Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

by Robert E. Howard

  All I could think of was that somehow he recognized me, knew of me, and was riding to bear word to my father. I turned and opened the door a crack into the tap-room, and peered in. No one was there but the serving wench, asleep on the floor. A candle burned on the table, and moths fluttered about it. From somewhere there came a faint indistinct mumble of voices.

  I glided out the back door and stole around the tavern. Silence hung over the black-shadowed forest, except for a faint far cry of a night bird, and the restless movement of the great stallion in his stall.

  Candle light streamed from the window of a small room on the other side of the tavern, separated from the common-room by a short passage. As I glided past this window, I halted suddenly, hearing my name spoken. I nestled close to the wall, listening shamelessly. I heard the quick, clear though low-pitched voice of Étienne, and the rumble of another.

  “ – Agnès de Chastillon, she said. What does it matter what a peasant wench calls herself? Is she not a handsome baggage?”

  “I’ve seen prettier in Paris, aye, and in Chartres, too,” answered the rumbling voice, which came, I knew, from the fat man who had occupied the settle when we first entered the tavern.

  “Pretty!” There was scorn in Étienne’s voice. “The girl’s more than pretty. There’s something wild and untamable about her. Something fresh and vital, I tell you. Any worn-out noble would pay high for her; she would renew the youth of the most jaded debauchee. Look you, Thibault, I would not be offering you this prize, were it not that the risk is too great for me to ride on to Chartres with her. I am suspicious of this dog of an innkeeper, too.”

  “If he does recognize you as the man for whose head le duc d’Alençon yearns – ” muttered Thibault.

  “Be quiet, fool!” hissed Étienne. “That is another reason I must be rid of the wench. I was surprized into telling her my true name. But by the saints, Thibault, my meeting with her was enough to jolt the calm of a saint! I rounded a bend in the road, and there she stood, straight and tall against the green wood in her torn wedding gown, with her blue eyes smoldering, and the rising sun glinting red in her hair and turning to a streak of blood the dagger in her hand! For an instant I doubted me if she were human, and a strange thrill, almost of terror, swept over me.”

  “A country wench in a woods road frightens Étienne Villiers, a rake among rakes,” snorted Thibault, drinking from a jack with a loud sucking noise.

  “She was more than that,” retorted Étienne. “There was something fateful about her, like a figure in a tragic drama; something terrible. She is fair, yet there is something strange and dark about her. I can not explain nor understand it.”

  “Enough, enough!” yawned Thibault. “You weave a romaunt about a Norman jade. Come to the point.”

  “I have come to it,” snapped Étienne. “I had intended taking her on to Chartres and selling her to a brothel-keeper I wot of, myself; but I realize my folly. I would have to pass too close to the domain of le duc d’Alençon, and if he learned I was in the land – ”

  “He has not forgotten,” grunted Thibault. “He would pay high for information regarding your whereabouts. He dares not arrest you openly; it will be a dagger in the dark, a shot from the bushes. He would close your mouth in secrecy and silence, if he might.”

  “I know,” snarled Étienne with a shudder. “I was a fool to come this far east. Dawn shall find me far away. But you can take the girl to Chartres without fear, aye, or to Paris, for that matter. Give me the price I ask, and she is yours.”

  “It is too high,” protested Thibault. “Suppose she fights like a wildcat?”

  “That is your look out,” callously answered Étienne. “You have tamed enough wenches so you should be able to handle this one. Though I warn you, there is fire in the girl. But that is your business. You have told me your companions lie in a village not far from here. Get them to aid you. If you can not make a pretty profit of her in Chartres, or in Orléans, or in Paris, you are a greater fool than I am.”

  “Well, well,” grumbled Thibault. “I’ll take a chance; after all, that is what a business man must do.”

  I heard the clink of silver coins on the table, and the sound was like a knell to me.

  And indeed it was my knell, for as I leaned blindly and sickly against the tavern wall, there died in me the girl I had been, and in her stead rose the woman I have become. My sickness passed, and cold fury turned me brittle as steel and pliant as fire.

  “A drink to seal the bargain,” I heard Étienne say, “then I must ride. When you go for the wench – ”

  I hurled open the door, and Étienne’s hand froze with the goblet at his lips. Thibault’s eyes bulged at me over the rim of his wine cup. A greeting died on Étienne’s lips, and he went suddenly pale at the death in my eyes.

  “Agnès!” he exclaimed, rising. I stepped through the door and my blade was sheathed in Thibault’s heart before he could rise. An agonized grunt bubbled from his fat lips, and he sank from his bench, spurting red.

  “Agnès!” cried Étienne again, throwing out his arms as if to fend me off. “Wait, girl – !”

  “You filthy dog!” I screamed, blazing into mad fury. “You swine – swine – swine!” Only my own blind fury saved him as I rushed and stabbed.

  I was on him before he could put himself into a position of defense, and my blindly driven steel tore the skin over his ribs. Thrice more I struck, silent and murderous, and he somehow fended the blade from his heart, though the point drew blood from hand, arm and shoulder. Desperately he grasped my wrist and sought to break it, and close-locked we tumbled against the table, over the edge of which he bent me and tried to strangle me. But to grasp my throat he must perforce release my wrist with one hand, and twisting it free of his single grip, I struck for his life. The point snapped on a metal buckle and the jagged shard tore through doublet and shirt, and ploughed along his breast; blood spurted and a groan escaped him. In anguish his grasp weakened, and I twisted from beneath him and dealt him a buffet with my clenched fist that rocked back his head and brought streams of blood from his nostrils. Groping for me he clutched me, and as I gouged at his eyes, he hurled me from him with such force that I hurtled backward across the room and crashed into the wall, thence toppling to the floor.

  I was half dazed, but I rebounded with a snarl, gripping a broken table leg. He was wiping blood from his eyes with one hand and fumbling for his sword with the other, but again he misjudged the speed of my attack, and the table leg crashed full on his crown, laying open the scalp and bringing blood in torrents. He threw up his arms to ward off the strokes, and on them and on his head I rained blow after blow, driving him backward, half bent, blind and reeling, until he crashed down into the ruins of the table.

  “God, girl,” he whimpered, “would you slay me?”

  “With a joyful heart!” I laughed, as I had never laughed before, and I struck him over the ear, knocking him back down among the ruins out of which he was groping.

  A moaning cry sobbed through his crushed lips. “In God’s name, girl,” he moaned, extending his hands blindly toward me, “have mercy! Hold your hand, in the name of the saints! I am not fit to die!”

  He struggled to his knees, streaming blood from his battered head, his garments dripping crimson. “Hold your hand, Agnès,” he croaked. “Pity, in God’s name!”

  I hesitated, staring somberly down at him. Then I threw aside my bludgeon.

  “Take your life,” I said in bitter scorn. “You are too poor a thing to stain my hands. Go your ways!”

  He sought to rise, then sank down again.

  “I can not rise,” he groaned. “The room swims to my gaze, and grows dark. Oh, Agnès, it is a bitter kiss you have given me! God have mercy on me, for I die in sin. I have laughed at death, but now that it is upon me, I am afraid. Ah, God, I fear! Leave me not, Agnès! Leave me not to die like a dog!”

  “Why should I not?” I asked bitterly. “I trusted you, and thought you nobler than common
men, with your lying words of chivalry and honor. Pah! You would have sold me into slavery viler than a Turk’s harem.”

  “I know,” he moaned. “My soul is blacker than the night that steals upon me. Call the innkeeper and let him fetch a priest.”

  “He is gone on some mission of his own,” I answered. “He stole out the back door and rode into the forest.”

  “He is gone to betray me to the Duke of Alençon,” muttered Étienne. “He recognized me, after all. I am indeed lost.”

  Now it came to me that it was because of my calling Étienne’s name in the darkness of the room above that the innkeeper became aware of my false friend’s true identity. So it might be said that if the Duke laid Étienne by the heels, it would be because of my unconscious betrayal. And like most country people, I had only fear and distrust of the nobility.

  “I’ll take you hence,” I said. “Not even a dog shall fall into the hands of the law by my will.”

  I left the tavern hurriedly and went to the stables. Of the slattern I saw nothing. Either she had fled to the woods, or else was too drunk to heed. I saddled and bridled Étienne’s stallion, though it laid back its ears and snapped and kicked at me, and led it to the door. Then I went within and spoke to Étienne; and indeed a fearsome sight he was, bruised and battered, with tattered doublet and shirt, and all covered with blood.

  “I have brought your horse,” I said.

  “I can not rise,” he mumbled.

  “Set your teeth,” I commanded. “I will carry you.”

  “You can never do it, girl,” he protested, but even as he spoke, I heaved him up on my shoulders and bore him through the door, and a dead weight he was, with limbs trailing like a dead man’s. Getting him upon the horse was a heart-breaking task, for it was little he could do to aid himself, but at last it was accomplished, and I swung up behind the saddle and held him in place.

  Then, as I hesitated, in doubt as to where to go, he seemed to sense my uncertainty, for he mumbled: “Take the road westward, to Saint Girault. There is a tavern there, a mile this side the town, the Red Boar, whose keeper is my friend.”

  Of that ride through the night, I will speak but briefly. We met no one, riding through a ribbon of starlight, walled by black forest trees. My hands grew sticky with Étienne’s blood, for the jolting of the pace set his many wounds to bleeding afresh, and presently he grew delirious and spake disjointedly of other times and people strange to me. Anon he mentioned names known to me by reputation, lords, ladies, soldiers, outlaws and pirates, and he raved of dark deeds and sordid crimes and feats of curious heroism. And betimes he sang snatches of marching songs and drinking songs and bawdy ballads and love lyrics, and maundered in alien tongues unintelligible to me. Ah – I have ridden many roads since that night, of intrigue or violence, but never stranger ride rode I than that ride in the night through the forest to Saint Girault.

  Dawn was a hint in the branch-scarred sky when I drew up at a tavern I believed was the one Étienne meant. The picture on the board proved such to be the case, and I shouted for the keeper. A lout of a boy came forth in his shirt, yawning, and digging his fists into his sluggish eyes, and when he saw the great stallion and its riders, all dabbled and splashed with blood, he bawled with fear and amaze and scudded back into the tavern with his shirt tail flapping about his rump. Presently then a window was cautiously pushed open upstairs, and a night-capped head was thrust out behind the muzzle of a great arquebuse.

  “Go your ways,” quoth the night-cap, “we have no dealings with bandits and bloody murderers.”

  “Here are no bandits,” I answered angrily, being weary and short of patience. “Here is a man who has been set upon and nearly slain. If you are the innkeeper of the Red Boar, he is a friend of yours – Étienne Villiers, of Aquitaine.”

  “Étienne!” exclaimed mine host. “I will be down. Assuredly I will be down. Why did you not say it was Étienne?”

  The window slammed and there was a sound of stairs being rapidly descended. I slid from the stallion and received Étienne’s toppling form in my arms, easing him to the ground as the keeper rushed forth with servants bearing torches.

  Étienne lay like one dead, his face livid where it was not masked with blood, but his heart beat strongly, and I knew he was partly conscious.

  “Who did this, in God’s name?” demanded mine host in horror.

  “I did,” I answered shortly. He gave back from me, paling in the torchlight.

  “God ha’ mercy on us! A youth like – holy Denis protect us! It’s a woman!”

  “Enough of this babble!” I exclaimed, angered. “Take him up and bear him into your best chamber.”

  “B-b-but – ” began mine host, still bewildered, while the menials backed away.

  I stamped my foot and swore, which is a custom always common to me.

  “Death of the devil and Judas Iscariot!” quoth I. “Will you allow your friend to die while you gape and stare? Take him up!” I laid hand on his dagger, which I had girdled to mine own waist, and they hastened to obey me, staring as though I were the arch-fiend’s daughter.

  “Étienne is always welcome,” mumbled mine host, “but a she-devil in breeches – ”

  “You will wear your own longer if you talk less and work more,” I assured him, plucking a bell-mouthed pistol from the girdle of a servant who was too frightened even to remember he had it. “Do as I say, and there will be no more slaying tonight. Onward!”

  Aye, verily, the happenings of the night had matured me. I was not yet fully a woman, but on the way to being one.

  They bore Étienne to what mine host – whose name was Perducas – swore was the best chamber in the tavern, and sooth to say, it was much finer than anything in the Knave’s Fingers. It was an upper room, opening out upon the landing of a winding stair, and it had windows of a proper size, though no other door.

  Perducas swore that he was as good a leech as any man, and we stripped Étienne and set to work reviving him. Indeed, he showed to be as roughly handled as any man I had ever seen, not to be mortally wounded. But when we had washed the blood and dust off his body, we found that none of his dagger-wounds had touched a vital spot, nor was his skull fractured, though the scalp had been split in several places. His right arm was broken, and the other black with bruises, and the broken bone we set, I helping Perducas with some skill, for accidents and wounds had always been common enough in la Fère.

  When we had his wounds bandaged, and him laid in a clean bed, he recovered his senses enough to gulp wine and inquire where he was. When he told him, he muttered: “Leave me not, Agnès; Perducas is a man among men, but I require a woman’s tender care.”

  “Saint Denis deliver me from such tender care as this hell-cat has shown,” quoth Perducas under his breath. And I said: “I will remain until you are upon your feet again, Étienne.” And he seemed satisfied therewith, and went into a calm slumber.

  I then demanded a room for myself, and Perducas, having sent a boy to attend the stallion, showed me a chamber adjoining that of Étienne, though not connected with it by any door. I laid myself down on the bed just as the sun was coming up, it being the first feather bed I had ever seen, much less lain on, and slept for many hours.

  When I came again to Étienne, I found him in full possession of his senses, and free of delirium. Indeed, in those days men were iron, and if their wounds were not instantly mortal, they quickly recovered, unless their hurts became poisoned through the carelessness or ignorance of the leeches. Perducas would have none of the nauseous and childish remedies praised by the physicians, but divers clean herbs and plants he gathered in the depths of the woods. He told me that he learned his art from the hakims of the Saracens, among whom he had travelled in his youth. He was a man of many unexpected sides, was Perducas.

  Together he and I tended Étienne, who healed rapidly. Little speech passed between us. He and Perducas talked much together, but much of the time Étienne merely lay and looked silently at me.


  Perducas talked to me a little, but seemed to fear me. When I spoke of my score, he replied that I owed him naught; that as long as Étienne desired my presence, food and lodging were mine, without pay. But he earnestly desired me not to converse with the town’s people, lest their curiosity lead to the discovery of Étienne. His servants, he said, could be trusted to silence. I asked him naught of the reason for le duc d’Alençon’s hatred for Étienne, but, quoth he: “It is no common score which the Duke holdeth against Étienne Villiers. Étienne was once in this nobleman’s train, and was unwise enough to perform for him a most delicate mission. D’Alençon is ambitious; ’tis whispered that naught but the rank of constable of France will satisfy him. He is now high in favor with the king; that favor might not shine with such lustre were it known what letters once passed between the Duke and Charles of Germany, whom men now know as the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

  “Étienne alone knows the full extent of that plotted treason. Therefore d’Alençon burns for Étienne’s death, yet dares not strike openly, lest his victim damn him forever with his dying breath. He would strike subtly and silently, by hidden dagger, poison or ambush. As long as Étienne is within his reach, Étienne’s only safety lies in secrecy.”

  “Suppose there are others like that rogue Thibault?” I demanded.

  “Nay,” quoth he. “ ’Tis no doubt there are. I know that band of gallows’ bait well. But ’tis their one point of honor that they betray not one of their comrades. And in time past Étienne was one of them – cut-purses, woman-snatchers, thieves and murderers that they are.”