By
THOMAS A. H. MAWHINNEY

THE SWORD OF THE HOUSE OF DE MARILLAC ENGLISH OAK AND SPANISH GOLD

The Lance Was Almost Torn From His Grasp

THE MESSENGER
OF THE
BLACK PRINCE

By
THOMAS A. H. MAWHINNEY

Illustrated by
Manning deV. Lee

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1928

COPYRIGHT 1928
BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

Made in the U. S. A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. [The King’s Fool] 7 II. [I Am Attacked in the Woods] 22 III. [A Visitor in the Night] 31 IV. [A Trickster] 36 V. [What I Learned in the Woods] 48 VI. [We Hunt the Wild Boar] 59 VII. [The Black Prince] 69 VIII. [The Silver-Hafted Dagger] 82 IX. [A Solitary House in the Woods] 91 X. [The Highwayman of Tours] 107 XI. [I Find a Companion] 117 XII. [The Three Crows Inn] 123 XIII. [The Silver-Hafted Dagger] 133 XIV. [Pursued] 141 XV. [The Scrivener Disappears] 150 XVI. [The Scrivener Turns Traitor] 162 XVII. [On the Highway] 172 XVIII. [Escape!] 183 XIX. [On the Island] 190 XX. [No Man’s Land] 198 XXI. [The Defense of the Cave] 206 XXII. [Trapped!] 227 XXIII. [The Fight in the Inn] 239 XXIV. [Besieged] 247 XXV. [Friends and Enemies] 257 XXVI. [The Abbot of Chalonnes] 270 XXVII. [The Black Prince Again] 283 XXVIII. [Victory ... and Home] 292

ILLUSTRATIONS

[The Lance Was Almost Torn From His Grasp] Frontispiece [The Arrow Struck With a Click] 78 [They Came Into View From Among the Thick Trunks] 146 [His Countenance Was Black With Anger] 218

The Messenger of the Black Prince

CHAPTER I
THE KING’S FOOL

I remember the beginning of it as though it were yesterday. My brother André had sent me to the armorer’s to have some broken links mended in his gear. I was standing near the forge watching Le Brun send the sparks flying from his anvil and marveling with what strength and ease he was able to turn the stubborn bits of steel, when a man appeared at the door and with a smile bid us the time of day. There is nothing strange in that, to be sure. But yet the manner of his saying it struck us both, for his tone held a kind of sharpness as of mockery. I looked around quickly. Le Brun eased off the stroke as it came down. With a scowl upon his brow he leaned his weight upon the hammer. His big chest heaved as he glared towards the door.

“I agree, stranger,” he said. “It is a fair day.” He waved with his hand. “You will find the inn about half a league further down the road.”

It was a strong hint for the man to be on his way, but he took no more notice of it than if Le Brun were a child. Three quick steps and he was beside the bellows with the smile broader than before.

“Do I look like a man who could eat in an inn?” he demanded. At the same time he pointed to his clothes which were indeed only rags. He took the soiled cap from his head and threw it on the floor. Then, without a word he placed the palm of his hand upon it and turned the swiftest somersault that you could imagine. When he was standing upright again, he gazed into our faces with an expression as though he had performed the cleverest trick in the world.

“Look here!” growled the armorer with a frown. “You were here yesterday. I gave you a piece of silver to get rid of you. You are back again. Do you think——”

The fellow threw his hand in the air.

“Of course I am back again,” he cried. “Is it a crime for me to want to pay my debt?” With that he fumbled in the lining of his coat and brought forth a shining piece of gold. “There!” he called, flinging it on the anvil till it rang. “You have three times and more the sum you gave me!”

The slow-witted Le Brun looked at me and I at him. Both of us were sorely puzzled. The armorer shook his head.

“A beggar one day—a rich man the next,” he began. “There is but one conclusion——”

“Ah!” interrupted the other. “Do not say the word. It is ugly and I’d rather say it for you. The long and short of it is that you take me for a thief.”

“Gold doesn’t grow on trees,” remarked Le Brun darkly. “Listen, sir stranger,” he said advancing a step, “have you no honest calling?”

I thought the fellow would flare into a rage, but to my surprise he threw back his head and laughed a long trilling laugh almost like the song of a bird. When he ceased, he laid his palms on his hips and bowed mockingly at us.

“I told you yesterday that I was a fool,” he said. “I am the same today—a king’s fool. Look!” He put his hand into his coat again and drew out a silly-looking cap, which he placed over one ear, and a bauble with tiny bells. He shook it with the glee of a child. The more it tinkled, the broader grew his grin. As though he was actually captivated by the sound, he began to caper about and finally struck into a quickly moving dance.

He stopped as suddenly as he began. Then he bowed once more.

“Now,” he exclaimed, “can you tell me, sirs, where I can find a position?”

“—as a fool?” I asked with a smile.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Why,” I replied, “by what I have seen you are clever enough to amuse the King of France himself.”

He jerked his head around and shot a look at me. For one second I saw a flash of hate and anger. In the next a wise smile curled about his mouth.

“Strange words,” he muttered and repeated it. “Strange words to fall from the lips of a Norman lad. Have you all grown so weak? There was a time when the gentry of Normandy thought the only way to amuse the King of France was with spears and swords and battle-axes, not with such toys as these.”

He spoke slowly and with a half smile, but under it lay a sting that cut me to the bone. I cast a sidelong glance at Le Brun who stood scowling as black as night, but withal puzzled. He was no good hand at solving of riddles nor in the sifting of double meaning statements. His way was with a cuff or blow, and there an end to it.

“Is this a jest, sir Fool?” I asked. “Would you have the Norman barons arm themselves and fight when there is no need for it?”

For a reply all that he did was to break into a long low whistle and toss the bauble into the air. When it came down, he caught it with great deftness and twirled it about in his fingers. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“There was a meeting at Rouen——” he said and curled his brows, as though I ought to understand the rest.

“I know that,” I replied quickly. “There was a meeting of the Norman barons at Rouen——” Here I stopped and eyed him closely. “Such things were better left to themselves. For all I know, sir Fool, to give you a short answer, I may even be talking to a King’s spy.”

The man tossed his head to one side and uttered a little painful laugh.

“The Black Prince of England,” he went on as though he would brush my objection aside, “has left Bordeaux. He is ranging along the western coast of France. There is no one to oppose him. Not a soldier of the King is within a hundred leagues. He is toppling over one castle after the other——Suppose,” he said closing one eye and looking at me cunningly, “the King of France were to rush towards the west to destroy him? Would any of you Normans come to his aid?”

It was a question far too deep for my boyish brain. Besides I knew that silence was the beginning of caution, so I flung my hand in the air as though the affair were of no importance to me.

“From what I have heard,” I said, “the Black Prince is well able to care for himself.”

I saw an expression of contempt gather on his face.

“The meeting at Rouen was a blow to your country,” the man went on with more perseverance than ever. “A good dozen of your finest blood lost their lives. It’s a good thing,” he added with biting scorn, “that you were not there yourself!”

I was growing angry.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because,” he replied with cutting deliberation, “you would not have had the courage to raise an arm in your own defence!”

The hot blood stole slowly to my neck and face. I saw out of the corner of my eye that the armorer was rolling his sleeves up over his elbows, while one hand reached out for the hammer that lay alongside the anvil.

“Have you come here to pick a quarrel?” I demanded.

“As you wish,” he said and spat derisively upon the ground.

It was a challenge flung into my teeth. I was but a lad, of course, but for all that of big bone and strong from the life which I had lived in the open. My opponent was a man full grown and, from what I had just seen, as quick and slippery in his actions as an eel. For the moment in my wrath I took little heed of these things but knotted my fists together and advanced towards him.

I thought that if I could strike the first blow I could settle him once for all and so end his insolence. With a lunge that ought to have carried him off his feet I made at him. To my surprise I beat only into the empty air. The fellow had slipped to the one side with a light gliding motion that for quickness fairly took my breath away. Then, to add fire to my discomfiture, he calmly placed his hands flat upon his hips and stood smiling at me.

“A Norman calf!” he cried. “If the rest of your race can fight no better than that, it is no wonder that the King of France will soon devour you!”

I made no answer. The taunt struck me with the sharpness of a knife. If I was full of wrath before, I was boiling with anger now. I steadied myself on the balls of my feet and looked the fellow in the eye. Then, with greater quickness than at first, I rushed again upon him. But he was ready, even more than I had expected. Instead of leaping to the side, he jumped back and, as I came towards him, struck me a sharp blow on the face with his open hand.

By this time I was fighting mad, but rather at my own bungling than at his adroitness. I would have given my right arm to have caught him a single stunning crash. I plunged forward, reckless and determined to the last degree. Now he slipped past me so close that I was able to touch the sleeve of his coat. Again his hot breath touched my face. He came in so near that he gave my arm a twist. But with all my effort I could not lay a finger on him. It was like a game—a contest with speed on one side and strength on the other——

“Henri!”

It was Le Brun’s voice coming like a warning. I knew I had to be on the alert. But before I realized what my opponent was about, he had caught me by sliding his arm entirely under mine. I felt a twang run across my shoulder as though it was being wrenched from the socket. My feet loosed themselves from the ground and in the next second I was rolling over towards the anvil of the armorer.

But I was not entirely gone. With a kind of instinct I extended my hand to grasp whatever might save me from utter humiliation. It was mere luck, I know, but even at that I had to grit my teeth and hang on with what strength was still in me. My fist was closing around the Fool’s wrist and the surer I was of myself, the harder I held on. A sudden jerk brought him slightly towards me. A hard steady pull bent him still further. With a twist I threw myself with my back upon the ground. I had two hands free now and I wrapped both around his wrist with the sureness of a vise. He struggled like an animal taken in a trap. With the fingers of his free hand he tried to pry my grip loose. He twisted and squirmed. He dug his nails into my flesh. He jumped from one position to another. He pretended to fall towards me and then with his arms relaxed sprang suddenly back again. But I clung to him as though it were my only hope for life until his tugs and pulls spent themselves and I grew the more confident of victory.

His breath was getting shorter and a paleness overspread his face. It was now or never for me, so with one firm effort I drew him steadily down until his face was near mine and his feet kept tapping at my ribs. Then, he fell. His whole body covered mine. His knees dug into my stomach and the crook of his elbow fastened itself in my throat.

For a moment I feared I would choke. I had to let go his wrist with one hand to clear myself of his weight. As soon as I had shoved him away, I reached out to grasp him by the throat if I could, but in the same moment I felt him clutching at mine.

We were struggling with every sinew, each for the mastery. With a quickness that I might have been expecting, my opponent gave one final lurch. It was an effort that wrenched free the hand which I held in my grip. I tried again and again to clutch it, but I succeeded only in closing my fist in the air. I caught his body between my knees in the hope that I could squeeze the breath out of him. I squirmed this way and that. Now I had his arm or his wrist between my fingers, but before I was sure of myself he had twisted out of danger. We rolled over locked together like tangled pieces of twine, but with every rolling it was he, because of his adroitness, who came uppermost and it was I who was prone upon my back upon the ground.

At last the end came. By a piece of mere chance I had slid my arm forward with its entire length under his. Then with a twist of my wrist I laid my hand around his throat. His shoulder was like the resting place of a lever. I began to press steadily. His chin went back and his eyes turned upwards. A little more and his mouth opened showing a row of even white teeth. I was on the verge of tossing him from me when he squirmed once more, this time to the one side. He slid from out the vise that was closing in on him and almost with the same effort sprang quickly to his feet.

I jumped up of course, for I thought the conflict but begun when he raised his hand as though to tell me that he had enough and between the heavings of his breath called in a shaking voice, “I did not come here to fight!”

I almost laughed in his face.

“Why, then, did you come?” demanded Le Brun with a growl.

“I came to make friends!” was the answer.

“——to make friends?” I echoed. “Do you think a man makes friends through jibes and insults?”

By this time both of us had somewhat recovered our breath. In the most serious manner imaginable he threw his hands apart and looked from the armorer to me.

“It’s an unfortunate habit I have,” he exclaimed. “It lies in my disposition to dig to the bottom of things—to prod people till they squirm.”

“Some day,” said I by way of admonishment, “you’ll prod the wrong person. In such dangerous times as these, when everyone is the other’s enemy, it’ll likely cost you your life.”

He paid no more heed to me than if I had not spoken. As though he was aroused by a sudden curiosity, he half closed his eyes and made a mental measurement of me as I have often seen a buyer measure a horse. He took a step or two to the rear. He circled around me. I saw his lips move as though he was noting this or that to himself. Then, with the same ease and confidence as though we had been life-long friends, he came up to me and laid his fingers on the upper part of my arm.

“All brawn,” he said. “Tough. Great endurance, but a trifle slow in action.” And with a smile of satisfaction he clapped me heartily on the shoulder. “Can you fight?” he demanded.

I wrinkled my brows.

“I held my own with you, didn’t I?” I asked.

“Na. Na. Lad. Not that,” he said. “That was no fight. It was only a little rolling in the dirt. What I mean is this: Are you good with a sword, an ax or a dagger?”

“Well,” I answered slyly, “a bit ago you made an accusation. You upbraided me for being a Norman.”

His head came up with a jerk and the fire flashed from his black eyes.

“That was only a bit of my prodding,” he replied quickly. “I wanted to stir you up. Oh,” he cried when I looked questioningly at him, “you’ll all need stirring up. What skill you have in the handling of weapons will soon be sorely useful. Can’t you realize that the King of France is watching you like a cat watches a mouse?”

“I know,” I answered rather downcast, “he would like to add our territories to his own.”

By this time the armorer had returned to his forge. His great hairy arm lay along the shaft of the bellows. The sparks from the coals of peat flew like tiny shooting-stars towards the rafters. He was like a great ox, patient and plodding, that did not realize its strength.

“You are too much like him,” came the answer as the Fool pointed to Le Brun, “—powerful, but not far-sighted. What you ought to have is a bit of cunning to match your wits against your foes.”

I said not a word for I did not know exactly what he was driving at. With a toss of my head I ambled slowly towards the door. The Fool went with me talking and jabbering at my elbow. When we came to the threshold, he slid his body carefully along the wall and like a thief peered up and down the road with more than usual circumspection. Then as though he was thoroughly alarmed he spun about and took me anxiously by the arm.

“You won’t say that I have been here, will you?” he begged.

“Why,” I laughed, “as far as that goes I shall forget all about you within an hour.”

The expression on his face fell. He looked at me as though I had dealt him a terrible blow.

“No you won’t,” he exclaimed. “The fact is that you’ll remember me till your dying day. You’ll tell your children about me long after I’m dead.” Here he seized my arm again even more firmly than before. “I must be off,” he cried. “And you won’t forget, will you? Never breathe to a soul that I’ve been here!”

I was puzzled but yet more amused. I was sure that it was some whim or other that had taken hold of his fancy. So to flatter him I promised that his presence here would never be mentioned. With that he seemed pleased and with a skip and a hop he made his way around to the back of the forge where he was quickly lost among the trees.

To satisfy my own curiosity I gazed a long time up and down the road. There was nothing as far as I could see that could have given him cause for alarm. The whole highway was as void as a desert save that on the brow of the hill, like a speck in the sky, there came riding towards us a solitary horseman, booted and spurred, in all likelihood a guest for the village inn for the night. At most he was only a passing stranger like hundreds of others. I smiled at myself that I had taken the Fool so seriously. I went back to have my laugh out with Le Brun and to wait for my brother’s gear.

CHAPTER II
I AM ATTACKED IN THE WOODS

It was late in the afternoon when I left the armorer’s. The sky was covered with low dark clouds. A fine rain fell which cut through the skin with the keenness of a sharp knife.

Our house (where I lived alone with my brother André) lay above a mile from the village around a long bend in the road—a track I rarely traveled, for I knew a shorter path through the woods. So with my brother’s armor slung lightly over my shoulder I started briskly on my way.

I was without a serious thought. The birds, in the face of the oncoming night, were settled in their nests. The branches of the trees began to drip moisture over my face and neck. The grass and the underbrush were a bit soggy under my feet, but even with that the lightness of my heart prompted me to whistle a little tune.

I had gone about half way. The thoughts of a bright fire and warmth were uppermost in my brain. Save for the dripping of the rain the woods were as silent as an empty tomb.

A sound startled me—a swish like the hurry of a deer or a wild-boar scurrying through the weeds. I stopped and peered carefully through the gathering gloom. The sound was repeated, directly in front of me. Quite instinctively I backed away to seek the protection of the nearest tree, and waited. But for a second all I could hear was the thumping of my heart against my ribs.

After a little I began to feel that my fear was founded on imagination, so with cautious steps I slowly ventured once more ahead. I had not gone five strides when the swish came again to my ears, this time more distinct and very near. I was about to swerve to my left to avoid the danger that might be threatening me, when a rough-looking fellow stepped out of the semi-darkness and made towards me.

As well as I could distinguish, he was of the commoner type, clad in the wooden shoes of the peasantry and with a coat and breeches of some black material almost threadbare, crumpled and soiled from being lived and slept in. His hair hung out in clumps from under the edges of an old cap and around his neck was knotted a ragged scarf.

I caught all this in a flash, you may be sure. But what attracted me most was neither his clothes nor even his threatening aspect, for I started with terror when I caught a glimpse of a dagger that he held grasped in his right hand.

I stopped and drew a long breath. But he came on with the weapon raised on a level with his shoulder, and with his heavy eyes glaring at me as though I were a wild animal that was to be stricken to death. I shifted to the one side and he shifted likewise with me. I saw him moisten his lips and half-shut his eyes. With what quickness I could, I sprang further on and dodged safe for the moment behind a tree.

“My name is La Mar!” I called. “I am Henri La Mar. I live in that house over there at the edge of the woods.” I stopped long enough for him to understand. Then, “Surely you have made a mistake,” I cried still louder. “You must be waiting here for someone else!”

He lunged stupidly after me. The breath was coming from between his lips in a kind of a wheeze. At the same time he uttered in a deep growl, “La Mar. The old Count of Gramont—the rest of them”—and something which sounded like an oath, but which I was not able to understand.

We were within five feet of each other. All the time he held the dagger on high always ready to strike. It flashed through my senses that I was dallying long enough, so with a jump I flew away from my tree and made deeper into the woods.

But it seemed that I had run into a trap. I had not gone twice the length of my body when a second fellow, dressed the same as the first, confronted me. If you had stood the two together you could not have told the one from the other. And this one, too, had a dagger like the first and stood with his legs spread out to block my way.

I was as good as dead. I came to a stop as though I had struck a stone wall and then veered over to the one side as I did before. At the same instant I bent low and ran as fast as I could in the hope that, if my assailant made a lunge at me, there might be some chance that it would only be a glancing blow and do me little harm.

I had calculated too rashly on the sloth of my enemy. Indeed he was as sure of me as a hunter is of game that is already brought to earth. As I passed, he took one leap after me. His hand came down with the speed of an arrow and the next thing I knew I felt a jar in the middle of my back that sent the stars before my eyes and flattened me on my stomach on the ground. Then a shriek echoed among the trees that sent the blood curdling through my veins and after that the woods were still again.

I was partly dazed by my fall. To tell you the truth, by every right I ought to have been killed. But the armor which I had slung so lightly over my shoulder had saved me. When the blow struck, the point of the dagger caught in the meshes of the twisted links. The weapon was a straight knife with no cross piece to form a protection for the hand. The impact was so sudden and so unexpected that my enemy lost his grip on the haft. His hand slipped down the blade and, as I learned afterwards, was cut along the fingers and the palm. It was the pain of it that made him cry out and to that the frenzy of it caused him to take to his heels and run away.

There was danger on every side of me. I had no time to breathe a word of thanks for my deliverance but got up as quickly as I could and made forward in the direction I was bent on. Then came my third surprise. I had started at a fairly good gait when an arrow whistled past my face and buried itself in the trunk of a great tree. My flesh crept from the very terror of my situation. There was one thing to do, I thought, and that was to take the bridle in my teeth and make the best of it.

I plunged on ahead recklessly. I am sure that I was as white as a ghost. It is one thing to have an enemy in front of you with whom you are matched on even terms. It is another to be beset by lurking foes who are able to strike unseen and who have every advantage in position and in weapons. But even at that the spirit of desperation was strong within me, for I was resolved to use my last speck of strength to worm myself through the woods and to make for home.

But my resolutions were nipped in the bud before I had fairly formed them. I was just getting into full career when another arrow passed my face, this time closer than the first and whistled on among the trees. But I did not stop. I bent my head low to the ground. I grasped the piece of mail more firmly in my hand. I was breathing hard, but more from the strain I was under than from actual labor. Three strides further and a third arrow buried itself in the turf straight before me and snapped with a little click.

I could not help looking down for my face was directed towards the ground. To my amazement, even in the gloom of the woods, I spied a piece of parchment tied in a hard knot on the haft of the missile.

“A message,” I thought. “Is it a warning from a friend? Or a threat from a hidden foe?”

As quick as a flash I stooped and snatched it open. There I read in letters scrawled as coarsely and as rudely as a child would write the words:

GO BACK BY THE ROAD

I trembled a little, I must confess. Whether from friend or foe, it was wisest to obey. If I insisted on going on ahead, I knew I would surely be killed. If I were to go back—well, there was a ray of hope.

I turned. I was as much in the hands of Fate as ever was any man alive. This time I did not run but kept on at a steady gait. At every step I was in expectation of some fresh attack, to be confronted by one of the two men who had assailed me, or by a knife darting through the air, or even by an arrow. But to my surprise the woods were as calm as when I first entered them. The rain dripped slowly from the overhanging branches and the light wind fanned and cooled my heated cheeks.

I was soon past the place where I had met my first foe. To my imagination it was like a tale I had heard of a superstitious person’s passing a place haunted by a ghost. My eyes were on the alert. At any second I expected a fresh attack. I thought I heard a low groan. I let the thought pass as though it were the promptings of fear. Then I heard it again and with it some words that I could not understand. I looked about and there to my amazement I saw the fellow who had first threatened me with his back to a tree. A strong cord held his wrists tied together, while another wrapped around his body held him firmly fastened against the trunk.

At the sight of me he cleared his throat.

“Come here!” he commanded.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Will you loose these bonds?” he said.

“I know when I’m safe,” I replied. “I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

He growled something under his breath.

“If you do,” he went on half coaxingly and half in a threat, “I’ll tell you a story that’s worth while.”

“You’ve told me enough already,” said I, and started on my way.

But he was insistent.

“Wait,” he commanded once more. “Will you give me a mouthful of water, then?”

“There’s enough dripping from the trees,” I shot back at him. “Turn your face up and you’ll easily slacken your thirst.”

He growled deeper than before but he realized that I was not to be taken as lightly as he thought. I went on. There was no more interruption. The fellow with the wounded hand might have been lurking somewhere in the neighborhood. He might even be standing behind a tree. But as far as I was concerned, he did not appear and in quicker time than I had come in, I was out of the woods and on the road that led in a roundabout way to my home.

I breathed a great sigh of relief when I tramped up the gravel walk that led to the house. With no ado I pushed open the front door and entered. In the great hall there were two men, the one my brother André and the old Count of Gramont who lived in the castle on the hill. They had just finished lighting the candles. There was no fire in the open hearth and the room was cold and chilled with the damp. The old Count was pacing nervously up and down the floor muttering to himself in his deep rolling tones. My brother’s face was as white as chalk and lines of worry lay across his forehead. He was standing at the long oaken table that stood in the centre of the room winding a piece of linen about his lower arm. I did not speak for at the first glance I noticed that, as he wound, the blood kept oozing through the bandages from the place where he had been wounded.

CHAPTER III
A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT

I stood stock still in the middle of the floor. My brother looked at me from head to foot.

“Le Brun has been here, Henri,” he said calmly. And then in a low voice, “I was afraid that something had happened to you, you return so late.”

“Something has happened,” I burst forth and in shaking tones told him of my adventures in the woods.

“They are agents of the King,” cried the old Count. “They are everywhere about us. They are not satisfied that they have taken my son. They will——”

My mouth fell open in amazement.

“They have taken Charles?” I asked. “Is it true then that he was at the meeting at Rouen? You can——”

“It was a meeting of the nobles of Normandy,” he interrupted. “I thought I was too old to go myself so I sent my only son. They were to make plans to protect us against the aggressions of the King. But the secret leaked out. Some traitor in our ranks betrayed us. Every man in the gathering was taken. A full dozen were beheaded behind the walls of the town. A few were sent off as prisoners, to be scattered among the castles of the King.”

“—and Charles?” I cried.

The old man sighed and ground his teeth.

“He is on his way down the valley of the Loire,” he rumbled deep in his throat, “to be mewed up till the crack of doom.”

The blood left my face. A chill of horror ran through every limb.

“We shall bring him back, Henri,” said André with a ring in his voice. “If it takes the last drop of blood of the last Norman, we shall bring him back. But we shall have to wait.”

The old Count flung his hand in the air. The fire flashed from his eyes and he began to stride again across the floor.

“Wait!” he demanded. “Wait! That is the only word you know. We have waited long enough already. I’ll not bide another day.” He turned wildly towards the rack that held my brother’s arms. “I’ll take this,” he cried laying his strong hand upon a battle-ax. “I’ll go to the King, where he sits upon his throne. I’ll demand of him why he dared to lay his finger upon my son. I’ll offer him his choice, whether he will give me my son back—or perish at my feet.”

Here André raised his hand for peace.

“If you do that,” he said quietly, “you will only be playing into their nets. It will mean the destruction of us all.”

The Count flung himself into a chair.

“There’s one last fight in me yet, André,” he growled in his heavy voice. “I’ll summon a thousand archers from the countryside. I’ll find the castle where they have him prisoner. We’ll storm it and burn it to the ground.”

But André, who ever was on the side of wisdom, saw the folly of his intentions.

“If you do,” he warned, “it will only be a signal for an attack. The armies of France will sweep us from our homes.”

He took two or three paces to and fro in the room and returned to me. There was a smile of sadness on his face as he spoke.

“The Black Prince of England is our only hope,” he said.

“He is ravaging the western coast of France,” I told him. “It is his presence there that holds the King in check.”

He opened his mouth to answer but the long whine of one of the dogs out of doors interrupted him. We kept silent until the sound died away. Then he took up a tinder and went to the hearth.

“I shall make a fire,” he said. “The chill of the air has pierced me to the bone.”

I looked at his wounded arm.

“How did you get that, André?” I asked.

He laughed.

“We were attacked by knaves as we came along the road.”

The whine of the dog began again. Then like a chorus there arose a barking and yelping as though the whole pack of them had gone suddenly mad.

“There is someone in the yard,” muttered the old Count without raising his head. “I thought I heard the crunching of the gravel on the walk.”

With a kind of instinct I turned towards the window. I could not see clearly what it was, but there flashed across the pane what seemed to be the image of a man’s face. By the suddenness with which he moved away, it struck me that he must have been loitering there, peering in. My heart rose in my throat for I thought of the enemies who were lurking about the house.

I was on the verge of raising my hand to point and call out, when amid the sharp howling of the dogs there came a rapping on the panels of the door. Like a flash André sprang forward. Without a single weapon in case he was attacked he jerked the door open. The light of the candles shone dimly into the haze. For all that, I was able to see the figure of a man standing on the stone step. He was booted and spurred and clad from neck to heels in the long black cloak of a traveler. He wore a broad brimmed hat with a feather in it. When he saw the anxious expression on my brother’s face he smiled and touched his forehead like a salute. Then he bowed with the gravity of a courtier.

“May I come in out of the rain?” he asked.

CHAPTER IV
A TRICKSTER

Of all the men I ever saw this stranger struck my fancy to the highest degree. He strode into the room with as much confidence and poise as though he were the actual master of the house and we the humblest of his servants. He looked neither to the right nor the left. Yet, as he passed us, without shifting his gaze, he seemed to sweep each of us out of the corner of his eye with a glance that measured us from head to heel.

He stopped at the great oaken table and raised his hat with a sort of mincing delicacy. With a swish through the air he knocked the water from it and laid it carefully down. When he took off his cloak we saw that he carried a silver mounted sword and wore a doublet and breeches of the finest velvet ornamented about the edges with a fine lace. He curled his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. Then, with his hand over his heart and a bland smile on his face he turned and bowed with as much reverence as you would pay to a king.

“I’ll never forget this,” he said, but there his voice dropped so that the rest of it sounded like hollow mockery,“—this unexpected hospitality.”

André was the first to speak.

“It’s a sour night,” said he carefully eyeing the stranger’s wet boots and dripping clothes, “for a man to be abroad.”

The visitor gave a short laugh.

“A little warmth,” he replied with a nod towards the hearth, “would add greatly to my comfort.” He began to chafe his hands the one in the other as though he were frozen to the marrow. “Will you please bestir yourself!”

There was a ring of insolence in his tone. His words, though uttered smoothly, had a kind of sly meaning at the bottom that touched us to the quick. It was clear that he intended to nettle us. The old Lord of Gramont squared his shoulders. He let out a low quiet whistle and walked away. But André, who was quicker and more easily hurt, flushed the color of scarlet and knotted his fists.

For a moment there was empty silence. Our visitor looked at each of us in turn with the corners of his lips curved in a taunting smile. He strutted past the hearth with his spurs clanking and glanced with a sneer about the room.

“I have often heard that the cattle in Normandy were better housed than their masters,” he began. “It’s even colder here than it is out of doors.”

“That is one reason why we are so healthy,” replied my brother looking him full in the face. “And that is why we are so strong.”

The stranger broke out into a loud laugh.

“Why, man,” he exclaimed, “you have more wit than I imagined.” He bowed low again. “It is to your credit, sir.”

André yawned.

“It is indeed cold,” he said. “But your tongue has a chill all of its own. Do you know, my friend, I should have had a fire going by this time if you——” But he stopped short, knowing that as a host he should not be the first to openly offend.

But the stranger tossed back his head. He clapped my brother soundly on the shoulder.

“I shall finish it for you,” he cried. “You meant to say, ‘—if I had not come into the house.’” He flung his arm in the air in a wild gesture of mirth. “You too have a tongue in your head. To tell you truly I am amazed, for at first sight of you I thought you nothing but a country dullard!”

With that he stared brazenly into André’s face. Then with the lightness of a feather, he spun around and threw himself into one of the chairs.

My brother went as white as chalk. For a second he seemed stupefied. Then a redness swept over him. He walked deliberately to the rack that held the arms. The old Lord of Gramont halted where he had been pacing half way across the room and looked sharply back. As for me my breath stuck in my throat.

André returned bearing a naked sword in his hand.

“There is no light outside of the house,” he said. “We must finish, what we have begun, here.”

The other arose. The same taunting smile played around his mouth.

“I had not thought you would have the courage,” he remarked. And then, “Will you stain the floor of the house with your own blood?”

My brother took his position but, for a second, the old Count of Gramont interfered.

“Will you tell us your name?” he asked the stranger. “In case anything happens, it will be well to know.”

“My name?” repeated our visitor laying his finger-tips on his chest, and with the shadow of a bow. “I am called the Sieur De Marsac. To all with whom I am acquainted, a faithful servant of his Majesty, the King.”

There were no words more. The swords rang in the air. De Marsac began as though it were only a fancy play, my brother with all the seriousness of his nature. There was a difference between the two that was soon seen. Our visitor had the advantage in litheness and in trickery. André was the better in strength of wrist and in driving into his enemy with force and steadiness.

The fight began with a few light thrusts and parries that on each side were only trials of the other’s skill. Then of a sudden De Marsac unleashed a savage attack. His sword came darting in like the fangs of a snake with the point directed towards André’s heart. A part of a second and it would have been too late, but my brother, who, I saw, was making sure of his defense, swung his weapon to the side and caught his enemy’s blade, steel against steel. The swords locked at the pommels like the horns of deer and for a second the two stood glaring into each other’s eyes.

It was here that André’s sturdiness showed itself, for it was a test of the one man’s brawn against the other’s. My brother’s jaws came together with determination. The veins in his neck swelled. He raised himself slowly on the balls of his feet and pressed forward with all his might. A cold look came into De Marsac’s eyes and a frown crossed his forehead. I saw him go back little by little on his heels. His arm was bending in towards his body. André took a step forward and our enemy to save himself from being thrown off his balance sprang quickly backwards.

De Marsac began anew. His smile of confidence faded into seriousness. He tried again with a few feints to find an opening in my brother’s defense. Each time he was blocked with neatness and surety. Each time he drew back with a scowl. The color in his face gave way to a pallid white. His breath came short. But there was a look of gathering hate on his countenance and a shifting expression in his eyes that roused me in alarm.

“Look out for a trick, André!”

It was foolish for me to cry out. It is no thing to do when men are in a conflict that means life or death, for in the second when he heard my voice, my brother shot a look towards me that told me as plainly as words that he knew what he was about. But I had given De Marsac his opportunity. In that brief moment when my brother’s eyes were turned, our enemy sprang forward with the quickness of a tiger. The light of the candles ran like a flash along his blade. His arm, the sleeve of black velvet and fancy lace, straightened itself in the direction of my brother’s chest.

But for the terror that I felt, I would have closed my eyes, for in the next breath I expected to see André fall. But instead he showed a nimbleness that I never dreamed was his. Like a spring he was down and up again. By the breath of a hair De Marsac’s weapon passed over his shoulder. Our enemy’s body was open for the fatal blow and my brother, heated with the conflict, wrapped his knuckles about his sword to strike his insulter to his feet.

His sword came forward. He had put one foot before the other to drive home the blow with all the might that lay in him. The point caught De Marsac in the middle of the chest as straight as ever a thrust was aimed and, I am sure with as much power behind it as any average man can put.

I expected to see our enemy crumble to the floor—dead. To our extreme amazement, as André struck, we heard a sharp click. The sword which De Marsac held, fell, to be sure, rattling to the floor. But no blood flowed, and his body, as though it had been violently pushed, or struck by a man’s fist, tumbled back. He tried to keep on his feet but was too far gone. He measured his length on the floor and in falling knocked his head against one of the legs of the long oaken table.

It was the old Count of Gramont who spoke first.

“A coat of linked mail!” he cried running over to him. “He wears a coat of mail under his velvet jerkin.”

De Marsac was stunned. The old Count caught him roughly by the shoulder and jerked him to his feet.

“A trickster!” he shouted in his face. “You are a low-born coward.”

De Marsac never uttered a word. He blinked and ran his hand over his eyes till they cleared. The old smile of cunning curled around his lips, but this time it was mingled with contempt and hate.

“You Norman dogs!” he hissed. “Do you think I would match my life with yours?”

The old man went white with anger. He held his big hand out at arm’s length. He curled it slowly into a knot of a fist and took a deep breath. With what force he could summon he whirled about and struck De Marsac a hard blow in the face. We had not expected it and I think De Marsac was taken by surprise too. His knees sagged under him and his arms fell limp at his side. He would have fallen, had not the old Count caught him again by the shoulder and pushed him into a chair.

“You are not the first of your breed that this fist has struck down,” he cried. “In the days gone by it has wielded a battle-ax that laid dozens of your countrymen low. If the time comes,” he added darkly, “it is still strong enough to match itself with another foe.”

He took to pacing once more up and down the hall. André walked quietly to the rack and put his sword away. When he came back he picked up De Marsac’s weapon where it had fallen and handed it to him.

“You will have no further need of this,” he said in an even tone, “—at least while you are here.”

Of the four of us in that room it was De Marsac who first regained his poise. The sting of the rebukes which had been flung into his face soon faded away. He arose without a look at any of us and took his coat over his arm. Then he put his hat upon his head and snapped his sword back into its scabbard. Without a word he walked towards the door and as he went I thought I saw his former jauntiness returning.

“Gentlemen,” he said with his fingers on the latch and in a voice of sneering mockery. “You have won tonight, for it is difficult for a man to fight two against one. There will come another meeting when there will be fairer odds. At that time I promise you a different ending to the story.”

None of us answered. He closed the door behind him quietly and with no show of anger passed out of the house.

I breathed a long sigh.

“I’m glad he’s gone,” I said.

My brother and the old Count exchanged glances.

“There’s something back of that fellow,” said André. “We must be on our guard for I think we shall hear from him again.”

We sat for almost an hour. None of us stirred except André who busied himself in making a fire. When the blaze had spread warmth about the room he came and sat down with us again. A tiny spot of blood was oozing through the bandages.

“It’s from the exertion,” he explained with a smile. “I wonder if the fellow who attacked us on the road was a hireling of De Marsac?”

At that the dogs began barking and yelping as they did before. The old Count of Gramont started to the door, but before he reached it, it flew wide open. It was De Marsac who burst into the room. He must have fallen into the mud for his velvet breeches were splattered with clay. A wild look shone from his eyes and he was of the color of death.

“An attack has been made upon my life!” he cried.

We rose from our seats.

“I was making down the road towards the armorer’s where I left my horse. I was set upon by a band of men. Look here!” he exclaimed and drew an arrow from under his cloak. “But for the coat of mail I was wearing this would have gone through my heart!”

“Have you enemies in the neighborhood?” demanded the old Count.

“There are enemies following me,” declared De Marsac. “There is one who would snap out my life as you would snap a piece of straw. But this is not his work. This is the work of another.” Terrified, he looked around the room. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’?” he asked.

“No. Who is he?” we cried together.

“A highwayman,” he answered. “—a bold desperate highwayman. For a month at a time he terrifies the countryside. Then he disappears. Miles and miles away he is heard from again. He is seldom seen. He works alone. It is his disguises that trick people. He can masquerade as a nobleman, a beggar, a soldier—anything.”

He flung himself into a chair but was up in a flash again.

“Gentlemen, we have had our little dispute,” he said hurriedly. “It is all over now and done with. You see I cannot venture out into the night without fear for my life. In the name of your hospitality I am going to ask you to let me rest here until the morning.”

The old Count looked warningly at my brother and silently shook his head ‘no.’ But André, who was easily touched on the softer side, arose and bowed.

“I offer you every courtesy,” he said quietly. “It is past midnight and no doubt you are weary from your ride. I shall light you to your room.”

He took the candle and went before. In a few minutes he was down again.

“I could not do otherwise,” he explained.

“He is not to be trusted, André,” I said.

“The man’s a rogue,” added the Count of Gramont. “If I were you, André, I would put a guard about the house. There’s something brewing that we have no knowledge of.”

“I shall have one of the servants watch in the hall upstairs,” my brother said. “Another will stay here during the night. We must learn what his purpose is so that we can meet the situation. In the morning if he smiles again, I shall be like honey to him. I think that is the better way.”

The old Count laughed in his throat and grunted.

“If this were my house,” he said, “I would make short work of him.”

And he made a sign that meant that he would string him to a tree.

We were all tired. One by one we bade each other goodnight and went to bed.

CHAPTER V
WHAT I LEARNED IN THE WOODS

The next morning when I awoke the sun was shining big and fairly warm. The chill of the night before had yielded to a gentle breeze that blew now steadily from the south.

I heard the clatter of pots and pans in the pantry below. The fresh odor of small bacon was wafted to my nostrils. In fits and starts the low rumble of men’s voices arose like the heaviness of distant thunder here and there between a loud laugh that echoed high against the rafters.

By this I knew it was time that I was stirring. As fast as I could I washed and dressed myself and hurried down the stairs. I laid my hand on the latch to enter when another burst of laughter louder than the others smote upon my ears. I thought that some travelers or friends from the neighborhood were making a morning call, so I jerked open the door and with a smile of greeting entered the room.

In the next breath I stood stock still. There were but three men at the table—the old Count of Gramont, my brother André and the intruder of the night before. But what struck me first was that they were in the merriest of moods. The old Count was grinning and staring hard before him. André with his face in his palms was smiling like a pleased child. And De Marsac, as vivacious as a young colt, was babbling and talking like a running brook. His face was flushed. He was waving his hands as wildly as a windmill.

I never saw men so completely changed. It was all sham I knew—a kind of play in which the one was trying to beguile the other. There was no sincerity in their actions or their words. For a second I was amazed.

De Marsac must have seen the puzzled expression on my face. He leaped from his seat and hastened towards me. With the same show of outward delight with which you would greet an old acquaintance, he clapped my hand in his and tucked it under his arm.

“A sound sleeper,” he cried. “An easy mind.” And then, as though it were an amusing thing for a lad of my age to have a mind at all, he turned with a knowing gesture and broke into a laugh.

I flushed uncomfortably. I tried to withdraw from his grasp. But the more I pulled, the more firmly I felt the pressure of his arm. At length the two of us reached the seat which I usually occupied. Here he let go. As I sat down he continued to stand before me. With his hand over his heart he bowed pretty much as he had done the night before. Then he straightened himself again and laid his palm upon my shoulder.

“Here is what I call the makings of a man,” he said to the Count and André in tones like an orator. “Strong arms. Sturdy limbs.” He let his eye run the length of my body. “A great fighter some day—and a stubborn one. Is it not true, Henri?”

I smiled a sour smile, for his mockery was all too clear. He was, to my discomfort, treating me like a baby. He took his seat next to me. Then he began to pile my platter high with meat and wheaten cakes and poured a noggin full of whey. I sat there like a log, boiling within and wishing him out of the way.

“We’ll be great friends yet, won’t we, Henri?” he said in a soft sneering tone. “You know I was down to the armorer’s long before you were out of bed. My horse has gone lame. It’ll be three or four days before he’ll be well again. In the meantime I’m going to be your guest.” He stopped and drummed lightly on the table. “You’ll be glad of that, won’t you, Henri?”

I went on eating.

“I’ll be sorry,” said I, “—for the horse.”

At that he turned to the Count and my brother, breaking out into a loud laugh, like a father whose child has said something unusually clever.

“Henri and I are going into the woods today,” he went on in the same annoying voice. “After that we’ll pay a visit to the forge. I want to show him my horse.” Then he added slowly, “You can ride, can’t you, Henri?”

“As well as any of them,” I answered and went on hurrying through my meal.

De Marsac saw that I was nettled. He dared not drive his cajolery too far, for my brother was looking at him with half closed eyes, and the old Count had arched one brow gazing at me to see how I was standing his thrusts.

At length our visitor turned his conversation to the older men. He chattered like a magpie. One story followed the other with flashes of wit between. The spirit of merriment which was in the air when I entered the room came back. I saw my chance. As quietly as I could I arose and slipped softly out of the door.

With a feeling of relief I turned the corner of the house and was making down the gravel path when I heard a crunching of the stones behind me. I cast a glance over my shoulder. To my discomfort there was De Marsac coming quickly after me. He had his head thrown back and with his eyes towards the sky was whistling an air.

“Ah,” he exclaimed when I turned, “you are going somewhere?”

I stopped.

“To the armorer’s,” I said shortly. Then in the hope that he would leave me to myself, “I have business there—of a private nature.”

My hint fell flat. In a kind of running walk he caught up to me and said, “That’s fine. We’ll go together.”

I would have run away had I been able. Why was I to be bothered by a man who was nothing but a nuisance and a pest? I tried to think of one excuse or other to rid myself of him. None came, so for the while I made the best of it.

We went on in silence. He had his head in the air looking brightly about. I had mine down for I hated even the sight of his face. After a little he made a jab or two but they failed. When he saw that his nonsense was of no purpose he turned serious and prodded me with all kinds of questions.

He showed an interest in the extent of our land. In a sly way he got out of me how far it ran and what crops it bore. Then he mentioned the old Count of Gramont and the size of his estates. He touched on the strength of his castle on the hill—the number of men which he kept under arms—the revenues that came from his possessions in the valley and what wealth he was said to have.

You may be sure that I told him as little as I could. In some respects I was as good a play-actor as he, for to most of his questionings I had but one stupid answer, “I don’t know.” If it was his intention to treat me like a dunce, I was more than willing to act the part of one.

Finally a fresh thought came to me. I halted of a sudden and stepped away from him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I’m not going to the armorer’s. I’m going through the woods.”

He let his arms fall to his sides.

“—through the woods?” he asked. “Why?”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I had an accident there last night,” I replied. “I should like to see what became of a certain man.”

He rolled his eyes as though he was thinking—trying to measure me in his mind.

“What’s your game, Henri?” he asked. His voice was low but I felt a threat lurking in it.

I began to explain.

“You see, as I was coming home last night, I happened upon two men who were quarreling in the woods,” said I, watching his face closely.

“Yes,” he answered.

“The one got the better of the other,” I went on, “and the man who lost was tied by the victor to a tree.”

He did not change his expression, but looked steadily into my eyes.

“Dead?” he demanded.

“No. Alive.”

The breath came back to him. He tried not to show it but a faint smile of satisfaction played around his mouth.

“I understand you now, Henri,” he went on. “You have a good heart. If he is still there, you want to set him free.”

With that he clapped my arm under his as he had done just before breakfast. With a little more hurry than was necessary he made with me towards the woods.

I led him to the spot where I thought the man was lashed to the tree. But the only trace of him we found was a length of rope. It was frayed and worn at the ends. No doubt he had set himself free by hours of rubbing against the rough bark. The ground about the trunk was stamped and torn as though by the marching of a hundred feet.

“The villain’s gone,” I remarked.

“Why do you call him a villain?” De Marsac came back at me with his soft sneer.

“Because, Sieur De Marsac,” said I with more boldness than caution, “he tried to take my life.”

De Marsac whistled.

“And he failed?” he said. His voice flattened as though it was a thing he regretted. Then he came close to me. “Do you know, Henri,” he continued in the same slow tone, “any of us might be killed without a moment’s warning. There is a man following me at this very minute who is thirsting for my life.”