In the Days of Chivalry: A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince

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 do his worst.

"My worst, mad boy, my worst!" cried the furious man, absolutely foaming at the mouth as he drew back, looking almost like a venomous snake couched for a spring. "Is that, then, thy answer – thy unchangeable answer to the only loophole I offer thee of escaping the full vengeance awaiting thee from thy two most relentless foes? Bethink thee well how thou repeatest such words. Yet once again I bid thee pause. Take but that pen and do as I bid thee – "

"I will not!" answered Raymond, throwing back his head in a gesture of noble, fearless defiance; "I will not do thy vile bidding. Joan is my true love, my faithful and loving lady. Her heart is mine and mine is hers, and her faithful knight I will live and die. Do your worst. I defy you to your face. There is a God above who can yet deliver me out of your hand if He will. If not – if it be His will that I suffer in a righteous cause – I will do it with a soul unseared by coward falsehood. There is my answer; you will get none other. Now do with me what you will. I fear you not."

Peter Sanghurst's aspect changed. The fury died out, to be replaced by a perfectly cold and calm malignity a hundred times more terrible. He stooped and picked up the pen, replacing it with the parchment and inkhorn in a pouch at his girdle. Then throwing off entirely the long monk's habit which he had worn on his entrance, he advanced step by step upon Raymond, the glitter in his eye being terrible to see.

Raymond did not move. He was already standing against the wall at the farthest limit of the cell. His foe slowly advanced upon him, and suddenly put out two long, powerful arms, and gripped him round the body in a clasp against which it was vain to struggle. Lifting him from his feet, he carried him into the middle of the chamber, and setting him down, but still encircling him with that bear-like embrace, he stamped thrice upon the stone floor, which gave out a hollow sound beneath his feet.

The next moment there was a sound of strange creaking and groaning, as though some ponderous machinery were being set in motion. There was a sickening sensation, as though the very ground beneath his feet were giving way, and the next instant Raymond became aware that this indeed was the case. The great flagstone upon which he and his captor were standing was sinking, sinking, sinking into the very heart of the earth, as it seemed; and as they vanished together into the pitchy darkness, to the accompaniment of that same strange groaning and creaking, Raymond heard a hideous laugh in his ear.

"This is how his victims are carried to the Lord of Navailles's torture chamber. Ha-ha! ha-ha! This is how they go down thither. Whether they ever come forth again is quite another matter!"

CHAPTER XXIV. GASTON'S QUEST

When Gaston missed his brother from his side in the triumphant turning of the tables upon the French, he felt no uneasiness. The battle was going so entirely in favour of the English arms, and the discomfited French were making so small a stand, that the thought of peril to Raymond never so much as entered his head. In the waning light it was difficult to distinguish one from another, and for aught he knew his brother might be quite close at hand. They were engaged in taking prisoners such of their enemies as were worthy to be carried off; and when they had completely routed the band and made captive their leaders, it was quite dark, and steps were taken to encamp for the night.

Then it was that Gaston began to wonder why he still saw nothing either of Raymond or of the faithful Roger, who was almost like his shadow. He asked all whom he met if anything had been seen of his brother, but the answer was always the same – nobody knew anything about him. Nobody appeared to have seen him since the brothers rode into battle side by side; and the young knight began to feel thoroughly uneasy.

Of course there had been some killed and wounded in the battle upon both sides, though the English loss was very trifling. Still it might have been Raymond's fate to be borne down in the struggle, and Gaston, calling some of his own personal attendants about him, and bidding them take lanterns in their hands, went forth to look for his brother upon the field where the encounter had taken place.

The field was a straggling one, as the combat had taken the character of a rout at the end, and the dead and wounded lay at long intervals apart. Gaston searched and searched, his heart growing heavier as he did so, for his brother was very dear to him, and he felt a pang of bitter self-reproach at having left him, however inadvertently, to bear the brunt of the battle alone. But search as he would he found nothing either of Raymond or Roger, and a new fear entered into his mind.

"Can he have been taken prisoner?"

This did not seem highly probable. The French, bold enough at the outset when they had believed themselves secure of an easy victory, had changed their front mightily when they had discovered the trap set for them by their foes, and in the end had thought of little save how to save their own lives. They would scarce have burdened themselves with prisoners, least of all with one who did not even hold the rank of knight. This disappearance of his brother was perplexing Gaston not a little. He looked across the moonlit plain, now almost as light as day, a cloud of pain and bewilderment upon his face.

"By Holy St. Anthony, where can the boy be?" he cried.

Then one of his men-at-arms came up and spoke.

"When we were pursuing the French here to the left, back towards their own lines, I saw a second struggle going on away to the right. The knight with the black visor seemed to be leading that pursuit, and though I could not watch it, as I had my own work to do here, I know that some of our men took a different line, there along by yon ridge to the right."

"Let us go thither and search there," said Gaston, with prompt decision, "for plainly my brother is not here. It may be he has been following another flying troop. We will up and after him. Look well as you ride if there be any prostrate figures lying in the path. I fear me he may have been wounded in the rout, else surely he would not have stayed away so long."

Turning his horse round, and closely followed by his men, Gaston rode off in the direction pointed out by his servant. It became plain that there had been fighting of some sort along this line, for a few dead and wounded soldiers, all Frenchmen, lay upon the ground at intervals. Nothing, however, could be seen of Raymond, and for a while nothing of Roger either; but just as Gaston was beginning to despair of finding trace of either, he beheld in the bright moonlight a figure staggering along in a blind and helpless fashion towards them, and spurring rapidly forward to meet it, he saw that it was Roger.

Roger truly, but Roger in pitiable plight. His armour was gone. His doublet had been half stripped from off his back. He was bleeding from more than one wound, and in his eyes was a fixed and glassy stare, like that of one walking in sleep. His face was ghastly pale, and his breath came in quick sobs and gasps.

"Roger, is it thou?" cried Gaston, in accents of quick alarm. "I have been seeking thee everywhere. Where is thy master? Where is my brother?"

"Gone! gone! gone!" cried Roger, in a strange and despairing voice. "Carried off by his bitterest foes! Gone where we shall never see him more!"

There was something in the aspect of the youth and in his lamentable words that sent an unwonted shiver through Gaston's frame; but he was quick to recover himself, and answered hastily:

"Boy, thou art distraught! Tell me where my brother has gone. I will after him and rescue him. He cannot be very far away. Quick – tell me what has befallen him!"

"He has been carried off – more I know not. He has been carried off by foulest treachery."

"Treachery! Whose treachery? Who has carried him off?"

"The knight of the Black Visor."

"The Black Visor! Nay; thou must be deceived thyself! The Black Visor is one of our own company."

"Ay verily, and that is why he succeeded where an open foe had failed. None guessed with what purpose he came when he and his men pushed their way in a compact wedge, and sundered my young master from your side, sir, driving him farther and farther from all beside, till he and I (who had managed to keep close beside him) were far away from all the world beside, galloping as if for dear life in a different direction. Then it was that they threw off the pretence of being friends – that they set upon him and overpowered him, that they beat off even me from holding myself near at hand, and carried me bound in another direction. I was given in charge to four stalwart troopers, all wearing the black badge of their master. They bound my bands and my feet, and bore me along I knew not whither. I lost sight of my master. Him they took at headlong speed in another direction. I had been wounded in the battle. I was wounded by these men, struggling to follow your brother. I swooned in my saddle, and knew no more till a short hour ago, when I woke to find myself lying, still bound, upon a heap of straw in some outhouse of a farm. I heard the voices of my captors singing snatches of songs not far away; but they were paying no heed to their captive, and I made shift to slacken my bonds and slip out into the darkness of the wood.

"I knew not where I was; but the moon told me how to bend my steps to find the English camp again. I, in truth, have escaped – have come to bring you word of his peril; but ah, I fear, I fear that we shall never see him more! They will kill him – they will kill him! He is in the hands of his deadliest foes!"

"If we know where he is, we can rescue him without delay!" cried Gaston, who was not a little perplexed at the peculiar nature of the adventure which had befallen his brother.

To be taken captive and carried off by one of the English knights (if indeed the Black Visor were a knight) was a most extraordinary thing to have happened. Gaston, who knew little enough of his brother's past history in detail, and had no idea that he had called down upon himself any particular enmity, was utterly at a loss to understand the story, nor was Roger in a condition to give any farther explanation. He tottered as he stood, and Gaston ordered his servants to mount him upon one of their horses and bring him quietly along, whilst he himself turned and galloped back to the camp to prosecute inquiries there.

"Who is the Black Visor?" – that was the burden of his inquiries, and it was long before he could obtain an answer to this question. The leaders of the expedition were full of their own plans and had little attention to bestow upon Gaston or his strange story. The loss of a single private gentleman from amongst their muster was nothing to excite them, and their own position was giving them much more concern. They had taken many prisoners. They believed that they had done amply enough to raise the siege of St. Jean d'Angely (though in this they proved themselves mistaken), and they were anxious to get safely back to Bordeaux with their spoil before any misadventure befell them.

Gaston cared nothing now for the expedition; his heart was with his brother, his mind was full of anxious questioning. Roger's story plainly showed that Raymond was in hostile hands. But the perplexity of the matter was that Gaston had no idea of the name or rank of his brother's enemy and captor.

At last he came upon a good-natured knight who had been courteous to the brothers in old days. He listened with interest to Gaston's tale, and bid him wait a few minutes whilst he went to try to discover the name and rank of the Black Visor. He was certain that he had heard it, though he could not recollect at a moment's notice what he had heard. He did not keep Gaston waiting long, but returned quickly to him.

"The Black Visor is one Peter Sanghurst of Basildene, a gentleman in favour with the King, and one likely to rise to high honour. Men whisper that he has some golden secret which, if it be so, will make of him a great man one of these days. It is he who has been in our company, always wearing his black visor. Men say he is under some vow, and until the vow is accomplished no man may look upon his face."

Gaston drew his breath hard, and a strange gleam came into his eyes.

"Peter Sanghurst of Basildene!" he exclaimed, and then fell into a deep reverie.

What did it all mean? What had Raymond told him from time to time about the enmity of this man? Did not Gaston himself well remember the adventure of long ago, when he and his brother had entered Basildene by stealth and carried thence the wretched victim of the sorcerer's art? Was not that the beginning of an enmity which had never been altogether laid to sleep? Had he not heard whispers from time to time all pointing to the conclusion that Sanghurst had neither forgotten nor forgiven, and that he felt his possession of Basildene threatened by the existence of the brothers whose right it was? Had not Raymond placed himself almost under vow to win back his mother's lost inheritance? And might it not be possible that this knowledge had come to the ears of the present owner?

Gaston ground his teeth in rage as he realized what might be the meaning of this cowardly attack. Treachery and cowardice were the two vices most hateful in his eyes, and this vile attack upon an unsuspecting comrade filled him with the bitterest rage as well as with the greatest anxiety.

Plain indeed was it that Raymond had been carried off; but whither? To England? that scarce seemed possible. It would be a daring thing indeed to bring an English subject back to his native land a prisoner. Yet where else could Peter Sanghurst carry a captive? He might have friends amongst the French; but who would be sufficiently interested in his affairs to give shelter to him and his prisoner, when it might lead to trouble perhaps with the English King?

One thought of relief there was in the matter. Plainly it was not Raymond's death that was to be compassed. If they had wished to kill him, they would have done so upon the battlefield and have left him there, where his death would have excited no surprise or question. No; it was something more than this that was wanted, and Gaston felt small difficulty in guessing what that aim and object was.

"He is to be held for ransom, and his ransom will be our claim upon Basildene. We both shall be called upon to renounce that, and then Raymond will go free. Well, if that be the only way, Basildene must go. But perchance it may be given to me to save the inheritance and rescue Raymond yet. Would that I knew whither they had carried him! But surely he may be traced and followed. Some there must be who will be able to give me news of them."

Of one thing Gaston was perfectly assured, and that was that he must now act altogether independently, gain permission to quit the expedition, and pursue his own investigations with his own followers. He had no difficulty in arranging this matter. The leaders had already resolved upon returning to Bordeaux immediately, and taking ship with their spoil and prisoners for England. Had Gaston not had other matters of his own to think of, he would most likely have urged a farther advance upon the beleaguered town, to make sure that it was sufficiently relieved. As it was, he had no thoughts but for his brother's peril; and his anxieties were by no means relieved by the babble of words falling from Roger's lips when he returned to see how it fared with him.

Roger appeared to the kindly soldiers, who had made a rude couch for him and were tending him with such skill as they possessed, to be talking in the random of delirium, and they paid little heed to his words. But as Gaston stood by he was struck by the strange fixity of the youth's eyes, by the rigidity of his muscles, and by the coherence and significance of his words.

It was not a disconnected babble that passed his lips; it was the description of some scene upon which he appeared to be looking. He spoke of horsemen galloping through the night, of the Black Visor in the midst and his gigantic companion by his side. He spoke of the unconscious captive they carried in their midst – the captive the youth struggled frantically to join, that they might share together whatever fate was to be his.

The soldiers naturally believed he was wandering, and speaking of his own ride with his captors; but Gaston listened with different feelings. He remembered well what he had once heard about this boy and the strange gift he possessed, or was said to possess, of seeing what went on at a distance when he had been in the power of the sorcerer. Might it not be that this gift was not only exercised at the will of another, but might be brought into play by the tension of anxiety evoked by a great strain upon the boy's own nervous system? Gaston did not phrase the question thus, but he well knew the devotion with which Roger regarded Raymond, and it seemed quite possible to him that in this crisis of his life, his body weakened by wounds and fatigue, his mind strained by grief and anxiety as to the fate of him he loved more than life, his spirit had suddenly taken that ascendency over his body which of old it had possessed, and that he was really and truly following in that strange trance-like condition every movement of the party of which Raymond was the centre.

At any rate, whether he were right or not in this surmise, Gaston resolved that he would not lose a word of these almost ceaseless utterings, and dismissing his men to get what rest they could, he sat beside Roger, and listened with attention to every word he spoke.

Roger lay with his eyes wide open in the same fixed and glassy stare. He spoke of a halt made at a wayside inn, of the rousing up with the earliest stroke of dawn of the keeper of this place, of the inside of the bare room, and the hasty refreshment set before the impatient travellers.

"He sits down, they both sit down, and then he laughs – ah, where have I heard that laugh before?" and a look of strange terror sweeps over the youth's face. "'I may now remove my visor – my vow is fulfilled! My enemy is in my hands. My Lord of Navailles, I drink this cup to your good health and the success of our enterprise. We have the victim in our own hands. We can wring from him every concession we desire before we offer him for ransom.'"

Gaston gave a great start. What did this mean? Well indeed he remembered the Sieur de Navailles, the hereditary foe of the De Brocas. Was it, could it be possible, that he was concerned in this capture? Had their two foes joined together to strive to win all at one blow? He must strive to find this out. Could it be possible that Roger really saw and heard all these things? or was it but the fantasy of delirium? Raymond might have spoken to him of the Lord of Navailles as a foe, and in his dreams he might be mixing one thought with the other.

Suddenly Roger uttered a sharp cry and pressed his hands before his eyes. "It is he! it is he!" he cried, with a gasping utterance. "He has removed the mask from his face. It is he – Peter Sanghurst – and he is smiling – that smile. Oh, I know what it means! He has cruel, evil thoughts in his mind. O my master, my master!"

Gaston started to his feet. Here was corroboration indeed. Roger no more knew who the Black Visor was than he had done himself an hour back. Yet he now saw the face of Peter Sanghurst, the very man he himself had discovered the Black Visor to be. This indeed showed that Roger was truly looking upon some distant scene, and a strange thrill ran through Gaston as he realized this mysterious fact.

"And the other, Peter Sanghurst's companion – what of him? what likeness does he bear?" asked Gaston quickly.

"He is a very giant in stature," was the answer, "with a swarthy skin, black eyes that burn in their sockets, and a coal-black beard that falls below his waist. He has a sear upon his left cheek, and he has lost two fingers upon the left hand. He speaks in a voice like rolling waves, and in a language that is half English and half the Gascon tongue."

"In very truth the Sieur de Navailles!" whispered Gaston to himself.

With every faculty on the alert, he sat beside Roger's bed, listening to every word of his strange babble of talk. He described how they took to horse, fresh horses being provided for the whole company, as though all had been planned beforehand, and how they galloped at headlong pace away – away – away, ever faster, ever more furiously, as though resolved to gain their destination at all cost.

The day dawned, but Roger lay still in this trance, and Gaston would not have him disturbed. Until he could know whither his brother had been carried, it was useless to strive to seek and overtake him. If in very truth Roger was in some mysterious fashion watching over him, he would, doubtless, be able to tell whither at length the captive was taken. Then they would to horse and pursue. But they must learn all they could first.

The hours passed by. Roger still talked at intervals. If questioned he answered readily – always of the same hard riding, the changes of horses, the captive carried passive in the midst of the troop.

Then he began to speak words that arrested Gaston's attention. He spoke of natural features well known to him: he described a grim fortress, so placed as to be impregnable to foes from without. There were the wide moat, the huge natural mound, the solid wall, the small loopholes. Gaston held his breath to hear: he knew every feature of the place so described. Was it not the ancient Castle of Saut – his own inheritance, as he had been brought up to call it? Roger had never seen it; he was almost assured of that. What he was describing was something seen with that mysterious second sight of his, nothing that had ever impressed itself upon his waking senses.

It was all true, then. Raymond had indeed been taken captive by the two bitter enemies of the house of De Brocas. Peter Sanghurst had doubtless heard of the feud between the two houses, and of the claim set up by Gaston for the establishment of his own rights upon the lands of the foe, and had resolved to make common cause with the Navailles against the brothers. It was possible that they would have liked to get both into their clutches, but that they feared to attack so stalwart a foe as Gaston; or else they might have believed that the possession of the person of Raymond would be sufficient for their purpose. The tie between the twin brothers was known to be strong. It was likely enough that were Raymond's ransom fixed at even an exorbitant sum, the price would be paid by the brother, who well knew that the Tower of Saut was strong enough to defy all attacks from without, and that any person incarcerated in its dungeons would be absolutely at the mercy of its cruel and rapacious lord.

The King of England had his hands full enough as it was without taking up the quarrel of every wronged subject. What was done would have to be done by himself and his own followers; and Gaston set his teeth hard as he realized this, and went forth to give his own orders for the morrow.