“Are you hurt?” gasped Étienne. “My God, Agnès, you’ve killed a woman – ”
“I struck the horse,” I answered. “He threw up his head just as I fired. Here, let me see to her!”
Bending over her, I lifted her face, a pallid oval in the darkness. Under my hard fingers her garments and flesh felt soft and wondrous fine.
“Are you hurt badly, wench?” I demanded.
But at the sound of my voice she gave a gasping cry and threw her arms about my knees.
“Oh, you too are a woman! Have mercy! Do not hurt me! Please – ”
“Cease these whimperings, wench,” I ordered impatiently. “Here is naught to hurt you. Are your bones broken by reason of the fall?”
“Nay, I am only bruised and shaken. But oh, my poor horse – ”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I do not slay animals willingly. I was aiming at his rider.”
“But why should you murder me?” she wailed. “I know you not – ”
“I am Agnès de Chastillon,” I answered, “whom some men call Dark Agnès de la Fère. Who are you?”
I had lifted her to her feet and released her, and now as she stood before us, the moon broke suddenly through the clouds and flooded the road with silvery light. I looked in amaze at the richness of our captive’s garments, and the beauty of her oval face, framed in a glory of hair that was like dark foam; her dark eyes glowed like black jewels in the moonlight. And from Étienne came a strangled cry.
“My lady!” He doffed his feathered cap, and dropped to his knee. “Kneel, Agnès, kneel, girl! It is Françoise de Foix!”
“Why should an honest woman kneel to a royal strumpet?” I demanded, thrusting my thumbs into my girdle and bracing my legs wide as I faced her.
Étienne was stricken dumb, and the girl seemed to wince at my peasant candor.
“Rise, I beg of you,” she said humbly to Étienne, and he did so, cap in hand.
“But this was most unwise, my lady!” said he. “To have come alone and at night – ”
“Oh,” she cried suddenly, catching at her temples, as if reminded of her mission. “Even now they may be slaying him! Oh, sir, if you be a man, aid me!”
She seized Étienne by the doublet and shook him in the agony of her insistence.
“Listen,” she begged, though Étienne was listening with all his ears. “I came here tonight, alone, as you see, to endeavor to right a wrong, and to save a life.
“You know me as Françoise de Foix, the mistress of the king – ”
“I have seen you at court, where I was not always a stranger,” said Étienne, speaking with a strange difficulty. “I know you for the most beautiful woman in all France.”
“I thank you, my friend,” she said, still clinging to him. “But the world sees little of what goes on behind the palace doors. Men say I twist the king about my finger, God help me – but I swear I am but a pawn in a game I do not understand – the slave of a greater will than that of François.”
“Louise de Savoie,” muttered Étienne.
“Aye, who through me, rules her son, and through him, all France. It was she who made me what I am. Else I had been, not the mistress of a king, but the honest wife of some honest man.
“Listen, my friend, oh listen and believe me! Tonight a man is riding toward the coast, and death! And the letter which lured him there was written by me! Oh, I am a hateful thing, to thus serve one who – who loves me –
“But I am not my own mistress. I am the slave of Louise de Savoie. What she bids me do, that I do, or else I smart for it. She dominates me and I dare not resist her. This – this man was in Alençon, when he received the letter begging him to meet me at a certain tavern near the coast. Only for me would he have gone, for he well knows of his powerful enemies. But me he trusts – oh God pity me!”
She sobbed hysterically for an instant, while I watched in wonder, for I could never weep, my whole life.
“It is a plot of Louise,” she said. “Once she loved this man, but he scorned her, and she plots his ruin. Already she has shorn him of titles and honor; now she would rob him of life itself.
“At the tavern of the Hawk he will be met, not by my miserable self, but by a band of hired bravos, who will slay his servants and take him captive and deliver him to the pirate Roger Hawksly, who has been paid well to dispose of him forever.”
“Why so much planning and elaborate work?” I demanded. “Surely a dagger in the back would do the job as well.”
“Not even Louise dares discovery,” she answered. “The – the man is too powerful – ”
“There is only one man in France whom Louise hates so fiercely,” said Étienne, looking full into Françoise’s eyes. She bowed her head, then lifted it and returned the look with her lustrous dark eyes.
“Aye!” she said simply.
“A blow to France,” muttered Étienne, “if he should fall – but my lady, Roger Hawksly will not be there to receive him.” And he swiftly related what he had seen on the coast.
“Then the bravos will slay him themselves,” she said with a shudder. “They will never dare let him go. They are led by Jehan, the right hand man of Louise – ”
“And by Renault de Valence,” muttered Étienne. “I see it all now; you were with that band, Agnès. I wonder if d’Alençon knows of the plot.”
“No,” answered Françoise. “But Louise plans to raise him to the rank of her victim; so she uses his most trusted man, Renault de Valence, for her schemes. But oh, we waste time! Please will you not aid him? Ride with me to the tavern of the Hawk. Perchance we may rescue him – may reach him in time to get him away before they arrive. I stole away, and have ridden all night at top speed – please, please aid me!”
“Françoise de Foix has never to ask twice of Étienne Villiers,” said Étienne, in that strange unnatural voice, standing in the moonlight, cap in hand. Perhaps it was the moon, but a strange expression was on his face, softening the lines of cynicism and wild living, and making him seem another and nobler man.
“And you, mademoiselle!” The court beauty turned to me, with her arms outstretched. “You would not kneel to me, Dark Agnès; look, I kneel to you!”
And so she did – down in the dust on her knees, her white hands clasped and her dark eyes sparkling with tears.
“Get up, girl,” I said awkwardly, ashamed for some obscure reason. “Kneel not to me. I’ll do all I can. I know nothing of court intrigues and what you have said buzzes in my skull until I am dizzy, but what we can do, that we will do!”
With a sob she rose and threw both her soft arms about my neck and kissed me on the lips, so I was further ashamed. It was the first time I remembered anyone ever kissing me.
“Come,” I said roughly. “We waste time.”
Étienne lifted the girl into his saddle and swung up behind her, and I mounted the great black horse.
“What do you plan?” he asked me.
“I have no plan. We must be guided by the circumstances which confront us. Let us ride as swiftly as may be for the inn of the Hawk. If Renault wasted much time in looking for me – as doubtless he did – he and his bravos may not yet have reached the tavern. If they have – well, we are but two swords, but we can but do our best.”
And so I fell to recharging the pistol I had taken from Étienne, and a tedious task it was, in the darkness, and riding hard. So what speech passed between Étienne and Françoise de Foix I know not, but the murmur of their voices reached me from time to time, and in his voice was an unfamiliar softness – strange in a rogue like Étienne Villiers.
So we came at last upon the tavern of the Hawk, which loomed stark against the night, dark save for a single lanthorn in the common room. Silence reigned utterly, and there was the scent of fresh-spilled blood –
In the road before the tavern lay a man in the livery of a lackey, his white staring face turned to the stars, and dabbled with blood. Near the door lay a shape in a black cloak, and the fragments of a black ma
sk, soaked in blood, lay beside it, with a feathered hat. But the features of the man were but a ghastly mask of hacked and slashed flesh, unrecognizable.
Just inside the door lay another lackey, his brains oozing from his crushed head, a broken sword still gripped in his hand. Inside the tavern was a waste of broken settles and smashed tables, with great gouts of blood fouling the floor. A third lackey lay huddled in the corner, his blood-stained doublet showing a dozen sword-thrusts. Over all hung silence like a pall.
Françoise had fallen with a moan when she saw the horror of it all, and now Étienne half led, half carried her in his arms.
“Renault and his cutthroats were here,” he said. “They have taken their prey and gone. But where? All the servants would have fled in terror, not to return until daylight.”
But peering here and there, sword in hand, I saw something huddled under an over-turned settle, and dragging it forth, disclosed a terrified serving wench who fell on her knees and bawled for mercy.
“Have done, jade,” I said impatiently. “Here is none to harm you. But say quickly what has occurred.”
“The men in masks,” she whimpered. “They came suddenly in at the door – ”
“Did you not hear their horses?” demanded Étienne.
“Would Renault warn his victim?” I asked impatiently. “Doubtless they left their steeds a short distance away and came softly on foot. Go on, girl.”
“They fell on the gentleman and his servants,” she blubbered. “The gentleman who had arrived earlier this night and who sat silently at his wine, and seemed in doubt and meditation. As the masked men entered he sprang up and cried out that he was betrayed – ”
“Oh!” It was a cry of agony from Françoise de Foix. She clasped her hands and writhed as in agony.
“Then there was fighting and slaying and death,” wailed the wench. “They slew the gentleman’s servants, and him they bound and dragged away – ”
“Was it he who so disfigured the bravo who lies outside the door?” I demanded.
“Nay, he slew him with a pistol ball. The leader of the masks, the tall man who wore a chain-mail shirt under his doublet – he hacked the dead man’s face with his sword – ”
“Aye,” I muttered. “De Valence would not wish to leave him to be identified.”
“And this same man, before he left, passed his sword through each of the dying lackeys to make sure they were dead,” she sobbed in terror. “I hid under the settle and watched, for I was too frightened to run, as did the innkeeper and the other servants.”
“In which direction did they go?” I demanded, shaking the wretched girl in my intensity.
“That – that way!” she gasped, pointing. “Down the old road to the coast.”
“Did you overhear anything that might give a clue as to their destination?”
“No – no – they spoke little, and I so frightened.”
“Hoofs of the devil, girl!” I exclaimed in a fury. “Such work is never done in silence. Think hard – remember something they said, before I turn you across my knee.”
“All I remember,” she gasped, “is that the tall leader said to the poor gentleman, once they had him bound – doffing his helmet in a sweeping bow – ‘My lord,’ quoth he mockingly, ‘your ship awaits you!’ ”
“Sure they would put him aboard ship,” exclaimed Étienne. “And the nearest place a ship would put in is Corsair Cove! Come! They cannot be far ahead of us. If they followed the old road – as they would be likely to do, not knowing the country as I do – it will take them half an hour longer to reach the cove than it will take us, following a short cut of which I know.”
“Come then!” cried Françoise, revived anew by the hope of action. And a few moments later, we were riding through the shadows for the coast. We followed a dim path, its mouth hidden by dense bushes, which wound along a rocky ridge, descending seaward amid boulders and gnarled trees.
So we came into a cove, surrounded by rugged slopes, thickly treed, and through the trees we saw the glimmer of water, and the shimmer of the furtive moon on broad sails. And leaving our horses, and Françoise with them, we crept forward, Étienne and I, and presently looked out upon an open beach, lighted by the moon which at the time shone out through the curling clouds.
Under the shadow of the trees stood a group of black and sombre figures, and out of a boat, just drawn up on the beach (we could still see the foam floating on the water that had swirled in her wake) trooped a score of men in seamen’s garb. Out in the deeper water rode a ship, the moonlight glinting on her gilt-work and spreading courses, and Étienne swore softly.
“That’s The Resolute Friend, but those are not her crew. They are food for the fishes. These are the men who took her. What devil’s game is this?”
We saw a man pushed forward by the masked bravos – a man tall and well-formed, who, even in torn shirt and blood-stained, with his arms bound behind him, had the bearing of a leader among men.
“Saint Denis,” breathed Étienne. “It is he, right enough.”
“Who?” I demanded. “Who is this fellow we must risk our lives to rescue?”
“Charles,” he began, then broke off: “Listen!”
We had wriggled nearer, and Renault de Valence’s voice came plainly to us.
“Nay, that was not in the bargain. I know you not. Let Roger Hawksly, your captain, come ashore. I wish to be sure he knows his instructions.”
“Captain Hawksly cannot be disturbed,” answered one of the seamen in accented French; he was a tall man who bore himself proudly. “There is no need to fear; yonder is The Resolute Friend; here are Hawksly’s bullies. You have given us the prisoner. We will take him aboard and set sail. You have done your part; now we will do ours.”
I was staring in fascination, having never seen Englishmen before. These were all tall men and stalwart, with goodly swords buckled at their hips, and steel glinting under their doublets. Never saw I such proud-seeming sailormen, or seamen so well armed. They had seized the man Étienne called Charles, and were haling him to the boat – which task seemed to be supervised by a tall portly man in a red cloak.
“Aye,” said Renault, “yonder lies The Resolute Friend; I know her well, or I had never delivered my prisoner to you. But I know you not. Call Captain Hawksly, or I take my prisoner back again.”
“Enough!” exclaimed the other arrogantly. “I tell you Hawksly cannot come. You do not know me – ”
But de Valence, who had been listening closely to the other’s voice, cried out sharply and fiercely.
“Nay, by God, I think I do know you, my lord!” And knocking off the seaman’s bonnet the man wore, he disclosed a steel cap beneath, crowning a proud hawk-like face.
“So!” exclaimed de Valence. “You would take my prisoner – but not to slay – nay, to hold as a club over the head of François! Rogue I may be, but traitor to my king – never!”
And snatching forth a pistol he fired point-blank, not at the lord, but at the prisoner Charles.
But the Englishman knocked up his arm, and the ball went wide.
The next instant all was turmoil and confusion, as Renault’s bravos rushed in in response to his shouts, and the Englishmen met them hand to hand. I saw the blades glimmer and flash in the moonlight as Renault and the English lord fought, and suddenly Renault’s sword was dyed red and the Englishman was down, gasping out his life on the sand.
Now I saw that the men who had been haling along the prisoner Charles had hastened into the fray, leaving him in the hands of the portly man in the red cloak who was dragging him, despite his struggles, toward the boat drawn up on the beach. Now I heard the clack of oarlocks, and looking toward the ship, saw three other boats putting towards shore.
But even as I looked, I was whispering to Étienne, and we broke cover and ran silently across the stretch of white sand, toward the struggling pair near the beach. All about us raged the fight as the bravos, outnumbered but dangerous as wolves, slashed and parried and thrus
t with the reckless Englishmen.
Even as we came into the fray, an Englishman rushed at each of us. Étienne fired and missed – for moonlight is deceptive – and the next instant was fighting sword to sword. I did not fire until my muzzle almost touched my enemy’s bosom, and when I pulled the trigger, the heavy ball tore through the chain-mail beneath his doublet like paper, and the lifted sword fell harmless into the sand.
A few more strides brought me up with Charles and his captor, but even as I reached them, one was before me. While men fought and slew and cursed madly, de Valence had never lost sight of his objective. Realizing that he could not retake his prisoner, he was determined on slaying him.
Now he had cut his way through the melee, and ran with grim purpose across the sands, his sword dripping in his hand. Running up to the prisoner, he cut murderously at his unprotected head. The stroke was parried, awkwardly, by the portly man in the red cloak, who began bawling for aid in a gasping, short-winded voice which went unheeded in the uproar of the melee. So ineptly had he parried that the sword was beaten out of his hand. But before de Valence could strike again, I came silently and swiftly up from the side, and thrust at him with all my strength, meaning to spit him through the neck, above the gorget. But again luck betrayed me; my foot slipped in the sand, and the point rasped harmlessly along his mail.
Instantly he turned and recognized me. He had lost his mask, and his eyes danced with a sort of reckless madness in the moonlight.
“By God!” he cried, with a wild laugh. “It is the red-haired sword-wench!”
Even as he spoke he parried my whistling blade, and with no further words, we set to work, slashing and thrusting. He drew blood from my sword-hand, and from my thigh, but I smote him with such fury that my edge bit through his morion and into the scalp beneath, so that blood ran from under his burganet and trickled down his face. Another such stroke had finished him, but he, casting a quick glance aside, saw that most of his bravos were down, and he in desperate case. So with another wild laugh he bounded back, sprang aside, cut his way through those who sought to stay him, with half a dozen flailing strokes, and bounding clear, vanished in the shadows, whence presently emerged the sound of a running horse.