Beauvallet

by Georgette Heyer

  His brain began to shape plans, twisting and scheming. If he failed in his attempt he must stand self-convicted as El Beauvallet. He knew what to expect then. He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his pomander to his nose.

  Sniffing at it he evolved his plan. It was sufficiently desperate to appeal to that lively sense of humour in him. ‘Come, Nick!’ he apostrophised himself. ‘Let us take Reck Not for our watchword yet once again. It has not been known to fail us yet. But I am sorry for that sentry.’

  By which it may be seen that Sir Nicholas counted the sentry outside his door a dead man already.

  He moved to the table, and wrote three lines to Joshua. They were quite simple.

  ‘Be ready tomorrow evening with a rope outside the wall on the opposite side of the building to this. When you hear my whistle, cast it across and hold tightly.’

  This he twisted into a screw and put away in his bosom. Upon the following morning Joshua walked down the street again. The screw of paper went fluttering down from Beauvallet's window, and was swiftly pounced on.

  Joshua went back to his tavern strutting light-heartedly.

  Eighteen

  Ever since the first day of his imprisonment Sir Nicholas had been waited on always by two men. Never one came without the other, and although, gradually, this precaution had become little more than a form it was still observed. Sir Nicholas pulled a wry face over it. Truly they held him to be a desperate man since they kept a sentry outside his room, and dared not send a single armed man to take his meals to him. Well, they were right, but he thought he had successfully lulled their fears. For his escape to have the smallest chance of success one of those men must be got out of the room. All hung on that; if one man could not be induced to leave the room torture and the fire awaited Sir Nicholas, as he very well knew.

  He had chosen his time carefully, and knew that he could trust Joshua to do his part. Every evening at dusk supper was brought to Sir Nicholas from the Governor's kitchens. The cook was at pains to please the unwilling guest, for there was still enough money left in Beauvallet's pockets to provide a sufficient incentive. The cook, receiving a double ducat, sent with a compliment, vowed the Chevalier was a true gentleman, and devised subtleties for his delectation.

  Upon the day chosen by Sir Nicholas for his attempt at escape, his two gaolers came a little late with his supper. One of them, the senior, had charge of the key of his room, and always locked the door punctiliously upon the inside when he entered, and continued to hold the key in his hand while his fellow set covers on the table and lit the candles.

  Sir Nicholas had a high-backed chair with arms and a velvet seat to sit in, but he was not sitting in it when the two soldiers entered. He was standing near the window, leaning his shoulders against the wall, and whistling a cheerful tune to himself.

  ‘I thought I was to be starved,’ he remarked, and came lounging over to the table and sat himself down on the arm of his chair, idly swinging one foot.

  The chief gaoler smiled indulgently. ‘No, no, señor. It is only that the cook spoiled one of the dishes – or rather, I should say, that one of the scullions, left to stir it, let it burn a little – and the whole had to be made again.’

  The other man was busy shaking out a cloth and spreading it over the table. Sir Nicholas sniffed the air. ‘Well, it hath a very savoury odour,’ he said. ‘Let us see the chef d’ceuvre.’

  The knife was set, a bottle of wine placed carefully beside the cup at Beauvallet's elbow, and a shining cover lifted with a flourish.

  ‘Marvellous!’ said Sir Nicholas. He still sat negligently on the arm of his chair, sideways to the table. ‘Present my compliments to the cook.’ He stretched out his hand for the bottle, while the soldier took salt and pepper from the tray he had brought, and put them on the table. He poured out a cupful of the wine, and raised it with a little laugh. ‘Tell the cook I drink his very good health!’ he said, and made as if to toss off the wine. But that fine gesture was stayed before he had done more than taste it. The cup left his lips; he pulled a grimace. ‘My very dear friends!’ he said. ‘What's this? Do you seek to poison me? What have you brought me here?’

  The soldiers stared at him. ‘Madre de Dios, señor, there is no thought of poisoning you!’ said one of them, shocked.

  Sir Nicholas smiled. ‘I did but jest. But you have brought me a very vile potion, none the less. Let me have another bottle, my good fellow. Take this away.’

  The chief frowned upon his subordinate, shifting the blame from off his own shoulders. ‘Dolt! Take up the bottle! What, do you bring the señor bad wine? Pardon, señor! an oversight. The cup, fool! take away the cup and bring a clean one back!’ He hustled his protesting fellow towards the door.

  ‘It was you chose the wine,’ grumbled the unfortunate.

  ‘You confused the bottles,’ the other said hastily. ‘Get you gone, get you gone! Will you have the señor's supper grow cold?’

  ‘You have the key,’ his subordinate pointed out. ‘I did not confuse the bottles, I tell you. You yourself –’

  ‘A’God's mercy, have done!’ struck in Sir Nicholas curtly. ‘I care not who made the mistake so long as you bring me a fresh bottle.’

  ‘On the instant, señor!’ his gaoler assured him, responding instinctively to the voice of authority. He unlocked the door, pushed the wine-bearer out, and slammed the door again behind him, once more locking it.

  Sir Nicholas’ lashes drooped over his eyes, hiding the sudden gleam in them. The departing soldier had not taken the key with him. ‘Put the cover over this very choice dish again, my man,’ said Sir Nicholas.

  ‘Certainly, señor!’ The man picked it up and came all unsuspecting to the table.

  Sir Nicholas’ hand had left playing with his pomander; his foot had stopped its gentle swinging, and the toe of it was firm-planted on the floor. The soldier bent to put the cover over the dish on the table.

  Even as his hand left the cover, and he was about to step back, Sir Nicholas made his spring, a clean, lithe spring, noiseless and sure. Before the soldier realised what had happened a pair of iron hands were choking him into insensibility, and he was half-flung, half-lifted backwards on to the bed behind him. Sir Nicholas’ knee was over his dagger; he could not reach it. He could make no sound; he could only tear fruitlessly at the merciless fingers that were grasping his throat. His eyes started horribly, glaring up into Sir Nicholas’ face: the last thing he was conscious of was the brightness of the blue eyes above him and the grim smile that curled Sir Nicholas’ lips.

  Sir Nicholas’ hands left the bruised throat; he stepped to the table, caught up the napkin laid ready there, and tied it expedi-tiously round the unconscious man's mouth. The dagger was drawn from its sheath, the key picked up from the floor where it had fallen. Holding the dagger in his right hand, Sir Nicholas went with a firm tread to the door, fitted the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

  Outside the sentry stood, leaning on his halberd. Some instinct must have warned him of danger, for even as the door opened he turned his head sharply to see who came. He had only time to let out a startled cry, but that second's mischance brought an oath to Beauvallet's lips. The dagger went home between neck and shoulder, and the sentry seemed to crumple up where he stood.

  But the one cry, shrill as it was, was like to ruin all. An answering shout sounded, and from the main stairway a man came running.

  Sir Nicholas wrenched the dagger free, and was gone in a flash towards the south side of the building. His intention had been to get round on this side to the Governor's quarters, but now, with the alarm given, and men running to the pursuit, this was clearly impossible. He bounded up the spiral stairway at the junction of the corridors, and found himself in a similar passage to the one below, except that it was walled in, with embrasured windows over which hung heavy curtains, giving on to the court below. A cresset hung at the top of the stairs, and threw a feeble light; there was another in the middle of the corridor to his left.


  Below there was the sound of running feet, shouts, and the clatter of pikes. Sir Nicholas sent a quick look round, and his eye alighted on a stout oak chest standing against the wall. He stepped quickly forward; there was a heave and a thrust, and the chest went crashing down the stair on top of the foremost man who was running up. The chest jammed tight on the turn of the stair; there was a furious oath, clatter, and confusion. The first of the pursuers went tumbling backwards into the arms of the man behind him, who, in his turn, lost his balance under the sudden impact and fell heavily.

  Sir Nicholas laughed out at that, and having seen his chest securely wedged, turned. He had not the least idea what he was going to do next, and he rather thought that he was trapped, but his eyes were fairly blazing with sheer joy of action, and a smile of amusement was on his lips.

  Footsteps and voices sounded on the main stair at the other end of the quadrangle. Sir Nicholas stayed, poised on his toes, waiting to see which way these pursuers would come. They rounded the far corner of the eastern corridor, where he stood, some three or four soldiers running with halberds levelled. Sir Nicholas sprang to the left, and was off down the southern passage, making for the Governor's quarters on the western side.

  He had almost reached the corner when he checked suddenly, and cast a quick glance round him for some way of escape. Ahead of him, down the western corridor, perilously close, was coming the thud of heavy feet, running fast. He was indeed trapped.

  Another moment and the men behind him would have rounded the corner, and would have him in view again. Sir Nicholas made for the end window on this side, slipped into the embrasure, and drew the heavy curtains to behind him.

  The window opened on to its little railed balcony; Sir Nicholas stepped out, soft-footed, and cast a glance down into the court below. It was too dark to distinguish forms, but he could hear voices, and knew that there were soldiers gathered there.

  He thrust the dagger through his belt, tested the iron railing a moment with his hand, and peered through the gloom for the first balcony on the western side. He could just distinguish it. One moment he measured the distance; then he set his foot on the railing and came lightly up with a hand on the wall to steady himself. Judging by the sounds, the men running down the western corridor had now reached the corner. Sir Nicholas gathered himself together, and jumped like a diver, head first for the next balcony. His hands just caught its railing; he hung there a moment, panting, put forth a great effort, and hoisted himself up. He had a leg over the rail in a minute, and the next instant he had disappeared in at the window.

  He found himself in a deserted passage. Down the corridor along which he had come were pelting the soldiers; in another moment they would collide with the other party whom Sir Nicholas had first seen. There would be more talk of witchcraft after this night's work, thought Sir Nicholas, and grinned appreciatively. Each of those converging parties were convinced they had the escaped prisoner trapped; they were very shortly to discover that El Beauvallet had once more lived up to his reputation, and this time had vanished, to all appearances, into thin air. El Beauvallet kissed his fingers in the wake of the zealous guards, and made for the first door he could see.

  It was unlocked. He went in cautiously, and found himself in an empty bedchamber, poorly furnished, and with one small cresset lamp burning over the mantelpiece. It was probably some tirewoman's chamber, he thought. He closed the door softly behind him, and went to the window. It stood open, looking on to the garden. Sir Nicholas swung one leg over the sill, feeling for a foothold. The wistaria brushed his leg; he found a branch, swung the other leg over, caught at the thick tendrils, and went sliding, scrambling down to the balcony immediately below, upon the first storey. The wistaria tore away from the wall, but he reached to safety. He had one leg over the balcony rail, one hand feeling for a hold on to the creeper, when there came a noise to make him draw back quickly.

  The door leading into the garden from the hall below was flung open; there was the flare of a torch, and a voice said clearly: ‘Two of you keep guard lest he try to escape this way.’

  Without a moment's hesitation Sir Nicholas slipped in at the open window behind him.

  The curtains were slightly parted, and a soft light shone through. Sir Nicholas, keeping against the dark background of the curtain, peeped in. The room was empty; Sir Nicholas went in and pulled the curtains to behind him.

  ‘God's Life!’ he muttered ruefully. ‘Where am I now?’

  He stood in a large bedchamber, which was furnished in a massive style, with a great four-posted bed hung with curtains of velvet, a chest of inlay work, a table, chairs, and a hanging cupboard against the wall. There was a door opposite the window and even as Sir Nicholas went towards it footsteps sounded outside, and a hand was laid on the latch. Sir Nicholas drew swiftly back to the bed and slipped behind the heavy curtains.

  The door opened; someone came in with a quick step, went to the table, and pulled a drawer out in it. There was a rustle of paper; Sir Nicholas parted the curtain and saw a man standing with his back to him, hurriedly turning over papers in the drawer. He was cloaked, and wore a large capotain hat with a drooping plume in it. At his side, hitching up the long folds of the cloak, hung a rapier.

  Inch by inch, cat-like, Sir Nicholas came towards him. A board creaked suddenly under his foot; the cloaked man turned sharply, and as he turned Beauvallet's fist shot out. The man fell without a sound, and Sir Nicholas saw that he had knocked out no less a personage than Don Cristobal de Porres, Governor of the Guards.

  ‘God save the mark, my noble gaoler!’ said Sir Nicholas, and stepped over Porres’ prostrate form to the door. He shut it, cast a quick glance at the limp figure, and went to the bed. With one eye watchfully upon the Governor he slit the fine brocade coverlet into strips with his dagger, and came back to kneel beside the still form.

  ‘Nay, but I am sorry for this, my poor friend,’ he said, and stuffed one of his strips into Don Cristobal's slack mouth. Another, torn across was tied hastily round to keep the rude gag in place. He unclasped the cloak from about Don Cristobal's neck, and the gleaming collar of the Golden Fleece met his eyes. Off it came; Sir Nicholas gave a tiny chuckle. ‘My dear friend,’ said he, ‘I believe this may stand me in very good stead. You shall not grudge it me.’ He fastened the collar round his own neck, unbuckled the baldrick that held the Governor's rapier, and neatly bound the unfortunate man's ankles and wrists. As he tied the last knot Don Cristobal stirred, and opened his eyes. They fell on Beauvallet, seemed bewildered at first, and then as full consciousness returned, furious.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘I am sorry for it, señor, but you will admit I am hard-pressed.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘A churlish return for all your kindness, Don Cristobal, and I would not have had you think El Beauvallet so ungrateful a dog.’ He saw the look of consternation leap into the Governor's face, and laughed. ‘Oh yes, señor, I am El Beauvallet.’ As he spoke he was buckling the baldrick about his waist. ‘Señor, I must stow you away. Keep my sword in exchange for this of yours; it is a rare blade, and you may say with truth that you were the only man who ever took aught from Nick Beauvallet against his will. Now, señor, if you please.’ He had opened the door of the cupboard, and now he bundled Don Cristobal into it, and shut the door upon him. He picked up the cloak, fastened it about his shoulders, and disposed its ample folds about his person. The Governor's lace handkerchief and long cane lay on the floor; Sir Nicholas gathered them up, set the broad-brimmed hat well over his eyes, thanked God for a beard and a pair of mustachios very like Don Cristobal's, and walked to the door. As he laid his hand on the latch there was a scratching on one of the panels, and a man's voice called: ‘Señor, the coach waits.’

  ‘In a very good hour!’ thought Sir Nicholas. ‘God send I may brazen this out. I thank my luck that the light is behind me. Forward, El Beauvallet!’ He opened the door, and went calmly out into the passage.

  A servant stood there; Sir Nicholas
could not see his features plainly in the dim light of the passage, and hoped that his own were as well hid. He closed the door behind him, and motioned the servant to go before. The man bowed, and went ahead at once.

  Along the passage they walked to the stairs at the end. The servant stood aside there for Sir Nicholas to pass. Sir Nicholas went down the stairs unhurriedly and crossed the hall at the bottom.

  The front door was held open by a lackey, who stared to see his master coming so unconcernedly. He ventured to speak. ‘Señor – the lieutenant has just gone into the library in search of you. You have not heard, señor – the prisoner has escaped!’

  Sir Nicholas raised the handkerchief to his lips and coughed. Through the cough he said in as fair an imitation of Don Cristobal's voice as he could assume: ‘He is taken. The sergeant has my instructions.’

  He went past the lackey as he spoke, but he knew that the man was surprised, perhaps even suspicious, and there was not a moment to be lost. A coach with plumes upon the roof and curtains hung at the sides stood waiting. He got in. ‘I am late. Drive fast.’

  The coachman was agog with excitement. ‘Señor, the prisoner –’

  ‘The prisoner is safe!’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘Drive on!’

  The coachman gathered up the reins; the horses’ hooves clattered on the paving-stones, the coach moved slowly forward under the arch towards the open gates.