TRAPPED!
BEFORE the raiders had proceeded very far a short exclamation from
one of the men-at-arms caused them to pull up sharply.
"What's amiss?" demanded Raymond in a whisper.
"The peasant's horse hath gone lame," replied one of the soldiers.
"Can we not despatch the guide, for, certes, he is of no further use,
and it will save us the trouble of looking after him?"
"Nay!" replied Raymond sturdily. "I am loth to cause a harmless
peasant to be slain. Make him mount behind thee, Robert, but keep a
tight hold on his chain."
Once again the advance was resumed, the horses floundering over the
slippery, leaf-strewn path, their riders being put to great trouble
by reason of the overhanging branches that often almost swept them
from their saddles.
Presently they began to descend a steep declivity, the slope
requiring all the skill of the horsemen to keep their steeds on their
feet, while the rain, now falling in torrents, had transformed the
little path into a foaming stream.
Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning rent the darkness of the night,
and in the dazzling glare Raymond beheld, with a thrill of horror,
two of the men who were leading disappear into a yawning chasm almost
at his feet, their cries drowned by the appalling crash of the
accompanying thunder. By dint of reining in his horse till the animal
was almost on its haunches, the young squire saved himself from a
similar fate, and slipping to the ground he awaited, in terrible
suspense, the next flash that would give some idea of his position.
The succeeding period of darkness seemed to weigh upon him like a
suffocating shroud, while the silence was broken only by the frantic
prancing of the remaining horses, the feeble groans of one of the
fallen men, and a low gurgling sound a short distance away--a sound
that caused indescribable terror in the mind of the young squire.
Then came another crash and a ponderous mass fell across the path he
had just passed, and another shriek of agony rent the air. To the
horrified Raymond, whose superstitious feelings were aroused by the
war of the elements and the tragedy of his surroundings, the place
savoured of the infernal regions; and gazing with wide-open eyes into
the inky blackness, he dumbly awaited the next gleam of blinding
light.
At length, after a seemingly endless suspense, it came--a double
flash. Short as was the duration of the glare it served to intensify
the horror of his position.
At his feet yawned the pit, wherein the feebly-moving limbs of two
of his men still writhed in the throes of death, while their horses
were frantically kicking each other in the confined space. Behind him
lay another man-at-arms, the blood welling from a gaping wound in his
throat, while a fourth lay crushed--beyond recognition by a heavy
tree-trunk that, falling across the path, effectually prevented a
retreat. There was no sign of their guide, but the fifth soldier was
leaning against a tree-trunk, his hands pressed tightly over his eyes
as if trying to shut out the ghastly scene.
The next flash showed that he, too, had vanished, and Raymond was
alone, though the shouts and cries of the unfortunate man-at-arms
betokened that he was being haled off through the forest by some
invisible agency--whether by men, animals, or spirits the squire
dared not imagine.
And now the underwood on either side seemed alive with movement, and
Raymond felt, or fancied he felt, rough hands groping towards him.
Frenzy took possession of his shaking body, and, lashed into the
energy of despair, he unsheathed his sword and slashed madly about
him. The blade came in violent contact with an overhanging bough and
snapped off close to the hilt; at the same moment the squire felt a
pair of sinewy arms encircle his feet, and with a lusty heave he was
upset and thrown with a crash to the ground, the point of a knife
pressing against his throat warning him of the utter uselessness of
further resistance.
Bound hand and foot, the unfortunate squire was carried or dragged
through a thick growth of underwood, till at length his captors
gained a large clearing. By the aid of a momentary flash he saw the
outlines of a low building. In response to a violent knocking he
heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn, and, borne on the shoulders
of four strong men, he was carried into the house, and dropped
unceremoniously upon the rush-strewn floor.
Some one took a torch from its socket and bent over the prostrate
squire. Raymond recognised the features--it was the traitorous guide!
But gone was the heavy lustreless expression of his eyes and the
stolid set of his swarthy jaws; instead a look of malevolent
intelligence overspread his face, and by the subservience with which
he was treated by his comrades it was evident that he was a man of
authority.
"Ah! Dolt, fool, beast of an Englishman! How nicely hast thou borne
the Count of Tancarville back to the camp of the cursed invader of
Normandy! Dead or alive, eh? Little didst thou know how near thy
purpose was fulfilled when thy base _routier_ made to pass a knife
across my throat. I--even I--am the Count of Tancarville!"
He paused to observe the effect of this startling announcement, but
Raymond preserved a dignified silence.
"And that simpleton the Constable, thy master," he resumed. "To think
that the Count of Tancarville would be dallying at a hunting lodge
when base English defile the coasts of Normandy! Ah! That was a near
one," he added as another blinding flash of lightning lit up the
room.
"Knowest thou, thou miserable fool," he continued as soon as the
crash of the thunder permitted, "that did that fiery fork but touch
this place thou and I would be scattered, so that all the armies of
Philip and Edward would fail to find a fragment? Eh, I interest thee?
'Tis well; I'll tell thee more, seeing that the knowledge will profit
thee but little. Henri! Cut asunder the bonds that bind this
Englishman's legs, and do thou and Etienne stand close lest he do
himself an injury!"
Handing the torch to a serving-man, the Count led the way, closely
followed by Raymond and his two guards. In an adjoining apartment, so
open to the winds that the torch was almost extinguished, lay seven
sinister-looking objects, which the squire readily recognised as
bombards.
These early cannon were composed of straight lengths of flat iron,
held together by shrunk-on iron hoops, and lashed down to a heavy
baulk of timber, so that in training these clumsy contrivances,
carriage and gun were practically one piece.
"These are the beasts I hunt in this forest," quoth the Count. "King
Philip hath need of them, and, by our Lady of Nîmes, 'twill be a
sight to see the vaunted English bowmen being bowled over by these
bombards. And food these beasts must have! Forward, garçons, and show
this dolt mine animals' food. But, Bertrand, stand aside with that
torch. I am in no mind to go heavenwards yet awhile."
The next room was little better than a cell, lightened by the feeble
light of an oil lamp that glimmered through a horn lanthorn. In a far
corner could be discerned the bent figure of a monk, his cowl thrown
back on his shoulders and his arms bared to the elbow. Ignoring the
interruption, he continued his labours, working a pestle with
untiring energy.
"Behold the worthy successor to Michael Schwartz! My faith! It does
my heart good to show the accursed English the resources of la belle
France; yet, 'tis passing strange that the secret of the making of
the devil's powder should be divulged to a priest of God. Five score
barrels full of the powder are ready for the use of our forces, and
I'll warrant---- Ah! What wouldst thou? Down with him, mes garçons!"
For Raymond, suddenly fired with a reckless determination, had thrown
himself upon the torch-bearer, and with a shower of sparks the
burning brand was dashed upon the floor, missing the bench with its
dangerous compound by less than a span!
The Count and the monk, both white with fear, stamped upon the
blazing embers, while the guards with no gentle hand had forced their
prisoner to the ground.
"A senseless piece of folly," growled the Norman. "And little credit
to thyself."
"'Twould have rid the King of England of a dangerous foe," replied
Raymond stoutly, opening his lips for the first time since his
capture.
"Away with him, till I find a means to make use of him, Etienne!"
exclaimed the Count, taking no notice of the squire's remark.
"To the oubliette?"
"Nay; two of these accursed Englishmen in one den would plague us far
more than if kept apart. One never knows what the rogues get up to
when they plan amongst themselves. Lock him in the old arrow-store."
The old arrow-store was a damp and dismal chamber next to the cell
where Raymond had seen the monk at his researches. It was on the
ground floor, and lighted only by one lancet-shaped window, far too
narrow to admit the passage of a man. The roof was vaulted, the
arches springing from a central pillar, while the floor was paved
with heavy slabs set in strong cement.
This much the young squire saw while the men were making a cursory
examination by the aid of two additional torches; and after removing
an old chest they quitted the room, bolting and locking the heavy
iron-plated door behind them.
Left to himself, Raymond fell a prey to the deepest despondency. The
failure of his ill-starred attempt, the comparative ease of his
capture, and the mortification which the Constable would feel at his
non-return, weighed upon the unhappy squire far more than the danger
of his hopeless position, and, grief-stricken, he lay on a stone
bench, listlessly marking the sound of the rapidly-retreating storm,
till a feeble glimmer through the lancet window betokened that the
day was dawning. He had one consolation, sorry though it was--there
remained another Englishman within the stronghold, the solitary
survivor of five picked men-at-arms.
Presently Raymond stood up and stretched his cramped limbs, then
standing on the bench he found that he could just reach the window.
Grasping the stone ledge with his hands, he raised himself
sufficiently to look out.
It was a cheerless outlook. In front, a bow-shot away, lay the dense
masses of the forest, still hazy with the morning mist. An open
space, broken only by a moat full of slimy water, lay between the
forest and the stronghold, though no drawbridge was visible on that
side.
And beyond the forest lay, at an unknown distance, the English camp,
where even now Sir John Hacket was doubtless expecting his return
with the expected captive. Overcome with the irony of the situation,
Raymond clambered down from the window and relapsed into his moody
and despondent attitude.
For several hours he remained thus, till aroused by the drawing back
of the bolts of his prison door. The door was thrown open, and an
armed man entered, bearing a pitcher of water and a trencher of black
bread, while another man stood without, for fear of an outburst of
the prisoner. Without a word the jailer set down the meal and
retired.
Twice daily was this done, and thus the days sped, slowly and
cheerlessly, but no visit from the Count of Tancarville served to
break the dismal monotony.
On the fifth day Raymond heard the sound of martial preparations, and
climbing to the window he caught a brief glimpse of a body of armed
and mounted men riding past his prison; one of whom, he had no doubt,
was the Count. Then came the rumble of heavily-laden wains, but in
which direction the party disappeared the squire was unable to see.
Evidently the little garrison of this sylvan fortress was
considerably depleted, for Raymond noticed that his jailer came into
his prison alone. He thought, though, that this might have been
through a sense of familiarity at his prisoner's dejected mien. Yet
daily, for hours together, the sound of the pestle, dimly heard
through the thick adjoining wall, showed that the taciturn old monk
still pursued his dangerous task.
Four more days passed in dreadful solitude, till, maddened by the
hopelessness of his condition, Raymond resolved on desperate measures
to attempt his escape. Plan after plan flashed through his brain,
only to be put aside as impracticable. Feigning death, burrowing
through the stone walls of his prison, attacking his jailer, all
seemed hopeless, till at length a scheme, hazardous in the extreme,
yet capable of meeting with possible success, matured in his mind and
hourly increased his hopes of ultimate success.
Usually the jailer found him sitting dejectedly upon the stone bench,
practically invisible in the gloom to any one entering from the
dazzling sunlight without. But on this particular morning Raymond,
awaiting the jailer's footsteps, carefully removed his surcoat and
hid behind the door. Directly the man entered he made, as was his
wont, direct for the bench, when the squire, springing upon him from
behind, muffled his head in the surcoat and bore him to the ground.
The jug and platter fell with a resounding crash, and Raymond,
seizing the broken pitcher, struck the jailer such a shrewd blow that
it all but split his skull, leaving him senseless on the floor.
Hastily dragging his body across to the darkest corner, Raymond
possessed himself of his dagger and escaped from his prison.
Without a moment's hesitation he burst into the adjoining apartment,
where the old monk, engrossed in his work, did not take the slightest
notice of his abrupt entry. Raymond had argued with himself that a
priest engaged in warlike pursuits thereby puts himself without the
pale of the Church; so, overcoming his scruples, he wrenched the
pestle from the hand of the astonished monk and stunned him ere he
could utter a sound.
Then with feverish haste he stripped off and donned the monk's
capacious gown, pulling the cowl well down over his eyes; then,
strapping the wooden sandals over his own pointed shoes, he walked
boldly into the corridor, with bent head and clattering gait.
At the end of the passage was another heavily-barred door, at which a
spearman stood on guard. Holding his dagger firmly in his right hand
and concealing it within the folds of his long sleeve, Raymond moved
straight up to the man. The sentinel opened the door, and with bowed
head stood aside to let the supposed monk pass. In a well-feigned
highly-pitched voice the young squire gave the customary blessing;
then, almost amazed at his good fortune, he gained the free air once
more.
But his difficulties were not yet over. The road from the stronghold
ran under the shelter of the low walls for some distance, then turned
abruptly and crossed the moat by a drawbridge, at the end of which
was a small postern and barbican.
All went well till Raymond was upon the bridge, and the gate-keeper
was making ready to throw open the outer gate, when the sham monk
dropped one sandal upon the bridge, where it lay conspicuously in the
dazzling sunshine.
For a moment the guard paused, gazing in undisguised astonishment at
the tell-tale object, then with a crash he closed the gate and raised
a horn to his lips. But ere he could blow a blast Raymond was upon
him; a glint of cold steel, and the man uttering a choking cry, threw
up his arms and fell in a huddled heap.
Disguise was no longer necessary, and the squire, opening the gate
and casting off his gown as he ran, sped over the open space towards
the sheltering forest.
He heard some one behind him shouting the alarm, but by the time the
watchers on the wall could wind their cross-bows Raymond was almost
out of range, though a dropping bolt, shot at a venture, hummed close
to his head and buried itself in the springy turf at the foot of the
nearest tree.
Though skilled in finding a course by observing the position of the
sun, Raymond was but indifferently versed in woodcraft, and in the
gloom of the forest all idea of direction was beyond him. Onward he
plunged, crashing through the bracken and undergrowth, till to his
great delight he struck a narrow path. This he followed, till at
length he came upon the scene of his ambuscade. A yawning pit,
partially concealed by a screen of hurdles and bracken, lay across
the narrow way, while a score of paces beyond was a tree trunk,
which, having been skilfully cut through close to its base, needed
but little effort to fall into its present position, effectually
barring the road to any but unmounted men.
With a sickening feeling of horror Raymond gazed into the pit, where
lay the mangled remains of two of his men-at-arms, though it was
evident that the plunderer had already been there, as the corpses
were stripped of their arms and accoutrements, while the trappings of
the horses had vanished.
Under the fallen trunk lay the body of the third soldier, plundered
also as far as the ponderous timber would allow, while of the fourth
no trace remained but a dark stain on the clayey soil.
Clambering over the last obstacle, the squire found himself on the
steep path that had been so dangerous a road but a short fortnight
before. On and on he hastened, till he emerged on the high road that
led to the camp, which he estimated to be about four and a half
leagues distant, provided a general advance had not taken place in
the meantime.
He was hatless and without his surcoat, having left that garment with
his late jailer, and there were no distinguishing marks to show that
he belonged either to the army of the King of England or of Philip of
France.
Tying his blood-stained scarf over his chin, he strode boldly
forward, trusting in the rôle of a wounded soldier to avoid being
questioned. At length he gained the summit of a hill, from which he
looked down upon a lovely fertile valley, and in the distance the
blue waters of the English Channel.
A spur of rising ground hid the view on his right, but a few minutes
sufficed to gain its crest, and on looking down he saw a sight that
filled him with joy, for below lay a large unwalled town, which he
rightly guessed to be Caen, while a league off was the English host
in battle array, and between him and the army was a motley array of
Frenchmen issuing from the town to join battle with the invaders.