The White Plumes of Navarre: A Romance of the Wars of Religion

by S. R. Crockett

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  IN THEIR CLUTCHES

  It was the night of the grand _coup_ which was to ease Master RaphaelLlorient of all his troubles financial, and also to put an acknowledgedheretic within the clutches of these two faithful servants of the HolyOffice, Dom Ambrose Teruel and his second, Frey Tullio the Neapolitan.

  The affair had been carried out with the utmost zeal, and though atfirst success had seemed more than doubtful, the familiars of the Officehad pounced upon their victim walking calmly towards them down a littlehollow among the sand-dunes.

  At La Masane, it appeared to them that an alarm had been given, andthat, as little Andres the ape expressed it, "the whole byre had brokenhalter and run for it."

  The familiars were hard on the track, however, and the way from LaMasane to the beach is no child's playground when the nights are dark asthe inside of a wolf. Serra, Calbet, and Andres Font were three sturdyrascals, condemned to long terms of imprisonment, who had obtainedfreedom from their penalties on condition of faithfully serving the HolyInquisition. They were all nearly, though vaguely, related to prominentecclesiastics, the warmth of whose family feelings had obtained thisfavour for them.

  They had, therefore, every reason for satisfying their masters. Forpardon frequently followed zeal, and the ex-culprit and ex-familiar waspermitted to return in the halo of a terrible sanctity to his nativevillage. There were not a few, however, whom the craft ended byfascinating. And after in vain trying the cultivation of crops and thepruning of vines, lo! they would be back again at the door of the HolyOffice, begging to be taken in, if it were only to be hewers of wood anddrawers of water for the _auto de fe_ and the water-torture.

  Of the present three, Serra, a Murcian from these half-depopulatedvillages where the Moors once dwelt, alone was of this type. A huge manwith a low forehead, a great shapeless face like a clenched fist, withlittle twinkling pigs' eyes set deep under hairless brows, he did hiswork for the love of it. He it was who saw to it that no harm befel theprisoner on the long night-ride to Perpignan. It was a dainty capture,well carried out. Since the wholesale emigration of the Jews ofRoussillon to Bayonne in the West, the _auto de fe_ of the East wasusually shamed for want of pretty young maids. These always attractedthe crowd more than anything, and Serra the Murcian bared his teeth atthe thought. In his way he admired Claire Agnew. From varioushiding-places he had watched her many days ere his superiors judged thatall was ready. Now he would do his best for her. She should have thehighest, the middle pile, which is honour. Also, Serra the Murcian wouldsee to it that her bonfire contained no sea-grass or juniper rootlets,which blazed indeed, but only scorched; neither any wet, sea-borne woodfrom wrecked ships, which smoked and sulked, but would not burn. No--he,Serra, would do the thing for her in gentlemanly fashion as became ahidalgo of Murcia. The pretty heretic should have clear dry birch, oneyear old, with olive roots aged several hundreds, all mixed withshavings and pine cones, and a good top-dressing of oil like a salad tofinish all. And then (the Murcian showed his teeth and gums in a vastsemi-African grin, like a trench slashed out of a melon), well--shewould have reason to be proud of herself.

  The pillar of clear flame would rise above Claire's head ten--nay,twenty feet, wrapping her about like a garment. She would have no longtime to suffer. He was a kind-hearted man, this Serra the Murcian--thatis, to those to whom he had taken a fancy, as was the case with Claire.If any torture was commanded, either the Lesser or the Greater Question,he would make it light. It would never do to spoil her beauty againstthe Great Day! What, after all, did they know, these two wise men inblack who only sat on their chairs and watched? It was the familiars whomade or marred in the House of Pain--indeed, Serra himself, for he coulddestroy the others with a word. They had accepted bribes fromrelatives--he never.

  They mounted Claire on the notary's white mule, the sometime gift of theBishop of Elne. Ah, Serra chuckled, Don Jordy would ride it no more. Itwould be his--Serra's. He would sell the beast and send the money to hisold mother who lived in a disused oven cut out of the rocks near theCastle of the Moors, three leagues or so from Murcia city. She was anaffectionate old lady--he the best of sons. It was a shame they shouldhave miscalled her for a witch, when all she ever did was to providethose who desired a blank in their families, or in those of theirneighbours, with a certain fine white powder.

  Serra himself had been observed stirring a little in some soup at themansion where he was employed as cook. So, only for that, they had senthim to work as a slave in the mines. But a certain powerful friend ofhis mother's, who lived in the lonely abbey out on the plain, near thegreat water-wheel (Serra remembered the dashing of the water in hisbabyhood before he could remember anything else), got him this goodplace with Dom Teruel, who had been his comrade of the seminary. And sonow his mother was safe--aye, if she sold her fine white meal openlylike so much salt. For who in all Murcia would touch the mother of aFirst Familiar of the Holy Office. They reverenced her more--muchmore--than the village priest who held the keys of heaven and hell--for,after all, these were far away things.

  But the Holy Office--ah, that was another matter. None spake of thateither above or below their breaths, from one end of Spain to the other.

  So Serra the Murcian communed with himself, and with only an occasionaltug at the ropes that bound his captive to the white mule of Don Jordy,he continued his way, rejoiced in heart.

  But the other two, ordinary criminals with but little influence,contented themselves with hoping for the freedom of the broad champaign,the arid treeless plains of old Castile, the far-running sweeps ofgolden corn, the crowded _ventas_ with their gay Bohemian company, theshouted songs, and above all, the cool gurgle of wine running downthirsty, dust-caked throats--ah! it would be good. And it might comesoon, if only they served the Holy Office well!

  Both of them hated and despised Serra, because of his place, his zeal,and especially because of his favour with the Surintendant.

  The senior of the two underlings, Felieu Calbet, from the Llogrebrat(Espluga the name of the town, where they are always fighting and everyone lives on the charity of the fathers of Poblet), was ill at ease, andsaid as much to Andres Font, a little lithe creature with a monkey'shands and temper, treacherous and vile, as a snake that writhes andbites in the dust.

  These two were trudging behind, their long Albacete knives in theirhands, ready for any attempt to escape. But the tall young maid satsteady on the broad back of Don Jordy's white mule. She said no word.She uttered no plaint.

  Said Felieu Calbet of Espluga, senior familiar, to little wizenedAndres, third of the band, "Our brave Serra is content. Hear him! He ishumming his Moorish charms--the accursed wizard that he is! But for me,I am not so sure that all goes well. They let that lass go somewhat tooeasily--eh, Andres?"

  And the little ape-faced man, first sliding his dagger into its sheathas they emerged upon an open rocky bit of road with a few tallstone-pines all leaning back from the sea-winds, answered after hisfashion, biting his words maliciously as he uttered them.

  "Yea, belike," he muttered; "indeed, it was a strange thing that withinfive hundred yards of the sea, where they had their boat anchored ready,they should not turn and fight for the prisoner. How many were there ofthem, think you, Felieu?"

  "Four I saw--and there might have been another. One cowered in the hoodof a cloak, as if he feared that his face would be seen----"

  "That makes five, and we but three! The thing smells of an ambush. Well,all we have to do is to be ready, and, if need be, fight like the Demonof the South himself. It is our prisoner or the stake for you and me, mylad!"

  The little, ape-faced, bat-eared Andres, who had never told any what hehad been sent there for, was arguing the matter out by himself.

  "There is something behind this," he said; "they have a card somewherewe have not seen the front of."

  They marched a while, the silence only broken by the fall of the mule'sfeet on the stones.

  "I have it," cried Andres, suddenly e
levating his thin voice above awhisper. It was only a squeak at best, but it aroused the First Familiarfrom his dreams of honour at the mule's bridle.

  "Silence there, you Andres," he commanded, "or by Saint Vincent I willwring your neck!"

  "Wring my neck! He dares not," snarled the little wrinkled man, with anevil grin, in the darkness--"he dares not, big as he is, and he knowsit. He would find a dozen inches of steel ensconced between his ribs. IfI am no bigger than an ox-goad, I am burnt at the end, and can drivehome a sharp point with any man."

  "Do not mind the hog," said Felieu the Esplugan. "What was it youthought of?"

  "That Don Raphael Llorient was out with a band of his lads from theCastle of Collioure. Doubtless he headed them off from the boat, andthey had to save themselves as best they might. So they scattered amongthe sand-hills!"

  "Hum, perhaps--we shall see," said Felieu the Esplugan. "At any rate,keep your eyes open and your knife ready to the five-finger grip. Wemust kill, rather than let her go. You know the rule."

  Indeed, they all knew the rule. No relaxation of the Arm Spiritual tillthe culprit, arrayed in the flame-coloured robe of condemnation, wasready for the final relaxation to the Arm Secular.

  All the same, there was no slightest attempt at rescue, and in the earlyhours of the morning the procession defiled into the city gates ofPerpignan, which opened freely at all hours to the familiars of the HolyOffice--the guard discreetly keeping their eyes on the ground. And sothe four, in the same order as at first, turned sharply into the Streetof the Money.

  Serra, the huge, fist-faced Murcian, with the blood of Africa in him,carefully undid the bonds, and hoped, with a Spaniard's innatepoliteness, that they had not too greatly incommoded his guest. But the"guest" answered not a word.

  "Sulky, eh?" muttered the Murcian, equally ready to take offence. "Verywell, then, so much the worse!"

  And he resolved to save the expense of the oil for Claire's funeralpyre. He had meant to go out of his way to do the thing in style. Butwith such a haughty dame--and she a Huguenot, one of the Accursed, nomore a Christian than any Jew--why should she give herself airs? Thething was intolerable!

  In this, Serra the Murcian, First Familiar of the Holy Inquisition,followed the Golden Rule. He did literally as he would be done by. If ithad been his fate (and with a reliable witch for a mother it was nofar-away conjecture)--if it had been his own fortune to die at thestake, he would have been grateful for the highest seat, the dryestwood, the tallest pillar of flame, the happiest despatch with all modernimprovements. He resented it, therefore, when Claire Agnew showedherself ungrateful for the like.

  Well, he had done his duty. The worse for her. Like Pilate, he washedhis hands.

  * * * * *

  But such emotions as these he soon forgot. He had reason.

  For above, in the accustomed bare room, with only the crucifix uponwhitewashed walls, the same three men were waiting anxiously for thearrival of the prisoner.

  The little band of familiars, having handed over the white mule to atrusty subordinate, came up the stairs, and after giving the customaryknock, and being answered in the deep voice of Dom Teruel, they stoodblinking in the glare of the lights, their prisoner in the midst.

  There was silence in the room--a great fateful silence. Then the softvoice of Mariana the Jesuit broke the pause.

  "And who, good Serra, may this be that you have brought us?"

  "Why," said Serra, greatly astonished, "who but the lady I have beenwatching all these weeks, the Genevan heretic, the Senorita from thehouse of La Masane above Collioure. We overtook her in flight, andcaptured her among the sand-dunes on the very edge of the sea!"

  "Ah, the Senorita?" purred the Jesuit; "then is the Senorita fitted witha nascent but very tolerable pair of moustacios!"

  Serra stared a moment, tore off the cloak with its heavy hood, clutchedat the lighter summer mantilla of dark lace and silk. It ripped and torevertically, and lo! as a butterfly issues from the chrysalis, forthstepped the Abbe John, clad in pale blue velvet from head to knee, asfor a court reception.

  He bowed gracefully to the company, twisted his moustache, folded hisarms, and waited.