When we had reached His Majesty's private apartments, I told him my tale, and the King did me the honour not to interrupt me. When I had done, M. d'Aubeville—to whom restoratives had been applied—was ushered in. He looked deadly pale, and extremely dejected, but appeared to have regained possession of his wits.
"I have failed, sire,” he said.
"Most prodigiously,” was Ludwig's dry comment, “Pray tell us how."
"This is what took place, sire” he said. “I was visited three days ago in Fortstadt by a very threadbare gentleman who stated that he had heard of my wager and that he had a plan to trap Felsheim. He would reveal his plan to me, if I would pay him two thousand five hundred crowns; if not he would go straight to the officer in command of the expedition against the outlaw, and offer to share the reward of five thousand crowns with him. I fell in with his proposal, and he proceeded to inform me that it was his purpose to decoy Felsheim to a hunting-lodge in the Dunkler Wald by writing to him that he had news to sell him concerning a wench in whom the bandit was interested. This was done, and yesterday morning he showed me Felsheim's reply stating that at nine o'clock that night he would be at the lodge.
"My threadbare friend bid me go to the rendez-vous, saying that I should meet him there, and urged me to let no one detect my identity, lest some of the outlaw's spies should discover it, and warn their master. I obeyed him, and although yesterday I chanced upon Lieutenant Stoffel in the inn at Steinau, I never spoke to him. I went to the hunting-lodge where I found my ally awaiting me. Felsheim had not yet arrived. My threadbare friend led me upstairs into a room; closing the door he locked it, and slipped the key into his pocket. Then, before I knew what he was about, his sword-point was at my breast and he informed me that he was Felsheim, and that since I had boasted that I could drink him under the table, he had brought a basket of wine with him, and was quite ready to enter the lists with me.
"I complied—what choice had I?—and at his request surrendered my sword. Then we sat down to table, and he suggested that to while the time away we should play lansquenet. I acquiesced, and our duel at once began.
"Glass by glass we kept pace with each other for a little while, then he emptied what was left of a flagon into his own glass, and got out a fresh one from which he served me. We raised our glasses together, and together we drained them. Then, when it was too late, I was aware of a bitter taste in my mouth, and I knew that my wine had been drugged. I seized the flagon by the neck meaning to hurl it at him, when suddenly giddiness overtook me, and I can recollect no more."
There was silence for some moments when he had done, and the cloud seemed to be lifting from Ludwig's face. At last he laughed.
"By the holy grave, he has fooled the pair of you most handsomely, and I doubt not but that ere this he has regained the hills. ‘Tis a chance lost, but we will hope that another may present itself. You may go, Stoffel,” he said not unkindly, “but be advised by me to show yourself none too freely in Schwerlingen until this matter be forgotten."
THE HOSTAGE
Andreas von Felsheim, the leader of the Falkensteig outlaws, sat pensive by the fire, with furrowed brow and tightened lips, and I, his lieutenant, guessing what was in his mind, ventured not to break the weary silence. At last he rose, mechanically kicked the logs into a blaze, then, with an angry snort, strode over to the window, and peered out into the night.
"What say you, Gessler,” he exclaimed presently, “think you that fool Dietrich can have blundered matters?"
"In truth,” I answered, “they should have been here an hour ago had all gone well."
"What could have gone ill?” he snapped. “They had a clear coast. Hist! What was that?"
Above the moaning of the wind came the thud of hoofs growing each moment more distinct. Felsheim's brow became as black as the night.
"Beim blute Gottes,” he muttered, “something has gone ill."
The horseman pulled up at the door of the inn. There was a quick step on the stairs, and a moment later the door was flung rudely open by a pale, scared-looking man, grimy and with disordered dress, in whom it was not easy to recognise the bold outlaw Wittenberg.
"We have been trapped, Captain.” he cried. “Dietrich and eleven men are taken, and two are killed."
Felsheim pointed to the flagon on the table, and Wittenberg, without waste of compliments, fell upon it, and drained a bumper.
"Now,” quoth Felsheim coolly, “tell us what occurred."
Briefly the fellow related how half a league from Fortstadt they had fallen in with a company of the King's Guards riding south to meet the French Ambassador, who was expected to cross the frontiers of Sachsenberg on the morrow, and whom they were to escort to Schwerlingen. They had been surrounded and forced to deliver battle, and since there were but fifteen of them to oppose some two score troopers, their defeat was inevitable. Six of the outlaws had been wounded, and two killed outright before the others yielded.
Wittenberg himself had escaped by a miracle. Disguised as a peasant, he had entered Fortstadt at nightfall while the soldiers were still in the town, and had learnt that as the officer who commanded them was grievously wounded they had abandoned their task of escorting the ambassador, and were returning in haste to the capital with their prisoners.
"Fools!” cried Felsheim when Wittenberg had done. “You were fools to surrender. Was it not better to meet your death as soldiers than to be taken to Schwerlingen to perish like felons on a gallows?"
Wittenberg hung his head, but said nothing.
"How fared the soldiers. Wittenberg?” I inquired presently.
"Four of them we killed, and five others we wounded, besides the officer (our old friend Stoffel), whose hurt, I am told, is passing dangerous."
"Ho, ho!” chuckled Felsheim, then suddenly checking himself: “What does it signify? Poor Dietrich and eleven merry sparks of ours are on the road to the gibbet. Herr Gott! Can we do nothing to save them?"
Taking his chin in his hand, he stood for a moment lost in thought, his eyes bent upon the ground. Then a low laugh burst from his lips.
"By the Jungfrau, I have it!” he shouted. “The ambassador will serve us right well in a way. Come,” he added briskly, “we must waste not a moment if we would reach Turgen to-morrow. There is no time to get assistance from the Falkensteig, and we three must undertake the business. Call Master Schwarz, Wittenberg."
Accordingly the old landlord of the “Golden Goblet"—than whom we had no stouter ally in the kingdom—was summoned, and was desired by Felsheim to procure with all dispatch a coach such as a gentleman—say, for instance, my lord of Ronshausen, the King's favourite—would not be disgraced by travelling in.
A couple of hours later, Felsheim and I, tricked out like a pair of court gallants, stepped into a well-appointed travelling carriage, and with Wittenberg for our coachman, drove swiftly out of Hohenburg.
It was nigh noon next day when we rattled into the courtyard of the “Sachsenberger Hof” at Turgen. A rich equipage was drawn up in a corner of the quadrangle, and around it all was bustle and excitement, for its owner was no less a personage than his Excellency the Marquis de Coraille, Ambassador of Louis XIV to the Court of Schwerlingen.
"Let your eyes and ears keep watch, Gessler,” said Felsheim, as he sprang to the ground, “and take heed of all that passes."
I followed him into the hostelry, where, after some conversation with the host, we were ushered into the room set apart for the Ambassador, whom we found at the table. He was a man of perhaps forty years of age, tall of stature, débonnaire of countenance, and dressed with great richness. He rose as we entered, whereupon Felsheim hurried forward, and, bowing extravagantly, informed his Excellency that he was Otto von Ronshausen, and, that, at his Majesty's express desire, he had travelled to Turgen to welcome M. le Marquis to Sachsenberg in his Royal master's name.
In a speech of overwhelming courtliness his Excellency professed himself enchanted by the honour done him, and invited Felsheim to
give himself the trouble of joining him at table.
No suspicion crossed the Frenchman's mind. Felsheim—broken gamester of Württemberg, and outlaw that he was—had been a gentleman once, and a courtier.
And whilst I ate and drank in stolid peace, Monsieur le Marquis and Andreas von Felsheim waxed witty and merry over their wine.
At length the meal was done, and we went forth to discover that something was amiss with the axle of our carriage. Felsheim blazed into a passion at the mishap, which he attributed to Wittenberg's carelessness.
"Pish! mais donc!” cried M. de Coraille. “If you will design to honour my poor vehicle—” and he waved a bejewelled hand in the direction of his own gorgeous coach, with the Coraille escutcheon glittering bravely in the sunlight.
And so it came to pass as Felsheim had planned, and we took the road in M. de Coraille's coach accompanied by the Marquis and his valet de chambre. Wittenberg travelled outside with M. de Coraille's coachman to whom he pointed out the road.
Towards midnight we drew up at the door of the “Golden Goblet.” The Marquis was led upstairs by Master Schwarz, and ushered into the very room where on the previous night Wittenberg had brought us news of the disaster which had befallen Dietrich.
With his nose in the air, M. de Coraille looked round the dismal room, and began to remove his gloves, when suddenly the sounds of a scuffle reached us from the room below. There was a loud bang as of a piece of furniture being overturned, followed by a cry for help. The Ambassador turned quickly.
"Diable!" he muttered. “What was that?"
"The frolic of some drunkard who has been forgotten in the common room,” said Felsheim with a smile.
"Peste, Monsieur, there it is again. And, by my soul ‘tis the voice of François."
He took a step towards the door, but Felsheim reached it before him, and confronted him with his back to it.
"If your lacquey has got himself into trouble, M. le Marquis, I cannot permit you to run any risks by attempting to get him out of it. I am responsible to the King for your safety."
There was a note of mockery in the tone, which subtle though it was, did not escape M. de Coraille.
"You are trifling with me, Monsieur,” he cried stiffly. “I pray you suffer me to pass."
"Nay. That will I not."
"Will not? Sang Dieu, you have strange manners in Sachsenberg. I tell you, sir, that I mislike the looks of the landlord of this hovel, and, Ventre St. Gris, whether it please you or no, I'll not have my servant's throat cut. Stand aside, Monsieur."
"At your peril,” was Felsheim's answer. And before M. de Coraille could guess what he was about, he had whipped out his sword and held it threateningly before the Frenchman's breast.
The Ambassador fell back with a cry of surprise, and stared for a moment at Felsheim. Then suddenly he seemed to take in the situation in every detail.
"Mort Dieu, my master! I understand. You have decoyed me hither, you knave. Who are you?"
"I am not Otto von Ronshausen,” he answered, lowering his point, and resting it upon the tip of his boot, “nor am I the King's favourite. On the contrary, I am the King's bête noire, and my name is Andreas von Felsheim, one time a gentleman of the court of Württemberg, to-day known in the kingdom as the Outlaw of Falkensteig."
"And what, Master Outlaw, is your fell purpose towards me?" quoth M. de Coraille with pompous scorn.
"'Tis soon explained. Yesterday a party of men fell in with a company of the King's Guards, and, being outnumbered, the fortune of war went so scurvily against my friends that two were killed, and twelve others lie now in Schwerlingen, and are to be hanged so soon as it shall please His Majesty to have them judged and sentenced. Naturally I was sore distressed at the sorry plight wherein my comrades found themselves, and for the purpose of effecting their deliverance from the talons of the law have I hit upon an expedient which entails your confinement for a little while. Come, Monsieur, be wise and yield you. Resistance can be of no avail."
The Ambassador went white with passion.
"Yield!” quote he in a thick voice. “Yield myself to a bandit—a—a thief! Sang Dieu, knave, I am a gentleman of the kingdom of France."
"By the Mass, I'll make you a gentleman of the kingdom of Heaven within the hour, unless you bridle that pert tongue of yours,” snarled Felsheim. “Your sword, Monsieur!"
For answer the Marquis got out his rapier, but as the point left the scabbard, and before the Frenchman could fall on guard, Felsheim reached forward and slashed his hand with a quick upward stroke. There was a cry of pain, and M. de Coraille's weapon tinkled on the ground, where Felsheim pinned it with his foot.
"'Twas a foul stroke,” cried his Excellency.
"But it saved your honour,” sneered Felsheim. “How could you have carried a sword at your side after crossing blades with a thief?"
He picked up the weapon, and going over to the door he flung it open. “Ho, there Schwarz, Wittenberg! Come up. I have work for you."
The work he had for them was the trussing of M. de Coraille—work which was not carried out without a goodly sum of blasphemy from all concerned. In the end, however, it was accomplished, and Felsheim bade the landlord keep his Excellency a close prisoner until he should return to set him at liberty.
"Now, Gessler,” said he, “now for the second act of our comedy. There are fresh horses in M. de Coraille's coach, and young Schwarz is arrayed in the gorgeous livery of M. de Coraille's whilom coachman, who is now endeavouring to console the luckless François in the cellar. Come, we will go to Schwerlingen—to Court, you rascal—I as his Excellency M. le Marquis de Coraille, Ambassador of the Court of France, and you as—let me think—ah, as my friend, Gaspard de Créspigny. ‘Tis a high-sounding name, and if you say but little, none will ever guess that you were not born to it."
* * * *
When within some three leagues of Schwerlingen, we came upon a troop of horses riding in the opposite direction. They were led by a sprightly young lieutenant, all plumes and love-locks, who, the moment his eye fell upon the Coraille arms on our coach, commanded a halt, and informed us that these men were destined for his Excellency's Escort, and that but for an untoward event we should have been met by such a troop at Turgen.
We reached Schwerlingen without mishap, and our reception by the King was gracious in the extreme. That night we were bidden to a gorgeous banquet, whereat Felsheim appeared in a pale blue suit with silver lace, filched from the valise of M. de Coraille. The King set him at his right hand, and for a season all went well. The young monarch loved a man who could do honour to the bottle; and in this great art the pseudo-Ambassador bid fair to eclipse all former achievements that the King had witnessed. Nothing could more readily have won him Ludwig's heart. He clapped him on the back and called him a prince of good fellows, besides a host of other absurdities which I remember not, but which clearly told us that the wine had got into his Royal head.
"By the Holy Grave, I dreamt not that France held such a noble toper,” cried the King, as for the twentieth time he pledged the outlaw.
"France, sire,” quoth Felsheim with a hiccough, “is a great nation! I drink to her!"
He drained his bumper, and when next he spoke his utterance was thick and interlarded with great oaths such as, I take it, a man may not make use of when speaking to a Prince. Moreover, what he said was rude beyond all measure—whereat I marvelled greatly, for the outlaw was wont to be merry in his cups and never churlish. He spoke all things French, and sang their praises loudly, whilst intermittently he would make comparisons wherein he sneeringly alluded to the manner in which like things were done in Sachsenberg.
I looked to see a storm burst at any moment, for Ludwig had the reputation of being a tempestuous man, and I cursed Felsheim's folly and indiscretion. On the faces of many of the nobles the flush of wine was spreading into the deeper flush of anger, and methought that the next moment was like to see Felsheim's handsome, wicked face washed in a bumper of Rhenish. But t
he King only laughed the louder—perchance because he understood the less—at each sally of Felsheim, so that the courtiers, who are but courtiers so long as they ape their master's bearing, were forced to curb their moods.
In the end, however, Andreas went too far. He spoke of hunting, and in glowing terms he painted the stag hunts at Blois—which he had never seen. Then, insolently turning to those present: “What have you in the Sachsenberg of yours that will compare with that, my masters?"
The laugh died from the King's face, and by an effort he forced the muscles of his brow into a rigid frown. The chase and the bottle were his two sore points. To tell him that in either of these pastimes the world held his master was to offend him mortally.
"Beim blute Gottes,” he bellowed, lurching over towards the daring bandit. “You talk bravely, M. de Coraille, and you are, methinks, rash to sneer at what you know naught of. Your Royal master hunts the stag at Blois, eh? Call you that sport? For women and children, mayhap, but not for men. Learn, sir, that in my park of Schwerlingen, which covers twice the space of your much-vaunted Paris, we hunt the boar. That, methinks, is Royal sport indeed—for warriors."
"A relic of barbaric ages, sire,” said Felsheim coolly, “with the exception, I make no doubt, that you hunt the beast with arquebuses."
A roar of laughter, wherein contempt rang loud, paid tribute to the Ambassador's ignorance.
"With arquebuses!” gurgled the King. “Ho! Ho! You'll kill me sir. Nay, by my soul, I'll show you how we hunt. Ho! there, Ronshausen! Curse him for a milksop; he's asleep. You then, Altenau. Give orders for a hunt to-morrow. We'll show M. de Coraille something worth relating to the Louvre courtiers on his return to Paris."
And so having determined to go a-hunting on the morrow, His Majesty thought well to bid the company retire—a fact which I hailed most joyfully, for I was sore afraid of some calamity that Felsheim's next drunken outburst might bring about our ears.
The Outlaws of Falkensteig Page 5
