FOR some days after the departure of Louis for his mother's chateau,
none of his friends had the least idea of his unfortunate situation. At
the castle it was supposed that he was overstaying his time with his
family, and at Viteau no one knew that he had left the castle. At last,
Barran, somewhat provoked that the boy should so deliberately disobey
his orders,—for he had told him to return promptly,—and knowing that his
mother could always furnish him an escort, sent messengers to Viteau,
demanding that Louis should immediately come back with them.
This, of course, caused great consternation at the chateau, and the
messengers went hurriedly home, accompanied by Raymond, to tell the news
that Louis had not yet been seen at his mother's house.
The Countess wished Bernard to go with the messengers, but this he
refused to do, urging that his place could be nowhere else than at
Viteau, and that Raymond could confer as well as any one else with
Barran, regarding the immediate steps which should be taken to find out
what had become of Louis, and to rescue him from any danger he might
have fallen into.
The Countess spent the time, during Raymond's absence, in tears and
prayers. When he returned, there came with him a small troop of
well-armed men, which Barran had sent to press on, as rapidly as
possible, to the estates of the knight from the South, for it had been
thought very likely that this knight had been prevented in some way from
stopping at Viteau, and that he had taken Louis on with him, intending
to send him back at some convenient opportunity. That the boy should
have been lost, in any way, from the company of the southern knight,
Barran did not consider possible.
This belief of a man so sensible as Barran partially comforted the
Countess; but when the troop returned, and told how Louis had left the
knight's company to ride on by himself, as none could doubt, to his
mother's house, the poor lady was completely overwhelmed with grief, and
thus she remained until Barran arrived at Viteau, for which place he
started as soon as he heard the news.
Vigorous measures were now taken for a search after Louis. It was
generally agreed that he must have been captured by robbers, for there
was no other danger which was likely to befall him on the road; but what
robbers had taken him, and to what place they had conveyed him, were
questions not easy to answer. That a band of _cotereaux_ might then be
in the forest, within ten or fifteen miles of Viteau, was not at all
improbable; but to find out their hiding-place, and, also, to find them
in it, would certainly be difficult tasks. The forests of that time
spread over such a vast extent of country, and were so dense, and in
many places so apparently pathless, that to find anything so carefully
hidden as a robber's camp would be a matter almost as much of chance as
of skill and design.
Barran privately declared that, if it were not for the Countess, who
seemed almost overcome with grief, he would quietly wait a few days
before attempting to penetrate the forest with any force; for he was
sure that, if the boy had been captured by _cotereaux_, their only
object was to get a ransom for him, and that they would soon be heard
from. Under the circumstances, however, Count de Barran saw that it
would be necessary to take immediate action, and Bernard was very active
in pushing forward the most warlike preparations.
Some of these appeared almost ridiculous to the Count.
"How now, Squire?" he said. "One might think that we expected the
rascals to attack this chateau, and carry off the other boy. By the
plans you lay, there will be more cross-bows and lances left at Viteau
than we shall carry with us into the forest."
"I should not leave the Countess defenseless, good Sir Count," replied
the squire.
"I know you are a good man and a brave soldier, Bernard," said Barran,
"and as much to be trusted, in peace or war, as many a knight of good
renown; but this is something too prudent. In these times the
_cotereaux_ do not come out of their holes to our chateaux and castles
to carry us away."
Bernard hesitated before making answer to this speech. He had intended
informing Barran of his recent discoveries in regard to the visits of
the Dominican monk, but he had not thought it well to speak of the
matter now, when the minds of every one were so occupied with the
present great trouble. However, he knew that it would be necessary to
give the reasons for the peculiar measures he advocated, and so he said,
in a low but impressive tone:
"No, good Sir Count, the _cotereaux_ do not come to our houses to carry
us away, but the officers of the Holy Inquisition do."
"What means that?" cried Barran, turning pale; and then, on a warning
signal from the squire, he lowered his voice and continued: "Has the
Countess brought upon herself the censure of the priests, by her strange
ideas about the saints? I have heard of them. Tell me quickly, is that
what you mean?"
The squire bowed his head.
"This is, indeed, grievous," said Barran; "but, surely, we need have no
great fears. Tell me, quickly, what has happened?"
Then Bernard told all that he feared and all that he had heard.
Barran was not easily frightened. Indeed, he was too apt to sneer at
things which other people considered dangerous; but this was such a very
serious matter that it caused him great anxiety and even fear, when he
heard of the peril to which the wife of his dear old friend was likely
to be exposed.
"This must not be allowed," he said. "We can not suffer that gentle lady
to be taken from us by the Inquisition. Even if she should be found
entirely innocent, which is not likely, the trial itself is something I
cannot think of for a moment. And yet what is to be done? We can not
fight the Church."
"No, Sir Count," said Bernard, "but I shall be here, with all the force
of men and arms that I can bring together, to defend my lady, and if the
Church fights me, I shall do my best battle."
"And you shall not do battle alone, my good Bernard," said Barran; "but
it may be that we shall find some better way to avert the evil than by
force of arms, which, indeed, would amount to very little, I fear me, in
the end. But now we must give our hearts and hands to the finding of
this poor, foolish boy."
Bernard was perfectly willing to give his heart to the finding of Louis,
but he would not give his hand. Nothing could induce him to leave the
chateau, where he insisted upon being left with a moderate force of
well-armed men.
Barran, with several knights from his castle, for whom he had sent when
he found that there would, probably, be more work to be done than he had
at first anticipated, set out as soon as possible, at the head of a
large body of followers, some of whom were expert in all kinds of
wood-craft, and as capable as any men could be of finding out the paths
of beasts or human beings in the depths of the woods.
The party quickly made its way along the road down which Louis must have
ridden; and, a few miles below the place where the road forked, turned
into the woods, to the west, and made careful search for paths, or any
traces of the passage of men through the undergrowth. Several
well-marked paths were soon discovered, and along the most promising of
these Barran and his men pushed their way, sometimes separating, in
various directions, and then coming together again, until they had
penetrated far into the forest.
Unfortunately for the success of their search, the camp of the
_cotereaux_ was in the woods to the east of the road. To be sure, the
forest, in every direction, would be searched in time, but if the
Count's party should keep on in the way it was going, it would be long
before it could find the huts of Captain Michol.
Raymond stayed at the chateau with his mother. He much wished to join
the Count's party in the search for his brother, but Barran told him
that it was his duty to try to comfort and console the Countess until
Louis should be brought back, and, therefore, Raymond reluctantly
remained at Viteau. He loved his mother, and was always willing to do
anything that would please or benefit her, but, in this case, he thought
that she, being safe at home, did not need him nearly so much as his
poor brother, who probably was suffering in captivity, no one knew
where.
On the evening of the second day after the departure of the searching
party, Raymond came down into the grounds of the chateau. His mother was
asleep, and he came out for a little exercise.
Not far from the house he met the squire.
"Bernard," said Raymond, "I think it is a foolish thing for you and me
and all these men to be idling here. We might leave my mother with her
ladies, and a man or two, and go, the rest of us, to help scour the
woods to find dear Louis."
Just at this moment, and before Bernard could answer him, Raymond saw,
coming up from the lower part of the grounds, the Dominican monk,
Brother Anselmo.
"What does that man want, Bernard?" he exclaimed. "There have been two
priests here to-day, to console my mother in her affliction, and I do
not think another one is needed now, especially not this man, who does
not belong to our monastery and who keeps himself a stranger to me. My
mother is asleep, and should not be disturbed."
"If she is asleep," said the squire, "she shall not be disturbed."
He then walked back to the house, closely followed by Raymond, and stood
in the entrance door. In a few moments the monk appeared, and with a
slight motion of the head, but not a word, stepped forward to pass in.
But the squire stood stoutly before him, and stopped him.
"My lady, the Countess," he said, "is weary and sick at heart on account
of the loss of her young son. She is sleeping now and can not be
disturbed."
"If she is sick at heart," said Brother Anselmo, "that is the greater
reason why I should see her."
"It can not be," said Bernard. "She needs rest, and no one must disquiet
her."
"What right have you, Squire Bernard," said the monk, "to forbid my
entrance? Are you the master of this house?"
"No," said Raymond, stepping forward, "but I am, when my mother can not
act as its mistress, and I say that no one shall disturb her this night.
Two priests have been here to-day, and I know she expects no others."
"Boy," said Brother Anselmo, "stand aside! You should be chastised for
such presumptuous words; and as for you, Squire, I command you, in the
name of the Church, to let me pass."
"I honor the Church as much as any man," said Bernard, "but I do not
believe that she grants to her priests the right to ask what they
please, in her name. I might come to be asked for my purse, in the name
of the Church; and that I would not give up, any more than I shall give
up my right to protect my mistress, the Countess, in this, her first
hour of sleep and rest for many days."
Brother Anselmo was very angry. Shaking his fist at the sturdy squire,
he cried:
"Stupid blunderer! You shall see, and that right soon, what power the
Church gives me." And then, without another word, he turned and walked
rapidly away.
"What does he mean?" asked Raymond. "I greatly dislike that monk. He is
always asking my mother questions which trouble her much to answer."
Bernard made no reply, but stood for a moment in deep thought. Then he
said to himself: "An hour to the monastery, and an hour back. There is
yet time, and the plan I think of will be the better one. I can not
trust the men to stand against the priests. Raymond! Run now, and have
your horse saddled and bridled, and ride out of the upper gate, and wait
for me in the road."
"Why so?" cried Raymond, in surprise. "It is too late for exercises."
"I can not answer now," said Bernard, hurrying away. "Be speedy and I
will tell you on the road."
[Illustration: BROTHER ANSELMO THREATENS BERNARD AND RAYMOND.]
Raymond, much amazed, but feeling quite sure that the squire had some
good reason for this strange proceeding, ran to get his horse, while
Bernard ordered the men-at-arms to hastily equip themselves for an
expedition, and to gather together, mounted, inside the north gate. Then
he went upstairs to the apartments of the Countess, and asked to speak
with one of her ladies. The Countess, who was only lightly dozing on a
couch, heard the squire's voice, and, instantly rising, called to him to
know what news he brought.
Bernard advanced within the door-way, and in a hurried voice told his
lady that the news he brought was of great import, but that he must tell
it to her alone. The Countess then desired the ladies who were with her
to retire to another room, and the squire, in as few words as possible,
but very earnestly and forcibly, told her of her great danger, of the
threats of the Dominican monk, and of the fact that he had heard, that
day, of the arrival of a body of men, well-armed, at the neighboring
monastery.
"In an hour or so," he said, "these men will be here, I greatly fear me.
Raymond is already on the road, for I wished to spare him this wretched
story, and, if we do not start quickly for Barran's castle, where you
will find present safety, it may happen that weeks and months may pass
before you will have news of Louis, even if he should be found
to-morrow."
"You mean that I may not be here to meet the news?" the lady said.
Bernard bowed his head. The Countess did not hesitate, but came to a
decision at once.
"I shall be ready," she said, "in a very short time. Have horses
prepared for myself and my three ladies. We must hasten to Raymond, if
he be alone on the road."
She then called her ladies, and began to make rapid preparations for the
journey.
The horses were scarcely ready when the ladies made their appearance in
the court, and, in a few minutes, accompanied by Bernard and the
men-at-arms, they rode out of the north gate. An elderly man, who acted
as seneschal, or keeper of the establishment, was left, with the
ordinary servants and vassals, in charge of the chateau.
Raymond, riding slowly up and down the road, was soon overtaken, and
then the squire, without entering into explanations, urged his party
onward as swiftly as possible.
"What is the meaning of all this?" cried Raymond, in great perplexity,
riding up to his mother. "It is stranger than any of the old tales the
women used to tell me."
The Countess was a lady of strong mind and body, and although the
unknown fate of her younger son had overwhelmed her with grief, this new
peril to her whole family had thoroughly aroused her, and she was riding
steadily and swiftly onward.
"It is a strange tale," she said—"stranger far than any I thought would
ever be told in this fair land; but I can not tell it to you, my boy,
until our journey's end. Then you shall hear it all."
So Raymond, with the rest, rode on, and he, with all the others,
excepting the squire and his mother, supposed that this long night-ride
had something to do with the rescue of Louis.
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