CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER I
Here is a story that has lain dormant for seven hundred years. At first
it was suppressed by one of the Plantagenet kings of England. Later it
was forgotten. I happened to dig it up by accident. The accident being
the relationship of my wife’s cousin to a certain Father Superior in a
very ancient monastery in Europe.
He let me pry about among a quantity of mildewed and musty manuscripts
and I came across this. It is very interesting—partially since it is a
bit of hitherto unrecorded history, but principally from the fact that
it records the story of a most remarkable revenge and the adventurous
life of its innocent victim—Richard, the lost prince of England.
In the retelling of it, I have left out most of the history. What
interested me was the unique character about whom the tale revolves—the
visored horseman who—but let us wait until we get to him.
It all happened in the thirteenth century, and while it was happening,
it shook England from north to south and from east to west; and reached
across the channel and shook France. It started, directly, in the
London palace of Henry III, and was the result of a quarrel between the
King and his powerful brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort, Earl of
Leicester.
Never mind the quarrel, that’s history, and you can read all about it
at your leisure. But on this June day in the year of our Lord 1243,
Henry so forgot himself as to very unjustly accuse De Montfort of
treason in the presence of a number of the King’s gentlemen.
De Montfort paled. He was a tall, handsome man, and when he drew
himself to his full height and turned those gray eyes on the victim of
his wrath, as he did that day, he was very imposing. A power in
England, second only to the King himself, and with the heart of a lion
in him, he answered the King as no other man in all England would have
dared answer him.
“My Lord King,” he cried, “that you be my Lord King alone prevents
Simon de Montfort from demanding satisfaction for such a gross insult.
That you take advantage of your kingship to say what you would never
dare say were you not king, brands me not a traitor, though it does
brand you a coward.”
Tense silence fell upon the little company of lords and courtiers as
these awful words fell from the lips of a subject, addressed to his
king. They were horrified, for De Montfort’s bold challenge was to them
but little short of sacrilege.
Henry, flushing in mortification and anger, rose to advance upon De
Montfort, but suddenly recollecting the power which he represented, he
thought better of whatever action he contemplated and, with a haughty
sneer, turned to his courtiers.
“Come, my gentlemen,” he said, “methought that we were to have a turn
with the foils this morning. Already it waxeth late. Come, De Fulm!
Come, Leybourn!” and the King left the apartment followed by his
gentlemen, all of whom had drawn away from the Earl of Leicester when
it became apparent that the royal displeasure was strong against him.
As the arras fell behind the departing King, De Montfort shrugged his
broad shoulders, and turning, left the apartment by another door.
When the King, with his gentlemen, entered the armory he was still
smarting from the humiliation of De Montfort’s reproaches, and as he
laid aside his surcoat and plumed hat to take the foils with De Fulm,
his eyes alighted on the master of fence, Sir Jules de Vac, who was
advancing with the King’s foil and helmet. Henry felt in no mood for
fencing with De Fulm, who, like the other sycophants that surrounded
him, always allowed the King easily to best him in every encounter.
De Vac he knew to be too jealous of his fame as a swordsman to permit
himself to be overcome by aught but superior skill, and this day Henry
felt that he could best the devil himself.
The armory was a great room on the main floor of the palace, off the
guard room. It was built in a small wing of the building so that it had
light from three sides. In charge of it was the lean, grizzled,
leather-skinned Sir Jules de Vac, and it was he whom Henry commanded to
face him in mimic combat with the foils, for the King wished to go with
hammer and tongs at someone to vent his suppressed rage.
So he let De Vac assume to his mind’s eye the person of the hated De
Montfort, and it followed that De Vac was nearly surprised into an
early and mortifying defeat by the King’s sudden and clever attack.
Henry III had always been accounted a good swordsman, but that day he
quite outdid himself and, in his imagination, was about to run the
pseudo De Montfort through the heart, to the wild acclaim of his
audience. For this fell purpose he had backed the astounded De Vac
twice around the hall when, with a clever feint, and backward step, the
master of fence drew the King into the position he wanted him, and with
the suddenness of lightning, a little twist of his foil sent Henry’s
weapon clanging across the floor of the armory.
For an instant, the King stood as tense and white as though the hand of
death had reached out and touched his heart with its icy fingers. The
episode meant more to him than being bested in play by the best
swordsman in England—for that surely was no disgrace—to Henry it seemed
prophetic of the outcome of a future struggle when he should stand face
to face with the real De Montfort; and then, seeing in De Vac only the
creature of his imagination with which he had vested the likeness of
his powerful brother-in-law, Henry did what he should like to have done
to the real Leicester. Drawing off his gauntlet he advanced close to De
Vac.
“Dog!” he hissed, and struck the master of fence a stinging blow across
the face, and spat upon him. Then he turned on his heel and strode from
the armory.
De Vac had grown old in the service of the kings of England, but he
hated all things English and all Englishmen. The dead King John, though
hated by all others, he had loved, but with the dead King’s bones De
Vac’s loyalty to the house he served had been buried in the Cathedral
of Worcester.
During the years he had served as master of fence at the English Court,
the sons of royalty had learned to thrust and parry and cut as only De
Vac could teach the art, and he had been as conscientious in the
discharge of his duties as he had been in his unswerving hatred and
contempt for his pupils.
And now the English King had put upon him such an insult as might only
be wiped out by blood.
As the blow fell, the wiry Frenchman clicked his heels together, and
throwing down his foil, he stood erect and rigid as a marble statue
before his master. White and livid was his tense drawn face, but he
spoke no word.
He might have struck the King, but then there would have been left to
him no alternative save death by his own hand; for a king may not fight
with a lesser mortal, and he who strikes a king may not live—the king’s
honor must be satisfied.
Had a French king struck him, De Vac would have struck back, and
gloried in the fate which permitted him to die for the honor of France;
but an English King—pooh! a dog; and who would die for a dog? No, De
Vac would find other means of satisfying his wounded pride. He would
revel in revenge against this man for whom he felt no loyalty. If
possible, he would harm the whole of England if he could, but he would
bide his time. He could afford to wait for his opportunity if, by
waiting, he could encompass a more terrible revenge.
De Vac had been born in Paris, the son of a French officer reputed the
best swordsman in France. The son had followed closely in the footsteps
of his father until, on the latter’s death, he could easily claim the
title of his sire. How he had left France and entered the service of
John of England is not of this story. All the bearing that the life of
Jules de Vac has upon the history of England hinges upon but two of his
many attributes—his wonderful swordsmanship and his fearful hatred for
his adopted country.