The Justice of the King

by Hamilton Drummond

  CHAPTER V

  THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART

  If proof were needed of the King's unique trust in his Grand Marshal itwas to be found in the ease with which Tristan conveyed La Mothe pastthe sentries who stood guard at every door. Not Commines, not Lessaix,not Beaujeu himself, for all that he was the King's son-in-law, couldhave brought a stranger to the King's presence without special licence.But to none Tristan gave greeting, much less vouchsafed explanation,and by none was he challenged. Nor did La Mothe speak. Not only hadthe suddenness of the unexpected summons confused him, but his thoughtswere too deeply busied trying to remember how far he had allowed histongue to outrun discretion.

  To say he was afraid would be too much, to say he had no fear would betoo little, but his fear was less a dread than an awe. The gaiety ofhis laughter had clean gone from him, and his heart of song was hushed:even the crude, ironical satire of his uncomprehending youth wasstayed. He had made grim jest of the justice of the King, and now theKing's justice, in its sternest, most sinister incarnation, rubbedshoulders with him. It was little wonder that his mood was sobered ashis mind, instinctively swayed by Commines' almost frenzied insistence,groped its way step by step from Poitou to Valmy in a troubledendeavour to recall just what had passed between them when Tristan'sinterruption pricked the bubble of his irony.

  And he succeeded in part. First there had been the coiner of Thouars,then the brawling drunkard of Tours, the thief of Valmy, thenettle-gatherer, and lastly Molembrais who held the King'ssafe-conduct. Truly the meshes of the net of Justice were small whennot even a twelve-year thief, a common quarreller in his cups, or theholder of the King's safe-conduct could slip through. Perhaps it wasas he spoke of this last the door had opened. It was then he had hopedhe might be far from Valmy the day his passion of soul was stirred. Itexpressed his mood of the moment, but now he knew he had said more,much more, than he had meant, as youth so often does in its gayself-sufficiency, and the words as they stood--if Tristan had caughtthem--were no commendation to either favour or confidence. How couldthe King trust him when his foolish satire had so plainly hinted thathe did not trust the King? It would be unreasonable: faith begetsfaith. For an instant it flashed across his mind that he might explainaway the words, but in the same instant he dismissed the thought.Explanation would never win belief from such a man as Tristan, norcould he bend his repugnance to such a familiarity.

  So in silence they crossed the courtyard where Leslie's Scottisharchers lurked in every shadow, in silence passed the many guardsgrouped at the gateway to the King's lodgings, in silence traversed thegreat square hall, gaunt and comfortless, but brighter than daylightfrom its many lamps--the King was afraid of gloom--and in silencemounted the stone stairway. At its head they turned along theright-hand corridor, entering a silent ante-room with sentinels at itsdoor; at a further door, masked by drawn curtains, the guard wasdoubled. Force, vigilance, suspicion, were the dominant notes ofValmy--in a sense they were Valmy itself. Midway across this ante-roomTristan paused and struck La Mothe lightly on the arm with a gesturethat seemed part contempt.

  "A word of advice, young man, from one who knows. Be frank, saylittle, answer promptly: do what the King bids you and be thankful."

  "Is that a threat?" La Mothe answered the tone of half-truculentcommand rather than the words.

  "A threat? No! The King and I do not threaten, we fulfil."

  "The King and you?"

  "I have said so, do you want it proved?" Drawing back the curtainsvery quietly Tristan stood a moment blocking the doorway beforemotioning to La Mothe to follow him. He knew his master, and wished tomake certain that the stage picture was set before the audience wasadmitted.

  The room was even more brilliantly lit than any they had passedthrough, and yet with such a skilful distribution of the light that thefurther end was completely shadowed. It was the effect of anartificial alcove. There, where the grey thickened, sat the King, orrather there he lay propped high upon a couch, pillows behind him andpillows at either side to support and comfort his weakness. A peaked,close-fitting cap of crimson silk, laced with gold embroidery, coveredhis head down to the very roots of the ears, while a long, wide-sleevedrobe of the same colour, furred at the neck, and draped to give anappearance of breadth of chest, swathed him to the feet. So shadowed,and with a reflected glow flushing the thin face, it would have neededa shrewder suspicion than that of country-bred Stephen La Mothe todetect how low the flame of life burned in the frail vessel of clay.

  In front of the couch a low table, hardly higher than the couch itself,was placed within reach of the King's hand: behind all--the draping, asit were, of the alcove--hung arras of blue cloth interwoven with goldenfleurs-de-lis, a fitting and picturesque background to the tableau. Tothe left were windows, fast shuttered, to the right a closed door.

  Drawing La Mothe to the front Tristan turned on his heel and re-enteredthe ante-room in silence, dropping the curtains behind him. There hadbeen no formal announcement, no word spoken, but as the curtain fellthe King stirred upon his pillows and La Mothe was conscious of ascrutiny which slowly swept him from head to foot. But the protectionof the peaked cap was insufficient. Lifting his hand Louis shaded hiseyes yet further, and leaning forward repeated the scrutiny; then hebeckoned very gently and lay back upon the pillows. He was a judge ofmen, a crafty reader of the dumb truths told by eyes and mouth, or thefaint, uncontrollable shifts of expression, and so far he wassatisfied. Commines might be right or wrong, but at least this LaMothe was no assassin. Nevertheless the door upon the right openedquietly so soon as La Mothe had passed beyond eyesight of it, openedwide enough for a cross-bow to cover him from the darkness of thepassage without. Louis was not a man to run a needless risk, and thebolt which brought home the King's justice to the nettle-gatherer wouldnot miss Stephen La Mothe at thirty feet.

  "Nearer," said a soft voice as La Mothe paused, uncertain how far thatbeckoning hand had called him, "nearer yet; there! that will do for thepresent. You are Stephen La Mothe, the friend of my dear and trustedfriend, therefore my friend also, and the King has need of friends.No, no, say nothing, Philip said I could trust you as himself. That isa great deal for one man to say of another."

  "Prove me, sire." La Mothe spoke with an effort. The weary, caressingvoice with its subtle note of pathos, the affectionate, frank admissionof Commines' worth, the half-veiled appeal with its confession of apersonal need, had touched him deeply, stirring him as music has thepower to stir, so that to command words was difficult. "My uncle toldme----"

  "Uncle?" Louis' suspicions sprang to life newborn. Goaded by theirsting he leaned forward, one arm thrust out, and for the first time LaMothe saw the deathly pallor of his face. "Uncle, do you say?Commines never called you nephew?"

  "Not in blood, sire: in love--service--gratitude."

  "Then it is better to have a nephew by name than a son by nature. Doyou hear? If you love your uncle pray with all your soul that he maynever have a son to grudge him his life." The thrust-out fingers,little more than bleached skin drawn tight over fleshless bones, wereshaken in a convulsion of passion, from the sunken, dull eyes a suddenfire glared, and the thin lips shrank upon the uneven teeth. But in aninstant the spasm passed and Louis sank back upon the pillows,breathing heavily and plucking at the tags of gold cord fastening hisrobe at the breast. "See what it is to have a son," he said, but in solow a tone that La Mothe barely caught the words, nor were they spokenas if addressed to him, then with an effort which racked his strengththe King roused himself. "Love! Service and gratitude! Words! emptywords! Kings hear them daily and find them lies. Because of these inhis mouth Guy de Molembrais was trusted as it may be Stephen La Mothewill be trusted, and Molembrais is dead--dead in a traitor's grave.Words? It is deeds France has need of, deeds--deeds. And you, youngsir, for whom my friend Philip vouched as for himself, are you morefaithful than Molembrais?"

  "God helping me, sire."

  "Um, um; have you n
eed of God's help to be faithful?"

  "I only meant----"

  "There! there! obey orders and you will have help enough. You owe muchto Monsieur de Commines?"

  "Everything, sire."

  "Everything? Sit there," and Louis pointed to a low stool placed justbeyond the transverse angle of the bench-like table which fronted thecouch. "Everything! Love! Service! Gratitude! You are right! Takethese from life and there is not much left. And how will you repay theeverything you owe?"

  "Love for love----"

  "Um! A woman may have a word to say as to that! Well?"

  "Service for service----"

  "You are not your own. France claims you; never forget a man's firstservice is to his country. The nation is the mother of us all. Well,what next? Shall I tell you? Win his gratitude in return! Eh, MasterStephen, how would that please you? Prove your love, show yourservice, earn his gratitude, and these you will do to the uttermost byserving the King and France."

  "Sire, sire," cried La Mothe, shaken out of himself by the gust ofhealthy emotion which seized him as the King's quiet voice grew instrength and fullness till it seemed to vibrate with as generous apassion as that which stirred the depths of the listener; "I am yoursto use body and soul."

  "Body and soul," repeated Louis, his eyes fixed searchingly on LaMothe's face. The lad's prompt response promised well, all that wasneeded was to keep this enthusiasm of devotion keyed to the pitch ofaction. "Body and soul! Be sure I shall not forget. But what youpromise in hot blood you will forget when your mood cools. No? Well,Molembrais' mood cooled and he has been colder than his mood thesethree days past. But you are different, you are of stronger, finer,truer stuff, your love and service are for Commines as well as forFrance, and so you will not forget. You understand? Monsieur deCommines vouches for you. Monsieur de Commines." The King paused, andthe nervous fretful fingers plucked at the breast of his robe afresh.He was utterly wearied and must have time to regain strength."Monsieur de Commines stands surety for you; never forget that. Yourfaithfulness is his faithfulness, your failure his failure: keep thatalways before you. To-morrow you will----, but first tell me somethingof yourself." With a moan of weakness he settled back into the pillowsand his eyes closed. "I must know Philip's friend as Philip knowshim," said the soft voice.

  And again La Mothe was touched to the heart, touched in his pride forCommines, the King's trusted friend, touched in his grateful sympathiesthat the King, weary and burdened by many anxieties, should find timeand thought for so kind an interest in one so insignificant as himself,though that, too, was for Commines' sake; touched above all with agenerous self-reproach when he remembered his bitter satire on theKing's justice. He now saw that the severities which had horrified andrepelled him were exigencies of State, repugnant to the gentle, kindlynature of the man in whose name the law took its course.

  And out of that grateful heart of youth he spoke frankly as Tristan hadbidden him speak. Briefly, succinctly, he told of his childhood'spoverty, of the change which came later under Commines' unfailing,affectionate liberality, of his placing him as a lad in the householdof Monsieur de Perche, of the life in Poitou with its training in armsand simple teaching of Keep faith, Live clean, Follow the right andtrust God unafraid. It was a very simple story, but he told it well.No tale grows cold in the interest or halts for words when the heart isbehind the telling.

  And through it all Louis lay among his cushions like one dead. Not aneyelid flickered, not a finger moved, his breath came so softly, soquietly that the red robe scarcely stirred beneath his sunken chin.Every muscle was relaxed in that restfulness which next to sleep is thesurest restorer of exhausted vitality. But the brain, the most acuteand cunning brain in France, was awake. With that dual consciousnesswhich, even more than dissimulation, is the diplomatist's primenecessity for success in the worsting of an adversary, he gathered andstored for use in his memory the salient points from La Mothe's story,while all the while, co-energetically, his mind was busy searching outhow best to use this new tool for the cementing closer that fabric ofFrance which was his pride and glory. France was at once the motherwho gave his genius form and the son of his jealous love. And as helistened, planning, sufficient strength crept back to the worn body.He could play out his part to the end, and La Mothe would carry withhim no sense of his master's frailty to paralyze action. In loyaltyfor loyalty's sake Louis had no faith.

  "You need say no more," he said, nodding his head with sympatheticinterest. "A debt--a debt indeed. And to-morrow you begin yourrepayment. To-morrow you go to Amboise with Monsieur de Commines.Amboise," he repeated slowly, "Amboise," and paused. "Where HisHighness, the Dauphin----"

  "Where my son waits--and watches." The thin hand crept up to the sunklips, lingered there an instant, crept up to the dull eyes, passedacross them once or twice with a motion eloquent of weary hopelessness,and fell drearily to the lap. "God keep us in His mercy," said theKing, and as his finger-tips made the four points of the cross upon hisbreast La Mothe felt he was upon holy ground. "God keep us in Hiscomfort. All is not well at Amboise, but my friend Philip knows--knowsand feels for me. I have no orders to give. All is left to him. OnlyI say this, and never forget it, never--France comes first andobedience is the payment of your debt."