The Messenger of the Black Prince 18

The Messenger of the Black Prince 18

The ruse worked well. Nicole played with a sort of canny caution. But

when the scrivener had equaled his score, his nerves gave way on him. He

took more time to poise himself before the cast. He fussed about to be

sure of his footing. His brows narrowed and an __EXPRESSION__ of intense

seriousness crossed his face.

 

Towards the end it was nip and tuck. Now Nicole was ahead, now the

scrivener. The longer the game lasted, the more boastful my companion

became. He took to strutting about between shots like a

cock-o’-the-walk. He wanted to double the money he had laid on himself.

He shouted aloud that he was the master of the best man in the Kingdom

of France. He said he could prove it with a wager that would be the

ransom for a prince. Then at last just when Nicole was measuring the

green with his eye he let out a whoop, turned one of his somersaults,

put his knuckles in his mouth and whistled so shrilly that it rent the

very air.

 

The stone that Nicole held in his hand shot forward. But the scrivener

had done his work. It flew in full career down the middle of the green.

Then it seemed to strike a tuft of hidden grass for it bounced a little

in the air and veered over towards the side. It struck the pins however,

but only slightly. Three of the nine were tumbled over and the rest left

standing.

 

The scrivener raised the stone. He walked to the green with his head

high. He made the cast without so much as an aim, but I saw that he put

all his force behind it. It sped on in a straight line. It crashed in

among the pins with the straightness and speed of an arrow. It hit the

middle one and sent it leaping over to the side. The stone continued on

its course in among the others. They fell one by one in quick succession

until the last spun around and rolled in a semi-circle out over the

green.

 

At that the scrivener snapped his fingers and gave a cry. He turned to

Nicole.

 

“You have seven still to make,” he said. “I have only two to win. Will

you——”

 

Nicole had had enough. With a frown of disappointment he waved his hand

towards the green and then towards the money.

 

“It is yours,” he said. “I never played so poorly in my life.”

 

He was soured to the core. But with all that I picked up the coins and

put them in my purse. We went into the inn and sat down at a long oaken

table. Soon we had the meat before us and were eating to our hearts’

content.

 

It was well on towards dark when we finished. One by one the country

gossips entered and took their places. The landlord lit the oil lanthorn

that hung from the ceiling. Its yellow rays cast flitting shadows about

the room. The air was heavy from the odor of the cooking and the

dampness of the clay floor. The scrivener eyed every stranger in the

place as keenly as though he were cutting him open with a knife. He

began to yawn. He bade me fling a coin on the table to pay the score and

make ready for bed.

 

We stood up. We were about to turn when the door of the inn flew open

with a bang. I jumped as though the floor had suddenly given way. We

both turned. In the next second my heart sank to my shoes, for in the

wavering light of the lanthorn I saw De Marsac with half a dozen

troopers at his back peering eagerly over his shoulders. He strode to

the middle of the floor and whirled searchingly around. When his eyes

rested on us, he raised his arm and pointed.

 

“I knew I would find you here!” he cried. His voice was shaking between

joy and anger. “I have caught you like mice in a trap!”

 

I looked searchingly at the scrivener. He stood with his hands at his

side as unmoved as a piece of marble, with only the flicker of a smile

playing about the edges of his mouth.

 

“It is my friend, De Marsac!” he cried. “You have indeed cornered us at

last.”

 

A chill shot down my spine. De Marsac flung out his arm.

 

“Seize them!” he called. “Bind them till the thongs cut into their

flesh. Let one of you stand guard over them for the night.” He spun on

his heel. His men rushed at us as though we were mad dogs. In the

twinkling of an eye we were thrown to the floor and lashed hand and foot

with thongs of deer hide.

 

De Marsac halted at the door.

 

“Tomorrow, at the break of day, they are to be hanged upon the nearest

tree!”

 

In the next breath he was lost in the dark.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII

THE SILVER-HAFTED DAGGER

 

 

In another hour the inn was deserted. The scrivener and I lay huddled

together on the floor. One of De Marsac’s crew remained guard over us—an

ugly fellow with a face scarred with small-pox and earrings in his ears.

He must have come from somewhere in the south of France for his language

was heavier than the French in our part of the country.

 

For a while he paced up and down the floor and glanced suspiciously at

us at every turn. About midnight he began to yawn and stretch his arms

over his head. Then he came and sat on a bench opposite us. The quiet of

the place was like a balm for he fell into short naps. He arose and went

to the other side of the table (where he could see us) and spread out

his elbows. He yawned again and muttered something under his breath.

Then little by little his head sank and before long it fell between his

arms and he was snoring like the rumble of distant thunder.

 

As gently as I could I shoved the scrivener in the ribs.

 

“What’ll we do?” I whispered.

 

His answer was a gentle touch on the arm.

 

“Wait!” he said.

 

I was more than uncomfortable. The thongs were cutting into my wrists

and ankles. At my shoulders where the muscles were stretched back a

numbness crept over me. The hardness of the floor made me wish that I

could stand up and walk a bit. But the worst of all was the dryness that

was parching my tongue and mouth.

 

I heard a cock crow loud and long like the blast of a trumpet as if it

would awaken the world. I looked at our captor. He never stirred. His

mouth was open and he breathed in heavy sighs.

 

A door to my left creaked. The rays of the yellow lanthorn were only a

little better than the gloom. I wanted to turn but the scrivener pressed

his knee against my thigh. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the

door open wider and wider but so slowly that I imagined an hour was

passing.

 

Then I saw a face. It was the landlord. I had not noticed him much

during the meal but now his nose seemed sharper than ever and the

leanness of his face was almost of the keenness of a knife. He had his

eyes drawn together and his teeth clenched showing white.

 

As he came towards us the tassel of his nightcap bobbed about in a

little circle and his slippers gave to his steps the softness of a

cat’s. His long loose nightgown made him look like a ghost. But he was a

kindly ghost at that for he carried a noggin of water in his hand.

 

Without a word he stooped over the scrivener and moistened his lips.

Then he gave me a swallow. Always with one eye on the sleeping guard he

made a sign towards the door.

 

“Guarded!” he whispered, “——from the outside!”

 

The scrivener’s eyes almost burnt a hole in him so intensely did he look

at him.

 

“Have you no sense?” he demanded in a tone that was low but hard.

 

The landlord raised his brows slightly as though he did not understand.

 

“I cannot die with a bad conscience,” muttered the scrivener. “Nor will

I die with a murder on my hands.” He stopped a breath and glared even

harder than before. “The lad here is a dangerous character. He’ll not

give up till the last. He be like to kill some one in the struggle.” He

halted but kept his eyes steadily on the landlord as though he would

speak with them.

 

The guard gave a loud sigh. He breathed with a deep moan. His lips

quivered like a horse snorting. He tried to raise his head but it fell

again like a dead weight across his arms.

 

Not one of us stirred. The cock crowed again. The sound of it sent my

nerves quivering. Then the scrivener spoke again in a voice that was

quiet but determined.

 

“I want you to search the lad there,” he said. “He has a knife in his

jacket that can do much harm—or good. Take it away from him. If you have

a grain of sense you will understand.”

 

I felt myself jump in my bonds. On the impulse I wanted to resist. I

wanted to throw myself on the scrivener and denounce him for a traitor

and a coward. My second thoughts were calmer. I was as good as done for

as I was. Was there a hidden understanding between him and the landlord

that had a meaning of its own?

 

Before I could think further the landlord had his hand under my doublet.

The dagger which I was to carry to the Abbot of Chalonnes was torn from

me with no further ado. For one second he held it under the rays of the

lanthorn. The light, dull as it was, shone like a clear stream along the

silver haft. In spite of himself he gave a start and looked searchingly

from the one of us to the other. Then without a word he shuffled slowly

away and disappeared behind the door.

 

I nudged the scrivener in the ribs. I wanted some kind of explanation to

be sure. But all I got was a yawn and a reply that came like a rebuke.