The Messenger of the Black Prince 11

The Messenger of the Black Prince 11

A flush of wrath colored De Marsac’s face, but slowly died out to a dead

white. With his eyes shifting and shining, I thought with murder in

them, he flouted my brother once again.

 

“You are wasting words, my friend La Mar,” he sneered. “The whole brood

of you is like a dying candle. It is hardly worth the snuffing out.”

 

My brother heard this with the coolness and firmness of a rock. When the

last syllable of De Marsac’s scorn faded in the air, André planted his

feet squarely on the ground. Then, with his open palm, he struck that

other a stinging blow across the face.

 

“You have brought your sword, De Marsac,” he said in an even voice. “By

good fortune I also have brought mine.” Here he laid his hand upon the

pommel. “We were interrupted once. We can continue——”

 

Before he could end the sentence the steel was in the air. Both men in

their eagerness stepped in close to each other. The blades rang out as

they crossed up to the hilts. They both drew back again and made a

wicked exchange of thrust and parry. They played fast and furiously at

arm’s length. They shifted swiftly on the loose ground. Then, after De

Marsac missed his aim at a point above the heart, André touched him

lightly with the point of his sword upon the ear.

 

“Your armor, De Marsac,” he cried with a mocking laugh, “makes it

difficult. To kill you I must strike you in the neck or face.”

 

De Marsac, at the first blood, had drawn back. He was gathering his

sword in his hand for another trial, when a dark shadow came towards us

from behind the trees. It was the figure of a man with an oaken staff in

his hand. And before any of us could stir he called out in a deep voice

as though he was applauding the stroke he had just seen the single word:

“Bravo!”

 

I gave a little start, for the suddenness of his appearance surprised

me. And as though they had heard a command both my brother and De Marsac

lowered their blades and gazed, one with curiosity, the other with alarm

at the stranger.

 

He was clad entirely in black from the close-fitting cap upon his head

to the toes of his fine leather boots. His doublet encircled his chest

with the tightness of a drum and was of a rich cloth, durable but

severely plain. As far as I could see he was without weapons of any sort

save the knotted staff which he had in his hand.

 

He was what you might call of medium height and build. But the longer

you looked at him, the more you grew aware of some hidden strength that

lay within. His face was square and large boned and of a ruggedness of

color that bespoke a life in the open. His eyes were deep set in their

sockets. When he looked at you the steadiness of his gaze was midway

between a frown and a scowl. He moved like a man who was accustomed to

time his actions to the moment, but withal with such lightness and ease

that constantly reminded you that, at the slightest need, he could

spring forward with the litheness of a tiger and strike with the

swiftness of lightning.

 

He remained for a while standing looking from my brother to De Marsac.

Then, of a sudden he laughed. But it was a laugh that had no mirth in it

but which rang like a mocking echo through the trees.

 

“Still at your old tricks, I see, De Marsac,” he said as he advanced.

“You have profited little from the lesson that I so lately taught.”

 

De Marsac’s hand shook. He rested his sword with the point upon the

ground. He shifted uneasily, glancing in one direction then another. The

flush on his face died out to the whiteness of parchment.

 

He breathed. “Ah!” he cried, but his voice choked. “You!”

 

The man in black folded his arms across his chest and let his club swing

lightly from between his fingers.

 

“Yes,” he said. “We have a little argument to settle between us. You

will remember we began one but never finished.”

 

De Marsac flashed a look of hate at the man.

 

“I have not done with him there,” he said, pointing at André. “After

this——”

 

The stranger grinned and raised his brows.

 

“From what I have seen, De Marsac, there may be no ‘after this’,” he

said. “You know how disappointed I would feel to see you die!—that is by

hands other than my own! Would you have me call you a coward in the

presence of these witnesses?”

 

“‘Coward’?” echoed our enemy. “You can’t say that. You know I fought you

like a man until——”

 

The stranger mocked him again.

 

“Yes,” he said. “You did. That is—until you ran away!”

 

De Marsac’s eyes sought the ground. He was like a rat that is cornered.

A heavy frown crossed his brows and he ground his teeth in rage.

 

“Come!” The man in black coaxed him. “I shall give you every advantage.

You have a sword there in your hand. I have only an oaken staff. Could I

offer you easier terms?”

 

There was no way out of it. This our enemy saw. Like a man who will risk

all on one cast, without a sign of warning, he sprang with all his

quickness with his sword pointed outwards at his foe. So fast was he

that I feared he would kill him on the spot. But the man in black must

have expected such a move. As lithely as a cat he stepped to one side.

De Marsac, with no object to bring him to a stop, plunged furiously

headlong and fell stumbling to the turf.

 

It was as ridiculous a situation as I ever saw. My brother and I,

forgetful of the seriousness of the moment, let out loud peals of

laughter. The stranger hardly stirred and that only to follow his enemy

guardedly with his eyes. De Marsac was filled with shame and wrath that

he had been so smoothly outwitted. He raised himself cautiously on his

hands and knees and looked around. Then, seeing that he was not

threatened, he sprang again to his feet and faced his foe.

 

There followed a single exchange that I shall not forget as long as I

shall draw the breath of life. De Marsac raised his sword on high, as

you would a battle-ax, and with all the force he could summon started a

blow. If it had ever reached its mark, it would have split the

stranger’s skull in twain. But the man in black was this time even more

alert than he had been before. With a quick step he jumped in close to

his foeman’s body. He raised the oaken staff over his head. He caught

the blade on it as it descended. The edge of the steel must have cut

deep into the wood, for it held there as firmly as though it were in a

vise. A quick twist of the wrist and it was torn from De Marsac’s grasp

and flew twirling and spinning in the air. Like a bird that has been

pierced by an arrow it came down and clattered to the earth.

 

The man in black showed no more concern than if he were plucking a

flower from a field. He went over and took the sword in his hand. He ran

his fingers along the blade and wiped away the clay that had stuck to it

where it had fallen. Then with the utmost deliberation, he snapped it

across his knee and tossed the pieces contemptuously at De Marsac’s

feet.

 

“I could crush the life out of you now, De Marsac,” he said, “with this

club of mine. Or for a second time I might let you go.” He hesitated as

though he was thinking and with a snap of his fingers said, “Pshaw! What

are you to me but a worm crawling on the ground.”

 

De Marsac uttered not a word. He stood with his arms at his side, his

body swaying slightly waiting for a new turn in the affair. The man in

black took to pacing up and down. For a moment he was deep in thought as

though he had forgotten our existence. Then he looked suddenly up and

with heavy brows addressed our enemy.

 

“Go back to your King, De Marsac,” he growled, and with a sweep of his

hand as commanding as an emperor. “Tell him that I defy him to his

teeth. Tell him that before the year’s end I shall sweep him from his

throne.”

 

De Marsac frowned. He glared at the stranger with hate and anger in his

eyes. Then, hesitating with every step, he made slowly towards the

trees. When he felt himself secure, he faced us and raised his arm on

high.

 

“It is you who will be blotted from the earth,” he cried. “Before the

year’s end we shall meet again. We shall see then who will have the

upper hand.”

 

With that he disappeared among the trees.

 

The man in black continued his pacing up and down upon the ground. What

André and I had seen and heard cautioned us to keep our peace. At length

he stopped and raised a finger in warning.

 

“I caution you,” he said, “that that fellow will be back again. He’ll

scheme and plan until he gets revenge. That’s the kind of vermin the

King of France sends out to stir up trouble among the Norman barons. You

did wrong to let him cross the threshold of your house.”

 

Once more he paced to and fro. No doubt he was thinking some matter to

the bottom. We stood open-mouthed, wondering at his confidence and his

bearing. The next time he halted it was of another matter that he spoke.

 

“The heir of Gramont is gone,” he said. “He was taken a prisoner down

the valley of the Loire. Is it to your interest to have him back?”

 

“He was like a brother to us,” said André, “and the son of my father’s

warmest friend. We would gladly give our lives for him. I am sure in

like predicament he would do the same for us.”

 

The man’s eyes lit up with a kind of fire. His jaws tightened. By the

flicker of a smile that played about his mouth I was sure he was pleased

with André’s answer.

 

“The old spirit of the Norman race is with you yet,” he said, “tough and

stubborn to the last. It is a good sign. If you will bring Charles of

Gramont back, let one of you go down the valley of the Loire. It will be

a dangerous undertaking, for you will be among the enemies of your