Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures (59 page)

My hunger mounted with the sun, but the sensation was no uncommon one in my life, so I made no complaint. We were travelling in a south-eastward direction, and it seemed to me that as we progressed a strange nervousness made itself evident in Étienne. He spoke little, and kept to the less traveled roads, frequently following bridle-paths or wood-cutters’ trails that wound in and out among the trees. We met few folk, and they only yokels with axe on shoulder or fagots on back, who gaped at us, and doffed their ragged caps.

Midday was nigh when we halted at a tavern – a woodland inn, lonely and isolated, the sign of which was poorly done, and almost obliterated; but Étienne called it the Knaves’ Fingers. The host came forth, a stooped, hulking lout, with a twisted leer, wiping his hands on his greasy leather apron, and bobbing his bullet head.

“We desire food and lodging,” said Étienne loudly. “I am Gérard de Bretagne, of Montauban, and this my young brother. We have been to Caen, and are travelling to Tours. Tend my horse and set a roasted capon on the table, host.”

The host bobbed and mumbled, and took the stallion’s rein. But he lingered as Étienne lifted me off, for I was stiff from the long ride, and I did not believe my disguise was as complete as I had hoped. For the long glance mine host cast at me was not such as a man gives a lad.

As we entered the tavern, we saw only one man seated on a settle and guzzling wine from a leathern jack – a fat, gross man, his belly bulging over his leather belt. He looked up as we entered, started and opened his mouth as if to speak. Étienne did not speak but looked full at him, and I saw or felt a quick spark of understanding pass between them. The fat man returned to his wine jack in silence, and Étienne and I made our way to the board on which a slatternly serving wench placed the capon ordered, pease, trenchoirs of bread, a great vessel of Caen tripe, and two flagons of wine.

I fell to avidly, with my dagger, but Étienne ate little. He toyed with his food, his gaze shifting from the fat man on the settle, who now seemed to sleep, back to me, and then out the dingy windows with their diamond-shaped panes, or even up to the heavy smoke-stained beams. But he drank much, refilling his flagon again and again, and finally asked me why I did not touch mine.

“I have been too busy eating to drink,” I admitted, and took it up uncertainly, for I had never tasted wine before. All the liquor which ever found its way into our miserable hut, my father had guzzled himself. I emptied the flagon as I had seen him do, and choked and strangled, but found the tang pleasing to my palate.

Étienne swore under his breath.

“By Saint Michel, in all my life I never saw a woman drain a flagon like that! You will be drunk, girl.”

“You forget I am a girl no longer,” I reproved in the same low tone. “Shall we ride on?”

He shook his head.

“We will remain here until morning. You must be weary and in need of rest.”

“My limbs are stiff because I am not used to riding,” I answered. “But I am not tired.”

“Never the less,” he said with a touch of impatience, “we shall rest here until tomorrow. I think it will be safe enough.”

“As you wish,” I replied. “I am utterly in your hands, and wish to do only as you bid in all things.”

“Well and good,” he said. “Naught becomes a young girl like cheerful obedience.” Lifting his voice he called to the host who was returned from the stables, and hovered in the background. “Host, my brother is weary. Bring him to a room where he can sleep. We have ridden far.”

“Aye, your honor!” the host bobbed and mumbled, rubbing his hands together; for Étienne had a way of impressing common folk with his importance, as if he were a count at the very least. But of that later.

The innkeeper shambled through a low-ceilinged room adjoining the tap-room, and which opened out upon the space back of the tavern, and he mounted a ladder which went up into another, more spacious room above. It was under the steep roof, and barely furnished, but even so more elaborate than anything to which I had ever been accustomed. I saw – for somehow I had begun instinctively to note such details – that the only entrance or egress was through the door which opened on to the ladder; there was but one window, and that too small even to admit my lithe form. And there was no bolt for the door from within. I saw Étienne scowl and shoot a quick suspicious glance at the innkeeper, but that lout did not seem to notice, rubbing his hands and discoursing on the excellent qualities of the den into which he had brought us.

“Sleep, brother,” said Étienne for our host’s benefit; then as he turned away, he whispered in my ear. “I trust him not; we will move on as soon as night falls. Rest meantime. I will come for you at dusk.”

Whether it was the wine, after all, or unsuspected weariness, I can not say; but laying myself down on the straw pallet in my clothing, I fell asleep before I knew it, and slumbered long.

II

What woke me was the gentle opening of the door. I wakened to darkness, relieved but little by the starlight in the tiny window. No one spoke, but something moved in the darkness. I heard a beam creak and thought I caught the sound of suppressed breathing.

“Is that you, Étienne?” I whispered. There was no answer, and I spoke a trifle louder. “Étienne! Is that you, Étienne Villiers?”

I thought I heard breath hiss softly between teeth, then the beam creaked again, and a stealthy shuffle receded from me. I heard the door open and close softly, and knew I was once more alone in the room. I sprang up, drawing my dagger. That had not been Étienne, coming for me as he had promised, and I wished to know who it was that had sought to creep upon me in the darkness.

Gliding to the door I opened it and gazed down into the lower room. There was only darkness, as if I looked into a well, but I heard someone moving across the room, and then a fumbling at the outer door. Taking my dagger in my teeth, I slid silently down the ladder, with an ease and stealth that surprized myself. As my feet touched the floor and I seized my dagger and crouched in the darkness, I saw the outer door swing open, and a bulk was framed in the opening for an instant. I recognized the stooped top-heavy figure of the innkeeper. He was breathing so heavily that he could not have heard the faint sounds I made. He ran clumsily but quickly across the court-like space behind the tavern, and I saw him vanish into the stables. I watched, straining my eyes in the dim starlight, and presently he came forth leading a horse. He did not mount the beast, but led him into the forest, showing every evidence of a desire for silence and secrecy. A short time after he had vanished, I caught the faint sound of a horse galloping. Evidently mine host had mounted after attaining a discreet distance from the inn, and was now riding hard to some unknown goal.

All I could think of was that somehow he recognized me, knew of me, and was riding to bear word to my father. I turned and opened the door a crack into the tap-room, and peered in. No one was there but the serving wench, asleep on the floor. A candle burned on the table, and moths fluttered about it. From somewhere there came a faint indistinct mumble of voices.

I glided out the back door and stole around the tavern. Silence hung over the black-shadowed forest, except for a faint far cry of a night bird, and the restless movement of the great stallion in his stall.

Candle light streamed from the window of a small room on the other side of the tavern, separated from the common-room by a short passage. As I glided past this window, I halted suddenly, hearing my name spoken. I nestled close to the wall, listening shamelessly. I heard the quick, clear though low-pitched voice of Étienne, and the rumble of another.

“ – Agnès de Chastillon, she said. What does it matter what a peasant wench calls herself? Is she not a handsome baggage?”

“I’ve seen prettier in Paris, aye, and in Chartres, too,” answered the rumbling voice, which came, I knew, from the fat man who had occupied the settle when we first entered the tavern.

“Pretty!” There was scorn in Étienne’s voice. “The girl’s more than pretty. There’s something wild and untamable about her. Something fresh and vital, I tell you. Any worn-out noble would pay high for her; she would renew the youth of the most jaded debauchee. Look you, Thibault, I would not be offering you this prize, were it not that the risk is too great for me to ride on to Chartres with her. I am suspicious of this dog of an innkeeper, too.”

“If he does recognize you as the man for whose head le duc d’Alençon yearns – ” muttered Thibault.

“Be quiet, fool!” hissed Étienne. “That is another reason I must be rid of the wench. I was surprized into telling her my true name. But by the saints, Thibault, my meeting with her was enough to jolt the calm of a saint! I rounded a bend in the road, and there she stood, straight and tall against the green wood in her torn wedding gown, with her blue eyes smoldering, and the rising sun glinting red in her hair and turning to a streak of blood the dagger in her hand! For an instant I doubted me if she were human, and a strange thrill, almost of terror, swept over me.”

“A country wench in a woods road frightens Étienne Villiers, a rake among rakes,” snorted Thibault, drinking from a jack with a loud sucking noise.

“She was more than that,” retorted Étienne. “There was something fateful about her, like a figure in a tragic drama; something terrible. She is fair, yet there is something strange and dark about her. I can not explain nor understand it.”

“Enough, enough!” yawned Thibault. “You weave a romaunt about a Norman jade. Come to the point.”

“I have come to it,” snapped Étienne. “I had intended taking her on to Chartres and selling her to a brothel-keeper I wot of, myself; but I realize my folly. I would have to pass too close to the domain of le duc d’Alençon, and if he learned I was in the land – ”

“He has not forgotten,” grunted Thibault. “He would pay high for information regarding your whereabouts. He dares not arrest you openly; it will be a dagger in the dark, a shot from the bushes. He would close your mouth in secrecy and silence, if he might.”

“I know,” snarled Étienne with a shudder. “I was a fool to come this far east. Dawn shall find me far away. But you can take the girl to Chartres without fear, aye, or to Paris, for that matter. Give me the price I ask, and she is yours.”

“It is too high,” protested Thibault. “Suppose she fights like a wildcat?”

“That is your look out,” callously answered Étienne. “You have tamed enough wenches so you should be able to handle this one. Though I warn you, there is fire in the girl. But that is your business. You have told me your companions lie in a village not far from here. Get them to aid you. If you can not make a pretty profit of her in Chartres, or in Orléans, or in Paris, you are a greater fool than I am.”

“Well, well,” grumbled Thibault. “I’ll take a chance; after all, that is what a business man must do.”

I heard the clink of silver coins on the table, and the sound was like a knell to me.

And indeed it was my knell, for as I leaned blindly and sickly against the tavern wall, there died in me the girl I had been, and in her stead rose the woman I have become. My sickness passed, and cold fury turned me brittle as steel and pliant as fire.

“A drink to seal the bargain,” I heard Étienne say, “then I must ride. When you go for the wench – ”

I hurled open the door, and Étienne’s hand froze with the goblet at his lips. Thibault’s eyes bulged at me over the rim of his wine cup. A greeting died on Étienne’s lips, and he went suddenly pale at the death in my eyes.

“Agnès!” he exclaimed, rising. I stepped through the door and my blade was sheathed in Thibault’s heart before he could rise. An agonized grunt bubbled from his fat lips, and he sank from his bench, spurting red.

“Agnès!” cried Étienne again, throwing out his arms as if to fend me off. “Wait, girl – !”

“You filthy dog!” I screamed, blazing into mad fury. “You swine – swine –
swine!
” Only my own blind fury saved him as I rushed and stabbed.

I was on him before he could put himself into a position of defense, and my blindly driven steel tore the skin over his ribs. Thrice more I struck, silent and murderous, and he somehow fended the blade from his heart, though the point drew blood from hand, arm and shoulder. Desperately he grasped my wrist and sought to break it, and close-locked we tumbled against the table, over the edge of which he bent me and tried to strangle me. But to grasp my throat he must perforce release my wrist with one hand, and twisting it free of his single grip, I struck for his life. The point snapped on a metal buckle and the jagged shard tore through doublet and shirt, and ploughed along his breast; blood spurted and a groan escaped him. In anguish his grasp weakened, and I twisted from beneath him and dealt him a buffet with my clenched fist that rocked back his head and brought streams of blood from his nostrils. Groping for me he clutched me, and as I gouged at his eyes, he hurled me from him with such force that I hurtled backward across the room and crashed into the wall, thence toppling to the floor.

I was half dazed, but I rebounded with a snarl, gripping a broken table leg. He was wiping blood from his eyes with one hand and fumbling for his sword with the other, but again he misjudged the speed of my attack, and the table leg crashed full on his crown, laying open the scalp and bringing blood in torrents. He threw up his arms to ward off the strokes, and on them and on his head I rained blow after blow, driving him backward, half bent, blind and reeling, until he crashed down into the ruins of the table.

“God, girl,” he whimpered, “would you slay me?”

“With a joyful heart!” I laughed, as I had never laughed before, and I struck him over the ear, knocking him back down among the ruins out of which he was groping.

A moaning cry sobbed through his crushed lips. “In God’s name, girl,” he moaned, extending his hands blindly toward me, “have mercy! Hold your hand, in the name of the saints! I am not fit to die!”

He struggled to his knees, streaming blood from his battered head, his garments dripping crimson. “Hold your hand, Agnès,” he croaked. “Pity, in God’s name!”