Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Wait!” he cried. “I have it! Ventre Saint Gris, man, I have it!” His eyes sparkled, and, with a gentle laugh, he hit the table a sounding blow. “Ha! ha! I have it!” he repeated joyously.

  The young noble gazed at him in surprise, half sullen, half incredulous. But when Henry, in low, rapid tones, had expounded his plan, the vicomte’s face underwent a change. Hope and life sprang into it. The blood flew to his cheeks. His whole aspect softened. In a moment he was on his knee, mumbling the king’s hand, his eyes full of joy and gratitude. After that the two talked long, the murmur of their voices broken more than once by the ripple of low laughter. When they at length separated, and Henry, his face hidden by the folds of his cloak, had stolen away to his lodgings, where, no doubt, more than one watcher was awaiting him with a mind full of anxious fears, the vicomte threw open his window and looked out on the night. The moon had set, but the stars still shone peacefully in the dark canopy above. He remembered on a sudden, his throat choking with silent repressed emotion, that he was looking toward his home — the stiff gray pile among the beech woods of Navarre which had been in his family since the days of St. Louis, and which he had so lightly risked. And he registered a vow in his heart that of all Henry’s servants he would henceforth be the most faithful.

  Meanwhile the Captain of Créance was enjoying the sweets of coming triumph. He did not look out into the night, it is true, but pacing up and down the room he planned and calculated, considering how he might make the most of his success. He was still comparatively young. He had years of strength before him. He would rise. He would not easily be satisfied. The times were troubled, opportunities many, fools many; bold men with brains and hands few.

  At the same time he knew that he could be sure of nothing until Lusigny was actually his, and he spent the next few days in considerable suspense. But no hitch occurred. The vicomte made the necessary communications to him; and men in his own pay informed him of dispositions ordered by the governor of Lusigny which left him in no doubt that the loser intended to pay his debt.

  It was, therefore, with a heart already gay with anticipation that the Captain rode out of Créance two hours before midnight on an evening eight days later. The night was dark, but he knew the road well. He had with him a powerful force, composed in part of thirty of his own garrison, bold, hardy fellows, and in part of six score horsemen, lent him by the governor of Montauban. As the vicomte had undertaken to withdraw, under some pretense or other, one-half of his command, and to have one of the gates opened by a trusty hand, the captain trotted along in excellent spirits, and stopped to scan with approval the dark line of his troopers as they plodded past him, the jingle of their swords and corselets ringing sweet music in his ears. He looked for an easy victory; but it was not any slight misadventure that would rob him of his prey. As his company wound on by the riverside, their accouterments reflected in the stream, or passed into the black shadow of the olive grove which stands a mile to the east of Lusigny, he felt little doubt of the success of his enterprise.

  Treachery apart, that is; and of treachery there was no sign. The troopers had scarcely halted under the last clump of trees before a figure detached itself from one of the largest trunks, and advanced to their leader’s rein. The captain saw with surprise that it was the vicomte himself. For a second he thought something had gone wrong, but the young noble’s first words reassured him. “It is all right,” M. de Lanthenon whispered, as the captain bent down to him. “I have kept my word, and I think that there will be no resistance. The planks for crossing the moat lie opposite the gate. Knock thrice at the latter, and it will be opened. There are not fifty armed men in the place.”

  “Good!” the captain answered, in the same cautious tone. “But you — —”

  “I am believed, to be elsewhere, and must be gone. I have far to ride tonight. Farewell.”

  “Till we meet again,” the captain answered; and with that his ally glided away and was lost in the darkness. A cautious word set the troop again in motion, and a very few minutes saw them standing on the edge of the moat, the outline of the gateway tower looming above them, a shade darker than the wrack of clouds which overhead raced silently across the sky. A moment of suspense, while one and another shivered — for there is that in a night attack which touches the nerves of the stoutest — and the planks were found, and as quietly as possible laid across the moat. This was so successfully done that it evoked no challenge, and the captain crossing quickly with some picked men stood almost in the twinkling of an eye under the shadow of the gateway. Still no sound was heard save the hurried breathing of those at his elbow or the stealthy tread of others crossing. Cautiously he knocked three times and waited. The third rap had scarcely sounded, however, before the gate rolled silently open, and he sprang in, followed by his men.

  So far so good. A glance at the empty street and the porter’s pale face told him at once that the vicomte had kept his word. But he was too old a soldier to take anything for granted, and forming up his men as quickly as they entered, he allowed no one to advance until all were inside, and then, his trumpet sounding a wild note of defiance, his force sprang forward in two compact bodies and in a moment the town awoke to find itself in the hands of the enemy.

  As the vicomte had promised, there was no resistance. In the small keep a score of men did indeed run to arms, but only to lay them down without striking a blow when they became aware of the force opposed to them. Their leader, sullenly acquiescing, gave up his sword and the keys of the town to the victorious captain, who, as he sat his horse in the middle of the market-place, giving his orders and sending off riders with the news, already saw himself in fancy governor of a province and Knight of the Holy Ghost.

  As the red light of the torches fell on steel caps and polished hauberks, on the serried ranks of pikemen, and the circle of white-faced townsmen, the picturesque old square looked doubly picturesque. Every five minutes, with a clatter of iron on the rough pavement and a shower of sparks, a horseman sprang away to tell the news at Montauban or Cahors; and every time that this occurred, the captain, astride on his charger, felt a new sense of power and triumph.

  Suddenly the low murmur of voices was broken by a new sound, the hurried clang of hoofs, not departing but arriving. There was something in the noise which made the captain prick his ears, and secured for the messenger a speedy passage through the crowd. Even at the last the man did not spare his horse, but spurring to the captain’s side, then and then only sprang to the ground. His face was pale, his eyes were bloodshot. His right arm was bound up in bloodstained cloths. With an oath of amazement, the captain recognized the officer whom he had left in charge of Créance and thundered out, “What is it?”

  “THEY HAVE GOT CRÉANCE!”

  “They have got Créance!” the man gasped, reeling as he spoke. “They have got Créance!”

  “Who?” the captain shrieked, his face purple with rage.

  “The little man of Béarn! He assaulted it five hundred strong an hour after you left, and had the gate down before we could fire a dozen shots. We did what we could, but we were but one to seven. I swear, captain, we did all we could. Look at this!”

  Almost black in the face, the captain swore another frightful oath. It was not only that he saw governorship and honors vanish like will-o’-the-wisps, but that he saw even more quickly that he had made himself the laughing-stock of a kingdom! And he had. To this day among the stories which the southern French love to tell of the prowess and astuteness of the great Henry, there is none more frequently told, or more frequently laughed over, than that of the famous exchange of Créance for Lusigny.

  THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT.

  “Eighty-eight when he died! That is a great age,” I said.

  “Yes indeed. But he was a very clever man, was Robert Evans, Court, and brewed good beer,” my companion answered. “His home-brewed was known, I am certain, for more than ten miles. You will have heard of his body-birds, sir?”

  “His body-
birds?” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, to be sure. Robert Evans Court’s body-birds!” And he looked at me, quick to suspect that his English was deficient. He had learned it in part from books; and hence the curious mixture I presently noted of Welsh idioms and formal English phrases. It was his light trap in which I was being helped on my journey, and his genial chat which was lightening that journey; which lay through a part of Carnarvonshire usually traversed only by wool merchants and cattle dealers — a country of upland farms swept by the sea breezes, where English is not spoken even now by one person in a hundred, and even at inns and post-offices you get only “Dim Sassenach,” for your answer. “Do you not say,” he went on, “body-birds in English? Oh, but to be sure, it is in the Bible!” with a sudden recovery of his self-esteem.

  “To be sure!” I replied hurriedly. “Of course it is! But as to Mr. Robert Evans, cannot you tell me the story?”

  “I’ll be bound there is no man in North or South Wales, or Carnarvonshire, that could tell it better, for Gwen Madoc, of whom you shall hear presently, was aunt to me. You see Robert Evans” — and my friend settled himself in his seat and prepared to go slowly up the long, steep hill of Rhiw which rose before us— “Robert Evans lived in an old house called Court, near the sea, very windy and lonesome. He was a warm man. He had Court from his father, and he had mortgages, and as many as four lawsuits. But he was unlucky in his family. He had years back three sons who helped on the farm, or at times fished; for there is a cove at Court, and good boats. Of these sons only one was married — to a Scotchwoman from Bristol, I have heard, who had had a husband before, a merchant captain, and she brought with her to Court a daughter, Peggy, ready-made as we say. Well, of those three fine men, there was not one left in a year. They were out fishing in a boat together, and Evan — that was the married one — was steering as they came into the cove on a spring tide running very high with a south wind. He steered a little to one side — not more than six inches, upon my honor — and pah! in an hour their bodies were thrown up on Robert Evans’ land just like bits of seaweed. But that was not all. Evan’s wife was on the beach at the time, so near she could have thrown a stone into the boat. They do say that before she was pining away at Court — it was bleak and lonesome and cold, in the winters, and she had been used to live in the towns. But, however, she never held up her head after Evan was drowned. She took to her bed, and died in the short month. And then of all at Court there were left only Robert Evans and the child Peggy.”

  “How old was she then?” I asked. He had paused, and was looking thoughtfully before, as striving, it would seem, to make the situation quite clear to himself.

  “She was twelve, and the old man eighty and more. She was in no way related to him, you will remember, but he had her stop, and let her want for nothing that did not cost money. He was very careful of money, as was right. It was that made him the man he was. But there were some who would have given money to be rid of her. Year in and year out they never let the old man rest but that he should send her to service at least — though her father had been the captain of a big ship; and if Robert Evans had not been a stiff man of his years, they would have had their will.”

  “But who — —”

  By a gesture he stopped the words on my lips as there rose mysteriously out of the silence about us a sound of wings, a chorus of shrill cries. A hundred white forms swept overhead, and fell a white cluster about something in a distant field. They were sea gulls. “Just those same!” he said proudly, jerking his whip in their direction— “body-birds. When the news that Robert Evans’ sons were drowned got about, there was a pretty uprising in Carnarvonshire. There seemed to be Evanses where there had never been Evanses before. As many as twenty walked in the funeral, and you may be sure that afterward they did not leave the old man to himself. The Llewellyn Evanses were foremost. They had had a lawsuit with Court, but made it up now. Besides there were Mr. and Mrs. Evan Bevan, and the three Evanses of Nant, and Owen Evans, and the Evanses of Sarn, and many more, who were all forward to visit Court and be friendly with old Gwen Madoc, Robert’s housekeeper. I am told they could look black at one another, but in this they were all in one tale, that the foreign child should be sent away; and at times one and another would give her a rough word.”

  “She must have had a bad time,” I observed.

  “You may say that. But she stayed, and it was wonderful how strong and handsome she grew up, where her mother had just pined away. The sailors said it was her love of the sea; and I have heard that people who live inland about here come to think of nothing but the land — it is certain that they are good at a bargain — while the fishermen who live with a great space before them are finer men, I have heard, in their minds as well as their bodies; and Peggy bach grew up like them, free and open and upstanding, though she lived inland. When she was in trouble she would run down to the sea, where the salt spray washed away her tears and the wind blew her hair, that was of the color of seaweed, into a tangle. She was never so happy as when she was climbing the rocks among the sea gulls, or else sitting with her books at the cove where the farm people would not go for fear of hearing the church bells that bring bad luck. Books? Oh, yes, indeed! next to the sea she was fond of books. There were many volumes, I have been told, that were her mother’s; then Robert Evans, though he was a Wesleyan, went to church because there was no Wesleyan chapel, the Calvinistic Methodists being in strength about here; and the minister lent her many English books and befriended her. And I have heard that once, when the Llewellyn Evanses had been about the girl, he spoke to them so that they were afraid to drive down Rhiw hill that night, but led the horse; and I think it may be true, for they were Calvinists. Still, he was a good man, and I know that many Calvinists walked in his funeral.”

  “Requiescat in pace,” said I.

  “Eh! Well, I don’t know how that may be,” he replied, “but you must understand that all this time the Llewellyn Evanses, and the Evanses of Nant, and the others would be over at Court once or twice a week, so that all the neighborhood called them Robert Evans’ body-birds; and when they were there Peggy McNeill would be having an ill time, since even the old man would be hard to her; and more so as he grew older. But, however, there was a better time coming, or so it seemed at first, the beginning of which was through Peter Rees’ lobster pots. He was a great friend of hers. She would go out with him to take up his pots — oh! it might be two or three times a week. So it happened one day, when they had pushed off from the beach, and Peggy was steering, that old Rees stopped rowing on a sudden.

  “‘Why don’t you go on, Peter?’ said Peggy.

  “‘Bide a bit,’ said old Rees.

  “‘What have you forgotten?’ said she, looking about in the bottom of the boat. For she knew what he used very well.

  “‘Nought,’ said he. But all the same he began to put the boat about in a stupid fashion, afraid of offending her, and yet loath to lose a shilling. And so, when Peggy looked up, what should she see but a gentleman — whom Rees had perceived, you will understand — stepping into the boat, and Peter Rees not daring to look her in the face because he knew well that she would never go out with strangers.

  “Of course the young gentleman thought no harm, but said gayly, ‘Thank you! I am just in time.’ And what should he do, but go aft and sit down on the seat by her, and begin to talk to Rees about the weather and the pots. And presently he said to her, ‘I suppose you are used to steering, my girl?’

  “‘Yes,’ said Peggy, but very grave and quiet-like, so that if he had not determined that she was old Rees’ daughter he would have taken notice of it. But she was wearing a short frock that she used for the fishing, and was wet with getting into the boat, moreover.

  “‘Will you please to hold my hat a minute,’ he said, and with that he put it in her lap while he looked for a piece of string with which to fasten it to his button. Well, she said nothing, but her cheeks were scarlet, and by and by, when he had called her ‘my girl’ t
wo or three times more — not roughly, but just off-hand, taking her for a fisher-girl — Peter Rees could stand it no longer, shilling or no shilling.

  “‘You mustn’t speak that fashion to her, master,’ he said gruffly.

  “‘What?’ said the gentleman, looking up. He was surprised, and no wonder, at the tone of the man.

  “‘You mustn’t speak like that to Miss McNeill, Court,’ repeated old Rees more roughly than before. ‘You are to understand she is not a common girl, but like yourself.’

  “The young gentleman turned and looked at her just once, short and sharp, and I am told that his face was as red as hers when their eyes met. ‘I beg Miss McNeill’s pardon — humbly,’ he said, taking off his hat grandly, yet as if he meant it too; ‘I was under a great misapprehension.’

  “After that you may believe they did not enjoy the row much. There was scarcely a word said by anyone until they came ashore again. The visitor, to the great joy of Peter, who was looking for a sixpence, gave him half a crown; and then walked away with the young lady, side by side with her, but very stiff and silent. However, just as they were parting, Peter could see that he said something, having his hat in his hand the while, and that Miss Peggy, after standing and listening, bowed as grand as might be. Upon which they separated for that time.

  “But two things came of this; first, that everyone began to call her Miss McNeill, Court, which was not at all to the pleasure of the Llewellyn Evanses. And then that, whenever the gentleman, who was a painter lodging at Mrs. Campbell’s of the shop, would meet her, he would stop and say a few words, and more as the time went on. Presently there came some wet weather; and Mrs. Campbell borrowed for his use books from her, which had her name within; and later he sent for a box of books from London, and then the lending was on the other side. So it was not long before people began to see how things were, and to smile when the gentleman treated old Robert Evans at the Newydd Inn. The fishermen, when he was out with them, would tack so that he might see the smoke of Court over the cliffs; and there was no more Peggy bach to be met, either rowing with Peter Rees or running wild among the rocks, but a very sedate young lady who yet did not seem to be unhappy.