THE MERCY OF LA MEFFRAYE
It was a strange night that which the three Scots spent in the little
house standing back from the street of Saint Philbert on the gloomy
edges of the forest of Machecoul. The hostess, indeed, was unweariedly
kind and brought forth from her store many dainties for their
delectation. She talked with touching affection of her poor husband,
afflicted with these strange fits of wolfish mania, in the paroxysms
of which he was wont to tear himself and grovel in the dust like a
beast.
This she told them over and over as she moved about setting before
them provend from secret stores of her own, obviously unknown or
perhaps forbidden to Cæsar Martin.
Wild bee honey from the woods she placed before them and white wheaten
bread, such as could not be got nearer than Paris, with wine of some
rarer vintage than that out of the cripple's resinous pigskin. These
and much else La Meffraye pressed upon them till she had completely
won over the Lord James, and even Malise, easy natured like most very
strong men, was taken by the sympathetic conversation and gracious
kindliness of the wife of poor afflicted Cæsar Martin of Saint
Philbert. Only Sholto kept his suspicion edged and pointed, and
resolved that he would not sleep that night, but watch till the dawn
the things which might befall in the house on the forest's border.
Yet it was conspicuously to Sholto that La Meffraye directed most of
her blandishments.
Her ruddy face, so bright that it seemed almost as if wholly covered
with a birthmark, gleamed with absolute good nature as she looked at
him. She threw off the black veil which half concealed her strange
coiffure of green toadstool-coloured hair. She placed her choicest
morsels before the young captain of the Douglas guard.
"'Tis hard," she said, touching him confidentially on the shoulder,
"hard to dwell here in this country wherein so many deeds of blood are
wrought, alone with a poor imbecile like my husband. None cares to
help me with aught, all being too busy with their own affairs. It
falls on me to till the fields, which, scanty as they are, are more
than my feeble strength can compass unaided. Alone I must prune and
water the vines, bring in the firewood, and go out and in by night and
day to earn a scanty living for this afflicted one and myself. You
will hear, perchance, mischief laid to my charge in this village of
evil speakers and lazy folk. They hate me because I am no gadabout to
spend time abusing my neighbours at the village well. But the children
love me, and that is no ill sign. Their young hearts are open to love
a poor lone old woman. What cares La Meffraye for the sneers of the
ignorant and prejudiced so long as the children run to her gladly and
search her pockets for the good things she never forgets to bring them
from her kitchen?"
So the old woman, talking all the time, bustled here and there,
setting sweet cakes baked with honey, confitures and bairns' goodies,
figs, almonds, and cheese before her guests. But through all her
blandishments Sholto watched her and had his eyes warily upon what
should befall her husband, who could be seen lying apparently either
asleep or unconscious upon the bed in an inner room.
"You do not speak like the folk of the south," she said to the Lord
James. "Neither are you Northmen nor of the Midi. From what country
may you come?" The question dropped casually as to fill up the time.
"We are poor Scots who have lived under the protection of your good
King Charles, the seventh of that name, and having been restored to
our possessions after the turning out of the English, we are making a
pilgrimage in order to visit our friends and also to lay our thanks
upon the altar of the blessed Saint Andrew in his own town in
Scotland."
The old woman listened, approvingly nodding her head as the Lord James
reeled off this new and original narrative. But at the mention of the
land of the Scots La Meffraye pricked her ears.
"Scots," she said meditatively; "that will surely interest my lord,
who hath but recently returned from that country, whither they say he
hath been upon a very confidential embassy from the King."
It was the Lord James who asked the next question.
"Have you heard whether any of our nation returned with him from our
country? We would gladly meet with any such, that we might hear again
the tongue of our nativity, which is ever sweet in a strange land--and
also, if it might be, take back tidings of them to their folk in
Scotland."
"Nay," answered La Meffraye, standing before them with her eyes
shrewdly fixed upon the face of the speaker, "I have heard of none
such. Yet it may well be, for the marshal is very fond of the society
of the young, even as I am myself. He has many boy singers in his
choir, maidens also for his religious processions. Indeed, never do I
visit Machecoul without finding a pretty boy or a stripling girl
passing so innocently in and out of his study, that it is a pleasure
to behold."
"Is his lordship even now at Machecoul?" asked James Douglas, bluntly.
The Lord James prided himself upon his tact, but when he set out to
manifest it, Sholto groaned inwardly. He was never certain from one
moment to another what the reckless young Lord might do or say next.
"I do not even know whether the marshal is now at Machecoul. The rich
and great, they come and go, and we poor folk understand it no more
than the passing of the wind or the flight of the birds. But let us
get to our couches. The morn will soon be here, and it must not find
our bodies unrested or our eyes unrefreshed."
La Meffraye showed her guests where to make their beds in the outer
room of the cottage, which they did by moving the bench back and
stretching themselves with their heads to the wall and their feet to
the fire. Sholto lay on the side furthest from the entrance of the
room to which La Meffraye had retired with her husband. Malise was on
the other side, and Lord James lay in the midst, as befitted his rank.
These last were instantly asleep, being tired with their journey and
heavy with the meal of which they had partaken. But every sense in
Sholto's body was keenly awake. A vague inexpressible fear possessed
him. He lay watching the red unequal glow thrown upwards from the
embers, and through the wide opening in the roof he could discern the
twinkling of a star.
Within the chamber of La Meffraye there was silence. Sholto could not
even hear the heavy breathing of Cæsar Martin. The silence was
complete.
Suddenly, from far away, there came up the howling of a wolf. It was
not an uncommon sound in the forests of France, or even in those of
his own country, yet somehow Sholto listened with a growing dread.
Nearer and nearer it came, till it seemed to reverberate immediately
beneath the eaves of the dwelling of Cæsar the cripple.
The flicker of the embers died slowly out. Malise lay without a sound,
his head couched on his hand. Lord James began to groan and move
uneasily, like one in the grip of nightmare. Sholto listened yet more
acutely. Outside the house he could hear the soft pad-pad of wild
animals. Their pelts seemed almost to brush against the wooden walls
behind his head with a rustle like that of corded silk. Sholto felt
nervously for his sword and cleared it instinctively of the coverture
in which he was wrapped. Expectation tingled in his cheeks and palms.
The silence grew more and more oppressive. He could hear nothing but
that soft brushing and the galloping pads outside, as of something
that went round and round the house, weaving a coil of terror and
death about the doomed inmates.
Suddenly from the adjoining chamber a cry burst forth, so shrill and
terrible that not only Sholto but Malise also leaped to his feet.
"Mercy--mercy! Have mercy, La Meffraye!" it wailed.
Sholto rushed across the floor, striding the body of James Douglas in
his haste. He dashed the door of the inner chamber open and was just
in time to see something dark and lithe dart through the window and
disappear into the indigo gloom without. From the bed there came a
series of gasping moans, as from a man at the point of death.
"For God's sake bring a light!" cried Sholto, "there is black murder
done here."
His father ran to the hearth, and, seizing a birchen brand, the end of
which was still red, he blew upon it with care and success so that it
burst into a white brilliant flame that lighted all the house. Then
he, too, entered the room where Sholto, with his sword ready in his
hand, was standing over the gasping, dying thing on the bed.
When Malise thrust forward his torch, lo! there, extended on the couch
to which they had carried him two hours before, lay the yet twitching
body of Cæsar the cripple with his throat well nigh bitten away.
But La Meffraye was nowhere to be seen.