The result was chaos. Howls and oaths rang out. He had a fleeting impression that ruffians were materializing from behind every tree. The pistol was smashed from his hand. He struck out instinctively and a yelp added to the uproar. Brutal fists grabbed him. He twisted free and landed another solid right, but they were too many. Blows were raining at him. Trying futilely to protect his head, he was down. Boots spurned him. A fierce voice yelled “Kill the filthy spy!”
He thought numbly that he had been found out, and for a moment the scene dimmed before his eyes.…
They were hauling him up again. Peering dazedly, he did not seem to distinguish military uniforms.
Someone groaned, “Break his accursed nose! He has broken mine!”
Another voice exclaimed, “I have seen him. This, it is the same wild man who was attacking everyone on the Saucy Maid!”
Vespa was shaken hard, which hurt his head. A harsh voice snarled, “Speak—curse you! How did you find us? Who sent you?”
But when he tried to explain they were evidently offended by his halting words, and he was shaken more violently.
“He is foreign! Listen to his ugly accent!”
“Kill the saleté!”
“Cut his lying throat!”
Glancing up, Vespa saw something white hurtling at him. “Hey!” he croaked, and threw out his arms.
For what seemed a long time, he did not hear them any more. Then, a boyish voice was crying, “But he saved me, Papa! He saved my whole life!”
Vespa opened his eyes, and gasped faintly, “Is—is that you—Pierre?”
“It is I. Alain. I was the ghost in the tree. I am a good ghost, but my sheet caught on a branch and I fell. Most bravely you have caught me, monsieur.”
He had…? It had been an instinctive attempt to fend off whatever was falling on him. However … least said soonest mended.…
A great unkempt brute of a man with very long moustachios appeared before him, and growled, “This, it is truth. This canaille saved the life of my son. So what now must I do?”
He was the recipient of a chorus of advice on the various and gruesome methods for despatching the spy, and there was no lack of volunteers willing to administer the ‘despatch.’
“If you mean to—to kill me,” said Vespa faintly. “I think you might at least offer me some brandy first.”
This was evidently considered to be a reasonable request. He was dragged to a tree and allowed to lie propped against it while a bottle was produced.
The large father of Alain thrust it at him. “You first, spy. And likely it’s your last,” he growled.
It was excellent brandy. Vespa’s initial conviction that he had been rolled over by several gun carriages began to fade.
The bottle was taken and they all sat down and stared at him while the brandy made the rounds.
Alain’s father demanded, “Why were you fighting everyone on the vessel?”
Simplifying matters, Vespa answered, “A rogue stole my lady.”
They appeared to accept this as logical enough, but,
“Who sent you to spy on us?” snarled a fierce young man with very black hair and dense jet eyebrows.
“Nobody. I was trying to find—”
A thin bald man cried angrily, “Why do we talk and talk? He will lie, whatever we ask. It is truth that he caught your son, Jules, but he cannot be allowed to go free, you know this!”
There were shouted responses—most approving.
It seemed to Vespa that he was trapped in another of the very strange dreams he’d experienced while convalescing from his war injuries. Here they all sat, in this hushed forest clearing, the birds twittering blithely, Bruine placidly munching at the grass and these men contemplating his murder even as they shared their brandy with him. But it was not a dream, and he knew quite well that his life hung in the balance. He thought of Consuela and prayed he would see her dear face again.
A tall man with a deeply lined face said with authority. “Léon is right. Restore him to his feet for the trial, Jules.”
The boy rushed forward. “No! You cannot! Papa! He saved—”
Jules said gruffly, “Go to the tents, boy. This is man’s work.”
Vespa was pulled to his feet, and the boy was led away, protesting bitterly.
The tall man said, “If you have any last words, monsieur, this is the time.”
“I work for the Chevalier de Coligny,” said Vespa, and seeing their scowls added hurriedly, “I regret if my speech is confusing. I was born in Italy and my Bretagne is not good.”
“How did you find us?” demanded the man called Léon.
“I wasn’t trying to find you. I am not here to spy on you, but to try and find the man who goes about collecting carpets.”
This drew derisive hoots and the consensus that even a pompous ass like the Chevalier de Coligny would have no use for a lunatic. A husky individual wielding a gory handkerchief reiterated, “He broke my nose, the villain! Kill him!”
“He saved Alain’s life,” argued Jules, scowling.
“You’ll not exchange it for mine!” The eyebrows of the fierce young man met like a bristling black bar across his nose, and he flourished a long knife and glared at the prisoner murderously.
His sentiments won enthusiastic approval. Trying to speak, Vespa was shouted down, and rough hands wrenched his arms behind him.
“Are you all gone mad?” A newcomer pushed his way through the angry group. “I could hear you a mile back. What is all this— Jacques!”
Vespa’s uninvited overnight guest gazed at him in astonishment.
“Paul!” he said breathlessly. “For Lord’s sake, tell these fellows—”
The tall man demanded, “You know this one, Paul?”
“But of a certainty,” said Paul. “We fought in the war together. This is the man who shared his fire with me when you found me last night, Raoul. What are you doing here, my Jacques? Did you come seeking me?”
The tension eased, there were mutterings of relief and the bruising hands relaxed their grip.
Vespa said ruefully, “I wish I could say I had. The truth is, I was trying to avoid a pair of ruffians who were following me—at least, I think they were. I dodged into some trees, and suddenly found myself in this forest. I’m no woodsman and in no time I was blasted well lost!”
“They all wanted to kill him, Uncle Paul,” cried Alain, wriggling through the onlookers. “And he saved my life!”
Aghast, Paul picked up the boy and hugged him. “This is so, Jacques?”
It did not seem the moment for absolute truth. Vespa said modestly, “Well, I—er…”
“He caught me,” declared Alain proudly. “I was at that time the ghost of King Arthur, but I fell from the tree, and Monsieur Jacques caught me, and I knocked him down, and then they all tried to—”
“Be still,” said his father. “What is your business here, Monsieur Jacques?”
“It is as I told you. I am sent to find the crazy man who collects rugs.”
Alain said shrilly, “Ah! My friend!”
“Why?” asked Léon suspiciously.
Vespa shrugged. “I do not know. I think it is Madame who wants him.”
“Ah … Madame…!” Grins, nudges, and knowing nods were exchanged.
“If I don’t find him,” sighed Vespa, “I shall be in much trouble.”
“If Madame wants him and you do find him, the chevalier will be in much trouble,” quipped Léon.
This was received as a great witticism.
Alain started to jump up and down and, over the howls of laughter, shouted, “I know where he is! He has heard of a flying carpet and is even now on his way to buy it! He promised to take me for a ride in the sky when he gets it!”
“They should clap up that one, before he does someone harm,” grunted the bloodthirsty young man, sheathing his knife.
“Indeed, they may do so,” agreed Paul. “Those fellows who ask all the questions—I told you of them, Jacques—they
also are seeking your Crazy Rug Collector. They mean to collect him, I think.”
Vespa said, “Then I must find him first. Can you direct me, Alain?”
The boy looked uneasily at his father. “I can tell you he took the St. Just road,” he said. “But I cannot guide you out of the forest, monsieur. It is—the ghosts, you see. And there are the menhirs, which I do not at all like.” He added solemnly, “One chased me, on a time.”
This claim was greeted with scornful laughter, and Jules said with a broad grin that he wished he might have seen a great block of stone chase anyone.
“You must not make up the stories, mon petit chou, or they might come true,” warned Paul. “I’ll show you the way, Jacques. The ghosts do not trouble me.”
Curious, Vespa asked, “What ghosts?”
They all stared at him. Jules said, “Why, Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, of course.”
Bewildered, Vespa said, “Here? But I thought—” He cut off his knowledge of the British legend hurriedly.
“Long ago, they lived here,” said Alain. “And Merlin, also—eh, Papa?”
Jules nodded. “I think Monsieur Jacques knows little of the Forest of Paimpont and of our great King Arthur. But then, I know nothing of Italy, so there you are. Go with Paul, monsieur.” From somewhere he produced an intriguing bottle which he slipped into Vespa’s saddlebags. “And—thank you for my son’s life.”
Bruine was led up and, having taken a solemn oath never to betray their meeting place, Vespa mounted cautiously, very aware of the various bruises he had collected. He turned to the individual named Raoul. “When you came to my camp last night Paul told me you’d seen men asking a lot of questions. By any chance did one of them ride a black horse?”
Raoul nodded. “Mais oui! There was a man alone mounted on just such a horse. A very fine beast.”
“Ah. And the rider also was seeking the Crazy Carpet Man?”
“No, Monsieur. That was two other men—very wicked ones—the kind who would sell their mother for a bottle of brandy! They rode dapple-grey horses; nice, but not to compare with the black animal.”
“Then what did the owner of the black horse want?”
“He asked about strangers in the district. But he was a stranger himself. A Parisian, I guessed. So I did not answer, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Vespa and, waving goodbye to Alain, followed Paul from the clearing.
* * *
Vespa pushed Bruine hard after he left the forest. Soon he could again see Rennes in the distance and was considerably surprised to note how far to the southwest he had wandered. The early afternoon was bleak, a chill wind sent low-lying clouds racing and carried the scent of rain. The road was bustling with traffic. Fretting against all the delays he rode on long after his injured leg had become a relentless ache and his head throbbed as viciously. But he could not ignore the needs of his faithful little mare and, following Paul’s advice, he turned off the road at length and walked the tired horse into the yard of a small villainous-looking inn that huddled under a solitary and leafless tree as if trying to hide from the public eye.
The ostler stared blankly and seemed quite baffled by Vespa’s accent, but at last shrugged and led Bruine away kindly enough. The innkeeper, a fat little man with crafty eyes and a perpetual smile, ushered the new guest into a spotlessly clean parlour and accepted unblinkingly his explanation of his accent. Vespa relayed Paul’s recommendation. The smile broadened, and the innkeeper laid a finger beside his nose and purred that he knew Paul Crozon well, and Monsieur need not be troubled, for it was his habit to ask no questions. There was a fine bed available for Monsieur, in a room he could share with a glassblower who had come from Rome to help with the reconstruction of St. Peter’s Cathedral. As Monsieur knew, this cathedral it had survived the great fire only to fall down forty-two years later. “You two sons of sunny Italy will have much to chat about,” he said, beaming.
Since Vespa’s knowledge of Italian was limited to the phrases used by Consuela and the duchess, he was much relieved to learn that the Roman glassblower was not expected until sunset. He declined the offer of the bed, but followed the host to the tap. When the door was thrown open he was aghast to find the room crowded with men who all seemed to talk at the top of their lungs until he entered, whereupon conversation ceased. In the sudden hush every head turned to him. Fortunately, he had not removed his hat, and he pulled it lower over his fair hair, and kept his head down. The host smirked knowingly and led the way to a corner table far from the window and the glowing hearth. Vespa sat on the high-backed settle and ordered a baguette, cheese and wine. The innkeeper nodded and patted his shoulder. “You may be à l’aise, mon ami. There is not an Excise Officer for at the least twenty kilometres!”
This remark was overheard. Grins were exchanged and conversation began again. Thereafter, Vespa might have been invisible. He ate quickly, anxious to be on his way as soon as Bruine was adequately rested, but it was shadowy in his corner, the room was warm and his head started to nod.
He awoke to hear someone grunt disparagingly, “… says he is French, but me, I have the French, and his—voyons! But it is execrable!”
Another voice muttered, “Well he is no Breton, that I’ll wager! It would surprise me not at all if the fellow is a spy! He looks more English than French with that light hair, did you not remark it?”
Vespa tensed and gauged the distance to the door.
The first man said, “I remarked that I do not like him. I do not like his loud voice, or his strange talk, or his manner, which is of an arrogance, and his friends are cut-throats if ever I saw any!”
This bore investigating. Vespa stood and slouched across the room. A serving maid hurried to him, and said his horse was ready, and he paid his shot and went outside.
A large coach and four had arrived. The ostler and stable-boy were busy and nobody seemed to notice when Vespa led Bruine around to the back of the barn. An old rusted bed-frame, some splintered fence-posts, a bucket with a hole in the bottom, a sagging mangle and other debris littered the area which was evidently a home for discarded items. A warped door was propped against the barn. Vespa tied Bruine’s reins to the latch and found a knot-hole in the wall through which he could glimpse part of the interior. Three men were in there, arguing loudly in French.
Their horses were led out and while the ostler and stable-boy were saddling the animals the trio moved closer together. They were facing the open doors and Vespa could only see their backs, but they were speaking English now, and he was able to make out the words.
“… and if that stupid block was right, my unwanted kinsman has wandered into the Forêt de Paimpont!”
The voice was unmistakable. Duncan Keith! Vespa swore under his breath.
“Or he followed the old man in there,” this suggestion offered in a soft Welsh drawl.
“You’re right, by God!” exclaimed Keith. “What better place than a haunted forest to search for a flying carpet?”
They laughed, then a thin nasal voice said, “They’ll likely fall foul of the thieves and free-traders who lurk about there.”
“Or get lost. They say some folk who’ve gone into that forest never have found their way out. The little we saw of it made my flesh crawl, I don’t mind admitting.”
“Either way, we can forget the business and go home.”
Keith said silkily, “Can we, indeed? Idiots! D’you think I paid you such a price for anything less than a certainty?”
“You have paid us not a damned farthing yet,” the Welshman grumbled.
“The devil! What about the sixty guineas I gave you in London?”
“That was to cover our passage and expenses. We’re risking our necks in this business, Keith! And—”
“Keep your voice down, damn your eyes! You’ll get the rest of your blood money when I’m sure he’s dead! That forest will be a fine place for you to play with your favourite toy, Rand. Perhaps you’ll even manage to aim your next bolt accura
tely!”
There was a nasal curse and mocking laughter, then the ostler called that the horses were ready, and the three hopeful assassins hurried outside.
Vespa gave them a few minutes, then followed. He was in time to see them ride around the bend in the road that led back to Paimpont and the forest.
“Bon voyage,” he muttered sardonically, and turned Bruine towards St. Just.
So Duncan Keith was the leader of the group of three. He’d almost had a face-to-face encounter with them. It was pure luck that he’d arrived when he did. Now at least he had identified one enemy; a man who was not above putting a cross-bow bolt through his half-brother. It was curious that the local inhabitants either ignored him or accepted his story, while the real dangers appeared to have followed him from England. The man on the black horse was perhaps another agent of Imre Monteil, who would eventually have to be reckoned with. Who the two riders on the dapple greys worked for and why they sought him was baffling.
He had other things to think about, and with an impatient shrug dismissed the matter from his mind. Alain had spoken with his ‘friend,’ the Crazy Carpet Collector, only a day earlier. From what the boy had said, the waggon was heavy laden, in which case Kincraig could not be far ahead.
A carriage rumbled past heading north at a spanking pace. The coachman looked vexed and was complaining loudly to the guard about ‘mountebanks.’ Vespa glimpsed the feathers of a lady’s bonnet inside the coach and at once Consuela’s lovely and loved face was before his mind’s eye. What would she be doing on this grey afternoon? Taking tea with Madame Thérèse and friends, perhaps, or playing some children’s game with Pierre. The dear little soul was so kind and warm-hearted, it would be like her to try to amuse a lonely child. He sighed wistfully.
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 20
