Kitabı oku: «The Captain of the Guard», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XXXV
NIGHT – THE SNARE

'Tis not so. Slowly, slowly dies the night,

And with it sinks my soul down from the point

Where late it stood a-tiptoe. —

All the Year Round.

Longing for the next evening – the third appointed by the abbot, as the time when he was to meet Murielle again, Sir Patrick Gray sat at the latticed window of his room, gazing listlessly down one of the long and picturesque streets of Bommel, then darkening in the twilight and haze, amid which the lamps were beginning to twinkle in the shops and booths. Seven was tolled from the college bell of the Canonry close by. He started at the sound, and with a glow of pleasure, reflected, that at the same hour to-morrow, he should see and be with her he loved.

While this idea occupied him, the tapster announced a visitor, and Carl Langfanger was introduced. On perceiving a stranger, Sir Patrick experienced some uneasiness, as he believed that his presence in Bommel was unknown to all, save Murielle Douglas and the abbot of Tongland.

In addition to the profits of his wine and beer house, and the little pickings which his secret relations with Count Ludwig enabled him to have, our worthy Carl Langfanger, was ostensibly a farrier and horse doctor, who, by painting and patching up old nags, made them – though the veriest Rosinantes – pass for chargers of spirit and mettle; thus he was so well known at all the hostelries in Bommel, that a short time enabled him to discover the temporary residence of Sir Patrick Gray.

This cunning boor had attired himself in a dark suit of respectable broad-cloth, with a clean white ruff round his neck, and a wooden rosary of portentous size at his right wrist; thus he had all the air of a worthy citizen, though his scrubby black hair was brushed straight down to his small stealthy eyes, and cut off squarely above his long and pendant ears.

"You wish to speak with me?" said Gray, in French.

Langfanger, who had served in several countries, replied readily in the same language: "I have a message to monsieur!"

"From whom?"

"A fair demoiselle," replied Carl, in his most insinuating voice, and a glitter in his cunning eyes.

"Indeed – then carry your message elsewhere – you have come to the wrong quarter, my friend," replied Gray, curtly, as he detected something of the bravo in the air of his visitor.

"But the demoiselle is in distress," urged Carl, with some alarm lest his errand might fail.

"I am not the burgomaster, and knights errant are out of fashion, my friend; but who is she?"

"I know not her name, messire," stammered Carl, who had omitted to inform himself of this rather important particular.

"By whom – and in what manner is she wronged?"

"Mademoiselle said that this ring, which I have the honour to present, would inform monsieur of everything," said Carl, stepping forward.

"This ring," reiterated Gray, becoming suddenly interested and perplexed, on recognizing the trinket he had given to Murielle in other days, at the Three Thorns of the Carlinwark, near Thrave; and he kissed and placed it on his finger, for it was a signal with which he could neither delay nor trifle.

What might this summons portend?

Carl Langfanger, who was smoothing down his obstinate forelock, while estimating the value of the victim's habiliments, replied, that by the safety of his sinful soul, he knew not.

Was she in immediate danger?

He did not know that either; but she seemed in great tribulation.

"You have seen her, then?"

"Within an hour, messire."

"Where – and where does she now await me?"

"Near an auberge —The Forester of Flanders– three miles from Bommel; an auberge of the best character, messire."

"In what direction, my good friend?"

"Ah – I am messire's good friend now! – the way to Ameldroyen."

"Among the forests?" said Gray, with increasing alarm.

"Exactly, messire."

It seemed most unaccountable that Murielle should anticipate the evening fixed by the abbot, and appoint a wayside auberge as a place of meeting; but the presence of her betrothal ring could not be doubted; and she was in danger, or tribulation, as this apparently suave and honest fellow admitted. What lover could linger or doubt?

"You will come, messire?" entreated Carl.

"Come – instantly! my sword and cloak – "

"Nay, messire, I have the honour to mention," said the sleek Carl, "that mademoiselle does not expect you until the cathedral bells have rung the hour of nine, and when the lamps are hung in the spire."

To Gray this information was more perplexing than ever.

"Near the auberge," continued Carl, "is a stone cross, one hundred paces to the right of the road, where a votive lamp burns – there she will meet you."

"Grace guide me!" exclaimed Gray, "what mystery is this? Is not that district a perilous one after nightfall?"

"There are certainly some clerks of St. Nicholas in the woods at times," said Carl, with pretended hesitation.

"What manner of clerks are they?"

"Disbanded Brabanters, who are their own paymasters."

"Robbers, in fact," said Gray, sharply.

"Ay, robbers, and all kinds of wild fellows."

"Come! this is pleasant for one who will be alone."

"Messire shall not be alone," said Carl, "for I shall be there as a guide."

"Thanks and largesse to you, most worthy varlet," said Gray, gratefully, though feeling more and more bewildered. He then put some money into the hands of Carl, who, glad that his mission was over, hurriedly withdrew, and within an hour duly reported his progress to the count of Endhoven, who still remained at the auberge, though Albany and Achanna had returned to the house of the Dyck Graf, to wait the event of the night.

Gray sat in a turmoil of thought after Carl had retired. The idea of a snare never occurred to him. The presence of Murielle's ring lulled every suspicion, if he had one; and he kissed it again and again, for it had been on her finger since that night when first she admitted that he might love her, when the summer moon was wading the fleecy clouds above the Galloway hills that slept in her silver sunshine, which cast the towers of Thrave in sombre shadow on the black waters of the Dee.

As it did not suit the purpose of master Carl Langfanger to have any outrage committed in his auberge – a place on which the officials of the Dyck Graf had more than once cast eyes of suspicion – it had been arranged that Gray should be waylaid at the solitary cross, and there disarmed, mutilated in the horrible manner suggested by the barbarous count of Endhoven, who is recorded to have treated more than one of his prisoners thus, especially, a poor pilgrim from Antwerp and a merchant of Bruges.

This votive wayside cross had been erected by the eldest son of Reinald, the warlike duke of Gueldres, as a propitiation for his unnatural conduct, in making a captive of his father, who died in 1325.

It stood in a wild and solitary place, among heath and gorse, midway between the highroad which led to the auberge, and the forest that spread along the banks of the Waal. After the gates of Bommel were shut for the night, the vicinity of this cross was a place avoided by all belated people, in consequence of the lawless nature of the district, and of those terrible wolves, whose lair was also the forest.

As the night drew on, Count Ludwig, Carl Langfanger, Gustaf Vlierbeke, and some ten or twelve other outlaws all Brabanciones, and well, but variously armed, issued from the auberge, and repaired to the vicinity of Duke Reinald's Cross, where they concealed themselves in a hollow, close to the path, among some thick willows and alder trees.

"Der Teufel!" grumbled the count, "I hope our lover won't keep us long waiting, for the night breeze that comes from the Waal is cold enough already; so what will it be an hour hence!"

"For that reason I have brought with me, herr count, a jar of Languedoc brandy," said Carl Langfanger.

"Thou art a priceless fellow!" exclaimed the count, with unfeigned ardour, as he took a long draught from the stone bottle, and then passed it round; "and now, Carl, light the brazier – hast got any charcoal?"

"A little sack full; and we have plenty of dead branches hereabout."

"Right! Place it under the bank, where the glow will be hidden by the willows. Set it a-light, I say; 'twill serve to keep us warm, and to heat our branding iron at the same time. Who watches on the roadway?"

"Gustaf Vlierbeke," replied two or three at once.

"Bon! he has the eyes of a mole."

The charcoal, with the addition of some dried branches, was soon glowing in the iron brazier, and it shed an uncertain glow on the patched and parti-coloured garments, the rusty weapons, the pieces of battered armour, the squalid and dirty visages of the ruffians who crouched together, waiting for the coming prey, with watchful ears and stealthy eyes, that had became bloodshot, haggard, and wild in expression, with years of cruelty, lust, debauchery, and rapine; and which brightened only as Carl's long jar of French brandy came round to each in turn.

"Herr Count, there are the lights now, in the cathedral spire," exclaimed Carl, who descended from the top of the grassy bank, whither he had crawled to listen.

"Then the gates of Bommel are being closed; der Teufels braden! where tarries our lover? he should be here by this time!" muttered Ludwig, thrusting the fatal iron deeper in the charcoal, and playing nervously with the haft of his dagger; "is the old mare from the tan-yard ready?"

"All ready for her rider," replied Carl, with a cruel grin; "Gustaf Vlierbeke," he added in a husky whisper, "hear you aught on the roadway?"

"Nothing, but the wind and the tossing leaves."

Mutterings of impatience followed this reply.

"Gustaf has only one eye," said a Brabancione.

"The other was knocked out by the boll of a crossbow at Briel."

"Then, why the devil make him scout?" said a third lurker, in a growling tone.

"Because he has the eye and the quickness of a bloodhound," said the count; "ay, of Souyllard himself. It begins to seem that we shall have a great deal of trouble with this teufel of a Schottlander! Carl could easily have disposed of him at the hostelry, as I did yesterday with the rich pilgrim who was on his way to Strasbourg, and who died, unfortunately, just after sharing with me the contents of his bottle and wallet."

"Died! how?"

"By the severing of the thyroid cartilage."

"What the henckers is that, herr count?"

"The hump in the wind-pipe, where the apple stuck."

"In plain words – "

"Exactly," said the count, passing a finger round his throat, a piece of pantomime which excited the ferocious laughter of his followers; yet they waited with great impatience, and the time seemed to pass the more slowly, that they were without watches or other means of marking it. Gustaf Vlierbeke was withdrawn from the post of scout, and replaced by Carl Langfanger when the lights in the cathedral spire were reduced to two.

"Two lights, der teufel!" exclaimed the count; "they indicate the hour of ten: He must have been warned of our snare, and – hark! what is that?"

"The bay of a wolf, herr count."

"Yes, the moon is rising now, and our charcoal is smouldering fast."

Time passed on slowly; the slower that they waited with fierce impatience, and the night became colder as the stars increased in number and brilliance overhead. Some of the Brabanciones sat idly gnawing their shaggy moustachios; others whiled away the lagging minutes by putting an edge on their swords and daggers, with some of the stones which lay near. It seemed weary work for them at best, for the stone jar was empty now.

At last only one light remained in the great spire of Bommel, and it twinkled like a planet in the distance.

"Eleven!" exclaimed the count, starting to his feet, and, amid muttered oaths of rage and disappointment, they were rising to disperse, when Carl Langfanger crawled back, with tidings that a horseman was coming rapidly along the highway. Again the charcoal was blown up by Gustaf Vlierbeke, who made a bellows of his lungs; again the spur-shaped iron was inserted deeper, teeth were set, fierce eyes sparkled, and weapons were grasped and drawn.

On came the solitary rider – on and on. His horse's hoofs rang louder with every bound as he drew nearer, and all held their breath when he suddenly reined up abreast of the cross, in a little niche of which an oil lamp was flickering in the gusty wind.

"Der teufel – 'tis he at last!" said the count, as the rider turned his horse to the right and cautiously approached the cross. Then springing from their ambush, with loud yells of exultation and ferocity, the Brabanciones rushed upon him! His horse's bridle and his stirrups were grasped on both sides; and before a cry could escape his lips, the victim was dragged from his saddle, struck to the earth under a shower of blows, and manacled by a strong cord.

"Light a torch, and drag him into the hollow," cried Count Ludwig, whose order was roughly and promptly obeyed.

CHAPTER XXXVI
DUKE REINALD'S CROSS

He wrapp'd his cloak upon his arm, he smote away their swords,

Striking hard and sturdy buffets on the mouths of those proud lords;

Snapping blades and tearing mouths, like a lion at his meal,

Laughing at the stab of dagger, and the flashing of their steel.

All the Year Round.

Great was the impatience of the earl and of his satellite, James Achanna, to learn the result of the snare they had laid for Sir Patrick Gray. If successful in its cruelty, the first felt assured that a formidable obstruction to his plans would be removed for ever; and the latter flattered himself that he would be a richer man by a thousand silver crowns of the Rhine. Then he had his plans to mature for turning Count Ludwig into as much ready money as the Dyck Graf would pay for him. Our utilitarian felt that he was on the eve of making his fortune!

That the ill-fated Sir Patrick Gray had left his hostelry punctually, Achanna had already ascertained, and duly reported to the earl.

"It is easier," says Goldsmith, "to conceive than to describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury and the pleasure of approaching vengeance," but in the present instance, it was the mere delight of cruel and wicked hearts in a lawless revenge (without the sense of real injury) that fired the hearts of the earl and Achanna.

They had not an atom of compunction!

Albany was aware, by the recent interview at the auberge, that his more favoured rival was to be removed; how, he scarcely knew (he had been so tipsy), and how, he little cared; but he pitied – for this exiled and outlawed prince was not quite destitute of generosity – Murielle, as the poor girl, in joyous anticipation of the morrow's meeting with her lover, had assumed her cithern, and all unconscious of the horrors impending, sang one or two sweet old Galloway songs; but they failed to soothe either the savage earl, or his more unscrupulous follower, who, from the recess of a window, surveyed her with gloomy malignity in his cat-like eyes, which, as already described, were situated singularly far apart in his head, from the conical top of which his red hair hung in tufts.

When the hour of ten was tolled from the spire of the cathedral (where time was regulated then by great hour-glasses), the curiosity of Douglas and Achanna could no longer be repressed.

"You have an order from the Dyck Graf to pass the gates," whispered the earl.

"Yes; at any hour."

"Then set forth; seek that fellow whom you name: what is it they call him?"

"Count Ludwig of Endhoven."

"A rare noble, by the Mass! Seek him and bring me sure tidings of what has transpired."

Within twenty minutes after this, Achanna had mounted and left Bommel, after duly presenting to the captain of the watch his pass, signed by Jacques de Lalain. Taking the road to Ameldroyan, he rode slowly – very slowly at first, listening to every sound; but all seemed still by the wayside, and coldly and palely the waning moon shone on the waters of the Waal, and of the sluices and marshes which there intersected the level country. The windmills – unusual features to a Scotsman's eye – stood motionless and silent, like giants with outstretched arms.

Now a sound came upon the wind at times, and he reined up his horse to listen. Anon he rode forward again, for that sound made him shudder. It was the wild weird cry of a wolf in the forest, baying to the moon.

Feeling alternately for his sword and his crucifix (just as a Spaniard of the present day would do), he neared the appointed spot, and his keen eyes detected a lurking figure which withdrew at his approach. This was Carl Langfanger the scout.

A cruel joy filled Achanna's heart with a strange glow, and his large coarse ears quivered like those of a sleuth-bratch in his eagerness to catch a passing sound.

Was it all over – were the thousand crowns his? Had Gray been blinded by the burning iron, manacled, stripped and bound to the goaded horse which was to bear him to the wild forest, and to the wolves' jaws? Did the baying he had heard in the distance announce that the chase was over, and their repast begun – that horse and rider had been torn limb from limb?

He asked these questions of himself as he rode on. Soon he saw the votive lamp that flickered before Duke Reinald's cross. Then he detected a red gleam that wavered under some willow trees. It came from the brazier in which Ludwig had heated the blinding iron. He spurred impatiently forward. There was a shout, and amid cries of, "Der Schottlander, donner and blitzen, der Schottlander!" he was struck from his horse and pinioned in a moment, before he could utter a cry for mercy or for explanation.

The wretch had fallen into his own trap.

His clothes were roughly rent from his body, and if he opened his mouth the point of a sword menaced his throat. Covered with blood and bruises, and screaming like a terrified woman for mercy, he was dragged into the hollow where Count Ludwig was seated before the brazier, with the brandy-jar by his side.

Amid shouts of ferocious laughter and imprecations his head was grasped by several of the ruffians, while Carl Langfanger drew forth the gleaming iron from the brazier. Achanna uttered a last scream of terror and agony on beholding it, and then his voice seemed to leave him. The cold bead-drops burst upon his throbbing temples; his eyes started from their sockets as if to anticipate their doom, and the pulses of his heart seemed to stand still – he could only sigh and gasp.

He felt the hot glow upon his cheek – already it seemed to burn into his brain, and he gave himself over for lost, when there was a sudden shout and a rush of horses' hoofs; he saw the flashing of swords above his head, and heard the rasp of steel on steel as the blades emitted red sparks. There was a sudden shock, and a conflict seemed to close over him as he fell to the earth on his face fainting, and some time elapsed before he became sufficiently conscious to understand that he was free, and rescued by the valour of a single horseman, who was clad in a helmet and chain shirt, and whose sword was dripping with the red evidence of how skilfully he had used it in the recent fray.

But what were the emotions of James Achanna when by a sudden gleam from the expiring contents of the brazier, as the night wind swept through the hollow, he recognized in his preserver, Sir Patrick Gray of Foulis!

Astonishment with craven fear prevailed; but not the slightest emotion of gratitude. He felt rather a glow of rage and bitterness that Gray, by a mistake, or by loitering so long, had been too late for his own destruction!

Sir Patrick, as Achanna learned, had left his hostelry in sufficient time to be at the false rendezvous; but being without an order from the Dyck Graf to pass the gates, (a document with which he had not provided himself, lest a knowledge of the application for it might lead to his discovery by the Douglases) he had been refused egress by the guards; and after spending an hour in attempting every gate of Bommel – an hour of impatience and fury – during which he strove in vain to corrupt by gold the trusty Walloons who watched them, he swam his horse at last through the Waal, and having thus to make a great detour, arrived at a most critical time for the fate of Achanna, who gazed at him, speechlessly and helplessly, afraid to utter a word lest Gray might recognise his voice, and pass through his body the sword which had just saved him.

Sir Patrick, however, did recognise him as he cut his cords, but not immediately; though there was no mistaking his hideous visage and green cat-like eyes, or the red hair and beard that mingled together.

"So it is thee, James Achanna," said he; "dog and son of a dog, had I met you mounted and armed as I now am I would have slain you without remorse or mercy. As it is, go, and remember that you receive your miserable life at the hand of one who spares it rather from profound disdain, than that you may have time for repentance – a time that may never come to you!"

With these words Gray smote him on the cheek, sheathed his sword, remounted his horse, and, bewildered by the whole affair, rode rapidly off, leaving Achanna to find his way back to Bommel as he best could.

Sir Patrick was filled with rage, but he knew not against whom to direct it. He half suspected that a snare had been laid for him, and then dismissed the idea, believing that the circumstance of his being in Bommel, or even in Flanders, was unknown to all save the abbot and Murielle, the mission on which Crichton had sent him being almost a secret one: for these reasons he did not make himself known to Achanna by name.

It was not until dawn, when the gates were open to admit the boors and peasantry to the markets, that the rescuer and the rescued made their way, but by different routes, into Bommel; and a scurvy figure the latter made when he presented himself at the residence of the Douglases, minus horse, arms, and clothing, with an ill-devised tale of his having been assaulted by Brabanciones, while the fierce jibes of the earl, and the narrow escape from a dreadful death, inspired him with more hatred than ever against Gray and Murielle, for he had learned to combine them in one idea.