by Harold Lamb
The straw beside her stirred, and a deep voice muttered drowsily, “What is this talk? Where is—my horse?”
Aroused by their voices, the wounded man had raised himself on his elbow, to stare wearily at the fire. His brown hand quivered as he raised it to his head, then fumbled at his side for the missing sword.
“Messire,” said Athir quietly, “you were struck down before nightfall and left to die. Your horse is lost, with all you carried on you, and these people—”
“Get me a mount. I must go on!” He rose to his knee, thrusting aside the Arab’s restraining arm as if it had been an empty sleeve.
“Nay, this night you cannot sit a horse, messire. Wait, and sleep.”
The sleeping draught had begun to take effect, and the boy’s head swayed on his shoulders. Only by an effort did he keep his eyes open. “I tell you,” he said hoarsely, “I carry word to the King, and it may not wait.”
“The King!” Giron and Pied-á-Botte stared, round-eyed, but the alchemist glanced shrewdly at the half-conscious messenger.
“Then, messire,” he suggested quickly, “write it down, or tell it me.”
“Am I a clerk, to write a missive?” The wounded man shook his head and swore under his breath: “Sieur Dieu! No one but I may bear it.” He tried to stand up, but sank back on the straw instead. “Ay, Sir Rohan and De Trault, they lie dead by the road—”
As his eyes closed and his limbs relaxed, Athir touched his shoulder. “Your name,” he whispered urgently, “what is it?”
The two rogues edged closer, their ears cocked, and the wounded man smiled a little. “You may well ask that, but you’ll not know it.” And in another moment he was asleep.
Athir, however, could guess at a good deal. By his profession he was brought close to the court, and for some time he had heard whispers that the rising star of John of Burgundy would soon eclipse that of a sickly and irresolute monarch of France. Did not John the Fearless virtually hold Paris in his grasp—so that he might at any hour close the gates? He had gained the support of the guilds by promises, and had rid himself of some nobles of the King’s party by a reign of terror in the streets.
* * * *
And now John of Burgundy had the monarch of France a guest in the Hôtel St. Pol. Few men gained admittance to Louis without the Duke’s consent, and rumor had it that the Lord of France could not leave the gardens of St. Pol until the Duke chose for him to do so.
The King, no doubt, had officers and servitors to attend him, and even John of Burgundy would not risk harming his person. But Louis was a prey to moods, and the Burgundian persuaded him that only in his house would His Majesty be safe from the mobs of Paris. Athir suspected that John of Burgundy had not wished this stranger to reach the presence of the King with his message, and if so it was no matter to meddle in.
“Keep him here,” he advised Jeanne, “if you wish him to live.”
Then he went thoughtfully up the narrow stair. As he did so he heard above him a sound as of a rat scampering on the stones. Hastening his step, he gained the top and glanced quickly to right and left along the alley. The only light came from the stars and a distant lantern, but Athir had eyes accustomed to dark nights, and he made out the figure of a man slipping away under the wall—a man clad in a beggar’s cloak and hood, yet moving away with a stride that was no beggar’s discouraged shuffle.
Whereupon the Arab waited until the alley was deserted. Then, muffling himself in his caftan, he vanished silently in the other direction. John of Burgundy had eyes and ears that served him well for hire of nights, even, perhaps, in the rogues’ alleys.
Jeanne did not go to her room, in a neighboring attic. While Giron and Pied-á-Botte snored in their cloaks, she sat in the straw to tend the fire, and ceaselessly her eyes strayed to the face of the sleeping stranger. At times she reached out to touch his bandaged head and run her fingers timidly through the yellow hair dark with dried blood.
Hugging her knees and wide-awake, she played a game of pretending—that this unknown man belonged to her, and looked at her with eyes of love.
* * * *
Early the next morning Ibn Athir answered a tap at his door to find Jeanne standing by the curtain. The girl had made a hasty visit to her quarters and had washed carefully, adding a touch of rouge to her cheeks and a flimsy bit of lace to the throat of her dress. She said nothing as she wandered about the alchemist’s room, glancing idly at the brick furnace, the crucibles and glass vials and the piled-up folios.
“Is it true, Master Athir,” she asked at last, “that you make draughts of magic for the great Marks—the noble dames?”
“Sometimes.”
Jeanne’s tongue seemed to fail her, and she flushed. “I mean the things they call—love potions. You know well the draughts that make—other people—love these ladies?”
“Verily, I know them.” Athir sold talismans and potions to his patrons, while he smiled inwardly at their superstition.
“And such a draught will work no harm to him—to the one that drinks of it?”
“Little Jeanne, such potions are for the seigneurs’ ladies, who pay for their whims.”
“My father was a seigneur even as they, but a minstrel of the southland with an empty purse and a great thirst in him, which brought him down to singing ballads to the crowds while I fiddled among them, thanking them for the silver. A year ago he died, and I have made good shift for myself. I can pay only a small price, but, please, Master Athir, mix me the draught with magic in it, for I need it sorely.”
The Arab looked at her curiously, seeing anew the soft hair, the clear, troubled eyes. And he wondered, as he went to his table, what minstrel had caught the fancy of so fair a girl. He measured out a little red fluid. “Juice of the root of manna,” he explained, and added a pinch of dark powder that vanished from sight. “’Tis star dust brought from the Egyptian desert where the heart of a flying star fell. It hath power to arouse great love in a human, but be sure that you keep near to him who drinks it.”
“I will do that.” She nodded gratefully and hastened away with the red elixir in a vial.
* * * *
In the cellar the wounded man, alone, was pacing restlessly by the embers of the fire—he had been asleep in Giron’s charge when she had left him to seek the alchemist.
“What hole is this?” he cried. “Who brought me hither?”
Jeanne lowered her eyes and clutched the vial tighter. “Messire—I did. Truly, you are sore hurt and have not strength to venture forth.”
“Thy name is Jeanne—I heard it spoken last night—and meseems I owe thee much.” The boy smiled impulsively. “Wil’t help me more?”
“Ay, but first,” she added warily, “you must eat, and drink.”
She hurried to place bread and cheese on a clean cloth, and to pour wine into a cup. After a second’s hesitation she emptied the vial of red fluid into the wine and brought it to him. He gulped it down and chewed at a fistful of the bread, while Jeanne sat in the straw pretending to eat, but watching him breathlessly.
The drink had an effect upon him, for his eyes brightened and he seemed to throw off his weariness. “Thou art no rogues’ girl,” he said. “Nay, an elf-maid, thou, escaped from Merlin’s tower.”
Jeanne lowered her eyes swiftly, and choked on a bit of bread.
“And thou wilt see my need,” he added eagerly. “Harken, little Jeanne—”
With an effort she swallowed the bread, feeling herself flush from throat to forehead, and wishing of a sudden that she had not dabbled in magic. She wanted to fly from the cellar but she could not.
“—I know naught of Paris, nor have I a friend here, save thee. I am Hugh of Bearn, once armor bearer to Sir Rohan of Navarre. We were sent from the south to bear a message to thy lord, the King. At Limoges tavern were we beset treacherously by a dozen riders, who slew Sir Rohan and De Trault. I fought clear of them and got me to a horse, and rode hither without sleep or rest, for
now I must carry the message to Louis, who, they say, is captive to Duke John in this town.”
The girl drew a breath of relief and glanced at him curiously.
“This is the message: The armed host of Navarre hath joined with My Lord of Armagnac. It is now on the march toward Burgundy. Nor will it cease that march until Louis is released out of the hands of the Burgundians and set free among loyal men in Tours.” He caught her hand impatiently in his. “How can I write such tidings in a letter? Nay, I must find me a way into the presence of the King and bespeak him openly. Sir Rohan said that when Louis knows that armed power hath risen to his aid, Duke John’s web of scheming will be broken.”
Thoughtfully Jeanne nodded. “But how would you find a way into the Hôtel St. Pol, Messire Hugh?” she asked. “Have you a plan?”
“Get me a good horse, and I will make shift to do it.”
“Then wait!” Suddenly the girl rose and caught up her fiddle. “Don’t pull a snoop—don’t go out to look for aught, until I come back. For, truly, Messire Hugh, I can aid you in this.” At the stairway she turned to glance back at him shyly. “Will you promise to await me?”
“If you make haste!”
In her own way, Jeanne did hasten, skipping through narrow alleys and under archways, toward the great street of St. Jacques.
* * * *
When she came abreast a gray wall with gate towers, and tree tops showing over it, she walked slowly, her eyes alert. This, she knew was the entrance to the Hôtel St. Pol, with its gardens. She had visited its courtyard before, to play for the seigneurs, and she meant to try now to slip through into the building itself, and gain the presence of the King. She had seen his face in the streets, and she thought that no one would heed a fiddling girl. Then, if fortune served her, she might cry aloud the message that Hugh of Bearn was bringing from Navarre. These great lords, no doubt, would pay little heed to a girl’s word, but still the message would be spoken, and the King himself might send for the real messenger—
The archers lounging before the half-closed grille gates turned to stare at her, and one of them thrust a pike-shaft before her, grinning.
“Pardie,” another grunted, “’tis the fiddling wench who hath half the rogues’ brigade at her summons. Let her go, Piculph.”
* * * *
Safely in the courtyard, Jeanne plucked idly on the strings of her fiddle while she surveyed the prospect. On the left was a blank wall, on the right the stables and quarters of the men-at-arms. At the end of this a roadway led into the gardens. In front of her rose the bulk of the Hotel itself, with barred embrasures for windows, and a single arched gate, where stood men of the inner guard and an officer talking to a priest.
She went up to them boldly, and touched the officer’s arm. “Messire, I have word for Renault.”
He shrugged indifferently. “So have a-many.”
“’Tis a word about the crack he did last night,” Jeanne whispered.
The Burgundian frowned swiftly, and she smiled up at him, trusting that he would not know all the lieutenant’s spies by sight, and would have to admit her.
“Eh, well.” He turned to the pikemen of the guard. “One of you bear her in and look to her. Renault is away for the nonce.”
Jeanne had expected that the lieutenant might be out of the Hotel, but she had got herself within the doors. Listening intently to the scraps of talk she caught in the halls, she went with the pikeman obediently as far as the door of a tower room which seemed to be a private reception chamber. “Now verily,” she said wistfully, “I have never seen my lord of Burgundy. Is it his wont to pass this way?”
“Nay—he walks i’ the garden, and thou’lt not see him.”
But Jeanne thought otherwise. Humming to herself, she rested her head against a bar, listening patiently. Her guardian tired of watching her and yawned heartily, then strolled out into the corridor. When she heard him in talk with another soldier she slipped to the door.
Without a sound she edged behind the two, and into the corridor away from them.
Almost running—for the guard in the tower room might miss her any moment—Jeanne reached a narrow door and opened it swiftly, giving inward thanks that no sentry stood there. Closing the door behind her, she glanced up and down the stretch of lawn and tulip beds, at the Burgundian nobles who sat in talk by a fountain—at the distant group of squires and servants, and at the two figures who walked apart, opposite her, in the shade of a high myrtle hedge.
One, in a plain gray mantle, thin and stooped, she knew to be the sick Louis. The taller man in a green hunting jerkin, with a horn at his belt and a whip in his hand, must be John of Burgundy.
Without hesitating, as if she had been summoned to do that, the girl raised the fiddle on her arm and drew the bow across the strings. It was a dance she played—Gentilz galans de France—as she moved out over the grass, the sunlight striking on her red-gold head.
The two figures by the hedge were nearer, but they paid no heed to her. Instead, a man in a long velvet tabard who carried an ivory staff strode toward her, overtaking her.
“What mummery is this?” he demanded.
“’Tis the doing of My Lord the Duke,” she retorted, without ceasing her playing. But, as she did so, she caught a glimpse of the pikeman who had her in charge emerging from the door. And the staff bearer caught her arm.
She lowered the fiddle and cried out in a clear voice:
“Sire—”
The pale face of Louis turned toward her irresolutely, when the pikeman came up, swearing under his breath, and at a word from him she was pulled back and hustled toward the door. Behind her she heard the voice of John of Burgundy:
“A fiddling wench, Sire, seeking a coin.” And then, louder, “Give her silver, from my hand.”
“Hearest thou?” grunted the pikeman in her ear. “His Grace will have a word with thee, anon, when Renault is here. Nay, thou red vixen, we’ll bide his coming here, within sight of His Grace. I’ll have no more of thy trickery!”
* * * *
Renault, however, was delayed. With two mounted men and a spy in beggar’s garb he was searching the alley by the market to finish the work that he had begun the night before—having heard from the pseudo-beggar that Hugh of Bearn still breathed in a rogue’s cellar, after a sorcerer had brought him back to life by black enchantment. Renault swore that a good knife-thrust would put an end to any spell.
At that hour Giron and Pied-á-Botte were warming themselves in the sun at the alley’s mouth, waiting for Hugh to come out. One glimpse of the Burgundian helmets, and the two rogues were flying to hiding. Down the cellar stair they tumbled, hissing to the wounded man to hold his tongue, for the Gardener was riding by with two armed churls.
“Eschec!” Giron whispered, “’Tis the big Mark wi’ two blades, come to the spot of his night’s work.”
In a moment Giron began to feel the skin crawl upon his back and skull. For the horses did not trot by. They halted, stamping, and iron clanked as men dropped from the stirrups. Then slow steps came upon the stair, and the gloom of the cellar was lightened by the gleam of a lantern. Giron shrank back into a corner.
A man in a mail shirt appeared, the lantern lifted high in one hand, a drawn sword in the other. At his shoulder walked the silent lieutenant, the point of his red beard jutting forward and his eyes narrowed. Renault paused to make certain of what the cellar hid—the two rogues shivering against the wall, and Hugh of Bearn standing motionless, unarmed, with bandaged head and tight-clenched hands.
“So,” quoth Renault, his beard bristling in a grin, “the dead hath come to life. I regret, messire, that necessity compels me to send you back into the grave you have just now quitted.”
He waited to hear the southerner beg for mercy, but he waited in vain. Hugh shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“A pity,” he said, “that you must strike such a foul blow twice. Give me a sword, and I pledge you there will be no bungling.”
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“Nay,” Renault grunted, “I swear by the téte-Dieu there will be no mistake this time.”
He had left a man to watch the horses, and now—being ever careful in such matters—he called to the other Burgundian: “Slay me those rats by the wall.”
* * * *
To Giron, who had been watching for a chance to slip up the stair, this was the voice of doom. He roared in fear, and in desperation flung himself at the swordsman with the lantern. Midway in his rush he lowered his head and crashed against the other’s chest. Unprepared for this butting, the Burgundian fell heavily, throwing out his arms. The lantern clanked on the floor and went out, while the sword slid over the stones. Before the light vanished, Hugh leaped for the blade and caught it up.
Then he stepped swiftly aside, hearing as he did so the familiar whistle of steel through the air. Renault had cut at him savagely, and missed. Hugh let himself down quietly on one knee, holding his sword upright, beside his head. The cellar was almost in darkness—only a faint light coming down the stair. Giron and the soldier were struggling and cursing-on the floor, drowning all other sounds.
“A moi, Picard!” Renault shouted, and changed his position as he did so. Mailed feet clattered down the stairs as the third soldier hastened to obey. Then there was a crash, a yell of pain, and renewed scuffling. Pied-á-Botte had followed the example of his chum, and Hugh judged by the sounds that the two rogues could hold their own at this hand fighting on the floor. But Renault was slashing about him methodically—knowing that a man without armor would have no chance at matching cuts in the dark with him. And he glanced ever at the gray square of the stairway.
But Hugh had no mind to try a run for it. “Nay, Renault,” he called, “this way!”
At once the other’s sword struck against his uplifted blade, the sparks flying. Hugh’s blade yielded and then twisted suddenly around the Burgundian’s, as he rose to his feet. The two swords were in touch now, grinding together.