A TRICKSTER
Of all the men I ever saw this stranger struck my fancy to the highest
degree. He strode into the room with as much confidence and poise as
though he were the actual master of the house and we the humblest of his
servants. He looked neither to the right nor the left. Yet, as he passed
us, without shifting his gaze, he seemed to sweep each of us out of the
corner of his eye with a glance that measured us from head to heel.
He stopped at the great oaken table and raised his hat with a sort of
mincing delicacy. With a swish through the air he knocked the water from
it and laid it carefully down. When he took off his cloak we saw that he
carried a silver mounted sword and wore a doublet and breeches of the
finest velvet ornamented about the edges with a fine lace. He curled his
moustache with his thumb and forefinger. Then, with his hand over his
heart and a bland smile on his face he turned and bowed with as much
reverence as you would pay to a king.
“I’ll never forget this,” he said, but there his voice dropped so that
the rest of it sounded like hollow mockery,“—this unexpected
hospitality.”
André was the first to speak.
“It’s a sour night,” said he carefully eyeing the stranger’s wet boots
and dripping clothes, “for a man to be abroad.”
The visitor gave a short laugh.
“A little warmth,” he replied with a nod towards the hearth, “would add
greatly to my comfort.” He began to chafe his hands the one in the other
as though he were frozen to the marrow. “Will you please bestir
yourself!”
There was a ring of insolence in his tone. His words, though uttered
smoothly, had a kind of sly meaning at the bottom that touched us to the
quick. It was clear that he intended to nettle us. The old Lord of
Gramont squared his shoulders. He let out a low quiet whistle and walked
away. But André, who was quicker and more easily hurt, flushed the color
of scarlet and knotted his fists.
For a moment there was empty silence. Our visitor looked at each of us
in turn with the corners of his lips curved in a taunting smile. He
strutted past the hearth with his spurs clanking and glanced with a
sneer about the room.
“I have often heard that the cattle in Normandy were better housed than
their masters,” he began. “It’s even colder here than it is out of
doors.”
“That is one reason why we are so healthy,” replied my brother looking
him full in the face. “And that is why we are so strong.”
The stranger broke out into a loud laugh.
“Why, man,” he exclaimed, “you have more wit than I imagined.” He bowed
low again. “It is to your credit, sir.”
André yawned.
“It is indeed cold,” he said. “But your tongue has a chill all of its
own. Do you know, my friend, I should have had a fire going by this time
if you——” But he stopped short, knowing that as a host he should not be
the first to openly offend.
But the stranger tossed back his head. He clapped my brother soundly on
the shoulder.
“I shall finish it for you,” he cried. “You meant to say, ‘—if I had not
come into the house.’” He flung his arm in the air in a wild gesture of
mirth. “You too have a tongue in your head. To tell you truly I am
amazed, for at first sight of you I thought you nothing but a country
dullard!”
With that he stared brazenly into André’s face. Then with the lightness
of a feather, he spun around and threw himself into one of the chairs.
My brother went as white as chalk. For a second he seemed stupefied.
Then a redness swept over him. He walked deliberately to the rack that
held the arms. The old Lord of Gramont halted where he had been pacing
half way across the room and looked sharply back. As for me my breath
stuck in my throat.
André returned bearing a naked sword in his hand.
“There is no light outside of the house,” he said. “We must finish, what
we have begun, here.”
The other arose. The same taunting smile played around his mouth.
“I had not thought you would have the courage,” he remarked. And then,
“Will you stain the floor of the house with your own blood?”
My brother took his position but, for a second, the old Count of Gramont
interfered.
“Will you tell us your name?” he asked the stranger. “In case anything
happens, it will be well to know.”
“My name?” repeated our visitor laying his finger-tips on his chest, and
with the shadow of a bow. “I am called the Sieur De Marsac. To all with
whom I am acquainted, a faithful servant of his Majesty, the King.”
There were no words more. The swords rang in the air. De Marsac began as
though it were only a fancy play, my brother with all the seriousness of
his nature. There was a difference between the two that was soon seen.
Our visitor had the advantage in litheness and in trickery. André was
the better in strength of wrist and in driving into his enemy with force
and steadiness.
The fight began with a few light thrusts and parries that on each side
were only trials of the other’s skill. Then of a sudden De Marsac
unleashed a savage attack. His sword came darting in like the fangs of a
snake with the point directed towards André’s heart. A part of a second
and it would have been too late, but my brother, who, I saw, was making
sure of his defense, swung his weapon to the side and caught his enemy’s
blade, steel against steel. The swords locked at the pommels like the
horns of deer and for a second the two stood glaring into each other’s
eyes.
It was here that André’s sturdiness showed itself, for it was a test of
the one man’s brawn against the other’s. My brother’s jaws came together
with determination. The veins in his neck swelled. He raised himself
slowly on the balls of his feet and pressed forward with all his might.
A cold look came into De Marsac’s eyes and a frown crossed his forehead.
I saw him go back little by little on his heels. His arm was bending in
towards his body. André took a step forward and our enemy to save
himself from being thrown off his balance sprang quickly backwards.
De Marsac began anew. His smile of confidence faded into seriousness. He
tried again with a few feints to find an opening in my brother’s
defense. Each time he was blocked with neatness and surety. Each time he
drew back with a scowl. The color in his face gave way to a pallid
white. His breath came short. But there was a look of gathering hate on
his countenance and a shifting expression in his eyes that roused me in
alarm.
“Look out for a trick, André!”
It was foolish for me to cry out. It is no thing to do when men are in a
conflict that means life or death, for in the second when he heard my
voice, my brother shot a look towards me that told me as plainly as
words that he knew what he was about. But I had given De Marsac his
opportunity. In that brief moment when my brother’s eyes were turned,
our enemy sprang forward with the quickness of a tiger. The light of the
candles ran like a flash along his blade. His arm, the sleeve of black
velvet and fancy lace, straightened itself in the direction of my
brother’s chest.
But for the terror that I felt, I would have closed my eyes, for in the
next breath I expected to see André fall. But instead he showed a
nimbleness that I never dreamed was his. Like a spring he was down and
up again. By the breath of a hair De Marsac’s weapon passed over his
shoulder. Our enemy’s body was open for the fatal blow and my brother,
heated with the conflict, wrapped his knuckles about his sword to strike
his insulter to his feet.
His sword came forward. He had put one foot before the other to drive
home the blow with all the might that lay in him. The point caught De
Marsac in the middle of the chest as straight as ever a thrust was aimed
and, I am sure with as much power behind it as any average man can put.
I expected to see our enemy crumble to the floor—dead. To our extreme
amazement, as André struck, we heard a sharp click. The sword which De
Marsac held, fell, to be sure, rattling to the floor. But no blood
flowed, and his body, as though it had been violently pushed, or struck
by a man’s fist, tumbled back. He tried to keep on his feet but was too
far gone. He measured his length on the floor and in falling knocked his
head against one of the legs of the long oaken table.
It was the old Count of Gramont who spoke first.
“A coat of linked mail!” he cried running over to him. “He wears a coat
of mail under his velvet jerkin.”
De Marsac was stunned. The old Count caught him roughly by the shoulder
and jerked him to his feet.
“A trickster!” he shouted in his face. “You are a low-born coward.”
De Marsac never uttered a word. He blinked and ran his hand over his
eyes till they cleared. The old smile of cunning curled around his lips,
but this time it was mingled with contempt and hate.
“You Norman dogs!” he hissed. “Do you think I would match my life with
yours?”
The old man went white with anger. He held his big hand out at arm’s
length. He curled it slowly into a knot of a fist and took a deep
breath. With what force he could summon he whirled about and struck De
Marsac a hard blow in the face. We had not expected it and I think De
Marsac was taken by surprise too. His knees sagged under him and his
arms fell limp at his side. He would have fallen, had not the old Count
caught him again by the shoulder and pushed him into a chair.
“You are not the first of your breed that this fist has struck down,” he
cried. “In the days gone by it has wielded a battle-ax that laid dozens
of your countrymen low. If the time comes,” he added darkly, “it is
still strong enough to match itself with another foe.”
He took to pacing once more up and down the hall. André walked quietly
to the rack and put his sword away. When he came back he picked up De
Marsac’s weapon where it had fallen and handed it to him.
“You will have no further need of this,” he said in an even tone, “—at
least while you are here.”
Of the four of us in that room it was De Marsac who first regained his
poise. The sting of the rebukes which had been flung into his face soon
faded away. He arose without a look at any of us and took his coat over
his arm. Then he put his hat upon his head and snapped his sword back
into its scabbard. Without a word he walked towards the door and as he
went I thought I saw his former jauntiness returning.
“Gentlemen,” he said with his fingers on the latch and in a voice of
sneering mockery. “You have won tonight, for it is difficult for a man
to fight two against one. There will come another meeting when there
will be fairer odds. At that time I promise you a different ending to
the story.”
None of us answered. He closed the door behind him quietly and with no
show of anger passed out of the house.
I breathed a long sigh.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” I said.
My brother and the old Count exchanged glances.
“There’s something back of that fellow,” said André. “We must be on our
guard for I think we shall hear from him again.”
We sat for almost an hour. None of us stirred except André who busied
himself in making a fire. When the blaze had spread warmth about the
room he came and sat down with us again. A tiny spot of blood was oozing
through the bandages.
“It’s from the exertion,” he explained with a smile. “I wonder if the
fellow who attacked us on the road was a hireling of De Marsac?”
At that the dogs began barking and yelping as they did before. The old
Count of Gramont started to the door, but before he reached it, it flew
wide open. It was De Marsac who burst into the room. He must have fallen
into the mud for his velvet breeches were splattered with clay. A wild
look shone from his eyes and he was of the color of death.
“An attack has been made upon my life!” he cried.
We rose from our seats.
“I was making down the road towards the armorer’s where I left my horse.
I was set upon by a band of men. Look here!” he exclaimed and drew an
arrow from under his cloak. “But for the coat of mail I was wearing this
would have gone through my heart!”
“Have you enemies in the neighborhood?” demanded the old Count.
“There are enemies following me,” declared De Marsac. “There is one who
would snap out my life as you would snap a piece of straw. But this is
not his work. This is the work of another.” Terrified, he looked around
the room. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’?” he asked.
“No. Who is he?” we cried together.
“A highwayman,” he answered. “—a bold desperate highwayman. For a month
at a time he terrifies the countryside. Then he disappears. Miles and
miles away he is heard from again. He is seldom seen. He works alone. It
is his disguises that trick people. He can masquerade as a nobleman, a
beggar, a soldier—anything.”
He flung himself into a chair but was up in a flash again.
“Gentlemen, we have had our little dispute,” he said hurriedly. “It is
all over now and done with. You see I cannot venture out into the night
without fear for my life. In the name of your hospitality I am going to
ask you to let me rest here until the morning.”
The old Count looked warningly at my brother and silently shook his head
‘no.’ But André, who was easily touched on the softer side, arose and
bowed.
“I offer you every courtesy,” he said quietly. “It is past midnight and
no doubt you are weary from your ride. I shall light you to your room.”
He took the candle and went before. In a few minutes he was down again.
“I could not do otherwise,” he explained.
“He is not to be trusted, André,” I said.
“The man’s a rogue,” added the Count of Gramont. “If I were you, André,
I would put a guard about the house. There’s something brewing that we
have no knowledge of.”
“I shall have one of the servants watch in the hall upstairs,” my
brother said. “Another will stay here during the night. We must learn
what his purpose is so that we can meet the situation. In the morning if
he smiles again, I shall be like honey to him. I think that is the
better way.”
The old Count laughed in his throat and grunted.
“If this were my house,” he said, “I would make short work of him.”
And he made a sign that meant that he would string him to a tree.
We were all tired. One by one we bade each other goodnight and went to
bed.