The Messenger of the Black Prince 16
As a last trial the fellow dug his knees into my sides and held them
there. I felt the breath leaving me. Then with an effort that took all
my strength I jerked myself loose and turned over on my back. The danger
now was even greater for my opponent than it was for me. Although I was
down, yet I had a freer swing for my weapon. If I had thought in time I
could have slashed him on the legs and probably cut him across the arm.
But he saw what was coming. He stood up and backed away and in the same
moment, with what was left of me, I, too, got hastily to my feet.
In the next second it was all over. A form came hurtling through the
air. I felt the breeze of the passing body fan my cheeks. It was the
scrivener who had gotten once more upon the table. He must have been on
the alert for such an opportunity. He caught my fellow, as he had done
the other. His feet struck him a dull blow full on the chest. As though
he were a sack of meal he gave a low groan and crumpled together against
the wall.
I stood for a moment with my mouth open, gasping for breath. I was
anxious, too, about the first fellow whom the scrivener had knocked
senseless against the wall. He was slowly opening his eyes and made a
move as though he would rise. His hands were behind him. He twisted and
pulled to bring them forward. Then it dawned on me that while I was deep
in the struggle, the scrivener had tied them securely behind his back.
I felt a clap on my shoulder. There stood the scrivener with his eyes
shining. His head was darting from side to side like a bird’s. He danced
a few steps on the hard floor and to my surprise leaned over and turned
a handspring as smoothly as you please.
“You’re a grand fighter, lad,” he cried. “A grand fighter.” He held out
his hand and grasped mine. “And to think I don’t even know your name.”
I took the hint.
“It’s Henri,” I said. “Henri La Mar.”
“Well, Henri,” he answered, “we’ll get along fine together, you and I.”
He looked me over and felt of the muscles of my arm. “The makings of a
man,” he muttered. “I’ll make the greatest highwayman of you that ever
lived.”
I was stopped for an answer.
“I’m not so sure that I want to be one,” I replied, but with a smile
that I would not anger him. “It’s a dangerous calling.”
His face fell in astonishment. He looked for all the world as though he
had received a blow.
“It’s the only life for a man to live,” he replied. “Ah, if you were to
tell the truth, I think you enjoyed the little fight tonight as well as
I.”
“I’m glad we won,” I said. Then I fell to thinking. After a while I
drawled out, “Listen, master scrivener, haven’t I seen you some time
before?”
He waved me aside and pointed to the two on the floor.
“We’ll have to fix them for the night so they’ll do no harm,” he said.
“Come, we’ll carry them outside and tie them to the trees.”
We took them one by one and dragged them out of the house. We bound them
hand and foot and lashed them each to a single tree. When we had
finished the scrivener started to whistle a tune.
“You’re good at that, master scrivener,” I began again.
“Good at what?” he demanded.
“—at tying men to trees,” I suggested slyly.
“I’m good at everything I touch,” he replied. “Never yet has any man got
the better of me.”
Then he whistled again louder than before.
“You’re good with the bow and arrow, too, aren’t you?” I insisted.
“I could knock the eye out of you at a hundred paces,” he declared.
“I’ll do it if you say the word.”
I laughed.
“I don’t want to be killed yet,” I said. Then I continued, “You’re quick
on your feet. You’re a shifty wrestler. Are you just as clever tying
messages to the haft of an arrow?”
It was a sly dig, for I had my suspicions and was curious to learn the
truth. His answer was just as evasive as before.
“I told you I could do anything,” he replied like a flash, “whether it
be tying messages or tying men.”
“And that’s that,” I said. “When a bird won’t sing, no one can force
him. No doubt, you’ve heard that saying before, master scrivener?”
“What you hear and what’s the truth,” he came back, “are sometimes at
great variance.”
At this the whistling grew louder and, I thought, more piercing than
ever. The scrivener stuffed his hands into his shirt and strutted up and
down the floor. On each occasion when I turned to him to speak, he threw
back his head and let the notes out of him with such vehemence that I
was almost deafened. At length he ceased from sheer exhaustion.
“You’re a fine masquerader, master scrivener,” I continued prodding him.
“You remind me of a certain fool.”
I meant of course the man with the bauble and the bells whom I happened
on at the armorer’s forge.
“It’s a wise man who can play the fool,” he winked. “Sometimes it’s
handier than a sharp sword.”
It was plain I could get nothing from him. I raised my brows and looked
at him from head to heel. First I grinned. Then I laughed openly.
“You’re a dark, secret man, master scrivener, full of tricks and wiles,”
I said. “But with all your cunning I am sure of this, if you shaved the
hair from your face and washed the dirt away, you would strongly remind
me of a certain gentleman with whom I had a little tiff a week or so ago
at Le Brun’s forge.”
CHAPTER XI
I FIND A COMPANION
He turned on me like a flash.
“Do you know,” said he with an assumption of great dignity, “that when
you are in another man’s house, it is wise to take things as they are!”
“Is this really your house?” I asked. “Or are you toying with me?”
He spun on his heel and went to the far end of the room. He came back
with a candle in his hand which he had lit at the open fire.
“I’ll show you the rest of it,” he remarked. “Come with me.”
At that he inserted his finger in what seemed to be a knot-hole in the
floor. To my surprise he lifted a great door which was set in the wood
and bent it back on its hinges. Then, with the light high over his head
he passed down a set of broad oak steps. A dank odor of damp air came to
my nostrils. I set my foot on the first step with much caution and
circumspection. I descended one by one until I stood on a clay floor.
All around me were solid stone walls with no opening for air or
ventilation. And here and there in these walls I saw recesses which were
covered with doors that were of natural wood stained with dirt and
finger-marks.
Without stopping the scrivener went to the largest of these closets at
the furthest corner of the cave and flung it open. If I was amazed at
first I was quite beside myself now, for the whole of it was filled with
all sorts of articles of clothing. Some of them were the trappings of
soldiers with gilt and lace, others were suits of velvet, quite new,
smooth and beautiful to see. Again there were common clothes such as
peasants wear or even common laborers in the fields.
“I know now,” I said, “why those fellows called you the
‘Will-o’-the-wisp’. You’re never the same man.”
“When you live as I live, my lad,” he answered, “you must use your
wits.” Then he turned my attention to another box or closet in the wall.
When this was open he took from it a bundle tied and wrapped with thick
cloth and matted straw. As carefully as if it were alive he untied the
knots one by one and laid it flat upon the floor.
“My arsenal,” he said. Then he revealed a bow about as long as he was
high and with it a quiver containing a score of arrows. So unexpected
was this that I let out a gasp.
“I keep them wrapped up like this to protect them from the damp,” he
explained. “When trouble comes——”
“But why do you need all these?” I cried. “Surely——”
He rose and pointed sternly towards the stairs.
“If I’m hard pressed, I’m as safe here as in a castle,” he explained.
“If they happen to get in the house, I can take refuge here. Look! Don’t
you think I could drop them easily enough as they came down those steps
one by one?”
It seemed true enough but I was not yet satisfied.
“Suppose they set the house afire?” I asked.
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