The horseman rode down the narrow vennel which led to the St. Denis gate
of Paris, holding his nose like a fine lady. Behind him the city reeked
in a close August twilight. From every entry came the smell of coarse
cooking and unclean humanity, and the heaps of garbage in the gutters
sent up a fog of malodorous dust when they were stirred by prowling dogs
or hasty passengers.
“Another week of heat and they will have the plague here,” he muttered.
Oh for Eaucourt--Eaucourt by the waters! I have too delicate a stomach
for this Paris.”
His thoughts ran on to the country beyond the gates, the fields about
St. Denis, the Clermont downs. Soon he would be stretching his bay on
good turf.
But the gates were closed, though it was not yet the hour of curfew. The
lieutenant of the watch stood squarely before him with a forbidding air,
while a file of arquebusiers lounged in the archway.
“There's no going out to-night,” was the answer to the impatient rider.
“Tut, man, I am the Sieur de Laval, riding north on urgent affairs. My
servants left at noon. Be quick. Open!”
“Who ordered this folly?”
“The Marshal Tavannes. Go argue with him, if your mightiness has the
courage.”
The horseman was too old a campaigner to waste time in wrangling. He
turned his horse's head and retraced his path up the vennel. “Now what
in God's name is afoot to-night?” he asked himself, and the bay tossed
his dainty head, as if in the same perplexity. He was a fine animal with
the deep barrel and great shoulders of the Norman breed, and no more
than his master did he love this place of alarums and stenches.
Gaspard de Laval was a figure conspicuous enough even in that city
of motley. For one thing he was well over two yards high, and, though
somewhat lean for perfect proportions, his long arms and deep chest told
of no common strength. He looked more than his thirty years, for his
face was burned the colour of teak by hot suns, and a scar just under
the hair wrinkled a broad low forehead. His small pointed beard was
bleached by weather to the hue of pale honey. He wore a steel back and
front over a doublet of dark taffeta, and his riding cloak was blue
velvet lined with cherry satin. The man's habit was sombre except for
the shine of steel and the occasional flutter of the gay lining. In his
velvet bonnet he wore a white plume. The rich clothing became him well,
and had just a hint of foreignness, as if commonly he were more roughly
garbed. Which was indeed the case, for he was new back from the Western
Seas, and had celebrated his home-coming with a brave suit.
As a youth he had fought under Conde in the religious wars, but had
followed Jean Ribaut to Florida, and had been one of the few survivors
when the Spaniards sacked St. Caroline. With de Gourgues he had sailed
west again for vengeance, and had got it. Thereafter he had been with
the privateers of Brest and La Rochelle, a hornet to search out and
sting the weak places of Spain on the Main and among the islands. But
he was not born to live continually in outland parts, loving rather to
intercalate fierce adventures between spells of home-keeping. The love
of his green Picardy manor drew him back with gentle hands. He had now
returned like a child to his playthings, and the chief thoughts in his
head were his gardens and fishponds, the spinneys he had planted and
the new German dogs he had got for boar-hunting in the forest. He looked
forward to days of busy idleness in his modest kingdom.
But first he must see his kinsman the Admiral about certain affairs of
the New World which lay near to that great man's heart. Coligny was
his godfather, from whom he was named; he was also his kinsman, for the
Admiral's wife, Charlotte de Laval, was a cousin once removed. So to
Chatillon Gaspard journeyed, and thence to Paris, whither the Huguenot
leader had gone for the marriage fetes of the King of Navarre. Reaching
the city on the Friday evening, he was met by ill news. That morning the
Admiral's life had been attempted on his way back from watching the King
at tennis. Happily the wounds were slight, a broken right forefinger and
a bullet through the left forearm, but the outrage had taken away men's
breath. That the Admiral of France, brought to Paris for those nuptials
which were to be a pledge of a new peace, should be the target of
assassins shocked the decent and alarmed the timid. The commonwealth was
built on the side of a volcano, and the infernal fires were muttering.
Friend and foe alike set the thing down to the Guises' credit, and the
door of Coligny's lodging in the Rue de Bethisy was thronged by angry
Huguenot gentry, clamouring to be permitted to take order with the
Italianate murderers.
On the Saturday morning Gaspard was admitted to audience with his
kinsman, but found him so weak from Monsieur Ambrose Pare's drastic
surgery that he was compelled to postpone his business. “Get you back to
Eaucourt,” said Coligny, “and cultivate your garden till I send for you.
France is too crooked just now for a forthright fellow like you to do
her service, and I do not think that the air of Paris is healthy for our
house.” Gaspard was fain to obey, judging that the Admiral spoke of some
delicate state business for which he was aware he had no talent. A
word with M. de Teligny reassured him as to the Admiral's safety, for
according to him the King now leaned heavily against the Guises.
But lo and behold! the gates of Paris were locked to him, and he found
himself interned in the sweltering city.
He did not like it. There was an ugly smack of intrigue in the air,
puzzling to a plain soldier. Nor did he like the look of the streets now
dim in the twilight. On his way to the gates they had been crammed like
a barrel of salt fish, and in the throng there had been as many armed
men as if an enemy made a leaguer beyond the walls. There had been,
too, a great number of sallow southern faces, as if the Queen-mother had
moved bodily thither a city of her countrymen. But now as the dark fell
the streets were almost empty. The houses were packed to bursting--a
blur of white faces could be seen at the windows, and every entry seemed
to be alive with silent men. But in the streets there was scarcely a
soul except priests, flitting from door to door, even stumbling against
his horse in their preoccupation. Black, brown, and grey crows, they
made Paris like Cartagena. The man's face took a very grim set as he
watched these birds of ill omen. What in God's name had befallen his
honest France?... He was used to danger, but this secret massing chilled
even his stout heart. It was like a wood he remembered in Florida where
every bush had held an Indian arrow, but without sight or sound of a
bowman. There was hell brewing in this foul cauldron of a city.
He stabled his horse in the yard in the Rue du Coq, behind the glover's
house where he had lain the night before. Then he set out to find
supper. The first tavern served his purpose. Above the door was a wisp
of red wool, which he knew for the Guise colours. Inside he looked to
find a crowd, but there was but one other guest. Paris that night had
business, it seemed, which did not lie in the taverns.
That other guest was a man as big as himself, clad wholly in black, save
for a stiff cambric ruff worn rather fuller than the fashion. He was
heavily booted, and sat sideways on a settle with his left hand tucked
in his belt and a great right elbow on the board. Something in his pose,
half rustic, half braggart, seemed familiar to Gaspard. The next second
the two were in each other's arms.
“Gawain Champernoun!” cried Gaspard. “When I left you by the Isle
of Pines I never hoped to meet you again in a Paris inn? What's your
errand, man, in this den of thieves?”
“Business of state,” the Englishman laughed. “I have been with
Walsingham, her Majesty's Ambassador, and looked to start home to-night.
But your city is marvellous unwilling to part with her guests. What's
toward, Gaspard?”
“For me, supper,” and he fell with zest to the broiled fowl he had
ordered. The other sent for another flask of the wine of Anjou,
observing that he had a plaguy thirst.
“I think,” said Gaspard, at last raising his eyes from his food, “that
Paris will be unwholesome to-night for decent folk.”
“There's a murrain of friars about,” said Champernoun, leisurely picking
his teeth.
“The place hums like a bee-hive before swarming. Better get back to your
Ambassador, Gawain. There's sanctuary for you under his cloak.”
The Englishman made a pellet of bread and flicked it at the other's
face. “I may have to box your ears, old friend. Since when have I taken
to shirking a fracas? We were together at St. John d'Ulloa, and you
should know me better.”
“Are you armed?” was Gaspard's next question.
Champernoun patted his sword. “Also there are pistols in my holsters.”
“You have a horse, then?”
“Stabled within twenty yards. My rascally groom carried a message to Sir
Francis, and as he has been gone over an hour, I fear he may have come
to an untimely end.”
“Then it will be well this night for us two to hold together. I know our
Paris mob and there is nothing crueller out of hell. The pistolling of
the Admiral de Coligny has given them a taste of blood, and they may
have a fancy for killing Luteranos. Two such as you and I, guarding each
other's backs, may see sport before morning, and haply rid the world of
a few miscreants. What say you, camerado?”
“Good. But what account shall we give of ourselves if someone questions
us?”
“Why, we are Spanish esquires in the train of King Philip's Mission. Our
clothes are dark enough for the dons' fashion, and we both speak their
tongue freely. Behold in me the Senor Juan Gonzalez de Mendoza, a poor
knight of Castile, most earnest in the cause of Holy Church.”
“And I,” said the Englishman with the gusto of a boy in a game, “am
named Rodriguez de Bobadilla. I knew the man, who is dead, and his
brother owes me ten crowns.... But if we fall in with the Spanish
Ambassador's gentlemen?”
“We will outface them.”
“But if they detect the imposture?”
“Why, wring their necks. You are getting as cautious as an apple-wife,
Gawain.”
“When I set out on a business I like to weigh it, that I may know how
much is to be charged to my own wits and how much I must leave to God.
To-night it would appear that the Almighty must hold us very tight by
the hand. Well, I am ready when I have I drunk another cup of wine.” He
drew his sword and lovingly fingered its edge, whistling all the while.
Gaspard went to the door and looked into the street. The city was still
strangely quiet. No roysterers swaggered home along the pavements, no
tramp of cuirassiers told of the passage of a great man. But again he
had the sense that hot fires were glowing under these cold ashes. The
mist had lifted and the stars were clear, and over the dark mass of the
Louvre a great planet burned. The air was warm and stifling, and with a
gesture of impatience he slammed the door. By now he ought to have been
drinking the cool night on the downs beyond Oise.
The Englishman had called for another bottle, and it was served in the
empty tavern by the landlord himself. As the wine was brought in the two
fell to talking Spanish, at the sound of which the man visibly started.
His furtive sulky face changed to a sly friendliness. “Your excellencies
have come to town for the good work,” he said, sidling and bowing.
With a more than Spanish gravity Gaspard inclined his head.
“When does it start?” he asked.
“Ah, that we common folk do not know. But there will be a signal. Father
Antoine has promised us a signal. But messieurs have not badges. Perhaps
they do not need them for their faces will be known. Nevertheless for
better security it might be well....” He stopped with the air of a
huckster crying his wares.
Gaspard spoke a word to Champernoun in Spanish. Then to the landlord:
“We are strangers, so must bow to the custom of your city. Have you a
man to send to the Hotel de Guise?”
“Why trouble the Duke, my lord?” was the answer. “See, I will make you
badges.”
He tore up a napkin, and bound two white strips crosswise on their left
arms, and pinned a rag to their bonnets. “There, messieurs, you are now
wearing honest colours for all to see. It is well, for presently blood
will be hot and eyes blind.”
Gaspard flung him a piece of gold, and he bowed himself out. “Bonne
fortune, lordships,” were his parting words. “'Twill be a great night
for our Lord Christ and our Lord King.”
“And his lord the Devil,” said Champernoun. “What madness has taken your
good France? These are Spanish manners, and they sicken me. Cockades and
signals and such-like flummery!”
The other's face had grown sober. “For certain hell is afoot to-night.
It is the Admiral they seek. The Guisards and their reiters and a pack
of 'prentices maddened by sermons. I would to God he were in the Palace
with the King of Navarre and the young Conde.”
“But he is well guarded. I heard that a hundred Huguenots' swords keep
watch by his house.”
“Maybe. But we of the religion are too bold and too trustful. We are
not match for the Guises and their Italian tricks. I think we will go
to Coligny's lodgings. Mounted, for a man on a horse has an advantage if
the mob are out!”
The two left the tavern, both sniffing the air as if they found it
tainted. The streets were filling now, and men were running as if to
a rendezvous, running hot-foot without speech and without lights. Most
wore white crosses on their left sleeve. The horses waited, already
saddled, in stables not a furlong apart, and it was the work of a minute
to bridle and mount. The two as if by a common impulse halted their
beasts at the mouth of the Rue du Coq, and listened. The city was quiet
on the surface, but there was a low deep undercurrent of sound, like the
soft purring of a lion before he roars. The sky was bright with stars.
There was no moon, but over the Isle was a faint tremulous glow.
“It is long past midnight,” said Gaspard; “in a little it will be dawn.”
Suddenly a shot cracked out. It was so sharp a sound among the muffled
noises that it stung the ear like a whip-lash. It came from the dark
mass of the Louvre, from somewhere beyond the Grand Jardin. It was
followed instantly by a hubbub far down the Rue St. Honore and a glare
kindled where that street joined the Rue d'Arbre Sec.
“That way lies the Admiral,” Gaspard cried. “I go to him,” and he
clapped spurs to his horse.
But as his beast leapt forward another sound broke out, coming
apparently from above their heads. It was the clanging of a great bell.
There is no music so dominant as bells. Their voice occupies sky as well
as earth, and they overwhelm the senses, so that a man's blood must keep
pace with their beat. They can suit every part, jangling in wild joy,
or copying the slow pace of sorrow, or pealing in ordered rhythm, blithe
but with a warning of mortality in their cadence. But this bell played
dance music. It summoned to an infernal jig. Blood and fever were in its
broken fall, hate and madness and death.
Gaspard checked his plunging horse. “By God, it is from St. Germains
l'Auxerrois! The Palace church. The King is in it. It is a plot against
our faith. They have got the pick of us in their trap and would make an
end of us.”
From every house and entry men and women and priests were pouring to
swell the army that pressed roaring eastwards. No one heeded the two as
they sat their horses like rocks in the middle of a torrent.
“The Admiral is gone,” said Gaspard with a sob in his voice. “Our few
hundred spears cannot stand against the King's army. It remains for us
to die with him.”
Champernoun was cursing steadily in a mixture of English and Spanish,
good mouth-filling oaths delivered without heat. “Die we doubtless
shall, but not before we have trounced this bloody rabble.”
Still Gaspard did not move. “After to-night there will be no gentlemen
left in France, for we of the religion had all the breeding.” Then he
laughed bitterly. “I mind Ribaut's last words, when Menendez slew him.
'We are of earth,' says he, 'and to earth we must return, and twenty
years more or less can matter little!' That is our case to-night, old
friend.”
“Maybe,” said the Englishman. “But why talk of dying? You and I are
Spanish caballeros. Walsingham told me that the King hated that nation,
and that the Queen-mother loved it not, but it would appear that now we
are very popular in Paris.”
“Nay, nay, this is no time to play the Nicodemite. It is the hour for
public confession. I'm off to the dead Admiral to avenge him on his
assassins.”
“Softly, Gaspard. You and I are old companions in war, and we do not
ride against a stone wall if there be a gate. It was not thus that
Gourgues avenged Ribaut at St. John's. Let us thank God that we hold a
master card in this game. We are two foxes in a flock of angry roosters,
and by the Lord's grace we will take our toll of them. Cunning, my
friend. A stratagem of war! We stand outside this welter and, having
only the cold passion of revenge, can think coolly. God's truth, man,
have we fought the Indian and the Spaniard for nothing? Wily is the
word. Are we two gentlemen, who fear God, to be worsted by a rabble of
Papegots and Marannes?”
It was the word “Marannes,” or, as we say, “halfcastes,” which brought
conviction to Gaspard. Suddenly he saw his enemies as less formidable,
as something contemptible--things of a lower breed, dupers who might
themselves be duped.
“Faith, Gawain, you are the true campaigner. Let us forward, and trust
to Heaven to show us a road.”
They galloped down the Rue St. Honore, finding an open space in the
cobbles of the centre, but at the turning into the Rue d'Arbre Sec they
met a block. A great throng with torches was coming in on the right from
the direction of the Bourbon and d'Alencon hotels. Yet by pressing
their horses with whip and spur, and by that awe which the two tall dark
cavaliers inspired even in a mob which had lost its wits, they managed
to make their way to the entrance of the Rue de Bethisy. There they came
suddenly upon quiet.
The crowd was held back by mounted men who made a ring around the gate
of a high dark building. Inside its courtyard there were cries and the
rumour of fighting, but out in the street there was silence. Every eye
was turned to the archway, which was bright as day with the glare of
fifty lanterns.
The two rode straight to the ring of soldiers.
“Make way,” Gaspard commanded, speaking with a foreign accent.
“For whom, monsieur?” one asked who seemed to be of a higher standing
than the rest.
“For the Ambassador of the King of Spain.”
The man touched his bonnet and opened up a road by striking the adjacent
horses with the flat of his sword, and the two rode into the ring so
that they faced the archway. They could see a little way inside the
courtyard, where the light gleamed on armour. The men there were no
rabble, but Guise's Swiss.
A priest came out, wearing the Jacobin habit, one of those preaching
friars who had been fevering the blood of Paris. The crowd behind the
men-at-arms knew him, for even in its absorption it sent up shouts of
greeting. He flitted like a bat towards Gaspard and Champernoun and
peered up at them. His face was lean and wolfish, with cruel arrogant
eyes.
“Hail, father!” said Gaspard in Spanish. “How goes the good work?”
He replied in the same tongue. “Bravely, my children. But this is but
the beginning. Are you girt and ready for the harvesting?”
“We are ready,” said Gaspard. His voice shook with fury, but the Jacobin
took it for enthusiasm. He held up his hand in blessing and fluttered
back to the archway.
From inside the courtyard came the sound of something falling, and then
a great shout. The mob had jumped to a conclusion. “That is the end of
old Toothpick,” a voice cried, using the Admiral's nickname. There was
a wild surge round the horsemen, but the ring held. A body of soldiers
poured out of the gate, with blood on their bare swords. Among them was
one tall fellow all in armour, with a broken plume on his bonnet. His
face was torn and disfigured and he was laughing horribly. The Jacobin
rushed to embrace him, and the man dropped on his knees to receive a
blessing.
“Behold our hero,” the friar cried. “His good blade has rid us of the
arch-heretic,” and the mob took up the shout.
Gaspard was cool now. His fury had become a cold thing like a glacier.
“I know him!” he whispered to Champernoun. “He is the Italian Petrucci.
He is our first quarry.”
“The second will be that damned friar,” was the Englishman's answer.
Suddenly the ring of men-at-arms drew inward as a horseman rode out of
the gate followed by half a dozen attendants. He was a tall young man,
very noble to look upon, with a flushed face like a boy warm from the
game of paume. His long satin coat was richly embroidered, and round
his neck hung the thick gold collar of some Order. He was wiping a stain
from his sleeve with a fine lawn handkerchief.
“What is that thing gilt like a chalice?” whispered Champernoun.
“Henry of Guise,” said Gaspard.
The Duke caught sight of the two men in the centre of the ring. The
lanterns made the whole place bright and he could see every detail of
their dress and bearing. He saluted them courteously.
“We make your Grace our compliments,” said Gaspard. “We are of the
household of the Ambassador of Spain, and could not rest indoors when
great deeds were being done in the city.”
The young man smiled pleasantly. There was a boyish grace in his
gesture.
“You are welcome, gentlemen. I would have every good Catholic in Europe
see with his own eyes the good work of this Bartholomew's day. I would
ask you to ride with me, but I leave the city in pursuit of the Count of
Montgomery, who is rumoured to have escaped. There will be much for you
to see on this happy Sunday. But stay! You are not attended, and our
streets are none too safe for strangers. Presently the Huguenots
will counterfeit our white cross, and blunders may be made by the
overzealous.”
He unclasped the jewel which hung at the end of his chain. It was a
little Agnus of gold and enamel, surmounting a lozenge-shaped shield
charged with an eagle.
“Take this,” he said, “and return it to me when the work is over. Show
it if any man dares to question you. It is a passport from Henry of
Guise.... And now forward,” he cried to his followers. “Forward for
Montgomery and the Vidame.”
The two looked after the splendid figure. “That bird is in fine
feather,” said Champernoun.
Gaspard's jaw was very grim. “Some day he will lie huddled under the
assassin's knife. He will die as he has made my chief die, and his body
will be cast to the dog's.... But he has given me a plan,” and he spoke
in his companion's ear.
The Englishman laughed. His stolidity had been slow to quicken, but his
eyes were now hot and he had altogether ceased to swear.
“First let me get back to Walsingham's lodging. I have a young kinsman
there, they call him Walter Raleigh, who would dearly love this
venture.”
“Tut, man, be serious. We play a desperate game, and there is no place
for boys in it. We have Guise's jewel, and by the living God we will use
it. My mark is Petrucci.”
“And the priest,” said Champernoun.
The crowd in the Rue de Bethisy was thinning, as bands of soldiers,
each with its tail of rabble, moved off to draw other coverts. There
was fighting still in many houses, and on the roof-tops as the pale dawn
spread could be seen the hunt for fugitives. Torches and lanterns still
flickered obscenely, and the blood in the gutters shone sometimes
golden in their glare and sometimes spread drab and horrid in the waxing
daylight.
The Jacobin stood at their elbow. “Follow me, my lords of Spain,” he
cried. “No friends of God and the Duke dare be idle this happy morn.
Follow, and I will show you wonders.”
He led them east to where a broader street ran to the river.
“Somewhere here lies Teligny,” he croaked. “Once he is dead the second
head is lopped from the dragon of Babylon. Oh that God would show
us where Conde and Navarre are hid, for without them our task is
incomplete.”
There was a great crowd about the door of one house, and into it the
Jacobin fought his way with prayers and threats. Some Huguenot--Teligny
it might be--was cornered there, but in the narrow place only a few
could join in the hunt, and the hunters, not to be impeded by the
multitude, presently set a guard at the street door. The mob below was
already drunk with blood, and found waiting intolerable; but it had no
leader and foamed aimlessly about the causeway. There were women in it
with flying hair like Maenads, who shrilled obscenities, and drunken
butchers and watermen and grooms who had started out for loot and
ended in sheer lust of slaying, and dozens of broken desperadoes and
led-captains who looked on the day as their carnival. But to the mob had
come one of those moments of indecision when it halted and eddied like a
whirlpool.
Suddenly in its midst appeared two tall horsemen.
“Men of Paris,” cried Gaspard with that masterful voice which is born
of the deep seas. “You see this jewel. It was given me an hour back by
Henry of Guise.”
A ruffian examined it. “Ay,” he murmured with reverence, “it is our
Duke's. I saw it on his breast before Coligny's house.”
The mob was all ears. “I have the Duke's command,” Gaspard went on. “He
pursues Montgomery and the Vidame of Chartres. Coligny is dead. Teligny
in there is about to die. But where are all the others? Where is La
Rochefoucault? Where is Rosny? Where is Grammont? Where, above all, are
the young Conde and the King of Navarre?”
The names set the rabble howling. Every eye was on the speaker.
Gaspard commanded silence. “I will tell you. The Huguenots are cunning
as foxes. They planned this very day to seize the King and make
themselves masters of France. They have copied your badge,” and he
glanced towards his left arm. “Thousands of them are waiting for
revenge, and before it is full day they will be on you. You will not
know them, you will take them for your friends, and you will have your
throats cut before you find out your error.”
A crowd may be wolves one moment and chickens the next, for cruelty
and fear are cousins. A shiver of apprehension went through the soberer
part. One drunkard who shouted was clubbed on the head by his neighbour.
Gaspard saw his chance.
“My word to you--the Duke's word--is to forestall this devilry. Follow
me, and strike down every band of white-badged Huguenots. For among them
be sure is the cub of Navarre.”
It was the leadership which the masterless men wanted. Fifty swords
were raised, and a shout went up which shook the windows of that lodging
where even now Teligny was being done to death. With the two horsemen at
their head the rabble poured westwards towards the Rue d'Arbre Sec and
the Louvre, for there in the vicinity of the Palace were the likeliest
coverts.
“Now Heaven send us Petrucci,” said Gaspard. “Would that the Little Man
had been alive and with us! This would have been a ruse after his own
heart.”
“I think the great Conde would have specially misliked yon monk,” said
the Englishman.
“Patience, Gawain. One foe at a time. My heart tells me that you will
get your priest.”
The streets, still dim in the dawn, were thickly carpeted with dead. The
mob kicked and befouled the bodies, and the bravos in sheer wantonness
spiked them with their swords. There were women there, and children,
lying twisted on the causeway. Once a fugitive darted out of an entry,
to be brought down by a butcher's axe.
“I have never seen worse in the Indies,” and Champernoun shivered. “My
stomach turns. For heaven's sake let us ride down this rabble!”
“Patience,” said Gaspard, his eyes hard as stones. “Cursed be he that
putteth his hand to the plough and then turns back.”
They passed several small bodies of Catholic horse, which they greeted
with cheers. That was in the Rue des Poulies; and at the corner where it
abutted on the quay before the Hotel de Bourbon, a ferret-faced man ran
blindly into them. Gaspard caught him and drew him to his horse's side,
for he recognised the landlord of the tavern where he had supped.
“What news, friend?” he asked.
The man was in an anguish of terror, but he recognised his former guest.
“There is a band on the quay,” he stammered. “They are mad and do not
know a Catholic when they see him. They would have killed me, had not
the good Father Antoine held them till I made off.”
“Who leads them?” Gaspard asked, having a premonition.
“A tall man in crimson with a broken plume.”
“How many?”
“Maybe a hundred, and at least half are men-at-arms.”
Gaspard turned to Champernoun.
“We have found our quarry,” he said.
Then he spoke to his following, and noted with comfort that it was now
some hundred strong, and numbered many swords. “There is a Huguenot band
before us,” he cried. “They wear our crosses, and this honest fellow has
barely escaped from them. They are less than three score. On them, my
gallant lads, before they increase their strength, and mark specially
the long man in red, for he is the Devil. It may be Navarre is with
them.”
The mob needed no second bidding. Their chance had come, and they swept
along with a hoarse mutter more fearful than any shouting.
“Knee to knee, Gawain,” said Gaspard, “as at St. John d'Ulloa. Remember,
Petrucci is for me.”
The Italian's band, crazy with drink and easy slaying, straggled across
the wide quay and had no thought of danger till the two horsemen were
upon them. The songs died on their lips as they saw bearing down on them
an avenging army. The scared cries of “The Huguenots!” “Montgomery!”
were to Gaspard's following a confirmation of their treachery. The
swords of the bravos and the axes and knives of the Parisian mob made
havoc with the civilian rabble, but the men-at-arms recovered themselves
and in knots fought a stout battle. But the band was broken at the start
by the two grim horsemen who rode through it as through meadow grass,
their blades falling terribly, and then turned and cut their way back.
Yet a third time they turned, and in that last mowing they found their
desire. A tall man in crimson appeared before them. Gaspard flung his
reins to Champernoun and in a second was on the ground, fighting with
a fury that these long hours had been stifled. Before his blade the
Italian gave ground till he was pinned against the wall of the Bourbon
hotel. His eyes were staring with amazement and dawning fear. “I am a
friend,” he stammered in broken French and was answered in curt Spanish.
Presently his guard weakened and Gaspard gave him the point in his
heart. As he drooped to the ground, his conqueror bent over him. “The
Admiral is avenged,” he said. “Tell your master in hell that you died at
the hands of Coligny's kinsman.”
Gaspard remounted, and, since the fight had now gone eastward, they rode
on to the main gate of the Louvre, where they met a company of the royal
Guards coming out to discover the cause of an uproar so close to the
Palace. He told his tale of the Spanish Embassy and showed Guise's
jewel. “The streets are full of Huguenots badged as Catholics. His
Majesty will be well advised to quiet the rabble or he will lose some
trusty servants.”
In the Rue du Coq, now almost empty, the two horsemen halted.
“We had better be journeying, Gawain. Guise's jewel will open the gates.
In an hour's time all Paris will be on our trail.”
“There is still that priest,” said Champernoun doggedly. He was
breathing heavily, and his eyes were light and daring. Like all his
countrymen, he was slow to kindle but slower to cool.
“In an hour, if we linger here, we shall be at his mercy. Let us head
for the St. Antoine gate.”
The jewel made their way easy, for through that gate Henry of Guise
himself had passed in the small hours. “Half an hour ago,” the
lieutenant of the watch told them, “I opened to another party which bore
the Duke's credentials. They were for Amiens to spread the good news.”
“Had they a priest with them?”
“Ay, a Jacobin monk, who cried on them to hasten and not spare their
horses. He said there was much to do in the north.”
“I think the holy man spoke truth,” said Gaspard, and they rode into
open country.
They broke their fast on black bread and a cup of wine at the first inn,
where a crowd of frightened countrymen were looking in the direction of
Paris. It was now about seven o'clock, and a faint haze, which promised
heat, cloaked the ground. From it rose the towers and high-peaked roofs
of the city, insubstantial as a dream.
“Eaucourt by the waters!” sighed Gaspard. “That the same land should
hold that treasure and this foul city!”
Their horses, rested and fed, carried them well on the north road,
but by ten o'clock they had overtaken no travellers, save a couple of
servants, on sorry nags, who wore the Vidame of Amiens' livery. They
were well beyond Oise ere they saw in the bottom of a grassy vale a
little knot of men.
“I make out six,” said Champernoun, who had a falcon's eye. “Two priests
and four men-at-arms. Reasonable odds, such as I love. Faith, that monk
travels fast!”
“I do not think there will be much fighting,” said Gaspard.
Twenty minutes later they rode abreast of the party, which at first had
wheeled round on guard, and then had resumed its course at the sight
of the white armlets. It was as Champernoun had said. Four lusty
arquebusiers escorted the Jacobin. But the sixth man was no priest. He
was a Huguenot minister whom Gaspard remembered with Conde's army, an
elderly frail man bound with cruel thongs to a horse's back and his legs
tethered beneath its belly.
Recognition awoke in the Jacobin's eye. “Ah, my lords of Spain! What
brings you northward?”
Gaspard was by his side, while Champernoun a pace behind was abreast the
minister.
“To see the completion of the good work begun this morning.”
“You have come the right road. I go to kindle the north to a holy
emulation. That heretic dog behind is a Picard, and I bring him to
Amiens that he may perish there as a warning to his countrymen.”
“So?” said Gaspard, and at the word the Huguenot's horse, pricked
stealthily by Champernoun's sword, leaped forward and dashed in fright
up the hill, its rider sitting stiff as a doll in his bonds. The Jacobin
cried out and the soldiers made as if to follow, but Gaspard's voice
checked them. “Let be. The beast will not go far. I have matters of
importance to discuss with this reverend father.”
The priest's face sharpened with a sudden suspicion. “Your manners are
somewhat peremptory, sir Spaniard. But speak and let us get on.”
“I have only the one word. I told you we had come north to see the
fruition of the good work, and you approved. We do not mean the same.
By good work I mean that about sunrise I slew with this sword the man
Petrucci, who slew the Admiral. By its fruition I mean that I have come
to settle with you.”
“You...?” the other stammered.
“I am Gaspard de Laval, a kinsman and humble follower of Goligny.”
The Jacobin was no coward. “Treason!” he cried. “A Huguenot! Cut them
down, my men,” and he drew a knife from beneath his robe.
But Gaspard's eye and voice checked the troopers. He held in his hand
the gold trinket. “I have no quarrel with you. This is the passport of
your leader, the Duke. I show it to you, and if you are questioned about
this day's work you can reply that you took your orders from him who
carried Guise's jewel. Go your ways back to Paris if you would avoid
trouble.”
Two of the men seemed to waver, but the maddened cry of the priest
detained them. “They seek to murder me,” he screamed. “Would you
desert God's Church and burn in torment for ever?” He hurled himself on
Gaspard, who caught his wrist so that the knife tinkled on the high road
while the man overbalanced himself and fell. The next second the mellay
had begun.
It did not last long. The troopers were heavy fellows, cumbrously armed,
who, even with numbers on their side, stood little chance against two
swift swordsmen, who had been trained to fight together against odds.
One Gaspard pulled from the saddle so that he lay senseless on the
ground. One Champernoun felled with a sword cut of which no morion could
break the force. The two others turned tail and fled, and the last seen
of them was a dust cloud on the road to Paris.
Gaspard had not drawn his sword. They stood by the bridge of a little
river, and he flung Guise's jewel far into its lilied waters.
“A useful bauble,” he smiled, “but its purpose is served.”
The priest stood in the dust, with furious eyes burning in an ashen
face.
“What will you do with me?”
“This has been your day of triumph, father. I would round it off
worthily by helping you to a martyr's crown. Gawain,” and he turned to
his companion, “go up the road and fetch me the rope which binds the
minister.”
The runaway was feeding peaceably by the highway. Champernoun cut the
old man's bonds, and laid him fainting on the grass. He brought back
with him a length of stout cord.
“Let the brute live,” he said. “Duck him and truss him up, but don't
dirty your hands with him. I'd as lief kill a woman as a monk.”
But Gaspard's smiling face was a rock. “This is no Englishman's concern.
To-day's shame is France's and a Frenchman alone can judge it. Innocent
blood is on this man's hands, and it is for me to pay the first
instalment of justice. The rest I leave to God.”
So when an hour later the stunned troopers recovered their senses they
found a sight which sent them to their knees to patter prayers. For over
the arch of the bridge dangled the corpse of the Jacobin. And on its
breast it bore a paper setting forth that this deed had been done by
Gaspard de Laval, and the Latin words “O si sic omnes!”
Meantime far up in the folds of the Santerre a little party was moving
through the hot afternoon. The old Huguenot, shaken still by his rough
handling, rode as if in a trance. Once he roused himself and asked about
the monk.
“I hanged him like a mad dog,” said Gaspard.
The minister shook his head. “Violence will not cure violence.”
“Nay, but justice may follow crime. I am no Nicodemite. This day I have
made public confession of my faith, and abide the consequences. From
this day I am an exile from France so long as it pleases God to make His
Church an anvil for the blows of His enemies.”
“I, too, am an exile,” said the old man. “If I come safe to Calais I
shall take ship for Holland and find shelter with the brethren there.
You have preserved my life for a few more years in my master's vineyard.
You say truly, young sir, that God's Church is now an anvil, but
remember for your consolation that it is an anvil which has worn out
many hammers.”
Late in the evening they came over a ridge and looked down on a shallow
valley all green and gold in the last light. A slender river twined by
alder and willow through the meadows. Gaspard reined in his horse and
gazed on the place with a hand shading his eyes.
“I have slain a man to my hurt,” he said. “See, there are my new
fishponds half made, and the herb garden, and the terrace that gets the
morning sun. There is the lawn which I called my quarter-deck, the place
to walk of an evening. Farewell, my little grey dwelling.”
Champernoun laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.
“We will find you the mate of it in Devon, old friend,” he said.
But Gaspard was not listening. “Eaucourt by the waters,” he repeated
like the refrain of a song, and his eyes were full of tears.