Everett-Green Evelyn
In the Days of Chivalry: A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince
CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE HANDS OF HIS FOE
How long that blackness and darkness lasted Raymond never really knew. It seemed to him that he awoke from it at occasional long intervals, always to find himself dreaming of rapid motion, as though he were being transported through the air with considerable speed. But there was no means of telling in what direction he moved, nor in what company. His senses were clouded and dull. He did not know what was real and what part of a dream. He had no recollection of any of the events immediately preceding this sudden and extraordinary journey, and after a brief period of bewilderment would sink back into the black abyss of unconsciousness from which he had been roused for a few moments.
At last, after what seemed to him an enormous interval – for he knew not whether hours, days, or even years had gone by whilst he had remained in this state of unconscious apathy, he slowly opened his eyes, to find that the black darkness had given place to a faint murky light, and that he was no longer being carried rapidly onwards, but was lying still upon a heap of straw in some dim place, the outlines of which only became gradually visible to him.
Raymond was very weak, and weakness exercises a calming and numbing effect upon the senses. He felt no alarm at finding himself in this strange place, but after gazing about him without either recollection or comprehension, he turned round upon his bed of straw, which was by no means the worst resting place he had known in his wanderings, and quickly fell into a sound sleep.
When he awoke some hours later, the place was lighter than it had been, for a ray of sunlight had penetrated through the loophole high above his head, and illuminated with tolerable brightness the whole of the dim retreat in which he found himself. Raymond raised himself upon his elbow and looked wonderingly around him.
"What in the name of all the Holy Saints has befallen me?" he questioned, speaking half aloud in the deep stillness, glad to break the oppressive silence, if it were only by the sound of his own voice. "I feel as though a leaden weight were pressing down my limbs, and my head is throbbing as though a hammer were beating inside it. I can scarce frame my thoughts as I will. What was I doing last, before this strange thing befell me?"
He put his hand to his head and strove to think; but for a time memory eluded him, and his bewilderment grew painfully upon him. Then he espied a pitcher of water and some coarse food set not far away, and he rose with some little difficulty and dragged his stiffened limbs across the stone floor till he reached the spot where this provision stood.
"Sure, this be something of the prisoner's fare," he said, as he raised the pitcher to his lips; "yet I will refresh myself as best I may. Perchance I shall then regain my scattered senses and better understand what has befallen me."
He ate and drank slowly, and it was as he hoped. The nourishment he sorely needed helped to dispel the clouds of weakness and faintness which had hindered the working of his mind before, and a ray of light penetrated the mists about him.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, "I have it now! We were in battle together – Gaston and I rode side by side. I recollect it all now. We were separated in the press, and I was carried off by the followers of the Black Visor. Strange! He was in our ranks. He is a friend, and not a foe. How came it, then, that his men-at-arms made such an error as to set upon me? Was it an error? Did I not hear him, or his huge companion, give some order for my capture to his men before their blades struck me down? It is passing strange. I comprehend it not. But Gaston will be here anon to make all right. There must be some strange error. Sure I must have been mistaken for some other man."
Raymond was not exactly uneasy, though a little bewildered and disturbed in mind by the strangeness of the adventure. It seemed certain to him that there must have been some mistake. That he was at present a prisoner could not be doubted, from the nature of the place in which he was shut up, and the silence and gloom about him; but unless he had been abandoned by his first captors, and had fallen into the hands of the French, he believed that his captivity would speedily come to an end when the mistake concerning his identity was explained. If indeed he were in the power of some French lord, there might be a little longer delay, as a ransom would no doubt have to be found for him ere he could be released. But then Gaston was at liberty, and Gaston had now powerful friends and no mean share in some of the prizes which had been taken by sea and land. He would quickly accomplish his brother's deliverance when once he heard of his captivity; and there would be no difficulty in sending him a message, as his captor's great desire would doubtless be to obtain as large a ransom as he was able to extort.
"They had done better had they tried to seize upon Gaston himself," said Raymond, with a half smile. "He would have been a prize better worth the taking. But possibly he would have proved too redoubtable a foe. Methinks my arm has somewhat lost its strength or cunning, else should I scarce have fallen so easy a prey. I ought to have striven harder to have kept by Gaston's side; but I know not now how we came to be separated. And Roger, too, who has ever been at my side in all times of strife and danger, how came he to be sundered from me likewise? It must have been done by the fellows who bore me off – the followers of the Black Visor. Strange, very strange! I know not what to think of it. But when next my jailer comes he will doubtless tell me where I am and what is desired of me."
The chances of war were so uncertain, and the captive of one day so often became the victor of the next, that Raymond, who for all his fragile look possessed a large fund of cool courage, did not feel greatly disturbed by the ill-chance that had befallen him. Many French knights were most chivalrous and courteous to their prisoners; some even permitted them to go out on parole to collect their own ransoms, trusting to their word of honour to return if they were unable to obtain the stipulated sum. The English cause had many friends amongst the French nobility, and friendships as well as enmities had resulted from the English occupation of such large tracts of France.
So Raymond resolved to make the best of his incarceration whilst it lasted, trusting that some happy accident would soon set him at large again. With such a brother as Gaston on the outside of his prison wall, it would be foolish to give way to despondency.
He looked curiously about at the cave-like place in which he found himself. It appeared to be a natural chamber formed in the living rock. It received a certain share of air and light from a long narrow loophole high up overhead, and the place was tolerably fresh and dry, though its proportions were by no means large. Still it was lofty, and it was wide enough to admit of a certain but limited amount of exercise to its occupant.
Raymond found that he could make five paces along one side of it and four along the other. Except the heap of straw, upon which he had been laid, there was no plenishing of any kind to the cell. However, as it was probably only a temporary resting place, this mattered the less. Raymond had been worse lodged during some of his wanderings before now, and for the two years that he had lived amongst the Cistercian Brothers, he had scarcely been more luxuriously treated. His cell there had been narrower than this place, his fare no less coarse than that he had just partaken of, and his pallet bed scarce so comfortable as this truss of straw.
"Father Paul often lay for weeks upon the bare stone floor," mused Raymond, as he sat down again upon his bed. "Sure I need not grumble that I have such a couch as this."
He was very stiff and bruised, as he found on attempting to move about, but he had no actual wounds, and no bones were broken. His light strong armour had protected him, or else his foes had been striving to vanquish without seriously hurting him. He could feel that his head had been a good deal battered about, for any consecutive thought tired him; but it was something to have come off without worse injury, and sleep would restore him quickly to his wonted strength.
He lay down upon the straw presently, and again he slept soundly and peacefully. He woke up many hours later greatly refreshed, aroused by some sound from the outside of his prison. The light had completely faded from the loophole. The place was in pitchy darkness. There is something a little terrible in black oppressive darkness – the darkness which may almost be felt; and Raymond was not sorry, since he had awakened, to hear the sound of grating bolts, and then the slow creaking of a heavy door upon its hinges.
A faint glimmer of light stole into the cell, and Raymund marked the entrance of a tall dark figure habited like a monk, the cowl drawn so far over the face as entirely to conceal the features. However, the ecclesiastical habit was something of a comfort to Raymond, who had spent so much of his time amongst monks, and he rose to his feet with a respectful salutation in French.
The monk stepped within the cell, and drew the door behind him, turning the heavy key in the lock. The small lantern he carried with him gave only a very feeble light; but it was better than nothing, and enabled Raymond to see the outline of the tall form, which looked almost gigantic in the full religious habit.
"Welcome, Holy Father," said Raymond, still speaking in French. "Right glad am I to look upon face of man again. I prithee tell me where I am, and into whose hands I have fallen; for methinks there is some mistake in the matter, and that they take me for one whom I am not."
"They take thee for one Raymond de Brocas, who lays claim, in thine own or thy brother's person, to Basildene in England and Orthez and Saut in Gascony," answered the monk, who spoke slowly in English and in a strangely-muffled voice. "If thou be not he, say so, and prove it without loss of time; for evil is purposed to Raymond de Brocas, and it were a pity it should fall upon the wrong head."
A sudden shiver ran through Raymond's frame. Was there not something familiar in the muffled sound of that English voice? was there not something in the words and tone that sounded like a cruel sneer? Was it his fancy that beneath the long habit of the monk he caught the glimpse of some shining weapon? Was this some terrible dream come to his disordered brain? Was he the victim of an illusion? or did this tall, shadowy figure stand indeed before him?
For a moment Raymond's head seemed to swim, and then his nerves steadied themselves, and he wondered if he might not be disquieting himself in vain. Possibly, after all, this might be a holy man – one who would stand his friend in the future.
"Thou art English?" he asked quickly; "and if English, surely a friend to thy countrymen?"
"I am English truly," was the low-toned answer, "and I am here to advise thee for thy good."
"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 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!"
