Chapter 7. Eaucourt by the Waters

The Path of the King

by John Buchan

The horseman rode down the narrow vennel which led to the St.
Denis gate of Paris, holding his nose like a fine lady. Behind him
the city reeked in a close August twilight. From every entry came the
smell of coarse cooking and unclean humanity, and the heaps of
garbage in the gutters sent up a fog of malodorous dust when they
were stirred by prowling dogs or hasty passengers.

"Another week of heat and they will have the plague here, he
muttered. Oh for Eaucourt--Eaucourt by the waters! I have too
delicate a stomach for this Paris."

His thoughts ran on to the country beyond the gates, the fields
about St. Denis, the Clermont downs. Soon he would be stretching his
bay on good turf.

But the gates were closed, though it was not yet the hour of
curfew. The lieutenant of the watch stood squarely before him with a
forbidding air, while a file of arquebusiers lounged in the
archway.

"There's no going out to-night," was the answer to the impatient
rider.

"Tut, man, I am the Sieur de Laval, riding north on urgent
affairs. My servants left at noon. Be quick. Open!"

"Who ordered this folly?"

"The Marshal Tavannes. Go argue with him, if your mightiness has
the courage."

The horseman was too old a campaigner to waste time in
wrangling. He turned his horse's head and retraced his path up the
vennel. "Now what in God's name is afoot to-night?" he asked himself,
and the bay tossed his dainty head, as if in the same perplexity. He
was a fine animal with the deep barrel and great shoulders of the
Norman breed, and no more than his master did he love this place of
alarums and stenches.

Gaspard de Laval was a figure conspicuous enough even in that
city of motley. For one thing he was well over two yards high, and,
though somewhat lean for perfect proportions, his long arms and deep
chest told of no common strength. He looked more than his thirty
years, for his face was burned the colour of teak by hot suns, and a
scar just under the hair wrinkled a broad low forehead. His small
pointed beard was bleached by weather to the hue of pale honey. He
wore a steel back and front over a doublet of dark taffeta, and his
riding cloak was blue velvet lined with cherry satin. The man's habit
was sombre except for the shine of steel and the occasional flutter
of the gay lining. In his velvet bonnet he wore a white plume. The
rich clothing became him well, and had just a hint of foreignness, as
if commonly he were more roughly garbed. Which was indeed the case,
for he was new back from the Western Seas, and had celebrated his
home-coming with a brave suit.

As a youth he had fought under Conde in the religious wars, but
had followed Jean Ribaut to Florida, and had been one of the few
survivors when the Spaniards sacked St. Caroline. With de Gourgues he
had sailed west again for vengeance, and had got it. Thereafter he
had been with the privateers of Brest and La Rochelle, a hornet to
search out and sting the weak places of Spain on the Main and among
the islands. But he was not born to live continually in outland
parts, loving rather to intercalate fierce adventures between spells
of home-keeping. The love of his green Picardy manor drew him back
with gentle hands. He had now returned like a child to his
playthings, and the chief thoughts in his head were his gardens and
fishponds, the spinneys he had planted and the new German dogs he had
got for boar-hunting in the forest. He looked forward to days of busy
idleness in his modest kingdom.

But first he must see his kinsman the Admiral about certain
affairs of the New World which lay near to that great man's heart.
Coligny was his godfather, from whom he was named; he was also his
kinsman, for the Admiral's wife, Charlotte de Laval, was a cousin
once removed. So to Chatillon Gaspard journeyed, and thence to Paris,
whither the Huguenot leader had gone for the marriage fetes of the
King of Navarre. Reaching the city on the Friday evening, he was met
by ill news. That morning the Admiral's life had been attempted on
his way back from watching the King at tennis. Happily the wounds
were slight, a broken right forefinger and a bullet through the left
forearm, but the outrage had taken away men's breath. That the
Admiral of France, brought to Paris for those nuptials which were to
be a pledge of a new peace, should be the target of assassins
shocked the decent and alarmed the timid. The commonwealth was built
on the side of a volcano, and the infernal fires were muttering.
Friend and foe alike set the thing down to the Guises' credit, and
the door of Coligny's lodging in the Rue de Bethisy was thronged by
angry Huguenot gentry, clamouring to be permitted to take order with
the Italianate murderers.

On the Saturday morning Gaspard was admitted to audience with
his kinsman, but found him so weak from Monsieur Ambrose Pare's
drastic surgery that he was compelled to postpone his business. "Get
you back to Eaucourt," said Coligny, "and cultivate your garden till
I send for you. France is too crooked just now for a forthright
fellow like you to do her service, and I do not think that the air of
Paris is healthy for our house." Gaspard was fain to obey, judging
that the Admiral spoke of some delicate state business for which he
was aware he had no talent. A word with M. de Teligny reassured him
as to the Admiral's safety, for according to him the King now leaned
heavily against the Guises.

But lo and behold! the gates of Paris were locked to him, and he
found himself interned in the sweltering city.

He did not like it. There was an ugly smack of intrigue in the
air, puzzling to a plain soldier. Nor did he like the look of the
streets now dim in the twilight. On his way to the gates they had
been crammed like a barrel of salt fish, and in the throng there had
been as many armed men as if an enemy made a leaguer beyond the
walls. There had been, too, a great number of sallow southern faces,
as if the Queen-mother had moved bodily thither a city of her
countrymen. But now as the dark fell the streets were almost empty.
The houses were packed to bursting--a blur of white faces could be
seen at the windows, and every entry seemed to be alive with silent
men. But in the streets there was scarcely a soul except priests,
flitting from door to door, even stumbling against his horse in their
preoccupation. Black, brown, and grey crows, they made Paris like
Cartagena. The man's face took a very grim set as he watched these
birds of ill omen. What in God's name had befallen his honest France?
. . . He was used to danger, but this secret massing chilled even his
stout heart. It was like a wood he remembered in Florida where every
bush had held an Indian arrow, but without sight or sound of a
bowman. There was hell brewing in this foul cauldron of a city.

He stabled his horse in the yard in the Rue du Coq, behind the
glover's house where he had lain the night before. Then he set out to
find supper. The first tavern served his purpose. Above the door was
a wisp of red wool, which he knew for the Guise colours. Inside he
looked to find a crowd, but there was but one other guest. Paris that
night had business, it seemed, which did not lie in the taverns.

That other guest was a man as big as himself, clad wholly in
black, save for a stiff cambric ruff worn rather fuller than the
fashion. He was heavily booted, and sat sideways on a settle with his
left hand tucked in his belt and a great right elbow on the board.
Something in his pose, half rustic, half braggart, seemed familiar to
Gaspard. The next second the two were in each other's arms.

"Gawain Champernoun!" cried Gaspard. "When I left you by the
Isle of Pines I never hoped to meet you again in a Paris inn? What's
your errand, man, in this den of thieves?"

"Business of state," the Englishman laughed. "I have been with
Walsingham, her Majesty's Ambassador, and looked to start home
to-night. But your city is marvellous unwilling to part with her
guests. What's toward, Gaspard?"

"For me, supper," and he fell with zest to the broiled fowl he
had ordered. The other sent for another flask of the wine of Anjou,
observing that he had a plaguy thirst.

"I think," said Gaspard, at last raising his eyes from his food,
"that Paris will be unwholesome to-night for decent folk."

"There's a murrain of friars about," said Champernoun, leisurely
picking his teeth.

"The place hums like a bee-hive before swarming. Better get back
to your Ambassador, Gawain. There's sanctuary for you under his
cloak."

The Englishman made a pellet of bread and flicked it at the
other's face. "I may have to box your ears, old friend. Since when
have I taken to shirking a fracas? We were together at St. John
d'Ulloa, and you should know me better."

"Are you armed?" was Gaspard's next question.

Champernoun patted his sword. "Also there are pistols in my
holsters."

"You have a horse, then?"

"Stabled within twenty yards. My rascally groom carried a
message to Sir Francis, and as he has been gone over an hour, I fear
he may have come to an untimely end."

"Then it will be well this night for us two to hold together. I
know our Paris mob and there is nothing crueller out of hell. The
pistolling of the Admiral de Coligny has given them a taste of blood,
and they may have a fancy for killing Luteranos. Two such as you and
I, guarding each other's backs, may see sport before morning, and
haply rid the world of a few miscreants. What say you, camerado?"

"Good. But what account shall we give of ourselves if someone
questions us?"

"Why, we are Spanish esquires in the train of King Philip's
Mission. Our clothes are dark enough for the dons' fashion, and we
both speak their tongue freely. Behold in me the Senor Juan Gonzalez
de Mendoza, a poor knight of Castile, most earnest in the cause of
Holy Church."

"And I," said the Englishman with the gusto of a boy in a game,
"am named Rodriguez de Bobadilla. I knew the man, who is dead, and
his brother owes me ten crowns.... But if we fall in with the Spanish
Ambassador's gentlemen?"

"We will outface them."

"But if they detect the imposture?"

"Why, wring their necks. You are getting as cautious as an
apple-wife, Gawain."

"When I set out on a business I like to weigh it, that I may
know how much is to be charged to my own wits and how much I must
leave to God. To-night it would appear that the Almighty must hold us
very tight by the hand. Well, I am ready when I have I drunk another
cup of wine." He drew his sword and lovingly fingered its edge,
whistling all the while.

Gaspard went to the door and looked into the street. The city
was still strangely quiet. No roysterers swaggered home along the
pavements, no tramp of cuirassiers told of the passage of a great
man. But again he had the sense that hot fires were glowing under
these cold ashes. The mist had lifted and the stars were clear, and
over the dark mass of the Louvre a great planet burned. The air was
warm and stifling, and with a gesture of impatience he slammed the
door. By now he ought to have been drinking the cool night on the
downs beyond Oise.

The Englishman had called for another bottle, and it was served
in the empty tavern by the landlord himself. As the wine was brought
in the two fell to talking Spanish, at the sound of which the man
visibly started. His furtive sulky face changed to a sly
friendliness. "Your excellencies have come to town for the good
work," he said, sidling and bowing.

With a more than Spanish gravity Gaspard inclined his head.

"When does it start?" he asked.

"Ah, that we common folk do not know. But there will be a
signal. Father Antoine has promised us a signal. But messieurs have
not badges. Perhaps they do not need them for their faces will be
known. Nevertheless for better security it might be well. . . ." He
stopped with the air of a huckster crying his wares.

Gaspard spoke a word to Champernoun in Spanish. Then to the
landlord: "We are strangers, so must bow to the custom of your city.
Have you a man to send to the Hotel de Guise?"

"Why trouble the Duke, my lord?" was the answer. "See, I will
make you badges."

He tore up a napkin, and bound two white strips crosswise on
their left arms, and pinned a rag to their bonnets. "There,
messieurs, you are now wearing honest colours for all to see. It is
well, for presently blood will be hot and eyes blind."

Gaspard flung him a piece of gold, and he bowed himself out.
"Bonne fortune, lordships," were his parting words. "'Twill be a
great night for our Lord Christ and our Lord King."

"And his lord the Devil," said Champernoun. "What madness has
taken your good France? These are Spanish manners, and they sicken
me. Cockades and signals and such-like flummery!"

The other's face had grown sober. "For certain hell is afoot
to-night. It is the Admiral they seek. The Guisards and their reiters
and a pack of 'prentices maddened by sermons. I would to God he were
in the Palace with the King of Navarre and the young Conde."

"But he is well guarded. I heard that a hundred Huguenots'
swords keep watch by his house."

"Maybe. But we of the religion are too bold and too trustful. We
are not match for the Guises and their Italian tricks. I think we
will go to Coligny's lodgings. Mounted, for a man on a horse has an
advantage if the mob are out!"

The two left the tavern, both sniffing the air as if they found
it tainted. The streets were filling now, and men were running as if
to a rendezvous, running hot-foot without speech and without lights.
Most wore white crosses on their left sleeve. The horses waited,
already saddled, in stables not a furlong apart, and it was the work
of a minute to bridle and mount. The two as if by a common impulse
halted their beasts at the mouth of the Rue du Coq, and listened. The
city was quiet on the surface, but there was a low deep undercurrent
of sound, like the soft purring of a lion before he roars. The sky
was bright with stars. There was no moon, but over the Isle was a
faint tremulous glow.

"It is long past midnight," said Gaspard; "in a little it will
be dawn."

Suddenly a shot cracked out. It was so sharp a sound among the
muffled noises that it stung the ear like a whip-lash. It came from
the dark mass of the Louvre, from somewhere beyond the Grand Jardin.
It was followed instantly by a hubbub far down the Rue St. Honore and
a glare kindled where that street joined the Rue d'Arbre Sec.

"That way lies the Admiral," Gaspard cried. "I go to him," and
he clapped spurs to his horse.

But as his beast leapt forward another sound broke out, coming
apparently from above their heads. It was the clanging of a great
bell.

There is no music so dominant as bells. Their voice occupies sky
as well as earth, and they overwhelm the senses, so that a man's
blood must keep pace with their beat. They can suit every part,
jangling in wild joy, or copying the slow pace of sorrow, or pealing
in ordered rhythm, blithe but with a warning of mortality in their
cadence. But this bell played dance music. It summoned to an infernal
jig. Blood and fever were in its broken fall, hate and madness and
death.

Gaspard checked his plunging horse. "By God, it is from St.
Germains l'Auxerrois! The Palace church. The King is in it. It is a
plot against our faith. They have got the pick of us in their trap
and would make an end of us."

From every house and entry men and women and priests were
pouring to swell the army that pressed roaring eastwards. No one
heeded the two as they sat their horses like rocks in the middle of a
torrent.

"The Admiral is gone," said Gaspard with a sob in his voice.
"Our few hundred spears cannot stand against the King's army. It
remains for us to die with him."

Champernoun was cursing steadily in a mixture of English and
Spanish, good mouth-filling oaths delivered without heat. "Die we
doubtless shall, but not before we have trounced this bloody
rabble."

Still Gaspard did not move. "After to-night there will be no
gentlemen left in France, for we of the religion had all the
breeding. Then he laughed bitterly. "I mind Ribaut's last words, when
Menendez slew him. 'We are of earth,' says he, 'and to earth we must
return, and twenty years more or less can matter little!' That is our
case to-night, old friend."

"Maybe," said the Englishman. "But why talk of dying? You and I
are Spanish caballeros. Walsingham told me that the King hated that
nation, and that the Queen-mother loved it not, but it would appear
that now we are very popular in Paris."

"Nay, nay, this is no time to play the Nicodemite. It is the
hour for public confession "I'm off to the dead Admiral to avenge him
on his assassins."

"Softly, Gaspard. You and I are old companions in war, and we do
not ride against a stone wall if there be a gate. It was not thus
that Gourgues avenged Ribaut at St. John's. Let us thank God that we
hold a master card in this game. We are two foxes in a flock of angry
roosters, and by the Lord's grace we will take our toll of them.
Cunning, my friend. A stratagem of war! We stand outside this welter
and, having only the cold passion of revenge, can think coolly. God's
truth, man, have we fought the Indian and the Spaniard for nothing?
Wily is the word. | Are we two gentlemen, who fear God, to be worsted
by a rabble of Papegots and Marannes?"

It was the word "Marannes," or, as we say, "halfcastes," which
brought conviction to Gaspard. Suddenly he saw his enemies as less
formidable, as something contemptible--things of a lower breed,
dupers who might themselves be duped.

"Faith, Gawain, you are the true campaigner. Let us forward, and
trust to Heaven to show us a road."

They galloped down the Rue St. Honore, finding an open space in
the cobbles of the centre, but at the turning into the Rue d'Arbre
Sec they met a block. A great throng with torches was coming in on
the right from the direction of the Bourbon and d'Alencon hotels. Yet
by pressing their horses with whip and spur, and by that awe which
the two tall dark cavaliers inspired even in a mob which had lost its
wits, they managed to make their way to the entrance of the Rue de
Bethisy. There they came suddenly upon quiet.

The crowd was held back by mounted men who made a ring around
the gate of a high dark building. Inside its courtyard there were
cries and the rumour of fighting, but out in the street there was
silence. Every eye was turned to the archway, which was bright as day
with the glare of fifty lanterns.

The two rode straight to the ring of soldiers.

"Make way," Gaspard commanded, speaking with a foreign
accent.

"For whom, monsieur?" one asked who seemed to be of a higher
standing than the rest.

"For the Ambassador of the King of Spain."

The man touched his bonnet and opened up a road by striking the
adjacent horses with the flat of his sword, and the two rode into the
ring so that they faced the archway. They could see a little way
inside the courtyard, where the light gleamed on armour. The men
there were no rabble, but Guise's Swiss.

A priest came out, wearing the Jacobin habit, one of those
preaching friars who had been fevering the blood of Paris. The crowd
behind the men-at-arms knew him, for even in its absorption it sent
up shouts of greeting. He flitted like a bat towards Gaspard and
Champernoun and peered up at them. His face was lean and wolfish,
with cruel arrogant eyes.

"Hail, father!" said Gaspard in Spanish. "How goes the good
work?"

He replied in the same tongue. "Bravely, my children. But this
is but the beginning. Are you girt and ready for the harvesting?"

"We are ready," said Gaspard. His voice shook with fury, but the
Jacobin took it for enthusiasm. He held up his hand in blessing and
fluttered back to the archway.

From inside the courtyard came the sound of something falling,
and then a great shout. The mob had jumped to a conclusion. "That is
the end of old Toothpick," a voice cried, using the Admiral's
nickname There was a wild surge round the horsemen, but the ring
held. A body of soldiers poured out of the gate, with blood on their
bare swords. Among them was one tall fellow all in armour, with a
broken plume on his bonnet. His face was torn and disfigured and he
was laughing horribly. The Jacobin rushed to embrace him, and the man
dropped on his knees to receive a blessing.

"Behold our hero," the friar cried. "His good blade has rid us
of the arch-heretic," and the mob took up the shout.

Gaspard was cool now. His fury had become a cold thing like a
glacier.

"I know him!" he whispered to Champernoun. He is the Italian
Petrucci. He is our first quarry."

The second will be that damned friar," was the Englishman's
answer.

Suddenly the ring of men-at-arms drew inward as a horseman rode
out of the gate followed by half a dozen attendants. He was a tall
young man, very noble to look upon, with a flushed face like a boy
warm from the game of paume. His long satin coat was richly
embroidered, and round his neck hung the thick gold collar of some
Order. He was wiping a stain from his sleeve with a fine lawn
handkerchief.

What is that thing gilt like a chalice?" whispered
Champernoun.

"Henry of Guise," said Gaspard.

The Duke caught sight of the two men in the centre of the ring.
The lanterns made the whole place bright and he could see every
detail of their dress and bearing. He saluted them courteously.

"We make your Grace our compliments," said Gaspard. "We are of
the household of the Ambassador of Spain, and could not rest indoors
when great deeds were being done in the city."

The young man smiled pleasantly. There was a boyish grace in his
gesture.

"You are welcome, gentlemen. I would have every good Catholic in
Europe see with his own eyes the good work of this Bartholomew's day.
I would ask you to ride with me, but I leave the city in pursuit of
the Count of Montgomery, who is rumoured to have escaped. There will
be much for you to see on this happy Sunday. But stay! You are not
attended, and our streets are none too safe for strangers. Presently
the Huguenots will counterfeit our white cross, and blunders may be
made by the overzealous."

He unclasped the jewel which hung at the end of his chain. It
was a little Agnus of gold and enamel, surmounting a lozenge-shaped
shield charged with an eagle.

"Take this," he said, "and return it to me when the work is
over. Show it if any man dares to question you. It is a passport from
Henry of Guise.... And now forward," he cried to his followers.
"Forward for Montgomery and the Vidame."

The two looked after the splendid figure. "That bird is in fine
feather," said Champernoun.

Gaspard's jaw was very grim. "Some day he will lie huddled under
the assassin's knife. He will die as he has made my chief die, and
his body will be cast to the dog's....

But he has given me a plan," and he spoke in his companion's
ear.

The Englishman laughed. His stolidity had been slow to quicken,
but his eyes were now hot and he had altogether ceased to swear.

"First let me get back to Walsingham's lodging. I have a young
kinsman there, they call him Walter Raleigh, who would dearly love
this venture."

"Tut, man, be serious. We play a desperate game, and there is no
place for boys in it. We have Guise's jewel, and by the living God we
will use it. My mark is Petrucci."

"And the priest," said Champernoun.

The crowd in the Rue de Bethisy was thinning, as bands of
soldiers, each with its tail of rabble, moved off to draw other
coverts. There was fighting still in many houses, and on the
roof-tops as the pale dawn spread could be seen the hunt for
fugitives. Torches and lanterns still flickered obscenely, and the
blood in the gutters shone sometimes golden in their glare and
sometimes spread drab and horrid in the waxing daylight.

The Jacobin stood at their elbow. "Follow me, my lords of
Spain," he cried. "No friends of God and the Duke dare be idle this
happy morn. Follow, and I will show you wonders."

He led them east to where a broader street ran to the river.

"Somewhere here lies Teligny," he croaked. "Once he is dead the
second head is lopped from the dragon of Babylon. Oh that God would
show us where Conde and Navarre are hid, for without them our task is
incomplete.

There was a great crowd about the door of one house, and into it
the Jacobin fought his way with prayers and threats. Some
Huguenot--Teligny it might be--was cornered there, but in the narrow
place only a few could join in the hunt, and the hunters, not to be
impeded by the multitude, presently set a guard at the street door.
The mob below was already drunk with blood, and found waiting
intolerable; but it had no leader and foamed aimlessly about the
causeway. There were women in it with flying hair like Maenads, who
shrilled obscenities, and drunken butchers and watermen and grooms
who had started out for loot and ended in sheer lust of slaying, and
dozens of broken desperadoes and led-captains who looked on the day
as their carnival. But to the mob had come one of those moments of
indecision when it halted and eddied like a whirlpool.

Suddenly in its midst appeared two tall horsemen.

"Men of Paris," cried Gaspard with that masterful voice which is
born of the deep seas. "You see this jewel. It was given me an hour
back by Henry of Guise."

A ruffian examined it. "Ay," he murmured with reverence, "it is
our Duke's. I saw it on his breast before Coligny's house."

The mob was all ears. "I have the Duke's command," Gaspard went
on. "He pursues Montgomery and the Vidame of Chartres. Coligny is
dead. Teliguy in there is about to die. But where are all the others?
Where is La Rochefoucault? Where is Rosny? Where is Grammont? Where,
above all, are the young Conde and the King of Navarre?"

The names set the rabble howling. Every eye was on the
speaker.

Gaspard commanded silence. "I will tell you. The Huguenots are
cunning as foxes. They planned this very day to seize the King and
make themselves masters of France. They have copied your badge," and
he glanced towards his left arm. "Thousands of them are waiting for
revenge, and before it is full day they will be on you. You will not
know them, you will take them for your friends, and you will have
your throats cut before you find out your error."

A crowd may be wolves one moment and chickens the next, for
cruelty and fear are cousins. A shiver of apprehension went through
the soberer part. One drunkard who shouted was clubbed on the head by
his neighbour. Gaspard saw his chance.

"My word to you--the Duke's word--is to forestall this devilry.
Follow me, and strike down every band of white-badged Huguenots. For
among them be sure is the cub of Navarre."

It was the leadership which the masterless men wanted. Fifty
swords were raised, and a shout went up which shook the windows of
that lodging where even now Teliguy was being done to death. With the
two horsemen at their head the rabble poured westwards towards the
Rue d'Arbre Sec and the Louvre, for there in the vicinity of the
Palace were the likeliest coverts.

"Now Heaven send us Petrucci," said Gaspard. "Would that the
Little Man had been alive and with us! This would have been a ruse
after his own heart,"

"I think the great Conde would have specially misliked yon
monk," said the Englishman.

"Patience, Gawain. One foe at a time. My heart tells me that you
will get your priest."

The streets, still dim in the dawn, were thickly carpeted with
dead. The mob kicked and befouled the bodies, and the bravos in sheer
wantonness spiked them with their swords. There were women there, and
children, lying twisted on the causeway. Once a fugitive darted out
of an entry, to be brought down by a butcher's axe.

"I have never seen worse in the Indies," and Champernoun
shivered. "My stomach turns. For heaven's sake let us ride down this
rabble!"

"Patience," said Gaspard, his eyes hard as stones. "Cursed be he
that putteth his hand to the plough and then turns back."

They passed several small bodies of Catholic horse, which they
greeted with cheers. That was in the Rue des Poulies; and at the
corner where it abutted on the quay before the Hotel de Bourbon, a
ferret-faced man ran blindly into them. Gaspard caught him and drew
him to his horse's side, for he recognised the landlord of the tavern
where he had supped.

"What news, friend?" he asked.

The man was in an anguish of terror, but he recognised his
former guest.

"There is a band on the quay," he stammered. "They are mad and
do not know a Catholic when they see him. They would have killed me,
had not the good Father Antoine held them till I made off."

"Who leads them?" Gaspard asked, having a premonition.

"A tall man in crimson with a broken plume."

"How many?"

"Maybe a hundred, and at least half are men-at-arms."

Gaspard turned to Champernoun.

"We have found our quarry," he said.

Then he spoke to his following, and noted with comfort that it
was now some hundred strong, and numbered many swords. "There is a
Huguenot band before us," he cried. "They wear our crosses, and this
honest fellow has barely escaped from them. They are less than three
score. On them, my gallant lads, before they increase their strength,
and mark specially the long man in red, for he is the Devil. It may
be Navarre is with them."

The mob needed no second bidding. Their chance had come, and
they swept along with a hoarse mutter more fearful than any
shouting.

"Knee to knee, Gawain," said Gaspard, "as at St. John d'Ulloa.
Remember, Petrucci is for me."

The Italian's band, crazy with drink and easy slaying, straggled
across the wide quay and had no thought of danger till the two
horsemen were upon them. The songs died on their lips as they saw
bearing down on them an avenging army. The scared cries of "The
Huguenots!" "Montgomery!" were to Gaspard's following a confirmation
of their treachery. The swords of the bravos and the axes and knives
of the Parisian mob made havoc with the civilian rabble, but the
men-at-arms recovered themselves and in knots fought a stout battle.
But the band was broken at the start by the two grim horsemen who
rode through it as through meadow grass, their blades falling
terribly, and then turned and cut their way back. Yet a third time
they turned, and in that last mowing they found their desire. A tall
man in crimson appeared before them. Gaspard flung his reins to
Champernoun and in a second was on the ground, fighting with a fury
that these long hours had been stifled. Before his blade the Italian
gave ground till he was pinned against the wall of the Bourbon hotel.
His eyes were staring with amazement and dawning fear. "I am a
friend," he stammered in broken French and was answered in curt
Spanish. Presently his guard weakened and Gaspard gave him the point
in his heart. As he drooped to the ground, his conquetor bent over
him. "The Admiral is avenged," he said. "Tell your master in hell
that you died at the hands of Coligny's kinsman."

Gaspard remounted, and, since the fight had now gone eastward,
they rode on to the main gate of the Louvre, where they met a company
of the royal Guards coming out to discover the cause of an uproar so
close to the Palace. He told his tale of the Spanish Embassy and
showed Guise's jewel. "The streets are full of Huguenots badged as
Catholics. His Majesty will be well advised to quiet the rabble or he
will lose some trusty servants."

In the Rue du Coq, now almost empty, the two, horsemen
halted.

"We had better be journeying, Gawain. Guise's jewel will open
the gates. In an hour's time all Paris will be on our trail."

"There is still that priest," said Champernoun doggedly. He was
breathing heavily, and his eyes were light and daring. Like all his
countrymen, he was slow to kindle but slower to cool.

"In an hour, if we linger here, we shall be at his mercy. Let us
head for the St. Antoine gate."

The jewel made their way easy, for through that gate Henry of
Guise himself had passed in the small hours. "Half an hour ago," the
lieutenant of the watch told them, "I opened to another party which
bore the Duke's credentials. They were for Amiens to spread the good
news."

"Had they a priest with them?"

"Ay, a Jacobin monk, who cried on them to hasten and not spare
their horses. He said there was much to do in the north."

"I think the holy man spoke truth," said Gaspard, and they rode
into open country.

They broke their fast on black bread and a cup of wine at the
first inn, where a crowd of frightened countrymen were looking in the
direction of Paris. It was now about seven o'clock, and a faint haze,
which promised heat, cloaked the ground. From it rose the towers and
high-peaked roofs of the city, insubstantial as a dream.

"Eaucourt by the waters!" sighed Gaspard. "That the same land
should hold that treasure and this foul city!"

Their horses, rested and fed, carried them well on the north
road, but by ten o'clock they had overtaken no travellers, save a
couple of servants, on sorry nags, who wore the Vidame of Amiens'
livery. They were well beyond Oise ere they saw in the bottom of a
grassy vale a little knot of men.

"I make out six," said Champernoun, who had a falcon's eye. "Two
priests and four men-at-arms. Reasonable odds, such as I love. Faith,
that monk travels fast!"

"I do not think there will be much fighting," said Gaspard.

Twenty minutes later they rode abreast of the party, which at
first had wheeled round on guard, and then had resumed its course at
the sight of the white armlets. It was as Champernoun had said. Four
lusty arquebusiers escorted the Jacobin. But the sixth man was no
priest. He was a Huguenot minister whom Gaspard remembered with
Conde's army, an elderly frail man bound with cruel thongs to a
horse's back and his legs tethered beneath its belly.

Recognition awoke in the Jacobin's eye. "Ah, my lords of Spain!
What brings you northward?"

Gaspard was by his side, while Champernoun a pace behind was
abreast the minister.

"To see the completion of the good work begun this. morning."

"You have come the right road. I go to kindle the north to a
holy emulation. That heretic dog behind is a Picard, and I bring him
to Amiens that he may perish there as a warning to his
countrymen."

"So?" said Gaspard, and at the word the Huguenot's horse,
pricked stealthily by Champernoun's sword, leaped forward and dashed
in fright up the hill, its rider sitting stiff as a doll in his
bonds. The Jacobin cried out and the soldiers made as if to follow,
but Gaspard's voice checked them. "Let be. The beast will not go far.
I have matters of importance to discuss with this reverend
father."

The priest's face sharpened with a sudden suspicion. "Your
manners are somewhat peremptory, sir Spaniard. But speak and let us
get on."

"I have only the one word. I told you we had come north to see
the fruition of the good work, and you approved. We do not mean the
same. By good work I mean that about sunrise I slew with this sword
the man Petrucci, who slew the Admiral. By its fruition I mean that I
have come to settle with you."

"You . . .?" the other stammered.

"I am Gaspard de Laval, a kinsman and humble follower of
Goligny."

The Jacobin was no coward. "Treason!" he cried. "A Huguenot! Cut
them down, my men," and he drew a knife from beneath his robe.

But Gaspard's eye and voice checked the troopers. He held in his
hand the gold trinket. "I have no quarrel with you. This is the
passport of your leader, the Duke. I show it to you, and if you are
questioned about this day's work you can reply that you took your
orders from him who carried Guise's jewel. Go your ways back to Paris
if you would avoid trouble."

Two of the men seemed to waver, but the maddened cry of the
priest detained them. "They seek to murder me," he screamed. "Would
you desert God's Church and burn in torment for ever?" He hurled
himself on Gaspard, who caught his wrist so that the knife tinkled on
the high road while the man overbalanced himself and fell. The next
second the mellay had begun.

It did not last long. The troopers were heavy fellows,
cumbrously armed, who, even with numbers on their side, stood little
chance against two swift swordsmen, who had been trained to fight
together against odds. One Gaspard pulled from the saddle so that he
lay senseless on the ground. One Champernoun felled with a sword cut
of which no morion could break the force. The two others turned tail
and fled, and the last seen of them was a dust cloud on the road to
Paris.

Gaspard had not drawn his sword. They stood by the bridge of a
little river, and he flung Guise's jewel far into its lilied
waters.

"A useful bauble," he smiled, "but its purpose is served."

The priest stood in the dust, with furious eyes burning in an
ashen face.

"What will you do with me?"

"This has been your day of triumph, father. I would round it off
worthily by helping you to a martyr's crown. Gawain," and he turned
to his companion, "go up the road and fetch me the rope which binds
the minister."

The runaway was feeding peaceably by the highway. Champernoun
cut the old man's bonds, and laid him fainting on the grass. He
brought back with him a length of stout cord.

"Let the brute live," he said. "Duck him and truss him up, but
don't dirty your hands with him. I'd as lief kill a woman as a
monk."

But Gaspard's smiling face was a rock. "This is no Englishman's
concern. To-day's shame is France's and a Frenchman alone can judge
it. Innocent blood is on this man's hands, and it is for me to pay
the first instalment of justice. The rest I leave to God."

So when an hour later the stunned troopers recovered their
senses they found a sight which sent them to their knees to patter
prayers. For over the arch of the bridge dangled the corpse of the
Jacobin. And on its breast it bore a paper setting forth that this
deed had been done by Gaspard de Laval, and the Latin words "O si sic
omnes!"

Meantime far up in the folds of the Santerre a little party was
moving through the hot afternoon. The old Huguenot, shaken still by
his rough handling, rode as if in a trance. Once he roused himself
and asked about the monk.

"I hanged him like a mad dog," said Gaspard.

The minister shook his head. "Violence will not cure
violence."

"Nay, but justice may follow crime. I am no Nicodemite. This day
I have made public confession of my faith, and abide the
consequences. From this day I am an exile from France so long as it
pleases God to make His Church an anvil for the blows of His
enemies."

"I, too, am an exile," said the old man. "If I come safe to
Calais I shall take ship for Holland and find shelter with the
brethren there. You have preserved my life for a few more years in my
blaster's vineyard.

You say truly, young sir, that God's Church is now an anvil, but
remember for your consolation that it is an anvil which has worn out
many hammers."

Late in the evening they came over a ridge and looked down on a
shallow valley all green and gold in the last light. A slender river
twined by alder and willow through the meadows. Gaspard reined in his
horse and gazed on the place with a hand shading his eyes.

"I have slain a man to my hurt," he said. "See, there are my new
fishponds half made, and the herb garden, and the terrace that gets
the morning sun. There is the lawn which I called my quarter-deck,
the place to walk of an evening. Farewell, my little grey
dwelling."

Champernoun laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

"We will find you the mate of it in Devon, old friend," he
said.

But Gaspard was not listening. "Eaucourt by the waters," he
repeated like the refrain of a song, and his eyes were full of
tears.