At length Roger gave up the conundrum as, for the time being, insoluble, and consoled himself with the thought that it was into the hands of the Holy Office, and not into those of the Masons, or their associates the Rosicrucians, that he had fallen. He knew the latter to be quite capable of murder to protect their secrets or achieve their ends, whereas he felt convinced that even a branch of the Holy Office that had been driven underground would never lend itself to actual crime from political motives.
In the more backward Catholic countries the Inquisition was still permitted to carry out public witch-burnings—and for that matter witches were still burnt from time to time by Protestant congregations in Britain, Holland, Sweden and Germany—but the Holy Office had long since given up any attempt to adjudicate on cases other than those which involved a clear charge of sacrilege or heresy. It was such powers they were still striving to retain against the mounting wave of anticlericalism; so it stood to reason that, even in secret, they would not risk torturing or killing anyone outside their province, from fear that it might come to light later and provoke a scandal most prejudicial to their whole position.
Roger admitted to himself that at the time, when the Chief Inquisitor had spoken to him of the oubliette and threatened to use torture, he had been badly scared; but now he had had a chance to think things over quietly he felt certain that the hooded spokesman had been bluffing, and simply trying to frighten him into producing the letter without having to resort to further measures which might attract the attention of the police.
In spite of the warmth of the summer night outside it was cold in his cell, and as the chill of the place sent a slight shiver through him he leaned forward to warm his hands at the flame of the candle. While he was doing so they threw huge shadows on the walls and ceiling, and when his hands were warmer he began to amuse himself with the old children’s game of making the shadows into animals’ heads by contorting his thumbs and fingers. He had been occupied in this way for about five minutes when he noticed some writing scratched on the wall opposite him low down near the floor. Moving the candle closer he bent to examine it.
The inscription was not cut deeply enough to catch the casual glance, nor was it of the type that take prisoners many weeks of patient toil to carve. It was in German, many of the characters were so badly formed as to be almost illegible, and it had the appearance of having been done hurriedly—perhaps in a single night. Roger’s German was good enough for him to understand such words as he could decipher; and it ran, clearly at first, then tailing off into illegibility when the writer had grown tired or weaker, as follows:
May God’s vengeance be upon the Grand Orient. I have suffered horribly. Both my legs are broken. They have decreed death for me tonight. I am glad … my end. I … to escape them … Italy. Carlotta … betrayed … Milan … Florence…
The inscription ended with two lines in which Roger could not make out a single word, then a signature that looked like “Johannes Kettner” and underneath it a plain cross with the date 10.XI.’88.
Another shiver ran through him, but this time it was not caused by the chill of the cell. The inscription had led him to a terrifying discovery. He was not, as he had supposed, a prisoner of the half-moribund Holy Office, but of the vital and unscrupulous Society of the Grand Orient.
As the unnerving truth flashed upon him de Roubec’s puzzling relations with the tribunal were instantly made plain. The Rosicrucians and their kindred secret societies had, in the past quarter of a century, spread from Germany all over the continent. The Duc d’Orléans was Grand Master of the Grand Orient in France, so his agent would know where to find its associated Lodge in Florence. A request from the agent of such a high dignitary in the Freemasonic hierarchy would be regarded as an order, so it was no wonder that the hooded men had arranged for the abduction of de Roubec’s quarry—as, no doubt, they had acted on the request of some Masonic Master in Germany to abduct and take vengeance on the unfortunate Johannes Kettner.
At the thought of the wretched man lying there, his legs already broken by torture, on the last day of his life, painfully scratching out the inscription while waiting to be dragged to the oubliette, and thrown down it into the dark waters below, Roger felt the perspiration break out on his forehead. And that foul murder had taken place only the previous November—less than six months ago—so everything pointed to the very same hooded men before whom he had stood that night being responsible for it.
As he bent again to verify the date, he found himself staring at the little cross. Had he needed further evidence that he was not in the hands of the Holy Office, there it was. He knew that in every cell of every Roman Catholic prison, however bare the cell, a crucifix was nailed to one of its walls, but there was not one here. And from what he had read of the Inquisition he knew that behind the tribunal of the Inquisitors a much larger cross, bearing a great ivory figure of Christ, was always in evidence as though to sanctify their deliberations; but there had been no such perverted use of the emblems of Christianity made by the hooded men. The only cross he had seen in this sinister Florentine dungeon was that scratched by the hand of their condemned prisoner and enemy.
Without a moment’s further hesitation he set about readjusting his ideas. The threat to torture and perhaps kill him had not been bluff; it had been made in all seriousness; so any chances he now took would be at his dire peril. Only one thing remained in his favour. Unlike France where people were tending more and more to defy the law, Florence was ruled by a strong and capable sovereign with an efficient secret police at his disposal. Evidently, here, the members of the Grand Orient were frightened of drawing attention to themselves. Therefore they were averse to using strong measures unless forced to it; and, rather than risk an enquiry following his disappearance, were prepared to release him unharmed if he would hand over the Queen’s letter.
If he stood out, Isabella might succeed in tracing and rescuing him next day, but, on the other hand, there had always been the possibility that they might find means to lure her from her lodging and abduct her before she could succeed in doing so; and in the light of his recent discovery that was a risk that he was no longer prepared to take. Both for her safety and his own there could be no doubt that the wise thing to do would be to agree to surrender the letter, and so get out of the clutches of the Grand Orient as soon as he possibly could.
It took him no more than a few minutes to reach this new conclusion, and, having resigned himself to it, he endeavoured to keep himself warm by pacing the narrow limits of his cell until he was sent for.
At last the summons came, and he was led back to the vaulted cellar where, behind the long table, the nine black-robed, hooded men sat inscrutable, but for the occasional flash of their cold, malignant eyes. De Roubec was no longer present.
Without preamble, their Chief asked Roger his decision.
Without embroidering matters he gave it.
The silver bell tinkled. Five men entered the room. Four of them were big bullies wearing leather jerkins; the fifth was a little runt of a man with a cast in one eye. They closed round Roger and marched him out of the room in their midst. Outside in the corridor the little man drew a nine-inch stiletto from inside the wide cuff of his coat sleeve, and showing it to Roger, said in most atrocious but fluent French:
“My instructions are clear. I am to accompany you to your lodging and there you will hand me a despatch. Should you attempt to escape on the way, or cheat me when we get there, I am to stick you like a pig with this pretty toy. And do not imagine that I shall be caught after having done so. My men are well practised in covering my escape after such transactions. They have assisted me before, and there have been times when my prisoner has paid with his life for trying to be too clever.”
Roger gave a dour nod of understanding and his eyes were then bandaged. He was led up a flight of steps and soon after felt the fresh morning air on his face. Next he was told to step up again and when he had done so was pushed down into the corner seat of
a carriage. He could hear the others scrambling in after him, the door slammed and the carriage set off at a gentle trot. As far as he could judge their drive lasted about seven minutes, then the carriage halted and the bandage was removed from his eyes.
He saw that dawn had come but as yet only a few people were in the street or opening their shutters. They were in the via dei Fossi and the carriage had drawn up a few doors away from Pisani’s; all five of his captors were crowded into it with him.
The little horror with the wall eye grinned at him and said: “Before we get out I should like to explain my method to you. Two of my men will accompany us inside and the other two will remain here. Should you be so ill advised as to try any tricks when we get upstairs I shall promptly deal with you as I promised. As is usual in the case of people who compel me to make them my victims you will give a scream of agony. The instant the men who are to remain below hear it, one of them will jump from the carriage and run down the street; the other will run after him shouting ‘Stop Thief! Stop Thief!’ The people in the del Sarte Inglesi will naturally run to their windows instead of to your room. Even should anyone come to your assistance the two men who are with us will prevent their laying hands upon me. I shall then walk quietly out of the house, and in the excitement of the street chase disappear without being noticed.”
During the drive Roger had been turning over in his mind the chances of securing help swiftly if, directly he got inside Pisani’s house, he turned upon his captors and shouted loudly for assistance. But he now had secretly to admit that, had he been in the little man’s shoes, he could not have thought out such an undertaking with a better potential chance of getting clean away. Obviously it would be the height of rashness to play fast and loose with this professional assassin. With a shrug of his shoulders, he got out and, accompanied by three of his captors, walked along to the porch of del Sarte Inglesi.
The door was already open and a bald-headed, baize-aproned porter was busily sweeping down the steps. He wished Roger good morning with barely a glance, and entering the hall the prisoner and his escort went upstairs.
After Isabella had shown Roger her two brass-bound chests in Avignon he had given her the Queen’s letter in order that she might keep it locked up in one of them for greater safety; so he now led his captors to her room and knocked upon the door.
Although at this early hour she would normally still have been asleep, her voice came at once, asking who was there; and on his replying he heard her gasp out an exclamation of thankfulness before calling to him to enter.
As he opened the door a crack he saw that she and Maria were both already up and fully dressed. Pushing it wide he walked into the room, followed by the little man and the two bravos.
At the sight of Roger, dirty, dishevelled and in such undesirable company, Isabella gave another gasp. Then, restraining an obvious impulse to run to him and fling her arms around his neck, she stammered:
“Where—where have you been? I—I beg you reassure me that no harm has befallen you.”
He gave her a tired smile; then, wishing to say as little as possible in front of his unwelcome companions, replied: “I passed a somewhat uncomfortable night, but I am otherwise quite well. May I trouble you to give me the letter you wot of?”
She gave him a scared, uncertain glance, but on his adding: “Please, Señorita; I require it at once,” she turned, knelt down beside her bed, pulled out one of the chests with Maria’s help, and unlocked it.
Roger had purposely remained standing just inside the door, so that he and the men at his back were some distance from the bed; and he now saw with relief that as Isabella lifted the lid of the chest her body hid its contents from them, for he had feared that if they caught sight of the valuables inside it they might attempt to rob her.
Closing the chest and relocking it she stood up with the packet in her hands. Again her voice faltered as she said: “Are you—are you sure that you wish me to give this to you now?”
“Yes,” he nodded, stepping forward and taking the packet from her. “I will explain later; but I have to give it to these people.” Then he thrust it into the hand of the wall-eyed ghoul behind him.
The little man took a quick look at the big red seals bearing the arms of Queen Marie Antoinette, grinned at Roger, made a jerky bow to Isabella, and, signing to his men to leave the room, closed the door gently behind him.
“Oh, what has happened?” Isabella burst out, the second the door was shut. “Surely those evil-looking men were not in the service of the Grand Duke! Why did you make me surrender Her Majesty’s letter to them?”
“I was forced to it,” Roger replied with a weary shrug. “I have been held captive all right, and escaped with my life only on promising to give up the letter.”
“No promise that is extracted under a threat is binding!” she cried, vehemently. “Why, having succeeded in getting back here, did you not shout for help and put up a fight?”
“That wall-eyed creature had sworn to kill me if I did.”
“That shrimp!” exclaimed Isabella contemptuously.
“He was holding a poniard at my back, and at the first sign that I meant to trick him would have jammed it in my liver.”
Roger had temporarily forgotten that his sweet-natured Isabella was a soldier’s daughter, but he was swiftly reminded of it as her brown eyes flashed and she cried angrily: “You still wear your sword. Why did you not spring away, draw it and turn upon them? Maria and I would have helped you fight them off, and our shouts would soon have brought assistance.”
Suddenly the anger faded from her eyes and they showed only acute distress, as she added bitterly: “Oh, Rojé, Rojé, you have betrayed the Queen! How could you do so?”
He smiled a little wistfully. “Nay, my sweet; I had the last trump in the pack up my sleeve, and cheated those scoundrels with it at the finish. That was the original cover to the despatch, with Her Majesty’s seals upon it; but it contained a letter in her cypher so altered by myself that they will not be able to make head nor tail of it in a month of Sundays.”
A sigh of relief escaped her, and she began to stammer an apology for having cast doubt upon his wit and courage. But he begged her to desist; then said unhurriedly:
“We’ll have ample time to talk of all this anon. Another matter must engage our attention now. One man at least who is acquainted with your aunt has learnt that you are in Florence. He may not know her well enough to see her frequently, and if he is as fully engaged with his own affairs as I suspect, he may not think the matter of sufficient importance to make a special visit to her. But on the other hand ’tis possible that he may see and mention it to her before the day is out. I do not think we have any cause for immediate anxiety; but, to be on the safe side, the wise course would be for us to bestir ourselves, and make ready to depart this morning.”
Isabella showed no surprise, but her thin face was drawn with fear and distress as she listened to him. Then, when he had done, in a spate of words she suddenly shattered his complacency.
“Alas, our case is far worse than you know! De Roubec is in Florence and also knows that I am here. He knocked the house up an hour or so after midnight on pretence of bringing a message from you. Instead he demanded from me a thousand ducats as the price of refraining from telling my aunt that we are living together. When I attempted to fob him off by saying that I had no such sum, he told me to sell some of my jewels as soon as the goldsmiths opened in order to procure it. He left me with an ultimatum, that if I failed to meet him at nine o’clock this morning with the money, outside the west door of the Church of St. Lorenzo, he would go straight to the Palazzo Frescobaldi.”
Chapter XI
The Grand Duke’s Mistress
After his sleepless night of acute anxiety, Roger was very tired, but this new and immediate danger spurred his brain to fresh activity.
“I might have guessed it!” he cried bitterly. “De Roubec was present when this other that I spoke of mentioned your relationsh
ip to the Frescobaldi; and ’twas too golden an opportunity to attempt blackmail for such a scoundrel to ignore. What answer did you make him?”
“To keep him quiet till nine o’clock, I said I would do my best to raise the money,” Isabella sighed. “Yet with so malicious a man, did we produce the gold, I greatly doubt if he would keep his bargain.”
“I judge you right in that. His animosity to myself is such that to give him the thousand ducats he demands would be as useless as to cast them down a drain. He will betray us in any case.”
She nodded, and choked back a sob. “Through this ill chance I fear our danger is extreme. Unless you would have me forcibly taken from you, we must fly instantly.”
“His avarice may save us yet!” Roger said in an attempt to reassure her. “It is not yet seven o’clock. He’ll give you a quarter of an hour’s grace at least, so ’tis unlikely that he will get to the Frescobaldi Palace before half-past nine. Even if the Contessa has him admitted to her presence without delay it will be ten o’clock by the time she takes any action. If we pack at once, we should get away with the best part of three hours’ start.”
“We are packed already,” Isabella replied. “I have been up all night, half crazy with anxiety about you. Maria did my packing soon after de Roubec left, and before dawn I sent her to rouse Pedro with orders to do yours. I will send her now to order the coach. That also is in readiness; so we can leave as soon as it comes round and you have settled our reckoning.”
As Maria left the room Roger took Isabella in his arms, kissed her fondly and murmured: “Blessings upon you, my love, for keeping your beautiful head and showing such forethought. Your family shall not snatch you from me. Have no fear of that. I would rather die than lose you to them.”
“But whither shall we go?” she asked. “And what of the Queen’s letter? From what you tell me I take it you have the original concealed in your belongings somewhere. If so you are still pledged to deliver it.”
The Rising Storm Page 23