FOR LIFE AND A THRONE
Slipping his foot back into the stirrup the Dauphin mechanically closed
his knees, as a rider does to renew his grip after it has been relaxed.
But with the tightening of the grip the bay started as if goaded by a
vicious double rasp of the spurs, swerved violently, shaking his head
till the chains rattled, then plunging to right and left he sprang
forward at a gallop.
"Hugues, Hugues, catch the reins," cried mademoiselle, but the swerve
had sent Hugues staggering, and before he had steadied himself or
regained his wits Bertrand was tearing madly under the city gates, his
reins hanging loose, his neck stretched like a racer's.
"The Dauphin! the Dauphin! Oh! for God's sake--Hugues--Monsieur La
Mothe--is there no one to help? They will be in the Loire--drowned
while you stand there staring. Oh! that I could ride like a man: why
don't you move, some of you, stocks that you are?"
The gasped words were but a breath, so quickly the broken sentences
followed one another, but before the frightened girl could lash them
with the whip of her distress a second time La Mothe had his fingers
knit in Grey Roland's mane and was climbing into the saddle, and the
last he heard, as, swaying in his seat, he groped blindly for a missing
stirrup, was the girl's deep breath, half sob, half cry.
Bertrand had a long start, but on Grey Roland's back was a rider who in
his horsemanship had learned not only how to save his beast, so that no
ounce of strength might be unduly hurried to waste, but who also knew
how to compel into immediate energy all that reserve force which
endures the trials of a long day's march.
Bareheaded--his hat was in his hand as he jested with Ursula de Vesc,
and in the stress of the surprise he had flung it aside--La Mothe
crouched low in the saddle, the reins gathered into his left hand so
that he and Grey Roland alike were just conscious of the bit in the
sensitive mouth. For the moment, with that tense grip of the knees,
they were as one flesh; the need was they should be of one spirit.
With a quiet word La Mothe soothed the excitement which might have
plunged them both to sudden destruction on the rounded cobbles of the
paved streets, but once the gates were passed, and the dust of the high
road underfoot, he loosed the light tension and pressed his heels home
into the flanks. There, ahead, a shifting vision in the rising swirl
of dust, was the bay, thundering at top speed. Behind there were
shouts, cries, the clatter of iron shoes upon the stones, but La Mothe
heard only the muffled rhythm of galloping hoof-beats sounding through
the roar of the blood swelling his temples and booming in his ears like
the surf of a far-off sea. Away to the side, with a stretch of
sunburnt grass between, lay the river. Let Bertrand keep to the
winding road and all was well. Gallop how he might Grey Roland would
wear him down, but let him swerve, let the fluttering of a bird startle
him aside, and Ursula de Vesc's prophetic terrors would be justified.
As the memory of her dread flashed into his mind afresh, there swept
across Stephen La Mothe one of those sudden storms of temptation which
at some time or another beat into every life, even the most sheltered,
and surely prove that the curse of primal sin still dwells inherent in
our best humanity. "He will drown! Well, let him drown!" and in the
instant of the thought, by some instinct of the brain, the loose rein
was drawn in with a jerk, which forced the grey to change his stride.
Let him drown and there was an end to the tangle which made a hell in
the possible heaven of Amboise, an end to the unnatural strife of
father and son, an end to the threatened rending asunder of France, who
was the mistress and mother of them all, whether King, Dauphin, or pawn
in the terrible game of life and death, an end to the danger which hung
over the head of Ursula de Vesc. Let him drown: death would pay all
debts, and the crooked would be made straight.
Gritting his teeth La Mothe drew a deep breath. With the fuller
realization of the thought the sudden convulsion of his heart choked
him, and while his blood buzzed the louder for the possibility, fate,
chance, or what you will threw the cards in the game his way. Beyond a
bend of the road a waggoner's leisurely wain plodded its way to
Amboise, and next instant the clearer thunder of Bertrand's hoofs came
ringing back from the harder sod which lay between the river and the
road. The bay had headed for the bank where, by the same bend, the
river curved to a line ahead. Death would pay all debts, and the
crooked would be made straight: he would pay Commines all he owed him
and there would be clean hands for them both. Clean hands? "By God!
No!" he cried, and shook the tightened rein loose. Clean hands? Saul,
who consented to Stephen's death, was as red-handed as the man who
hurled the first stone: what better was it to let the boy ride to his
fate unaided? That way there was no cleansing of hands. To permit a
preventable death was murder--murder.
Stooping lower La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, urging him with
voice and hand, "Faster, boy, faster, faster." That he had no spurs
was a point against him, but drawing his dagger he laid the point
against the wet flank. There was no need to draw blood, no need for
goading. The generous heart of the beast understood the touch, and the
splendid muscles coined their utmost strength, squandering it in a
spendthrift, willing energy. They were gaining now, stride by stride
they were gaining: Bertrand, the half Arab, had the greater endurance,
but English Grey Roland the greater power and the stouter heart. Yes,
they were gaining, and there was hope if only the Dauphin kept the
saddle, and so far he had held his place like a crouched statue,
stooping by instinct as La Mothe had stooped, and clinging to the long
mane with both hands. He was no coward, boy though he was, and not
once had looked back, nor did he now though the following hoofs must
have been loud in his ears as stride by stride the grey gained on the
bay, and the ten lengths of space between them closed to five, to
three, to one, and the glint of the river rose almost at their feet.
Then La Mothe spoke.
"Monseigneur, keep your nerve, it will be all right. When I say 'Now!'
loose your hold and try to kick your feet free from the stirrups; leave
the rest to me."
The gap narrowed foot by foot: up to the girth of the bay crept the
straining muzzle of the grey, the eyeballs staring, the teeth bared,
the nostrils wide, the foam flying with every jar of the hoof, up and
up with a scant two yards of river-bank to spare upon the outer side,
up and up till, leaning forward and aside with outstretched arm, La
Mothe could feel the pressing of the Dauphin's back, and the hand
closed in upon the ribs. "Now," he cried, his voice cracked and
hoarse. "Now, Christ help us, now, now," and gripping the boy he
reined back as tightly as he dared, reined back to feel the slender boy
slip from the bay's back, hang helpless in the air an instant, then
fall sprawling across the saddle. On dashed the bay, and as Grey
Roland staggered in his halt the bank caved under the Arab's feet; he
too staggered, rearing back too late, then plunged head foremost
forward.
As, dropping the reins, La Mothe caught the Dauphin in both his arms to
raise him more fully upon the saddle, he was conscious for the first
time that they were followed. From behind there was a shout and the
noise of hoofs, and looking across his shoulder he saw Hugues mounted
on the roan riding recklessly. Beyond him the rest of the escort
tailed off almost to the city gate, with Ursula de Vesc framed by the
grey arch, her hand upon her breast, as it had been when La Mothe first
saw her, Love the Enemy, whom he so longed to make Love the more than
friend. "Win the girl and you win the boy," said Villon. But what if
he had won the boy, and winning him had won Ursula de Vesc, won her to
friendliness, won her to kindliness, won her to trust, won her to--and
Hugues thundered up breathlessly.
"Monseigneur?"
"Safe, unhurt, but I think he has fainted. Here," and lifting the lad
with little effort La Mothe leaned across to Hugues and won his heart
for ever by the act, "take him, you: he will be less fretted when he
comes to himself. The sooner he is in mademoiselle's care the better,
and I must spare Grey Roland."
"Monsieur, monsieur," stammered the valet, gathering the boy into his
arms as carefully as any tender woman, "how can we thank you--how can
we prove----"
"Thank Grey Roland," answered La Mothe, speaking more lightly than he
felt. "I did nothing but keep my stirrups."
"Nothing?" Hugues' eyes turned to the gapped bank and followed the
course of the river, void of any trace of the bay. "Then to save a
king for France is nothing. But you are right, monsieur; the sooner
the Dauphin is in Amboise the better."
"Was it for this you came to Amboise?" said Villon, as La Mothe, having
given Grey Roland his own time to return, halted at the inn door. The
crowd had been shaken off and the two were alone. "I doubt it myself,
and you should have heard Saxe curse: I give you my word it was
Parisian. But, as I said last night, what you do in Amboise is between
you and the King, and you won't be the first man in the world who could
not see beyond a pair of grey eyes."
"Come, Villon, no Paris jests."
"This was pure nature and no jest. I stood near her there in the
shadow of the gate as Roland drew in to the bay on the edge of the
bank, and she forgot Francois Villon, the guard, and everybody, as a
woman does when her soul speaks to her heart. Not a word had she said
till then, not one, but stood breathing deep breaths; there were red
spots on the cheek-bones, with those little white teeth of hers hard on
her lip. But when you leant aside and gripped the boy she cried--but
what matters what she cried?"
"Is not friend more than family?" said La Mothe. "Tell me, my friend."
"So you would win old Villon as well as the girl? Well, here it is
then--'Thank God I was wrong, oh, thank God I was wrong: God be thanked
for a good man,' and the tears were tumbling down her cheeks. My
friend," and Villon's voice deepened soberly, "I who am old have been
young, and I tell you this, if a man has any true salt in him at all,
heaven may well open for him when a woman like Ursula de Vesc calls him
good with tears on her cheeks." And La Mothe had the wisdom and humble
grace to answer nothing at all. It was Villon himself who broke the
silence with a whistle.
"I am forgetting, fool that I am, though I think you too would have
forgotten with a pair of grey eyes weeping at your elbow. What do you
call this?"
From the cloth pouch which hung from his girdle he drew a small twig
and handed it to La Mothe. It was spray of wild sloe cut from a
thicket and trimmed to the shape of a cross, with one stiff thorn,
broad based and sharp at the point as a needle, projecting at right
angles from the intersection. The marks of the knife were still fresh
upon it, the bark so soft and sappy that it must have been cut from the
living plant within the hour. La Mothe shook his head as he turned it
over on his palm.
"This? What do you call it?"
"Many things; the shadow of death for one; revenge, I think, for
another; hate, and a warning certainly, unless I am a fool as well as
all the hard things Monsieur d'Argenton calls me. And perhaps I am a
fool, perhaps I had better have left that lying where I found it.
Almost death, that's just what it is."
"Villon, what do you mean?"
"I mean you would find just such another bit of villainous innocence
under Bertrand's saddle-flap. The poor brute was driven mad by it. I
picked this up where Michel's stop-gap dropped it."
"That hedge-side beggar?"
"A hedge-side beggar who carries a signet slung round his neck. His
jacket opened as he stooped and the ring swung out. The hedge-side
beggar boasts a crest, Monsieur La Mothe: a martlet with three mullets
in chief. Now do you understand?"
"No."
"It is the crest of the Molembrais. There were two brothers, the last
of their family, and Guy de Molembrais trusted our revered King--yes, I
see you know the name."
Know the name? La Mothe knew it as he knew the justice of the King.
Had he not given his satire a loose rein over the safe-conduct which
drew this very Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthlessness
which brushed aside any such feeble plea as a King's good faith? If
Villon was right then this little inch or two of new-cut twig might
indeed be all he said, the shadow of death, revenge, hate, and a
warning against further attempts of a like kind yet to be faced. But
was he right?
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite," and Villon nodded. His face was very grave: not for an
instant had he slipped into his sardonic mood of ironical jest. "And,
mind you, I find it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how and
when he can."
"Does Saxe know?"
"Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may have been at the
way you pounded his horse."
La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and now, leaving the grey
where he stood, the sweat caking on his dusty flanks, he turned to the
stables. But if his intention was to charge Molembrais with his
cowardly attempt on the boy's life it was baulked. At the door Michel
met him, his rheumy eyes still blinking from his drunken sleep.
"Where is that fellow who took your place?"
"That's what I want to know, master. Took my place, did he? I'd place
him, I would, making an old man drunk to rob him of his bread."
"Who was he?"
"No good, that's all I know. Gipsy scum! rob an old man, would he?
I'll gipsy him if I find hair or hoof of him. Lord, master, how liquor
do make a man thirsty. You must ha' found it so yourself?"