The Messenger of the Black Prince 13

The Messenger of the Black Prince 13

“My Lord,” he said with the utmost seriousness, “I am alone. I lack

company. Will you be gracious enough to dine with me?”

 

At that he straightened up and smiled.

 

“I am no lord,” I answered with a twinkle in my eye. “Nor am I hungry. I

have a long ride ahead of me and must be on my way.”

 

With that I made to be off. But the scrivener seemed to have no hearing.

He clapped his cap upon his head and with a skip was out in the middle

of the road.

 

“If you are not a noble,” he said with his grin spreading from ear to

ear, “you ought to be. But I am sure of one thing——” He let the last

words trail in the air as though he would puzzle me.

 

“What’s that?” I asked.

 

“Your horse is!” he cried. And then he bent over and laughed as though

he had made the smartest remark in the world.

 

I was feeling uneasy. The thought came to me that I was wasting my time

with a madman and the sooner I could get off from him the better.

 

“Well,” I replied dryly, “maybe he is. But don’t let me interrupt your

meal.”

 

I looked down the road to let him know that I was anxious to be off. The

hint was wasted, for he stepped in close to the roan and started to

stroke him on the neck, muttering and mumbling to himself words of the

highest praise.

 

He twisted his head to the one side like a bird on a perch and winked at

me knowingly.

 

“Do you know what I’d give for this horse?” he demanded.

 

“He’s not for sale,” I said with some abruptness. But he went on as

though I had not spoken.

 

“I’d give everything I have,” he burst out. “I’d give my parchment, my

inkhorn and my quills. And I’d be willing to forget all I know of the

art of writing, if I could call him my own!”

 

I almost laughed in his face.

 

“You’re generous, master scrivener,” said I, and once more gathered in

the reins.

 

But he was not to be so easily shaken off. He made a pretense of great

affection for the animal. He laid his cheek against its head. He took to

stroking its mane. Then he looked up into my face with a cunning leer.

 

“Do you know,” he began slyly, “I don’t believe the horse is yours at

all.”

 

“What!” said I. “Do you take me for a thief?”

 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, raising his brows. “I’ve hit a soft spot, now,

haven’t I? Why, it’s true then that you gentlemen of the road are as

touchy as a flock of crows.”

 

I was almost overcome. That I would be taken for a highwayman was far

from what I had ever dreamed.

 

“Look here!” I called. “Take your hand from that horse. I’ll give you

till I count ‘three.’ If you’re not out of the way then, I’ll ride you

down.”

 

The scrivener paid me no more attention than he would a fly. Without

taking his eyes from me, he reached into his belt and drew forth a

dagger. As he held it in the air, I saw that it was of unusual value and

workmanship. The blade was as thin as a blade of grass and rang to his

touch like the finest steel. Besides, the haft shone with a brightness

that could hardly be believed, for it was not only of the clearest

silver but was set with a scattering of brilliant stones.

 

“Let’s start the bargaining over again, my lord,” he said. “Will you

exchange your horse for this?”

 

I was at my wit’s end. I was sure now that he was not only a madman but

a knave as well. The longer I lingered there with him, the more

dangerous seemed my situation. I set my jaws in resolution. He must have

noticed the __EXPRESSION__ on my face, for he reached out and grasped the

bridle firmly in his hand. At the same time he held out the weapon in

the hope it would strike my fancy.

 

“Who is the thief now, master scrivener?” I asked.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to have it?” he questioned with another sly wink.

“It’s yours for the taking—if you will only give me your horse.”

 

At that he began tossing the dagger over his head and with much deftness

catching it again in his hand. I sat watching him with anger swelling in

my heart. Higher and higher the dagger went. The more difficult the

catch, the easier it seemed to him. At length it rose far over his head,

spinning and twirling like a leaf in the wind. Then a thought came to

me. With one grasp I reached far out. By merest chance I caught the

weapon by the hilt. I sank my heels into the horse’s flank. In his

amazement the scrivener loosed his hold on the bridle and I was free

from him.

 

Before I was out of hearing I drew the horse to a stop. I turned and saw

the scrivener standing in the middle of the road. He had his hands flat

over his hips and was grinning with all his might.

 

I held the dagger on high.

 

“Do you see this?” I called. “I am going to keep it until I find the man

to whom it belongs.”

 

His answer sent the chills down my spine.

 

“Fine!” he shouted. “Take it to the Abbot of Chalonnes!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX

A SOLITARY HOUSE IN THE WOODS

 

 

The rest of that day passed pleasantly enough. To be sure, there were

wayfarers whom I met. I remember most distinctly a few scattered

soldiers with heavy beards who talked deep and boastingly in their

throats. Then there came a barber with a satchel in his hand. He had a

white curled wig on his head and a comb tucked jauntily in the side of

it over his ear. No doubt he was going the rounds among his customers,

the gentry of the neighborhood. By the mincing way in which he walked,

the fancy lace upon his sleeves and collar, together with the display of

a red waistcoat and a pair of polished silver-buckled shoes he must have

thought himself equal to any doctor of Physic of the great university of

Bologna.

 

He doffed his cap to me with some show of delicacy. He began to ask me

if any great houses lay in the direction from which I had come, where he

could earn a handful of groats. He told me that if there were any sick

in the neighborhood, he could make them well again by the skill he had

in cupping and leeching. I knew that barbers had the reputation as idle

gossips, so I answered as evasively as I could. Then, when he saw that

he was strumming on the wrong string, he grew bolder and more direct. He

said flatly that I needed a little care myself. He invited me down from

the horse. He assured me that, if I would sit on a stone on the side of

the road for the space of half an hour, he would make a new man of me by

the application of his art.

 

But my experience with the scrivener had been enough. I knew that it was

best to deal with this new nuisance as deftly as I might. I first said

that he looked the master of his trade in every way. At which he puffed

up like a pigeon and seemed highly flattered. Then I slowly let him know

that my stock of money was very low, that I could hardly reckon on a

resting place for the night (which of course was true) and that I was

cautioned to be careful in the expenditure of every single coin.

 

I might have gone further. But when my lack of money became known to

him, he dropped his smile and shot a look at me that had poison in it.

He picked up his satchel, grumbling and growling under his breath, and

with a remark about beggars riding on horseback, quickly strode away.

 

The next was a fellow with a cart, or rather a wagon on two wheels. He

had shafts to it and instead of a horse had fastened himself to them by

a strap similar to a yoke which reached over his shoulders. He was twice

the size of an ordinary man. The rolls of fat hung under his chin and

across his stomach in great layers. He came along puffing and snorting

and mopping the sweat from his brow. At the same time he seemed as happy

as a lark, for he was whistling a light tune as merrily as could be.

 

He no sooner saw me than he lowered the cart on two props and disengaged

himself from his harness. I was now so near that I saw that he had a

kind of traveling show such as often stopped in our village in the early

Spring. Only this fellow had no performing bear on a rope or a monkey or

an acrobatic clown, but piled high on the cart, row after row, were

small wooden cages. In each cage was a bird. Along the bottom were the

parrots and then the further up they went the smaller the birds became

until at the top sat perched the tiniest of wrens.

 

I was agog with curiosity. When I came within earshot the big fellow

stepped out into the middle of the road. His smile spread the width of

his broad face. He bowed to me from afar and then screwed his mouth into

a knot and puffed out his cheeks. With such suddenness that it startled

me he ran the gamut of a score of notes from the lowest to the highest,

lingering now and then to warble and trill some of them in the most

entrancing fashion.

 

At the first sound of the man’s whistling there was a flutter in all the

cages. Before he had uttered half a dozen notes the birds began to sing.

When he had no more breath and was forced to let off, they had reached a

harmony that was truly surprising. The sounds rose higher and higher. It

was like the early morning at home when I awoke but even more thrilling

and delightful. Then, just as I approached, the fellow put his knuckle

in his mouth. He blew one loud shrill blast. The birds in the next

instant were as silent as the grave.

 

I could not help smiling. And the man himself was even more pleased than

I. He stood in the road grinning like a great calf. His eyes sparkled.

He was beaming with joy as though he had just performed a truly