Two gun bob, p.216
Two-Gun Bob, page 216
“Why should I not?” I asked bitterly. “I trusted you, and thought you nobler than common men, with your lying words of chivalry and honor. Pah! You would have sold me into slavery viler than a Turk’s harem.”
“I know,” he moaned. “My soul is blacker than the night that steals upon me. Call the innkeeper and let him fetch a priest.”
“He is gone on some mission of his own,” I answered. “He stole out the back door and rode into the forest.”
“He is gone to betray me to the Duke of Alençon,” muttered Étienne. “He recognized me, after all. I am indeed lost.”
Now it came to me that it was because of my calling Étienne’s name in the darkness of the room above that the innkeeper became aware of my false friend’s true identity. So it might be said that if the Duke laid Étienne by the heels, it would be because of my unconscious betrayal. And like most country people, I had only fear and distrust of the nobility.
“I’ll take you hence,” I said. “Not even a dog shall fall into the hands of the law by my will.”
I left the tavern hurriedly and went to the stables. Of the slattern I saw nothing. Either she had fled to the woods, or else was too drunk to heed. I saddled and bridled Étienne’s stallion, though it laid back its ears and snapped and kicked at me, and led it to the door. Then I went within and spoke to Étienne; and indeed a fearsome sight he was, bruised and battered, with tattered doublet and shirt, and all covered with blood.
“I have brought your horse,” I said.
“I can not rise,” he mumbled.
“Set your teeth,” I commanded. “I will carry you.”
“You can never do it, girl,” he protested, but even as he spoke, I heaved him up on my shoulders and bore him through the door, and a dead weight he was, with limbs trailing like a dead man’s. Getting him upon the horse was a heart-breaking task, for it was little he could do to aid himself, but at last it was accomplished, and I swung up behind the saddle and held him in place.
Then, as I hesitated, in doubt as to where to go, he seemed to sense my uncertainty, for he mumbled: “Take the road westward, to Saint Girault. There is a tavern there, a mile this side the town, the Red Boar, whose keeper is my friend.”
Of that ride through the night, I will speak but briefly. We met no one, riding through a ribbon of starlight, walled by black forest trees. My hands grew sticky with Étienne’s blood, for the jolting of the pace set his many wounds to bleeding afresh, and presently he grew delirious and spake disjointedly of other times and people strange to me. Anon he mentioned names known to me by reputation, lords, ladies, soldiers, outlaws and pirates, and he raved of dark deeds and sordid crimes and feats of curious heroism. And betimes he sang snatches of marching songs and drinking songs and bawdy ballads and love lyrics, and maundered in alien tongues unintelligible to me. Ah – I have ridden many roads since that night, of intrigue or violence, but never stranger ride rode I than that ride in the night through the forest to Saint Girault.
Dawn was a hint in the branch-scarred sky when I drew up at a tavern I believed was the one Étienne meant. The picture on the board proved such to be the case, and I shouted for the keeper. A lout of a boy came forth in his shirt, yawning, and digging his fists into his sluggish eyes, and when he saw the great stallion and its riders, all dabbled and splashed with blood, he bawled with fear and amaze and scudded back into the tavern with his shirt tail flapping about his rump. Presently then a window was cautiously pushed open upstairs, and a night-capped head was thrust out behind the muzzle of a great arquebuse.
“Go your ways,” quoth the night-cap, “we have no dealings with bandits and bloody murderers.”
“Here are no bandits,” I answered angrily, being weary and short of patience. “Here is a man who has been set upon and nearly slain. If you are the innkeeper of the Red Boar, he is a friend of yours – Étienne Villiers, of Aquitaine.”
“Étienne!” exclaimed mine host. “I will be down. Assuredly I will be down. Why did you not say it was Étienne?”
The window slammed and there was a sound of stairs being rapidly descended. I slid from the stallion and received Étienne’s toppling form in my arms, easing him to the ground as the keeper rushed forth with servants bearing torches.
Étienne lay like one dead, his face livid where it was not masked with blood, but his heart beat strongly, and I knew he was partly conscious.
“Who did this, in God’s name?” demanded mine host in horror.
“I did,” I answered shortly. He gave back from me, paling in the torchlight.
“God ha’ mercy on us! A youth like – holy Denis protect us! It’s a woman!”
“Enough of this babble!” I exclaimed, angered. “Take him up and bear him into your best chamber.”
“B-b-but –” began mine host, still bewildered, while the menials backed away.
I stamped my foot and swore, which is a custom always common to me.
“Death of the devil and Judas Iscariot!” quoth I. “Will you allow your friend to die while you gape and stare? Take him up!” I laid hand on his dagger, which I had girdled to mine own waist, and they hastened to obey me, staring as though I were the arch-fiend’s daughter.
“Étienne is always welcome,” mumbled mine host, “but a she-devil in breeches –”
“You will wear your own longer if you talk less and work more,” I assured him, plucking a bell-mouthed pistol from the girdle of a servant who was too frightened even to remember he had it. “Do as I say, and there will be no more slaying tonight. Onward!”
Aye, verily, the happenings of the night had matured me. I was not yet fully a woman, but on the way to being one.
They bore Étienne to what mine host – whose name was Perducas – swore was the best chamber in the tavern, and sooth to say, it was much finer than anything in the Knave’s Fingers. It was an upper room, opening out upon the landing of a winding stair, and it had windows of a proper size, though no other door.
Perducas swore that he was as good a leech as any man, and we stripped Étienne and set to work reviving him. Indeed, he showed to be as roughly handled as any man I had ever seen, not to be mortally wounded. But when we had washed the blood and dust off his body, we found that none of his dagger-wounds had touched a vital spot, nor was his skull fractured, though the scalp had been split in several places. His right arm was broken, and the other black with bruises, and the broken bone we set, I helping Perducas with some skill, for accidents and wounds had always been common enough in la Fère.
When we had his wounds bandaged, and him laid in a clean bed, he recovered his senses enough to gulp wine and inquire where he was. When he told him, he muttered: “Leave me not, Agnès; Perducas is a man among men, but I require a woman’s tender care.”
“Saint Denis deliver me from such tender care as this hell-cat has shown,” quoth Perducas under his breath. And I said: “I will remain until you are upon your feet again, Étienne.” And he seemed satisfied therewith, and went into a calm slumber.
I then demanded a room for myself, and Perducas, having sent a boy to attend the stallion, showed me a chamber adjoining that of Étienne, though not connected with it by any door. I laid myself down on the bed just as the sun was coming up, it being the first feather bed I had ever seen, much less lain on, and slept for many hours.
When I came again to Étienne, I found him in full possession of his senses, and free of delirium. Indeed, in those days men were iron, and if their wounds were not instantly mortal, they quickly recovered, unless their hurts became poisoned through the carelessness or ignorance of the leeches. Perducas would have none of the nauseous and childish remedies praised by the physicians, but divers clean herbs and plants he gathered in the depths of the woods. He told me that he learned his art from the hakims of the Saracens, among whom he had travelled in his youth. He was a man of many unexpected sides, was Perducas.
Together he and I tended Étienne, who healed rapidly. Little speech passed between us. He and Perducas talked much together, but much of the time Étienne merely lay and looked silently at me.
Perducas talked to me a little, but seemed to fear me. When I spoke of my score, he replied that I owed him naught; that as long as Étienne desired my presence, food and lodging were mine, without pay. But he earnestly desired me not to converse with the town’s people, lest their curiosity lead to the discovery of Étienne. His servants, he said, could be trusted to silence. I asked him naught of the reason for le duc d’Alençon’s hatred for Étienne, but, quoth he: “It is no common score which the Duke holdeth against Étienne Villiers. Étienne was once in this nobleman’s train, and was unwise enough to perform for him a most delicate mission. D’Alençon is ambitious; ’tis whispered that naught but the rank of constable of France will satisfy him. He is now high in favor with the king; that favor might not shine with such lustre were it known what letters once passed between the Duke and Charles of Germany, whom men now know as the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.
“Étienne alone knows the full extent of that plotted treason. Therefore d’Alençon burns for Étienne’s death, yet dares not strike openly, lest his victim damn him forever with his dying breath. He would strike subtly and silently, by hidden dagger, poison or ambush. As long as Étienne is within his reach, Étienne’s only safety lies in secrecy.”
“Suppose there are others like that rogue Thibault?” I demanded.
“Nay,” quoth he. “’Tis no doubt there are. I know that band of gallows’ bait well. But ’tis their one point of honor that they betray not one of their comrades. And in time past Étienne was one of them – cut-purses, woman-snatchers, thieves and murderers that they are.”
I shook my head, musing on the strangeness of men, insomuch that Perducas, an honest man, was friend to a rogue like Étienne, knowing well his villainies. Well, many an honest man secretly admires a rogue, seeing in him that which he himself would be, if he lacked not the courage.
Ah well, I heeded well Perducas’ desires, and time dragged heavily on my hands. I seldom left the tavern, save at night, and then only to wander in the woods, avoiding the people of the country-side and of the market-town. And a growing restlessness stirred me, and a feeling that I was waiting for something I knew not what, and that I should be up and doing – I knew not what.
A week had passed in this manner, when I met Guiscard de Clisson.
III
Beyond the creak of rat-gnawed beams in squalid peasant huts:
Above the groan of ox-wain wheels that ground the muddy ruts:
I heard the beat of distant drums that called me night and day
To roads where armored captains ride, in steel and roses panoplied,
With banners flowing crimson-dyed – over the world away! – Drums in My Ears
I entered into the tavern one morning, after an early walk in the woods, and halted at the sight of the stranger gnawing a beef-bone at the board. He too stopped short in his gorging and stared at me. He was a tall man, rangy and hard of frame. A scar seamed his lean features, and his grey eyes were cold as steel. He was, indeed, a man of steel, clad in cuirass, thigh-pieces and greaves. His broadsword lay across his knees, his morion rested on the bench beside him.
“By God!” quoth he. “Are you man or woman?”
“What do you think?” I asked, leaning my hands on the board and looking down at him.
“Only a fool would ask the question I asked,” said he, with a shake of his head. “You are all woman; yet your attire strangely becomes you. A pistol in your girdle, too. You remind me of a woman I once knew; she marched and fought like a man, and died of a pistol ball on the field of battle. She was dark where you are fair, but there is something similar in the set of your chin, in your carriage – nay, I know not. Sit ye down and converse with me. I am Guiscard de Clisson. Have you heard of me?”
“Many a time,” I answered, seating myself. “In my native village they tell tales of you. You are a leader of mercenaries and Free Companions.”
“When men have guts enough to be led,” quoth he, quaffing, and holding out the flagon to me. “Ha, by the tripe and blood of Judas, you guzzle like a man! Mayhap women are becoming men, for ’tis truth, by Saint Trignan, that men are become women these days. Not a recruit for my company have I gained in this province, where, in days I can remember, men fought for the honor of following a captain of mercenaries. Death of Satan! With the Emperor gathering his accursed Lanzknecht to sweep de Lautrec out of Milan, and the king in such dire need of soldiers – to say nothing of the rich loot in Italy – every able-bodied Frenchman ought to be marching southward, by God! Ah, for the old-time spirit of men!”
Now as I looked at this war-scarred veteran, and heard his talk, my heart beat quick with a strange longing, and I seemed to hear, as I had heard so often in my dreams, the distant beating of drums.
“I will ride with you!” I exclaimed. “I am weary of being a woman. I will make one of your company!”
He laughed and slapped the board with his open hand, as if at a great jest.
“By Saint Denis, girl,” quoth he, “you have a proper spirit, but it takes more than a pair of breeches to make a man.”
“If that other woman of whom you spoke could march and fight, so can I!” I cried.
“Nay.” He shook his head. “Black Margot of Avignon was one in a million. Forget this foolish fancy, girl. Don thy petticoats and become a proper woman once more. Then – well, in your proper place I might be glad to have you ride with me!”
Ripping out an oath that made him start, I sprang up, knocking my bench backward so it fell with a crash. I stood before him, clenching and unclenching my hands, seething with the rage that always rose quickly in me.
“Ever the man in men!” I said between my teeth. “Let a woman know her proper place: let her milk and spin and sew and bake and bear children, nor look beyond her threshold or the command of her lord and master! Bah! I spit on you all! There is no man alive who can face me with weapons and live, and before I die, I’ll prove it to the world. Women! Cows! Slaves! Whimpering, cringing serfs, crouching to blows, revenging themselves by – taking their own lives, as my sister urged me to do. Ha! You deny me a place among men? By God, I’ll live as I please and die as God wills, but if I’m not fit to be a man’s comrade, at least I’ll be no man’s mistress. So go ye to hell, Guiscard de Clisson, and may the devil tear your heart!”
So saying I wheeled and strode away, leaving him gaping after me. I mounted the stair and came into Étienne’s chamber, where I found him lying on his bed, much improved, though still pale and weak, and his arm like to be in its sling for weeks to come.
“How fares it with you?” I demanded.
“Well enough,” he answered, and after staring at me a space: “Agnès,” said he, “why did you spare my life when you could have taken it?”
“Because of the woman in me,” I answered morosely, “that can not bear to hear a helpless thing beg for life.”
“I deserved death at your hands,” he muttered, “more than Thibault. Why have you tended and cared for me?”
“I did not wish you to fall into the hands of the Duke because of me,” I answered, “since it was I who unwittingly betrayed you. And now you have asked me these questions, I will e’en ask you one: why be such a damnable rogue?”
“God knows,” he answered, closing his eyes. “I have never been anything else, as far back as I can remember, and my memory runs back to the gutters of Poitiers, where I snatched for crusts and lied for pennies as a child, and got my first knowledge of the ways of the world. I have been soldier, smuggler, pander, cut-throat, thief – always a black rogue. Saint Denis, some of my deeds have been too black to repeat. And yet somewhere, somehow, there has always been an Étienne Villiers hidden deep in the depths of the creature that is myself, untarnished by the rest of me. There lies remorse and fear, and makes for misery. So I begged for life when I should have welcomed death, and now lie here speaking truth when I should be framing lies for your seduction. Would I were all saint or all rogue.”
At that instant feet stamped on the stair, and rough voices rose. I sprang to bar the door, hearing Étienne’s name called, but he halted me with a lifted hand, harkened, then sank back with a sigh of relief.
“Nay, I recognize the voice. Enter, comrades!” he called.
Then into the chamber trooped a foul and ruffianly band, led by a pot-bellied rogue in enormous boots. Behind him came four others, ragged, scarred, with cropped ears, patched eyes, or flattened noses. They leered at me, and then glared at the man on the bed.
“So, Étienne Villiers,” said the fat rogue, “we ha’ found ye! Hiding from us is not so easy as hiding from le duc d’Alençon, eh, you dog?”
“What manner of talk is this, Tristan Pelligny?” demanded Étienne, in unfeigned astonishment. “Have you come to greet a wounded comrade, or –”
“We have come to do justice on a rat!” roared Pelligny. He turned and ponderously indicated his raggamuffin crew, pointing a thick forefinger at each. “See ye here, Étienne Villiers? Jacques of the Warts, Gaston the Wolf, Jehan Crop-ear, and Conrad the German. And myself maketh five, good men and true, once your comrades, come to do justice upon you for foul murder!”
“You are mad!” exclaimed Étienne, struggling up on his elbows. “Whom have I murdered that you should be wroth thereat? When I was one of you did I not always bear my share of the toil and dangers of thievery, and divide the loot fairly?”
“We talk not now of loot!” bellowed Tristan. “We speak of our comrade Thibault Bazas, foully murdered by you in the tavern of the Knave’s Fingers!”
Étienne’s mouth started open, he hesitated, glanced in a startled way at me, then closed his mouth again. I started forward.
“Fools!” I exclaimed. “He did not slay that fat swine Thibault. I killed him!”
