Читать книгу The Leopard and the Lily - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 10

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AT the "Sign of the Rising Sun," the inn near the gates of Rennes, where Valerie Estercel stayed, a stranger, both to the city and to Brittany, had arrived. An Englishman with one esquire.

He sat now in the public parlour, leaning over a letter of directions, pushing his hair back from his intent face, in the endeavour to make out the close writ French.

The window was open and a sweet smell of freshness, of rain and wet earth was blown into the sunny oaken room.

The Englishman appeared to be a person of some distinction judging by his blue velvet dress, handsomely ruffled with lace, and the sable cloak thrown over the back of his chair, and when he rose from the letter, and crossed to the window, he showed a tall, well-formed figure and a pleasant face, the most remarkable feature of which was a pair of light brown eyes.

It was drawing toward the evening, and those who lodged there beginning to return to the "Sign of the Rising Sun," and he of the brown eyes, noticing the courtyard filling with travellers, went into the passage in some anxiety, surveying a bale of goods and a chest that stood there.

"Plague on your outlandish tongue," he said to himself, glancing at the host, for he spoke no Breton, and the other little French.

By dint of signs and much impatience on the part of the Englishman, the packages were dragged upstairs and lodged in his room, still regarded by their owner with anxious eyes.

Among those returning to the inn was Valerie Estercel and he did not come alone.

A lady and a knight were with him, attended by a serving man. The couple whom he had met on the road outside Rennes, the gray-eyed dame and her dark brother.

To the host Sir Valerie explained they were travellers who had lost their way, and whom he had met outside the town—to-night they could stay at the "Rising Sun "—to-morrow he would leave Rennes with them—as they had asked the favour of his company.

The Englishman had returned to the parlour and was looking out of the window at the wide prospect of crooked roofs, with here and there the high-springing, slender spires of beautiful churches.

When he turned again Valerie Estercel was in the room, and the lady undoing her mantle at the fire, the profile of her face clear against her dark hood. She had a tender mouth and wistful, and heavy, dark-brown hair lay coiled about her neck, she was rouged and her eyes darkened, but it was done so well as to be forgiven. Valerie was talking to her in a low voice and her companion standing near the door covertly surveyed the Englishman.

He had a dark face and shrewd eyes and was plainly dressed but with elegance.

Suddenly Valerie turned to the figure in the window with whom he had some slight acquaintance, they having been guests together these few days at the "Rising Sun."

"Madame," he said to the lady, "Sir Gregan Griffiths, an Englishman, travelling Brittany as we do—one whom I trust may accompany us—Sir Gregan, this is Madame la Contesse d'Estouteville and her brother, Sir Esper Vassè."

Sir Gregan Griffiths looked at them both keenly. He had merry eyes and a mouth that looked as if it was always going to break into a laugh.

He laughed now, bowing, then turned to the window again, but his eyes were on the lady's face—she reminded him of some one, reminded him very strongly.

A boy came in and placed lights round the room and put more logs on the fire stirring it into a ruddy glow that shone through Valerie's flaxen hair.

The lady had laid her cloak aside, underneath she wore a long, gray gown that matched her eyes in colour, and at her breast and in her pretty hair were thick red ribbons.

She had scarlet velvet gloves and drew them off slowly, seating herself in the great chair in front of the fire, Valerie on one side, and her brother, dark, silent, on the other.

They were talking together, softly, when Gregan Griffiths, coming from the window with his eyes on her face, joined in easily, leaning on the back of Valerie's chair.

"Maybe you know Brittany better than I," he said. "Maybe, you can tell me something I have been puzzled over since I landed."

"What, Messire?" asked Madame d'Estouteville, and there was a slight simper in the sweetness of her tone.

"This," said Gregan—"Who is La Rose Rouge?"

He was surprised to see her start and flush—and her brother answered quickly as if to cover her confusion:

"What have you heard of him, Messire?"

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders lightly. "Travelling through Hardouinaye and Dol, I heard much—every forest I traversed, they bade me beware of La Rose Rouge—every horseman riding by, went on his knees to God to defend them against La Rose Rouge—I passed houses burned to the ground—La Rose Rouge did it—I passed trees laden with corpses—La Rose Rouge did it—and no one could tell me who La Rose Rouge was."

"I heard of him," said Valerie, "when I rode through Hardouinaye."

Madame d'Estouteville kept her eyes on the fire, but Sir Esper answered with a laugh: "I can tell you—it is Enguerrand de la Rose, Count of Bàrrès and Dol, called La Rose Rouge because of the colour of his hair, his eyes, and his hands—a dangerous rebel, Messire, who has defied the Duke and the King, long and successfully."

"The people of Brittany seem to hold him in terror," said Gregan.

Esper's sister spoke now, sweetly:

"He holds the land of Dol—a perfect king there, Messire, no one dare interfere."

She folded her hands in her lap, they were very white and pretty hands, and she crossed her feet daintily, her red shoes glowing like fire in the warm light.

Her voice was very plaintive and sweet—Gregan Griffiths had heard one very like it—some years ago in England—he was watching her keenly.

"Madame," he said suddenly, "had you a sister at the court of England?"

She turned and looked him straight in the face. "Never, Messire."

Her voice was quite steady, her face calm.

"You remind me, Madame, of one called Diane d'Espernon—you never knew of her?"

She did wince a little now and turned away, but still she answered firmly and with some disdain: "I never heard the name, Messire."

Gregan smiled, but his face had grown hard.

"'Tis some mistake," said her brother hastily ant he rose: "Your chamber will be ready now, Denise."

As she rose, she looked at Gregan defiantly, her teeth set in her under lip, then gathering her skirts about her, was gone, Sir Esper following.

Gregan looked after them and laughed:

"Save our souls! a pretty pair!"

Valerie Estercel, day-dreaming over the fire, looked up startled.

"What do you mean, Messire?"

Gregan Griffiths came up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder:

"You make those your companions?"

"Yes, Messire, our roads he together—and the countess' face remindeth me of one I hold in my heart—they asked me—therefore I go with them." He turned great, swimming eyes up at the other and spoke gravely.

"My friend," said Gregan calmly. "Take a warning—that man and his sister are as clever a pair of rogues as ever deceived."

"Messire!"

Valerie sprang to his feet with a flushed face. "What right have you to say that—Morbleu! what right?"

Gregan looked amused into the other's angry eyes.

"You are easily caught," he said, "and I am sorry for you—why, the man's a scoundrel, a lying scoundrel—and the lady—"

"The lady—what of the lady?" Valerie's slender figure was dilated to its full height, his eyes blazing.

"She is—well, no better—take heed in time, Sir Valerie."

"This is slander!" cried Valerie. "Mon Dieu! slander! Have they not trusted me I stands it with mere honour to listen to you now? I will go with them to the end of the earth!"

"More like to the end of the next street to be left there clubbed with your pockets empty." Valerie flushed hotly:

"I'll not listen—I'll not believe."

"Sir Valerie—whatever you call yourself," retorted Gregan angrily, "you're a fool, and I warrant this isn't the first time you've been told so—but an' you've a fancy to grace my lady Denise's net—it's not I will be wasting time stopping you."

Valerie held his clasped hands up to Heaven in a passionate appeal:

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! that I should hear this! that a true knight should be so insulted. Hear me swear—"

But the door banging told him Gregan had gone, and he flung himself on to the settle again, sighing.

Gregan Griffiths went up to his chamber and began pacing about angrily.

"She is Diane d'Espernon's sister, I feel sure of it," he said, "an' busy ruining others as Diane ruined Kristopher." He felt sore and angry at having met them—what were they doing in Brittany where Kristopher was—Kristopher, whom he had come from England to see, for Sir Gregan's wife was Fassiferne's own sister.

Presently he heard voices outside and went out on to the landing.

Denise and Esper were talking together on the stairs, half hidden in the dark and with them another—he who had come with them as a serving-man.

Gregan caught a glimpse of him, and all the blood rushed to his face.

All doubts had vanished now—that serving-man was he who had shone at the English court as Kristopher Fassiferne's friend and his wife's brother.

It was some hours later, past midnight, the whole inn silent, dark, not a soul stirring. The great parlour was in perfect blackness, the fire out, the ashes cold.

Presently there was a faint sound, as of a footstep, and a pale light flickered up, a taper, showing clearly who held it, Denise d'Estouteville.

Her brothers were there, too, creeping softly into the thin circle of light.

Denise put the taper cautiously on the table, shading it with her hands.

"Eneth," she said to the younger of the two men, "he is abed and asleep?"

Eneth nodded, but Esper spoke angrily:

"'Tis a piece of folly—I think he knew you, Denise."

"How could he?" she retorted sharply, "he had never seen me—and I am not so very like to Yvonne-Marie."

"Hush!" whispered Eneth.

"Besides," continued Denise in a lower tone, "we must have money—I brought nothing away from Bàrrès but the ornaments I wore."

"Curse you for quarrelling with Enguerrand," said Esper sullenly, "and for looking so foolish when he was mentioned."

"It was you," she said. "I had kept him had not you interfered—.—"

"Ma chérie," said the younger brother softly, picking up the candle. "If you have anything to say—this is hardly the time to say it—I have the keys here—I know he carries treasure."

"And the wine is drugged," said Denise. "An' we are to deceive that wearisome fool, Sir Valerie, we must have money." As she spoke she opened the door softly, and silently they stepped out into the corridor.

The one candle shed a pale light, enough to show the way, no more.

They were all darkly dressed, Denise with a handkerchief tied over the lower half of her face, making her look ghastly in the sickly light.

"Hush—did one of you speak?"

She looked back over her shoulder, stopping.

"No, no," whispered Esper.

Cautiously they gained the first landing, a cold wind blew across from the draughty window and almost put the candle out, its flickering light only showed a few feet of dark, carved wood and their own tense faces.

"Which door?" breathed Denise, fumbling her hand across the wall in the dark.

"The second—hush—"

They paused—breathless a moment, it was only the wind.

"Curse the wind," muttered Esper.

Another sound was mingled with it now, the wild beat of the rain, slashing down through the bare trees.

"Fortunate," said Denise, and carefully turned the handle; there was no need for the key, the door was unlocked.

Breathlessly, with a silent, gliding motion, Denise crept in, Eneth after her; for a second the elder brother hung back, then followed.

The room was fairly small and low, the one window firmly barred.

A great black bedstead stood against the wall, canopied in silk.

Denise stepped a little closer, light-footed as a cat.

Eneth was creeping across the room with the stealthy pace of a panther, feeling by the wall as he went.

"Where is it—where?" whispered Denise. She held the light over her head and looked round.

"Here," said Eneth; from the far corner of the room he dragged a great package, drawing it lightly over the floor.

Esper was beside it in a moment, the tools were ready and he was prizing the lid open.

Denise stood over them with the taper, not without some anxious glances toward the bed.

A stifled exclamation from Esper intercepted him, the chest lay open, the pale light showed folds of stuffs—no gold—no jewels!

"Curse them!" cried Eneth. "Malidictè!"

"There is gold somewhere," said Denise. "I have kept my ears and eyes open all the evening and heard of it. Gregan Griffiths carried it."

"We must find it," said Eneth.

They paused and looked round irresolute, flashing the candle into the farthest corners of the room. There was no sign of any chest or anything containing money.

Denise bit her lip in vexation. "We had best leave it," said Esper, fearfully.

"Is he not drugged?" returned Denise, "and the wind and rain beat loud enough to drown our footsteps to the others."

She looked toward the bed. Under the rough coverlet lay Gregan Griffiths in a deep sleep. At the end of the bed was his fur-lined cloak and the blue velvet suit.

Eneth was going over the pockets deftly, there were papers and money—both English.

"Ah!" Denise pointed to the bedside, on a cane chair lay a sword and a dagger, both bare and in reach of the sleeper's hand, and underneath was a small, padlocked box.

The three fixed their eyes on it eagerly.

The sleeper never moved or stirred, his deep breathing alone showed he was alive.

The rain beat down steadily, the wind made the casement rattle and the faint candlelight leaped up and down.

"Draw that box out," whispered Denise.

"It lies very close to him," returned Esper, shrinking.

"He is a powerful man, as I know of old," said Eneth, looking at the sleeper's outline beneath the clothes. He slipped the money he had taken from the clothes into his pocket, and the papers into the breast of his doublet. "Plague take it, for English money!"

"Shall we stand here till dawn?" said Denise, angrily. "He is drugged!"

With a sudden catlike movement Eneth had crept up and drawn the box out into the room.

Denise, bending forward eagerly, with the taper, saw something gleam on the bed.

"He wears a fine ring," she said.

The two men were busy forcing the box open; this time was no mistake, it contained bags of gold and jewels. Esper closed it with a sigh of content.

"Now—leave as quickly as we can," he said.

"I will have that ring," said Denise, "to give to Valerie—"

"Come away," said Esper roughly, dragging the heavy box toward the door. Denise followed him, but stopped by the bedside.

The sleeper's hand lay outside, on one of his fingers he wore a carved gold ring of great beauty, set with a crystal.

"Eneth—et me that ring—"

"Hush—come away—it is pure folly—there are rings here and to spare."

Denise hesitated a moment, but the sight of that great jewel roused all her greed.

"I must have it—he is drugged—it will only take a second."

Eneth turned in a fever of impatience. "Must you always do the one thing too much? Taking it from his very hand!"

"I will do it myself," said Denise. The sleeper's steady breathing came regularly, the dark curtains were drawn well away from the bed, the ring gleamed on the hand lying on the tapestry coverlet. Denise drew nearer, carrying the candle, and her brothers waited in the door, fuming, the faint, yellow light throwing a shaded gleam over the sleeper's face. The woman's eyes were on the ring, she looked round keenly and leaned forward.

Esper and Eneth held their breath. Her hand was on his, with delicate fingers she was drawing it off, so still, her very breathing was checked—it fitted tight—still it was coming—

"Ah!"

Her hand was seized in a grasp of iron and a pair of brown eyes were looking at her from the pillow.

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" she struggled violently, flinging the taper to the ground, Eneth making desperately for the door only shut it in the dark, and could not find the handle.

"Let me go, let me go!" cried Denise. She leaned down and bit the hand that held her, struggling wildly.

It was dark, pitch dark. Esper in a frenzy of fear, fought wildly for the door, he could not find it.

They could hear Denise's stifled cries of rage, the sound of a desperate struggle.

"We must kill him," said Eneth.

It was the only way for their safety—the only way—a few sparks of fire still burned on the hearth, Esper with the cunning of desperation thrust the taper he carried into the grate—in a moment more the room was in the light again, the whole thing had taken only seconds in almost perfect silence. Esper looking round wildly, with a drawn sword, saw Denise lying by the bedfoot, twisted round with the sheet, and sitting on the bed Sir Gregan with a flushed face; he had his sword across his knee, and Esper hesitated.

"Three of you are there?" said Sir Gregan, looking round at them—"now"—as Eneth made toward him with his dagger—"you put your swords—both of you—down here beside me—or I blow this. You—unspeakable caitiff—I remember you." He had a silver whistle round his neck and showed it them.

Eneth fell back with lowering hate in his face. They knew each other—these two.

The Englishman rose, his bare sword in his hand.

"You miserable rogues—you know what it would mean if you were found here? Hanging."

"Wretched coward!" flashed Denise, and struggled on to her knees. "Kill him, Eneth."

"Hanging," repeated Gregan calmly. "Now do you want to be hanged?" He was a powerful man, the game was in his hands, though he was only half dressed and they were two, the slightest noise would bring the house and Valerie about them.

Suddenly Esper put his sword down, Eneth his beside it.

"Now bring that box back!"

Esper dragged it back into the room, watching for a chance to seize the other by the throat, but he was watchful, too, and had that bare sword across his knee.

"You were rifling my pockets—keep the money for your trouble—and give me the papers back."

"You were awake!" said Denise, her eyes bright with hate.

"Yes, my pretty lady, I was awake. I know too much to drink the wine brought to me in inns in this honest country—when Sir Eneth d'Espernon brings it."

Eneth flung the money and letters on the bed with a curse, the box of jewels stood in the middle of the floor.

"You may go," said Gregan curtly.

There was nothing else to do, they turned, humbled, baffled. As they neared the door he came up to them with a curious smile:

"Take this," he said to Denise, and slipped the gold ring off his finger. He held it out in the pale taper light close to her bewildered face. "As a token that Gregan Griffiths will be silent as Kristopher Fassiferne was."

"Why should you tell?" she flashed. "Have you not got it all back—keep your ring, too!"

Esper tried to hush her, but she flung him off.

"Keep your ring, too—" she tossed it back across the room, her tear-stained face distorted with passion.

He looked at her with a smile.

"Now, my sweet little rogue—you will leave this inn—and Rennes—to-morrow."

"Before daybreak," said Esper, and dragged his sister from the room.

Eneth paused a moment.

"I am unarmed—" he began fiercely.

"And a thief," said Gregan Griffiths, calmly, "otherwise we might fight—as it is—Sir Eneth d'Espernon—"

He took him by the shoulders and put him outside the door, closing it after him.

He heard them hesitate outside, baffled. Gregan laughed a little.

I suppose I was a fool to let them go—but it made me sick to think of that woman's face hanging from the town gibbet—had it not been for her he picked up his ring and shut the lid of the treasure box, drawing it close to the bed.

"The little devil bit hard, too," he murmured, looking ruefully at his finger, stiff from Denise's teeth.

He half thought they might return.

"She has spirit enough for anything," he said to himself and kept on the alert, half sorry that he had not choked the life out of Eneth.

But the night wore on and no one came, and Gregan fell asleep in his chair, forgetful of everything in utter weariness.

He woke with a start, the noise of horses outside had awakened him: It was daylight, there were voices outside, the voices of the Bretons, the cheerful calls of the stable boy.

Gregan remembered last night, save for the tumbled tapestries and that handkerchief under his sword he had almost thought it a dream.

He went to the window and looked out, there were four people mounted on horses, the three of last night and another.

"That fool Sir Valerie," said Gregan to himself, "now if they don't leave Rennes—the whole pack of them—"

A sudden thought struck him, he went back into the room and fetched the handkerchief.

Denise looked pale and her sleeves were well down over her wrists.

Gregan opened the window and leaned out:

"Madame," he said softly, "Madame!"

She looked up instantly, there was no blush on her face, no fear in her eyes, only a cold questioning.

Gregan's anger rose higher, there was malice in his even voice. "Madame—you dropped this—last night." He flung the handkerchief, and as it fluttered to the ground, Sir Valerie picked it up, and at sight of it a slow colour mounted to Denise's cheeks.

"Thank you, Messire," she said, but she did not raise her eyes to those bright brown ones above.

But Valerie did look up, and hotly too.

"A gallant way to return a lady's handkerchief!" he cried. "Worthy thee—who art thou—thou churl!"

"Now," said Gregan, "this is too much. What art thou?—I will tell thee—a fool among rogues."

And he drew his head in, shutting the window sharply on Valerie's furious reply.

And not till they were out of the courtyard and well up the street, did Gregan Griffiths descend, and calling his man, set out in search of Captain Kristopher.