CHAPTER XIV
FOR LIFE AND A THRONE
Slipping his foot back into the stirrup the Dauphin mechanically closedhis knees, as a rider does to renew his grip after it has been relaxed.But with the tightening of the grip the bay started as if goaded by avicious double rasp of the spurs, swerved violently, shaking his headtill the chains rattled, then plunging to right and left he sprangforward at a gallop.
"Hugues, Hugues, catch the reins," cried mademoiselle, but the swervehad sent Hugues staggering, and before he had steadied himself orregained his wits Bertrand was tearing madly under the city gates, hisreins hanging loose, his neck stretched like a racer's.
"The Dauphin! the Dauphin! Oh! for God's sake--Hugues--Monsieur LaMothe--is there no one to help? They will be in the Loire--drownedwhile you stand there staring. Oh! that I could ride like a man: whydon't you move, some of you, stocks that you are?"
The gasped words were but a breath, so quickly the broken sentencesfollowed one another, but before the frightened girl could lash themwith the whip of her distress a second time La Mothe had his fingersknit in Grey Roland's mane and was climbing into the saddle, and thelast he heard, as, swaying in his seat, he groped blindly for a missingstirrup, was the girl's deep breath, half sob, half cry.
Bertrand had a long start, but on Grey Roland's back was a rider who inhis horsemanship had learned not only how to save his beast, so that noounce of strength might be unduly hurried to waste, but who also knewhow to compel into immediate energy all that reserve force whichendures the trials of a long day's march.
Bareheaded--his hat was in his hand as he jested with Ursula de Vesc,and in the stress of the surprise he had flung it aside--La Mothecrouched low in the saddle, the reins gathered into his left hand sothat he and Grey Roland alike were just conscious of the bit in thesensitive mouth. For the moment, with that tense grip of the knees,they were as one flesh; the need was they should be of one spirit.With a quiet word La Mothe soothed the excitement which might haveplunged them both to sudden destruction on the rounded cobbles of thepaved streets, but once the gates were passed, and the dust of the highroad underfoot, he loosed the light tension and pressed his heels homeinto the flanks. There, ahead, a shifting vision in the rising swirlof dust, was the bay, thundering at top speed. Behind there wereshouts, cries, the clatter of iron shoes upon the stones, but La Motheheard only the muffled rhythm of galloping hoof-beats sounding throughthe roar of the blood swelling his temples and booming in his ears likethe surf of a far-off sea. Away to the side, with a stretch ofsunburnt grass between, lay the river. Let Bertrand keep to thewinding road and all was well. Gallop how he might Grey Roland wouldwear him down, but let him swerve, let the fluttering of a bird startlehim aside, and Ursula de Vesc's prophetic terrors would be justified.
As the memory of her dread flashed into his mind afresh, there sweptacross Stephen La Mothe one of those sudden storms of temptation whichat some time or another beat into every life, even the most sheltered,and surely prove that the curse of primal sin still dwells inherent inour best humanity. "He will drown! Well, let him drown!" and in theinstant of the thought, by some instinct of the brain, the loose reinwas drawn in with a jerk, which forced the grey to change his stride.Let him drown and there was an end to the tangle which made a hell inthe possible heaven of Amboise, an end to the unnatural strife offather and son, an end to the threatened rending asunder of France, whowas the mistress and mother of them all, whether King, Dauphin, or pawnin the terrible game of life and death, an end to the danger which hungover the head of Ursula de Vesc. Let him drown: death would pay alldebts, and the crooked would be made straight.
Gritting his teeth La Mothe drew a deep breath. With the fullerrealization of the thought the sudden convulsion of his heart chokedhim, and while his blood buzzed the louder for the possibility, fate,chance, or what you will threw the cards in the game his way. Beyond abend of the road a waggoner's leisurely wain plodded its way toAmboise, and next instant the clearer thunder of Bertrand's hoofs cameringing back from the harder sod which lay between the river and theroad. The bay had headed for the bank where, by the same bend, theriver curved to a line ahead. Death would pay all debts, and thecrooked would be made straight: he would pay Commines all he owed himand there would be clean hands for them both. Clean hands? "By God!No!" he cried, and shook the tightened rein loose. Clean hands? Saul,who consented to Stephen's death, was as red-handed as the man whohurled the first stone: what better was it to let the boy ride to hisfate unaided? That way there was no cleansing of hands. To permit apreventable death was murder--murder.
Stooping lower La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, urging him withvoice and hand, "Faster, boy, faster, faster." That he had no spurswas a point against him, but drawing his dagger he laid the pointagainst the wet flank. There was no need to draw blood, no need forgoading. The generous heart of the beast understood the touch, and thesplendid muscles coined their utmost strength, squandering it in aspendthrift, willing energy. They were gaining now, stride by stridethey were gaining: Bertrand, the half Arab, had the greater endurance,but English Grey Roland the greater power and the stouter heart. Yes,they were gaining, and there was hope if only the Dauphin kept thesaddle, and so far he had held his place like a crouched statue,stooping by instinct as La Mothe had stooped, and clinging to the longmane with both hands. He was no coward, boy though he was, and notonce had looked back, nor did he now though the following hoofs musthave been loud in his ears as stride by stride the grey gained on thebay, and the ten lengths of space between them closed to five, tothree, to one, and the glint of the river rose almost at their feet.Then La Mothe spoke.
"Monseigneur, keep your nerve, it will be all right. When I say 'Now!'loose your hold and try to kick your feet free from the stirrups; leavethe rest to me."
The gap narrowed foot by foot: up to the girth of the bay crept thestraining muzzle of the grey, the eyeballs staring, the teeth bared,the nostrils wide, the foam flying with every jar of the hoof, up andup with a scant two yards of river-bank to spare upon the outer side,up and up till, leaning forward and aside with outstretched arm, LaMothe could feel the pressing of the Dauphin's back, and the handclosed in upon the ribs. "Now," he cried, his voice cracked andhoarse. "Now, Christ help us, now, now," and gripping the boy hereined back as tightly as he dared, reined back to feel the slender boyslip from the bay's back, hang helpless in the air an instant, thenfall sprawling across the saddle. On dashed the bay, and as GreyRoland staggered in his halt the bank caved under the Arab's feet; hetoo staggered, rearing back too late, then plunged head foremostforward.
As, dropping the reins, La Mothe caught the Dauphin in both his arms toraise him more fully upon the saddle, he was conscious for the firsttime that they were followed. From behind there was a shout and thenoise of hoofs, and looking across his shoulder he saw Hugues mountedon the roan riding recklessly. Beyond him the rest of the escorttailed off almost to the city gate, with Ursula de Vesc framed by thegrey arch, her hand upon her breast, as it had been when La Mothe firstsaw her, Love the Enemy, whom he so longed to make Love the more thanfriend. "Win the girl and you win the boy," said Villon. But what ifhe had won the boy, and winning him had won Ursula de Vesc, won her tofriendliness, won her to kindliness, won her to trust, won her to--andHugues thundered up breathlessly.
"Monseigneur?"
"Safe, unhurt, but I think he has fainted. Here," and lifting the ladwith little effort La Mothe leaned across to Hugues and won his heartfor ever by the act, "take him, you: he will be less fretted when hecomes to himself. The sooner he is in mademoiselle's care the better,and I must spare Grey Roland."
"Monsieur, monsieur," stammered the valet, gathering the boy into hisarms as carefully as any tender woman, "how can we thank you--how canwe prove----"
"Thank Grey Roland," answered La Mothe, speaking more lightly than hefelt. "I did nothing but keep my stirrups."
"Nothing?" Hugues' eyes turned to the gapped bank
and followed thecourse of the river, void of any trace of the bay. "Then to save aking for France is nothing. But you are right, monsieur; the soonerthe Dauphin is in Amboise the better."
"Was it for this you came to Amboise?" said Villon, as La Mothe, havinggiven Grey Roland his own time to return, halted at the inn door. Thecrowd had been shaken off and the two were alone. "I doubt it myself,and you should have heard Saxe curse: I give you my word it wasParisian. But, as I said last night, what you do in Amboise is betweenyou and the King, and you won't be the first man in the world who couldnot see beyond a pair of grey eyes."
"Come, Villon, no Paris jests."
"This was pure nature and no jest. I stood near her there in theshadow of the gate as Roland drew in to the bay on the edge of thebank, and she forgot Francois Villon, the guard, and everybody, as awoman does when her soul speaks to her heart. Not a word had she saidtill then, not one, but stood breathing deep breaths; there were redspots on the cheek-bones, with those little white teeth of hers hard onher lip. But when you leant aside and gripped the boy she cried--butwhat matters what she cried?"
"Is not friend more than family?" said La Mothe. "Tell me, my friend."
"So you would win old Villon as well as the girl? Well, here it isthen--'Thank God I was wrong, oh, thank God I was wrong: God be thankedfor a good man,' and the tears were tumbling down her cheeks. Myfriend," and Villon's voice deepened soberly, "I who am old have beenyoung, and I tell you this, if a man has any true salt in him at all,heaven may well open for him when a woman like Ursula de Vesc calls himgood with tears on her cheeks." And La Mothe had the wisdom and humblegrace to answer nothing at all. It was Villon himself who broke thesilence with a whistle.
"I am forgetting, fool that I am, though I think you too would haveforgotten with a pair of grey eyes weeping at your elbow. What do youcall this?"
From the cloth pouch which hung from his girdle he drew a small twigand handed it to La Mothe. It was spray of wild sloe cut from athicket and trimmed to the shape of a cross, with one stiff thorn,broad based and sharp at the point as a needle, projecting at rightangles from the intersection. The marks of the knife were still freshupon it, the bark so soft and sappy that it must have been cut from theliving plant within the hour. La Mothe shook his head as he turned itover on his palm.
"This? What do you call it?"
"Many things; the shadow of death for one; revenge, I think, foranother; hate, and a warning certainly, unless I am a fool as well asall the hard things Monsieur d'Argenton calls me. And perhaps I am afool, perhaps I had better have left that lying where I found it.Almost death, that's just what it is."
"Villon, what do you mean?"
"I mean you would find just such another bit of villainous innocenceunder Bertrand's saddle-flap. The poor brute was driven mad by it. Ipicked this up where Michel's stop-gap dropped it."
"That hedge-side beggar?"
"A hedge-side beggar who carries a signet slung round his neck. Hisjacket opened as he stooped and the ring swung out. The hedge-sidebeggar boasts a crest, Monsieur La Mothe: a martlet with three mulletsin chief. Now do you understand?"
"No."
"It is the crest of the Molembrais. There were two brothers, the lastof their family, and Guy de Molembrais trusted our revered King--yes, Isee you know the name."
Know the name? La Mothe knew it as he knew the justice of the King.Had he not given his satire a loose rein over the safe-conduct whichdrew this very Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthlessnesswhich brushed aside any such feeble plea as a King's good faith? IfVillon was right then this little inch or two of new-cut twig mightindeed be all he said, the shadow of death, revenge, hate, and awarning against further attempts of a like kind yet to be faced. Butwas he right?
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite," and Villon nodded. His face was very grave: not for aninstant had he slipped into his sardonic mood of ironical jest. "And,mind you, I find it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how andwhen he can."
"Does Saxe know?"
"Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may have been at theway you pounded his horse."
La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and now, leaving the greywhere he stood, the sweat caking on his dusty flanks, he turned to thestables. But if his intention was to charge Molembrais with hiscowardly attempt on the boy's life it was baulked. At the door Michelmet him, his rheumy eyes still blinking from his drunken sleep.
"Where is that fellow who took your place?"
"That's what I want to know, master. Took my place, did he? I'd placehim, I would, making an old man drunk to rob him of his bread."
"Who was he?"
"No good, that's all I know. Gipsy scum! rob an old man, would he?I'll gipsy him if I find hair or hoof of him. Lord, master, how liquordo make a man thirsty. You must ha' found it so yourself?"