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Published in Blades for France, 1975.
| 1. How I Met Men Wearing Masks | 2. How a King’s Mistress Knelt to Me |
“Stripling, what do you with a sword? Ha, by Saint Denis, it’s a woman! A woman with sword and helmet!”
And the great black-whiskered rogue halted with hand on hilt and gaped at me in amaze.
I gave back his stare no whit abashed. A woman, yes, and it was a lonely place, a shadow forest glade far from human habitation. But I did not wear doublet, trunk-hose and Spanish boots merely to show off my figure, and the morion perched on my red locks and the sword that hung at my hip were not ornaments.
I looked at this fellow whom chance had caused me to meet in the forest, and I liked him little. He was big enough, with an evil, scarred face; his morion was chased with gold, and under his cloak glimmered breastplate and gussets. This cloak was a notable garment, of Ciprus velvet, cunningly worked with gold thread. Apparently the owner had been napping under a huge tree nearby. A great horse stood there, tied to a branch, with rich housings of red leather and gilt braid. At the sight I sighed, for I had walked far since dawn, and my feet in my long boots ached.
“A woman!” repeated this rogue wonderingly. “And clad like a man! Throw off that tattered cloak, wench; I’d have a better sight of thee! Zounds, but you are a fine, tall, supple hussy! Come, doff your cloak!”
“Dog, have done!” I admonished harshly. “I’m no whimpering doxy for your sport.”
“Who, then?” he ogled.
“Agnes de La Fere,” I answered. “If you were not a stranger here, you’d know of me.”
He shook his head. “Nay, I’m new come in these parts. I hail from Chalons, I. But no matter. One name’s as good as another. Come hither, Agnes, and give me a kiss.”
“Fool!” My ever ready anger was beginning to smolder. “Must I slay half the men in France to teach them respect? Look ye! I wear these garments but as the garbs and tools of my trade, not to catch the attention of men. I drink, fight and live like a man—”
“But shalt love like a woman!” quoth he, and lunging suddenly at me like a great bear, he sought to drag me into his embrace, but reeled back from a buffet that split his lip and brought a stream of blood down his black beard.
“Bitch!” he roared in swift fury, his eyes blazing. “I’ll cripple you for that!” He made at me again with his great hands clutching, but as I wrenched out my sword, suddenly he seemed sobered by what he saw in my eyes, and, as if he realized at last that this was no play, he gave back and drew his own blade, casting off his cloak.
Our blades met with a clash that woke the echoes through the forest, and I came near killing him at the first pass. It was mainly by chance that he partially parried my fierce thrust, and as it was my point ploughed along his jaw-bone, so the blood gushed over his gorget. He yelled like a mad dog, but the wound steadied him, and made him realize that it was no child’s task he had before him.
He wielded his blade with all his strength and craft, and no mean swordsman I found him. Well for me that I had learned the art from the finest blade in France, for this black-bearded rogue was mighty and cunning, and full of foul tricks and murderous subterfuges, whereby I knew he was no honest man, but a bravo, one of those hired killers who sell their swords to any who can pay their wage.
But I was no child at the game, and my quickness of eye and hand and foot was such as no man could match. Failing in all his tricks and strategy, Blackbeard sought to beat me down by sheer strength, raining thunderous blows on my guard with all his power. But this availed him no better, because, woman though I was, I was all steel springs and whale-bone, and had the art of turning his strokes before they were well begun, and thus avoiding their full fury. Presently his breath began to whistle through his bared teeth, and foam to mingle with the blood on his whiskers, and his belly to heave beneath his cuirass.
Then as his strength and fury began to fail, I attacked relentlessly, and beating down his weakening guard, drove my point into the midst of his black beard, above his gorget, severing jugular, wind pipe and spine at one thrust, so he gasped out his life even as he fell.
Cleansing my blade, I meditated upon my next action, and presently emptied out his pouch, finding a few silver coins therein, and I was disappointed at the poorness thereof, for I was without money, and hungry. Still, they would suffice for a supper at some woodland inn. Then, seeing that my cloak was, as he had said, worn and ragged, I took his, which I much admired because of the curious quality of the gold thread which decorated it. When I lifted it a mask of black silk fell out of it, and I thought to leave it where it fell, but thought better of it, and thrust it under my girdle. I wrapped the body in my old cloak and dragged it into the bushes, where it would not be seen by any chance passer-by, and mounting the horse, rode on in the direction I had been travelling, and very grateful for the easing of my weary feet.
As I pushed on through the gathering dusk, I fell to brooding on the events which had befallen me since I, as an ignorant country girl, had knifed the man my father was forcing me to marry, and had fled the village of La Fere, to become a swordwoman, and a swashbuckler in breeches.
Truly, violence and death seemed to dog my trail. Guiscard de Clisson, who taught me the art of the sword, and with whom I was riding to the wars in Italy, had been shot down from ambush by bravos hired by the Duc d’Alençon, thinking him to be my friend Étienne Villiers. Étienne had knowledge of intrigue against King François on the part of the Duke, and for that knowledge his life was forfeit. Now I too was being hunted by Renault d’Valence, the leader of those bravos, since they thought me to be the only one besides themselves who knew the true facts of de Clisson’s murder.
For Valence knew that if it were known that he and his bravos had slain de Clisson, the famous general of the mercenaries, d’Alençon would hang them all to pacify de Clisson’s friends. Guiscard’s body was rotting in the river where the bravos had thrown it, and now d’Valence was hunting me on his own account, even while he hunted Étienne for the Duke.
Villiers and I had run and hidden and dodged like rats from the dogs, desirous of getting into Italy, but so far being penned in that corner of the world through fear of our enemies, who combed the kingdom for us. Even now I was on my way to a rendezvous with Étienne, who had gone stealthily to the coast, there to find, if he could, a certain pirate named Roger Hawksly, an Englishman, who harried the shores, for to such extremities were we forced that it was imperative that we get out of the country, however we could, since it was certain that we could not forever avoid the bloodhounds on our trail. I was to meet my companion at midnight, at a certain spot on the road that meandered down to the coast.
But as I rode through the twilight, I found no regret in my heart that I had traded my life of drudgery for one of wandering and violence. It was the life for which mysterious Fate had intended me, and I fitted it as well as any man: drinking, brawling, gambling, and fighting. With pistol, dagger or sword I had proved my prowess again and again, and I feared no man who walked the earth. Better a short life of adventure and wild living than a long dreary grind of soul-crushing household toil and child-bearing, cringing under the cudgel of a man I hated.
So I meditated as I came upon a small tavern set beside the forest road, the light of which set my empty belly to quivering anew. I approached warily, but saw none within the common room except the tap-boy and a serving wench, so gave my horse into the care of a stable-boy, and strode into the tavern.
The tap-boy gaped as he brought me a tankard of wine, and the wench stared until her eyes were like to pop out of her head, but I was used to such looks, and I merely bade her bring me food, and sat me down at the board, with my cloak about my shoulders, and my morion still on my head—for it served me well to be alert and full-armed at all times.
Now as I ate, I seemed to hear doors opening and closing stealthily in the back part of the tavern, and a low mumble of voices came to my ears. What this portended I knew not, but I was minded to finish my meal, and feigned to give no heed when the innkeeper, a silent, swarthy man in a leathern apron, came from some inner chamber, stared fixedly at me, and then departed again into the hinterlands of the tavern.
It was not long after his disappearance when another man entered the tavern from a side door—a small, hard-figured man with dark sharp features, somberly dressed, and wrapped in a black silk cloak. I felt his eyes upon me, but did not appear to regard him, except that I stealthily loosed my sword in its scabbard. He came hurriedly toward me, and hissed: “La Balafre!”
As he was obviously speaking to me, I turned, my hand on my hilt, and he gave back, his breath hissing through his teeth. So for an instant we faced each other. Then:
“Saint Denis! A woman! La Balafre, a woman! They did not tell me—I did not know—”
“Well?” I demanded warily, not understanding his bewilderment, but in no mind to let him know it.
“Well, it’s no matter,” he said at last. “You are not the first woman to wear breeches and a sword. Little matter what sort of a finger pulls the trigger, the ball speeds to the mark. Your master bade me watch for your cloak—it was by the gold thread that I recognized you. Come, come, it grows late. They await you in the secret room.”
Now I realized that this man had mistaken me for the bravo I had slain; doubtless the fellow had been on his way to a tryst for some crime. I knew not what to say. If I denied that I was La Balafre, it was not likely his friends would allow me to go in peace without explaining how I came by his cloak. I saw no way out except to strike down the dark-faced man, and ride for my life. But with his next words, the whole situation changed.
“Put on your mask and wrap well your cloak about you.” he said. “None knows you here but I, and I only because that cloak was described to me. It was foolish of you to sit here openly in the tavern where any man might have seen you. The task we have to do is of such nature that all our identities must be hidden, not only tonight but henceforward. You know me only as Jehan. You will know none of the others, or they you.”
Now at these words a mad whim seized me, born of recklessness and womanish curiosity. Saying naught, I rose, put on the mask I had found on the body of the real La Balafre, wrapped my cloak about me so that none could have known me for a woman, and followed the man who called himself Jehan.
He led the way through a door at the back of the room, which he closed and bolted behind us, and drawing forth a black mask similar to mine, he donned it. Then, taking a candle from a table, he led on down a narrow corridor with heavy oaken panels. At last he halted, extinguished the candle, and rapped cautiously on the wall. There was a fumbling on the other side, and a dim light glimmered through as a false panel was slid aside. Motioning me to follow him, Jehan glided through the opening, and after I had entered, closed it behind us.
I found myself in a small chamber, without visible doors or windows, though there must have been some subtle system of ventilation. A hooded lanthorn lit the room with a vague and ghostly light. Nine figures huddled against the walls on settles—nine figures wrapped closely in dark cloaks, feathered hats or black morions pulled low to meet the black masks which hid their faces. Only their eyes burned through the holes in the masks. None moved nor spake. It was like a conclave of the damned.
Jehan did not speak, but motioned me to take my place on a settle, and then he glided across the chamber and drew back another panel. Through this opening stalked another figure, masked and cloaked like the rest, but with a subtle different bearing. He strode like a man accustomed to command, and even in his disguise, there was something faintly familiar to me about him.
He stalked to the center of the small chamber, and Jehan motioned toward us on the settles, as if to say that all was in readiness. The tall stranger nodded and said: “You received your instructions before you came here. You know, all of you, that you have but to follow me, and obey my commands. Ask no questions; you are being well paid; that is sufficient for you to know. Speak as little as possible. You do not know me, and I do not know you. The less each man knows of his mates, the better for all. As soon as our task is completed, we scatter, each man for himself. Is that understood?”
Ten hooded heads wagged grimly in the lanthorn light. But I drew back on my settle, gathering my cloak more closely about me; he was understood better than he knew. I had heard that voice, under circumstances I was not likely to forget; it was the voice that had shouted commands to the murderers of Guiscard de Clisson, as I lay wounded in a cleft of the cliff and fought them off with my pistols. The man who commanded these villains amongst whom I had fallen was Renault d’Valence, the man who sought my life.
As his steely eyes, burning from his mask, swept over us, I unconsciously tensed myself, gripping my hilt beneath my cloak. But he could not recognize me in my disguise, were he Satan himself.
Motioning to Jehan, mine enemy arose and made toward the panel through which he had entered. Jehan beckoned us, and we followed d’Valence through the opening single file, a train of silent black ghosts. Behind us Jehan extinguished the lanthorn, and followed us. We groped our way through utter darkness for a short space, then a door swung open, and the broad shoulders of our leader were framed for an instant against the stars. We came out into a small courtyard behind the inn, where twelve horses champed restlessly and pawed the ground. Mine was among them, though I had told the servant to stable him. Evidently everyone in the tavern of the Half Moon had his orders.
Without a word we mounted and followed d’Valence across the court, and out into a path which led through the forest. We rode in silence, save for the clop of the hoofs on the hard soil, and the occasional creak of leather or clank of harness. We were headed westward, toward the coast, and presently the forest thinned to brush and scattered trees, and the path dwindled and vanished in a bushy maze. Here we rode no longer single file, but in a ragged clump. And I believed my opportunity had come. Whither we were riding I knew not, nor greatly cared. It must be some work of the Duc d’Alençon, since his right-hand man d’Valence was in command. But I did know that as long as d’Valence lived, neither my life nor the life of Étienne Villiers was worth a piece of broken copper.
It was dark; the moon had not yet risen, and the stars were hidden by rolling masses of clouds, which, though neither stormy nor very black, yet blotted out the light of the heavens in their ceaseless surging from horizon to horizon. We were not following any road, but rising through the wilderness. A night wind moaned through the trees, as I edged my horse closer and closer to that of Renault d’Valence, gripping my poniard beneath my cloak.
Now I was drawing up beside him, and heard him mutter to Jehan who rode knee to knee with him, “He was a fool to flout her, when she could have made him greater than the king of France. If Roger Hawksly—”
Rising in my stirrups I drove my poniard between his shoulders with all the strength of sinews nerved to desperate work. The breath went out of him in a gasp, and he pitched headlong from the saddle, and in that instant I wrenched my horse about and struck the spurs deep.
With a desperate heave and plunge he tore headlong through the shapes that hemmed us in, knocking steeds and riders aside, plunged through the bushes and was gone while they groped for their blades.
Behind me I heard startled oaths and yells, and the clank of steel, Jehan’s voice yelling curses, and d’Valence’s, choking and gasping, croaking orders. I cursed my luck. Even with the impact of the blow, I had known I had failed. D’Valence wore a shirt of chain mail under his doublet, even as I did. The poniard had bent almost double on it, without wounding him. It was only the terrific force of the blow which had knocked him, half stunned, from his steed. And knowing the man as I did, I knew that it was very likely he would quickly be upon my trail, unless his other business be too urgent to permit it—and urgent indeed would be the business that would interfere with d’Valence’s private vengeance. Besides, if Jehan told him that “La Balafre” was a red-headed girl, he would be sure to recognize his old enemy, Agnes de Chastillon.
So I gave the horse the rein and rode at a reckless gallop over bushy expanses and through scattered woodlands, expecting each moment to hear the drum of hoofs behind me. I rode southward, toward the road where I was to meet Étienne Villiers, and came upon it more suddenly that I expected. The road ran westward to the coast, and we had been paralleling its course.
Perhaps a mile to the west stood a roadside cross of stone, where the road split, one branch running west and the other southwest, and it was there that I was to meet Étienne Villiers. It lacked some hours till midnight, and I was not minded to wait in open view until he came, lest d’Valence come first. So when I came to the cross, I took refuge among the trees, which grew there in a dense clump, and set myself to wait for my companion.
The night was still, and I heard no sounds of pursuit; I hoped that if the bravos had pursued me, they had lost me in the darkness, which had been easy enough to do.
I tied my horse back among the trees, and hardly had I squatted among the shadows at the roadside when I heard the drumming of hoofs. But this noise came from the southwest, and was but a single horse. I crouched there, sword in hand, as the drumming grew louder and nearer, and presently the rising moon, peeping through the rolling clouds, disclosed a horseman galloping along the white road, his cloak billowing out behind him. And I recognized the lithe figure and feathered cap of Étienne Villiers.
He pulled up at the cross, and swore beneath his breath, speaking softly aloud to himself, as was his custom: “Too early, by hours; well, I’ll await her here.”
“You’ll not have long to wait,” said I, stepping from the shadows.
He wheeled in his saddle, pistol in hand, then laughed and swung down to earth.
“By Saint Denis, Agnes,” said he, “I should never be surprised to find you anywhere, at any time. What, a horse? And no crow-bait, either! And a fine new cloak! By Satan, comrade, you have had luck—was it dice or the sword?”
“The sword,” I answered.
“But why are you here so early?” he asked. “What portends this?”
“That Renault d’Valence is not far from us,” I answered, and heard his breath hiss between his teeth, saw his hand lock again on his pistol butt. So quickly I told him what had passed, and he shook his head.
“The Devil takes care of his own,” he muttered. “Renault is hard to kill. But listen, I have a strange tale to tell, and until it is told, this is as good a place as another. Here we can watch and listen, and death cannot steal upon us behind closed doors and through secret corridors. And when my tale is told, we must take counsel as to our next move, because we can no longer count on Roger Hawksly.
“Listen: last night, just at moonrise, I approached the small isolated bay in which I knew the Englishman lay at anchor. We rogues have ways of learning secrets, as you know, Agnes. The coast thereabouts is rugged, with cliffs and headlands and inlets. The bay in question is surrounded by trees which grow down rugged slopes to the very edge of the water. I crept through them, and saw his ship, The Resolute Friend, lying at anchor, true enough, and all on board her apparently in drunken sleep. These pirates be fools, especially the English, who keep vile watch. I could see men stretched on the deck, with broken casks near them, and judged that those who were supposed to keep watch, had drunken themselves into helplessness.
“Now as I meditated whether to hail them, or to swim out to the ship, I heard the sound of muffled oars, and saw three longboats round the headland and sweep down on the silent ship. The boats were packed with men, and I saw the glint of steel in the moon. All unseen by the sleeping pirates, they drew up alongside, and I knew not whether to shout or be still, for I thought it might be Roger and his men returning from some raid.
“In the moonlight I saw them swarming up the chains—Englishmen, beyond doubt, dressed in the garb of common sailors. Then as I watched, one of the drunkards on deck stirred in his sleep, gaped, and then suddenly scrambled up, screaming a warning. Up out of the hold and out of the cabin rushed Roger Hawksly and his men, in their shirts, half asleep, grasping their weapons in bewilderment, and over the rail swarmed these newcomers, who fell on the pirates sword in hand.
“It was a massacre rather than a fight. The pirates, half asleep and evidently half drunk as well, were cut down, almost to a man. I saw their bodies hurled overboard. Some few leaped into the water and swam ashore, but most died.
“Then the victors hauled up the anchor, and some of them returning into the boats, towed The Resolute Friend out of the inlet, and watching from where I lay, I presently saw her spread her sails and stand out to sea. Presently another ship rounded the headland and followed her.
“Of the survivors of the pirate crew I know nothing, for they fled into the woods and vanished. But Roger Hawksly is no longer master of a ship, and whether he lives or died, I know not, but we must find another man who will take us to Italy.
“But herein is a mystery: some of the Englishmen who took The Resolute Friend were but rough seamen. But others were not. I understand English; l know a high-born voice when I hear it, and tarry breeches cannot always conceal rank from a sharp eye. The moon was bright as day. Agnes, those seamen were led by noblemen disguised in mean apparel.”
“Why?” I wondered.
“Aye, why! ’Tis easy to see how the trick was done. They sailed up to the headland, where they anchored, out of sight from the inlet, and sent men in boats to take their prey. But why take such a desperate chance? Luck was on their side, else Hawksly and his sea-wolves had been sober and alert, and had blown them out of the water as they came on. There is but one solution: secrecy. That likewise explains the noblemen in seamen’s shirts and breeks. For some reason someone wished to destroy the pirates swiftly, silently, and secretly. As to the reason for that, I do not know, since Hawksly was a man hated equally by the French and the English.”
“Why, as to that—hark!”
Down the road, from the east, sounded the pound of racing hoofs. Clouds had rolled again over the moon, and it was dark as Erebus.
“D’Valence!” I hissed. “He is following me—and alone. Give me a pistol! He will not escape this time!”
“We had best be sure he is alone,” expostulated Étienne as he handed me a pistol.
“He’s alone,” I snarled. “ ’Tis but one rider—but if the Devil himself rode with him—ha!”
A flying shape loomed out of the night; at that instant a single moonbeam cut through the clouds and faintly illumined the racing horse and its rider. And I fired point-blank.
The great horse reared and plunged headlong, and a piteous cry cut the night. It was echoed by Étienne. He had seen, as had I, in the flash of the shot, a woman clinging to the reins of the flying steed.
We ran forward, seeing a slender figure stirring on the ground beside the steed—a figure which knelt and lifted helpless arms, whimpering in fright.
“Are you hurt?” gasped Étienne. “My God, Agnes, you’ve killed a woman—”
“I struck the horse,” I answered. “He threw up his head just as I fired. Here, let me see to her!”
Bending over her, I lifted her face, a pallid oval in the darkness. Under my hard fingers her garments and flesh felt soft and wondrous fine.
“Are you hurt badly, wench?” I demanded.
But at the sound of my voice she gave a gasping cry and threw her arms about my knees.
“Oh, you too are a woman! Have mercy! Do not hurt me! Please—”
“Cease these whimperings, wench,” I ordered impatiently. “Here is naught to hurt you. Are your bones broken by reason of the fall?”
“Nay, I am only bruised and shaken. But, oh, my poor horse—”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. "I do not slay animals willingly. I was aiming at his rider.”
“But why should you murder me?” she wailed. “I know you not—”
“I am Agnes de Chastillon,” I answered, “whom some men call Dark Agnes de La Fere. Who are you?”
I had lifted her to her feet and released her, and now as she stood before us, the moon brake suddenly through the clouds and flooded the road with silvery light. I looked in amaze at the richness of our captive’s garments, and the beauty of her oval face, framed in a glory of hair that was like dark foam; her dark eyes glowed like black jewels in the moonlight. And from Étienne came a strangled cry.
“My lady!” He doffed his feathered cap, and dropped to his knee. “Kneel, Agnes, kneel, girl! It is Françoise de Foix!”
“Why should an honest woman kneel to a royal strumpet?” I demanded, thrusting my thumbs into my girdle and bracing my legs wide as I faced her.
Étienne was stricken dumb, and the girl seemed to wince at my peasant candor.
“Rise, I beg of you,” she said humbly to Étienne, and he did so, cap in hand.
“But this was most unwise, my lady!” said he. “To have come alone and at night—”
“Oh,” she cried suddenly, catching at her temples, as if reminded of her mission. “Even now they may be slaying him! Oh, sir, if you be a man, aid me!”
She seized Étienne by the doublet and shook him in the agony of her insistence.
“Listen,” she begged, though Étienne was listening with all his ears. “I came here tonight, alone, as you see, to endeavor to right a wrong, and to save a life.
“You know me as Françoise de Foix, the mistress of the king—”
“I have seen you at court, where I was not always a stranger,” said Étienne, speaking with a strange difficulty. “I know you for the most beautiful woman in all France.”
“I thank you, my friend,” she said, still clinging to him. “But the world sees little of what goes on behind the palace doors. Men say I twist the king about my finger, God help me—but I swear I am but a pawn in a game I do not understand—the slave of a greater will than that of Françis.”
“Louise of Savoy,” muttered Étienne.
“Aye, who through me, rules her son, and through him, all France. It was she who made me what I am. Else I had been, not the mistress of a king, but the honest wife of some honest man.
“Listen, my friend, oh, listen and believe me! Tonight a man is riding toward the coast, and death! And the letter which lured him there was written by me! Oh, I am a hateful thing, to thus serve one who—who loves me—
“But I am not my own mistress. I am the slave of Louise of Savoy. What she bids me do, that I do, or else I smart for it. She dominates me and I dare not resist her. This—this man was in Alençon, when he received the letter begging him to meet me at a certain tavern near the coast. Only for me would he have gone, for he well knows of his powerful enemies. But me he trusts—oh, God pity me!”
She sobbed hysterically for an instant, while I watched in wonder, for I could never weep, my whole life.
“It is a plot of Louise,” she said. “Once she loved this man, but he scorned her, and she plots his ruin. Already she has shorn him of titles and honor; now she would rob him of life itself.
“At the tavern of the Hawk he will be met, not by my miserable self, but by a band of hired bravos, who will slay his servants and take him captive and deliver him to the pirate Roger Hawksly, who has been paid well to dispose, of him forever.”
“Why so much planning and elaborate work?” I demanded. “Surely a dagger in the back would do the job as well.”
“Not even Louise dares discovery,” she answered. “The—the man is too powerful—”
“There is only one man in France whom Louise hates so fiercely,” said Étienne, looking full into Françoise’s eyes. She bowed her head, then lifted it and returned the look with her lustrous dark eyes.
“Aye!” she said simply.
“A blow to France,” muttered Étienne, “if he should fail—but my lady, Roger Hawksly will not be there to receive him.” And he swiftly related what he had seen on the coast.
“Then the bravos will slay him themselves,” she said with a shudder. “They will never dare let him go. They are led by Jehan, the right hand man of Louise—”
“And by Renault d’Valence,” muttered Étienne. “I see it all now; you were with that band, Agnes. I wonder if d’Alençon knows of the plot.”
“No,” answered Françoise. “But Louise plans to raise him to the rank of her victim; so she uses his most trusted man, Renault d’Valence for her schemes. But, oh, we waste time! Please will you not aid me? Ride with me to the tavern of the Hawk. Perchance we may rescue him—may reach him in time to get him away before they arrive. I stole away, and have ridden all night at top speed—please, please aid me!”
“Françoise de Foix has never to ask twice of Étienne Villiers,” said Étienne, in that strange unnatural voice, standing in the moonlight, cap in hand. Perhaps it was the moon, but a strange expression was on his face, softening the lines of cynicism and wild living, and making him seem another and nobler man.
“And you, mademoiselle!” The court beauty turned to me, with her arms outstretched. “You would not kneel to me, Dark Agnes; look, I kneel to you!”
And she so did—down in the dust on her knees, her white hands clasped and her dark eyes sparkling with tears.
“Get up, girl,” I said awkwardly, ashamed for some obscure reason. “Kneel not to me. I’ll do all I can. I know nothing of court intrigues and what you have said buzzes in my skull until I am dizzy, but what we can do, that we will do!”
With a sob she rose and threw both her soft arms about my neck and kissed me on the lips, so I was further ashamed. It was the first time I remembered anyone ever kissing me.
“Come,” I said roughly. “We waste time.”
Étienne lifted the girl into his saddle and swung up behind her, and I mounted the great black horse.
“What do you plan?” he asked me.
“I have no plan. We must be guided by the circumstances which confront us. Let us ride as swiftly as may be for the Inn of the Hawk. If Renault wasted much time in looking for me—as doubtless he did—he and his bravos may not yet have reached the tavern. If they have—well, we are but two swords, but we can but do our best.”
And so I fell to recharging the pistol I had taken from Étienne, and a tedious task it was, in the darkness, and riding hard. So what speech passed between Étienne and Françoise de Foix I know not, but the murmur of their voices reached me from time to time, and in his voice was an unfamiliar softness—strange in a rogue like Étienne Villiers.
So we came at last upon the tavern of the Hawk, which loomed stark against the night, dark save for a single lanthorn in the common room. Silence reigned utterly, and there was the scent of fresh-spilled blood.
In the road before the tavern lay a man in the livery of a lackey, his white staring face turned to the stars, and dabbled with blood. Near the door lay a shape in a black cloak, and the fragments of a black mask, soaked in blood, lay beside it, with a feathered hat. But the features of the man were but a ghastly mask of hacked and slashed flesh, unrecognizable.
Just inside the door lay another lackey, his brains oozing from his crushed head, a broken sword still gripped in his hand. Inside the tavern was a waste of broken settles and smashed tables, with great gouts of blood fouling the floor. A third lackey lay huddled in the corner, his blood-stained doublet showing a dozen sword-thrusts. Over all hung silence like a pall.
Françoise had fallen with a moan when she saw the horror of it all, and now Étienne half led, half carried her in his arms.
“Renault and his cutthroats were here,” he said. “They have taken their prey and gone. But where? All the servants would have fled in terror, not to return until daylight.”
But peering here and there, sword in hand, I saw something huddled under an over-turned settle, and dragging it forth, disclosed a terrified serving wench who fell on her knees and bawled for mercy. “Have done, jade,” I said impatiently. “Here is none to harm you. But say quickly what has occurred.”
“The men in masks,” she whimpered. “They came suddenly in at the door—”
“Did you not hear their horses?” demanded Étienne.
“Would Renault warn his victim?” I asked impatiently. “Doubtless they left their steeds a short distance away and came softly on foot. Go on, girl,”
“They fell on the gentleman and his servants,” she blubbered. “The gentleman who had arrived earlier this night and who sat silently at his wine, and seemed in doubt and meditation. As the masked men entered he sprang up and cried out that he was betrayed—”
“Oh!” It was a cry of agony from Françoise de Foix. She clasped her hands and writhed as in agony.
“Then there was fighting and slaying and death,” wailed the wench. “They slew the gentleman’s servants, and him they bound and dragged away—”
“Was it he who so disfigured the bravo who lies outside the door?” I demanded.
“Nay, he slew him with a pistol ball. The leader of the masks, the tall man who wore a chain-mail shirt under his doublet—he hacked the dead man’s face with the sword—”
“Aye,” I muttered. “D’Valence would not wish to leave him to be identified.”
“And this same man, before he left, passed his sword through each of the dying lackeys to make sure they were dead,” she sobbed in terror. “I hid under the settle and watched, for I was too frightened to run, as did the innkeeper and the other servants.”
“In which direction did they go?” I demanded, shaking the wretched girl in my intensity.
“That—that way!” she gasped, pointing. “Down the old road to the coast.”
“Did you overhear anything that might give a clue as to their destination?”
“No—no—they spoke little, and I so frightened.”
“Hoofs of the devil, girl!” I exclaimed in a fury. “Such work is never done in silence. Think hard—remember something they said, before I turn you across my knee.”
“All I remember,” she gasped, “is that the tall leader said to the poor gentleman, once they had him bound—doffing his helmet in a sweeping bow—‘My lord,’ quoth he mockingly, ‘your ship awaits you!’ ”
“Sure they would put him aboard ship,” exclaimed Étienne. “And the nearest place a ship would put in is Corsair Cove! They cannot be far ahead of us. If they followed the old road—as they would be likely to do, not knowing the country as I do—it will take them half an hour longer to reach the cove than it will take us, following a short cut of which I know.”
“Come then!” cried Françoise, revived anew by the hope of action. And a few moments later, we were riding through the shadows for the coast. We followed a dim path, its mouth hidden by dense bushes, which wound along a rocky ridge, descending seaward amid boulders and gnarled trees.
So we came into a cove, surrounded by rugged slopes, thickly treed, and through the trees we saw the glimmer of water, and the shimmer of the furtive moon on broad sails. And leaving our horses, and Françoise with them, we crept forward, Étienne and I, and presently looked out upon an open beach, lighted by the moon which at the time shone out through the curling clouds.
Under the shadows of the trees stood a group of black and sombre figures, and out of a boat, just drawn up on the beach (we could still see the foam floating on the water that had swirled in her wake) trooped a score of men in seamen’s garb. Out in the deeper water rode a ship, the moonlight glinting on her gilt-work and spreading courses, and Étienne swore softly.
“That’s The Resolute Friend, but those are not her crew. They are food for the fishes. These are the men who took her. What devil’s game is this?”
We saw a man pushed forward by the masked bravos—a man tall and well-formed, who, even in torn shirt and blood-stained, with his arms bound behind him, had the bearing of a leader among men.
“Saint Denis,” breathed Étienne. “It is he, right enough.”
“Who?” I demanded. “Who is this fellow we must risk our lives to rescue?”
“Charles,” he began, then broke off: “Listen!”
We had wriggled nearer, and Renault d’Valence’s voice came plainly to us.
“Nay, that was not in the bargain. I know you not. Let Roger Hawksly, your captain, come ashore. I wish to be sure he knows his instructions.”
“Captain Hawksly cannot be disturbed,” answered one of the seamen in accented French; he was a tall man who bore himself proudly. “There is no need to fear; yonder is The Resolute Friend; here are Hawksly’s bullies. You have given us the prisoner. We will take him aboard and set sail. You have done your part; now we will do ours.”
I was staring in fascination, having never seen Englishmen before. These were all tall men and stalwart, with goodly swords buckled at their hips, and steel glinting under their doublets. Never saw I such proud-seeming sailormen, or seamen so well armed. They had seized the man Étienne called Charles, and were hauling him to the boat—which task seemed to be supervised by a tall portly man in a red cloak.
“Aye,” said Renault, “yonder lies The Resolute Friend; I know her well, or I had never delivered my prisoner to you. But I know you not. Call Captain Hawksly, or I take my prisoner back again.”
“Enough!” exclaimed the other arrogantly. “I tell you Hawksly cannot come. You do not know me—”
But d’Valence, who had been listening closely to the other’s voice, cried out sharply and fiercely.
“Nay, by God, I think I do know you, my lord!” And knocking off the seaman’s bonnet the man wore, he disclosed a steel cap beneath, crowning a proud hawk-like face.
“So!” exclaimed d’Valence. “You would take my prisoner—but not to slay—nay, to hold as a club over the head of Françis! Rogue I may be, but traitor to my king—never!”
And snatching forth a pistol he fired point-blank, not at the lord, but at the prisoner Charles.
But the Englishman knocked up his arm, and the ball went wide.
The next instant all was turmoil and confusion as Renault’s bravos rushed in in response to his shouts, and the Englishmen met them hand to hand. I saw the blades glimmer and flash in the moonlight as Renault and the English lord fought, and suddenly Renault’s sword was dyed red and the Englishman was down, gasping out his life on the sand.
Now I saw that the men who had been hauling along the prisoner Charles had hastened into the fray, leaving him in the hands of the portly man in the red cloak who was dragging him, despite his struggles, toward the boat drawn up on the beach. Now I heard the clack of oarlocks, and looking toward the ship, saw three other boats putting towards shore.
But even as I looked, I was whispering to Étienne, and we broke cover and ran silently across the stretch of white sand, toward the struggling pair near the beach. All about us raged the fight as the bravos, outnumbered but dangerous as wolves, slashed and parried and thrust with the reckless Englishmen.
Even as we came into the fray, an Englishman rushed at each of us. Étienne fired and missed—for moonlight is deceptive—and the next instant was fighting sword to sword. I did not fire until my muzzle almost touched my enemy’s bosom, and when I pulled the trigger, the heavy ball tore through the chain-mail beneath his doublet like paper, and the lifted sword fell harmless into the sand.
A few more strides brought me up with Charles and his captor, but even as I reached them, one was before me. While men fought and slew and cursed madly, d’Valence had never lost sight of his objective. Realizing that he could not retake his prisoner, he was determined on slaying him.
Now he had cut his way through the melee, and ran with grim purpose across the sands, his sword dripping in his hand. Running up to the prisoner, he cut murderously at his unprotected head. The stroke was parried, awkwardly, by the portly man in the red cloak, who began bawling for aid in a gasping, short-winded voice which went unheeded in the uproar of the melee. So ineptly had he parried that the sword was beaten out of his hand. But before d’Valence could strike again, I came silently and swiftly up from the side, and thrust at him with all my strength, meaning to spit him through the neck, above the gorget. But again luck betrayed me; my foot slipped in the sand, and the point rasped harmlessly along his mail.
Instantly he turned and recognized me. He had lost his mask, and his eyes danced with a sort of reckless madness in the moonlight.
“By God!” he cried, with a wild laugh. “It is the red-haired sword-wench!”
Even as he spoke he parried my whistling blade, and with no further words, we set to work, slashing and thrusting. He drew blood from my sword-hand, and from my thigh, but I smote him with such fury that my edge bit through his morion and into the scalp beneath, so that blood ran from under his burganet and trickled down his face. Another such stroke had finished him, but he, casting a quick glance aside, saw that most of his bravos were down, and he in desperate case. So with another wild laugh he bounded back, sprang aside, cut his way through those who sought to stay him, with half a dozen flailing strokes, and bounding clear, vanished in the shadows, whence presently emerged the sound of a running horse.
Now I whirled quickly to the prisoner, whose arm the portly man in red still gripped, puffing and panting, and slashing the cords that bound his arms, I thrust him toward the woods. But so wrought up was I that my push was more powerful than I intended, and sent him sprawling on all-fours.
The man in the red cloak squalled wildly and sprang to seize his captive again, but I buffeted him aside, and dragging Charles to his feet, bade him run. But he seemed half dazed by a chance blow of the flat of a blade on the pate. But now Étienne, his sword dripping red, ran forward and seizing the captive’s arm, urged him toward the woods.
And the man in the red cloak, evidently in desperation resorted to the tactics of d’Valence, for catching up his sword, he ran at the back of Charles and hewed at him. But even as he did so, I smote him under the armpit with such power that he rolled in the sand, screaming like a stuck pig. Now divers of the English halted in their rush towards me, and shouted in horror and ran to pick up the fellow; for some of the links of his chain shirt had parted under my edge, and he had been wounded slightly, so that the blood oozed through his doublet.
They shouted a name that sounded like "Wolsey," and halted in their pursuit to lift him and see to his wound, while he cursed at them. And Étienne and I bore the rescued man between us into the woods, and to the horses where Françoise awaited us.
She stood like a white shadow under the moon-dappled trees, and when he saw her, he gave back with an exclamation.
“Oh, Charles,” she exclaimed, “have pity! I had no choice—”
“I trusted you above all others,” said he, more in sadness than anger.
“My Lord Duc of Bourbon,” said Étienne, touching his shoulder, “it is my privilege to tell you that what wrong has been done, has been righted this night as well as might be. If Françoise de Foix betrayed you, she has risked her life to rescue you. Now I beg of you, take these horses and ride, for none knows what next may chance to befall. That was Cardinal Wolsey who led those men, and he is not easy to defeat.”
Like a man in a dream the Duke of Bourbon mounted, and Étienne lifted Françoise de Foix up into the other saddle. They reined away and rode through the moonlight and so vanished. And I turned to Étienne.
“Well,” said I, “with all our chivalry, here are we back where we began, without money, or means of reaching Italy; nay, you have even given away your horse! What shall be our next adventure?”
“I held Françoise de Foix in my arms,” he answered. “After that, any adventure is but anticlimax for Étienne Villiers.”