The Black Douglas - Samuel Rutherford Crockett (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📗

to one less bold and reckless than the young clerk of Dulce Cor would have proved disconcerting. Then he propounded his next question:
"How many came hither with you?"
"One," said Laurence, promptly; "I came here alone with your servant De Sille."
The marshal smiled.
"Good--we will try some other method with you," he said; "but be advised and speak. None hath ever hidden aught from Gilles de Retz."
"Then, my lord," said Laurence, "there is the less reason for you to put me to the question."
"I can expound dark speeches," said the marshal, "and I also know my way through the subtleties of lying tongues. Hope not to lie to me. How many were they that came to France with you?"
"I will not tell you," said the son of Malise.
The marshal smiled again and nodded his head repeatedly with a certain gustful appreciation.
"You would make a good soldier. It is a pity that I have gone out of the business. Yet I have only (as it were) descended from wholesale to particular, from the gross to the detail."
Laurence, who felt that the true policy was to be sparing of his words, made no answer.
"You say that you are a clerk. Can you read Latin?"
"Yes," said Laurence, "and write it too."
"Read this, then," said the marshal, and handed him a book.
Laurence had been well instructed in the humanities by Father Colin of Saint Michael's Kirk by the side of Dee water, and he read the words, which record the cruelties of the Emperor Caligula with exactness and decorum.
"You read not ill," said his auditor; "you have been well taught, though you have a vile foreign accent and know not the shades of meaning that lie in the allusions.
"You say that you came to Machecoul with desire to serve me," the marshal continued after a pause for thought. "In what manner did you think you could serve, and why went you not into the house of some other lord?"
"As to service," said Laurence, "I came because I was invited by your henchman de Sille. And as to what I can do, I profess that I can sing, having been well taught by a master, the best in my country. I can play upon the viol and eke upon the organ. I am fairly good at fence, and excellent as any at singlestick. I can faithfully carry a message and loyally serve those who trust me. I would have some money to spend, which I have never had. I wish to live a life worth living, wherein is pleasure and pain, the lack of sameness, and the joy of things new. And if that may not be--why, I am ready to die, that I may make proof whether there be anything better beyond."
"A most philosophic creed," cried the marshal. "Well, there is one thing in which I can prove, if indeed you lie not. Sing!"
Then Laurence stood up and sang, even as the choir had done, the lamentation of Rachel according to the setting of the Roman precentor.
"_A voice was heard in Ramah!_"
And as he sang, the Lord of Retz took up the strain, and, with true accord and feeling, accompanied him to the end.
"Brava!" cried Gilles de Retz when Laurence had finished; "that is truly well sung indeed! You shall sing it alone in my chapel next feast day of the Holy Innocents."
He paused as if to consider his words.
"And now for this time go. But remember that this Castle of Machecoul is straiter than any prison cell, and better guarded than a fortress. It is surrounded with constant watchers, secret, invisible, implacable. Whoso tries to escape, dies. You are a bold lad, and, as I think, fear not much death for yourself. But come hither, and I will show you something which will chain you here."
With a kind of solicitous familiarity the Marshal de Retz took the lad by the arm and drew him to another window on the further side of the keep.
"Look forth and tell me what you see," he said.
Laurence set his head out of the window. He looked upon an intricate mass of building, composing the western wing of the castle, and it was some moments before he could distinguish what the Sieur de Retz wished him to see. Then, as his eyes took in the details, he saw on the flat roof of a square tower beneath him two maidens seated, and when he looked closer--lo! they were Margaret Douglas and, beside her, his brother's sweetheart Maud Lindesay. These two were sitting hand in hand, as was their wont, and the head of the child was bowed almost to her friend's knee. Maud's arm was about Margaret's neck, and her fingers caressed the childish tangle of hair. Presently the elder lifted the younger upon her knee and hushed her like a mother who puts a tired child to sleep.
Immediately behind this group, in the shadow of a buttress, Laurence saw a tall man, masked, clad in a black suit, and with a drawn sword in his hand.
The marshal looked out over the lad's shoulder.
"The day you are missed from the Castle of Machecoul, or the day that the rest of your company arrives here, that sword shall fall, but in a more terrible fashion than I can tell you! That sentinel can neither hear nor speak, but he has his orders and will obey them. I bid you good night. Go to your singing in the choir. It is time for the chanting of vespers in the chapel of the Holy Innocents."


CHAPTER LII
THE JESTING OF LA MEFFRAYE
It was in the White Tower of Machecoul that the Scottish maidens were held at the mercy of the Lord of Retz. At their first arrival in the country they had been taken to the quiet Chateau of Pouzauges, the birthplace of Poitou, the marshal's most cruel and remorseless confidant. Here, as the marshal had very truly informed the Lady Sybilla, they had been under the care of--or, rather, fellow-prisoners with--the neglected wife of Gilles de Retz, and at Pouzauges they had spent some days of comparative peace and security in the society of her daughter.
But at the first breath of the coming of the three strangers to the district they had been seized and securely conveyed to Machecoul itself--there to be interned behind the vast walls and triple bastions of that fortress prison.
"I wonder, Maudie," said Margaret Douglas, as they sat on the flat roof of the White Tower of Machecoul and looked over the battlements upon the green pine glades and wide seaward Landes, "I wonder whether we shall ever again see the water of Dee and our mother--and Sholto MacKim."
It is to be feared that the last part of the problem exceeded in interest all others in the eyes of Maud Lindesay.
"It seems as if we never could again behold any one we loved or wished to see--here in this horrible place," sighed Maud Lindesay. "If ever I get back to the dear land and see Solway side, I will be a different girl."
"But, Maud," said the little maid, reproachfully, "you were always good and kind. It is not well done of you to speak against yourself in that fashion."
Maud Lindesay shook her pretty head mournfully.
"Ah, Margaret, you will know some day," she said. "I have been wicked,--not in things one has to confess to Father Gawain, but,--well, in making people like me, and give me things, and come to see me, and then afterwards flouting them for it and sending them away."
It was not a lucid description, but it sufficed.
"Ah, but," said Margaret Douglas, "I think not these things to be wicked. I hope that some day I shall do just the same, though, of course, I shall not be as beautiful as you, Maudie; no, never! I asked Sholto MacKim if I would, and he said, 'Of course not!' in a deep voice. It was not pretty of him, was it, Maud?"
"I think it was very prettily said of him," answered Maud Lindesay, with the first flicker of a smile on her face. Her conscience was quite at ease about Sholto. He was different. Whatever pain she had caused him, she meant to make up to him with usury thereto. The others she had exercised no more for her own amusement than for their own souls' good.
"My brother William must indeed be very angry with us, that he hath never sent to find us and bring us home," went on the little girl. "It is three months since we met that horrible old woman in the woods above Thrieve Island, and believed her when she told us that the Earl had instant need of us--and that Sholto MacKim was with him."
"None saw us taken away. Margaret," said the elder, "and perhaps, who knows, they may never have found any of the pieces of flower garlands I threw down before they put us in the boats from the beach of Cassencary."
But the eyes of the little Maid of Galloway were now fixed upon something in the green courtyard below.
"Maud, Maud, come hither quickly!" she whispered; "if yonder be not Laurence MacKim talking to the singing lads and dressed like them--why, then, I do not know Laurie MacKim!"
Maud came quickly now. Her face and neck blushed suddenly crimson with the springing of hope in her heart.
She looked down, and there, far below them indeed, but yet distinct enough, they saw Laurence daring Blaise Renouf to single combat and vaunting his Irish prowess, as we have already seen him do. Maud Lindesay caught her companion's hand as she looked.
"They have found us," she whispered; "at least, they are seeking for us. If Laurence is here, I warrant Sholto cannot be very far away. Oh, Margaret, am I looking very ill? Will he think I am as--(she paused for a word)--as comely as he thought me before in Scotland? Or have I grown old and ugly with being shut up so long?"
But the Maid of Galloway heard her not. She was pondering on the meaning of Laurence's presence in the Castle of Machecoul.
"Perhaps William hath sent Laurence to spy us out, and is even now coming from his French duchy with an army. He is a far greater man than the marshal, and will make him give us up as soon as he finds out where we are. Shall I call down to Laurie to let him know that we are here?"
Maud put her hand hastily over her companion's mouth.
"Hush!" she said, "we must not appear to know him, or they will surely kill him--and perhaps the others, too. If Laurence is here, I wot well that help is not far away. Let us be patient and abide. Come back from the wall and sit by me as if nothing, had happened."
But all the same she kept her own place in a spot where she could command the pleasaunce below, and looked longingly yet fearfully to see Sholto follow his brother across the green sward.
* * * * *
"Sweet and fair is the air of the evening," purred behind them a low voice--that of the woman who was called La Meffraye. "It brings the colour to the cheeks of the young. But I am old and wise, and I would advise that two maids so fair should not look down on the sports of the youths, lest they hear and see more than is fitting for such innocent eyes."