UNDER WHICH KING?
The rose garden seemed to be as quiet as a church-yard. No sound was
heard save the faint soughing of the evening wind among the rose
bushes, no sight resembling humanity visible save the face of Pan
looking down mockingly upon the crimson blossoms that girdled him.
Yet in a few seconds it became plain that the god Pan was not the
only occupant of the garden. Through quiet alleyways, cloaked and
cowled figures came stealing, six in number--men with pilgrims'
cloaks about their shoulders, and pilgrims' hoods upon their
heads--men who carried cockleshells upon the sleeves of their
gabardines--all converging through the dark walks of the garden to
a common centre, and that centre the grassy space before the king's
watch tower. The six figures huddled together at the base of the
image of Pan. One of them who seemed to be their leader, a man of
giant form, spoke, and the voice was the voice of Thibaut
d'Aussigny.
"Are we all here?" he asked.
The nearest pilgrim to him answered with the voice of René de
Montigny.
"Aye, and ready to gather the royal rose of this garden."
As he spoke there came a faint click at the latch of the tower door.
Thibaut waved his companions apart.
"Keep close," he said, and four of the pilgrim forms disappeared
swiftly into the spaces of shadow. Only Thibaut and René remained,
standing masked and attentive, their eyes fixed upon the tower door.
It opened and Noel le Jolys emerged, followed by, the slight,
hunched figure in faded black velvet for whom the eyes of the
conspirators were so eager. Noel advanced questioning:
"Is the star-gazer here?"
René de Montigny answered him glibly as a showman patters the praise
of his wares.
"Aye. He is the wonder of the world. He can read the stars more
easily than a tapster the score on his shutter. He can spell you the
high luck and the low. Bohemian, Egyptian, Arabian wisdom have no
mysteries for him."
As René ceased, the royal figure with a sweeping gesture of his hand
made a sign of dismissal to Noel, who bowed respectfully and
withdrew into the tower. The king then beckoned to the mighty figure
in the palmer's weed, and Thibaut advanced slowly until he was
within touch of his prey, when he suddenly flung out his great hand
and caught his enemy by the throat, gripping him into silence while
his right hand bared and brandished a dagger. The figure in black
dropped under his grasp, trembled and gasped, but the hand of
Thibaut was too strong upon him and he could not speak or cry out.
Thibaut hissed at him:
"Sire, I can decipher your destiny. Do not speak or I will kill
you!"
He pressed the point of the dagger close to the captive's neck and
smiled to see him shudder.
"I am Thibaut d'Aussigny, sire, whom you thought to be dead, but who
lives to prison you."
As he spoke his companions emerged from the gloom and gathered
around Thibaut and the king, a little menacing circle of determined
men.
"You are in the toils. Silent you are still a man; give tongue and
you are simple carrion. You must come to the knees of Burgundy. You
shall be the Duke's footstool!"
The cowering black figure wriggled and quivered as if every one of
Thibaut's words were a stroke of a whip that cut into his flesh; his
eager hands clawed piteously at Thibaut's grasping arm, until his
very agony of terror aroused the contempt of his captor. He pushed
the king from him contemptuously, and the king dropped on the ground
a black and helpless heap of fear.
"Can a king be such a cur? Burgundy won't hurt you if you do as he
bids you. I won't hurt you if you do as I bid you."
The black figure rocked, a pitiable bundle of terrors, apparently
sobbing plaintively. Thibaut sickened at such shameless fear.
"Stop crying," he growled.
René de Montigny, who had been watching keenly the actions of the
prisoner, interrupted:
"He seems to be laughing," he said.
Thibaut gave a cry of astonishment and stooped down over the
prostrate man, who greeted him with a prolonged and hearty peal of
laughter, which staggered the giant like a blow in the face. At that
moment the tower door was flung open and Tristan appeared.
"The king!" he cried in a voice of thunder.
In another moment, as if by magic, the little garden space was
girdled by the archers of the Scottish Guard, strong hands made sure
of the baffled conspirators, and to their astonishment Louis himself
made his appearance through the open doorway, his malign face
smiling in the moonlight.