“Can’t you hear their voices?” I suggested. I lowered my blade and flicked that razorlike edge through one of the ropes that bound the lady’s ankles.
They began to circle the fire, coming from both sides. To face two I must turn my side to another. I faced the two, and went at them, moving swiftly toward them. The sudden attack made them back up. One lifted a heavy staff and struck down at my head. Avoiding it, I went in low, lifting the pistol in my left hand to ward off the blow. At the same time I thrust. He had lunged when he swung his stick and he spitted himself neatly on my sword. His mouth gaped at me and his eyes, a milky blue, stared owlishly. I drew back sharply at a howl of agony from behind me and glimpsed the third attacker scrambling from the flames. The girl, bless her heart, had somehow tripped him as he passed her, spilling him into the fire.
He scrambled out, screaming and beating at his flaming clothes.
Now it was just the bold one and myself. I looked across my blade at him, and smiled. There was no coward in him, and he came at me. Suddenly, and surprisingly, I knew this was no ordinary rogue. I faced a master.
We fought desperately, silently, our blades like dancing light. Time and again I thought I had him, but each time he had a counter, a swift riposte. Nor could he reach me.
Suddenly he drew back and stopped. “Who are you?” he demanded. “From whence do you come?”
Stepping back in my own time, I flipped my blade through those ropes that bound the girl’s wrists. Quickly, she freed herself.
“Does it matter now?” I said carelessly.
“You handle a blade exceeding well,” he replied. “There are not five men in Europe who can stand against me.”
“I would think you could find a better trade,” I commented, “and better company.”
He shrugged. “It is the fortunes of war. I was a gentleman once and knighted. My name is Tankarville. I held vast estates from my father and mother. There was much intrigue about court and I supported the wrong side. We lost. Some of us were beheaded, some fled, some were imprisoned. My estates were taken by the crown and I was lucky to escape with my head and a sword. That was ten years and now I am a brigand, living as best I can.”
“And what of the lady here?”
“Take her, and welcome. But guard yourself well, my friend, or she will have a knife in your ribs.”
I laughed. “You asked my name. It is Tatton Chantry, and I ride to Rouen. If you wish another bout with the blades you have only to seek me out.”
“And I may,” he said cheerfully.
Tucking the empty pistol behind my belt, I touched the other to make sure it was still with me, and then, sword in hand, I backed from the room. The girl came with me.
When I had recovered my horse she said, “Their horses are down below, and mine, also.”
“You were riding when they took you?”
“Oh, no! They raided the chateau where I live. They came when they knew that all were away, and looted it, stealing all they could find. When I discovered them, they took me as well, exchanging their horses for our better ones.”
“Then let us get your horse.”
Leading my own and walking beside her, we went down a steep path, and there in a clump of trees were the horses.
She went straight to her horse. At the base of the tree to which he was tied, she picked up a small bundle.
I helped her to the saddle, and together we rode down the slope and back to the high road which led toward Rouen. It led across a high, open plain with only rare clumps of trees. We rode briskly, and she seemed disinclined to talk.
She was a comely lass and I’d not have minded talking, but my few attempts to open a conversation came to nothing.
“Where lies your home?” I asked finally.
“Yonder,” she pointed off to the south, “but I dare not go there now for fear they might come back.”
“Were there no servants?”
“They were away when the brigands came and will not know what to make of my misfortune. I dare not go back. Take me with you to Rouen.”
“Do you have friends there?”
“Of course! Although,” she added, “it is a town to which I rarely go. Our market town was Dreux, although there were villages closer. My family is gone and I am afraid to go back alone.”
It seemed a far way to take her from home, yet she must know best so I asked no further questions. The night was already well along and I, for one, was weary. All day I had been riding and my horse needed rest.
The road was dark, and there were no stars. “Know you a place where we might take shelter?” I suggested. “The night has far to go, and my horse and I have been long upon the road.”
“There is an abbey further along, and also an inn, the Great Stag, I believe, or something of the kind. I have not often come this way.”
The village was small, and built along the banks of the Seine. But the hostelry itself was large for the time. Half-timbered in structure, it was a post-house. And I did recall some story that this was the place where the father of Henry of Navarre had died after being wounded at the siege of Rouen. A single light showed from a lower window.
The door opened readily enough at my knock and a man in a leather jerkin held high a light. “Two wayfarers,” I said, “seeking food and shelter.”
“You be late, but come in nevertheless.”
“We have horses,” I suggested.
“Aye, aye! Cannot I see? They will be taken care of.” He spoke in a mixture of French and English and with a strong English accent.
“You are an Englishman,” I said.
“I am! Although I married a Frenchwoman and have lived much of my life here.” He peered at me. “You be English?”
“From the Hebrides, if you call that English.”
He showed us to a bench by the fire, and a fine fire it was with a goodly blaze on the hearth. I extended my hands to it, and saw the man’s eyes go to the maid with me. Her clothing was soiled from the rough treatment she’d received.
Curiosity can be an ill thing and can lead to all manner of speculation, so I thought to quiet his doubts at once.
“The lady and I have had a rough night of it. An encounter with brigands,” I explained.
“Well, well! ’Tis not uncommon! They be fond of this country hereabouts, but not of this place. Here you may rest secure.”
He gestured. “All are asleep but me. Sit you, and when I have put up your horses I shall find what food I can.”
He disappeared, and after a few minutes returned and brought a loaf, some cold meat, and cheese to the table, and with it a bottle of cider.
He looked again at me. “The dapple is your horse? I seem to know it.”
“It was given me,” I explained, “by the King.”
“Aye,” there was respect in his tone, “a fine animal! I knew I had seen it.” He glanced at my companion. “And your horse also. I know it.”
“We recovered it from the brigands,” I said.
He looked at my companion again but offered no comment. Nor, to my surprise, did she. Although her home was some distance off, such a man as this would be likely to know any noble family thereabouts, know of them at least.
When he was gone I said, “You have not told me your name.”
“Marie d’Harcourt,” she replied.
It was a familiar name. There were several d’Harcourt families, I believed, though I knew little of French names.
Soon the man returned. When we had eaten, he showed us to our separate chambers. Marie clutched tight the strings of her bundle and refused help in carrying it, but once when it bumped her leg I heard a faint clank, a metallic sound.
No sooner had my body touched the bed than I was off into a sound sleep, and did not awaken until the sun was high. For a few minutes I lay still, then sat up,
ordered some water brought, and bathed.
The maid lingered at the door, glancing at me with large eyes and what seemed an inviting expression, although I was but a poor judge of such things.
“Has the lady next door eaten?” I asked.
“She is gone.”
“Gone?”
She smiled openly at my astonishment. “She left hours ago, before it was light.”
I did not believe it, but a quick glance into her room proved the maid was right. Marie d’Harcourt was indeed gone.
When I reached the common room of the inn food was placed upon the table for me. He who served me was not the same who had served me the night before. He explained that the lady did not wish me disturbed. She had left at daylight on the road to Rouen.
“It is not safe for her to be on the highroad alone,” I objected. “You should have awakened me.”
“Do not worry,” the innkeeper said dryly, “she will fare well. She has beauty but she also has wit.”
“You know her then? You know Marie d’Harcourt?”
“I do not know her,” he replied, “nor is she a d’Harcourt, for of them I know much, and a fine family they are. What her name might be I know not, but it is not d’Harcourt.”
So…I had been fooled! But who was she then? And who did the brigands believe she was?
“You had trouble along the road?”
I explained my adventures of the night before and when I described my opponent he shook his head. “My friend, you are fortunate, indeed—or one of the finest swordsmen in Europe. The man whom you met is Andre de Tankarville, and it is said no man has stood against him.”
He related the story then. It followed the one Tankarville had told. “The family had two branches, or so I have heard, the one intelligent, religious, devout. The other not religious, though nonetheless they were loyal to a fault, and of great courage also.”
My meal was complete. I paid what was required and stood up. Then the door opened and Tankarville stood there, his face flushed with hard riding in the wind, and with anger as well. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Gone,” I said.
“She took it all! Every last coin, every ring, every candlestick!”
So that was what was in the bundle! How she had managed it, I did not know. And yet…when we were fighting, Tankarville and I, where was she then? Was she gathering up the more valuable jewels and hiding them on her person?
“We are fools, my friend, for she has duped us both and is away, gone three hours or more.”
He slammed his fist upon the table, then dropped into a chair. “Give him a mug of cider,” I said. “And I shall have another. She’s gone, my friend, so forget about it.”
“Forget about it? There was a fortune there! A king’s ransom, if you will! Not the gold so much as the gems! A full dozen of them!”
He gripped the handle of the mug and swore, then looked up at me and suddenly grinned. “Ah, what a handy wench! She will fare well, that one!”
“Where did you come upon her?”
“You may well ask. She is anything but a lady, though who she is I do not know. I will not say how or where we came upon the treasure, but we came upon it. She was also in the process of helping herself so we had no choice but to carry her off—at least far enough so she could not inform upon us.”
We talked no more, but finished our cider. I went to my horse and Tankarville followed, muttering in his anger.
When I swung to the saddle, I held down a hand to him. Enemies we had been but he was a fine hand with a blade, and a daring rogue, withal.
“If you will,” I said, “go to Henry of Navarre. He needs good fighting men and I think he will be generous. Tell him Tatton Chantry sent you, though it may or may not help.”
With that I was off to Rouen, with England just down the river and across the channel. It was in my thoughts that after nearly four years I would be close to my homeland again, home from captivity in Spain, from meeting with Henry and all that had transpired between.
And what of my ventures? What might have become of them after four years?
And what of Rafe Leckenbie?
CHAPTER 27
THE ROUEN INTO which I rode, coming down a winding trail from the plateau above, was a bustling port, crowded with shipping from the sea and with boats and barges down the Seine from Paris. There were numerous inns and drinking places, and sailors everywhere, mingling with soldiers and civilians.
I found an excellent hostelry close enough to the waterfront to observe the ships. There I stabled my horse and entered the inn.
The room I had was small and neat and absolutely clean, which was a pleasure. Water was brought to me and I bathed, taking my time about it while considering my next move.
To find a ship to England or Scotland, and one leaving at the earliest possible moment, was my most immediate goal. There were many here friendly to England. And once again I must forget my Irish ancestry and consider myself a native of the Hebrides.
The keeper of the inn directed me to a nearby tailor and I ordered four suits, head to heels, one of them for travel.
While they were being made, I went to my horse. He was standing in a fine stall, munching very good hay, and seemed content to be there, but he took his nose from the manger and nudged me with it. I patted him on the shoulder, talked to him a bit, then walked out into the street, going first to the Quai du Havre where I strolled along, examining the shipping.
Several of the vessels were Flemish, and at least one was from the Mediterranean—a dark, low vessel that lay quietly alongside the quay with no visible activity amid the bustle and confusion of the other ships.
Some seamen loitered near a bollard and I paused. “Hear you aught of a ship loading for England?” I asked.
They looked at me and made at first no reply. Then the smaller of the lot, a slim, wiry fellow, answered. “Little enough for there this fortnight,” he said. “Mostly they are loading for the Baltic or the Mediterranean. Is it passage you seek?”
“Aye, and if you hear of aught I am Captain Chantry at the Hotel des Bons Enfants, in the street of the same name. And there’s a bit of silver for him who brings me a true word.”
“It will not be one of us who decides you may go,” the man said.
“Of course. Just word of a ship. I shall do the rest if it can be done.”
My street was a bit of a walk from the quays but the masts of the ships could be seen from my window, and it gave me a feeling of nearness, at least. Back at the inn I seated myself in the common room and ordered an omelette and a bottle of wine.
It was the custom to eat but two meals, one at ten and one at four, but travelers such as I ate when hungry, and that I was. The omelette was excellent, and followed by a potpourri composed of veal, mutton, bacon, and vegetables.
Suddenly a man loomed over me. Glancing up, I saw a big, swarthy young man with rings in his ears. “You seek a ship for England?”
“I do.”
“For yourself alone?”
“Myself and my horse, and the horse is a fine one. Do you know of such a ship?”
“It may be. I shall speak to the master. It is to London we sail.”
“Bespeak a passage then for myself and a horse. The name is Chantry.”
He stared at me. “Be you Tatton Chantry? The swordsman?”
“I am Tatton Chantry, and I have a sword.”
“Ah, the master will be pleased!”
* * *
THE PASSAGE BACK was rough but short. When I led my horse down the gangplank to the London dock he could have been no more pleased to reach land than I. Mounted, I rode at once to the house of Emma Delahay.
For a moment I could only sit my horse and stare. The house was partly burned, the windows boarded over. Emma Delahay was gone! I asked a passerby for news. H
e merely shrugged and walked on. I walked my horse up the street and stopped at a familiar sign. There a man named Holmes had a small shop where he sold clothes to sailors and the like.
“Emma Delahay, you say? Been gone for four years, Cap’n. Seen nothing of her, all that time.”
At my next question, he nodded. “The Good Catherine? Aye, she came back, and many a time since. Good ship! Due in again soon.”
My further inquiries concerning Emma Delahay went for nothing. She had simply disappeared…vanished. And my money with her!
At the old inn Tom showed me to my old room. “I’ll care for your horse, lad.” At my question, he shook his head. “Jacob? Been three…almost four years. But he’s a wandering man. No telling where he’s come to by now. Sooner or later he’ll come back.”
He brought me ale and sat down across from me. “Quiet it is,” he said. “All is quiet now.” He looked at me sharply. “You did him in, you know.”
“Who? Jacob?”
“Not Jacob! Oh, no! Never him! I mean Leckenbie. That last piece of yours, it destroyed him. It angered the Queen and she had hard words for some of her people. They hanged a dozen of them at Tyburn and put a few others behind bars. But not Leckenbie! Oh, never him! He got off, skipped out—and is a wealthy man, they say.”
“And Tosti,” I said, “what of him?”
“I have not seen him. For a while, he was much about, a lonely man, I think. Yet all has changed here. Robin Greene is sunk far into drink and all the talk now is of Kit Marlowe, Thomas Kyd, and Will Shakespeare.”
London had changed. Or perhaps it was I who had changed, for does a man ever remain the same? My voyage to sea, my captivity, mild though it had been, my experience of other lands and other peoples, had had their effect upon me.
When Tom had gone about his business I sat long over my glass. I was older…four years older, and nigh onto five. The months had passed quick in Spain, and in the wars as well. Now, looking back, they were a blur of confused images with only a few moments standing out, stark and clear. Often they were the inconsequential moments, or what seemed so.
Fair Blows the Wind Page 23