THE BLACK PRINCE
André drew back like a man taken unawares as though he would avoid a
blow. He stood motionless for a moment to gather his dazed thoughts. A
silence fell over us like the hollowness of an empty tomb, with only the
long strained cawing of a crow overhead to break the tenseness.
Then a clearness came into his eyes and with it a hardness about his
mouth and jaws. He took one step forward and blazed a look of hate at
our enemy.
“I know now, De Marsac,” he said, “why you have come among us. You
planned this from the beginning.”
That other shifted his gaze and pointed to where the old Count of
Gramont lay.
“You understand what this means?” he asked with a glare in his eyes.
“Better than you imagine,” answered my brother, with his voice lifting
high among the trees. “By foul means young Charles of Gramont—that man’s
son—was lured into a snare and carried off, a prisoner of him you choose
to call your King. By fouler means still you crept into our house like a
viper under pretense of hospitality. You picked a quarrel with me the
moment you arrived, thinking you would kill me in the fight. You were
thwarted in that. You tried to murder Henri there in the woods.” He cast
a look in the direction of the old Count. A smile of scorn curled about
his mouth when he faced De Marsac again. “The only plan of yours to
succeed was in the slaying of an old man. Pshaw! I never dreamed a human
being could stoop so low!”
A flush of wrath colored De Marsac’s face, but slowly died out to a dead
white. With his eyes shifting and shining, I thought with murder in
them, he flouted my brother once again.
“You are wasting words, my friend La Mar,” he sneered. “The whole brood
of you is like a dying candle. It is hardly worth the snuffing out.”
My brother heard this with the coolness and firmness of a rock. When the
last syllable of De Marsac’s scorn faded in the air, André planted his
feet squarely on the ground. Then, with his open palm, he struck that
other a stinging blow across the face.
“You have brought your sword, De Marsac,” he said in an even voice. “By
good fortune I also have brought mine.” Here he laid his hand upon the
pommel. “We were interrupted once. We can continue——”
Before he could end the sentence the steel was in the air. Both men in
their eagerness stepped in close to each other. The blades rang out as
they crossed up to the hilts. They both drew back again and made a
wicked exchange of thrust and parry. They played fast and furiously at
arm’s length. They shifted swiftly on the loose ground. Then, after De
Marsac missed his aim at a point above the heart, André touched him
lightly with the point of his sword upon the ear.
“Your armor, De Marsac,” he cried with a mocking laugh, “makes it
difficult. To kill you I must strike you in the neck or face.”
De Marsac, at the first blood, had drawn back. He was gathering his
sword in his hand for another trial, when a dark shadow came towards us
from behind the trees. It was the figure of a man with an oaken staff in
his hand. And before any of us could stir he called out in a deep voice
as though he was applauding the stroke he had just seen the single word:
“Bravo!”
I gave a little start, for the suddenness of his appearance surprised
me. And as though they had heard a command both my brother and De Marsac
lowered their blades and gazed, one with curiosity, the other with alarm
at the stranger.
He was clad entirely in black from the close-fitting cap upon his head
to the toes of his fine leather boots. His doublet encircled his chest
with the tightness of a drum and was of a rich cloth, durable but
severely plain. As far as I could see he was without weapons of any sort
save the knotted staff which he had in his hand.
He was what you might call of medium height and build. But the longer
you looked at him, the more you grew aware of some hidden strength that
lay within. His face was square and large boned and of a ruggedness of
color that bespoke a life in the open. His eyes were deep set in their
sockets. When he looked at you the steadiness of his gaze was midway
between a frown and a scowl. He moved like a man who was accustomed to
time his actions to the moment, but withal with such lightness and ease
that constantly reminded you that, at the slightest need, he could
spring forward with the litheness of a tiger and strike with the
swiftness of lightning.
He remained for a while standing looking from my brother to De Marsac.
Then, of a sudden he laughed. But it was a laugh that had no mirth in it
but which rang like a mocking echo through the trees.
“Still at your old tricks, I see, De Marsac,” he said as he advanced.
“You have profited little from the lesson that I so lately taught.”
De Marsac’s hand shook. He rested his sword with the point upon the
ground. He shifted uneasily, glancing in one direction then another. The
flush on his face died out to the whiteness of parchment.
He breathed. “Ah!” he cried, but his voice choked. “You!”
The man in black folded his arms across his chest and let his club swing
lightly from between his fingers.
“Yes,” he said. “We have a little argument to settle between us. You
will remember we began one but never finished.”
De Marsac flashed a look of hate at the man.
“I have not done with him there,” he said, pointing at André. “After
this——”
The stranger grinned and raised his brows.
“From what I have seen, De Marsac, there may be no ‘after this’,” he
said. “You know how disappointed I would feel to see you die!—that is by
hands other than my own! Would you have me call you a coward in the
presence of these witnesses?”
“‘Coward’?” echoed our enemy. “You can’t say that. You know I fought you
like a man until——”
The stranger mocked him again.
“Yes,” he said. “You did. That is—until you ran away!”
De Marsac’s eyes sought the ground. He was like a rat that is cornered.
A heavy frown crossed his brows and he ground his teeth in rage.
“Come!” The man in black coaxed him. “I shall give you every advantage.
You have a sword there in your hand. I have only an oaken staff. Could I
offer you easier terms?”
There was no way out of it. This our enemy saw. Like a man who will risk
all on one cast, without a sign of warning, he sprang with all his
quickness with his sword pointed outwards at his foe. So fast was he
that I feared he would kill him on the spot. But the man in black must
have expected such a move. As lithely as a cat he stepped to one side.
De Marsac, with no object to bring him to a stop, plunged furiously
headlong and fell stumbling to the turf.
It was as ridiculous a situation as I ever saw. My brother and I,
forgetful of the seriousness of the moment, let out loud peals of
laughter. The stranger hardly stirred and that only to follow his enemy
guardedly with his eyes. De Marsac was filled with shame and wrath that
he had been so smoothly outwitted. He raised himself cautiously on his
hands and knees and looked around. Then, seeing that he was not
threatened, he sprang again to his feet and faced his foe.
There followed a single exchange that I shall not forget as long as I
shall draw the breath of life. De Marsac raised his sword on high, as
you would a battle-ax, and with all the force he could summon started a
blow. If it had ever reached its mark, it would have split the
stranger’s skull in twain. But the man in black was this time even more
alert than he had been before. With a quick step he jumped in close to
his foeman’s body. He raised the oaken staff over his head. He caught
the blade on it as it descended. The edge of the steel must have cut
deep into the wood, for it held there as firmly as though it were in a
vise. A quick twist of the wrist and it was torn from De Marsac’s grasp
and flew twirling and spinning in the air. Like a bird that has been
pierced by an arrow it came down and clattered to the earth.
The man in black showed no more concern than if he were plucking a
flower from a field. He went over and took the sword in his hand. He ran
his fingers along the blade and wiped away the clay that had stuck to it
where it had fallen. Then with the utmost deliberation, he snapped it
across his knee and tossed the pieces contemptuously at De Marsac’s
feet.
“I could crush the life out of you now, De Marsac,” he said, “with this
club of mine. Or for a second time I might let you go.” He hesitated as
though he was thinking and with a snap of his fingers said, “Pshaw! What
are you to me but a worm crawling on the ground.”
De Marsac uttered not a word. He stood with his arms at his side, his
body swaying slightly waiting for a new turn in the affair. The man in
black took to pacing up and down. For a moment he was deep in thought as
though he had forgotten our existence. Then he looked suddenly up and
with heavy brows addressed our enemy.
“Go back to your King, De Marsac,” he growled, and with a sweep of his
hand as commanding as an emperor. “Tell him that I defy him to his
teeth. Tell him that before the year’s end I shall sweep him from his
throne.”
De Marsac frowned. He glared at the stranger with hate and anger in his
eyes. Then, hesitating with every step, he made slowly towards the
trees. When he felt himself secure, he faced us and raised his arm on
high.
“It is you who will be blotted from the earth,” he cried. “Before the
year’s end we shall meet again. We shall see then who will have the
upper hand.”
With that he disappeared among the trees.
The man in black continued his pacing up and down upon the ground. What
André and I had seen and heard cautioned us to keep our peace. At length
he stopped and raised a finger in warning.
“I caution you,” he said, “that that fellow will be back again. He’ll
scheme and plan until he gets revenge. That’s the kind of vermin the
King of France sends out to stir up trouble among the Norman barons. You
did wrong to let him cross the threshold of your house.”
Once more he paced to and fro. No doubt he was thinking some matter to
the bottom. We stood open-mouthed, wondering at his confidence and his
bearing. The next time he halted it was of another matter that he spoke.
“The heir of Gramont is gone,” he said. “He was taken a prisoner down
the valley of the Loire. Is it to your interest to have him back?”
“He was like a brother to us,” said André, “and the son of my father’s
warmest friend. We would gladly give our lives for him. I am sure in
like predicament he would do the same for us.”
The man’s eyes lit up with a kind of fire. His jaws tightened. By the
flicker of a smile that played about his mouth I was sure he was pleased
with André’s answer.
“The old spirit of the Norman race is with you yet,” he said, “tough and
stubborn to the last. It is a good sign. If you will bring Charles of
Gramont back, let one of you go down the valley of the Loire. It will be
a dangerous undertaking, for you will be among the enemies of your
country. Above all, take heed of what you see and hear. Beyond Angers
the open territory is dominated by a man called the Abbot of Chalonnes.
It will be your business to find him. And it will be he who will return
to you the lad you seek—young Charles.”
We looked at each other, André and I.
“It may be a fool’s errand,” remarked my brother. “How will the Abbot
know?—what sign or token shall we give?”
The man in black spun on his heels like a top. He said nothing, only
ripped open his doublet wide across his chest. To our amazement we saw
that underneath instead of a shirt he wore the tanned hide of an
animal’s skin with the hair turned outward. With his hand he reached
down and from under his belt brought forth a fine yellow plume such as
great leaders wear on their helmets on the field of battle.
[Illustration: The Arrow Struck With a Click]
“Do you know this?” he cried, holding it before us.
“It is the tail of a leopard made into a plume,” said André.
“It will be enough, then,” he said shortly, “to say to the Abbot of
Chalonnes that you have seen this.”
He made to go.
“One word more,” called André after him. “Is it too much for us to know
your name?”
The stranger stopped on the fringe of the woods. He turned and looked
back.
“My father sits upon the English throne,” he said. “I am known as the
Black Prince!”
Slowly and sadly, with the body of the old Lord of Gramont borne
tenderly among us, we wended our way towards our home. We had much to
talk about, but in our grief we held our tongues. We passed each other
with bowed heads and sorrowful faces. There was a gloom about the place
like the coldness of death.
We laid the old warrior away in the tomb of his fathers. In the evening
we sat alone together—André and I—in the light of the candles. The early
September day had been unusually warm and the casements were flung wide.
The servants had long since gone to bed. There was scarcely a sound
except our own breathing.
“I must go, Henri, to the Abbot of Chalonnes,” said my brother, breaking
the silence. “There must be no more delay.”
“If you go,” I answered, “De Marsac will appear again. There will be no
one left to defend the estate.”
André bit his lips but did not answer. He walked across the room and
stood at the side of the great oaken table in the centre of the room. I
arose, too, and stood opposite him.
“Let us toss for it, André,” said I taking a newly-minted groat from my
pocket. “If it fall heads, you go, shields, I go.”
I flung the piece in the air. It fell, but fell on its edge and rolled
down from the table across the room. I was about to go after it when an
arrow came floating through the open window. It struck with a click and
fastened its point in the hard wood. Upon the shaft, wound with a tight
cord, was tied a small piece of parchment.
André drew back.
“Another enemy!” he cried. “Will there never be an end?”
“No,” said I. “You are wrong. This time it is a friend.”
With feverish fingers I drew the arrow from the wood and unrolled the
parchment. With a kind of inward triumph I spread it open before my
brother’s eyes. At the bottom there was drawn the figure of a leopard,
very roughly to be sure, but still as plain as day. Above it in a scrawl
so crude that it could hardly be deciphered were these words:
“Send the lad!”
“There, André!” said I. “Will this decide it?”
My brother waved his hand in the air like a man who yields to the will
of Fate and moved across the room.
“I stay,” he said, and sank into the nearest chair.