The Messenger of the Black Prince 20

The Messenger of the Black Prince 20

“Hide there,” he explained. “That’s where they will pass. When they come

abreast of you, keep your eye open. Wait for an opportunity.”

 

With not another word he was off through the woods. I stood for a moment

in doubt. Then I walked quickly to the place he had pointed out and took

my position in the shelter of the tree. My heart was thumping like a

hammer. I laid my hand involuntarily on my dagger. I gave a pull at my

jerkin. I was now on one foot, now on the other. A nervousness came over

me that made me as uneasy as a young colt.

 

Presently the sound of voices came through the trees—deep rumbling

voices of men. Then the brush swished and here and there the noise of a

stone that one of them kicked with the toe of his heavy boot. I peered

out as cautiously as I could. They came into view a flash at a time from

among the thick trunks.

 

Then I summoned my will and took in a deep breath. The men were not ten

feet away muttering and talking and growling that they had been aroused

so untimely from their sleep. I saw their faces clearly and even the

color of their eyes.

 

[Illustration: They Came Into View From Among the Thick Trunks]

 

Suddenly they looked up and stopped as though they had been confronted

by a ghost. I sprang to the other side of my tree and peered out again.

To my amazement, the scrivener was standing directly before them. He was

swinging his cap low so that it swept the ground and he laid his hand

over his heart like a courtier. With a bow that might have shamed a

prince he said in a soft voice:

 

“Gentlemen, I am the highwayman of Tours. Are you looking for me?”

 

I knew it was my time to act. While the two fellows stood thus uncertain

trying to collect their wits, I leaped out. Before either of them could

stir, I had gathered my fist into a ball. I swung as hard as ever I

delivered a blow in my life. My bare knuckles struck the man nearest me

so violently that I felt the jar of it clear to my elbow. I caught him

behind the ear. He hung for a second as though he were suspended in the

air. Then, like a bag that is suddenly dropped, he sank unconscious to

the earth.

 

Before I could glance about the scrivener had straightened himself. With

one of his springs he came hurtling through the air. The fellow had half

turned when he saw his companion fall and was not entirely on his guard.

The scrivener’s heels struck him like a weight in the chest. As though

his legs were cut away from under him, he flew back and rolled over to

the foot of the tree.

 

“Quick!” cried my companion.

 

I needed no urging. As fast as my anxious fingers could manage, I undid

the fastenings that bound the quiver of arrows to my fellow’s shoulder.

Then I snatched up the bow and turned to see what the next move would

be.

 

The scrivener had done as I had done, only with more dispatch. He

stepped back and laid an arrow in the bow.

 

“Up with you!” he cried. “Back to your master, De Marsac, and say that

the highwayman of Tours sends him his compliments. Tell him that we

shall meet him further down the road on the way to Angers. Tell him to

keep a keen edge on his sword for when we meet again the one or the

other of us shall die!”

 

I never saw a man fly before an enemy so quickly. Before I could wink he

had turned and was soon hidden among the trees.

 

“That’s one of them,” muttered my companion. He pointed to the man whom

I had felled. He was rolling over and trying to raise himself on his

elbow. “He’s safe enough where he lies,” he continued. “By the time he

has his wits again, we shall be out of reach.”

 

“Where are we going now, master scrivener?” I asked.

 

“I’m not sure, my lad,” he said. He pointed to the sun which stood over

our heads. “First we’ll eat what is left of our breakfast. We’ll go

ahead slowly for a while. When it gets dark I shall make a quiet visit

to the inn.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XV

THE SCRIVENER DISAPPEARS

 

 

It was far into the night when the scrivener returned. The first quarter

of the moon was all the light we had, but even at that how he made his

way through the gloom of the trees was more than I could guess. He had

left me in a spot that was far back from the highway where there was no

path nor even a rock to guide him. But he was as unerring as one of his

arrows.

 

“We have been outlawed,” he said with a laugh. “There’s a price on our

heads.”

 

“Ah!” was all that I could say.

 

“It’s posted in the inn,” he explained, “and on some of the trees, for

him who can to read. Fifty crowns for each of us, dead or alive.” He

clapped me playfully on the shoulder. “It’s more than I ever counted

myself to be worth.”

 

I knotted my brows. For all his gaiety I felt a chill climb slowly up my

back. I was little more than an animal to be a target for all mankind.

 

“We’re done for, then,” I said and sighed.

 

“If they catch us,” he replied. “Even if they do, we have fifty arrows

and two strong bows. If you can shoot, that will mean that fifty of them

will drop before they lay hands on us. Don’t you think the odds are in

our favor?”

 

I was not so sure.

 

“Fifty crowns is a large sum,” I said half to myself. “A man will go far

for that.”

 

The scrivener made no answer but laid a bundle on the ground, which he

spread out with the greatest care. In the light of the moon I saw him

quietly smiling to himself.

 

“I’ve brought enough for a week,” he said, “cheese and bread and smoked

meat. While they are running mad in search of us, we can live like

kings.”

 

With all my fears, I was as hungry as a bear. The two of us sat down

upon the hard ground with a flat stone for a table. We ate in silence,

for each of us was busy with his own thoughts. Now and then I caught the

scrivener glancing up at me through his brows with that quaint smile on

his face, as though he was secretly amused.

 

“I can go with you until we come into the country of the Abbot of

Chalonnes,” he said suddenly. “After that it will be for you to shift

for yourself.”

 

“Scrivener,” said I, “who is this Abbot of Chalonnes?”

 

“He’s a strong man, Henri,” came the answer. “A man to be feared.”

 

“But what is his importance?” I demanded. “Has he an army? Does he rule

a part of France? Or is he only a churchman?”

 

“No one knows—exactly,” replied the scrivener cautiously. “He’s as

mysterious as a fox. He has power enough to move a mountain. He can

break the most arrogant prince. He can tear his castle down about his

ears. But his ways are dark and secret. He is seldom seen. He has no

followers as far as I can learn, but somehow men are afraid to go

against his will.”

 

“But his land? Where does he live?”

 

“That’s uncertain, too,” he explained. “——mostly in the valley of the

Loire beyond the fortress of Angers.”

 

“Have you ever seen him?” I continued.

 

“Never! Never in my life!”

 

The answer came quick and sudden. The scrivener sprang from the ground

and looked circumspectly about. He put his hand to his ear as though he

was listening to a sound and stood in utter silence for several minutes.

At length he dropped his arm to his side and walked away.

 

“I thought it was some one moving about in the woods,” he said. “It was

only a deer or boar rustling the leaves.”

 

If I hadn’t been so tired I would have laughed in his face. I was enough

at home in the woods to know that there had been no sound, not even of

the tiniest bird. The truth of the matter was that I had put a question

to him that he was loath to answer. He had been evasive before when I

tried to pry him open and now he had made this pretext to avoid me once

again. I let the matter drop, but the determination lingered that at the

first opportunity I would corner him and drive my questioning further.

 

He wandered off to pick up some sticks and shreds of moss and dried

grass. When he had his arm full, he returned and spread what he had

gathered upon the ground. He took off his coat and laid it like a pillow

under his head. Then, without a word or even a look at me, he lay down

and curled himself into a knot. It was not long before he was breathing

deeply and snoring like the croaking of a frog.

 

I was weary with the day’s excitement. Perhaps the example of the

scrivener set me to yawning. However it was, I was soon stretched out

beside him asleep under the waving branches of the trees and the stars.