“You, too, Henry,” I said aloud. “You also carry yourself like a king, and you, too, have a style!”
26
Alone I rode along the byways of France. Alone I dined at wayside taverns, or pausing beside the road, ate of bread, cheese, and wine, while my good steed cropped the green grass of the roadside.
Dark and thick was the cloak I wore for strong blew the wind, and often cold the rain. Continual war had made the people sullen and remote, wanting no dealings with such as I, a wanderer returning from the wars, although some looked long at my horse and my sword of the silver handle.
Yet always I rode on, avoiding the main roads for fear of being stopped. And I was but once.
An imperious officer accompanied by six men waved me down. “Who are you, and from whence do you come?” he demanded.
“I ride to Rouen,” I said, “and I come from Henry of Navarre.”
Some of his truculence vanished at that, but he did not truly believe until I rode close and showed him my letter. He stared at it, astonished, and then at me. “I have never seen such a letter!” he said. “You must be a great man, indeed!”
“I am a wayfarer, wishing to go on. Now, if you have done?”
The sky was sullen and a light rain was falling. Bundled in my cloak I rode the dim sun down and into the clouded night where the eyes gained only blackness and the faint shine of rain pools in the muddy road. I drew my horse to a walk, for the footing was slippery. “Walk gently,” I said to him, “for you carry an Irish lad on his way home.”
He twitched an ear at me. That I could see, but little else. What I dearly longed for was an inn, or any place at all to shelter my head. Suddenly before me the road took a branch off to the side and I drew up, peering into the night.
High above the road I saw a dim reflection of light. The light tempted, but a faint smell of broiling meat scored victory, and for better or worse I turned my horse into the side road and mounted steeply to what I soon saw was an ancient castle, long in ruins. A sensible man would have turned back, but I was Irish and hungry to boot.
Under a noble arch and into a courtyard I rode. At one side was an empty stable. I swung down and led my horse within. There was fresh hay there, and I tied him at a manger, bundled hay to him, and then loosened my sword in its sheath. I’d a brace of pistols with me, and I tucked them behind my belt and under the cloak. Then I mounted some ancient stairs, my nose following the aroma of the meat. I emerged in a room where there were five men and a girl, and the girl was bound.
The surprise was complete, for myself as well as for them. The door I used was obviously not the one by which they had entered, for had I been a ghost they could have been no more astonished.
The men drew their weapons. “Hold!” I said. The eyes of the girl lighted with hope when she saw me. Yet I knew not what happened here, or was likely to happen—except that five more miserable cutthroats I had never seen.
“Attack,” I said calmly, “and there will be bloodshed.”
Truer word was never spoke. The trouble was that the blood might well be mine, a chance I viewed with some discomfort. If I bleed, I bleed better in the sunlight, not upon a dark and stormy night in such a ruin.
Yet it needed no seer to realize that I had stumbled upon some proper rogues—thieves or worse. Spread before them and beside the fire was a nice collection of rings, candlesticks, and chains, most made of gold.
“Who are you?” The speaker was a bold rascal with somewhat protruding eyes and a greasy, unwashed look about him. A pity to thrust a clean blade into such a dirty ruffian.
Who was I? A stupid question, for what did it matter? In a moment they would realize that I was one and they were five and that I had come upon them at an inopportune time from which I must not be allowed to escape.
The girl they held bound was of quality, a lady by appearance and dress, though somewhat bedraggled at the moment. With all of that, a decidedly pretty girl.
“I have come for her,” I said, reaching with my left hand for the spit on which broiled the meat. I had not been a soldier these past many months for nothing.
I took a generous bite of the meat. “And,” I continued, “if you be fleet of foot you may make it to the river and so ‘scape hanging.”
“Hanging?” One of them frowned sharply, a cowardly rascal if ever I saw one. You I’ll spit last, I told myself,for you’ll hang back and let the others risk.
“Who talks of hanging?” the bold dirty one said. He must be first, clean blade or no. “Who in this forsaken land is there to hang anyone? And where do you come from? If you toss us your sword we may let you go.”
I smiled. Dirty though he was, I could almost like the man for his daring.
“A column of troops awaits me below,” I said. “I came up looking for a bit of shelter”—here I took another bite of the meat—“and found you. There are the battlements here, and we have the ropes.
“Do you cut the lady free,” I pointed the spit at the cowardly one. “The rest of you have one minute to decide whether to run or hang.”
“He’s lying!”
“Do you want to risk it?” I said cheerfully.
“If you have so many men, call them up,” the bold one said. Ah, he was a worthy scoundrel!
“In due course,” I said.
“He’s lying!” the bold one said. “Take him!”
I had never thought to fool them, so when the nearest man raised suddenly up, coming off the ground, turning and drawing his blade, I thrust the end of the spit into his gaping mouth, taking a couple of his last remaining teeth with it.
With my sword in my right hand, swiftly drawn, I plucked a pistol from my belt. It was point-blank, scarce ten feet, and I fired. The ball took a man in the chest and he went down.
Still clutching the now-empty pistol, I crossed blades with a third man as the others closed in. Stepping quickly around, I was beside the girl with the fire between myself and the others.
Two were down and I was faced by three, one of them a hulking brute missing one thumb.
“See? He has no men outside! That shot would have brought them!”
“Can’t you hear their voices?” I suggested. I lowered my blade and flicked that razorlike edge through one of the ropes that bound the lady’s ankles.
They began to circle the fire, coming from both sides. To face two I must turn my side to another. I faced the two, and went at them, moving swiftly toward them. The sudden attack made them back up. One lifted a heavy staff and struck down at my head. Avoiding it, I went in low, lifting the pistol in my left hand to ward off the blow. At the same time I thrust. He had lunged when he swung his stick and he spitted himself neatly on my sword. His mouth gaped at me and his eyes, a milky blue, stared owlishly. I drew back sharply at a howl of agony from behind me and glimpsed the third attacker scrambling from the flames. The girl, bless her heart, had somehow tripped him as he passed her, spilling him into the fire.
He scrambled out, screaming and beating at his flaming clothes.
Now it was just the bold one and myself. I looked across my blade at him, and smiled. There was no coward in him, and he came at me. Suddenly, and surprisingly, I knew this was no ordinary rogue. I faced a master.
We fought desperately, silently, our blades like dancing light. Time and again I thought I had him, but each time he had a counter, a swift riposte. Nor could he reach me.
Suddenly he drew back and stopped. “Whoare you?” he demanded. “From whence do you come?”
Stepping back in my own time, I flipped my blade through those ropes that bound the girl’s wrists. Quickly, she freed herself.
“Does it matter now?” I said carelessly.
“You handle a blade exceeding well,” he replied. “There are not five men in Europe who can stand against me.”
“I would think you could find a better trade,” I commented, “and better company.”
He shrugged. “It is the fortunes of war. I was a gentleman once and knighted
. My name is Tankarville. I held vast estates from my father and mother. There was much intrigue about court and I supported the wrong side. We lost. Some of us were beheaded, some fled, some were imprisoned. My estates were taken by the crown and I was lucky to escape with my head and a sword. That was ten years and now I am a brigand, living as best I can.”
“And what of the lady here?”
“Take her, and welcome. But guard yourself well, my friend, or she will have a knife in your ribs.”
I laughed. “You asked my name. It is Tatton Chantry, and I ride to Rouen. If you wish another bout with the blades you have only to seek me out.”
“And I may,” he said cheerfully.
Tucking the empty pistol behind my belt, I touched the other to make sure it was still with me, and then, sword in hand, I backed from the room. The girl came with me.
When I had recovered my horse she said, “Their horses are down below, and mine, also.”
“You were riding when they took you?”
“Oh, no! They raided the chateau where I live. They came when they knew that all were away, and looted it, stealing all they could find. When I discovered them, they took me as well, exchanging their horses for our better ones.”
“Then let us get your horse.”
Leading my own and walking beside her, we went down a steep path, and there in a clump of trees were the horses.
She went straight to her horse. At the base of the tree to which he was tied, she picked up a small bundle.
I helped her to the saddle, and together we rode down the slope and back to the high road which led toward Rouen. It led across a high, open plain with only rare clumps of trees. We rode briskly, and she seemed disinclined to talk.
She was a comely lass and I’d not have minded talking, but my few attempts to open a conversation came to nothing.
“Where lies your home?” I asked finally.
“Yonder,” she pointed off to the south, “but I dare not go there now for fear they might come back.”
“Were there no servants?”
“They were away when the brigands came and will not know what to make of my misfortune. I dare not go back. Take me with you to Rouen.”
“Do you have friends there?”
“Of course! Although,” she added, “it is a town to which I rarely go. Our market town was Dreux, although there were villages closer. My family is gone and I am afraid to go back alone.”
It seemed a far way to take her from home, yet she must know best so I asked no further questions. The night was already well along and I, for one, was weary. All day I had been riding and my horse needed rest.
The road was dark, and there were no stars. “Know you a place where we might take shelter?” I suggested. “The night has far to go, and my horse and I have been long upon the road.”
“There is an abbey further along, and also an inn, the Great Stag, I believe, or something of the kind. I have not often come this way.”
The village was small, and built along the banks of the Seine. But the hostelry itself was large for the time. Half-timbered in structure, it was a post-house. And I did recall some story that this was the place where the father of Henry of Navarre had died after being wounded at the siege of Rouen. A single light showed from a lower window.
The door opened readily enough at my knock and a man in a leather jerkin held high a light. “Two wayfarers,” I said, “seeking food and shelter.”
“You be late, but come in nevertheless.”
“We have horses,” I suggested. “Aye, aye! Cannot I see? They will be taken care of.” He spoke in a mixture of French and English and with a strong English accent.
“You are an Englishman,” I said.
“I am! Although I married a Frenchwoman and have lived much of my life here.” He peered at me. “You be English?”
“From the Hebrides, if you call that English.” He showed us to a bench by the fire, and a fine fire it was with a goodly blaze on the hearth. I extended my hands to it, and saw the man’s eyes go to the maid with me. Her clothing was soiled from the rough treatment she’d received.
Curiosity can be an ill thing and can lead to all manner of speculation, so I thought to quiet his doubts at once.
“The lady and I have had a rough night of it. An encounter with brigands,” I explained.
“Well, well! ‘Tis not uncommon! They be fond of this country hereabouts, but not of this place. Here you may rest secure.”
He gestured. “All are asleep but me. Sit you, and when I have put up your horses I shall find what food I can.”
He disappeared, and after a few minutes returned and brought a loaf, some cold meat, and cheese to the table, and with it a bottle of cider.
He looked again at me. “The dapple is your horse? I seem to know it.”
“It was given me,” I explained, “by the King.”
“Aye,” there was respect in his tone, “a fine animal! I knew I had seen it.” He glanced at my companion. “And your horse also. I know it.”
“We recovered it from the brigands,” I said.
He looked at my companion again but offered no comment. Nor, to my surprise, did she. Although her home was some distance off, such a man as this would be likely to know any noble family thereabouts, know of them at least.
When he was gone I said, “You have not told me your name.”
“Marie d’Harcourt,” she replied.
It was a familiar name. There were several d’Harcourt families, I believed, though I knew little of French names.
Soon the man returned. When we had eaten, he showed us to our separate chambers. Marie clutched tight the strings of her bundle and refused help in carrying it, but once when it bumped her leg I heard a faultclank, a metallic sound.
No sooner had my body touched the bed than I was off into a sound sleep, and did not awaken until the sun was high. For a few minutes I lay still, then sat up, ordered some water brought, and bathed.
The maid lingered at the door, glancing at me with large eyes and what seemed an inviting expression, although I was but a poor judge of such things.
“Has the lady next door eaten?” I asked.
“She is gone.”
“Gone?”
She smiled openly at my astonishment. “She left hours ago, before it was light.”
I did not believe it, but a quick glance into her room proved the maid was right. Marie d’Harcourt was indeed gone.
When I reached the common room of the inn food was placed upon the table for me. He who served me was not the same who had served me the night before. He explained that the lady did not wish me disturbed. She had left at daylight on the road to Rouen.
“It is not safe for her to be on the highroad alone,” I objected. “You should have awakened me.”
“Do not worry,” the innkeeper said dryly, “she will fare well. She has beauty but she also has wit.”
“You know her then? You know Marie d’Harcourt?”
“I do not know her,” he replied, “nor is she a d’Harcourt, for of them I know much, and a fine family they are. What her name might be I know not, but it is not d’Harcourt.”
So … I had been fooled! But who was she then? And who did the brigands believe she was? “You had trouble along the road?” I explained my adventures of the night before and when I described my opponent he shook his head. “My friend, you are fortunate, indeed—or one of the finest swordsmen in Europe. The man whom you met is Andre de Tankarville, and it is said no man has stood against him.”
He related the story then. It followed the one Tankarville had told. “The family had two branches, or so I have heard, the one intelligent, religious, devout. The other not religious, though nonetheless they were loyal to a fault, and of great courage also.”
My meal was complete. I paid what was required and stood up. Then the door opened and Tankarville stood there, his face flushed with hard riding in the wind, and with anger as well. “Where is she?” he demanded.
<
br /> “Gone,” I said.
“She took it all! Every last coin, every ring, every candlestick!”
So that was what was in the bundle! How she had managed it, I did not know. And yet … when we were fighting, Tankarville and I, where was she then? Was she gathering up the more valuable jewels and hiding them on her person?
“We are fools, my friend, for she has duped us both and is away, gone three hours or more.”
He slammed his fist upon the table, then dropped into a chair. “Give him a mug of cider,” I said. “And I shall have another. She’s gone, my friend, so forget about it.”
“Forget about it? There was a fortune there! A king’s ransom, if you will! Not the gold so much as the gems! A full dozen of them!”
He gripped the handle of the mug and swore, then looked up at me and suddenly grinned. “Ah, what a handy wench! She will fare well, that one!”
“Where did you come upon her?”
“You may well ask. She is anything but a lady, though who she is I do not know. I will not say how or where we came upon the treasure, but we came upon it. She was also in the process of helping herself so we had no choice but to carry her off—at least far enough so she could not inform upon us.”
We talked no more, but finished our cider. I went to my horse and Tankerville followed, muttering in his anger.
When I swung to the saddle, I held down a hand to him. Enemies we had been but he was a fine hand with a blade, and a daring rogue, withal.
“If you will,” I said, “go to Henry of Navarre. He needs good fighting men and I think he will be generous. Tell him Tatton Chantry sent you, though it may or may not help.”
With that I was off to Rouen, with England just down the river and across the channel. It was in my thoughts that after nearly four years I would be close to my homeland again, home from captivity in Spain, from meeting with Henry and all that had transpired between.
And what of my ventures? What might have become of them after four years?
And what of Rafe Leckenbie?
27
The Rouen into which I rode, coming down a winding trail from the plateau above, was a bustling port, crowded with shipping from the sea and with boats and barges down the Seine from Paris. There were numerous inns and drinking places, and sailors everywhere, mingling with soldiers and civilians.
Fair Blows the Wind (1978) Page 22
