Who my attackers were I knew not, but there was no time for parley or explanation. Dim figures were upon me in the semi-darkness and blades whickered about my head. A stroke that clanged full on my morion filled my eyes with sparks of fire, and abandoning the point in my extremity I hewed right and left and heard men grunt and curse as my edge gashed them. Then, as I stepped back to avoid a swiping cut, my foot caught in the cloak of the man I had killed, and I fell sprawling over the corpse.
There was a fierce cry of triumph, and one sprang forward, sword lifted – but ere he could strike or I could lift my blade above my head, a quick step sounded behind me, a dim figure loomed in the uncertain light, and the downward sweeping blade rang on a sword in mid-air.
“Dog!” quoth the stranger with a curious accent. “Will you strike a fallen man?”
The other roared and cut at him madly, but by that time I was on my feet again, and as the others pressed in, I met them with point and edge, thrusting and slashing like a demon, for I was wild with fury at having been in such a plight as the stranger rescued me from. A side-long glance showed me the latter driving his sword through the body of the man who opposed him, and at this, and as I pressed them, drawing blood at each stroke, the rogues gave way and fled fleetly down the alley.
I turned then to my unknown friend, and saw a lithe, compactly-built man but little taller than myself. The glare of the distant cresset fell dimly upon him, and I saw that he was clad in fine Cordovan boots and velvet doublet, beneath which I glimpsed a glint of fine mesh-mail. A fine crimson cloak was flung over his shoulder, a feathered cap on his head, and beneath this his eyes, cold and light, danced restlessly. His face was clean-shaven and brown, with high cheek bones and thin lips, and there were scars that hinted of an adventurous career. He bore himself with something of a swagger, and his every action betokened steel-spring muscles and the co-ordination of a swordsman.
“I thank you, my friend,” quoth I. “Well for me that you came at the moment which you did.”
“Zounds!” cried he. “Think naught of it. ’Twas no more than I’d have done for any man – Saint Andrew! It’s a woman!”
There being no reply to that, I cleaned my blade and sheathed it, while he gaped at me open-mouthed.
“Agnes de La Fere!” he said slowly, at length. “It can be no other. I have heard of you, even in Scotland. Your hand, girl! I have long yearned to meet you. Nor is it an unworthy thing even for Dark Agnes to shake the hand of John Stuart.”
I grasped his hand, though in sooth, I had never heard of him, feeling steely thews in his fingers and a quick nervous grip that told me of a passionate, hair-trigger nature.
“Who were these rogues who sought your life?” he asked.
“I have many enemies,” I answered, “but I think these were mere skulking rogues, robbers and murderers. They were pursuing three men, and I think tried to cut my throat to hush my tongue.”
“Likely enough,” quoth he. “I saw three men in black mantles flee out of the alley mouth as though Satan were at their heels, which aroused my curiosity, so I came to see what was forward, especially as I heard the rattle of steel. Saint Andrew! Men said your sword-play was like summer lightning, and it is even as they said! But let us see if the rogues have indeed fled, or are merely lurking beyond that crook to stab us in the back as we depart.”
He stepped cautiously around the crook, and swore under his breath.
“They are gone, in sooth, but I see something lying in the alley. I think it is a dead man.”
Then I remembered the cry I had heard, and I joined him. A few moments later we were bending over two forms that lay sprawled in the mud of the alley. One was a small man, mantled like the three who had fled, with a deep gash in his breast that had let out his life. But as I spoke to Stuart on the matter, he swore suddenly. He had turned the other man on his back, and was staring at him in surprize.
“This man has been dead for hours,” quoth he. “Moreover he died not by sword or pistol. Look! See his features how they are swollen and purple? It is the mark of the gallows! And he is clad still in the gibbet-shirt. By Saint Andrew, Agnes, do you know who this is?” And when I shook my head, “It is Costranno, the Italian sorcerer, who was hanged at dawn this morning on the gibbet outside the walls, for practising the black arts. He it was who poisoned the son of the Duke of Tours and caused the blame to be laid upon an innocent man, but Francoise de Bretagny, suspecting the truth, trapped him into a confession to her, and laid the facts before the authorities.”
“I had heard something of this matter,” quoth I. “But I have been in Chartres only a matter of a week.”
“It is Costranno, well enough,” said Stuart, shaking his head. “His features are so distorted I would not have known him, save that the middle finger of his left hand is missing. And this other is Jacques Pelligny, his pupil in the black arts; sentence of death was passed on him, likewise, but he had fled and could not be found. Well, his art did not save him from a footpad’s sword. Costranno’s followers have cut him down from the gibbet – but why should they have brought the body back into the city?”
“There is something in Pelligny’s hand,” I said, prying the dead fingers apart. It was as if, even in death, they gripped what they held. It was a fragment of gold chain, and fastened to it a most curious red jewel that gleamed in the darkness like an angry eye.
“Saint Andrew!” muttered Stuart. “A rare stone, i’faith – hark!” he started to his feet. “The watch! We must not be found by these corpses!”
Far down the alley I saw the glow of moving lanthorns and heard the tramp of mailed feet. As I scrambled up, the jewel and chain slipped from my fingers – it was almost as if they were snatched from my hand – and fell full on the breast of the dead sorcerer. I did not wish to take the time to retrieve it, so I hurried up the alley after Stuart, and glancing back, I saw the jewel glittering like a crimson star on the dead man’s bosom.
Emerging from the alley into a narrow winding street, scarcely better lighted, we hurried along it until we came to an inn, and entered it. Then, seating ourselves at a table somewhat apart from the others who wrangled and cast dice on the wine-stained boards, we called for wine and the host brought us two great jacks.
“To our better acquaintance,” quoth John Stuart, lifting his tankard. “By Saint Andrew, now that I see you in the light, I admire you the more. You are a fine, tall woman, but even in morion, doublet, trunk-hose and boots none could mistake you for a man. Well are you called Dark Agnes. For all your red hair and fair skin there is something strange and dark about you. Men say you move through life like one of the Fates, unmoved, unchangeable, potent with tragedy and doom, and that the men who ride with you do not live long. Tell me, girl, why did you don breeks and take the road of men?”
I shook my head, unable to say myself, but as he urged me to tell him something of myself, I said: “My name is Agnes de Chastillon, and I was born in the village of La Fere, in Normandy. My father is the bastard son of the Duc de Chastillon and a peasant woman – a mercenary soldier of the Free Companies until he grew too old to march and fight. If I had not been tougher than most he would have killed me with his beating before I was grown. When at last he sought to marry me to a man I hated, I killed that man, and fled from the village. One Ettienne Villiers befriended me, but also taught me that a helpless woman is fair play to all men, and when I bested him in even fight, I learned that I was strong as most men, and quicker.
“Later I fell in with Guiscard de Clisson, a leader of the Free Companies, who taught me the use of the sword before he was slain in an ambush. I took naturally to the life of a man, and can drink, swear, march fight and boast with the best of them. I have yet to meet my equal at sword play.”