Ever since the first day of his imprisonment Sir Nicholas had been
waited on always by two men. Never one came without the other, and
although, gradually, this precaution had become little more than a form
it was still observed. Sir Nicholas pulled a wry face over it. Truly
they held him to be a desperate man since they kept a sentry outside
his room, and dared not send a single armed man to take his meals to
him. Well, they were right, but he thought he had successfully lulled
their fears. For his escape to have the smallest chance of success one
of those men must be got out of the room. All hung on that; if one man
could not be induced to leave the room torture and the fire awaited Sir
Nicholas, as he very well knew.
He had chosen his time carefully, and knew that he could trust
Joshua to do his part. Every evening at dusk supper was brought to
Sir Nicholas from the Governor's kitchens. The cook was at pains to
please the unwilling guest, for there was still enough money left in
Beauvallet's pockets to provide a sufficient incentive. The cook,
receiving a double ducat, sent with a compliment, vowed the Chevalier
was a true gentleman, and devised subtleties for his delectation.
Upon the day chosen by Sir Nicholas for his attempt at escape, his
two gaolers came a little late with his supper. One of them, the
senior, had charge of the key of his room, and always locked the door
punctiliously upon the inside when he entered, and continued to hold
the key in his hand while his fellow set covers on the table and lit
the candles.
Sir Nicholas had a high-backed chair with arms and a velvet seat to sit
in, but he was not sitting in it when the two soldiers entered. He was
standing near the window, leaning his shoulders against the wall, and
whistling a cheerful tune to himself.
"I thought I was to be starved," he remarked, and came lounging over to
the table and sat himself down on the arm of his chair, idly swinging
one foot.
The chief gaoler smiled indulgently. "No, no, señor. It is only that
the cook spoiled one of the dishes--or rather, I should say, that one
of the scullions, left to stir it, let it burn a little--and the whole
had to be made again."
The other man was busy shaking out a cloth and spreading it over the
table. Sir Nicholas sniffed the air. "Well, it hath a very savoury
odour," he said. "Let us see the _chef d'œuvre_."
The knife was set, a bottle of wine placed carefully beside the cup at
Beauvallet's elbow, and a shining cover lifted with a flourish.
"Marvellous!" said Sir Nicholas. He still sat negligently on the arm of
his chair, sideways to the table. "Present my compliments to the cook."
He stretched out his hand for the bottle, while the soldier took salt
and pepper from the tray he had brought, and put them on the table. He
poured out a cupful of the wine, and raised it with a little laugh.
"Tell the cook I drink his very good health!" he said, and made as if
to toss off the wine. But that fine gesture was stayed before he had
done more than taste it. The cup left his lips; he pulled a grimace.
"My very dear friends!" he said. "What's this? Do you seek to poison
me? What have you brought me here?"
The soldiers stared at him. "_Madre de Dios_, señor, there is no
thought of poisoning you!" said one of them, shocked.
Sir Nicholas smiled. "I did but jest. But you have brought me a very
vile potion, none the less. Let me have another bottle, my good fellow.
Take this away."
The chief frowned upon his subordinate, shifting the blame from off his
own shoulders. "Dolt! Take up the bottle! What, do you bring the señor
bad wine? Pardon, señor! an oversight. The cup, fool! take away the cup
and bring a clean one back!" He hustled his protesting fellow towards
the door.
"It was you chose the wine," grumbled the unfortunate.
"You confused the bottles," the other said hastily. "Get you gone, get
you gone! Will you have the señor's supper grow cold?"
"You have the key," his subordinate pointed out. "I did not confuse the
bottles, I tell you. You yourself----"
"A'God's mercy, have done!" struck in Sir Nicholas curtly. "I care not
who made the mistake so long as you bring me a fresh bottle."
"On the instant, señor!" his gaoler assured him, responding
instinctively to the voice of authority. He unlocked the door, pushed
the wine-bearer out, and slammed the door again behind him, once more
locking it.
Sir Nicholas' lashes drooped over his eyes, hiding the sudden gleam in
them. The departing soldier had not taken the key with him. "Put the
cover over this very choice dish again, my man," said Sir Nicholas.
"Certainly, señor!" The man picked it up and came all unsuspecting to
the table.
Sir Nicholas' hand had left playing with his pomander; his foot had
stopped its gentle swinging, and the toe of it was firm-planted on the
floor. The soldier bent to put the cover over the dish on the table.
Even as his hand left the cover, and he was about to step back, Sir
Nicholas made his spring, a clean, lithe spring, noiseless and sure.
Before the soldier realized what had happened a pair of iron hands were
choking him into insensibility, and he was half-flung, half-lifted
backwards on to the bed behind him. Sir Nicholas' knee was over his
dagger; he could not reach it. He could make no sound; he could only
tear fruitlessly at the merciless fingers that were grasping his
throat. His eyes started horribly, glaring up into Sir Nicholas' face:
the last thing he was conscious of was the brightness of the blue eyes
above him and the grim smile that curled Sir Nicholas' lips.
Sir Nicholas' hands left the bruised throat; he stepped to the table,
caught up the napkin laid ready there, and tied it expeditiously round
the unconscious man's mouth. The dagger was drawn from its sheath, the
key picked up from the floor where it had fallen. Holding the dagger in
his right hand, Sir Nicholas went with a firm tread to the door, fitted
the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.
Outside the sentry stood, leaning on his halberd. Some instinct must
have warned him of danger, for even as the door opened he turned his
head sharply to see who came. He had only time to let out a startled
cry, but that second's mischance brought an oath to Beauvallet's lips.
The dagger went home between neck and shoulder, and the sentry seemed
to crumple up where he stood.
But the one cry, shrill as it was, was like to ruin all. An answering
shout sounded, and from the main stairway a man came running.
Sir Nicholas wrenched the dagger free, and was gone in a flash towards
the south side of the building. His intention had been to get round
on this side to the Governor's quarters, but now, with the alarm
given, and men running to the pursuit, this was clearly impossible. He
bounded up the spiral stairway at the junction of the corridors, and
found himself in a similar passage to the one below, except that it
was walled in, with embrasured windows over which hung heavy curtains,
giving on to the court below. A cresset hung at the top of the stairs,
and threw a feeble light; there was another in the middle of the
corridor to his left.
Below there was the sound of running feet, shouts, and the clatter of
pikes. Sir Nicholas sent a quick look round, and his eye alighted on a
stout oak chest standing against the wall. He stepped quickly forward;
there was a heave and a thrust, and the chest went crashing down the
stair on top of the foremost man who was running up. The chest jammed
tight on the turn of the stair; there was a furious oath, clatter, and
confusion. The first of the pursuers went tumbling backwards into the
arms of the man behind him, who, in his turn, lost his balance under
the sudden impact and fell heavily.
Sir Nicholas laughed out at that, and having seen his chest securely
wedged, turned. He had not the least idea what he was going to do
next, and he rather thought that he was trapped, but his eyes were
fairly blazing with sheer joy of action, and a smile of amusement was
on his lips.
Footsteps and voices sounded on the main stair at the other end of the
quadrangle. Sir Nicholas stayed, poised on his toes, waiting to see
which way these pursuers would come. They rounded the far corner of the
eastern corridor, where he stood, some three or four soldiers running
with halberds levelled. Sir Nicholas sprang to the left, and was off
down the southern passage, making for the Governor's quarters on the
western side.
He had almost reached the corner when he checked suddenly, and cast a
quick glance round him for some way of escape. Ahead of him, down the
western corridor, perilously close, was coming the thud of heavy feet,
running fast. He was indeed trapped.
Another moment and the men behind him would have rounded the corner,
and would have him in view again. Sir Nicholas made for the end window
on this side, slipped into the embrasure, and drew the heavy curtains
to behind him.
The window opened on to its little railed balcony; Sir Nicholas stepped
out, soft-footed, and cast a glance down into the court below. It was
too dark to distinguish forms, but he could hear voices, and knew that
there were soldiers gathered there.
He thrust the dagger through his belt, tested the iron railing a moment
with his hand, and peered through the gloom for the first balcony on
the western side. He could just distinguish it. One moment he measured
the distance; then he set his foot on the railing and came lightly up
with a hand on the wall to steady himself. Judging by the sounds, the
men running down the western corridor had now reached the corner. Sir
Nicholas gathered himself together, and jumped like a diver, head first
for the next balcony. His hands just caught its railing; he hung there
a moment, panting, put forth a great effort, and hoisted himself up.
He had a leg over the rail in a minute, and the next instant he had
disappeared in at the window.
He found himself in a deserted passage. Down the corner along which
he had come were pelting the soldiers; in another moment they would
collide with the other party whom Sir Nicholas had first seen. There
would be more talk of witchcraft after this night's work, thought Sir
Nicholas, and grinned appreciatively. Each of those converging parties
were convinced they had the escaped prisoner trapped; they were very
shortly to discover that El Beauvallet had once more lived up to his
reputation, and this time had vanished, to all appearances, into thin
air. El Beauvallet kissed his fingers in the wake of the zealous
guards, and made for the first door he could see.
It was unlocked. He went in cautiously, and found himself in an empty
bedchamber, poorly furnished, and with one small cresset lamp burning
over the mantelpiece. It was probably some tirewoman's chamber, he
thought. He closed the door softly behind him, and went to the window.
It stood open, looking on to the garden. Sir Nicholas swung one leg
over the sill, feeling for a foothold. The wistaria brushed his leg; he
found a branch, swung the other leg over, caught at the thick tendrils,
and went sliding, scrambling down to the balcony immediately below,
upon the first storey. The wistaria tore away from the wall, but he
reached to safety. He had one leg over the balcony rail, one hand
feeling for a hold on the creeper, when there came a noise to make him
draw back quickly.
The door leading into the garden from the hall below was flung open;
there was the flare of a torch, and a voice said clearly: "Two of you
keep guard lest he try to escape this way."
Without a moment's hesitation Sir Nicholas slipped in at the open
window behind him.
The curtains were slightly parted, and a soft light shone through. Sir
Nicholas, keeping against the dark background of the curtain, peeped
in. The room was empty; Sir Nicholas went in and pulled the curtains to
behind him.
"God's Life!" he muttered ruefully. "Where am I now?"
He stood in a large bedchamber, which was furnished in a massive style,
with a great four-posted bed hung with curtains of velvet, a chest of
inlay work, a table, chairs, and a hanging cupboard against the wall.
There was a door opposite the window and even as Sir Nicholas went
towards it footsteps sounded outside, and a hand was laid on the latch.
Sir Nicholas drew swiftly back to the bed and slipped behind the heavy
curtains.
The door opened; someone came in with a quick step, went to the table,
and pulled a drawer out in it. There was a rustle of paper; Sir
Nicholas parted the curtain and saw a man standing with his back to
him, hurriedly turning over papers in the drawer. He was cloaked, and
wore a large capotain hat with a drooping plume in it. At his side,
hitching up the long folds of the cloak, hung a rapier.
Inch by inch, cat-like, Sir Nicholas came towards him. A board creaked
suddenly under his foot; the cloaked man turned sharply, and as he
turned Beauvallet's fist shot out. The man fell without a sound, and
Sir Nicholas saw that he had knocked out no less a personage than Don
Cristobal de Porres, Governor of the Guards.
"God save the mark, my noble gaoler!" said Sir Nicholas, and stepped
over Porres' prostrate form to the door. He shut it, cast a quick
glance at the limp figure, and went to the bed. With one eye watchfully
upon the Governor he slit the fine brocade coverlet into strips with
his dagger, and came back to kneel beside the still form.
"Nay, but I am sorry for this, my poor friend," he said, and stuffed
one of his strips into Don Cristobal's slack mouth. Another, torn
across was tied hastily round to keep the rude gag in place. He
unclasped the cloak from about Don Cristobal's neck, and the gleaming
collar of the Golden Fleece met his eyes. Off it came; Sir Nicholas
gave a tiny chuckle. "My dear friend," said he, "I believe this may
stand me in very good stead. You shall not grudge it me." He fastened
the collar round his own neck, unbuckled the baldrick that held the
Governor's rapier, and neatly bound the unfortunate man's ankles and
wrists. As he tied the last knot Don Cristobal stirred, and opened his
eyes. They fell on Beauvallet, seemed bewildered at first, and then as
full consciousness returned, furious.
"I know, I know," said Sir Nicholas. "I am sorry for it, señor, but
you will admit I am hard-pressed." His eyes twinkled. "A churlish
return for all your kindness, Don Cristobal, and I would not have
had you think El Beauvallet so ungrateful a dog." He saw the look
of consternation leap into the Governor's face, and laughed. "Oh
yes, señor, I am El Beauvallet." As he spoke he was buckling the
rich baldrick about his waist. "Señor, I must stow you away. Keep my
sword in exchange for this of yours; it is a rare blade, and you may
say with truth that you were the only man who ever took aught from
Nick Beauvallet against his will. Now, señor, if you please." He had
opened the door of the cupboard, and now he bundled Don Cristobal into
it, and shut the door upon him. He picked up the cloak, fastened it
about his shoulders, and disposed its ample folds about his person.
The Governor's lace handkerchief and long cane lay on the floor; Sir
Nicholas gathered them up, set the broad-brimmed hat well over his
eyes, thanked God for a beard and a pair of mustachios very like Don
Cristobal's, and walked to the door. As he laid his hand on the latch
there was a scratching on one of the panels, and a man's voice called:
"Señor, the coach waits."
"In a very good hour!" thought Sir Nicholas. "God send I may brazen
this out. I thank my luck that the light is behind me. Forward, El
Beauvallet!" He opened the door, and went calmly out into the passage.
A servant stood there; Sir Nicholas could not see his features plainly
in the dim light of the passage, and hoped that his own were as well
hid. He closed the door behind him, and motioned the servant to go
before. The man bowed, and went ahead at once.
Along the passage they walked to the stairs at the end. The servant
stood aside there for Sir Nicholas to pass. Sir Nicholas went down the
stairs unhurriedly and crossed the hall at the bottom.
The front door was held open by a lackey, who stared to see his master
coming so unconcernedly. He ventured to speak. "Señor--the lieutenant
has just gone into the library in search of you. You have not heard,
señor--the prisoner has escaped!"
Sir Nicholas raised the handkerchief to his lips and coughed. Through
the cough he said in as fair an imitation of Don Cristobal's voice as
he could assume: "He is taken. The sergeant has my instructions."
He went past the lackey as he spoke, but he knew that the man was
surprised, perhaps even suspicious, and there was not a moment to be
lost. A coach with plumes upon the roof and curtains hung at the sides
stood waiting. He got in. "I am late. Drive fast."
The coachman was agog with excitement. "Señor, the prisoner----"
"The prisoner is safe!" said Sir Nicholas. "Drive on!"
The coachman gathered up the reins; the horses' hooves clattered on the
paving-stones; the coach moved slowly forward under the arch towards
the open gates.
The lackey at the door ran after. "Señor, the lieutenant----"
"To hell with the lieutenant!" said Sir Nicholas. "Drive on!"
The coach rumbled out of the gate and turned at right angles into the
street.
The lieutenant, Cruza, hurrying out of the house, was just in time to
see it disappear round the corner. "What--the Governor!" he cried.
The lackey rubbed his perplexed head. "Señor, the Governor would not
wait. He sounded very hasty, and unlike himself."
"The Governor would not wait?" Cruza stared uncomprehendingly.
There came a shout from within. "Stop that man! Stop that man! The
Governor is here, gagged and bound! _Stop that man!_"
"_Sangre de Dios_, he is away!" cried the lieutenant, and went bounding
out through the archway. "For your lives after that coach!" he shot at
the sentries. "The prisoner is in it! Off with you!"
But when two labouring soldiers came up with the slow-moving coach
there was no one inside. El Beauvallet had vanished.