Michel de la Forêt was gone, a prisoner. From the dusk of the trees
by the little chapel of Rozel, Angèle had watched his exit in charge
of the governor’s men. She had not sought to show her presence; she
had seen him--that was comfort to her heart; and she would not mar
the memory of that last night’s farewell by another before these
strangers. She saw with what quiet Michel bore his arrest, and she
said to herself, as the last halberdier vanished:
“If the Queen do but speak with him, if she but look upon his face
and hear his voice, she must needs deal kindly by him. My Michel--ah,
it is a face for all men to trust and all women--”
But she sighed and averted her head as though before prying eyes.
The bell of Rozel chapel broke gently on the evening air; the sound,
softened by the leaves and mellowed by the wood of the great
elm-trees, billowed away till it was lost in faint reverberation in
the sea beneath the cliffs of the Couperon, where a little craft was
coming to anchor in the dead water.
At first the sound of the bell soothed her, softening the thought of
the danger to Michel. She moved with it towards the sea, the tones of
her grief chiming with it. Presently, as she went, a priest in
cassock and robes and stole crossed the path in front of her, an
acolyte before him swinging a censer, his voice chanting Latin verses
from the service for the sick, in his hands the sacred elements of
the communion for the dying. The priest was fat and heavy, his voice
was lazy, his eyes expressionless, and his robes were dirty. The
plaintive, peaceful sense which the sound of the vesper-bell had
thrown over Angèle’s sad reflections passed away, and the thought
smote her that, were it not for such as this black-toothed priest,
Michel would not now be on his way to England, a prisoner. To her
this vesper-bell was the symbol of tyranny and hate. It was fighting,
it was martyrdom, it was exile, it was the Medici. All that she had
borne, all that her father had borne, the thought of the home lost,
the mother dead before her time, the name ruined, the heritage
dispossessed, the red war of the Camisards, the rivulets of blood in
the streets of Paris and of her loved Rouen, smote upon her mind and
drove her to her knees in the forest glade, her hands upon her ears
to shut out the sound of the bell. It came upon her that the bell had
said “Peace! Peace!” to her mind when there should be no peace; that
it had said “Be patient!” when she should be up and doing; that it
had whispered “Stay!” when she should tread the path her lover trod,
her feet following in his footsteps as his feet had trod in hers.
She pressed her hands tight upon her ears and prayed with a passion
and a fervor she had never known before. A revelation seemed to come
upon her, and, for the first time, she was a Huguenot to the core.
Hitherto she had suffered for her religion because it was her
mother’s broken life, her father’s faith, and because they had
suffered and her lover had suffered. Her mind had been convinced, her
loyalty had been unwavering, her words for the great cause had
measured well with her deeds. But new senses were suddenly born in
her, new eyes were given to her mind, new powers for endurance to her
soul. She saw now as the martyrs of Meaux had seen; a passionate
faith descended on her as it had descended on them; no longer only
patient, she was fain for action. Tears rained from her eyes. Her
heart burst itself in entreaty and confession.
“Thy light shall be my light, and Thy will my will, O Lord,” she
cried at the last. “Teach me Thy way, create a right spirit within
me. Give me boldness without rashness, and hope without vain
thinking. Bear up my arms, O Lord, and save me when falling. A poor
Samaritan am I. Give me the water that shall be a well of water
springing up to everlasting life, that I thirst not in the fever of
doing. Give me the manna of life to eat that I faint not nor cry out
in plague, pestilence, or famine. Give me Thy grace, O God, as Thou
has given it to Michel de la Forêt, and guide my feet as I follow him
in life and in death, for Christ’s sake. Amen.”
As she rose from her knees she heard the evening gun from the Castle
of Mont Orgueil, whither Michel was being borne by the Queen’s men.
The vesper-bell had stopped. Through the wood came the salt savor of
the sea on the cool sunset air. She threw back her head and walked
swiftly towards it, her heart beating hard, her eyes shining with the
light of purpose, her step elastic with the vigor of youth and
health. A quarter-hour’s walking brought her to the cliff of the
Couperon.
As she gazed out over the sea, however, a voice in the bay below
caught her ear. She looked down. On the deck of the little craft
which had entered the harbor when the vesper-bell was ringing stood a
man who waved a hand up towards her, then gave a peculiar call. She
stared with amazement: it was Buonespoir the pirate. What did this
mean? Had God sent this man to her, by his presence to suggest what
she should do in this crisis in her life? For even as she ran down
the shore towards him, it came to her mind that Buonespoir should
take her in his craft to England.
What to do in England? Who could tell? She only knew that a voice
called her to England to follow the footsteps of Michel de la Forêt,
who even this night would be setting forth in the governor’s
brigantine for London.
Buonespoir met her upon the shore, grinning like a boy.
“God save you, lady!” he said.
“What brings you hither, friend?” she asked.
If he had said that a voice had called him hither as one called her
to England, it had not sounded strange; for she was not thinking that
this was one who superstitiously swore by the little finger of St.
Peter, but only that he was the man who had brought her Michel from
France, who had been a faithful friend to her and to her father.
“What brings me hither?” Buonespoir laughed low in his chest. “Even
to fetch to the Seigneur of Rozel, a friend of mine by every token of
remembrance, a dozen flagons of golden muscadella.”
To Angèle no suggestion flashed that these flagons of muscadella had
come from the cellar of the Seigneur of St. Ouen’s, where they had
been reserved for a certain royal visit. Nothing was in her mind save
the one thought--that she must follow Michel.
“Will you take me to England?” she asked, putting a hand quickly on
his arm.
He had been laughing hard, picturing to himself what Lemprière of
Rozel would say when he sniffed the flagon of St. Ouen’s best wine,
and for an instant he did not take in the question; but he stared at
her now as the laugh slowly subsided through notes of abstraction,
and her words worked their way into his brain.
“Will you take me, Buonespoir?” she urged.
“Take you--?” he questioned.
“To England.”
“And myself to Tyburn?”
“Nay, to the Queen.”
“’Tis the same thing. Head of Abel! Elizabeth hath heard of me. The
Seigneur of St. Ouen’s and others have writ me down a pirate to her.
She would not pardon the muscadella,” he added, with another laugh,
looking down where the flagons lay.
“She must pardon more than that,” exclaimed Angèle, and hastily she
told him of what had happened to Michel de la Forêt and why she would
go.
“Thy father, then?” he asked, scowling hard in his attempt to think
it out.
“He must go with me--I will seek him now.”
“It must be at once, i’ faith, for how long, think you, can I stay
here unharmed? I was sighted off St. Ouen’s shore a few hours agone.”
“To-night?” she asked.
“By twelve, when we shall have the moon and the tide,” he answered.
“But hold!” he hastily added. “What, think you, could you and your
father do alone in England? And with me it were worse than alone.
These be dark times, when strangers have spies at their heels and all
travellers be suspect.”
“We will trust in God,” she answered.
“Have you money?” he questioned--“for London, not for me,” he added,
hastily.
“Enough,” she replied.
“The trust with the money is a weighty matter,” he added; “but they
suffice not. You must have ’fending.”
“There is no one,” she answered, sadly, “no one save--”
“Save the Seigneur of Rozel!” Buonespoir finished the sentence.
“Good. You to your father and I to the seigneur. If you can fetch
your father by your pot-of-honey tongue, I’ll fetch the great
Lemprière with muscadella. Is’t a bargain?”
“In which I gain all,” she answered, and again touched his arm with
her finger-tips.
“You shall be aboard here at ten, and I will join you on the stroke
of twelve,” he said, and gave a low whistle.
At the signal three men sprang up like magic out of the bowels of the
boat beneath them, and scurried over the side; three as ripe knaves
as ever cheated stocks and gallows, but simple knaves, unlike their
master. Two of them had served with Francis Drake in that good ship
of his lying even now not far from Elizabeth’s palace at Greenwich.
The third was a rogue who had been banished from Jersey for an
habitual drunkenness which only attacked him on land--at sea he was
sacredly sober. His name was Jean Nicolle. The names of the other two
were Hervé Robin and Rouge le Riche, but their master called them by
other names.
“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,” said Buonespoir, in ceremony, and
waved a hand of homage between them and Angèle. “Kiss dirt, and know
where duty lies. The lady’s word on my ship is law till we anchor at
the Queen’s Stairs at Greenwich. So, Heaven help you, Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego!” said Buonespoir.
A wave of humor passed over Angèle’s grave face, for a stranger
quartet never sailed high seas together: one blind of an eye, one
game of a leg, one bald as a bottle and bereft of two front teeth;
but Buonespoir was sound of wind and limb, his small face with the
big eyes lost in the masses of his red hair, and a body like
Hercules. It flashed through Angèle’s mind even as she answered the
gurgling salutations of the triumvirate that they had been got
together for no gentle summer sailing in the Channel. Her conscience
smote her that she should use such churls; but she gave it comfort by
the thought that while serving her they could do naught worse; and
her cause was good. Yet they presented so bizarre an aspect, their
ugliness was so varied and particular, that she almost laughed.
Buonespoir understood her thoughts, for with a look of mocking
innocence in his great blue eyes he waved a hand again towards the
graceless trio, and said, “For deep-sea fishing,” then solemnly
winked at the three.
* * * * *
A moment later Angèle was speeding along the shore towards her home
on the farther hill-side up the little glen; and within an hour
Buonespoir rolled from the dusk of the trees by the manor-house of
Rozel and knocked at the door. He carried on his head, as a fishwife
carries a tray of ormers, a basket full of flagons of muscadella; and
he did not lower the basket when he was shown into the room where the
Seigneur of Rozel was sitting before a trencher of spiced veal and a
great pot of ale. Lemprière roared a hearty greeting to the pirate,
for he was in a sour humor because of the taking-off of Michel de la
Forêt; and of all men this pirate-fellow, who had quips and cranks,
and had played tricks on his cousin of St. Ouen’s, was most welcome.
“What’s that on your teacup of a head?” he roared again, as
Buonespoir grinned pleasure at the greeting.
“Muscadella,” said Buonespoir, and lowered the basket to the table.
Lemprière seized a flagon, drew it forth, looked closely at it, then
burst into laughter, and spluttered, “St. Ouen’s muscadella, by the
hand of Rufus!”
Seizing Buonespoir by the shoulders, he forced him down upon a bench
at the table, and pushed the trencher of spiced meat against his
chest. “Eat, my noble lord of the sea and master of the cellar!” he
gurgled out, and, tipping the flagon of muscadella, took a long
draught. “God-a-mercy--but it has saved my life,” he gasped in
satisfaction as he lay back in his great chair and put his feet on
the bench whereon Buonespoir sat.
They raised their flagons and toasted each other, and Lemprière burst
forth into song, in the refrain of which Buonespoir joined
boisterously:
“King Rufus he did hunt the deer,
With a hey ho, come and kiss me, Dolly!
It was the spring-time of the year,
Hey ho, Dolly shut her eyes!
King Rufus was a bully boy,
He hunted all the day for joy,
Sweet Dolly she was ever coy:
And who would e’er be wise
That looked in Dolly’s eyes?
“King Rufus he did have his day,
With a hey ho, come and kiss me, Dolly!
So get ye forth where dun deer play--
Hey ho, Dolly comes again!
The greenwood is the place for me,
For that is where the dun deer be,
’Tis where my Dolly comes to me:
And who would stay at home,
That might with Dolly roam?
Sing hey ho, come and kiss me, Dolly!”
Lemprière, perspiring with the exertion, mopped his forehead, then
lapsed into a plaintive mood.
“I’ve had naught but trouble of late,” he wheezed. “Trouble! trouble!
trouble! like gnats on a filly’s flank!” and in spluttering words,
twice bracketed in muscadella, he told of Michel de la Forêt’s
arrest, and of his purpose to go to England if he could get a boat to
take him.
“’Tis that same business brings me here,” said Buonespoir, and
forthwith told of his meeting with Angèle and what was then agreed
upon.
“You to go to England!” cried Lemprière, amazed. “They want you for
Tyburn there.”
“They want me for the gallows here,” said Buonespoir. Rolling a
piece of spiced meat in his hand, he stuffed it into his mouth and
chewed till the grease came out of his eyes, and took eagerly from a
servant a flagon of malmsey and a dish of ormers.
“Hush! chew thy tongue a minute,” said the seigneur, suddenly
starting and laying a finger beside his nose. “Hush!” he said, again,
and looked into the flicker of the candle by him with half-shut eyes.
“May I have no rushes for a bed, and die like a rat in a moat, if I
don’t get thy pardon, too, of the Queen, and bring thee back to
Jersey, a thorn in the side of De Carteret forever! He’ll look upon
thee assoilzied by the Queen, spitting fire in his rage, and no
canary or muscadella in his cellar.”
It came not to the mind of either that this expedition would be made
at cost to themselves. They had not heard of Don Quixote, and their
gifts were not imitative. They were of a day when men held their
lives as lightly as many men hold their honor now, when championship
was as the breath of life to men’s nostrils, and to adventure for
what was worth having or doing in life the only road of reputation.
Buonespoir was as much a champion in his ways as Lemprière of Rozel.
They were of like kidney, though so far apart in rank. Had Lemprière
been born as low and as poor as Buonespoir, he would have been a
pirate, too, no doubt; and had Buonespoir been born as high as the
seigneur, he would have carried himself with the same rough sense of
honor, with as ripe a vanity, have been as naïve, as sincere, as true
to the real heart of man untaught in the dissimulation of modesty or
reserve. When they shook hands across the trencher of spiced veal, it
was as man shakes hand with man, not man with master.
They were about to start upon their journey when there came a
knocking at the door. On its being opened the bald and toothless
Abednego stumbled in with the word that immediately after Angèle and
her father came aboard the _Honeyflower_ some fifty halberdiers
suddenly appeared upon the Couperon. They had at once set sail, and
got away even before the sailors had reached the shore. As they had
rounded the point, where they were hid from view, Abednego dropped
overboard and swam ashore on the rising tide, making his way to the
manor to warn Buonespoir. On his way hither, stealing through the
trees, he had passed a half-score of halberdiers making for the
manor, and he had seen others going towards the shore.
Buonespoir looked to the priming of his pistols, and, buckling his
belt tightly about him, turned to the seigneur and said: “I will take
my chances with Abednego. Where does she lie--the _Honeyflower_,
Abednego?”
“Off the point called Verclut,” answered the little man, who had
travelled with Francis Drake.
“Good; we will make a run for it, flying dot-and-carry-one as we go.”
While they had been speaking the seigneur had been thinking; and now,
even as several figures appeared at a little distance in the trees,
making towards the manor, he said, with a loud laugh:
[Illustration: “BUONESPOIR LOOKED TO THE PRIMING OF HIS PISTOLS”]
“No. ’Tis the way of a fool to put his head between the door and the
jamb. ’Tis but a hundred yards to safety. Follow me--to the
sea--Abednego last. This way, bullies!”
Without a word all three left the house and walked on in the order
indicated, as De Carteret’s halberdiers ran forward threatening.
“Stand!” shouted the sergeant of the halberdiers. “Stand, or we
fire!”
But the three walked straight on unheeding. When the sergeant of the
men-at-arms recognized the seigneur he ordered down the
blunderbusses.
“We come for Buonespoir the pirate,” said the sergeant.
“Whose warrant?” said the seigneur, fronting the halberdiers,
Buonespoir and Abednego behind him.
“The Seigneur of St. Ouen’s,” was the reply.
“My compliments to the Seigneur of St. Ouen’s, and tell him that
Buonespoir is my guest,” he bellowed, and strode on, the halberdiers
following. Suddenly the seigneur swerved towards the chapel and
quickened his footsteps, the others but a step behind. The sergeant
of the halberdiers was in a quandary. He longed to shoot, but dared
not, and while he was making up his mind what to do the seigneur had
reached the chapel door. Opening it, he quickly pushed Buonespoir and
Abednego inside, whispering to them, then slammed the door and put
his back against it.
There was another moment’s hesitation on the sergeant’s part, then a
door at the other end of the chapel was heard to open and shut, and
the seigneur laughed loudly. The halberdiers ran round the chapel.
There stood Buonespoir and Abednego in a narrow road-way, motionless
and unconcerned. The halberdiers rushed forward.
“Perquage! Perquage! Perquage!” shouted Buonespoir, and the bright
moonlight showed him grinning.
For an instant there was deadly stillness, in which the approaching
footsteps of the seigneur sounded loud.
“Perquage!” Buonespoir repeated.
“Perquage! Fall back!” said the seigneur, and waved off the pikes of
the halberdiers. “He has sanctuary to the sea.”
This narrow road in which the pirates stood was the last of three in
the Isle of Jersey, running from churches to the sea, in which a
criminal was safe from arrest by virtue of an old statute. The other
_perquages_ had been taken away, but this one of Rozel remained, a
concession made by Henry VIII. to the father of this Raoul Lemprière.
The privilege had been used but once in the present seigneur’s day,
because the criminal must be put upon the road from the chapel by the
seigneur himself, and he had used his privilege modestly.
No man in Jersey but knew the sacredness of this _perquage_, though
it was ten years since it had been used; and no man, not even the
governor himself, dare lift his hand to one upon that road.
So it was that Buonespoir and Abednego, two fugitives from justice,
walked quietly to the sea down the _perquage_, halberdiers, balked
of their prey, prowling on their steps and cursing the Seigneur of
Rozel for his gift of sanctuary--for the Seigneur of St. Ouen’s and
the royal court had promised each halberdier three shillings and all
the ale he could drink at a sitting if Buonespoir was brought in
alive or dead.
In peace and safety the three boarded the _Honeyflower_ off the point
called Verclut, and set sail for England, just seven hours after
Michel de la Forêt had gone his way upon the Channel, a prisoner.