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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mithoda. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 MICROCOrV RiSOlUTION TIST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I I 45 150 12.8 2.5 2.2 2.0 1.8 A /APPLIED IN/MGE Inc ^—^ t65J East Moin Streel S^C Rochester, New York 14609 USA '-as (7 '6) 482 - 0300 - Phone ^~ (716) 288 - 5989 - Fox THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES I . w '■M 1 I J "BEAUFOY RODE UNDER THE I'ORTCULLIS OF THE GREAT rilK BEAUFOY 1^ ( ) M A N C i<: S BY HAMILTON DRUMMOND liluttrateJ by A. VAN AN ROOY TORONTO (Limited) Af D CCCC // 11 rs=^i,\r""" 1%*-****^" CONTENTS how beaufoy went a-wooing beaufoy's ward - - - . beaufoy's vengeance - . > HOW OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR CAME TO BEAUFOY HOW THE KING CAME TO BEAUFOY - THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY - HOW BEAUFOY CURED THE MADNESS OF MESNIL beaufoy's token - - - . high and low justice - - - A queen's FAVOUR - . - _ MAN AND HONK .... HOW MARTIN HUGHES FOUND MANOA-LAND - FAGR 7 36 64 93 118 152 ns 203 222 260 326 a.'954 ^ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "Beaufoy rode under the portcullis of the ''" GREAT GATE " z.> ^ .. . rrontispiece •' The Abbess stood, a group op her nuns about HER " 60 " He half drew his rein as he spoke " . .93 "A woman, the spotless white of whose robe shone dazzling in the sun . ,,2 "'If he so much as touch me, I shall kill him » »> • '71 "Drawing his sword, he snapped it across his KNEE " . 201 "As THE Seigneur waxed hot. so did the Church- man WAX COLD" "The ARROW, drawn to the head, was loosed" 250 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES 4 i HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING Raimond de Beaufoy, hereditary Suzerain of the fief of that name, had at three-and-twenty little cause to quarrel with the world. As for the world, or that portion of it which lay in touch with the borders of Beaufoy, when it was in quarrelling mood it found, time and again that the young Seigneur had a hard hand, a strong arm. and a long reach-three things which make m Mly for tranquillity. It there- fore came abou. .hat the Sei-neurie enjoyed a larger peace than its weaker neighbours. Peace was much. Peace was internal growth and consolidation, but to peace were added wealth-as wealth went in that year of little grace and great famine, 1438 health, strength, and power. For hard on a score of miles in one direction, and well-nigh as many at right 8 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES angles, so as roughly to form a square, Raimond de Beaufoy was lord of life and death. A dozen villages called hirn master. His corn- fields filled the valleys and his vineyards covered the southern slopes. To crown all, his Chdteau of Beaufoy, with its great girdle of gray walls, was victualled and garrisoned as became the house of a man who ruled by love or terror as the mood took him. Left an orphan when a twelve months' babe the child's inheritance had been nursed by ins uncle, Bertrand de Freyne, as if it were his own, as, indeed, he designed it to be ; but Death having said a brusque ' No ' to Bertrand's project, the young heir gathered the fruits of the elder's labours, while the whole suzerainty chanted its Te Deum. Bertrand de Freyne had been a hard man. It is the man who already has his hands full of this world's blessings that looks abroad to add one to their number, and so Raimond de Beaufoy gave himself much thought as to whence he would bring a wife home to the Seigneurie. Birth she must have ; generations to match his own. Youth and health she must have ; for the descent of the line was as much a sacred trust as the transmission of the fat acres undiminished. Of what use to leave his HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 9 heir his four hundred of square miles, if he had not wit and strength to rule them ? Acres of her own were desirable, not essential, for Beaufoy was a healthy-minded man, and set no great value on wealth that was not his own ; not essential — no, but a weight in the scale. Temper, good looks, the domestic virtues, these he set no store upon. For the first, if it was bad he would cure it ; for the second, he lived much abroad ; for the third, if she knew little of the care of a great house, there were those who did to be had for the hiring. So for many weeks he weighed and measured the damsels of Angoumois, and in the end he pitched upon Denise de Vaucourt. A week past he had come to this conclusion, and now, as he rode across the summer fields with Marmontel, his squire, at his elbow— for seven generations there had not lacked a Marmontel to serve a Beaufoy— he was con- firmed in the wisdom of his decision. When three-and twenty plumes himself upon his wisdom, you may be sure that not the lever of Archimedes —could it be mentally applied— would stir him a hair's-breadth. But in this instance Wisdom was justified of its child. ' A day's ride there,' said he to Marmontel ; ' it will be that at least with a pack-horse hang- lo THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES ing behind. Four days at Vaucourt, or three may be — no need to waste a man's time over such work — and a day home. The week should see us back at Beaufoy.* 'Three days,' answered Marmontel cautiously, ' is but scant time to win a maid's fancy.' ' Chut!' and Beaufoy broadened his shoulders, ' we met once before, seven years ago, I think, and if the girl be won the fancy will follow after — or bide away as it lists. The thing fits well, Marmontel. Away to the south there, Vaucourt marches with Beaufoy for a full three miles, and that there is neither father nor brother to poke fingers into Beaufoy's business counts for much.' ' I have seen three towns taken by surprise,' said Marmontel, ' but never one woman. The jades love a siege, and if they be honest they get it but once in their lives.' ' Nor is there surprise here,' answered Beaufoy. ' Why, man. Roger has been at Vaucourt these eighteen hours, and if Madame the Countess guesses not the meaning of my message, then Denise comes of a dull stock. Am I the man to fling away five days on nothing more than a woman's chatter ?' ' She may guess, and Mademoiselle may guess — but. Seigneur,' persisted Marmontel, out I -I I HOW BEAUFOY WENT A- WOOING 1 1 of his fifteen years' longer experience of life. ' there are forms.' 'Chut! Beaufoy will balance the forms' and the Seigneur laughed. ' This is no match of Bet of the charcoal furnace with Peter the herdsman. If Madame be pleased and if I be pleased, the thing's done. Hold thou thy peace with thy forms.' ' There is little to choose between Bet or Demse seemg they have, by your leave women s hearts in them.' answered Marmontel roH h ,"p' 'r' '""^ "'^"^ '^^ '« ^^'^^' then God help Beaufoy, man and acres'" ' Did I not tell thee, man. to hold thy peace > I can see to myself and my acres, too !' And grumbhng to himself. Marmontel. like a good servant, did as he was bid. ^ The road to Vaucourt was across the Suze- Z7'/r^^ '^" ^'■°"^ ^'■'■^'^ °f f^^-^t that framed us fatness on every side, and into a broken country where thicket and pasture- land fought hard for the pre-eminence-a poorer count than Beaufoy. and one that showed cttL?"HI l' 'T "^" "^^^ -- ^ herd s cottage blackened and unroofed, there a haggard in gray heaps of sodden ashes, or a m.11 with the wheel splintered and great stone blocks thrust beneath its floats in fheer wan! u THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES tonness. That the masterless men who found harbour in the wood preyed as they listed on Vaucourt was plain to be seen. Beaufoy, by reason of its many hangings, they left un- harmed. ' By the Lord, Marmontel !' cried the Seigneur wrathfully, as they reined up abreast of a still smoking desolation, ' these rogues have sore need of a heavy hand, and a heavy hand they shall feel. There will be changed times at Vaucourt when Beaufoy grips the reins ! Shall we hunt the rascals to-morrow, just to give them a foretaste of what's to come ?' ' Best hunt the damsel, Seigneur/ answered Marmontel. * Rogues are plenty and ripe for the hanging any day ; a damsel is but one, and must be caught when the will moves her.' ' Wrong !' said Beaufoy, shaking up his horse, ' wrong ! 'Tis the other way round ; but let us get forward in daylight, . lest the rope find the wrong men. What a Te diavolum laudamus they would raise if they laid hands on Raimond de Beaufoy !' It was on the edge of dusk when the Seigneur rode up the slope and into the glade where stood the Castle of Vaucourt, a pile less ancient and less massive than Beaufoy, but f * f f I f HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 13 lichened and mossy with age. It fronted south with a semicircle of open space, some six hundred yards radius, on three sides, while behmd, a long bowshot ofif and sheltering it from the north, stretched a dense thicket of pines, oaks, and underbrush. A lli^rht of seven short steps, unguarded by any balustrade, led up to the heavy Norman doorway, with its rou 'ded columns set half within the wall. ere they were awaited by a man apparently of ^eaufoy s own age. wh. the Seigneur checked his gallop before the do. ame down '° Z\ ' u'"i, '"^' ^''■^^^hing out his hand, caught the bridle. ; Give you good-evening, Master Seneschal ' cried Beaufoy, flinging down his reins. ' By bt. Francis, thou art young for a major domo Surely a grayer wit would better rr.ttch a service hat hath no head but a woman.* • That I am Madame de Vaucourt's humble servant is true.' answered the other, 'and in these tmies youth is a pear that soon mellows ' He slipped the bridle over his right arm. and turned towards the door. ' Hcre.^wo of Z see to the beasts ; and you. Seigneur, have com ! hKe^the welcome guest you are, in the nick of ' Marmontel '-and Beaufoy paused as he dis- 14 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES 1 i mounted, his weight swung upon one stirrup — ' see thou to the beasts' housing. No offence, Master Seneschal. Beaufoy might go seigneur- less, all for a horse's colic. Now, man, what of thy mistress ?* ' That she is in trouble, holds council, and is in need of thy gray wisdom.' ' Hark, thou !' — and Beaufoy tappe *. •- other on the shoulder, • Keep thees and tl.jus for thy fellows, lest thou tastest leather. What is thy name ?' ' Mark de Vaucourt ; at your service, Seig- neur de Beaufoy,* answered the other, laughing. ' What ? Madame's nephew ? Was this a jest, Messire de Vaucourt V ' No jest, Seigneur de Beaufoy ; and if your gray wit failed to discern between a lackey and a gentleman ' ' Right ' — and Beaufoy, pausing in his walk, looked him full in the face — ' right : my wit failed to discern. What then ?* ' Spare your impertinence. Seigneur de Beaufoy ; I understand you well enough. To be frank, we have already a cause of quarrel within the walls, but the lady's name is best kept out of the business. Is that plain ?' ' Sits the bird on that tree } Now I see the point of the jest ; but no man makes Beaufoy HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 15 twice a laughing-stock-no. by St. Francis, not twice I Let us settle the matter, Meisire de Vaucourt. ' Make no doubt w • shall senle it. Seigneur de Beaufoy, but not lo-day nor to-morrow. As I told you, the Countess is in trouble, and has need of us both. First, shoulder to shoulder for Vaucourt's sake, then face to face for our own.' They had reached the centre of the great square hall, having paused at intervals in their wranghng. and now Beaufoy. from his two inches of greater height, looked frowningly on the other. It was a new thing to him to be belittled, or even to be claimed as an equal, and his pride was in arms. I ??J '^ ^^'^ ^°"*® new jest.? For, by the Lord, Messire, I give you fair warning : ' No jest, but sober earnest. Here it is in a nutshell, and if there is a jest, the laugh is on the sorrowful side of the mouth. Cdsar Vijroene has debts ; C^sar Vigogne has also a son. and he proposes, with luch insistence and a thin veneer of courtesy, that his son shall pay his debts by taking to himself the lands of Vau- court with Mademoiselle Denise. since he cannot, m reason, seek the one without the other. i6 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES I 1 * Cdsar Vigogne ?' said the Seigneur. ' I know the rascal. A suave bully, he will bless you with all unctuousness, and cut your throat as 'Amen' to the benediction. Cesar Vigogne ! Beaufoy's men will settle his insistence once and for all.' ' Beaufoy's men will have small chance,' answered Vaucourt. 'C6sar Vigogne is four hours behind his messenger, and brings his priest with him.' ' And how long since ' ' Three hours, maybe, or a little more.' ' Then we are caught like rats in a trap ? To think there are two score of men rusting at Beaufoy, and we pent up to starve in a hole ! Send me Marmontel. Though he risk hanging in his own reins, he must ride for Beaufoy within the hour. In a day, or a day and a half, we shall snap our fingers at C^sar Vigogne.' ' In a day, or a day and a half,' answered Mark de Vaucourt, * neither you nor I will have fingers to snap. It's odds that your squire will do us better service here than charging pell- mell through the black of the woods.' • Is Vaucourt so weak as that? Then, by St. Francis, we're shent! Let us to the Countess, Messire, and here's my hand on it ; HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 17 we are brother and brother until we have found God's mercy in this world or the next.' 'Brother and brother, Seigneur,' answered the other, taking frankly the outstretched hand so frankly offered; 'and, from my soul, I believe we have sore need that the mercy be not stinted.' From the back of the great hall three passage-ways opened— one to right, one to left, and a third facing the entrance. Down one of these— that to the left— Vaucourt led the way, with the Seigneur at his heels, and clanging his long, huge - rowelled spurs as he walked. Pausing at a door, across which there fell a heavy curtain, Mark turned and laid his hand on the other's arm. 'Be brief in counsel, that we maybe ready in action,' he si id ; 'and. indeed, there is but one course open— 10 hold Vaucourt to the last.' Then he flung open the door. ' The Seigneur Raimond de Beaufoy,' he announced, and drew the door hard behind him. The room was small, but so ill-lit by its narrow, pointed windows, closely barred, that the three by the table seemed little better than shadows. Of the three, two were women, and seated, while the third, a man, stood behind their chairs. From his deference of attitude 1 8 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES 3 Beaufoy judged him to be present by sufferance rather than by right, and the event proved him to have been the body-squire of the old Count, now many years dead. As Vaucourt spoke, the two rose, and the elder answerc' : ' The Seigneur comes in a happy hour for us, but an evil for himself. If there were time, Messire de Beaufoy, I would say, ride hence until a day when peace and Vaucourt are better friends.' ' No, Madame ' — and Beaufoy went forward to meet the Countess, * Rather the best of hours for me, since, by the grace of God, I will prove that my love for Vaucourt is no courtesy love.' ' Truly a sturdy growth for so young a plant Mushrooms have no long life,' said Mademoi- selle Denise under her breath, but with a strain of mocking in her voice. ' Sturdy and speedy is Beaufoy all over,' answered the Seigneur, ' and, with the help of St. Francis, you yourself will say so within six- and-thirty hours. Madame, let us leave com- pliments aside and come to profitable talk ; Messire de Vaucourt has told me of the insult thrust upon you by C^sar Vigogne. To answer that is no woman's work, and, with your leave, HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 19 we two will take upon our shoulders the form and method of reply.' ' We have no right, Seigneur de Beaufoy ' began the Countess, but the Seigneur, guessing what she would say, stopped her with a gesture. 'You have a double right, Madame: one. the common right of every woman to be de- fended against the violence of a scoundrel ; the .ler ' And he bowed to Mademoiselle '^enise. ' But for the present we will let the other stand ; that is the agreement, is it not, Messire de Vaucourt i*' ' Let Cesar Vigogne set foot inside the castle, and there is an end to rights and to defences also. All the talk in the world will not change that. For the Lord's sake, let us get to work.' 'My thought, too, Messire. With your leave. Madame, our old friend in the corner— who, I doubt not, knows every nook and hole in the casrie— and we two will make a round of inspection. Be at ease. Mademoiselle ; if there is a bridal at Vaucourt this night, I pro- mise you, faith of a gentleman, the priest will have light enough to read his book by and witnesses in plenty, though they be dumb ones.' With which strange comfort Beaufoy led the way back to the corridor. The circuit of the house disclosed more than 2 — 2 20 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES i I one point of weakness ; but chiefly Mark de Vaucourt was troubled by a passage-way, which, opening from the back of the great hall, passed through the cellars, tunnelled the earth for a furlong northwards, and had its outlet in the underbrush of the sheltering belt of timber. TL the outlet was so well concealed that a hunter with a leash of hounds might have passed it by was but a half-comfort, since, if it were once discovered, nothing but an inch-thick oak door, midway along the tunnel, blocked the approach. * Let Vigogne put a petard under it,' said he, 'and it flies to splinters in a snap.' ' If Vigogne has petards to spare, he'll win Vaucourt by a shorter road than this,' answered Beaufoy. ' No, no ; he will try the great door, as a gentleman should, and let the worst come, it will TO hard with us if we cannot hold the hall for thirty minutes while the wcmen find safety, and ^>y this road. Let it bide as it is, say I ; but, Master Squire, have spades and mattocks down here, and hands to work them. Why, I will tell you presently. Now, De Vaucourt, let us back to Madame.' The women they found waiting them at the head of the corridor, ' Thus and thus is the plan,' said Beaufoy, HOW BEAUFOy WENT A-WOOING 21 giving Mark no time to speak. Lead he would, or all that he was but a stranger and a guest We are ten men, all told. Enough to hold Vaucourt for a week if there was no such thmg as saltpetre in the world and but one flaw m the defence. But, what with a rotten wmdow here and a tottering door there, not Talbot hrmself could hold the place, . weak- handed as we are. Two are wanted by the wmdows, where the bars are thinner ^han makes for comfort ; one by the east door- fnend Hugues here will do ; four with me at the secret outlet.' Bellfo" ■*''* ^°°'^ '^'^ °^ ''°"''"'"' ^"^''"^ "^e 'By Saint Francis, Mademoiselle Denise for myse f I care no whit ; but I make the best' of the chances, and bad they are at the best Cesar V.gogne. I hear, has thirty men at his ' Then you think, Seigneur ^• that ifr •''• ^^^^^''^-'^ be blunt is kindest- leet of Vaucourt land, his priest may have At which Mademoiselle Denise turned to De Vaucourt and caught him by both hands. 22 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES •Mark, Mark, and it is my fault thou art here !' Whereupon Beaufoy laughed a hard laugh. ' And I,' he said. ' What of me ?' ' Mark came for love's sake, Messire,' an- swered she across her shoulder ; • but you, you know best why yourself Through the silence that followed Beaufoy 's ear caught the patter of hoofs on the turf, then came a jingle of bridle-chains, the stumble of feet on the steps, and three resounding blows struck with a stout riding-whip on the panels of the door, and with such a vigour that the hollow of the great hall echoed. Again Beaufoy played the master. Brushing all pretences aside, he went straight to the point. •So you have come, C^sar Vigogne, and, having come, had best ride home again, lest you raise such a hive about your ears as has never yet buzzed in all Angoumois.' ' God's mercy ! here's a knot on the cord !' they heard him exclaim. Then, louder : ' Open, fellow ! I have knocked once, who am not wont to knock twice in courtesy.' •The courtesy of Cdsar Vigogne !'— and Beaufoy laughed. ' The courtesies of the seven hangings of Marvaulx ! the courtesies of the wreck and burning of Neuchamp! By St. HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 23 Francis of Beaufoy. a closed door is more wholesome at this time of night! Are you answered with your courtesies ?' 'Beaufoy! Beaufoy!' cried Vigogne, stamp- ing^his foot. • What the plague does Beaufoy ' Ay,' answered the other. ' Beaufoy ' Beaufoy! Buzz! buzz! do you hear the hornets, Cesar Vigogne ?' There was a silence, and when Vigogne spoke again it was in a changed tone. • Listen, Seigneur ! With you i have no quarrel, nor, indeed, with anyone in Vaucourt • but I have come for a certain thing, and, by the saints, that thing I will do ! Six years ago De Vaucourt pledged his daughter to my son Jacques, and ' ' It is a lie!' answered Beaufoy. 'Quit lies and come to the truth.' ' It is true,' replied Cesar Vigogne ; 'so true that none can contradict it. Yet. leave that aside. My point is this: Marry Denise to Jacques I will !' • Mademoiselle de Vaucourt is pledged to a gentleman now in the castle.' said Beaufoy coolly. Dropping his voice, he turned to the others as they stared at him, and went on : By the Lord, it's true! For what else are 24 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES > 5 Vaucourt and I here ? Whether it be to me or Messire Mark, Mademoiselle Denise is as good as pledged, and whichever wins, God help the man who comes between us!' Then louder: 'Are you answered, Messire?' 'Leave pledges to me,' replied Vigogne bluntly. 'Marry Denise to JacqiK^s I will! That is Vaucourt's affair, and not Beaufoy's. Ride home in peace. Seigneur; with you I have no quarrel.' * Hist !' said Beaufoy, going to the door and bending so that his lips touched the crack by the post. ' Hist ! speak lower. Is there a trap in this ?' ' No trap, but clear sense for me and for you. Am I a fool to bring the Seigncurie about my cars for nought, or you a fool to risk— tush ! there is no risk ; the thing's a certainty— to risk, I say, your life .or another's gam For a moment Beaufoy stood rubbing his chin, as was his fashion when in deep thought, then he s; id : ' If a iuan could save his honour ' and stopped. 'There is no haste,' cried the other softly. •Take till midnight, and ride off in quiet. There is always the secret passage.' HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 25 • What ? Speak lower still, man. You know that way ?' • Ay, I know it ; a twist of the crow and the door is open, and tell me this — what chance has Vaucourt? But I will smooth your way and salve your honour. Listen, Beaufoy ; I pledge you this : no soul in Vaucourt shall cry "Shame!" upon you ever after. Ha! you understand. What the grave hides is well hidden.' ' But I have three men ; I must save them !' • And welcome ; the, fewer for me. Till midnight, then ; and, Beaufoy, tell Madame, my mother that is to be, that you have bought me off. There will be the worse watch.' 'Till midnight,' answered Beaufoy softly, and straightening himself, he stood listen mg to the iron heels of Cesar Vigogne clanking down the steps. Then he turned to the group at the .farther end of the hall, and turned to meet a tempest. ' By St. Francis !' he cried in no polite mood, • are you all gone mad that you bay at me like so many dogs ? Here does Cdsar Vigogne of his folly give us three hours' grace, and because I take them you call me coward and traitor! Let the event speak, Madame; and as for you, Hugues, thrust that blade home again till nearer cock-crowing. De 26 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES Vaucourt, surely you understand ? Ay, well, now listen : Madame and Mademoiselle, do as you will about your beds, but let the lights go out as if Vigogne and his rogues were fighting the English — as I would to the Lord they were, instead of beleaguering honest French folk — then, in the dark, and softly, barricade the doors and windows open to attack ; let this be your work, De Vaucourt. Hugues, do you send three men after me to the secret passage ; my business lies there.' ' Seigneur de Beaufoy, be generous and give us your pardon,' began Madame. * It was our ignorance.' ' The fault was mine,' interrupted Beaufoy ; ' how should you fathom a man's duplicity .-" ' But, Seigneur,' cried Mademoiselle, * is there nought that we could do ? Believe me, we could not rest.' * Why, yes ; make me some twelve feet of a linen pipe of half the thickness of a little finger, only, for the Lord's sake, let the windows be dark. Now, my friend, my three fellows and their tools.* Snatching a lamp from the table, he turned into the passage-way leading to the secret outlet, and strode down it with such a heavy tread that they could hear his heels ringing and i HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 27 echoing in the long hollow of the vault. Then the trampling ceased, and in its place there came the screeching complaint of the oak- door creaking unwillingly back on its rusty hinges. 'A masterful man,' said Madame. •A masterful man,' echoed Mark de Vau- court ; * for that I owe him no grudge.' Then he added, looking at Denise : ' I would we had nineteen more like him, and were well rid of the score in twelve hours.' Whereupon Mademoiselle laughed. ' It is not enough,* said she, ' for a man to be masterful ; and if Cesar Vigogne permits, the riddance will come smoothly enough ' — and the fire on her cheeks found an answer in his eyes. Meanwhile, De Beaufoy had his three men hard at work. * A crow- point under this flag — gently, gently! No need to chip the edge. Now, two mattocks at this end and that, and heave ! Saints ! men ; have you brawn in your backs, or the basting of fatted calves? Heave, I say, heave! So — that is better! Now this one — good, good ! Now another, and yet one more ! Four ? That will do for the surface.' They were working ten feet beyond the 28 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES W I oak-door, and, under Beaufoy's orders, had "tripped the passage of its heavy flagging in . direction inwards towards the castle, rearing the heavy slabs in lines along the wall. * Now, mattocks and shovels ; two of you work, and one rest. Faith ! how the soil grips ! What's that — a stone ? Good ! Have it within the door ; its use will come presently. Stay ! run you and crave from Madame a blanket or sheet, or some such thing. Meanwhile, dig on, you two, and with a will ; our time is shorter than agrees with comfort. Ay, that will do. Shovel out the dirt upon that, and busily — busily. Do you pick out the stones and pile then apart. Thank the Lord there is no lack of them! Now work, and for your lives I* When the pit was some four or five feet down, Beaufoy stopped the sinking, and bade them drive the shaft not alone downwards, but outwards, until he judged it suited his purpose. Then he told them curtly they might rest, and he himself went to seek Hugues the Squire. ' Give me,' said he, ' a stout box, a pot of pitch, a brush, and cannon powder. I will set such a fougasse for these rogues as will teach them much of the art of war if they but come that way, and live to tell of it, which I doubt. The piping, Madame. By St. Francis !' — and 1 HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 29 he held it up in a coil — 'a snake, a veritable snake, and one that shall hir.s and bite, or my name is not Raiinond de Beaufoy !' With his own hands he smeared the box inside with pitch, and filling it to the edj;e with the gray explosive, he placed it carefully in position. Then, having given his serpent a full feeding, he fixed the end of the fuse in the powder and built it into its place with loose stones, which he very carefully set in order until the bulk and weight satisfied him. • Now earth, and stamp it down well — so. Drag the cloth and what remains over, inside the door, and set the flags in place. Good ! a fair craftsmanlike piece of work. Presently they will sink, but, faith of Beaufoy, they will lie even long enough to fool Cesar Vigogne.' Scraping aside the clay from the extreme edge of the flagging, he carefully buried the linen fuse, bringing the end up inside the oak door. This he closed and bolted, and then returned to the hall of the castle. The lamp he left behind him, but so placed that the door lay in shadow. The hall he found a groping darkness, with just enough .' life whispering down the dim corridors to set the nerves tingling, but that nerves and Beaufoy had little acquaintance. 30 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES k i Against the door lay a great heap of tables, armoires, and such-like furnishings. Presently he found Mark de Vaucourt. 'Give me two stools and a dice-box,' said Beaufoy. ' Needs must that I keep awake by hook or crook. I f Cesar V igogne comes scratch- ing on the panels presently, or calling softly, as belike he may, let him scratch and call, but for the Lord's sake give no sign of life. The dice ? Ay, now the stools. So — that promises well. As you go your rounds, Messire, do not forget Beaufoy down in the cellars.' Tucking the stools one under each arm, he disappeared into the black vault of the passage, but with so light a tread that not Cdsar Vigogne himself, had he had his ear to the keyhole, would have heard a stir of life. An hour later and what the Seigneur had forecast came to pass. There was a stealthy shuffle of feet on the stone steps, a stumble in the darkness, and a muttered curse, and then a silence, and after the silence a thin tattoo of finger-nails on the door, followed by a muffled voice — • Beaufoy !' thrice repeated, each time with a rising note — ' Beaufoy ! Beaufoy ! Beau- foy !' Then again the stealthy shuffle of feet, a-H the watchers in the upper windows saw tin- waiting troop draw off to the south until HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 31 1 ■2 it was lost in the night. Then Mark de Vaucourt went to seek the Seigneui. Beaufoy he found seated on one of the stools, with his back to the door, his legs thrust out before him, the second stool between his knees, and busy throwing dice upon its top, alternately left hand against right. At the sound of Vau- court's footsteps he set down the box and looked up. ' Well ?' ' Vigogne has ridden off to the south.' ' Then he will come back by way of the north. I know the feeble cunning of his kind.' Dropping his chin upon his hand, he rubbed it softly ; then, reaching out, he took up the dice- box again, and let fall the dice into it slowly. ' Cold steel,' he said, out of the thought that was in both their minds, ' will go cruelly hard against the grain after this night's brotherhood ; and, to tell the truth, there is no woman in the world good enough for men to split friendship because of her.' • Then give her up,' answered Vaucourt, * and let us be brother and brother to the end. Plainly she has no wish for Beaufoy.' But the Seigneur shook his head. ' Plague take it !' said he. ' There is such a thing as a man's dignity. As for wishes, what 32 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES li are they in a woman ? Nought !' and he snapped his fingers. • Listen,' he went on, ' I will play you for her. Dice-boxes instead of a puddle of blood ; and, besides, the time hangs plaguey heavy.' ' Are you • mad ?' cried Vaucourt. • Why, man, I have loved Denise since I knew what love was.' • Faith !' — and Beaufoy laughed. ' I might say the same, and never know the throb of a pulse.' ' Then give her up !' cried the other again. ' For, Beaufoy, Denise ' And he stopped. ' Ay,' answered Beaufoy, ' and had I known that thirty-six hours ago, I had not been sittino- here now waiting to play a sharper game with Cesar Vigogne than dice on a stool-top ; but, being here, I must carry the thinof throunfh. I catch you. meaning. You love her, and she you ; and to dice for her would be sacrilege for you as for me to dice for Beaufoy. Ay, I see that ; but to me who neither love nor am loved it is the fairest of games. By St. Francis ! I have it! I will play left hand against right for her, and on the honour of Beaufoy, if I lose, I make my bow at sunrise, Cdsar Vigogne permitting.' ' And if you win ?' • If I win ' — and with his open palm he smote HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 33 the stool in front of him — ' then win her I ;hall, though all Vaucourt came between. Let me see : the left — ay, that is you ; it is nearer the heart. A pretty conceit, faith ! I give you first throw, Messire. My word ! but I hope Cesar Vigogne will be gallant enough to hold his hand until the game is played.' Taking the dice-box in his left finger-tips, he raised it above his head, shaking it, and reversed it on the stool. ' Ace, tray. Faith, a poor throw ! Now, tht ; right hand for Beaufoy. Cinq, quatre. lead you, Messire — I lead you ! Throw, Vaucourt, throw ; 'tis the best of three. Tray, a> xtre. Eleven to nine, and a throw in hand. Deuce, quatre. It is well, Messire, that you are here to bear witness that it is an honest game. Your last throw, Vaucourt, and a noble one. Double six ; 'tis a lead, indeed. Now, St. Francis, for Heaufoy.' With the box poised in the air, he paused, listening. ' Nothing ? I thought it had been Cesar Vigogne.' Down came the box with a ratde. ' Tray, six ; Beaufoy wins by a point. Welcome to my poor house that shall be, Messire de Vaucourt!' ' Do you think,' said Vaucourt fiercely, grasp- ing the Seigneur by the shoulder and shaking him — ' do you think I hold myself bound by 3 34 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES that ? No— by such a mummer's chance as God, no!' ' Keep your hands for C^sar Vigogne, Mes- sire,' answered Beaufoy. • For me the thing is settled. If you wish to fight it out in another fashion, why Ha, saints! what is that? The assault is on in front ; though if Vigogne thinks to batter in the doors, he must swing a heavier sledge than that. Come, man, come !' Leaping to his feet, Beaufoy sped up the passage, grasping at his sword-hilt as he ran. Five paces behind him was Mark de Vaucourt ; but midway he stopped and waited, listening, then turned back. From behind came the sharp scream of dry timber, ripped and splin- tered, and as he watched he saw, in the dull flicker of the lamp, the door heave. • A feint ! a feint !' he cried. * Rouse them in the castle, and then this way. Seigneur ; the attack lies here I'— and rushed headlong down the tunnel. At the cry Beaufoy paused, and, stooping, he saw Vaucourt seize the lamp and hold it to the fuse, and there was a spurt of flame. ' Run ! for the Lord's sake, run !' he shouted. But Vaucourt, still holding the lamp, bent forward motionless. There was an instant's silence, a rumble, the bulging of the oak door, HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 35 a rush of gray smoke, and utter darkness, and through the darkness a roar and crash that sent Beaufoy staggering to the wall. • Mother of God !' cried a voice behind him ; * what has befallen ?' Looking behind him he saw Denise, a rush- light flickering in her hand. 'You, Messire de Beaufoy? — you? Then, where is Mark ? Coward !' she cried—' coward to leave your post !— coward !' And as she ran past him into the darkness she smote him with her open hand upon the face. Still stooping, Beaufoy saw her set the light upon the floor and draw a something from the wreck of fallen earth, saw her sink upon her knees and lay Mark de Vaucourt's head upon her lap. Then he set his teeth hard and sought Marmontel, ' C6sar Vigogne is paid in full,' said he, ' but I have enough of wife-hunting for this time. Let Mademoiselle Denise cleave to her fraction of a man, for, by St. Francis, he can be little mc«re !' Nevertheless, in the long day's ride to Beaufoy, the Squire had wit enough to keep a silent tongue, lest the debt due by the woman should be levied off the man. 3—2 II BEAUFOY'S WARD It is no great thing that an honest-hearted gentleman should forgive an injury. That he should not only pardon scorn and contempt, but be ready to set his life at stake for his contemner, is much more marvellous ; since a sword-thrust for the body counts less than a pin-prick to the spirit. Yet this, for all his pride, did Raimond de Beaufoy. That the scorn was a woman's scorn turns it still more to his credit ; for a man can measure himself with a man, and give and take blows which presently heal and are forgotten, whereas a woman's contempt is as a whip-stroke on the face that leaves a weal, the stinging heat of which keeps it well in memory. The day Beaufoy rode from Vaucourt his heart had been hot and wrathful. When Denise de Vaucourt nursed her maimed cousin Mark back to life, and married him for all his battering, Beaufoy still treasured his anger ; BEAUFOY'S WARD J! :,f 37 but with the sh'ppincr awav rvf th^ l and his busy „fe LVanTIr^ tCl^^l deadened. After all u^ r, /'^"^^^"^ss ^. -rvicer all, he was Ra mond Hh vaucourt. If a foolish woman chose tr. fl;« »ha. she called love into Vauc:u ts sU: f^"f she had the best of the bargain, i, showed sh^ '„ "°' Wrecate the possibilities, and so was Trt 0™""", '" '''^"'"'- '■--•"" "f 'h -w Jd o lav h ■" "' '■■?'"'^ "-y '"^ «— -nty of Beaufof ^T:: wf ""i ''^""f """ P°-' hi,nself nnf .1 , ""'' ""''-■^'' he found •uHiseii not alone well r rl nf tU^ Indeed, so well was the affront of his reiec «on forg,ven that he was now. four yea sX energy Beaufoy possessed to succour his old the?url fat 'f i'" "^'"^ "' ^--"« "as a^r^htVal t%rdrlt°>br °Bl.t^'= With an indiscreet zeal f^ u '"^" nf Kio "'^'-'^^et zeal to ape the stern iustice O"' the bngands, free-rider.,, and the like frol _^3f- i 38 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES the woods and fastnesses that bordered on Vaucourt. Beaufoy's hinds and herdsmen lived in peace, why not Vaucourt's ? So, with com- mendable enthusiasm, he set himself to a cam- paign of sudden death. For a time all went well. The wolves he hunted dwelt singly or in pairs, rogue not trust- ing rogue, and the greater boughs of the oaks of Vaucourt took to themselves cheering, but perishable, adornments that swung and turned and danced to the piping of the wind. Then the inevitable happened. The isolated atoms of humanity drew together, as in mercury globule draws to globule — not from love, not from trust, but from need — and Vaucourt was face to face with a coalition that knew not God nor re- garded man. Much of this Beaufoy knew, but he was not the man to poke his fingers into his neighbour's business. The Seigneurie was turbulent enough in all conscience, without its master adding to his cares by the righting of another man's follies. A direct cry for help was another matter. If lord did not stand by lord, why, there was an end to sieurs and seigneurs ; be- sides, had not Mark de Vaucourt saved him from saddling Beaufoy with a fool as mistress, and so made him his debtor ? BEAUFOY'S WARD 39 He was sitting by a small table under the great Beaufoy oak that grows to the south of the chateau and shades the Justice-room, when Vaucourt's messenger, his beast staggering and crisp with sweat that had foamed and dried three times in the wild ride, flung himself from the saddle and stammered out his news. 'Softly,' said Beaufoy, setting down the lance-head he was polishing ; 'a word at a time tells much. Whose man art thou ? Messire de Vaucourt's .? So, so. And what plague has taken Vau court ?' •A plague of men, if they be not devils Seigneur. The castle is beset.' * So !• repeated Beaufoy. • Who leads them ? There is a truce with England.' ^ ' Satan himself, I think,' answered the man They are forest reivers, Seigneur, and swarm like mad bees.' ' What ! the rogues have dared > Listen friend, and keep a cool wit. Who sent thee .?' ' • Mark de Vaucourt. Seigneur.' • And to me ?' ' To you. Seigneur, and to ride redspurred though I killed my beast. " Take another '' said he, "by force or goodwill, but take it and ride on. This is life or death." ' 'And the message > Briefly, now." ■ 40 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES • For the Lord's sake, to save Vaiicourt a second time, as you saved ;t once, for it is in a still more evil case.' •Ay?'— and Beaufoy sat back on his stool gnawing his under lip. 'Much I gained by the saving. As for thee, I give thee this much credit, friend : thou canst talk straight as well as ride straight.' For a full minute he sat rubbing his chin and thinking silently, then said : ' I have no mind for a second fool's ride.' ' Seigneur '—and in his earnestness the man pressed forward and laid his left hand on Eeaufoy's knee— 'my master is no coward, and yet his message was, "It is life or death.'" • What ? God's mercy ! wouldst thou teach me my duty, fellow .?'— and, leaping to his feet, the Seigneur thrust him staggering aside. ' Marmontel ! Marmontel ! St. Francis ! where is Marmontel.? Let the tocsin be sounded, and the word passed " boot and saddle " for all save ten men. Go thou, friend, eat, drink, and rest thy bones ; though, if I know aught of a hard ride, the two last will come easiest, but especially the drinking. Marmontel, I give you half an hour, and let the men eat standing. Leave Flemish Peter in charge, and bid him ^ 1 BEAUFOYS WARD 41 trust no living soul till I return. This may be a two days' business.' A prompt man was Raimond de Beaufoy. ill to cross, hard to drive, a staunch friend and a stern foe. It was but little more than noon by the dial on the south tower when Beaufoy. with fdur- and-twenty trained men trailing behind him in two long lines, set out across the autumn stubbles. The distance was, perhaps, some twenty leagues, but to arrive with blown horses and men over-weary for action would have been to play the game straight into the rogues' hands- There was, therefore, no great pressure of s[K'vi], and twice he called a fifteen minutes' halt for rest and baiting. So long as the path lay across the domains of Beaufoy there was but little need for caution; but once beyond the bounds of the Suzerainty and within the shadow of the great wood lying to the south, the Seigneur bade every man ride silent ; yet, for all they heard or saw of life- save wild life — they might have sung and chattered at will. The men of the woods were at Vaucourt. Into the Vaucourt pastures they rode at a trot, and were soon taught what fate awaited the Castle inmates if their relief was late. 41 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES Even the poorest hut was roofless, the meanest cottage a charred ruin, and not once nor twice the peasant owner hung from his own lintel. He had been fool enough to say • No' with over- much vigour. Of women or children they saw nothing, save once, nor had they time to search. That once sufficed. Men can see men mis- handled and keep their phlegm, but when it comes to babes and creatures but little less helpless, it is another matter. ' Let me but catch the villains ! — Lord God, let me but catch them !' cried Beaufoy between his teeth, and rammed his spurs home. ' Do what Thou wilt to me hereafter, Lord God, but give mt, I pray Thee, a free hand this day. Come, men, we must ride hard, though the beasts die for it.' For half an hour they galloped, no man speaking, so that the only sound was the rhythmic beat of the horse-hoofs on the firm turf. Then Beaufoy, who rode first, flung up his right hand as a signal, and, tightening his reins with a jerk, dropped into a walk. They had made a circuit, and the gray front of Vau- court showed through a sprinkle of trees. At a sign Marmontel ranged up alongside the Seigneur. ' Slip off, and go ahead for news. The few BEAUFOY'S WARD 43 minutes will breathe the beasts, and we must not lose the advantage of surprise. Fling me your bridle, and make haste.' Without a word Marmontel swung stiffly to the ground, gave Beaufoy his reins, and ran briskly forward, keeping to ths shelter of the timber. Inside of ten minutes he was back, panting. ' It is all too quiet,' he said. ' The great door is splintered and oft its hinges, and — and — Seigneur, I like not the look of things.' * To saddle ! Forward, men !' said Beaufoy curtly ; and silently, but in disorder, they rode on. All purpose of surprise was gone, and the one thought in each man's mind was to press forward, and use his eyes first and his hands after. Whil«- still sixty yards from the flight of stone steps, the Seigneur halted and leaped down. ' Let five keep the horses. Marmontel, see thou to that. The rest follow me,' he said, and set off running full speed across the turf, his keen eyes reading signs and reckoning chances as he ran. Marmontel was right : the door had been battered down and then flung out upon the It .; ! 44 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES grass, that it might not impede entrance. There had been a stubborn defence. The wreck of the doors and the twisted window-bars testified to that. That there was no dead counted for nothing, since the rogues in their escape would carry their fallen with them ; and that they had so escaped was clear, for there was neither voice nor stir, nor so much of life as a face at the windows. But worse than gaping entrances, worse even than the heavy silence, and telling plainly of defeat and plunder, were the black trails, that in no fewer than three places crept up the gray of the walls. Vaucourt had been fired, and it was thanks to the haste of the victors rather than their goodwill that it had escaped destruction. At the foot of the steps Beaufoy stopped. He would run no reckless risks, for all his certainty that the Castle was empty ; but once his men had closed in and were at his back he ran lightly up, and, with his sword's point well advanced, leaped across the threshold. 'God's mercy!' he cried, checking himself, and those behind him heard the rasp of his blade driven home into its sheath. Truly the sword had been so busy that there was no work left undone. In the great square hall the chief stand had been made, and on BEAUFOY'S WARD 45 every side were evidences of the fierceness of the strugjrle as piteous as plain. The arras was hacked, the hangings trailing in ribbons, the stone flags smeared and pooled and clotted with blood. In the swirl and eddy of combat the antique armour and furnishings of the wall had been overturned, and lay rolled in corners in a disordered wreck. The very panellings of the walls were splintered, and in more than one place the dull oak had taken on a deeper stain. But the centre of the floor was the focus to which all turned, and as De Beaufoy's men crowded forward, the laggards thrusting aside the first comers as they pushed to the front, jest and laugh and clamour died in a gasp. It would be foolishness to expect a delicacy of sentiment from men whose trade it was to kill, maim, or burn all and sundry to their patron's order, and for a fee of ten crowns a month, private hate or public weal being equally out of consideration ; but when it comes to poor humanity, even butchers have their repugnances. The strife, as has been said, had here been sharpest, and in the centre of the floor the victors had heaped their spoils. There they lay, flung in every contortion of twisted trunk and limb, nine marrings of God's likeness. 46 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES That they had fallen far apart was clear from the ghastly tracks smeared across the floor, but in the end they found companionship. Nerve- less hands grasped broken blades, and dead eyes looked out on life in dazed reproach, the pangs of staggering beyond the margin of the world still plain to be read. To those who found them death was common, and so a thing of small account ; but the callous crowding of man on man, the sheer indignity to the helpless clay, shook them with wrath, and the silence was broken by a clamour of malediction and cries for vengeance. But these Beaufoy hushed with a shake of his hand. ' Is Vaucourt there ?' he said. ' If not, we must search.' One by one they ranged the slain men in line by the wall, but there was no Mark de Vaucourt, and as they laid the last in his place they turned in silence to the Seigneur, and through the silence there came a cry — a shrill, high-pitched petulant wail — the querulous com- plaint of helplessness in pain. • Let the dead bide with God,' cried Beaufoy. ' By St. Francis, there is life at last !' Turning down the corridor to the left, he ran full speed up the narrow circular stone stairway BEAUFOY'S WARD 47 i I 1 rising at its end, following the thin complaining cry. Everywhere were signs of struggle, and for all his haste he noted them; round blots upon the worn steps, the print of an outstretched hand upon the hall, as where a man had staggered in his wild race with death, and once a broken sword-blade. Someone — or more — uad fled, hard pursued from below, having work to finish above. Still following the wailing, Beaufoy ran down a narrow, ill-lit passage-way, and halted at a wrecked doorway — halted to think. The caution of the soldier had come back. But his men had followed close behind him, and now Marmontel pushed to the front. ' By your leave. Seigneur, this is my place !' said he, and would have entered. •Thy place when thou art Seigneur. Am not I first?" answered Beaufoy, and flung him reeling backward. ' God's mercy, Denise!' On the bed lay a woman mercifully dead; across her and scarcely human, he was so hewn and stabbed, Mark de Vaucourt ; and in a corner beyond the pillow sat an eight months old girl-child dry-sobbing, her litde fists rubbed hard into the hollows of her eyes. That much Marmontel saw and the two or three others that crowded at his heels, but they saw no 48 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES more ; nor to the day of his death would the Seiorneur ever speak, by so much as a hint, of what he saw in that upper room at Vaucourt. Ro'ind on his men swung Beaufoy. ' Hence, all of you !' he cried. • Let one so much as cross the door, and rhe nine below will become ten. This is a woman's business or a priest's, maybe.' Then he went down upon his knees, and what he prayed and what he swore is known only to God and his own soul ; but those who watched him through the chinks of the broken door, and saw the play of his face, thought there was but little of priestliness in him, except it were in commination. When he came out into the passage again, he held the still sobbing child clumsily to his breast with his left arm— so clumsily, and with such a plainly unaccustomed air, that those gathered about the stairhead would have laughed for all the tragedy, but that the hard sternness in his eyes cowed them. ' Let ten bide here on guard and the rest follow,' he said to Marmontel, as he tramped down the curve of the stairs at the head of his troop, and out into the evening sunshine. Setting the child on the front of his saddle, and holding her firmly there with his left hand, he BEAUFOY'S WARD 49 mounted, and turning to the north-west, rode into the wood in silence. 'But, Seigneur!' ventured Marmontel, ranging alongside, 'vengeance lies south.' The Seigneur turned on him with a snarl. ' Beaufoy's ward comes first,' he said. 'We ride for the convent of the Poor Clares. Ven- geance can wait, and, by the Lord, it will but ripen in the waiting. Be at ease, Marmontel ; these cowards shall find that my arm and my memory are alike long.' Thenceforward for two hours they rode in silence, and the dusk was thick about them when Marmontel knocked at the porters' lodge of the Convent of Our Lady of Good Hope, and bade the fellow tell the Mother Abbess I « the Seigneur de Beaufoy was without on an errand of peace. 'And let her hasten,' added Beaufoy as he dismounted. 'For all our peace, I and mine are somewhat impatient.' Presently the sliding panel set in the door rattled in its grooves, and from behind the bars of the opened grating a white face looked out. To have the courage of religion is well enough, but the reputation of Raimond de Beaufoy was none of the best, and rumour had it that he held few things sacred. 4 • i 50 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES ' Madame '—and the Seigneur held the child so that the light from within fell upon her sleeping face — * be this my surety ;' and in a few words he told her of the sack of Vaucourt, and how that little Denise — ' I make no doubt, Madame, but that her name is Denise, and if it be not now, by St. Francis, it shall be hence- forth for her mother's sake ' — heiress of Vaucourt, was now ward of Beaufoy in virtue of his Suzerainty. * Keep her for me, Madame. Who am I to nurture such a tender lamb, since — and if it be a sin may the Lord forgive me ! — there is but little of the sheep in me. So long as she bides here, Beaufoy will pay a hundred crowns yearly for her up-keep, and more if need be. Be it my part to see that Vaucourt yields it ; and, Madame, for pity's sake and for the loving tender woman's nature in you, send to Vaucourt to-morrow. Men can dig holes for men, but Madame de Vaucourt lies there, and there may be others, for we did not search.' Thus it came that the care of the lands of the child Denise fell to Raimond de Beaufoy, while her nurture in body and spirit was watched over by Our Lady of Good Hope. In all respects the child throve. That Beaufoy presently forgot her was to her gain, since she was the more fully left to the gentle 1 BEAUFOY'S WARD 5, and wholesome teachings of those who kept truth and faith ah'ght in a dead and corrupt age. But if the Seigneur gave little heed to the child Denise, he nursed and fed Vaucourt with such goodwill that there were those who said it was no better than a fief of Beaufoy, and lied in the saying. Beaufoy was no spoiler of the weak, and least of all would he rob the charge that death and blood had committed to his ward. So, for eighteen years the months swung round ; Beaufoy, except for the payment of the tale of crowns, giving, as has been said, small heed to Denise de Vaucourt, when, with little warning, his memory was spurred into wakefulness. It came in this fashion. Of all Beaufoy "s friends, and he had many none had served him so well or so loyally as Henri de Beaucaire, a Picard gentleman of longer pedigree than purse, and who was, indeed as poor in lands as he was rich in courage, honesty, and a sunny temper. For eight years the bond of frank faith, good-fellowship, and many dangers risked in common, had bound them fast, and one day as they sat under Beaufoy 's oak Beaucaire asked a recompense. ' It is seven years since you married. Seigneur ' he said, 'and to see that noble little lad grow- ing up at your knees fills me with envy. If 4—2 I : 52 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES Monseigneur de Grandfrai grants leave, give me Denise for a wife, that I, too, may see my children before I am greyheaded and their youth is a burden to my age. I warrant Vaucourt and Beaufoy will be but closer knit. Beaufoy set the lad down upon the grass. • Run to Marmontel, my Sieur, and learn thy sword-play. What talk is this of Grandfrai ? My Lord Bishop has his rights spiritual, and I my rights temporal. I pray the Lord the two do not clash, for Grandfrai's sake.' ^ ' But Denise, Seigneur, Denise ?' ' Oh, denise, Denise ! I would as soon see thee at Vaucourt as any man ; but what of Grandfrai? How come his fingers into the affairs of Vaucourt? Am not I Suzerain ? Is Denise not Beaufoy 's ward ?' • Theodore of Grandfrai takes leave to doubt it,' answered Beaucaire. ' That much I heard to-day.' , « Whose ward, then ? The Kings? 'Nearer home, Seigneur: Grandfrai's himself He says the widow and the orphan are the peculiar care of the Church, and therefore ■' •And therefore I must toil and plan and scheme for eighteen years to fatten Ha! by St. Francis ! this must be seen to, lest he marry Denise to the Lord knows whom offhand, and ■a- IS BEAUFOY'S WARD 53 so the wealth of Vaucourt, of my making, will be a thorn in Beaufoy's side for ever^after. That Theodore of Grandfrai should play me such a trick ! I took him for a simple matins- and-vespers priest. Speak out, Beaucaire ; this touches you as closely as it does me. Is there more behind .?' ' Only that young Martin de Chapny ' *De Chapny, De Chapny.? God give me patience ! I would have the man hung to his own lintel within the month. De Chapny, for- sooth ! Beaufoy owes him no goodwill, nor he Beaufoy. VVe must .strike, my friend ; we must strike ! At last I have found a use for Father Grdgoire. The good man must have grown rusty in marrying, and to-day he shall polish his memory. Let every man who can be spared make ready ; and. since the riding will be hard, the friar must stick to his saddle, though we tie his legs beneath the beast's beliy. Dethapny ' God's mercy ! Beaufoy has not yet fallen so low as to be tricked by any monk of them all. be he Bishop or begging brother.' Though from Chateau Beaufoy to the convent of the Poor Clares, where Denise lay in charge of the gray nuns, was a three hours' ride, it was all too short to cool the Seigneur's wrath. Nay, the heat, the haste and the dust were so 4 54 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES many spurs and goads to prick it into fresh fierceness, so that the evil temper in him grew with the miles. Nor did the sight that greeted his eyes outside the heavy gates of the convent quiet his humour. ' By St. Francis ! my Lord Bishop is fore- handed with us. Yonder is a squire with De Chapny's arms upon i»is shield. Thank the Lord there is a layman in the case, since to trounce a Churchman is as shameful as striking a woman, and one is like to gain as much or as little by the one as the other. Knock, Mar- montel, knock, and be not over-nice about it. Friend,' he went on, as a scared face looked through the grating, 'for thy body's health imperil thy soul a little, and open the door. Raimond de Beaufoy has come to claim his ward.' Whereat, instead of the door opening the panel slid back in its grooves, and from across the wall came the ring of feet pattering up the hard roadway to the convent, which stood some hundred yards from the girdle of walls. ♦ Let six face round, lest my Lord Bishop's persuaders to the peace of God take us un- awares ; and do you, Marmontel, and two others pick me out of the wood a stout and heavy i s BEAUFOYS WARD ^5 sapling, lest in the maintf^nance of right and justice and the peace of the Suzerainty it be needful to batter in yonder door. Nay, stay a moment ; our friend of the white cheeks is back again, and not alone.' This time the panel was untouched ; but after a mighty rasping of locks and shootincr back of bolts, the postern to the left of the great djor was flung wide, and into the open space stepped Theodore of Grandfrai. A right bishop-like picture he made, standing there in the frame- work of the doorpost and lintel, Christian prelate from his thin fringe of white hair to his sandalled feet. Unlike many of his day he carried no insignia of the Church militant about him, saving those of spiritual warfare. A crucifix and a rosary swung from his girdle, the former of silver, the latter of some simple beads. His dress was no more than the gray frock of his Order ; and for all that he was the full figure of a man, the mild benevolence of his face warranted Beaufoy's description of him as a priest of matins and vespers. He might also have added of charity and consolation, but that the Seigneur had never needed such ministra- tions. Yet. for all his mildness, Theodore of Grand- trai was no man to forego a jot of the rights of 5« THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES ' the Church, or abate a tittle of the privileges of relijrjon. ' Is this seemly, Seigneur de Beaufoy, to come clamouring at these gates of peace in such a fashion ?' ' Is it seemly, my Lord Bishop,' answered the Seigneur, no whit abashed, 'to filch my ward. Den ise de Vaucourt, from me on some monkish pretence ? So goes the story ; if I am wrong I crave your pardon, but, by St. Francis! I claim my ward also.' •The Lord forbid that I should so debase my office as filch a ward of thine, or of any man's. There lies your error. Denise de Vaucourt is ward to Grandfrai, and not all the wrath or browbeating of every lord in France can loose the bond.' ' Your ward, Bishop — yours ? God s mercy * ' Nay, not mine, but Grandfrai's.' ' Have done with a juggle of words. Thy ward, for thou art Grandfrai ? What, then, of me .'* Do I count for nought, who have sweated and laboured and planned for Vaucourt these eighteen years .?' 'At whose instance, Seigneur de Beaufoy? Your own and no one else's. It is time ' — and the Bishop squared his shoulders and looked BEAUFOY'S WARD i SI Beaufoy fulli„ ,he face-'i, is ,in,eyou learned .ha, ^«, lay your hand upon a thing is „o. ,o fis. upon a palm, ^do I wan, Vaucour,? By Mu,r, de lieaucaire, whom I have brough, ,o wed ,„y ward, Denise de Vaucour,, and wtd h r •t G d ' '^' "i"^''^ «""• ' «■" Seigneur' o,her " ,' ^""' ' ^"' '^''''"'P'' ''"^""eJ the n • /• ,?"" ""y "gl" ""'"Op yours Demse de Vaucour, is orphaned, and ,o "he "Than ,he Church of Chris, is mo,her para moun. To Messire de Beauca.re I ,ake7o excep,K.n. An es,imable gentleman in "h truth but Denise de Vaucour, is already pro so httle do I fear you or your pre,ended rights that^of "■ * K ' '■^^"'^'^ "^^ y"- pres..nce'and hat of any three you will ; but let a f.fth seek de Beaufoy, ,ha, you will set ablaze such a fire m Angoumo,s as will need ,he ,ears of a« Dide, itsaJl one to me.' Turning, he left the door opm behind hfm and walked slowly up the path L.neieftgr; 1 * ' 58 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES building, of which glimpses could be caught between the laden orchard-trees that closed it round. For an instant Beaufoy sat his saddle, weighing the chances, then he flung himself to the ground. ' He is right, it were a fool's deed to split Angoumois on such a question ; yet, by the faith of Beaufoy, De Chapny shall not mp'-ry Denise de Vaucourt. Come, Beaucaire, fo; w thou, Marmontel ; he said take three, and I will take but two. Hark you' — and he turned sharply to his men — ' let there be no brawlings. Who touches Grandfrai or Chapny, except upon my word, touches me. The Lord forbid that any unconsidered zeal should set Angou- mois a-burning.* Leisurely, and like one who knew that what- soever was in progress must needs wait his pleasure, the Seigneur followed Theodore o Grandfrai, pausing every half dozen or dozen paces to point out this or that to Beaucaire, as if to set an accent on his slowness. ' Trust the Church to be well served. Saw you ever such a burden of fruit or such a smooth pleasantness of turf? By St. Francis, if I were not Beaufoy I would be a monk ! Not Charles in his beloved gardens is more daintily surrounded. Mark the wealth of BEAUFOY'S WARD 59 Madonna lilies, and out of season, too; the very air is spiced by them. Poor Clares they call themselves ! See the carvings of the doorway, and there on yonder gables ; my faith, what better could they have an they were Rich Clares! What, my friend, the Bishop waits us? Ay, ay! lead thou, and we will follow. It were the crime of a heretic to make a Bishop wait!' ^ Behind the great door with its many bolts and studs of metal was yet another barrier, a kind of latticed screen of hammered ironwork, and beyond it lay the cool gray of the broad and silent hall. Crossing this they were ushered into a chamber whose magnificent pro- portions of width, height, and leng.th might well have been the glory of a palace, even had its mouldings and frescoes been less splendid. Here again there was silence, but a silence tremulous with the life of a great throng strained into attention. For half its space the room was packed, but packed so that its lower end and three-fourths of its centre were empty. Up between the crowded lines of gray-robed women walked the Seigneur, Beaucaire at his side, and Marmontel two paces in the rear. His eyes were smiling, but his mouth was hard-set, and to one who i f 60 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES knew him it was plain he was in no placable mood. But it was neither to right nor left that he looked, but in front, where, at the further end of the room, the Abbess stood, a group of her nuns about her, Denise by her side, and Theo- dore of Grandfrai, with a dozen of his monks — De Chapny in their midst— ranged at her left. Six paces from her he stopped. • My thanks, Madame, for all the love and care you have shown my ward, and I pledge you my faith that Raimond de Beaufoy has as long a memory for an obligation as for an injury. Could a man who has to hold his own with the world say more ? But now the time has come to relieve you of your charge, and that you may have no fear for her safety, I have a score of men without who know no other law than that I give them. To be frank, Madame, I have promised Denise in marriage to my friend Messire Henri de Beaucaire, and where Beau- foy gives his friendship, no woman need shrink from giving her trust.' * But ' — and the Abbess drew Denise towards her, a slender slip of a girl, dressed in the plainest white, and her hair drawn back from her pale face in a simple knot--* Denise is but a child.' -1 'THE ABBISS STOOD, A GROl'l* OF HER NUNS ABOUT HER. 11 BEAUFOY'S WARD 6i I! ' My Lord Bishop differs, Madame,' answered Beaufoy ^^^ravely. 'And she who is woman enough for Martin de Chapny is woman enough for Henri de Beaucaire.' ' I am here,' cried De Chapny, ' by grace of Monseigneur de Grandfrai, and ' ' La, la, la !' broke in the Seigneur. ' May Monseigneur de Grandfrai teach you better manners ; though, if he fails in that duty, never fear, there are others to take his place ! This is no affair of yours, Messire, saving as cat's- paw to Grandfrai's monkey.' • But it is of mine, Raimond de Beaufoy ' — and Bishop Theodore confronted the Seigneur. ' Denise de Vaucourt is ward to Grandfrai by right and privilege of the Church. What? Because you mouth and bully, shall I play traitor to my trust ? No, not for fifty Beaufoy s, with fifty score church plunderers at their back ! Listen ' 'No, rather listen thou!' cried Beaufoy. 'Must I lose my toil because it suits your crooked politics to filch my labour on a trumped pretence ? Denise is Beaufoy 's by right of lives set in the balance and eighteen years of struggle. And here, before you all, and in the face of God, I swear ' ' Swear not at all, Raimond de Beaufoy, lest, I I I 62 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES I i in reply, instead of calling God to witness, I call Him to curse.' 'Curse on,' cried Beaufoy, gripping round for his sword, ' but have Denise I shall ! De Beaucaire, Marmontel, come ; they are but a pack of monks !' • Men as well as monks !' cried back the Bishop, and at a sign the brethren gathered round the Abbess, confronting Beaufoy with uplifted crucifixes. 'Tush!' said the Seigneur, ramming home his half-drawn blade. ' Said I not that a man could no more strike a monk than a woman ? For peace' sake, I will humour the girl. Hearken, Denise. I was your mother's friend, and in the day of her need all that man could do to save her I did. You, at least, I saved. Vaucourt I have tended, nursed, nourished, and, so far as lay within me, I have played the father. Remember this, and tell me, is it your wish to marry Martin de Chapny ?' And out of the great silence that followed, Denise, never lifting her head from the Mother's breast, answered in a whisper, ' No.' 'Good!' cried De Beaufoy. 'If you owed me a debt, Denise, you have paid in full. Are you answered, Monseigneur ?' ' Hearken, Denise,' said Theodore of Grand- BEAUFOYS WARD 63 I 3 frai in his turn. ' For eighteen years the Church has guarded, sheltered, taught, and loved you. In your sorrows you have been comforted ; in your troubles you have been soothed ; in your doubts you have been guided. The love of God has been brought near to you. Mother- less, you have lacked no mother ; fatherless, you have lacked no father. Remember this, and tell me, Denise — is it your will to marry Henri de Beaucaire ?' And again, holding the Mother the closer, Denise answered, ' No.' For a moment there was a silence, and it was the girl who broke it. ' Keep me, Mother, and hold me fast. If I am but worthy, let me be as you are, the bride of the Lord Christ and of none else.' Again there was a silence, such a silence as when men feel that the Eternal is very near, and this time it was Beaufoy who broke it. ' So be it,' he said solemnly. ' Let us leave bickering, we two. Thou and I must stand aside. Bishop, for here is a greater than us both.' Ill BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE When the men of Angoumois spoke of the vengeance of Beaufoy, which they did for three generations, they had in their thought a certain late August day in 1467, the year that saw that gamecock among princes, Charles the Bold, buckle on his spurs. And if, in that vengeance, the Seigneur forgot mercy in judgment there is this in his excuse : that he dealt with those who showed no mercy. Further, if the chief end of judgment is to deter evil-doers, then had there never been before so shrewd a stroke of justice, since for hard on a score of years thereafter the Suzerainty had peace from reivers, forest thieves, and masterless men. Yet, for all this, the vengeance was unbecoming a Christian man, though it was characteristic of Raimond de Beaufoy that because he struck for another he struck hard, for it was not Beaufoy that he avenged, but Theodore, Bishop of Grandfrai. This was how it came about. BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 65 As, hard upon seven years before, they two had ridden out from the Convent 0/ Our Lady of Good Hope, as has been already told, the Seigneur was half content and half wrathful. He had lost his point, but so had my Lord Bishop, and they were therefore quits. Now. to hold himself no better than his neighbour was a new thing to Beaufoy, and set him think- ing ; so that at last, out of the fulness of his heart, he spoke. ' I owe >ou no grudge for this day's worsting,' said he. ' At best 'tis a stalemate, and none can cry " Check " to the other. The wisdom of it to me is this : that you have need of me for this world. Bishop, and I of you for the next. Let us join hands, and so both be the stronger. Who touches Grandfrai touches Beaufoy, and Beaufoy will see to it ; and thou on thy part hast thy prayers, thy masses— eh .? Is it a bargain ?' Theodore of Grandfrai turned in his saddle and looked down the long line of Beaufoy 's men. 'I understand well enough,' said he, still looking hard behind, ' but I think the heavy end of the stick lies with me.' ' By St. Francis, not so !' cried the Seigneur. ' Heard you ever that Beaufoy had wronged .■Mi I 66 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES woman or weakling, sold justice for a bribe broke the plight of his oath, set self before sacrifice, lived sleek on another's sweat, swined himself with wine, or worked another's downfall by false craft ? No saint am I, Monseig-eur, to my shame and sorrow, but no sinner beyond Christ's mercy. Besides, a five-year old boy makes for virtue in his father. Is it a bargain ?' 'Raimond de Beaufoyis Raimond de Beaufoy ' answered the Bishop. • But what of two score of the earth's dross ?' 'Leave them to me to keep clean by the fear of man if not of God. Is it a bargain I say ?' *• ' And Theodore answered : ' A bargain. Seigneur ; and for life i** Whereat Beaufoy rubbed his chin. •Why, no, Monseigneur ; that were as bad as if a man took to himself a second wife, and one IS enough for me. A life's a long arm's- length. Say seven years.' •And then.' said the Bishop slyly, 'the year ot release !' • The year of release,' echoed Beaufoy gravely not understanding a jot of the reference. 'A good phrase, and mayhap an apt one.' • And will the pact include the Convent of Our Lady ?' BEAUFOYS VENGEANCE 67 •The Convent of Our Lady holds Denise de Vaucourt,' answered Beaufoy sternly, ' and say what you will, she is Beaufoy s ward. Woe to him, j^rentle or simple, who touches Our Lady of Good Hope while Denise de Vaucourt lives !' ' Between us two, then, Seigneur ?' 'Between us two, Bishop. There is my hand upon it, and if I fail to hold to my pledge, may the Lord show me no mercy in my time of need.' And so the compact was made. That, as has been said, was seven years past, and now, vyith no more than the last few sands of the time to run. Raimond de Beaufoy had roused the Seigneurie that he might keep faith. Thrice before he had done this, but thrice only in two- and-thirty years. Once after the Vaucourt massacre, to beat the woods for men as a hunter might for wolves and foxes ; once when he led fifty tramed m-n and four times that of villains to aid, at his own cost, in the crushing of Talbot at Castillon ; and once, as shall be told, when the King came to Beaufoy. • For the repressing of sudden turbulence, the enforcmgs of his powers of justice or right as Seigneur, Beaufoys paid men were commonly sufficient. But this was no common case, and 5—2 68 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES r SO he had roused the Seigneurie, and marched on Grandfrai with five-score men at his back. ' This,' said Beaufoy to Marmontel, his squire, who rode by his side, 'comes of living over- little for this world and over-much for the next. A man while he has his feet on earth should keep some of his wits there too. Here is Theodore of Grandfrai, as gracious and kindly a man as ever said " No !" out of a stern con- science, and yet he must need set his vassals by the ears, as if they were not flesh and blood because they were chattels of the Church. Pray God they have not got his palace tore down about him before we succour him.' ' But by your leave, Seigneur,' said Marmontel —it was Marmontel the younger, and own son of his father in devotion to Beaufoy — * if Flemish Peter told truth, these are the very scum of the woods. Broken men from east and west, camp-followers from the wars round Paris, free- lances, rogues, thieves, and worse. How then ' ' The nearer the devil the greater need of the Church' — and the* Seigneur laughed. 'Would you have my Lord Bishop fret and harry gray- frocked monks? But he missed his mission. Stocks, pillories, and brandings stand in poor stead of the love of God, and yet I do not blame BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 69 Theodore of Grandfrai, but rather that thin- faced Spaniard that sits in his ear. May the i rr* 'ove Beaufoy better than to leave its S \:nv r to play the fool to its undoing in his ^\'\ '11 See what comes of it. There was V r.!id; ai. a father in Angoumois these twenty ) eais. If he spoke- a blunt word now and then, r. ^as all in kindness ; and what man had the ' ^ i^ • right than he who fed the hungry, soothed thM sorrowing, assoilzied the dying, and loved all, the small and the great, with an equal love and never to his own gain ? That he clung to his rights like a dog to a bone was naught to his disparagement : a man should be a man, and no boneless jellyfish. Then comes this Sala- manca Prior, and in a twinkle white's black. A year ago these rogues, scum as they are, would have throttled the viler rogue who cursed Grandfrai; now they have passed beyond curses and c ne to works.' 'And we, said Marmontel sourly, 'must dance till our bones ache to the music set blaring by this same lean bigot.' ' No, by St. Francis, no !' cried the Seigneur ; 'but rather you must uphold Beaufoy 's pledged word, and that you shall do, were it passed to the devil himself Grandfrai, for all its bishopric, was no more 70 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES I. , than a straggling village on the highroad from Ruffec to Nortron, and lay beyond the boundary of Beaufoy's Suzerainty ; and, saving for his compact, the quarrel was no more his than that of Blaise la Valette, Gaspard St. Claud, or the Count de Confolens. But of these the first was in his dotage, the second at Paris with Louis, and no mortal ever knew the third care for aught save the filling of his stomach with meat and drink. On Beaufoy, then, fell the burden of law and order, and as they rode into Grand- frai it was plain there was no light weight to be borne. Not a house but was mishandled — the doors driven in, the thatch a-smouldering, the patches of vineyard and melons broken down or trampled into ruin, and the paths strewn with the wrecked litter of the poor furnishings. Nor had their owners escaped. Sorrowful lamentations were matched with still more sorrowful silences, and the bitterest fruit of war had been plucked and scattered in the lavish waste of an abundant harvest. Half Grandfrai lay dead in its spoiled gardens. Here a huddle of woman's clothes ; there a sodden lump choking the trickling flow of the kennel ; further on a graybeard peasant prone across his threshold, half within and half with- ;i BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 71 out, and who had died on his knees as he fell ; groups of twos and threes that in desperation had turned bare-handed on their murderers; but everywhere, to right and left, desolation and death. But neither fire nor slaughter checked the Seigneur, until, midway up the straggle of the village, he halted to question a woman sitting in the road with a babe on her lap. She was the first living thing he had seen in Grandfrai. 'What of Monseigneur the Bishop.?' he cried, leaning across his horse's neck. She looked up at him dully, then back to the babe, shaking her head. Gathering her burden into her left arm, she fumbled at the bosom of her dress, opening it, and setting to her breast the mouth of the child. As she did so, a trickle of blood came from the lips that should have sucked ; and again she looked up, silent but whimpering, and her mouth all a-tremble. 'Damnation!' said the Seigneur softly be- tween his teeth ; and sitting back in his saddle he drove his spurs hard home. ' Ride on. men!' he said, and galloped forward, nor paused again until they turned into the square where stood the palace, with its ugly, squat, low-roofed church across the angle. From end tc end the place was empty, but ♦ s. Ik: I'D 72 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES there were those scattered on the shallow flight of steps leading up to the church-doors to show that life had been. In ones and twos they lay as they had fallen, but chieHy to the sides, as if they had beeii caught and cut down in a frantic rush for shekcr — women, for the most part, drawn by the service, for the day was the day of St, John Baptist. At the sound of the hoof-beats in the square there came a stir from the church. White, scared faces looked out of the black vault of the open door, across which there hung the tattered remnants of a heavy curtain, and of a sudden there was a thin babble of lamentation. The terror-bound tonu^ues were unloosed, and wrath and sorrow found voice ; no form of words, no coherency, only a shrill, murmuring clamour as of Rachel weeping for her children and beyond all comfort. Leaping down, his face white under its bronze, Beaufoy mounted the steps, Marmontel and a dozen others hard behind. In the sharp fury of battle he had sent more than one man to his death, and thought naught of it either then or afterward ; but this callous slaughter, as of sheep, this dry-voiced wailing, half fear, half loss, moved him as never had stricken field. BEAUFOrS VENGEANCE 73 At the door of the church he paused in a rare uncertainty. ' Where is Monseigneur ? Have they dared mishandle him like— like '—and he looked with a gesture down the steps—' like these others ?' It was a woman who answered, an old witch- wife, shrunk and wizened with age. ' Come and see,' said she, and gripped him by the arm. She had seen too much that day to have terror of the living, though he were Seigneur, Suzerain, or King. When one has rubbed elbows with death for a full hour, there is litde left in life to fear. A day before it might have cost her her right hand to have so much as touched the Seigneur ; now, calamity had dr, iwn together class and class, and she gripped him as if he were but tlcsh and blood like herself. ' Come and see.' She led him in, the now silent troop of peasants shufHing at their heels. The church was in utter darkness, except for one twinkling lamp hung high up against the roof— so high that it had escaped the destruction measured out to every altar and in every side-chapel ; but so thick was the gloom— for the church was built against blind walls to north and south-— and so thin and remote the light, that all the 74 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES further end, where was the great altar, and behind the pillars, was black as night. Ten steps from the door, and Beaufoy — the woman still clinging to him — paused, that his eyes might grow accustomed to the gloom, and in behind him gathered the small remnant of the people of Grandfrai, dumb, or whispering shrilly under their breath, and staring hard at the Seigneur. The strength of the church — their trust for so many years — was broken ; but here was a new and rougher power, and dimly, half unconsciously, their trust went out to him. Slowly the darkness gave up its secrets. First, the loom of the wide pillars, with rough, unusual, sprawling patches at their feet, with here and there a blotch of gray that, as their eyes found power, lightened into a dead face ; then the uncertain stretch of walls, broken by niches or small votive chapels ; and lastly, slowly— very slowly — the far-off chancel-stalls and the dim brown depths of the choir. After that the tale of ruin told itself without words : altar-pieces shredded from their frames, splintered crucifixes upholding maimed Christs, statues laid in shivers. The very railings of the altar had been torn from their place and used to batter down the shrines. Not a marble BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 75 -M stood upon its base ; not a candlestick but was crushed and twisted ; not a vestment but was rent to rags and rolled in the blood of that day's martyrdom. ' See !' — and the woman turned her wrinkled face up to Beaufoy, shaking his arm as she spoke — ' see, they were worse than devils ! Not Satan himself would dare touch holy things.' ' But Monseigneur,' cried Beaufoy, speaking in his impatience and dread as men were not wont to speak in such a place — ' where is Mon- seigneur ?' ' Come and see,' said the woman a second time. With the assured step of one who knows every tile in the worn pavement, she urjj^ed the Seigneur forward ; then, of a sudden, when a dozen feet from the shattered railing that had shut apart the chancel, she dropped his arm and ran forward alone. At the altar steps she paused, and falling on her knees called to him in a hoarse whisper : ' See, Seigneur, see ! Were they not worse than devils?' There, on the third step, was Theodore of Graadfrai, done to death in the very ministry of the service. That he had turned to meet 76 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES these breakers of sanctuary was clear, for his wounds were all in front, as those of a warrior should be, and to the last Theodore of Grand- frai had been a true soldier of the Cross. That he had died denouncing sin and defending his flock was probable, for behind him was a shambles, and his wounds were many and deep. But whatever of wrath there had been was gone, and he lay as if asleep. His eyes were closed, his arms drawn decently to his side, and on his breast lay a rude crucifix carved from some common wood. 'God give us all as sweet a rest,' said Beaufoy, turning to those about him. ' Which way went these slayers of priests ?' As he spoke there was a hum and a buzz across the church. They loved their Bishop, these poor souls, and the Seigneur's pity was dear to them ; but for the moment they loved vengeance better. At once a dozen voices broke out, and in the dim light there were wild and passionate gestures. ' Westward, Seij^meur, westward ; and there are none so many of them, no more than two score..' 'Two score! And they sacked Grand- frai ?' •Two score devils,' answered the woman, BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 77 'and they took us by surprise. My son Jean they piked as ' •Ay, I can guess the tale. Let it rest, mother.' Down on his knees he went, and lifting up the crucifix, he kissed it before them all and held it aloft. ' I was too late, Lord God — too late to save him ! And though he might say, " Lord, lay not this sin to their charge," so say not I.' Then he kissed the cross a second time, and laid it back whence he had taken it. ' Let Beaufoy's men follow me,' he said, rising. ' The rest bide here and right this disorder as best they can.' At the door he turntd, an 1 thrusting aside the tattered curtain, looked back into the gloom. • Listen !' he said, ' and I pray God the dead can hear it also. Until justice be done, 1 swear by the honour of Beaufoy that I will not cross the door of my house — no, not though the vengeance be seven years in the coming ' — and, at the words, from behind him there came a shout that grew and swelled into a roar. Beaufoy's men were as hot in the blood as Beaufoy's lord. • if it were into hell's mouth,' said Mar- montel as they rode at a sharp trot out into the 7« THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES pastures, 'they would follow you unwinking, their gall is so stirred. Seigneur, you never heard the like of the poor folks' tales : they were a shame to Christendom, and the Lord have mercy on the Spanish Prior !' • By St. Francis,' cried Beaufoy, ' I had for- gotten the Prior ! What of him ?' ' They have him fast ; and if we do not catch them up by nightfall ' ' We must, we shall !' — and Beaufoy smote his thigh with his clenched fist. ' Their spoil of beasts hinders them, and, besides, they are drunk with slaughter, and so have no fear. Be content, Marmontel ; we shall catch them.' ' And then. Seigneur ?' Raimond de Beaufoy 's face grew ugly in its grim hardness. ' Wait,' he said, ' wait,' and said no more ; but the words were fuller of meaning than a curse. Yet at this time the Seigneur had no plan. How or where he should lay hands on them, or how deal with the wretches he knew not, and what happened afterwards happened in a sense of chance. ' There are some two or three on horseback. Seigneur,' went on Marmontel ; ' part of the loot of Grandfrai.' ' On horseback, eh .''' And Beaufoy laughed BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 79 t?i dourly. 'Set a beggar on horseback, and where does he ride? On my word, they are like to learn shortly whether or no the proverb holds. Faster, men, faster !* To track two-score reivers with a mixed multitude of cattle, sheep, and goats was no hard matter. The broken undergrowth and trampled grass left no room for question. Apparently they had been in no haste, for at intervals the belt of trodden herbage broadened out that the beasts might rest and crop the grass, green enough under the trees, in spite of the parched dryness of the long summer. What need had they for haste.? Grandfrai was palsied, and they guessed nought of the urgent message sent to Beaufoy. The Seigneur's troop had held their course for little more than an hour, when Marmontel who rode by his master, half checked his horse and pointed ahead. Between the distant tree- trunks, here more scattered than common, was a brown and dun dappling that twinkled in and out, now showing clear, now lost again. 'We have them. Seigneur, we have them! Ten minutes' gallop, and we're in touch.' But Beaufoy threw up a warning hand, and reined back. They had ridden far. and their beasts were fagged ; now that they held their THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES K prey, as it were in a leash, there was no need for haste. So for half an hour the hunters and the unconscious quarry kept an even pace. So near were they that at times laughter or a snatch (f song came down the wind, but never once did those before look back. Then there befell a kind of chance. A horse of the troop of those ahead whinnied, and one of Beaufoy's answered, and on the moment the Seigneur struck home his spurs. 'The hunt's afoot!" he cried. 'Forward, men, and leave mercy to God Almighty !' With a shout they broke into a gallop, sweep- ing like shadows between the tree-trunks, and with an answering shout, half terror, half rage, the men in front woke into life. There was an instant's confusion ; then, like men used to the worst emergencies and trained to prompt action, they dashed on, abandoning their booty without a thought to fight for it. Rogues in grain, they could thieve or murder, but had little stomach for battle. To Beaufoy's joy they held together. Had they scattered, his vengeance would have been as slow to win as to eat a pomegranate seed by seed ; and as he saw them driving ahead in a bunch, he blessed St. Francis in his heart. In the centre of the flying group was a bound man BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 8i — the Salamancan Prior, no doubt, and he hindered them. ' See !' said the Seigneur to Marmontel, a grim laugh on his face, ' vengeance is ever sweeter than spoils, and the rascals will risk hanging for their small hope of revenge. Th^re they go to the left like a drove of scared sheep. Was the straight course not good enough for them ? By the saints ! I have it. They are in full cry for the Cave of the Wolves, and may slip our fingers yet. There is an outlet on the south. Round with you, Marmontei, and five with you ! The exit there is narrow, no more than the squeeze of a horse. Block it up, and we have them in a trap. Ride, man, ride! there are rocks in plenty. Oh, St. Francis, my patron, I thank thee from my soul — I thank thee from my soul ! Ask what thou wilt of me, and by the Lord whose man I am, I will give it thee — ay, to the whole of Beaufoy !* In his deep, wolfish gladness the Seigneur's heart was in his cry, but there is no record that he was ever the poorer for his oath, mayhap because St. Francis was sworn to poverty. Away to the left sped Marmontei with half a dozen at his beast's heels, each urging his horse to the utmost speed. The distance was not great, but the ground was on an upward 6 MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No, 2) 1.0 I.I l^iM 3.2 36 2.5 2.2 2.0 1.8 1.25 A APPLIED INA^^GE Inc ^Pl 1653 East Mam SIrefl r-S Rochester, New York 14609 USA ^S (716) 482 - 0300 - Phone ^= (716) 288 - 5989 - Fa« 82 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES I ■ ' I *