In the Days of Chivalry: A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince by Everett-Green (the chimp paradox txt) 📗

"I thank thee for that at least. I will follow thy counsel, if I may with honour."

It seemed as though a low laugh forced its way from under the heavy cowl. The monk drew one step nearer.

"Thou hadst better not trouble thy head about honour. What good will thy honour be to thee if they tear thee piecemeal limb from limb, or roast thee to death over a slow fire, or rack thee till thy bones start from their sockets? Let thy honour go to the winds, foolish boy, and think only how thou mayest save thy skin. There be those around and about thee who will have no mercy so long as thou provest obdurate. Bethink thee well how thou strivest against them, for thou knowest little what may well befall thee in their hands."

The blood seemed to run cold in Raymond's veins as he heard these terrible words, spoken with a cool deliberation which did nothing detract from their dread significance. Who was it who once -- nay, many times in bygone years -- had threatened him with just that cool, deliberate emphasis, seeming to gloat over the dark threats uttered, as though they were to him full of a deep and cruel joy?

It seemed to the youth as though he were in the midst of some dark and horrible dream from which he must speedily awake. He passed his hand fiercely across his eyes and made a quick step towards the monk.

"Who and what art thou?" he asked, in stifled accents, for it seemed as though a hideous oppression was upon him, and he scarce knew the sound of his own voice; and then, with a harsh, grating laugh, the tall figure recoiled a pace, and flung the cowl from his head, and with an exclamation of astonishment and dismay Raymond recognized his implacable foe and rival, Peter Sanghurst, whom last he had beheld within the walls of Basildene.

"Thou here!" he exclaimed, and moved back as far as the narrow limits of the cell would permit, as though from the presence of some noxious beast.

Peter Sanghurst folded his arms and gazed upon his youthful rival with a gleam of cool, vindictive triumph in his cruel eyes that might well send a thrill of chill horror through the lad's slight frame. When he spoke it was with the satisfaction of one who gloats over a victim utterly and entirely in his power.

"Ay, truly I am here; and thou art mine, body and soul, to do with what I will; none caring what befalls thee, none to interpose between thee and me. I have waited long for this hour, but I have not waited in vain. I can read the future. I knew that one day thou wouldst be in my hands -- that I might do my pleasure upon thee, whatsoever that pleasure might be. Knowing that, I have been content to wait; only every day the debt has been mounting up. Every time that thou, rash youth, hast dared to try to thwart me, hast dared to strive to stand between me and the object of my desires, a new score has been written down in the record I have long kept against thee. Now the day of reckoning has come, and thou wilt find the reckoning a heavy one. But thou shalt pay it -- every jot and tittle shalt thou pay. Thou shalt not escape from my power until thou hast paid the uttermost farthing."

The man's lips parted in a hideous smile which showed his white teeth, sharp and pointed like the fangs of a wolf. Raymond felt his courage rise with the magnitude of his peril. That some unspeakably terrible doom was designed for him he could not doubt. The malignity and cruelty of his foe were too well understood; but at least if he must suffer, he would suffer in silence. His enemy should not have the satisfaction of wringing from him one cry for mercy. He would die a thousand times sooner than sue to him. He thought of Joan -- realizing that for her sake he should be called upon, in some sort, to bear this suffering; and even the bare thought sent a thrill of ecstasy through him. Any death that was died for her would be sweet. And might not his be instrumental in ridding her for ever of her hateful foe? Would not Gaston raise heaven and earth to discover his brother? Surely he would, sooner or later, find out what had befallen him; and then might Peter Sanghurst strive in vain to flee from the vengeance he had courted: he would assuredly fall by Gaston's hand, tracked down even to the ends of the earth.

Peter Sanghurst, his eyes fixed steadily on the face of his victim, hoping to enjoy by anticipation his agonies of terror, saw only a gleam of resolution and even of joy pass across his face, and he gnashed his teeth in sudden rage at finding himself unable to dominate the spirit of the youth, as he meant shortly to rack his body.

"Thou thinkest still to defy me, mad boy?" he asked. "Thou thinkest that thy brother will come to thine aid? Let him try to trace thee if he can! I defy him ever to learn where thou art. Wouldst know it thyself? Then thou shalt do so, and thou wilt see thy case lost indeed. Thou art in that Castle of Saut that thou wouldest fain call thine own -- that castle which has never yet been taken by foe from without, and never will be yet, so utterly impregnable is its position. Thou art in the hands of the Lord of Navailles, who has his own score to settle with thee, and who will not let thee go till thou hast resigned in thy brother's name and thine own every one of those bold claims which, as he has heard, have been made to the Roy Outremer by one or both of you. Now doth thy spirit quail? now dost thou hope for succour from without? Bid adieu to all such fond and idle hopes. Thou art here utterly alone, no man knowing what has befallen thee. Thou art in the hands of thy two bitterest foes, men who are known and renowned for their cruelty and their evil deeds -- men who would crush to death a hundred such as thou who dared to strive to bar their way. Now what sayest thou? how about that boasted honour of thine? Thou hadst best hear reason ere thou hast provoked thy foes too far, and make for thyself the best terms that thou canst. Thou mayest yet save thyself something if thou wilt hear reason."

Raymond's face was set like a flint. He had no power to rid himself of the presence of his foe, but yield one inch to persuasion or threat he was resolved not to do. For one thing, his distrust of this man was so great that he doubted if any concessions made by him would be of the smallest value in obtaining him his release; for another, his pride rose up in arms against yielding anything to fear that he would not yield were he a free man in the midst of his friends. No: at all costs he would stand firm. He could but die once, and what other men had borne for their honour or their faith he could surely bear. His lofty young face kindled and glowed with the enthusiasm of his resolution, and again the adversary's face darkened with fury.

"Thou thinkest perhaps that I have forgot the art of torture since thou wrested from me one victim? Thou shalt find that what he suffered at my hands was but the tithe of what thou shalt endure. Thou hast heard perchance of that chamber in the heart of the earth where the Lord of Navailles welcomes his prisoners who have secrets worth the knowing, or treasures hidden out of his reach? That chamber is not far from where thou standest now, and there be willing hands to carry thee thither into the presence of its Lord, who lets not his visitors escape him till he has wrung from their reluctant lips every secret of which he desires the key. And what are his clumsy engines to the devices and refinements of torture that I can inflict when once that light frame is bound motionless upon the rack, and stretched till not a muscle may quiver save at my bidding? Rash boy, beware how thou provokest me to do my worst; for once I have thee thus bound beneath my hands, then the devil of hatred and cruelty which possesses me at times will come upon me, and I shall not let thee go until I have done my worst. Bethink thee well ere thou provokest me too far. Listen and be advised, ere it be too late for repentance, and thy groans of abject submission fall upon unheeding ears. None will befriend thee then. Thou mayest now befriend thyself. If thou wilt not take the moment when it is thine, it may never be offered thee again."

Raymond did not speak. He folded his arms and looked steadily across at his foe. He knew himself perfectly and absolutely helpless. Every weapon he possessed had been taken from him whilst he lay unconscious. His armour had been removed. He had nothing upon him save his light summer dress, and the precious heart hanging about his neck. Even the satisfaction of making one last battle for his life was denied him. His limbs were yet stiff and weak. His enemy would grip him as though he were a child if he so much as attempted to cast himself upon him. All that was now left for him was the silent dignity of endurance.

Sanghurst made one step forward and seized the arm of the lad in a grip like that of a vice. So cruel was the grip that it was hard to restrain a start of pain.

"Renounce Joan!" he hissed in the boy's ear; "renounce her utterly and for ever! Write at my bidding such words as I shall demand of thee, and thou shalt save thyself the worst of the agonies I will else inflict upon thee. Basildene thou shalt never get -- I can defy thee there, do as thou wilt; besides, if thou departest alive from this prison house, thou wilt have had enough of striving to thwart the will of Peter Sanghurst -- but Joan thou shalt renounce of thine own free will, and shalt so renounce her that her love for thee will be crushed and killed! Here is the inkhorn, and here the parchment. The ground will serve thee for a table, and I will tell thee what to write. Take then the pen, and linger not. Thou wouldst rejoice to write whatever words I bid thee didst thou know what is even now preparing in yon chamber below thy prison house. Take the pen and sit down. It is but a short half-hour's task."

The strong man thrust the quill into the slight fingers of the boy; but Raymond suddenly wrenched his hand away, and flung the frail weapon to the other end of the cell. He saw the vile purpose in a moment. Peter knew something of the nature of the woman he passionately desired to win for his wife, and he well knew that no lies of his invention respecting the falsity of her young lover would weigh one instant with her. Even the death of his rival would help him in no whit, for Joan would cherish the memory of the dead, and pay no heed to the wooing of the living. There was but one thing that would give him the faintest hope, and that was the destruction of her faith in Raymond. Let him be proved faithless and unworthy, and her love and loyalty must of necessity receive a rude shock. Sanghurst knew the world, and knew that broken faith was the one thing a lofty-souled and pure-minded woman finds it hardest to forgive. Raymond, false to his vows, would no longer be a rival in his way. He might have a hard struggle to win the lady even then, but the one insuperable obstacle would be removed from his path.

And Raymond saw the purpose in a moment. His quick and sharpened intelligence showed all to him in a flash. Not to save himself from any fate would he so disgrace his manhood -- prove unworthy in the hour of trial, deny his love, and by so doing deny himself the right to bear all for her dear sake.

Flinging the pen to the ground and turning upon Sanghurst with a great light in his eyes, he told him how he read his base purpose, his black treachery, and dared him to