The Messenger of the Black Prince 17

The Messenger of the Black Prince 17

He took me by the arm and led me to the part of the cave that was hidden

under the stairs. Here it was gloomiest and very dark. The rays from the

candle flickered as though they were sucked by a slight current of air.

But where I expected to find a wall there was no wall at all, only a

great hole large enough for a man to enter by stooping a little. It was

of jagged rock on all sides, as canny a place as I had ever seen.

 

“Let them fire the house,” he declared. “There is the way to freedom and

the open air. It is fifty roods long. The other end leads out among

rocks and the roots of ancient trees. You’d never find it in a week’s

search not even if I showed it to you beforehand.”

 

He put the clothing and the bow and arrows back as he had found them and

we went again up the stairs.

 

“Why have you shown me this hiding place of yours, master scrivener?” I

inquired. “Aren’t you afraid lest some day I betray you?”

 

He snapped his fingers.

 

“It’s known already,” he said. “I’ll have to abandon it. Those two

knaves outside will spread the news to all the world.”

 

“It’s a shame,” I ventured.

 

“It has served its purpose,” he answered. “But the Highwayman of Tours

has a card up his sleeve. Further down the valley of the Loire I have

another even better than this.”

 

He tossed his head and sat down in the chair. He stared for a while at

the floor deep in thought. I bethought me of my horse, for it was high

time that I looked to him for the night. I went out to where I had tied

him. My heart sank in my breast, for he was gone. I went over to where

the two knaves had been lashed to the trees. All I found was a couple of

strands of rope upon the ground.

 

I burst into the house hot and excited.

 

“They have gone!” I cried. “They have taken my horse with them!”

 

The scrivener never raised his head.

 

“I was hoping they would go,” he said calmly.

 

“It’s your fault, master scrivener,” I flung at him. “When you were

tying them, I noticed that you didn’t draw the knots tight enough.”

 

“And that’s true,” he replied looking out from under his brows with a

crafty smile. “But, Henri, you wouldn’t like to stand with your back

against a tree for the whole night long, now, would you?”

 

“But my horse?” I said.

 

“They took that too?” he smiled.

 

“Of course!” said I.

 

“Well, well. It’s a great loss, indeed,” he replied. “A great loss.” He

rose and yawned. Then he stretched himself. “There’s another way to look

at it, Henri. What do you care about the horse when you have me?”

 

“But I want him back,” I insisted. “I’ve a long——”

 

“Tut. Tut. Lad,” the scrivener returned. “I know where they’ve taken

him. He’ll be at the inn of ‘The Three Crows’. That’s the gathering

place for all the desperate characters in the neighborhood. We’ll be

there tomorrow and I’ll see to it that you get him back again.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII

THE THREE CROWS INN

 

 

We came to the ‘Three Crows’ about the middle of the afternoon. The

place was set in somewhat from the road and like the scrivener’s house,

almost surrounded by trees. It must have been a hundred years old. The

walls were of wood rough hewn from the forest. In some places the bark

still hung in shreds where it waved in the breeze. The logs themselves

were as brown as walnuts where the rain had beaten upon them. The

windows were quite small—hardly large enough for a man to climb through

and to judge by the cob-webs and dust had not been cleaned for ages.

 

The scrivener had been swinging along with me the whole day. He was as

lighthearted as a kitten. The thought of the danger we were approaching

never seemed to enter his mind. Even when we crossed the green that was

between the inn and the road he was whistling a tune and smiling away as

hard as you please. Then he suddenly grasped me by the arm.

 

“They are playing bowls,” he exclaimed. “Look there!”

 

To be sure, I saw two men at the end of a long alley on the green. They

were at bowls, as the scrivener said. That is, they had pins set up and

were rolling smooth round rocks or stones at them to knock them down. It

was nothing new to me for I am sure that you will find the same sport in

the smallest village in France. I was about to ask what there was

unusual about it all when he clapped me on the back.

 

“Have you any money?” he demanded with some eagerness.

 

“A little,” I answered. Then the thought came to me that he made his

living by tricks and even more questionable means. For all I knew he

might have at the back of his head some scheme or other to rob me of

what money I had. So I asked him cautiously, “Why?”

 

“I’m going to double it,” he replied in an off-hand way.

 

We made directly for the bowling-place. The scrivener strutted over to

the men with all the airs of a great baron with an army at his back. He

clapped his hands when a good stroke was made. He let out a loud “ah”

when the stone rolled out of its track and missed the pins. He capered

from one end of the alley to the other, following the stone and talking

to it encouragingly as though it had life. He clapped the players on the

back. In short he did all in his power to make a show of himself.

 

From where I stood it struck me that he was acting like a fool. But at

that time I did not know the man. I realized that he could masquerade in

a dozen different rôles, but I little imagined that he was able to alter

the character of his disposition.

 

Finally the play came to an end. The winner—a tall gaunt man whose name

was Nicole—straightened himself and puffed out his chest. The scrivener

was on him in an instant. He shook him by the hand. He beamed in his

face.

 

“A master!” he cried. “You can play almost as well as I can play

myself.”

 

Nicole’s smile faded. He looked down at the scrivener and frowned.

 

“For ten years,” he said, “I’ve beaten every man who has set his foot

upon this green.”

 

The scrivener struck him a hard blow upon the chest. Then he laughed a

high mocking laugh.

 

“A fine boast!” he cried and snapped his fingers under Nicole’s nose.

“Well, the tenth year will be your last.”

 

The fire gathered in the man’s eye. The blow was humiliating enough but

the words cut him like a sharp knife. He swallowed hard and flung one

hand out.

 

“Will you play with me?” he demanded.

 

“——for money?” asked the scrivener.

 

“For the clothes on your back, if you will,” was the reply.

 

At that the scrivener leaped into the air. He placed his hand on the

ground and turned a circle as neatly as he had done on the day I met him

at the forge. Then he stuck his hand in his shirt and looked as

important as a prince.

 

“Boy!” he called to me as though I were his servant. “Come here and

count me ten crowns from my purse.” He turned to Nicole. “This lad of

mine carries my wealth. If we are beset by thieves, no one would look to

him for the money. Is not that a wise trick?”

 

He laughed loud again as though he might be proud of his cunning. I

hesitated. I tried to make an estimate of what was going on in his mind.

I was wavering in uncertainty, when he snapped me a wink from the corner

of his eye.

 

“Not so slow!” he commanded. Then when I counted the money, he threw it

contemptuously on the grass. “Ten crowns, Nicole,” he said. “That will

be one for every year you have been the master of bowls.”

 

Nicole drew forth a well-worn leather purse such as merchants carry.

With a sly smile he looked sideways at the scrivener and slowly counted

out the money. This he threw piece by piece on the grass. It was as

though he was trying to shake the scrivener’s nerves with his

deliberation.

 

With a bound the scrivener seized the stone ball. He swung it around his

head two or three times, spinning on his heel. He drew far back and came

forward on the run. He let out a warning shout. He was about to make the

heave when to the amazement of all, his feet slid from under him. The

stone rolled harmlessly to the side of the green. The scrivener fell on

his back and his heels kicked in the air.

 

It was a ridiculous situation of course. In the beginning I was burning

with anger that he should make such a show of himself. But when I

considered the nature of the man, his unexpected whims and fancies, I

knew that he was playing a rôle that would be wise enough in the end.

 

When he arose he looked crestfallen. With a serious __EXPRESSION__ on his

face he brushed the dirt away from his clothes. He even growled under

his breath at his poor luck.

 

Nicole was standing with his arms folded across his chest as proudly as

though he were already the victor. He took forth his purse once more and

held it dangling in his fingers. With a taunting sneer he winked at me

and then turned to the scrivener.

 

“Another ten?” he asked with raised brows.