so taken unawares that I retreated a step. I glared helplessly at
him. Then a bitter smile of hatred slowly crossed his features like that
of a savage who has run down an enemy.
“So,” he drawled, “you’ve proved the mouse at last.”
I was too stupefied to reply.
“Why!” I gasped. “There’s some mistake—mouse——?”
“You’ve fallen into a trap, haven’t you?”
By degrees my breath came back to me.
“I’ve never seen you before,” I managed to say. “Surely——”
He cut me off with a growl.
“You don’t have to see a man to do him a harm, do you?” he said, and
took a step towards me. “The next time a man is tied to a tree and asks
for a drink of water——”
He did not finish, but made a lunge at me with his arms outstretched. It
took all my alertness to spring back out of his way. Then, like a flash
the thought of the scrivener’s dagger popped into my mind. I jerked it
from my belt and raised it menacingly over my head.
The fellow stopped in his tracks. He shot a glance over my shoulder to
the back of the room. I swung the dagger in the air with the thought
that if I forced him from the door, I might escape. But my arm was
hardly half way around when a sharp crack caught me on the wrist. The
pain shot through me like the cutting of a knife. I loosed my grasp. The
dagger flew across the room and fell clattering onto the wooden floor.
In the next breath my arms were caught from behind. They were pinned
together with the firmness of a vise. A foot shot out and entangled
itself in mine. A quick twist and I was jerked sideways and sent
tumbling like the dagger across the room.
I was stunned from the force of the fall. I got slowly up on one elbow
and looked dazedly around. The fire was dancing as though it mocked me.
I laid my hand on my hip where it hurt me most. My fingers fumbled
aimlessly somehow or other around my pocket. I was so stupefied that I
was hardly conscious of what I was doing. My thumb and forefinger
touched the bit of parchment which the King of the Birds had given me. I
drew it out. By good fortune my assailants were at my back. I unfolded
it more by habit than by purpose. When it lay open before the light of
the blazing wood I was amazed to read a warning that had come altogether
too late:
“Avoid the house in the woods!”
With nervous fingers I put the parchment back again. The one fellow who
had faced me first came over and jerked me roughly to my feet. Then, as
though I were a log, shoved me back until I fell into the chair.
“Where did you get that dagger?” he demanded. He had picked the weapon
from the floor and had thrown it on the table.
“I took it from a man on the road,” said I.
“Was it a short fellow—a churchman—dressed like an Abbot?” he asked
further.
I was loath to give these rascals more information than was good for
them so my answer was as short as I could make it.
“I don’t know whether he was an Abbot or not,” I said. “I couldn’t
tell.”
They looked at each other in alarm.
“If he’s in the neighborhood,” said the first, “we’d better get out.”
The other came forward into the light of the fire. His hand was bandaged
with a strip of an old shirt and the blood was caked where it had oozed
through and hardened.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“You tried to kill me in the woods,” I said, without lifting my eyes.
“Do you see this?” he went on.
I looked at his hand.
“It’s cut to the bone,” he said, threateningly. “It’ll take weeks for it
to heal.” He narrowed his eyes till they were mere slits and studied me.
“You’re going to pay for this, do you hear?”
I said nothing, but looked helplessly around.
The first fellow had his gaze upon the floor. He was worried, that I
plainly saw. Then, after a little, he touched this fellow on the
shoulder.
“Let’s put him out of the way,” he said, glancing towards me. “If we’re
caught here, we’ll be in a trap ourselves.”
They were both willing, but still some doubt held them in leash.
“If we do,” was the answer, “what will De Marsac say? You know he wants
him” (meaning me) “for a purpose.”
The word De Marsac struck strangely on my ears.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “De Marsac had better look out for himself. There is
some one on his heels.”
They turned to me together like a flash.
“What!” they exclaimed. “Who?”
“The Black Prince!” I called boldly. “He will——”
They laughed in my face.
“The Black Prince is on his way to the west to join the starving
remnants of his army,” I was told. “We thought you meant the Abbot of
Chalonnes.”
My mouth fell agape. I searched their faces and they searched mine. The
fellow who had grappled with me first made a signal to the other, and
turned towards the table to pick up the dagger. The man with the wounded
hand slouched over towards me. He had his good fist curled in a knot, no
doubt to crash it against my skull.
I felt that it was my end. I took a firm hold on the arms of the chair
to dodge or fight them to the last of my strength.
The door suddenly flew back on its hinges and banged against the wall.
Both men jumped and in my tenseness I jumped with them. They stood with
frightened faces looking towards the entrance.
A form appeared—the form of a little man clad in rags, smeared with ink
and dirt so that his face was hardly to be seen. His beard was clotted
with mire where he had been sleeping in the open. His quills and
ink-horn and roll of parchment were gone but he still wore the same
curious grin that I had noticed earlier in the day.
With one skip he was in the middle of the room. He clapped the fellow
with the injured hand roundly on the back and cried in a voice of glee.
“Well, I see you have him at last!”
CHAPTER X
THE HIGHWAYMAN OF TOURS
The three of us turned with amazement on our faces. Before a word was
spoken the scrivener bounded clear across the room. He came to a stop
before the table and took the dagger in his hand. Then he faced us.
“Now,” said he, “I should like to know who gave you permission to befoul
my house?”
He spoke in a high, commanding key. One of the fellows shifted slowly to
the side of the room. The other looked uneasily about. The scrivener,
who held his head, pointed at each of them in turn with the dagger.
“Do you know, my gentles,” he demanded in a terrible voice, “who I am?”
The two men knotted their brows, puzzled. One of them bit his lips and
the other growled under his breath and flashed a knowing look at his
companion. It was a hint, I knew, that at the first chance they would
make the attack together.
The scrivener seemed to consider them as children. He took his soiled
cap from his head and flung it on the floor.
“Do you know me now?” he cried. “Have you never heard of
‘Will-o’-the-wisp’?”
As though they had been struck by a club, both men drooped and turned
instinctively towards the door. Then they called out loud enough for me
to hear, “The highwayman of Tours!”
The scrivener snapped his fingers in the air. Then like a showman he
took the dagger by the point. He gave it a twist and sent it spinning
towards the floor. It struck and buried itself in the wood, where it
stood quivering like a living thing.
“‘The highwayman of Tours!’” he echoed after them. “The only man who
ever had the courage to stand before the Abbot of Chalonnes and flaunt
him to his face. That dagger there I took from him—with a dozen of his
followers at his back. I was the only man in all the country round to
meet the Dwarf of Angers—alone—unarmed—in the woods—at night. I killed
the Dwarf and threw his body into the waters of the Loire.” He stopped
and laughed a long, weird, tormenting laugh that rang through the room
like the echo of a ghost. “The man who is my enemy is foredoomed to
die!”
A chill crept along my spine. A sullen look spread over the faces of my
two captors. They exchanged glances once again and grinned.
“You can’t fool us with talk like that,” said one. “We’re men.”
The scrivener whistled a quick, sharp note and with the ease of a kitten
sprang upon the table.
“There is a price upon my head!” he called. Then he pointed to the
dagger. “If either of you has the boldness to collect it, let him pluck
that weapon from the floor.”
The fellow who had spoken brightened up. He lurched forward. His huge
body bent over and his arm reached out to take the scrivener at his
word. But his slow brain had reckoned without thought to the
consequences. He had no sooner taken a step when the scrivener raised
himself on the balls of his feet. He shot through the air with the
straightness and speed of an arrow. He landed with all his weight on the
back of his enemy. His one hand encircled his throat. The other, by a
calculation as unerring as it was quick, caught the dagger by the hilt.
There followed a struggle that I shall not soon forget. The scrivener
twisted his lithe body like a snake. He squirmed around and before I
could wink was on top of his foe. He was smiling as though he was highly
pleased with the dagger now raised ready for the descending blow.
He knew that the second fellow would not allow his companion to be
killed. He halted the weapon so that it rested not more than an inch
from his opponent’s throat.
“One move and you’re a dead man!” he cried. Then he looked to the side.
He saw the other coming on with venom in his eyes.
“Take your choice,” he called to him. “Lay a finger on me and you’re
this man’s murderer!”
The fellow stopped. In the twinkling of an eye the scrivener sprang to
his feet. He faced the two with his face lit up and a confidence that
was amazing. The man with the wounded hand slid his hand into his shirt.
He drew forth a long knife with a curved blade. He ran his tongue over
his lips to moisten them and with one bound made for his enemy.
I expected to see him run the scrivener through. But once again his
quickness surprised me. He sprang onto the table again with even greater
suppleness than before. This time he jumped feet foremost. He caught the
fellow in the middle of the chest. The knife went flying from his hand
and he was hurled back against the wall. His head struck with a thump
and his knees buckled under him as he sagged to the floor.
Up to this time the action had been so fast and so unexpected that I was
hardly able to take a breath let alone take a part in it. But when I saw
the knife flying across the room my senses stirred within me. I saw the
second fellow take a hasty glance at the knife. He moved with all his
speed towards it. He was stooping over to snatch it up, when I realized
the danger we would be in if he were able to get it in his grasp.
I took a flying leap like the scrivener, only I went face down, sliding
along the smooth floor. Just as my fingers were curling around the haft,
the fellow was upon me. I must have slid under him for he fell over me
with all his weight. The breath was knocked out of my body. A thousand
stars flicked across my vision. A pain shot over my back. My nose and
forehead were crushed against the boards and a smothering made it hard
for me even to gasp.
But I clung to the knife with all my strength. My assailant dug his
hands into my ribs. He caught my wrist and twisted it till the pain
almost made me cry out. He took a firm hold upon my neck and tried to
squeeze the life out of me. He bent my arm back till it cracked in the
socket. But with all that I clung to my knife as though it was the
dearest thing I possessed.
As a last trial the fellow dug his knees into my sides and held them
there. I felt the breath leaving me. Then with an effort that took all
my strength I jerked myself loose and turned over on my back. The danger
now was even greater for my opponent than it was for me. Although I was
down, yet I had a freer swing for my weapon. If I had thought in time I
could have slashed him on the legs and probably cut him across the arm.
But he saw what was coming. He stood up and backed away and in the same
moment, with what was left of me, I, too, got hastily to my feet.
In the next second it was all over. A form came hurtling through the
air. I felt the breeze of the passing body fan my cheeks. It was the
scrivener who had gotten once more upon the table. He must have been on
the alert for such an opportunity. He caught my fellow, as he had done
the other. His feet struck him a dull blow full on the chest. As though
he were a sack of meal he gave a low groan and crumpled together against
the wall.
I stood for a moment with my mouth open, gasping for breath. I was
anxious, too, about the first fellow whom the scrivener had knocked
senseless against the wall. He was slowly opening his eyes and made a
move as though he would rise. His hands were behind him. He twisted and
pulled to bring them forward. Then it dawned on me that while I was deep
in the struggle, the scrivener had tied them securely behind his back.
I felt a clap on my shoulder. There stood the scrivener with his eyes
shining. His head was darting from side to side like a bird’s. He danced
a few steps on the hard floor and to my surprise leaned over and turned
a handspring as smoothly as you please.
“You’re a grand fighter, lad,” he cried. “A grand fighter.” He held out
his hand and grasped mine. “And to think I don’t even know your name.”
I took the hint.
“It’s Henri,” I said. “Henri La Mar.”
“Well, Henri,” he answered, “we’ll get along fine together, you and I.”
He looked me over and felt of the muscles of my arm. “The makings of a
man,” he muttered. “I’ll make the greatest highwayman of you that ever
lived.”
I was stopped for an answer.
“I’m not so sure that I want to be one,” I replied, but with a smile
that I would not anger him. “It’s a dangerous calling.”
His face fell in astonishment. He looked for all the world as though he
had received a blow.
“It’s the only life for a man to live,” he replied. “Ah, if you were to
tell the truth, I think you enjoyed the little fight tonight as well as
I.”
“I’m glad we won,” I said. Then I fell to thinking. After a while I
drawled out, “Listen, master scrivener, haven’t I seen you some time
before?”
He waved me aside and pointed to the two on the floor.
“We’ll have to fix them for the night so they’ll do no harm,” he said.
“Come, we’ll carry them outside and tie them to the trees.”
We took them one by one and dragged them out of the house. We bound them
hand and foot and lashed them each to a single tree. When we had
finished the scrivener started to whistle a tune.
“You’re good at that, master scrivener,” I began again.
“Good at what?” he demanded.
“—at tying men to trees,” I suggested slyly.
“I’m good at everything I touch,” he replied. “Never yet has any man got
the better of me.”
Then he whistled again louder than before.
“You’re good with the bow and arrow, too, aren’t you?” I insisted.
“I could knock the eye out of you at a hundred paces,” he declared.
“I’ll do it if you say the word.”
I laughed.
“I don’t want to be killed yet,” I said. Then I continued, “You’re quick
on your feet. You’re a shifty wrestler. Are you just as clever tying
messages to the haft of an arrow?”
It was a sly dig, for I had my suspicions and was curious to learn the
truth. His answer was just as evasive as before.
“I told you I could do anything,” he replied like a flash, “whether it
be tying messages or tying men.”
“And that’s that,” I said. “When a bird won’t sing, no one can force
him. No doubt, you’ve heard that saying before, master scrivener?”
“What you hear and what’s the truth,” he came back, “are sometimes at
great variance.”
At this the whistling grew louder and, I thought, more piercing than
ever. The scrivener stuffed his hands into his shirt and strutted up and
down the floor. On each occasion when I turned to him to speak, he threw
back his head and let the notes out of him with such vehemence that I
was almost deafened. At length he ceased from sheer exhaustion.
“You’re a fine masquerader, master scrivener,” I continued prodding him.
“You remind me of a certain fool.”
I meant of course the man with the bauble and the bells whom I happened
on at the armorer’s forge.
“It’s a wise man who can play the fool,” he winked. “Sometimes it’s
handier than a sharp sword.”
It was plain I could get nothing from him. I raised my brows and looked
at him from head to heel. First I grinned. Then I laughed openly.
“You’re a dark, secret man, master scrivener, full of tricks and wiles,”
I said. “But with all your cunning I am sure of this, if you shaved the
hair from your face and washed the dirt away, you would strongly remind
me of a certain gentleman with whom I had a little tiff a week or so ago
at Le Brun’s forge.”
CHAPTER XI
I FIND A COMPANION
He turned on me like a flash.
“Do you know,” said he with an assumption of great dignity, “that when
you are in another man’s house, it is wise to take things as they are!”
“Is this really your house?” I asked. “Or are you toying with me?”
He spun on his heel and went to the far end of the room. He came back
with a candle in his hand which he had lit at the open fire.
“I’ll show you the rest of it,” he remarked. “Come with me.”
At that he inserted his finger in what seemed to be a knot-hole in the
floor. To my surprise he lifted a great door which was set in the wood
and bent it back on its hinges. Then, with the light high over his head
he passed down a set of broad oak steps. A dank odor of damp air came to
my nostrils. I set my foot on the first step with much caution and
circumspection. I descended one by one until I stood on a clay floor.
All around me were solid stone walls with no opening for air or
ventilation. And here and there in these walls I saw recesses which were
covered with doors that were of natural wood stained with dirt and
finger-marks.
Without stopping the scrivener went to the largest of these closets at
the furthest corner of the cave and flung it open. If I was amazed at
first I was quite beside myself now, for the whole of it was filled with
all sorts of articles of clothing. Some of them were the trappings of
soldiers with gilt and lace, others were suits of velvet, quite new,
smooth and beautiful to see. Again there were common clothes such as
peasants wear or even common laborers in the fields.
“I know now,” I said, “why those fellows called you the
‘Will-o’-the-wisp’. You’re never the same man.”
“When you live as I live, my lad,” he answered, “you must use your
wits.” Then he turned my attention to another box or closet in the wall.
When this was open he took from it a bundle tied and wrapped with thick
cloth and matted straw. As carefully as if it were alive he untied the
knots one by one and laid it flat upon the floor.
“My arsenal,” he said. Then he revealed a bow about as long as he was
high and with it a quiver containing a score of arrows. So unexpected
was this that I let out a gasp.
“I keep them wrapped up like this to protect them from the damp,” he
explained. “When trouble comes——”
“But why do you need all these?” I cried. “Surely——”
He rose and pointed sternly towards the stairs.
“If I’m hard pressed, I’m as safe here as in a castle,” he explained.
“If they happen to get in the house, I can take refuge here. Look! Don’t
you think I could drop them easily enough as they came down those steps
one by one?”
It seemed true enough but I was not yet satisfied.
“Suppose they set the house afire?” I asked.
He took me by the arm and led me to the part of the cave that was hidden
under the stairs. Here it was gloomiest and very dark. The rays from the
candle flickered as though they were sucked by a slight current of air.
But where I expected to find a wall there was no wall at all, only a
great hole large enough for a man to enter by stooping a little. It was
of jagged rock on all sides, as canny a place as I had ever seen.
“Let them fire the house,” he declared. “There is the way to freedom and
the open air. It is fifty roods long. The other end leads out among
rocks and the roots of ancient trees. You’d never find it in a week’s
search not even if I showed it to you beforehand.”
He put the clothing and the bow and arrows back as he had found them and
we went again up the stairs.
“Why have you shown me this hiding place of yours, master scrivener?” I
inquired. “Aren’t you afraid lest some day I betray you?”
He snapped his fingers.
“It’s known already,” he said. “I’ll have to abandon it. Those two
knaves outside will spread the news to all the world.”
“It’s a shame,” I ventured.
“It has served its purpose,” he answered. “But the Highwayman of Tours
has a card up his sleeve. Further down the valley of the Loire I have
another even better than this.”
He tossed his head and sat down in the chair. He stared for a while at
the floor deep in thought. I bethought me of my horse, for it was high
time that I looked to him for the night. I went out to where I had tied
him. My heart sank in my breast, for he was gone. I went over to where
the two knaves had been lashed to the trees. All I found was a couple of
strands of rope upon the ground.
I burst into the house hot and excited.
“They have gone!” I cried. “They have taken my horse with them!”
The scrivener never raised his head.
“I was hoping they would go,” he said calmly.
“It’s your fault, master scrivener,” I flung at him. “When you were
tying them, I noticed that you didn’t draw the knots tight enough.”
“And that’s true,” he replied looking out from under his brows with a
crafty smile. “But, Henri, you wouldn’t like to stand with your back
against a tree for the whole night long, now, would you?”
“But my horse?” I said.
“They took that too?” he smiled.
“Of course!” said I.
“Well, well. It’s a great loss, indeed,” he replied. “A great loss.” He
rose and yawned. Then he stretched himself. “There’s another way to look
at it, Henri. What do you care about the horse when you have me?”
“But I want him back,” I insisted. “I’ve a long——”
“Tut. Tut. Lad,” the scrivener returned. “I know where they’ve taken
him. He’ll be at the inn of ‘The Three Crows’. That’s the gathering
place for all the desperate characters in the neighborhood. We’ll be
there tomorrow and I’ll see to it that you get him back again.”
CHAPTER XII
THE THREE CROWS INN
We came to the ‘Three Crows’ about the middle of the afternoon. The
place was set in somewhat from the road and like the scrivener’s house,
almost surrounded by trees. It must have been a hundred years old. The
walls were of wood rough hewn from the forest. In some places the bark
still hung in shreds where it waved in the breeze. The logs themselves
were as brown as walnuts where the rain had beaten upon them. The
windows were quite small—hardly large enough for a man to climb through
and to judge by the cob-webs and dust had not been cleaned for ages.
The scrivener had been swinging along with me the whole day. He was as
lighthearted as a kitten. The thought of the danger we were approaching
never seemed to enter his mind. Even when we crossed the green that was
between the inn and the road he was whistling a tune and smiling away as
hard as you please. Then he suddenly grasped me by the arm.
“They are playing bowls,” he exclaimed. “Look there!”
To be sure, I saw two men at the end of a long alley on the green. They
were at bowls, as the scrivener said. That is, they had pins set up and
were rolling smooth round rocks or stones at them to knock them down. It
was nothing new to me for I am sure that you will find the same sport in
the smallest village in France. I was about to ask what there was
unusual about it all when he clapped me on the back.
“Have you any money?” he demanded with some eagerness.
“A little,” I answered. Then the thought came to me that he made his
living by tricks and even more questionable means. For all I knew he
might have at the back of his head some scheme or other to rob me of
what money I had. So I asked him cautiously, “Why?”
“I’m going to double it,” he replied in an off-hand way.
We made directly for the bowling-place. The scrivener strutted over to
the men with all the airs of a great baron with an army at his back. He
clapped his hands when a good stroke was made. He let out a loud “ah”
when the stone rolled out of its track and missed the pins. He capered
from one end of the alley to the other, following the stone and talking
to it encouragingly as though it had life. He clapped the players on the
back. In short he did all in his power to make a show of himself.
From where I stood it struck me that he was acting like a fool. But at
that time I did not know the man. I realized that he could masquerade in
a dozen different rôles, but I little imagined that he was able to alter
the character of his disposition.
Finally the play came to an end. The winner—a tall gaunt man whose name
was Nicole—straightened himself and puffed out his chest. The scrivener
was on him in an instant. He shook him by the hand. He beamed in his
face.
“A master!” he cried. “You can play almost as well as I can play
myself.”
Nicole’s smile faded. He looked down at the scrivener and frowned.
“For ten years,” he said, “I’ve beaten every man who has set his foot
upon this green.”
The scrivener struck him a hard blow upon the chest. Then he laughed a
high mocking laugh.
“A fine boast!” he cried and snapped his fingers under Nicole’s nose.
“Well, the tenth year will be your last.”
The fire gathered in the man’s eye. The blow was humiliating enough but
the words cut him like a sharp knife. He swallowed hard and flung one
hand out.
“Will you play with me?” he demanded.
“——for money?” asked the scrivener.
“For the clothes on your back, if you will,” was the reply.
At that the scrivener leaped into the air. He placed his hand on the
ground and turned a circle as neatly as he had done on the day I met him
at the forge. Then he stuck his hand in his shirt and looked as
important as a prince.
“Boy!” he called to me as though I were his servant. “Come here and
count me ten crowns from my purse.” He turned to Nicole. “This lad of
mine carries my wealth. If we are beset by thieves, no one would look to
him for the money. Is not that a wise trick?”
He laughed loud again as though he might be proud of his cunning. I
hesitated. I tried to make an estimate of what was going on in his mind.
I was wavering in uncertainty, when he snapped me a wink from the corner
of his eye.
“Not so slow!” he commanded. Then when I counted the money, he threw it
contemptuously on the grass. “Ten crowns, Nicole,” he said. “That will
be one for every year you have been the master of bowls.”
Nicole drew forth a well-worn leather purse such as merchants carry.
With a sly smile he looked sideways at the scrivener and slowly counted
out the money. This he threw piece by piece on the grass. It was as
though he was trying to shake the scrivener’s nerves with his
deliberation.
With a bound the scrivener seized the stone ball. He swung it around his
head two or three times, spinning on his heel. He drew far back and came
forward on the run. He let out a warning shout. He was about to make the
heave when to the amazement of all, his feet slid from under him. The
stone rolled harmlessly to the side of the green. The scrivener fell on
his back and his heels kicked in the air.
It was a ridiculous situation of course. In the beginning I was burning
with anger that he should make such a show of himself. But when I
considered the nature of the man, his unexpected whims and fancies, I
knew that he was playing a rôle that would be wise enough in the end.
When he arose he looked crestfallen. With a serious expression on his
face he brushed the dirt away from his clothes. He even growled under
his breath at his poor luck.
Nicole was standing with his arms folded across his chest as proudly as
though he were already the victor. He took forth his purse once more and
held it dangling in his fingers. With a taunting sneer he winked at me
and then turned to the scrivener.
“Another ten?” he asked with raised brows.
“You must be a rich man,” the scrivener replied. “Are you a merchant
that you have so much to waste?”
“I make my living from such as you,” Nicole answered, “——who think they
can play—and can’t!”
At this cut the scrivener flew into a rage. He threw his arms above his
head and paced up and down. He jerked his fists convulsively.
“It was a slip,” he cried. “Only a slip. I know I can do better than
that.” He spat upon the ground as though he had finally come to a
resolution.
“Henri!” he cried. “Twenty crowns more!” Then in a flash to Nicole,
“Have you the courage?” he demanded.
In a trice the coins were on the ground, both mine and the stranger’s.
Then they went at it again. At the first stroke the scrivener lagged far
behind. At the second his nerves grew more collected. After a little he
was skillful enough to topple over all the pins with the one try. As the
game went on he began a running talk with Nicole. His voice grew high.
He made light of his opponent’s efforts. He counseled him to stand this
way or that. He interrupted him at the moment when he was about to cast
the stone. He clapped him on the back when he made a bad play and
comforted him with the hope that he would do better on the next try. In
short he did all in his power to confuse him.
The ruse worked well. Nicole played with a sort of canny caution. But
when the scrivener had equaled his score, his nerves gave way on him. He
took more time to poise himself before the cast. He fussed about to be
sure of his footing. His brows narrowed and an expression of intense
seriousness crossed his face.
Towards the end it was nip and tuck. Now Nicole was ahead, now the
scrivener. The longer the game lasted, the more boastful my companion
became. He took to strutting about between shots like a
cock-o’-the-walk. He wanted to double the money he had laid on himself.
He shouted aloud that he was the master of the best man in the Kingdom
of France. He said he could prove it with a wager that would be the
ransom for a prince. Then at last just when Nicole was measuring the
green with his eye he let out a whoop, turned one of his somersaults,
put his knuckles in his mouth and whistled so shrilly that it rent the
very air.
The stone that Nicole held in his hand shot forward. But the scrivener
had done his work. It flew in full career down the middle of the green.
Then it seemed to strike a tuft of hidden grass for it bounced a little
in the air and veered over towards the side. It struck the pins however,
but only slightly. Three of the nine were tumbled over and the rest left
standing.
The scrivener raised the stone. He walked to the green with his head
high. He made the cast without so much as an aim, but I saw that he put
all his force behind it. It sped on in a straight line. It crashed in
among the pins with the straightness and speed of an arrow. It hit the
middle one and sent it leaping over to the side. The stone continued on
its course in among the others. They fell one by one in quick succession
until the last spun around and rolled in a semi-circle out over the
green.
At that the scrivener snapped his fingers and gave a cry. He turned to
Nicole.
“You have seven still to make,” he said. “I have only two to win. Will
you——”
Nicole had had enough. With a frown of disappointment he waved his hand
towards the green and then towards the money.
“It is yours,” he said. “I never played so poorly in my life.”
He was soured to the core. But with all that I picked up the coins and
put them in my purse. We went into the inn and sat down at a long oaken
table. Soon we had the meat before us and were eating to our hearts’
content.
It was well on towards dark when we finished. One by one the country
gossips entered and took their places. The landlord lit the oil lanthorn
that hung from the ceiling. Its yellow rays cast flitting shadows about
the room. The air was heavy from the odor of the cooking and the
dampness of the clay floor. The scrivener eyed every stranger in the
place as keenly as though he were cutting him open with a knife. He
began to yawn. He bade me fling a coin on the table to pay the score and
make ready for bed.
We stood up. We were about to turn when the door of the inn flew open
with a bang. I jumped as though the floor had suddenly given way. We
both turned. In the next second my heart sank to my shoes, for in the
wavering light of the lanthorn I saw De Marsac with half a dozen
troopers at his back peering eagerly over his shoulders. He strode to
the middle of the floor and whirled searchingly around. When his eyes
rested on us, he raised his arm and pointed.
“I knew I would find you here!” he cried. His voice was shaking between
joy and anger. “I have caught you like mice in a trap!”
I looked searchingly at the scrivener. He stood with his hands at his
side as unmoved as a piece of marble, with only the flicker of a smile
playing about the edges of his mouth.
“It is my friend, De Marsac!” he cried. “You have indeed cornered us at
last.”
A chill shot down my spine. De Marsac flung out his arm.
“Seize them!” he called. “Bind them till the thongs cut into their
flesh. Let one of you stand guard over them for the night.” He spun on
his heel. His men rushed at us as though we were mad dogs. In the
twinkling of an eye we were thrown to the floor and lashed hand and foot
with thongs of deer hide.
De Marsac halted at the door.
“Tomorrow, at the break of day, they are to be hanged upon the nearest
tree!”
In the next breath he was lost in the dark.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SILVER-HAFTED DAGGER
In another hour the inn was deserted. The scrivener and I lay huddled
together on the floor. One of De Marsac’s crew remained guard over us—an
ugly fellow with a face scarred with small-pox and earrings in his ears.
He must have come from somewhere in the south of France for his language
was heavier than the French in our part of the country.
For a while he paced up and down the floor and glanced suspiciously at
us at every turn. About midnight he began to yawn and stretch his arms
over his head. Then he came and sat on a bench opposite us. The quiet of
the place was like a balm for he fell into short naps. He arose and went
to the other side of the table (where he could see us) and spread out
his elbows. He yawned again and muttered something under his breath.
Then little by little his head sank and before long it fell between his
arms and he was snoring like the rumble of distant thunder.
As gently as I could I shoved the scrivener in the ribs.
“What’ll we do?” I whispered.
His answer was a gentle touch on the arm.
“Wait!” he said.
I was more than uncomfortable. The thongs were cutting into my wrists
and ankles. At my shoulders where the muscles were stretched back a
numbness crept over me. The hardness of the floor made me wish that I
could stand up and walk a bit. But the worst of all was the dryness that
was parching my tongue and mouth.
I heard a cock crow loud and long like the blast of a trumpet as if it
would awaken the world. I looked at our captor. He never stirred. His
mouth was open and he breathed in heavy sighs.
A door to my left creaked. The rays of the yellow lanthorn were only a
little better than the gloom. I wanted to turn but the scrivener pressed
his knee against my thigh. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the
door open wider and wider but so slowly that I imagined an hour was
passing.
Then I saw a face. It was the landlord. I had not noticed him much
during the meal but now his nose seemed sharper than ever and the
leanness of his face was almost of the keenness of a knife. He had his
eyes drawn together and his teeth clenched showing white.
As he came towards us the tassel of his nightcap bobbed about in a
little circle and his slippers gave to his steps the softness of a
cat’s. His long loose nightgown made him look like a ghost. But he was a
kindly ghost at that for he carried a noggin of water in his hand.
Without a word he stooped over the scrivener and moistened his lips.
Then he gave me a swallow. Always with one eye on the sleeping guard he
made a sign towards the door.
“Guarded!” he whispered, “——from the outside!”
The scrivener’s eyes almost burnt a hole in him so intensely did he look
at him.
“Have you no sense?” he demanded in a tone that was low but hard.
The landlord raised his brows slightly as though he did not understand.
“I cannot die with a bad conscience,” muttered the scrivener. “Nor will
I die with a murder on my hands.” He stopped a breath and glared even
harder than before. “The lad here is a dangerous character. He’ll not
give up till the last. He be like to kill some one in the struggle.” He
halted but kept his eyes steadily on the landlord as though he would
speak with them.
The guard gave a loud sigh. He breathed with a deep moan. His lips
quivered like a horse snorting. He tried to raise his head but it fell
again like a dead weight across his arms.
Not one of us stirred. The cock crowed again. The sound of it sent my
nerves quivering. Then the scrivener spoke again in a voice that was
quiet but determined.
“I want you to search the lad there,” he said. “He has a knife in his
jacket that can do much harm—or good. Take it away from him. If you have
a grain of sense you will understand.”
I felt myself jump in my bonds. On the impulse I wanted to resist. I
wanted to throw myself on the scrivener and denounce him for a traitor
and a coward. My second thoughts were calmer. I was as good as done for
as I was. Was there a hidden understanding between him and the landlord
that had a meaning of its own?
Before I could think further the landlord had his hand under my doublet.
The dagger which I was to carry to the Abbot of Chalonnes was torn from
me with no further ado. For one second he held it under the rays of the
lanthorn. The light, dull as it was, shone like a clear stream along the
silver haft. In spite of himself he gave a start and looked searchingly
from the one of us to the other. Then without a word he shuffled slowly
away and disappeared behind the door.
I nudged the scrivener in the ribs. I wanted some kind of explanation to
be sure. But all I got was a yawn and a reply that came like a rebuke.
“Go to sleep!”
The scrivener curled up on his side as well as he could. Whether he was
feigning or not I cannot tell but before a quarter of an hour had passed
he was snoring as loudly as the guard. I was wide awake, alert, for I
expected the landlord to return. I felt that something would happen. A
half hour passed. A dullness came into my eyes. The thoughts of what had
occurred during the day revolved themselves in my mind. A dread of the
morning took hold of me, for I realized that the chances were that I was
to die. Then a weariness seized me. My head drooped to one side. All
kinds of fanciful images started chasing one another in my brain. After
that, sheer exhaustion laid a hand on me and with my nose against the
scrivener’s shoulder I, too, fell into a slumber.
It was a fitful sleep at best. The dreams that tumbled around in my mind
must have made me cry out. I awoke trembling with the sound of my voice
still echoing in the air. I started up. To my amazement my bonds no
longer held me. I swung my arms to make sure that I was not dreaming and
even pinched my leg.
Then I looked about. The lanthorn was still there, lit, burning as it
had during the entire night. The guard was as quiet as a mouse with his
head down between his arms. I turned my head. No sign of the scrivener
could I see. Then it flashed upon me that something had happened while I
slumbered and I rose startled to my feet.
It was as if I had been suddenly dropped from the clouds. I wanted to
run for it as fast as I could to the door and make my escape while it
was possible. With long stealthy steps I made to pass the guard. My eyes
were fastened on him with dread and fear. If he should awake I would be
even worse off than before.
Then I stopped dead in my tracks. A long sobbing breath came to my
throat. The dagger which the landlord had taken from my doublet earlier
in the night lay straight before me on the table. It was covered with
fresh blood the whole length of the blade. I looked closer. I was about
to touch the guard’s shoulder when I recoiled in terror. The back of his
coat was torn and in the rent a stream of red oozed slowly down!
For a moment I stood dazed. I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was
actually awake. The stillness of the inn reminded me of the emptiness of
a tomb. A fear of the awfulness of it all sent the shivers down my legs
and I looked around me for some sign of a living creature who might be
able to explain.
Then the thought of what might happen if I lingered there the space of
one second came to me. De Marsac’s command that I should hang in the
morning knocked the dullness out of me. I took the dagger and wiped the
blade against the guard’s coat. He did not stir but seemed like a block
of solid wood.
I remembered the landlord’s warning that the front of the inn was
guarded so I crept silently towards the back. I opened the door through
which he had entered when he gave us the drink of water. It creaked a
little and cast a scare over me. I passed through the kitchen where the
pots and pans hung in order from pins, all of them bright and shining. I
put my hand on the latch of the back door. To my surprise it opened
almost at the touch. In the next moment I was outside in the open.
It was still dark but a haze covered the sky to the east. By that I knew
it would soon be dawn. I ran across the open space between the inn and
the woods. When I was hidden among the trees I gave a great sigh of
relief.
But I did not stop. I ran on and on. I did not know where I was going
but followed a kind of forest path that was like a thread rather than a
road, for in no place was the grass worn entirely away. The light to the
east grew brighter and brighter. Then the birds began to chatter and
whistle in the branches over my head. A hare crossed in front of me and
with the fear I was in it almost took my breath away.
There was little that I noticed. It was only weariness that slackened my
pace. My running fell away to a shambling nervous walk. I was on the
high ground overlooking a valley that lay off to my left. I knew that
within an hour my enemies would be in full hue and cry after me so I
decided to keep far away from the highway.
I came to a tiny brook that rippled out from between some broken rocks.
I stooped and drank one deep draught after another. I was about to go on
when I spied a man sitting on a boulder. It was the scrivener smiling as
calmly as you please. He had a loaf of bread under his arm and was
stuffing a lump into his mouth. On the grass next to him I noticed a
fairly large lump of fresh cheese.
As though we were at peace with all the world he grinned as gleefully as
a child.
“Good morning, Henri,” he said. “Have you had your breakfast?”
CHAPTER XIV
PURSUED
I sank down on the rock beside him.
“We’re in for it now,” I said.
He raised his brows.
“To my way of thinking, Henri,” he replied, “we’re just out of it.” He
munched on his bread thoughtfully for a while. With a pleased expression
on his face he turned to me. “Isn’t it a grand thing to be in trouble?”
he asked.
“It’s all right if you have friends,” I returned. “Master scrivener,” I
went on, “do you realize that you have killed a man?”
“—and that’s a great pity, isn’t it,” he remarked dryly. He looked at me
carefully as though he was trying to read my thoughts. “Have you proof
of that, Henri?” he said.
“Who else would have done it?” I demanded.
“Why, if you put two and two together, it was the landlord who took the
dagger. You saw him with your own eyes. You know I fell fast asleep. I
was bound hard and fast. You couldn’t take an oath on it, now, could
you, Henri?”
“Well, no,” I replied. “But I’m sure of this, it was either you or the
landlord.”
He patted me on the arm.
“Now,” he said, “you are talking sense. As far as you are concerned it
was the landlord, for I wouldn’t like you to think you were traveling
with a murderer.”
“Was it you, really?” I asked.
“As far as the landlord goes, it was,” he said. “It all depends which
side of the fence you are on.”
He left me more puzzled than ever. I tried again but with the same
result. The same dry smile and the same cunning expression from those
knowing eyes greeted me at every turn.
“Well,” I said after we had finished our meal. “What are we to do now?”
“Play the fox,” he answered. “We must do the contrary to what they think
we’ll do.”
“They will think that we’ll keep on ahead to get out of the way,” I
replied. “Isn’t that natural?”
“It is,” he agreed. “You’re a gentleman of fine understanding.”
He lowered his head thoughtfully and gathered a few loose stones in his
hand. These he threw into the air and caught again as they came down. He
broke out into a soft whistle and stamped his foot to the tune. I got up
from my seat and stood before him waiting for a move.
“Are you going to loiter here till we’re caught, master scrivener?” I
asked.
“If we’re caught, there’s always a way out,” he remarked. “You have seen
already it’s a little knack I have.”
With that he arose slowly and brushed the crumbs from his clothes. He
took a last draught of water from the stream and gazed about.
“We’ll not go far,” he said at length. “We’ll keep in the neighborhood.
The worst of it is that we’ve no arms but your dagger.”
He went on ahead and I followed. Whatever his thoughts were I cannot
tell. But I know that mine were none of the lightest. I was beset with
dread. In my imagination I heard the confusion when the body of the
guard was found. I saw the consternation of the rest of them. I pictured
to myself the fury they were in. That they would not let us off
unpunished was all too clear. It was about two hours since I left the
inn. By this, no doubt, they were on foot and even in pursuit of us.
I soon felt a jar run through me. We had wandered straight along the
side of the hill in a line with the valley. Of a sudden we came to a
point of rock that stood jutting higher than the ground roundabouts.
There were no trees upon it, only the bare stone. When we reached the
summit the whole country spread on either hand like a rolling field. A
white line curled and circled in and around the wanderings of a little
stream that flowed slowly towards the south. It was the great highway
that leads down the valley of the Loire to the west of France. It was
the road that I would have been traveling in peace and comfort, if it
had not been for the interference of my enemies.
Of a sudden the sound of clattering hoofs came to my ears. Then there
shot into view two horsemen with bows and arrows slung over their
shoulders. From where I was I could even see the grim expression on
their faces and the foam dripping from their horses’s mouths.
I glanced anxiously at the scrivener.
“There they go,” he remarked.
“—after us?” I inquired.
He nodded his head.
“Don’t you feel the thrill of it?” he asked beaming in my face. “And
doesn’t it warm your blood to see them go flying past when we are
standing here at our ease?”
I had to laugh in spite of myself, but for all that the seriousness of
our situation tormented me. To live like a hunted animal was little to
my liking. The long and short of it was that the scrivener was used to
danger. I had my trials yet to come.
We had to keep on the move so we started back to wander under the
protection of the trees. We crossed the forest path at a right angle and
directed our steps towards the north. Here the woods grew thicker. The
ground was more and more covered with brush and knotted weeds and there
ran tiny streams down the hillside in and out among the rocks.
I came to a sudden stop and touched the scrivener on the arm.
“I hear a noise of some one walking,” I said. “A stone just clattered
against a rock.”
The scrivener raised his finger to silence me.
“I saw them when we were watching the horsemen ride past,” he said.
“It’s two fellows armed with bows and arrows. They are behind us.”
I asked no further questions. I knew that they were on our tracks. It
was a sign that our enemies were combing the country round in their
search and would leave no stone unturned till they found us.
The scrivener halted and pointed to a large tree.
“Hide there,” he explained. “That’s where they will pass. When they come
abreast of you, keep your eye open. Wait for an opportunity.”
With not another word he was off through the woods. I stood for a moment
in doubt. Then I walked quickly to the place he had pointed out and took
my position in the shelter of the tree. My heart was thumping like a
hammer. I laid my hand involuntarily on my dagger. I gave a pull at my
jerkin. I was now on one foot, now on the other. A nervousness came over
me that made me as uneasy as a young colt.
Presently the sound of voices came through the trees—deep rumbling
voices of men. Then the brush swished and here and there the noise of a
stone that one of them kicked with the toe of his heavy boot. I peered
out as cautiously as I could. They came into view a flash at a time from
among the thick trunks.
Then I summoned my will and took in a deep breath. The men were not ten
feet away muttering and talking and growling that they had been aroused
so untimely from their sleep. I saw their faces clearly and even the
color of their eyes.
[Illustration: They Came Into View From Among the Thick Trunks]
Suddenly they looked up and stopped as though they had been confronted
by a ghost. I sprang to the other side of my tree and peered out again.
To my amazement, the scrivener was standing directly before them. He was
swinging his cap low so that it swept the ground and he laid his hand
over his heart like a courtier. With a bow that might have shamed a
prince he said in a soft voice:
“Gentlemen, I am the highwayman of Tours. Are you looking for me?”
I knew it was my time to act. While the two fellows stood thus uncertain
trying to collect their wits, I leaped out. Before either of them could
stir, I had gathered my fist into a ball. I swung as hard as ever I
delivered a blow in my life. My bare knuckles struck the man nearest me
so violently that I felt the jar of it clear to my elbow. I caught him
behind the ear. He hung for a second as though he were suspended in the
air. Then, like a bag that is suddenly dropped, he sank unconscious to
the earth.
Before I could glance about the scrivener had straightened himself. With
one of his springs he came hurtling through the air. The fellow had half
turned when he saw his companion fall and was not entirely on his guard.
The scrivener’s heels struck him like a weight in the chest. As though
his legs were cut away from under him, he flew back and rolled over to
the foot of the tree.
“Quick!” cried my companion.
I needed no urging. As fast as my anxious fingers could manage, I undid
the fastenings that bound the quiver of arrows to my fellow’s shoulder.
Then I snatched up the bow and turned to see what the next move would
be.
The scrivener had done as I had done, only with more dispatch. He
stepped back and laid an arrow in the bow.
“Up with you!” he cried. “Back to your master, De Marsac, and say that
the highwayman of Tours sends him his compliments. Tell him that we
shall meet him further down the road on the way to Angers. Tell him to
keep a keen edge on his sword for when we meet again the one or the
other of us shall die!”
I never saw a man fly before an enemy so quickly. Before I could wink he
had turned and was soon hidden among the trees.
“That’s one of them,” muttered my companion. He pointed to the man whom
I had felled. He was rolling over and trying to raise himself on his
elbow. “He’s safe enough where he lies,” he continued. “By the time he
has his wits again, we shall be out of reach.”
“Where are we going now, master scrivener?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, my lad,” he said. He pointed to the sun which stood over
our heads. “First we’ll eat what is left of our breakfast. We’ll go
ahead slowly for a while. When it gets dark I shall make a quiet visit
to the inn.”
CHAPTER XV
THE SCRIVENER DISAPPEARS
It was far into the night when the scrivener returned. The first quarter
of the moon was all the light we had, but even at that how he made his
way through the gloom of the trees was more than I could guess. He had
left me in a spot that was far back from the highway where there was no
path nor even a rock to guide him. But he was as unerring as one of his
arrows.
“We have been outlawed,” he said with a laugh. “There’s a price on our
heads.”
“Ah!” was all that I could say.
“It’s posted in the inn,” he explained, “and on some of the trees, for
him who can to read. Fifty crowns for each of us, dead or alive.” He
clapped me playfully on the shoulder. “It’s more than I ever counted
myself to be worth.”
I knotted my brows. For all his gaiety I felt a chill climb slowly up my
back. I was little more than an animal to be a target for all mankind.
“We’re done for, then,” I said and sighed.
“If they catch us,” he replied. “Even if they do, we have fifty arrows
and two strong bows. If you can shoot, that will mean that fifty of them
will drop before they lay hands on us. Don’t you think the odds are in
our favor?”
I was not so sure.
“Fifty crowns is a large sum,” I said half to myself. “A man will go far
for that.”
The scrivener made no answer but laid a bundle on the ground, which he
spread out with the greatest care. In the light of the moon I saw him
quietly smiling to himself.
“I’ve brought enough for a week,” he said, “cheese and bread and smoked
meat. While they are running mad in search of us, we can live like
kings.”
With all my fears, I was as hungry as a bear. The two of us sat down
upon the hard ground with a flat stone for a table. We ate in silence,
for each of us was busy with his own thoughts. Now and then I caught the
scrivener glancing up at me through his brows with that quaint smile on
his face, as though he was secretly amused.
“I can go with you until we come into the country of the Abbot of
Chalonnes,” he said suddenly. “After that it will be for you to shift
for yourself.”
“Scrivener,” said I, “who is this Abbot of Chalonnes?”
“He’s a strong man, Henri,” came the answer. “A man to be feared.”
“But what is his importance?” I demanded. “Has he an army? Does he rule
a part of France? Or is he only a churchman?”
“No one knows—exactly,” replied the scrivener cautiously. “He’s as
mysterious as a fox. He has power enough to move a mountain. He can
break the most arrogant prince. He can tear his castle down about his
ears. But his ways are dark and secret. He is seldom seen. He has no
followers as far as I can learn, but somehow men are afraid to go
against his will.”
“But his land? Where does he live?”
“That’s uncertain, too,” he explained. “——mostly in the valley of the
Loire beyond the fortress of Angers.”
“Have you ever seen him?” I continued.
“Never! Never in my life!”
The answer came quick and sudden. The scrivener sprang from the ground
and looked circumspectly about. He put his hand to his ear as though he
was listening to a sound and stood in utter silence for several minutes.
At length he dropped his arm to his side and walked away.
“I thought it was some one moving about in the woods,” he said. “It was
only a deer or boar rustling the leaves.”
If I hadn’t been so tired I would have laughed in his face. I was enough
at home in the woods to know that there had been no sound, not even of
the tiniest bird. The truth of the matter was that I had put a question
to him that he was loath to answer. He had been evasive before when I
tried to pry him open and now he had made this pretext to avoid me once
again. I let the matter drop, but the determination lingered that at the
first opportunity I would corner him and drive my questioning further.
He wandered off to pick up some sticks and shreds of moss and dried
grass. When he had his arm full, he returned and spread what he had
gathered upon the ground. He took off his coat and laid it like a pillow
under his head. Then, without a word or even a look at me, he lay down
and curled himself into a knot. It was not long before he was breathing
deeply and snoring like the croaking of a frog.
I was weary with the day’s excitement. Perhaps the example of the
scrivener set me to yawning. However it was, I was soon stretched out
beside him asleep under the waving branches of the trees and the stars.
It was bright day when I awoke. The scrivener was about whistling with
the merriment of a lark. He had a fire going in a crevice between two
craggy rocks and on it was the remains of the meat which he had brought
from the inn the night before. I fell to with a good appetite. When I
arose to brush the crumbs from my clothes, he took to walking about with
his hands behind him, lost in study with his brow wrinkled, frowning and
talking to himself, as though he was trying to solve a riddle. Then
suddenly he halted before me.
“We’ve got to get away from here,” he said. “It’s a wasps’ nest. They’re
searching the woods. If we stay, we’ll be shot down like dogs.”
I looked at him.
“Lead,” said I, “and I’ll follow.”
We went off among the thickest of the trees and over ground that was
almost impassible for jutting rocks. We made no speed for at every dozen
steps the scrivener stopped and peered around. The woods were as silent
as a grave with only the faintest breeze blowing in our faces that
ruffled the leaves and sighed gently over our heads.
Now and then he stooped to examine the ground for signs of footsteps or
of human visitation, that is, in places where there was clay or soil. On
and on we went, slowly. I for my part had a stifling fear in my heart
that boded no good; the scrivener as quiet and preoccupied as I had as
yet seen him.
By noon we had covered the length of the whole range of hills. We were
come into a deep valley with a little stream winding through it. The
place was dank with moisture and very dark, for the trees were well
watered and the soil lost much of its rockiness. With cautious steps we
went ahead. We stumbled over projecting roots and long spindling weeds.
A hare started out of the underbrush and nearly frightened me to death.
Not a sound did we make save the laboring of our breaths and an
occasional rattle when the toe of a boot caught against a scattered
stone.
We were on the edge of the forest. For a moment the scrivener hesitated
and gazed thoughtfully around. He touched me on the arm and with his
finger bade me look ahead. The direction in which he pointed was between
an opening among the trees. I peered carefully but at first saw nothing.
Then, as my eyes got more accustomed to the distance, I was able to make
out a thin curl of white smoke rising in the air. When it reached a
level with the tops of the trees it scattered and disappeared in the
sky.
“We can go no further,” the scrivener said. “The whole side of the
valley is filled with men.”
“—searching for us?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered with a nod of his head.
I knew that they were lying there to block us off. My thoughts turned
this way and that. I looked at my companion for some sign or other but
his face was set with the seriousness of a stone.
“Do you think it so fine now to be in danger?” I cast at him.
A hard smile caught at the corners of his mouth.
“Have I shown fear?” he demanded.
“They’re drawing a ring around us,” I said. “We’ll starve in the woods
in a day or two. We’ll be as weak as cats. Then they’ll close in.”
The scrivener gave a twang to his bow-string. The old spirit of his
flashed out for a second and he grinned.
“I wish they would close in now,” he replied. “They know the mettle of
the highwayman of Tours. They know how I can strike when they least
expect it. Pshaw!” He spat contemptuously on the ground. “They have all
the same feeling—if they harm a hair of my head, they will die like
dogs!”
“If you’re not afraid, master scrivener,” I went on, “why are you so
serious?”
He spun around like a top.
“Serious!” he exclaimed. “Do you think a man ought not to plan? Why,
lad, I’m scheming as hard as I can to pull you out of this difficulty.”
“—me!” I cried.
He shot a look at me.
“Do you think I care for myself?” he answered. “Why, lad, if I were
alone, I would be on my way by this and as free as a bird in the air.”
I considered for a moment.
“Why have you stuck to me at all, master scrivener?” I asked slyly. “Is
there a purpose to it?”
He examined me suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. He rolled his
forehead upwards and set his mouth to whistle a tune. I realized that he
was going to evade my question as he did before.
“Scrivener,” I began deliberately, “why don’t you lay aside the mask?
You know you are leading me as you would a dog upon a string. Can’t you
be frank enough to tell me why?”
At these words he leaped in the air. He let out one long breath of
surprise and threw his arms towards the sky.
“Listen to him, will you!” he cried as though he were speaking with some
one invisible. “Harken to his nonsense! Has there ever been——”
He stopped as suddenly as he began. His arms dropped to his side. He put
his finger over his mouth to caution me to silence and gazed intently
far over my shoulder. Then he backed away towards the trunk of the
nearest tree.
“Pist!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Don’t move!”
I had no time to judge whether it was one of his pranks or not, whether
it was an attempt to turn a conversation that was distasteful to him. A
click at my feet threw a cloud of dust in my face and sprinkled me with
a shower of small stones. I looked and there standing before me was an
arrow a yard long with its point buried deep in the earth.
In spite of the warning I jumped up. At the same time another arrow sped
past me so near and with such speed that I felt the breeze fan my
cheeks. I made a leap to get within the protection of a tree when I
glanced to the side and saw the scrivener lay an arrow in his bow. The
string gave a twang. He followed the missile with his eyes. A slow
pleased smile spread over his countenance and he turned to me.
“He has shot his last shot,” he said.
“Do you know who it was?” I asked.
“Stay where you are,” he cautioned, “If you are threatened, run for it
as fast as you can.”
He disappeared among the trees. As for me, I had not seen the man who
sent the arrow at all, nor was I even able to figure the exact place
from which it had come. I took my bow in my hands to have it ready. I
listened with all my ears for the slightest sound. I kept turning this
way and that. Minute after minute passed in the utter silence of those
woods. I expected the scrivener to return at almost any second. I took
to pacing up and down. A nervousness stirred within me for I was growing
conscious that I was next to helpless against the odds that surrounded
me. Where had the scrivener gone and what was detaining him?
I waited. The time went by so slowly that it seemed an age. My heart
beat off the seconds as though it were counting out the span of my life.
My head was now in this direction, now in that, for the fear of a
surprise was strong in my mind.
Then a thought struck me. Perhaps he was more in need of me than I was
of him. Maybe the man who shot the arrow was only a decoy to lead him
into a trap. Could it be possible that he had been captured and killed
while I was loitering there in idleness?
My mind was running on with one thought chasing the other. My nerves
were jumping like strings. I grasped the bow in my hand and began to
run. I took the same course as the scrivener. With all my speed I leaped
over roots of trees, rocks and what lay in my path. I covered twice the
space that an arrow could fly. I went out of my course and made a wide
circle through the woods. I wound in and about here and there so that
finally I returned to the spot from which I had set out. Not a sound did
I hear. Not a trace of a human being did I discover. It was as though I
were standing in the emptiness of a desert.
I sat down on a rock to think the matter over. The more I pondered, the
deeper the mystery became. To add to my concern the sun was sending
slanting rays from the west. By that I was sure that in another half
hour it would be dark and in that sea of enemies I would have to shift
for myself.
I resolved that I would make one more search. I got to my feet with much
misgiving and bent my steps once again through the woods. I had not gone
ten paces when I came across a dark body huddled up against the root of
a tree. It was in a spot where the shadows were thickest and I had to
peer closely to observe it.
Then I received a shock that went through me like the stab of a dagger,
for there face down in the grass lay the scrivener. In the middle of his
back stuck an arrow. He must have been dragged from the place where he
was killed, for his shoes were gone and his coat was ripped and torn
under the arm-pits, and the old hat which he wore was crushed down over
his head as though his murderer had flattened it.
With a gulp in my throat as big as an apple I stooped and shook him by
the arm. He was stone dead for he moved with the heaviness of a log.
Then I arose and took my hat in my hands to mutter a prayer. In the next
second a hand as hard as iron and as strong as a vise was laid on my
shoulder. I turned my head. In the growing darkness I looked into a face
that was frowning as black as night. The fellow was of about the same
size as myself. He had on a coat and trousers such as the soldiers wear
only they were threadbare and very ragged. A rough cap was pulled down
over his eyes and a loose scarf was wound about his throat and came up
over his chin. As he grinned at me I remember that a pair of silver
ear-rings shook menacingly from his ears.
The sight of him made me as limp as a rag. I realized instantly all that
had happened. The bow fell from my grasp and I turned helplessly away.
“Forward!” a rough voice commanded. At the same time I was shoved
roughly in the direction of the highway.
CHAPTER XVI
THE SCRIVENER TURNS TRAITOR
I stumbled along over the uneven ground with my captor at my back. By
the time we reached the road it was pitch dark. The trees grew on either
side of us like a great dark wall. There was no light save the
glimmering of the new moon and an occasional star or two.
For the first half hour I was as docile as a lamb, for I was shaken by
the unexplained loss of the scrivener and by the seriousness of my own
plight. My captor never uttered a word. Indeed I would not have been
aware of his presence had it not been for the crunching of the stones
under his feet and a cautioning pinch on the arm when I lagged in my
gait.
But I soon found a ray of hope in my situation and new and daring
thoughts popped up in my mind. It was easily two miles to the inn. We
were utterly alone. The thought of what would happen to me once I fell
into De Marsac’s power strengthened my resolution. I was determined, if
I could ferret out a means, that I would escape and take my chances
again in the woods.
I tossed the question about in my brain. The night was warm for the
season of the year. I had on a heavy jerkin of deer-hide that was
beginning to be uncomfortable. If I took it off, I should certainly find
relief. I drew one arm out slowly with a grunt to let my captor know
that I was suffering from the heat. Then I had it entirely free. I
rolled it up into folds as though I was going to tuck it under my arm.
When I had it ready, I wheeled on my heel and with a swift swing hurled
it with all my strength into his face!
I started to run. In that one moment of his confusion I had to make the
best of my opportunity. In three strides I had gotten a start. My feet
flew over the hard ground as they never flew before. A certain joy
filled my heart that I was on my way to freedom. A few more strides and
I was headed for the trees. It was my only salvation, for once I could
lose myself in the darkness of the woods my captor would have his own
trouble in finding me.
I jumped over the ditch that lined the road with the swiftness of a
hare. I was making good headway up the side of the bank when my feet
were suddenly entangled and I fell my whole length on the sod. It was
the coat that I had thrown into my captor’s face. He was more alert than
I had reckoned. He must have recovered instantly from his surprise and
have started after me. With an aim that was as accurate as it was quick
he was able to enmesh my feet as I ran.
He was upon me like a cat. With a jerk at my collar he landed me on my
feet. Then with a shove so violent that his fist dug into my ribs he
urged me on ahead.
“One trick more,” he growled, “and it will be the end of you.”
I took the affair evenly enough. It was a chance in which I failed. But,
even at that, I was resolved that at the next opportunity, I would try
again.
Throughout the length of that march I tormented him to the full. At
times I walked as fast as my legs could carry me, thinking to wear him
out. I expected him to catch me again by the collar and command me to go
more slowly, but I met only with disappointment. Every time I turned he
was at my heels breathing as smoothly as if he were sitting in a chair.
Then I lagged. I drew my feet after me as though they were a weight. I
zigzagged from one side of the road to the other. I stopped to pick up a
stick that lay in my path and took to swishing the weeds along the edges
of the highway. In a word I tried all manner of nonsense to worry and
anger him with the notion that at the end he would call me to account. I
had hopes that in case he fell into a quarrel with me, it would come to
an open fight in which I was sure I would have as great advantage as he.
My pranks came suddenly to an end. I had forgotten the dagger which I
still had concealed in my shirt. Surely I could make use of it, even if
my captor had his bow and arrows, if I chose a moment when he was off
his guard.
I steadied myself and walked along in the middle of the road. I glanced
over my shoulder and at the same time felt for the weapon. The haft was
near my hand. In a second I could draw it forth and take my enemy by
surprise. Slowly and more slowly I advanced. I did not turn again but
listened intently for the crunching of the stones under his feet. By the
sound I could measure the distance between him and me. When he came near
enough I could——
“Do you want to die?” His voice came like a sound from the tomb. So
surprised was I that I wheeled about.
“—die?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Get that thought out of your head!” he commanded.
My hopes fell. I knew now for the first time that I had a man of more
than usual insight and cunning to deal with. If I were to try any
further tricks, they must be managed with the utmost skill and daring.
We went on. The moon rose higher in the heavens. The trees waved their
long branches over our heads. The road twisted and turned like a snake.
One scheme after another came into my head, but I cast them all aside,
for with his alertness and the quickness of his mind my captor had a
hold on me as firm as chains.
Of a sudden the road bent. As we turned the corner the dull light from
the windows of the inn shone before us. To make sure that I would not
make a final break for freedom, the fellow behind me grasped me by the
arm.
In a few steps we were at the inn door. It was standing open. The old
dust-covered lanthorn was hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the
room, sputtering forth its uncertain yellow light. To my dismay I saw De
Marsac sitting directly under it at the table. He seemed impatient for
he was twisting his mustache with the thumb and forefinger of one hand
and drumming nervously with the other.
My captor had just shoved me across the threshold. He opened his mouth
to speak when two fellows in the garb of common soldiers brushed roughly
past. Their faces were white from fear, and from the way they were
breathing I judged that they had been running. They threw themselves at
De Marsac’s feet.
“My lord!” they cried. “The highwayman of Tours is running wild in the
forest! He has shot three of your men already. If you will——”
My captor broke him off. He advanced with his chest thrown out and his
head high in the air.
“The highwayman of Tours is dead!” he growled in a voice deep in his
throat. “I shot him with my own hand. His body lies under a tree about a
league to the south on the left of the road. To prove it, here is the
boy who accompanied him.” He stopped for a moment and gazed proudly at
De Marsac. “My lord,” he went on, “the fifty crowns that you have
offered as a reward is mine!”
De Marsac rose slowly from his seat. He stuffed his hands in his pockets
and let his eye roam over me. He smacked his lips and smiled, as though
I was a tender morsel he was about to devour.
“I was glad you weren’t hanged this morning,” he said with a sly leer.
“If you had died, my scheme would have gone astray. I’m going to care
for you now like a bird in a cage. I’m going to send you down the river
to a safe, snug place where you will come to no harm.” He rubbed his
hands together like a merchant who has just made a clever deal. “When
your brother sees fit to surrender his estates, I shall give you back to
him. Till then——” He raised his arm and snapped his fingers in the air.
He turned to the fellow who had taken me and clapped him on the back.
“You have earned every groat of your reward, my man,” he said, and drew
from an inside pocket a leather purse. “I am proud of you.” Then he
counted out upon the table the fifty crowns in glittering pieces of
gold.
My captor was beside himself from joy and bashfulness—joy, that he had
been the lucky one to effect my capture, bashful, that he was made so
much of by so great a person as De Marsac. He wanted to mutter a word of
thanks, but he choked in trying it, so that all he could do was to hang
his head and turn his face aside.
But after he had put the money in his jerkin, he took me by the arm and
led me to a place at the far end of the room. By merest chance it was
the very seat I had occupied the night before.
“You have been the means of making me a rich man, lad,” he puffed as he
sat down. “And I’m going to feast you to your heart’s content for it.”
The landlord came—the same wiry hatchet-faced fellow who had taken my
dagger. Not a sign of recognition showed on his face. As though he had
never laid eyes on me before, he bowed graciously to us, asked us what
we would eat and was off.
While we sat waiting, I ran my eyes searchingly around the room. In the
semidarkness of the old lanthorn, I noticed De Marsac sitting over his
supper with the same smile upon his face. Soldiers came in and out, some
of them to bring reports to their master, others to snatch a bite and to
make off again.
I rested my gaze upon my captor. The cap was still drawn down half way
over his eyes. The flaring red scarf hung about his neck, reaching well
up under his chin. A scowl crossed my brow. I fastened a look on him
that was filled with hate and chagrin. His two beady eyes twinkled their
strange light into mine as though they were laughing at me. The corners
of his lips curled slightly up in amusement. Then he winked slyly at me
as though there was something I ought to understand.
I grew interested. As though he were a curiosity, I began to examine him
more closely. The shine of those eyes and the slight arch of his nose
seemed strangely familiar to me.
“You like to eat, don’t you?” he asked, but in a low tone and in a voice
that was different from the heavy growl that he had used on our way to
the inn.
I leaned towards him across the table. He shot an inquiring glance
around the room. Then he put his forefinger straight over his lips. It
was a signal that I must be on my guard. With the same motion he let the
scarf fall from his chin.
I nearly tumbled from the chair. Of all the surprises of my life this
was the greatest. For the man whose prisoner I was, who had sold me to
De Marsac for a handful of gold, who had betrayed me as though I were
the meanest dog, was the man whom I for the past days had considered my
closest friend—the scrivener!
I opened my mouth and gasped.
“You!” was all I could say.
“Pist!” he cautioned.
“I thought you were dead!” I went on.
“Dead?” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Not much.”
“Why, I saw you lying there under the tree,” I argued. “I touched you
and you didn’t stir.”
“No, you didn’t,” he contradicted, “not me.”
“Why, your clothes——” I began.
He waved his finger before my face.
“Ah,” he remarked. “There’s where you are jumping at conclusions. It’s a
lesson you’ll have to learn, and you might as well begin now—you should
never judge a man by his clothes.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Why did you do this?” I demanded finally.
“To save your life—and mine,” he answered blandly. “There were too many
of them in the woods.”
“Don’t you realize that this will be the end of me?”
“No,” he replied, “it’s only the beginning.”
“Where will they take me?” I asked.
“Down the valley of the Loire. Keep your ears and eyes open,” he said
with all seriousness.
“—and what about you?”
“I’m going back,” he replied. “The country’s too dangerous.”
“Will you tell my brother never to give up the estates—no matter what
happens?” I asked, “—even if I’m a prisoner in De Marsac’s castle for
life?”
“It won’t be necessary,” he said. “You’ll never see De Marsac’s castle.”
CHAPTER XVII
ON THE HIGHWAY
That was a long night. I fell asleep with my head in my arms over the
table with the scrivener opposite me. De Marsac took no chances of my
escape. He left four men in the room, two to stand guard in turn while
the others snatched a wink of sleep. After he had cleared the plates and
dishes away the landlord disappeared. Once in a while I awoke and looked
around. But this time I was sure there would be no rescue, no helping
hand.
The first streaks of dawn were struggling in at the little window when I
got to my feet. My muscles were as sore as if I had been dragged a mile
through a mire. I yawned and stretched myself and listened for a moment
to the birds chirping and quarreling in the ivy that covered the outer
walls of the inn.
One of my guards brought breakfast for us all. It was then that I
observed for the first that my companion, the scrivener, was nowhere to
be seen. He must have slipped out in the dead of night, unnoticed. The
men looked at each other in question, puzzled, but I smiled to myself. I
knew it was one of those little tricks that he so dearly loved to play.
We went once again out on the highway. The sun was up big and red. Three
of the men remained at the inn, but the fourth, a fellow called Pierre,
was to lead me far down the valley of the Loire. For days I was to be
his prisoner. I was to eat and sleep with him. He was to be all the
companion I was to have, so I determined I would make the best of it and
be on as friendly a footing as I could.
But I found from the first that he was the surliest and coarsest man
alive. During the afternoon, he scarcely uttered a word, but went on
grumbling and muttering to himself. His face wore a perpetual scowl. He
kicked viciously at the stones along the road as if they were actually
his enemies. He complained of the long journey ahead of us.
“One man gets the money,” he said under his breath. “Another does the
work.”
“You don’t have to go,” I said. “If you say the word, I’ll leave you.”
He shot a look at me that was enough to kill me.
“Try it,” he growled. And his jaws came together with a snap.
After that I shrank back into my shell. I knew I was in company with a
savage. At the slightest sign of trifling, I was convinced, he would
stick a dagger into my heart and leave me on the road to die.
At noon we halted in the shade of the trees along the side of the
highway. He took from his shoulder a packet which he had brought from
the inn. In it were a lump of cheese and a length of hard bread. With as
much deliberation as he could show, he took a dagger from his coat and
wiped the blade two or three times over the knees of his trousers. Then
he cut the cheese into squares and tore the bread into pieces with his
hands. As though I were only an animal to be fed, he tossed them to me
through the air.
The first piece flew past me and fell into the dirt. The second landed
at my feet. Another caught me in the chest and tumbled in between my
folded hands. I was hungry, of course, but the manner of the man
sickened me. So I sat there glaring into his face.
He fell to with the appetite of a bear. He stuffed one lump after
another between his teeth and shoved them into his mouth with his thumb.
He gulped to swallow and that so hard that I thought he would choke.
When he had eaten twice as much as an ordinary man he rose and threw
what remained into my lap.
“You should starve,” he said, “—you spy!”
“I am no spy,” I declared.
He made no answer but gave me a look that was filled with hate.
I picked up the pieces that were clean and began to eat slowly. Thoughts
of my home and of the comfort I had there started to run through my
mind. A burning anger rose within me that I should be treated thus by a
fellow who was no equal of mine—who should have been glad to run at my
beck and call.
Without a word of warning he came over and caught me by the collar. With
a swift jerk he landed me on my feet. I was amazed at the suddenness of
it and the enormous strength of the man. I was sure that he could have
held me in the air with his outstretched arm as easily as I could have
held a bundle of straw.
We were on the road again, both going along in silence. During the
afternoon, I noticed small groups of men, some clad as ordinary
soldiers, some in finer dress like captains and officers, others on
horseback with armor and coats of mail. I had seen the like before in
the village at home to be sure, for in my day there was always war in
this or that part of France to attract the minds of men. But what struck
me was that these were all going in the same direction (towards the
west); they all seemed bent on the same errand; and they were so
numerous that I was set wondering.
That night we found no place in an inn. The common room was crowded to
the doors with swashbuckling soldiers of every kind. Loud talk and
boasting filled the air, together with the clanking of swords, the
thumping of heavy boots on the floor, the clamoring of men hungry for
their supper, quarrels over this or that and even blows struck and
returned.
We were lucky to get any food at all, but the worst of it all was that
we were forced to sleep in the open. Pierre found a spot in the shelter
of the barn where we would be protected from the wind. He brought an
armful of straw and scattered it over the ground. Then he took from his
pockets two strands of rope and bade me lie down. He tied one strand
firmly about my right wrist, the other about my left. The ends he drew
apart in opposite directions, tying one to a post at the corner of the
barn, the other he fastened on the other side of me to a stone that was
imbedded in the soil.
It was as though I was stretched out like a cross. I could move my hands
outwards as far as I liked. But when I drew them together as far as the
ropes allowed, they remained more than a foot apart. If I rolled over on
my side the one arm was behind me and the other in front. If I had tried
to get to my feet, I wouldn’t have been halfway up before I would have
been forced down again.
It was thus I passed the night. You can imagine that I slept only in
fits and starts, for as soon as I was in a doze I was sure to stir and
the tautness of the ropes, with the pain awakened me.
The day came as a relief. My captor let me lie until he brought me my
breakfast. Then he loosed my bonds. After we had eaten we started out on
the journey that was becoming irksome and even a torment.
That day passed about the same as the first. We toiled along the road
for the most part in gloomy silence. The soldiers were pouring in
thicker and thicker. Sometimes as many as two hundred of them in a
single body passed us so that we were forced to leave the highway and
stand on the banks to let them go by.
At another time later on a great lord from the east swept along. He was
dressed in shining armor from head to heel. In his helmet waved a plume
of feathers dyed red and white and a broadsword hung in its glittering
scabbard by his side. In his train were at least five hundred followers,
some of them of almost as high degree as he; others with long lances
rode directly behind him, while further back a troop of archers
completed the array.
It was a sight to admire. From where we had halted on the side of the
road, my captor pointed at them with his finger.
“That,” said he, “is what you have come to see.”
His grimness puzzled me.
“Has a war broken out?” I asked.
“Not yet,” was the answer, “—and it will never be called a war. These
men are on their way to crush the Black Prince of England.”
I drew a long breath.
“—the Black Prince!” I exclaimed. “Why, you can’t do that. There is not
a leader alive who can cope with him in the field.”
A slow smile came over his face.
“Within a week, there will be fifteen thousand men on their way down
this valley,” he replied. “The Black Prince is far off towards the west.
He is as ignorant of this preparation as a child.”
“But he’ll learn of it?” I said.
My captor shook his head.
“He’ll be struck with the suddenness of a thunderbolt. We’re going to
cut him off at Poitiers—when he starts back to his headquarters at
Bordeaux.” He snapped his fingers in contempt. “He has seven thousand
men who are half starved, weak from long marches and disease. What can
they do against these?”
He pointed with pride at the men marching past.
“When the Black Prince is a prisoner of the King of France,” he went on,
scowling in my face with a wicked grin, “we shall move against
Normandy——”
“The Norman Barons can defeat any army the French can send against
them!” I cried. “They have proved that more than once.”
He clenched his fingers over my arm till the pain of it shot up through
my shoulder.
“No, they
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/50193