The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “You preach well,” Julot grumbled. “Now see if you can preach us up a meal.”

  “You have eggs; there is water and a fire. If we can find a kettle, we can boil our eggs, or a piece of metal on which they can be fried.”

  “The idea is yours,” Julot said, “do you find the kettle. After all, who robbed the hen?”

  Rising, I hitched up my sword belt. “Do you sit warm and snug. I shall venture out into the cold and storm.”

  “Go ahead. Make something of it, but come back with a kettle.”

  To tell the truth, I was confident. This ruin was such a place as would attract vagabonds, and where a kettle might be hidden for some future time. Stepping out into the rain, I began scouting every corner of the ruins.

  My search brought me nothing but a greater soaking from the rain and the realization that the ruin was more extensive than imagined. And then I saw the path.

  It is my weakness that I can never resist a path or a bend in the road, although usually the bend in the road when rounded only reveals another bend, as topping a hill only shows another hill before you. Yet I could not resist. I followed this one into the forest, my hand upon my sword hilt, my eyes questing at once for danger and a pot, a kettle, or something edible. From a tree I saw a great streamer of bark ripped away, which brought to mind a way in which we had often made baskets or boxes as a child.

  Our problem was solved. Searching for the bark needed, I found some chestnuts the squirrels had overlooked. Studying the earth for more, I found something else.

  A footprint.

  A tiny, pointed toe. A track made by a slipper never intended for the forest, nor for a lady to wear walking in the wilderness. It was a slipper for dancing, for the halls of a castle.

  Squatting on my heels, I studied the footprint. A damp leaf was pressed into the earth. Lifting it, I saw the earth was damp underneath. As it had begun to rain only a short time before, a brief rain already turning to sleet, there was a good chance that track had been made since the rain began. How long ago? A half hour? An hour?

  What was such a woman doing in the forest at such a time? Unless she had been all night in the forest, she must have left some castle before daybreak.

  If such was the case, somebody must come looking for her, which meant our ruin would be searched as an obvious place of hiding. Hence we must leave at once.

  But where was she?

  Rising to my feet, I looked carefully around. The track had come from the direction in which I was going, and had she come further than this, would I not have seen her tracks? I had been searching the ground for whatever might be useful and could scarcely have missed them.

  No doubt she had seen me and had hidden herself nearby.

  “If you can hear me”—I spoke loudly—“please accept me as a friend. I know not who you may be, but those who come seeking you will find me, and I would be far from here before they arrive. It may be I can help you.”

  Rain fell softly on leaves, freezing there. It was growing colder. “There is little time if you are to escape. I have a friend and horses nearby.”

  A long, slow minute passed, and I began to walk away. Then there was a sudden movement, and a voice called out, “Please! I am in great trouble!”

  She stood beside some brush where she had hidden herself on my approach. She was slender, wore a cloak reaching almost to the ground, and carried in her hand a small bundle.

  “Mademoiselle!” I bowed. “If I can be of help…?”

  “Oh, you can! You can! I must not be taken!”

  “Come then.” I took her hand and helped her through the grass, something she was perfectly capable of doing without me, but I have observed the easiest way to reassure a woman is simply to be courteous, as with anyone else.

  Julot glanced up from the fire as we appeared in the opening. He stared as if he could not believe his eyes. “Ah, Kerbouchard! There is no one like him!” he said ironically. “He goes into a dark forest at daybreak and returns with a beautiful woman! It is easy to see you are a sailor’s son!”

  “We must go,” I said, and explained.

  My horse rolled her eyes at the lady but did not object when I put her into the saddle. She had an understanding rare among beasts.

  33

  IT WAS DARK when we reached the village. On the skyline beyond the duster of houses and the trees loomed the towering keep of Castle Blandy.

  The hour was past sundown, and the houses were shuttered and dark. Travelers by night were rare and not welcomed in the small villages. God-fearing folk were in their homes or inns before darkness, and only thieves, vagabonds, and evil things roamed the night.

  The streets were muddy from recent rains, and our horses’ hooves made no sound. The cottage of the man we sought lay at the edge of town, bordering on the lands of the chapel. Julot rapped upon the door.

  There was a cautious movement within, and Julot spoke softly. “Fat Claire is our friend.”

  “What do you seek?”

  “Sanctuary and freedom.”

  The gate opened then, and we rode in. Persigny stared hard at the woman, but seemed reassured when he looked at Julot.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Julot, a student of Paris, and a friend of Fat Claire’s.”

  “And the lady? One of Claire’s?”

  “No!” My tone was sharp. “Truly a lady, but one who must be far from here before another day is gone.”

  “Inside!” He gestured toward the door, then took our horses to the stable for water and grain.

  The floor was stone-paved, unusual in the houses of peasants—if he was one. Obviously, it was very ancient, and the walls were thick. The shutters seemed formed from solid boards and fit snugly, allowing no light.

  A woman brought a steaming dish of stew with large chunks of meat and many vegetables. She also brought an earthenware jar containing wine.

  As we ate, Julot explained our plight, and Persigny listened without comment. It was my feeling he had assisted in many such ventures and was not surprised. He was a tall man with a tuft of gray curly hair atop his head, a sparse beard on a thin, ascetic face.

  “They have no patience with freethinkers,” he commented, “and we have already been alerted to watch for you.” He glanced at Julot. “You have not been identified, so when you leave him, you are safe.”

  His attention went to the girl. “You, madame, are in serious trouble.”

  He turned to me. “This lady is the Comtesse de Malcrais, bride of Count Robert, possessor of vast estates in the Holy Land.”

  “This man was not involved in my transgressions—if such they are to be called. I fled into the forest, and he helped me.”

  “Nonetheless, he has been seen with you this day. From what I hear of the Count he will not believe your meeting was accident nor your traveling together innocent.”

  “Before I return to him,” the Comtesse said quietly, “I will kill myself. It was not by my choice that I became his wife, nor am I his wife except in name. After we were married he spent the night drinking and fell asleep at the table. I heard his friends laughing because he was drunk on his wedding night, so I fled into the woods.”

  “What of your family?”

  “My father was master of Saône, one of the greatest Crusader castles in the Holy Land. By marrying me Count Robert becomes its master. He abducted me and brought me here against my will.”

  “If you do not protect her,” Julot said, “I shall. I know of this Count Robert. An evil man. He is no husband for a lady such as this.”

  Food was prepared for us to take with us. It was doubtful if any had seen us close to the village, but there are always prying eyes, and we could not be certain.

  “Where can you go to escape him?” Persigny said. “He is a man of great influence, with the Church as well as the King.�
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  “I go to Provins. Once there I shall be with friends.”

  “To Provins? Ah! Perhaps that makes the problem less difficult. To Provins, indeed.”

  “If word has come this far, it will have been carried further. The high roads will be watched.”

  “There are back roads, and our horses are swift,” I said.

  “Eat,” Persigny said, “and get some sleep. Perhaps I have a way.”

  We continued to eat, and for the first time I saw the Comtesse de Malcrais with her hood thrown back. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin like cream, her lips soft and beautifully shaped. She might have been nineteen, perhaps less, in any event a ripe age for marriage when most were wed at twelve and thirteen.

  Her figure was lovely, and she had beautiful, expressive hands. She caught my eyes upon her and smiled, a warm, friendly smile…I would it had been otherwise.

  “What has been said is true, and I must warn you. Count Robert will not rest until he has me again.”

  “How does it come you were in possession of the Castle of Saône?”

  “From my father, but from my first husband, also. A woman cannot hold a castle, and when my first husband was killed, it was necessary for me to marry. It is the custom in the Holy Land for a widow in possession of a castle to marry again, at once, so the castle will have a strong man to defend it. The widow has no choice, for if such castles are to be held against the infidel, it must be as I have said.

  “Count Robert envied my husband the possession of Saône and its lands, which pay tribute. I believe it was he who murdered my husband.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Supposedly by a band of infidels. I think, and Colin thinks, it was Count Robert and his men.”

  “Colin?”

  “The captain of those who defend the castle, and a good man. It was he who helped me escape, but I was taken again and married in the Church so there could be no question as to the validity of the marriage. Count Robert has enemies in the Holy Land.”

  “I dislike to hurry you”—Persigny arose—“but what is to be done must be done by night, and in silence.” We arose, and I gave my hand to Julot who would remain here for a few days, then become a pilgrim wending his way to Paris.

  From my saddlebags I took a small, hand-bound book in leather containing my own translations of Lucretius and Suleiman the Merchant.

  The first was one of the great philosophical poems of all time, the second the account of a traveler in China, written in 851, containing information about commercial dealings between China and the Moslem world. Suleiman also refers to a strange custom of the Chinese, who used fingerprints as signatures, maintaining no two fingerprints were alike and could not be forged. It was a practice already hundreds of years old in that land.

  “Take this,” I said. “I wish it were more.”

  “Ah, a book! I have never owned a book. You mean it is mine?”

  We parted there, and I followed Persigny into the night, the Comtesse walking beside me, the horses following. We went down a lane between stone hams and hayricks, then crossed a pasture and paused at the edge of a dark wood.

  After a moment of listening we followed a narrow path into the wood to the edge of a pool. Beyond it was a grotto. In the distance a large building, no doubt a château, loomed against the sky.

  The pool was divided by a stone wall as were some artificial lakes to facilitate cleaning. On one side of the wall was water, the other side an empty hollow. Walking out upon the wall, Persigny lifted a sluice gate and the water began falling into the empty side of the pool. When the water had emptied, he went down into the hole where the water had been, brushed aside some sodden leaves, and catching hold of an iron ring, a ring that fitted neatly into a crack between the floor stones, he opened a stone door.

  Obviously, there were counterweights, for the door swung back easily, revealing a ramp. Motioning for us to follow, he went down the ramp, and he closed the opening behind us. Above, we could hear the water once more falling into the pool.

  Meanwhile he lighted a candle, and we glimpsed stalls for twenty or more horses, all empty now, and storage bins with grain and hay, long unused. He pointed down a long passage opening before us.

  “Follow it, and you will arrive in Provins. Make no sound, not even a whisper, for the first half mile. At a point not far distant this passage passes close to a secret passage from the Castle Blandy. The lord of that castle has never been aware of this one, but we did hear someone moving in their passage once.”

  Looking off into the darkness, I had doubts. “What of air? What of light?”

  “Take a supply of candles or torches. You will find others at intervals. Air circulates in the tunnel by some means we have not discovered, but if more is needed, you will find occasional rings in the wall. Pull on a ring, and a small opening will appear. Stand by the openings to breathe, but when you pass on, be sure the openings are closed.”

  “And at Provins?”

  “There are catacombs of a sort beneath that city. There is a maze of subterranean passages, some of them dating to a time before the Romans, but be careful where you emerge. Listen, first.”

  Still, I hesitated. I had my fill of such places before this. “To Provins? It must be thirty miles!”

  “The distance is not important. The passage was built over several hundred years and a long time ago. Monks carrying grain or wine from one monastery to another were often robbed by such barons as he who inhabits Blandy, so this tunnel was built to enable them to come and go as they wished.

  “There were many monks; few knew or cared what they did, and this passage is known to none outside the Church and only a few inside. It has not been used for many years, but the account of it is hidden in the archives.”

  “I would not deceive you. I am escaping because of words spoken of which some teachers did not approve.”

  He shrugged. “There are shades of opinion, my friend. We here are followers of Abelard, and pleased to be so.”

  “And Fat Claire?”

  He looked me in the eye. “She is my sister.”

  Holding my torch high, I looked down the passage as Persigny walked away. “Are you afraid, Comtesse?”

  “Yes, but I have often been afraid and, no doubt, shall be afraid many more times. No one, in our world, I think, lives without fear.” She turned to me. “I do not even know your name.”

  “Mathurin Kerbouchard, but I am not, as I appear, a soldier. I have been many things, a man of the sea, a translator of books, a vagabond, a merchant, and occasionally, a physician.”

  “You are a landless man?”

  What happened at my home, I told her, and of what took place later, with Tournemine.

  “A man who handles a sword need not long be landless. The followers of William of Normandy did very well for themselves, and Roger of Sicily, too.”

  “You could become a knight,” she agreed, “or win a patent of nobility.”

  “It interests me less than you would believe. The difference between a brigand or wandering soldier and a noble is scarcely a generation.”

  “It is a bit more than that, I think.”

  “Or less. It might take several generations to achieve a Count Robert. It seems to me that blue blood only becomes important when red blood begins to run thin.”

  Being of the nobility, she did not wish to agree with me, but no doubt, she knew her own family history. I did not know hers, but could guess. The Crusaders may have had noble motives, but loot was at least a secondary object, and their desire to free the Holy Sepulcher did not stop them from capturing and looting a Christian city or two.

  We rode for some time in silence, and when the air became close and hot, we stopped near one of the rings in the wall and, tugging on it, found that it opened stiffly to let in cool night air. A moon had arisen, and we could se
e woods and fields. The opening was in some kind of a wall, a castle, perhaps. We breathed deeply, waited a few minutes in silence, then closed the opening and went on.

  “Where do you go?” she asked.

  “To Provins, where I have friends. If they are not present, I shall await them, then on to Kiev.”

  Startled, she turned to stare at me. “Kiev?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it is far!”

  “From there I shall go to Constantinople, to Trebizond, and even further.”

  “It is my way, too. I must return to Saône.”

  “Come with us. My friends are many, and there are women among them. We travel well.”

  She did not reply, and for a long time there was no sound but our horses’ hooves on the stones beneath. A trickle of water ran along the center of the floor, water scarcely a half-inch deep.

  “The book you gave your friend? What was it?”

  Briefly, I explained, adding, a little smugly I am afraid, that it was my own translation.

  “You read Latin then? And Arabic?” She paused. “I have known few people who could read.”

  “The nobility rarely read. It might make them think.”

  “You are not complimentary.”

  “How many have you known who knew much but war, hunting, or drinking?”

  “I believe you do not like us.”

  “I like you. You are a very beautiful woman.”

  We opened another notch to breathe the air. It was almost day, and we could see rolling hills and a flock of sheep.

  “I have never been alone with a man before, one to whom I was not married.”

  “You have no need to be afraid. I shall warn you beforehand.”

  “Warn me? Of what?”

  “It is far to Provins. Perhaps I shall wait until then. Perhaps even longer.”

  “I thought you were gallant.”

  “A word of more than one meaning, as you may know. Yes, I believe I am gallant. If I made love to you, would I be less gallant?”