Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures (86 page)

“Later I fell in with Guiscard de Clisson, a leader of the Free Companies, who taught me the use of the sword before he was slain in an ambush. I took naturally to the life of a man, and can drink, swear, march fight and boast with the best of them. I have yet to meet my equal at sword play.”

Stuart scowled slightly as if my word did not please him overmuch, and he lifted his tankard, quaffed deeply, and said: “There be as good men in Scotland as in France, and there men say that John Stuart’s blade is not made of straw. But who is this?”

The door had opened and a gust of cold wind made the candles flicker, and sent a shiver over the men on the settles. A tall man entered, closing the door behind him. He was wrapped in a wide black mantle, and when he raised his head and his glance over the tavern, a silence fell suddenly. That face was strange and unnatural in appearance, being so dark in hue it was almost black. His eyes were strange, murky and staring. I saw several topers cross themselves as they met his gaze, and then he seated himself at a table in a corner furthest from the candles, and drew his mantle closer about him, though the night was warm. He took the tankard proffered him by an apprehensive slattern and bent his head over it, so his face was no longer visible under his slouch hat, and the hum of the tavern began again, though somewhat subdued.

“Blood on that mantle,” said John Stuart. “If that man be not a cutthroat then I am much befooled. Host, another bottle!”

“You are the first Scotsman I ever met,” said I, “though I have had dealings with Englishmen.”

“A curse on the breed!” he cried. “The devil take them all into his keeping. And a curse on my enemies who exiled me from Scotland.”

“You are an exile?” I asked.

“Aye! With scant gold in my sporran. But fortune ever favors the brave.” And he laid hand on the hilt at his hip.

But I was watching the stranger in the corner, and Stuart turned to stare at him. The man had lifted his hand and crooked a finger at the fat host, and that rogue drew nigh, wiping his hands on his leathern apron and uneasy in his expression. There was something about the black-mantled stranger that repelled men.

The stranger spoke, but his words were a mumble, and mine host shook his head in bewilderment.

“An Italian,” muttered Stuart. “I know that jabber anywhere.”

But the stranger shifted into French, and as he spoke, haltingly at first, his words grew plainer, his voice fuller.

“Francoise de Bretagny,” quoth he, and repeated the name several times. “Where is the house of Francoise de Bretagny?”

The inn-keeper began giving him directions, and Stuart muttered: “Why should that ill-visaged Italian rogue desire to go to Francoise de Bretagny?”

“From what I hear,” I answered cynically, “it is no great surprize to hear any man asking for her house.”

“Lies are always told about beautiful women,” answered Stuart, lifting his tankard. “Because she is said to be the mistress of the Duke of Orleans does not mean that she – ”

He froze suddenly, tankard to lip, staring, and I saw an expression of surprize pass over his brown, scarred face. At that moment the Italian had risen, and drawing his wide mantle about him, made for the door.

“Stop him!” roared Stuart, leaping to his feet, and dragging out his sword. “Stop that rogue!”

But at that instant a band of soldiers in morions and breastplates came shouldering in, and the Italian glided out past them and shut the door behind him. Stuart started forward with a curse, to halt as the soldiers barred the way. Striding into the center of the tavern, and roving a stern glance over all the cringing occupants, the captain, a tall man in a gleaming breastplate, said loudly: “Agnes de La Fere, I arrest you for the murder of Jacques Pelligny!”

“What do you mean, Tristan?” I exclaimed angrily, springing up. “I did not kill Pelligny!”

“This woman saw you leave the alley where the man was slain,” answered he, indicating a tall, fair wench in feathers and gauds who cowered in the grasp of a burly man-at-arms and would not meet my gaze. I knew her well, a courtesan whom I had befriended, and whom I would not have expected to give false testimony against me.

“Then she must have seen me too,” quoth John Stuart, “for I was with Agnes. If you arrest her you must arrest me too, and by Saint Andrew, my sword will have something to say about that.”

“I have naught to do with you,” answered Tristan. “My business is with this woman.”

“Man, you are a fool!” cried Stuart gustily. “She did not kill Pelligny. And what if she did. Was not the rogue under sentence of death?”

“He was meat for the hangman, not the private citizen,” answered Tristan.

“Listen,” said Stuart. “He was slain by footpads, who then attacked Agnes who chanced to be traversing the alley at the time. I came to her aid, and we slew two of the rogues. Did you not find their bodies, with masks to their heads to prove their trades?”

“We saw no such thing,” answered Tristan. “Nor were you seen thereabouts, so your testimony is without value. This woman here saw Agnes de La Fere pursue Pelligny into the alley and there stab him. So I am forced to take her to the prison.”

“I know well why you wish to arrest me, Tristan,” I said coolly, approaching him with an easy tread. “I had not been in Chartres a day before you sought to make me your mistress. Now you take this revenge upon me. Fool! I am mistress only to Death!”

“Enough of this idle talk,” ordered Tristan curtly. “Seize her, men!” It was his last command on earth, for my sword was through him before he could lift his hand. The guard closed in on me with a yell, and as I thrust and parried, John Stuart sprang to my side and in an instant the inn was a madhouse, with stamping boots, clanging blades and the curses and yells of slaughter. Then we broke through, leaving the floor strewn with corpses, and gained the street. As we broke through the door I saw the wench they had brought to testify against me cowering behind an overturned settle and I grasped her thick yellow locks and dragged her with me into the street.

“Down that alley,” gasped Stuart. “Other guardsmen will be here anon. “Saint Andrew, Agnes, will you burden yourself with that big hussy? We must take to our heels!”

“I have a score to settle with her,” I gritted, for all my hot blood was roused. I hauled her along with us until we made a turn in the alley and halted for breath.

“Watch the street,” I bade him, and then turning to the cowering wench, I said in calm fury: “Margot, if an open enemy deserves a thrust of steel, what fate doth a traitress deserve? Not four days agone I saved you from a beating at the hands of a drunken soldier, and gave you money because your tears touched my foolish compassion. By Saint Trignan, I have a mind to cut the head from your fair shoulders!’

“Oh, Agnes,” she sobbed, falling on her knees, and clasping my legs. “Have Mercy! I – ”

“I’ll spare your worthless life,” I said angrily, beginning to unsling my sword belt. “But I mean to turn up your petticoats and whip you as no beadle ever did.”

“Nay, Agnes!” she wailed. “First hear me! I did not lie! It is true that I saw you and the Scotsman coming from the alley with naked swords in your hands. But the watch said merely that three bodies were lying in the alley, and two were masked, showing they were thieves. Tristan said whoever slew them did a good night’s work, and asked me if I had seen any coming from the alley. So I thought no harm, and replied that I had seen you and the Scotsman John Stuart. But when I spoke your name, he smiled and told his men that he had his reasons for desiring to get Agnes de La Fere in a dungeon, helpless and unarmed; and bade them do as he told them. So he told me that my testimony about you would be accepted, but the rest, about John Stuart, and the two thieves he would not accept. And he threatened me so terribly that I dared not defy him.”

“The foul dog,” I muttered. “Well, there is a new captain of the watch in hell tonight.”

“But you said
three
bodies,” broke in John Stuart. “Were there not four? Pelligny, two thieves, and the body of Costranno?”

She shook her head.

“I saw the bodies. There were but three. Pelligny lay deep in the alley, fully clad, the other two around the crook, and the larger was naked.”

“Eh?” ejaculated Stuart. “By Heaven, that Italian! I have but now remembered! On, to the house of Francoise de Bretagny!”

“Why there?” I demanded.

“When the Italian in the inn drew his cloak about him to depart,” answered Stuart, “I glimpsed on his breast a fragment of golden chain and a great red jewel – I believe the very jewel Pelligny grasped in his hand when we found him. I believe that man is a friend of Costranno’s, a magician come to take vengeance on Francoise de Bretagny! Come!”

He set impetuously off up the alley, and I followed him, while the girl Margot scurried away in another direction, evidently glad to get off with a whole skin.

Conclusion from the First Draft

“As that Italian drew his cloak about him, I glimpsed his left hand –
it lacked the middle finger
!”

“What madness is this?” I muttered.

“Aye, and I glimpsed that cursed red jewel glinting on his bosom. Hark, Agnes, suppose that Costranno knew the secret of bringing corpses back to life. Suppose that the jewel held the secret; that after Pelligny and the others cut him down from the gibbet, they were bringing him to his house to restore life to him, when they were apprehended by those rogues. You dropped the jewel on his bosom. Doubtless the incantations had already been made. Moreover that alley, men tell me is paved with stones from an ancient heathen temple that once stood in a grove outside the city, in the days before Rome.

“If such a man were brought back to life, he would remember slowly. But he would seek vengeance. And it was the testimony of Francoise de Bretagny which hanged Costranno!”

To her house we went swiftly, and found a servant lying in the court strangled, with the marks on his throat of a hand lacking the middle finger. We found another servant who had gone mad from seeing the dead man approach Francoise de Bretagny’s chamber and bear her away in her night shift. We followed down a long flight of stairs the existence of which the girl had known nothing, and came into a mysterious crypt. On a stone dais lay Francoise de Bretagny, naked, and Costranno was raising an seven sided slab of stone in the floor, revealing a black gaping hole in the light of a torch which burned in a niche.

I fought Costranno, while Stuart raved and cursed because he could not come at him. I passed my sword thrice through the undeadman’s body without harming him and only my mail shirt beneath my doublet saved me from his terrific thrusts. At last I struck his head from his body and body and head pitched into the black aperture. Taking the torch, I looked down, and a black arm shot out of the darkness and closed on my doublet, striving to drag me into the hole. I struck down with my torch and the thing let go. I had only a glimpse of a distorted apish black thing falling, and the torch fell, dwindling to a speck of light far below, like a meteor. We replaced the slab and carried Francoise out of the crypt, and into the house above, assured of her protection from the watch of the town.

Appendices

H
OWARD’S
J
OURNEY
Historical Influences to Historical Triumphs
by Howard Andrew Jones

Pound for pound Robert E. Howard’s historical fiction more than holds its weight against Howard’s other genre and series work. Over just a few years Howard fashioned a grander helping of these stories than many historical writers craft over a lifetime of effort, surpassing them not only in word count but in quality.

It should not be assumed, though, that he wrote any of his stories in a vacuum, nor that when he first sat down to draft historical fiction he immediately typed works of genius. Professional author though he was, Howard still had to find his comfort level with the genre. He did so in part by being familiar with both history and the writers who brought it to life before him.

All writers are influenced by other storytellers, finding in some traits or themes that they wish to emulate and in others pitfalls they wish to avoid. Usually writers imitate scenes or characters; sometimes they use plot structures or character types as models to work from; and sometimes they find inspiration at the foot of the storyteller then strike off on their own path.

While it’s typical of writers to learn by imitation, Robert E. Howard seldom imitated for long before his own voice was so intercalated into a composition that the inspiration was no longer obvious. Scholars have noted the influence of Jack London and Rudyard Kipling in his work, as well as Howard’s familiarity with myth and legend, likely via Thomas Bulfinch. The shadow cast by adventure and historical adventure writer Harold Lamb over Howard’s work has been noted but never discussed at length. Robert E. Howard seems to have found a kind of kindred spirit in Lamb, and progressed from modeling off his fiction until, student growing to master, Howard matched and even sometimes surpassed his skill.

That is no mean thing, for Harold Lamb was one of the finest of all American adventure writers. Even today, only a few years out from the hundredth anniversary of Lamb’s first great historicals, Lamb’s pacing feels modern. His best fiction is vibrant, cinematic, and exciting, which put him decades ahead of almost all his contemporaries. His plotting rises from the collision of motivations among his characters and is seldom predictable. His depth of knowledge permeates his work without ever derailing the story to trumpet mastery of the material. His characters live and breathe and ride the steppes with an honest multiculturalism. In his work heroism and villainy do not reside in particular cultures, but with individuals – we do not see much evidence of the white man’s burden so prevalent in other stories penned at this time. Some of his contemporary crafters of historical magazine fiction could spin yarns that worked as well – Arthur D. Howden Smith and Arthur Gilchrist Brodeur among them – but no one else so consistently delivered high quality stories, and without resorting to formula.