by Harold Lamb
And Renault sought to lock hilts—to bear back the slighter man with his greater strength. But the southerner’s blade yielded again, and parried deftly when the Burgundian tried to thrust, for at this game of touch in the darkness the skill of the wounded man was a match for the brawn of the lieutenant. Sweat dripped into Renault’s eyes and he panted, maddened by the void before him and the elusive, clinging length of steel that quivered against his own.
He forgot that the southerner’s strength must soon give out, and he bethought him of his dagger. His left hand plucked it from his belt and he stepped forward to strike. In that instant the other blade left his own, and thrust through the links of his mail. Fire scorched Renault’s side, and red flames filled the black void before his eyes. He fell forward into the flames.
* * * *
Five minutes later, when Hugh had struck a light and kindled the lantern again, Renault lay unconscious on the stones. At sight of the blood-stained sword above them in the southerner’s hand, the two soldiers gave up wrestling with Giron and Pied-á-Botte.
“Watch over these fellows.” Hugh said, “for I have horses waiting above to take me to the St. Pol, and something—” he pointed to the wounded Renault—“that will open the gate to me. Now help me lift him to his saddle.”
They did that, and the gabs and rummies of the alley came out to stare. The rogues and the dogs of the town whispered and sniffed as the horses paced under arch and balcony toward the house of John of Burgundy.
The archers at the gate gave back before the stranger with the bandaged head who cried to them that Renault had been sore wounded.
“And where is your seigneur?” he demanded.
They said that His Grace the Duke was walking in the garden.
“Nay,” Hugh retorted, “is not your King here?” And when they pointed to the garden road, he turned that way, holding the unconscious Renault. He guided the two horses between the myrtle hedges, across the wide lawn, with a score of guardsmen walking by him, whispering. He saw the two figures apart, beyond the fountain, and turned that way.
While the Burgundians and the nobles of the court looked on curiously, he let Renault down into the hands of the soldiers, and, before anyone could speak, he cried to Louis, “Sire, a message from Navarre!”
The words reached the ear of the King, and before the onlookers recovered from sheer astonishment at hearing a reigning prince addressed by a strange lad from the saddle, Hugh had dismounted and come forward to kneel within a stone’s toss of the two lords. And John of Burgundy broke the silence in an amused voice:
“His Majesty hath not come to the garden to hear messages of state. Go thou, and wait upon the chamberlain in the evening.” Carelessly he ran the whip he held through tense fingers—taking swift note how Louis glanced irresolutely about—and he added thoughtfully, “But let us see the letter thou hast, or a token of thy mission.”
And the southerner, who had nothing of the kind to show, laughed. He pointed to the wounded Renault, now outstretched upon the grass.
“There lieth the token, My Lord—your follower who tried twice to slay me upon my way hither.”
The silence that followed was again broken by the Burgundian: “This is mad talk, and out of place. What proof hast thou? Speak!”
Duke John knew well that he could not now dismiss this man, for too many ears had heard Hugh’s charge. But he saw that Hugh had come alone, without companions or witnesses.
“There is one,” responded the southerner instantly, “who can give proof to My Lord the King.”
Again his arm went out, to point toward the door where Jeanne stood, spellbound with anxiety, beside her guard. And Jeanne hesitated not a second. Slipping under the arm of the soldier, she was across the lawn, her fiddle clutched tightly. She gasped as she came within the ring of those about the pale man in the gray mantle, and she plumped herself down beside Hugh. Her clear voice cut through the rising murmurs:
“Sire, ’tis truth, every whit. The Gardener scragged him i’ the alley and stripped his gear away, and I brought the Arabian sorcerer who fetched him back to life, and I tried to carry his message to you, so they should not waylay him again. Now the Seigneur Dieu must have brought him hither unharmed, and by that token you must hear him.”
All in a breath she cried it out, and laughter echoed her. Some of the listeners shouted angrily, and John of Burgundy with one swift glance at her eager face understood that here was a witness he could not deal with.
“Away with the rogues,” he ordered, “and end this mummery!”
But before his men could lay hand on the two, the stooped figure in the gray cloak stepped forward. Louis had found his voice at last.
“Silence!” he cried; and after a moment: “Speak, thou,” he bade the southerner.
* * * *
Twilight was falling over the gray river, and vespers chimed from the bell-towers when Jeanne came back to the door of her lodging, sitting sidewise on the great horse behind Hugh of Bearn. And out of the shadows of the doorway sounded a warning hiss:
“Eschec!”
Two shaggy dogs seemed to be crouched there, but the girl recognized Giron and Pied-á-Botte, clutching packs upon their knees. “And what?” she asked.
The big picklock came to the stirrup. “Flash the drag, little Jeanne. We’re for St. Denis before the Red Duke twists our gullet in a rope necklace. Come away!”
“Nay,” she laughed, “there’s no fair fiddling out of Paris.”
Giron grumbled under his breath, jerked his thumb at Pied-á-Botte, and the two rogues vanished with their packs. Jeanne looked at the ground. “You’ll be wanting, Messire Hugh, to ride from the city before the hour of closing the gates. The Duke, they say, hath a long arm and a long memory for vengeance.”
But he was looking at the bright head hovering near his arm. The sight of her caught at his heart as if she had laid some witchery upon him. “And what of thee, little Jeanne? Sure it is the Duke will not forget thee.”
“No harm ever comes to me.”
“Then will I see to it.” He put his arm about her, pressing his head against the tangle of red-gold tresses. “For I will be riding to the south, and I will be taking you with me. ’Tis fair in my hills.”
“There’s no good fiddling out of Paris, messire,” she said slowly. “And I—I am of these streets, having no love for your hills and olive trees and cattle.”
“That is even a lie. Giron hath told me how you have ever the love of the place of your nourishing. And I will not cease from wanting you. So if you abide in Paris, so do I. Faith, now you must hide me from the Duke’s anger and heal me these wounds of mine.”
“Healed you are already, Hugh of Bearn! You fought a champion this day at hand strokes.”
“Yet never will I be quit of the spell you have laid upon me, little Jeanne.”
Full into his eyes she looked swiftly, seeing in them a strange hunger. Fear of what she had done filled the girl. “May the good God forgive me!” she cried, and turned to him suddenly. “Now get this horse of yours going, and I will show you the way.”
Around strange corners she guided him, to a tall house. Dismounting here, they climbed to the top of the stairs and Jeanne went to the curtained door. At her summons the dark figure of the Arab appeared. He welcomed them gravely, for he had heard what had passed at the Hôtel St. Pol.
“’Tis a cure he must have,” Jeanne pointed to the southerner, “for the—for that—oh, you know well the elixir I mean. He hath taken from it a kind of fever, and, pardie, it was a sinful thing I did.”
Glancing at the flushed faces of the lad and the girl, Athir smiled. “Jeanne,” he said, “I know no remedy save one for this ailment Messire Hugh hath now.”
“Then give it him.”
“That only can you do—I have naught will serve him.”
Dismayed, the girl chewed her lip, until she flung up her head with quick resolve. “Tell him, then—I cannot. T
ell him what elixir I had from you, and gave him secretly.”
Turning to his table, the Arab took from it a long vial half full of a red fluid which Jeanne recognized instantly. “This? I keep it for patrons who are more credulous than wise. By Allah,” he smiled, “it is no more than spirits of wine which we call al kahol. And this—” he took from a bowl a pinch of gray powder—“is pepper. Nay, little Jeanne, there is no elixir of the kind you sought.”
“What,” demanded Hugh impatiently, “is all this talk of drinks?”
Jeanne drew a long breath and her eyes flashed warningly at the Arab. “It is no matter,” she said with dignity. “Come away now, I pray thee, Messire Hugh—to thy hills, if it must be. But come quickly.”