clearly dangerous to keep Sir John in the chill night air longer than
was absolutely necessary, well wrapped up though he was. The village
was little more than half a mile away, and towards this the two lads
made their way through the woods, with many a stumble in the darkness.
Just as they were beginning to think that they had mistaken the
direction in which it lay, they suddenly came upon it.
"Shall we make for the innhouse?" enquired Peter.
"Nay, let us first seek the priest. It may be that Sir Eustace will
think that we have come from the village and will return there. He may
send in a messenger or a body of men to intercept us. Let us first seek
advice of the priest. I know his house; it lieth on the outskirts, to
the south."
Struggling on for a few more minutes, the two lads found themselves at
last at the priest's house. It was in darkness, but presently, in
response to cautious knocks, a light appeared, and the door was unbolted
and opened.
"Who seeks Father Armand at this late hour?" he asked.
"The two strangers. We are back from Ruthenes and seek thine aid. We
have rescued the prisoner, but he is sick and sorely needs attention."
"What! Escaped from Ruthenes?" cried the priest, as he stepped quickly
outside the house and laid his hand on Edgar's arm. "Warmly do I
felicitate you, for verily ye are the first that ever did so. And hast
rescued the prisoner ye sought? Marvel of marvels! But if that is so
'tis dangerous for you to stay here a minute longer. When Sir Eustace
finds you have escaped he will lose little time in riding in and
searching this village through and through. Come--I will accompany
you--ye must return to the woods awhile until ye can ride away in
safety."
"Thank you, good father! But the knight is sick, and I fear 'twill be
bad indeed for him to lie abroad in the woods."
"The night is dry, and there is no alternative, unless ye wish him to be
dragged back to Ruthenes. Come--demur not, for ye will, I hope, be off
at daybreak. Your horses are safe, for I have had them sent away to a
secret place in the woods, knowing well that were they found at the
inn-house nothing could save them."
Warmly Edgar thanked the priest for his kindness.
"Thank me not, Sir Squire. I am always most ready to aid the enemies of
the castle; and besides, I still nourish hopes that ye may throw in your
lot with us. Come, now, let us get away into the woods while there is
time."
Following the priest's lead, Edgar and Peter bore Sir John back within
the shelter of the woods. A comfortable litter was then constructed from
two of the rugs stretched across young saplings, and the march began
towards the secret place where the horses had been sent. After an
hour's slow travelling the party came to a steep cliff in a spur of the
mountains where a landslip appeared to have hollowed out a shallow cave.
The dying embers of a fire still glowed in the entrance, and as the
party approached, a man sprang to his feet, knife in hand.
"Peace, brother!" said the priest quietly. "Where hast stabled the
horses?"
"Yonder," replied the man, pointing to another similar cave a few yards
away.
"'Tis well," responded the priest. Then turning to Edgar he explained:
"This place is often used as a refuge by the villagers when they fear
interference. It is fairly close at hand, and provides a temporary
shelter for man and beast."
"It will serve us well until we can obtain a wagon in which to carry Sir
John to Bordeaux," replied Edgar. "If he can be moved, I am most
anxious to start at once. Doubtless thou wilt know someone who has a
horse and cart to lend or sell?"
"Yes, I can obtain you what you want. But sit ye down by the fire and
sup. Jules here will give us of his store so far as it will go, and
meanwhile I will attend to your sick knight. I have some knowledge of
herbs and simples, and often have to tend the sick in body as well as
the diseased in mind."
Fresh wood was thrown upon the fire, and by its light the party made
themselves and Sir John comfortable. Barely half an hour had elapsed
since they reached the cave when the man Jules held up a warning finger.
"Hark!" he said.
All stopped and listened intently. In the distance, borne clearly on
the still air, could be heard a noise as of shouts and cries. It came
from the direction of the village.
"My people!" cried the priest in a voice of anguish. "My people again
being harried by the hirelings of the castle! I must go to them. Scant
respect do they give me indeed, but what I can do I must do. Farewell,
young sir!"
With hasty tread he strode off into the woods, leaving Edgar most
uncomfortable and perplexed, and sorely tempted to follow him. It was
clear that the raid upon the village was due to his escape from the
castle, and the thought that innocent men and women were suffering for
his success was most distressing. The priest, too, in his eagerness to
protect his flock and in his hatred of the tyrants might well be
betrayed into a zeal that would bring down upon him the more active
hostility of the garrison. Edgar shuddered to think what might then
happen.
For some time the cries continued unabated, and then they gradually died
away until all was still once more. Feeling the tension somewhat
relaxed, Edgar and Peter, after seeing that Sir John was as comfortable
as it was possible to make him, threw themselves down and slept until
daybreak.
Soon after they had risen and had made a few preparations for breakfast,
the priest strode quickly up. Edgar could see that something was wrong
by his quick irregular tread and by the way in which his hood was drawn
well forward over his face. He came to a pause as he reached the cave,
and after replying with a gesture of the hand to Edgar's salutations,
remained standing for some minutes in silence, as though in deep and
anxious thought.
"I hope there hath been no bloodshed," said Edgar earnestly, when the
silence of the priest had become almost insupportable.
"There hath been little actual bloodshed," replied the priest in a
hollow voice; "merely a repetition of the scenes of violence and cruelty
that I have had to witness for years past, but which I was hoping were
gone for good. I am in doubt. I know not whether to raise the banner
of revolt without delay or to wait, as ye counselled, until our forces
have some sort of organization. I now incline to begin the fight at
once, for I fear that the spirit of my people will be broken beyond
redemption if such cruelties are allowed to go on much longer
unchecked."
Wearily he seated himself on the ground, unconsciously throwing back his
hood and revealing a livid weal which ran across his face from one side
to the other.
"They have ill-used thee," cried Edgar, with a burst of indignation.
"The cowards have struck thee with their whips--and I am to blame. 'Tis
on my account that they have ridden into the village and done violence
to thy poor folk."
"My hurt is nothing," replied the priest, contemptuously waving his hand
as though to thrust the idea aside. "'Tis true it is the first time I
have received actual violence at their hands, but I care nothing for
that. But my poor people have not, I fear, my hope in the future, and
upon them the stripes fall with a deadly sting that toucheth me not.
You say you fear 'tis on your account that these things have been done.
Regard it not. Perchance 'tis the spark that setteth alight the fire to
make us free. I would though, Sir Squire, that thou wouldst throw in
thy lot with us, for 'tis a heavy thing for a priest, untutored in the
art of war, to lead the people he loveth to what may be defeat and
destruction. If thou dost feel thy responsibility for the night's
violence--fling thy sword into the balance, and thou wilt have paid back
thy debt in full."
"My hands are tied," replied Edgar, shaking his head. "My master there
hath first claim upon my services, and until he hath been put in a place
of safety I dare think of naught else."
"I will see to his welfare in a place of safety," exclaimed the priest.
"Higher up the mountains I know several such places, and, tended by one
or two of our folk, he will mend rapidly and well."
"Nay, I must take him back to his kinsfolk," replied Edgar decidedly.
"Even then 'tis doubtful whether he will give me permission to ride back
hither to engage in a private war on the side of a people at war with my
countrymen. With all my heart I desire thy success and the deliverance
of thy people, good father, but my duty is elsewhere. Press me not, I
beg, but let me on."
The priest inclined his head. "Be it so," he said sadly. "Thou art
still a friend though thou canst not, or wilt not, stand shoulder to
shoulder with me in the conflict. Thou shall return as quickly as my
help can compass it. We will not talk more of this matter; but let me
see to thy master. A happy man is he to have won such unswerving
loyalty."
With a touch as light and gentle as that of a woman, the priest tended
the sick knight. His mind yet wandered, but he seemed to be easier than
when Edgar and Peter had first entered his chamber in the donjon of
Ruthenes. By some subtle means he seemed to know that he was now in
friendly hands, and had grown more restful and contented.
For two days Edgar remained at the cave watching over Sir John. At the
end of that time the priest pronounced the knight well enough to travel,
and within a few hours a horse and cart were ready waiting in the road
at the point nearest to the mountain refuge.
Sir John was placed upon the litter, gently carried to the cart, and
there comfortably ensconced on a thick bed of dry leaves covered with a
rug. Then with a most cordial farewell to Father Armand, Edgar mounted
the cart and drove away. Peter rode alongside on one of their chargers,
their second having been left behind as payment for the horse and cart.
After six days' travelling by slow and easy stages they entered the
gates of the city of Bordeaux.
During the first two days of the return journey, Sir John's mind still
wandered. On the third day, however, to Edgar's great delight, he awoke
with his mind clear and lucid, although he was still very weak and
feeble. He said nothing more than a bare half-dozen words of greeting
all that day, but seemed content to lie there and let his eyes wander
from the lads' faces to cart and tree and sky, as though well satisfied
to be where he was. The following day he showed more animation, and
talked about the villages and scenery through which they passed. He
said no word of Ruthenes, however, and appeared to wish to avoid the
subject as if it were a painful one that he was anxious to put away from
him as long as possible.
The day before the party reached Bordeaux, on Edgar mentioning that he
hoped they would arrive in time to join the ladies just before they sat
down to their midday meal, Sir John seemed to come to a sudden decision
within himself. Struggling into a half-sitting posture upon his bed of
leaves and rugs, he said in a firm and steady voice: "Edgar, I wish you
now to tell me all--how you came to be at Ruthenes and how I came to be
released. I have some fears that the story will bring me no credit, but
I desire thee to tell me everything."
Although Edgar did not quite know what Sir John meant by his last
remark, he took no notice, but told the whole story from the time of his
setting out with Peter up to the last desperate dash to safety through
the underground passage.
When he had finished, Sir John gave so deep a sigh of relief that Edgar
could not help looking at him with some astonishment.
"Thou art surprised at my relief, lad," observed Sir John, with a faint
smile. "Well, then, thou shalt know how it is my mind feels so relieved
that I could almost shout for joy. Ever since I was able to think
connectedly, I have had at the back of my mind the fear that away there
in Ruthenes I had given way to the tortures and threats of De Maupas and
Eustace de Brin--given way, and passed my knightly word to further their
base schemes at the expense of my successors or of the lady Beatrice.
How else could I account for my freedom save by supposing that I had
played the dastard, and had been handed over to thee in payment of the
debt and to complete the bond? Now ye tell me that I have been rescued
and that my honour is still my own. Canst now understand my relief,
Edgar? 'Tis more difficult for me to understand how thou couldst have
rescued me. It seems marvellous to one who for days tramped frantically
up and down his cell like a caged beast, impotent to find a way of
escape."
"Talk not nor think of that, Sir John, or thou wilt retard thy recovery.
We, too, felt the dread spell of those fearful dungeons, but we were
two, and could support one another's drooping spirits."
There was a pause for a few minutes, and then Sir John said suddenly:
"What of the tournament, Edgar? What thought they of me when I appeared
not? Did they think I blenched from the combat?"
"Nay, nay, Sir John--not one," evasively replied Edgar, who rather
shrank from the recital of his masquerade as Sir John. It seemed so
likely that the knight might resent the liberty, undertaken in his
interest though it had been.
"He will have gained nothing by the trick," said Sir John, half to
himself, in a despondent tone. "I will see to it that the earl doth know
of his baseness, and I doubt if he will dare again to cross my path.
Better will it be for him to stay at Ruthenes, where he is in safety
among companions as base as himself."
"I could wish that thou wouldst tell me how they made thee prisoner, Sir
John," said Edgar, anxious to change the subject. "Thou wert wounded, I
know, for when the priest tended thee he found that great gash in thy
thigh."
"Aye. Nicely was I tricked. I was riding at my ease along a narrow
lane when an old woman stopped me and asked an alms. As I stooped, two
men, with swords drawn, sprang out upon me from the shelter of some
bushes near by. I was quick enough to be ready for their onslaught, but
as I slashed at them, my horse sank suddenly to the ground--hamstrung by
a third man whose approach I had not seen. As I fell, I received a
swordthrust in the thigh, and before I could rise I was seized by so
many hands that all resistance was futile. I was bound hand and foot,
conveyed to a farmer's wagon in waiting close by, and flung
unceremoniously into it. Two men mounted, and we drove on for days,
whither I knew not, until we reached yon gloomy castle. Then came De
Maupas's offer and my refusal. What befell after that thou know'st
better than I, for what with my wound, my rage against De Maupas, and
the dreadful gloom and dampness of my cell, I fell sick and my senses
left me. It all seems like an evil dream. Were it not for my weakness
and this cart, I should look to wake up at Wolsingham or Bordeaux once
again."
In due course the wagon and its occupants arrived at the inn where the
ladies Gertrude and Beatrice had made their temporary home. Gaily Edgar
hailed the good man, for their troubles seemed to be at an end. Sir
John was back again and, though still weak and feeble, had been rapidly
on the mend ever since he had been taken from the castle.
"The ladies Chartris and D'Alencon, landlord! Tell them the knight Sir
John is back," cried Edgar, springing down from his seat on the wagon
and aiding Peter to lift Sir John down and carry him into the inn.
"Ah! sir----" cried the landlord. Then he stopped and stared
uncomfortably from Edgar to Sir John and back again.
"What is it, man?" cried Sir John, with sudden apprehension. "Doth
aught ail them? Which is it? Speak!"
"Oh, my lord, 'tis not the lady Gertrude--she is above. 'Tis the lady
Beatrice."
"Ah! But what has chanced? Canst not speak? Is she dead?"
"Nay, nay--she is not dead. She hath been carried off by robbers or
outlaws--none knoweth by whom. The lady Gertrude is in despair. We
have done all we could to find where she hath been taken, but without
avail."
"Woe, woe!" cried the knight, sinking back on the couch on which he had
been placed. "Enemies seem to encompass me and mine. She was placed in
my charge and I have failed in my duty. Why didst leave the ladies all
unguarded, Edgar, to come to my aid? That was not well thought of. I
cannot value my rescue if it hath been obtained at the expense of my
ward's life and honour."
"I gave the ladies into Matthew's charge, Sir John," replied Edgar
brokenly. "How could I think aught would befall? Reproach me not, I
beg of thee, for I feel I cannot forgive myself--and yet, could I let
thee perish without a blow struck?"
"Let it pass, Edgar. 'Twas in my despair that I reproached thee. It
was not just. 'Tis Matthew who shall feel the weight of my displeasure.
Landlord, fetch down the lady Gertrude, for we must know all and see if
there be aught that can still be done."
In a minute or two Gertrude appeared, wild with joy at hearing that her
father had at last returned. "Father, Father, how glad I am that thou
hast come back!" she cried, throwing herself on her knees and winding
her arms about him in joyous rapture. Then, seeing how thin and weak
and ill he looked, her gladness gave place to anxiety and concern.
"Thou must come back with me to England," she said persuasively, "and
let me nurse thee back to health and strength. Thou hast done enough
for a little while. How I wish poor Beatrice were here to welcome thee
and share my gladness!"
"Tell us of the dreadful event," said Sir John, after the first
greetings were over. "We must consider what is best to be done. Tell
us everything."
The story was short enough. It appeared that the day after Edgar's
departure, Beatrice, knowing that he could not be back for a week or
more, suddenly determined that she would pay the expected visit to her
castle home at Faucigny. Her maid accompanied her, and, at Gertrude's
desire, she took Matthew and another of the Wolsingham men-at-arms as an
escort, the forward move of the English forces not having yet begun.
Three leagues beyond Bordeaux, whilst passing through a small wood, the
party was suddenly ambushed by four men.
The man-at-arms was struck down before he could lift a hand in his
defence, and on Matthew fell the whole brunt of the attack. He made a
splendid defence but was eventually overcome and, covered with wounds,
left for dead upon the field. What then happened to the lady Beatrice
and her maid no one knew. Fortunately, Matthew was discovered by
passing peasants a few hours later and was carried to a hovel a mile or
two away. Here he was tended until the arrival of a search party which
had been sent out the instant the riderless horse of the man-at-arms
galloped back into the camp with blood upon saddle and flank.
As soon as he could speak Matthew was eagerly questioned, but was able
to tell them little. He could not say what had become of the lady
Beatrice. He only knew that one of the ruffians had held her horse by
the bridle whilst the other three occupied themselves in overpowering
all resistance. Of their assailants all he could tell was that he was
certain that he had seen one of them before. This man, too, appeared to
be their leader, and he fancied that he must be a man he had once or
twice seen lurking about the camp.
At this piece of news Edgar and Peter exchanged glances full of anxious
significance.
"Did he ever describe the man, Mistress Gertrude?" asked Edgar.
"Yes. He said he was a tall and sparely built man with an evil-looking
face. Nobody else about the camp, however, seemeth to know the man, and
although we have made enquiries far and wide, we have found no clue save
at a village many miles away to the south-east. Here an old man and a
boy said that, while working in the fields, four men and two women, all
on horseback, rode past them across country, as though purposely
avoiding the roads. That hath been all that we could discover, and it
is little enough, even if the two women with the band were indeed those
we sought."
"The missing clues I think we can supply, Sir John," said Edgar, "though
I greatly fear they will in no wise lessen our apprehensions."
"Ye know, then, this man that Matthew had seen before?"
"Yes, he is a man we believe to be in league with thine enemy, Sir
Gervaise de Maupas."
"Ah!--that man again!" cried Sir John, starting to his feet in
indignation. His strength, however, was unequal to the effort, and he
sank back again immediately with his hand pressed against his thigh.
"What is it, Father, what is it?" cried Gertrude anxiously.
"Only my wound, child. It is far from healed, and I must put no strain
upon it for a while. But go on, Edgar. We must think out what is to be
done. We must act quickly if we are to act at all."
"I told thee, sir, the offer De Maupas made to me in exchange for thy
life and mine? It was, thou wilt remember, my support in persuading
thee to agree to his marriage with thy ward--her lands being taken in
exchange for his claims to thine. The capture of the lady Beatrice is,
I see clearly, but one more link in the infamous plan. With her safely
in his clutches, he doubtless thought he would be in a still stronger
position to dictate his terms. Moreover, if we consented, he could make
certain that we should never be able to repudiate the promise as having
been made under compulsion, by calling in a priest and having the
ceremony performed offhand. A right deadly plan it hath been, and it
hath all but succeeded--even now it may succeed, for with the lady
Beatrice in his hands he is almost as strong as with us all."
"Then ye think Beatrice hath been taken to Ruthenes?" said Sir John,
after a long and painful pause.
"Yes, I am sure of it. She must have arrived there soon after we
escaped."
"'Tis dire news. How dreadful that place is none of us would like to
admit to any but ourselves! What, then, will it be to a maid? Edgar,
thou didst accomplish the impossible in rescuing me--canst do anything
to rescue the maid? Be sure that they will be doubly on the alert this
time."
"I am ready and more than ready to try, Sir John."
"I would send to the earl and implore his aid, did I think it likely
that he would help me. But he hath his hands full and would not care to
send a force into a spot so remote as Ruthenes. No, I fear 'tis on
ourselves alone that we must depend."
"I will go, Sir John. I will take Peter and fresh horses. Where we
have penetrated once we can penetrate again. Besides, this time we know
the secret way into the castle, and may avoid the untimely capture into
which we blundered so badly last time."
"Be cautious and not too sanguine. The guards will be doubled, thou
mayst be sure. When canst start? Forgive me for sending thee away so
soon after bringing me into safety, but it is dreadful to me to think of
Beatrice immured in some lonely chamber of yon blood-stained fortalice."
"I can start at once, Sir John. All I want is a little money, some food
for the journey, and another mount."
"Thou shalt have all thou canst want. Gertrude, give the lad money from
my own purse. Food and another horse thou canst get, Edgar, as thou art
passing through the camp. Delay not, lad, for I am on fire with
impatience to know that something is being done. I would that I were
strong enough to go."
"Farewell then, Sir John! I hope that when we return thou wilt be well
and strong again, and ready to join in the earl's advance."
Edgar hurriedly withdrew, and leaving Peter to dispose of the horse and
cart and to follow as soon as he could, he mounted their one charger and
rode out of the city into the camp to the lines of the Wolsingham
contingent. Calling one of the men-at-arms, he instructed him to saddle
and make ready another of Sir John's chargers and to prepare a store of
food while he occupied himself in selecting his best weapons and a spare
suit of mail. This suit he did not wear, but had it packed up with a few
pieces of mail for Peter in two portions, one of which was to be borne
on either horse. By the time his preparations were complete, Peter had
joined him, and without any further delay the two mounted and rode out
of the camp upon the road to Ruthenes once more.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*A New Quest*
"Now, dear Father," cried Gertrude, as soon as Edgar had left, "now that
thou art in my charge I must bid thee to bed. All is done that can be
done, and thou canst rest content."