The Messenger of the Black Prince 30

The Messenger of the Black Prince 30

To all this there was an air of confusion everywhere. A chair with the

legs broken off lay in a corner. A great hole was worn in the bottom

panels of the door that led to the kitchen where a dog had by slow

degrees pawed his way through. Alongside of it, on the wall, the plaster

had a large dent in it where something had struck and just beside it a

red smear that reminded me of the color of human blood.

 

You may be sure that we ate little. Even if the food had been savory the

sight of the old fox of a landlord was enough to take our appetites

away, for he hung over us like a sinister shadow with his nightcap in

his hands and his beady eyes watching every morsel as it passed down our

throats.

 

“The Dwarf of Angers,” he reminded us, when we laid our spoons aside,

“—he’s a grand man, isn’t he?”

 

Then came that short cackling laugh that stabbed me like a knife.

 

“He saved us from death,” I remarked.

 

The old fellow gave a start as though he was suddenly clapped on the

shoulder.

 

“He did, did he?” he said. And then after a while, “And he sent you to

me?” He cackled again as though he had reason to be highly flattered.

“And by any chance did he give you a message?”

 

Here I drew the dagger from my shirt and laid it on the table.

 

“This!” said I. And, with the word, looked him square in the eye in

hopeful anticipation.

 

He pounced upon the weapon like a greedy child. He took it between his

skinny fingers and turned it over and over. A crafty smile sharpened his

features so that his face resembled a rat’s. With his thumb he examined

the silver of the haft. He snapped the blade till it sang.

 

“That dagger,” I said as though he needed some urging to entirely

understand, “belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes.”

 

But his eyes were fastened like glue upon it, so that all the answer I

got was a sort of mumbling.

 

“Ay, ay,” he said, “—the Abbot of Chalonnes.” Then he looked up

suddenly. His jaws stopped shaking and his smile faded. “Where do you

come from?” he demanded with a jerk.

 

I was getting weary of his dallying. I was sure that he knew more than

he pretended. There was something at the back of his head that prompted

him to doubt us, so with no more ado I burst forth, “Look here,” I

began. “We are on our way to find the Black Prince. We have traveled a

long distance and have been beset by enemies. We have been nearly killed

half a dozen times. We’re in a strange country and need a word of

advice. Maybe we ought to have a guide. Can’t you see that your friends

are our friends?” I pointed to the dagger in his hands. “Isn’t that

proof enough for you?”

 

At the mention of the dagger his hands clasped together with a quick

convulsive motion and his jaws took to wagging again.

 

“Ay, ay,” he muttered, “it’s worth a hundred crowns, if it’s worth a

groat.... It was fine of the Dwarf of Angers to send it to me.”

 

I jumped from my seat. As though he were suddenly attacked, the old man

straightened up. A flash came to his eye and a sternness came upon him

that was unexpected. I think if I had taken another step he would have

showed fight.

 

“But the dagger is not for you,” I cried. “It’s only a sign that we are

no frauds, no imposters.”

 

I reached out to take the weapon from his hand. He swung around with the

quickness of an eel and backed away from me. I made another try. This

time he shot a look at me and raised the dagger as though he would

strike.

 

My blood was up. All in all I felt that he was not what the Dwarf had

represented him to be, so with the single thought of getting my dagger

back at any cost, I made a lunge to grasp him by the arm. Then by sheer

strength I could wrest it from his grasp.

 

“Back!” His voice was shrill but strong with the cackle entirely gone.

“Back! I’ll kill you if you make a move!”

 

He drew his arm far over his head. There was wickedness in his eyes that

told me he meant all that he said. For a second I stood there

irresolute. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Charles flit past me.

His arm shot out. It caught the old fellow by the wrist. With one jerk

his fingers opened. The dagger dropped clattering to the floor. One

bound, I had it in my hand and in the next second it was tucked away in

my shirt.

 

Then came a surprise. As though the affair was a joke the old man leaned

over and clapped himself time and time again on the knee. His voice rose

and fell in a kind of whistling laugh. He coughed and sputtered from

sheer mirth and to cap it all reached out his hand for me to shake.

 

“A fine lad!” he exclaimed. “The both of you are fine lads. I know now

there’s no deceit in either of you.” He laughed again. The cackling grew

stronger than ever. “What is it you say you want? A guide to take you on

your way? Ay, ay. A guide. But no harm meant, mind you. No harm—” He

shuffled, bent over, towards the door, where he stood for a minute

looking back at us. Then with a quick nervous snap he jerked out, “I’ll

aid you all I can. Will you stay here till I come back?”

 

With a kind of a stumbling skip he was outside and had closed the door

behind him.

 

We sat and waited till the shuffling of his feet died away on the road.

Then we arose and walked about the room, more from restlessness, I am

sure, than from curiosity.

 

If it had not been for the advice of the Dwarf, I should have said that

we were fallen into the thieves’ den. The place was in no sense an inn

for there was no sign of provision for the comfort or entertainment of a

guest. Besides it was too far removed from the course of travel to be of

any profit.

 

“I don’t like the looks of it,” remarked Charles. “There have been

knives flying here—and throats cut. That smear on the wall is hardly

dry.”

 

“We ought to get out,” I said. “We were safer in the Dwarf’s cave.”

 

“Let us wait till the old rat returns,” he answered. “There will be time

then.”

 

The heaviness of the place made me feel that I was standing in the face

of danger. Everything I touched seemed to warn me that we were falling

deeper and deeper into a trap. The broken chair, the hole in the

plaster, the blood upon the wall, the very darkness of the room, but

above all the slow-witted craftiness of the old man, sent the creeps

along my spine and made me anxious.

 

A half hour passed. We had paced the length of the room a dozen times.

We had sat down and risen again more than once. Charles went to the

door.

 

“I’ll take a look up the road,” he said. “If he’s not in sight, we’ll

go.”

 

I turned to follow him. He snapped the latch. He rattled it. He shook it

with all his might. He faced me with his face gone white.

 

“We’re locked in!” he exclaimed. “The old rat has made us prisoners.”

 

I ran back to the door that led to the kitchen.

 

“We’re caught!” I called. “The windows are too small for us to crawl

out. The old fellow has gone to summon our enemies.”

 

“The truth of it,” said Charles, “is that we have come to the wrong

place. The inn of the Cross-Roads must be further down the highway.”

 

“Well?” I said. “What’s to be done?”

 

He motioned me to the long oaken bench that lay at the table.

 

“We’ll hammer down the door,” he replied. “Do you take that end. I’ll

take this——”

 

It was as much as we could do to lift it. We held it lengthwise towards

the door. Then with a run we crashed the end into the lower panels. The

echo was like thunder in the room. The door trembled on its hinges and

the lock creaked.

 

Again we drew back. Again we came forward. The door bent in the middle

and a long crack let the light in from the outside.

 

“Once more,” cried Charles, “and we’ll be free.”

 

We took a short rest and caught our breath. The third time the end of

the bench crashed against the cross-piece in the middle. There was a

noise of splintering wood. I thought the house was tumbling about our

ears. The door was torn from its hinges and with a clap fell towards the

outside flat on the road.

 

I blinked against the bright light of the sun. Then I recoiled, for not

ten feet away there came running the landlord, panting for dear life,

with his mouth open and his beady eyes glittering with the fire of

anger. At his side were two men, rough fellows, who looked as though

they might slit your throat for a copper groat. To my dismay one of them

was the man from whom I had escaped while we were swimming in the river.

 

“There they are!” cried the landlord pointing at us with his skinny

finger. “They’re tearing my house down. Stop them!” His jaw wriggled

from side to side and his hands shook with excitement. His voice which

began in a high shrill cackle turned to a shaking laugh. “That one

there” (he meant me) “wants to know how he can go to the Black Prince.

Ha! Ha! Ha!”In the next breath they were upon us.