Stuart scowled slightly as if my word did not please him overmuch, and he lifted his tankard, quaffed deeply, and said: “There be as good men in Scotland as in France, and there men say that John Stuart’s blade is not made of straw. But who is this?”
The door had opened and a gust of cold wind made the candles flicker, and sent a shiver over the men on the settles. A tall man entered, closing the door behind him. He was wrapped in a wide black mantle, and when he raised his head and his glance over the tavern, a silence fell suddenly. That face was strange and unnatural in appearance, being so dark in hue it was almost black. His eyes were strange, murky and staring. I saw several topers cross themselves as they met his gaze, and then he seated himself at a table in a corner furthest from the candles, and drew his mantle closer about him, though the night was warm. He took the tankard proffered him by an apprehensive slattern and bent his head over it, so his face was no longer visible under his slouch hat, and the hum of the tavern began again, though somewhat subdued.
“Blood on that mantle,” said John Stuart. “If that man be not a cutthroat then I am much befooled. Host, another bottle!”
“You are the first Scotsman I ever met,” said I, “though I have had dealings with Englishmen.”
“A curse on the breed!” he cried. “The devil take them all into his keeping. And a curse on my enemies who exiled me from Scotland.”
“You are an exile?” I asked.
“Aye! With scant gold in my sporran. But fortune ever favors the brave.” And he laid hand on the hilt at his hip.
But I was watching the stranger in the corner, and Stuart turned to stare at him. The man had lifted his hand and crooked a finger at the fat host, and that rogue drew nigh, wiping his hands on his leathern apron and uneasy in his expression. There was something about the black-mantled stranger that repelled men.
The stranger spoke, but his words were a mumble, and mine host shook his head in bewilderment.
“An Italian,” muttered Stuart. “I know that jabber anywhere.”
But the stranger shifted into French, and as he spoke, haltingly at first, his words grew plainer, his voice fuller.
“Francoise de Bretagny,” quoth he, and repeated the name several times. “Where is the house of Francoise de Bretagny?”
The inn-keeper began giving him directions, and Stuart muttered: “Why should that ill-visaged Italian rogue desire to go to Francoise de Bretagny?”
“From what I hear,” I answered cynically, “it is no great surprize to hear any man asking for her house.”
“Lies are always told about beautiful women,” answered Stuart, lifting his tankard. “Because she is said to be the mistress of the Duke of Orleans does not mean that she – ”
He froze suddenly, tankard to lip, staring, and I saw an expression of surprize pass over his brown, scarred face. At that moment the Italian had risen, and drawing his wide mantle about him, made for the door.
“Stop him!” roared Stuart, leaping to his feet, and dragging out his sword. “Stop that rogue!”
But at that instant a band of soldiers in morions and breastplates came shouldering in, and the Italian glided out past them and shut the door behind him. Stuart started forward with a curse, to halt as the soldiers barred the way. Striding into the center of the tavern, and roving a stern glance over all the cringing occupants, the captain, a tall man in a gleaming breastplate, said loudly: “Agnes de La Fere, I arrest you for the murder of Jacques Pelligny!”
“What do you mean, Tristan?” I exclaimed angrily, springing up. “I did not kill Pelligny!”
“This woman saw you leave the alley where the man was slain,” answered he, indicating a tall, fair wench in feathers and gauds who cowered in the grasp of a burly man-at-arms and would not meet my gaze. I knew her well, a courtesan whom I had befriended, and whom I would not have expected to give false testimony against me.
“Then she must have seen me too,” quoth John Stuart, “for I was with Agnes. If you arrest her you must arrest me too, and by Saint Andrew, my sword will have something to say about that.”
“I have naught to do with you,” answered Tristan. “My business is with this woman.”
“Man, you are a fool!” cried Stuart gustily. “She did not kill Pelligny. And what if she did. Was not the rogue under sentence of death?”
“He was meat for the hangman, not the private citizen,” answered Tristan.
“Listen,” said Stuart. “He was slain by footpads, who then attacked Agnes who chanced to be traversing the alley at the time. I came to her aid, and we slew two of the rogues. Did you not find their bodies, with masks to their heads to prove their trades?”
“We saw no such thing,” answered Tristan. “Nor were you seen thereabouts, so your testimony is without value. This woman here saw Agnes de La Fere pursue Pelligny into the alley and there stab him. So I am forced to take her to the prison.”
“I know well why you wish to arrest me, Tristan,” I said coolly, approaching him with an easy tread. “I had not been in Chartres a day before you sought to make me your mistress. Now you take this revenge upon me. Fool! I am mistress only to Death!”
“Enough of this idle talk,” ordered Tristan curtly. “Seize her, men!” It was his last command on earth, for my sword was through him before he could lift his hand. The guard closed in on me with a yell, and as I thrust and parried, John Stuart sprang to my side and in an instant the inn was a madhouse, with stamping boots, clanging blades and the curses and yells of slaughter. Then we broke through, leaving the floor strewn with corpses, and gained the street. As we broke through the door I saw the wench they had brought to testify against me cowering behind an overturned settle and I grasped her thick yellow locks and dragged her with me into the street.
“Down that alley,” gasped Stuart. “Other guardsmen will be here anon. “Saint Andrew, Agnes, will you burden yourself with that big hussy? We must take to our heels!”
“I have a score to settle with her,” I gritted, for all my hot blood was roused. I hauled her along with us until we made a turn in the alley and halted for breath.
“Watch the street,” I bade him, and then turning to the cowering wench, I said in calm fury: “Margot, if an open enemy deserves a thrust of steel, what fate doth a traitress deserve? Not four days agone I saved you from a beating at the hands of a drunken soldier, and gave you money because your tears touched my foolish compassion. By Saint Trignan, I have a mind to cut the head from your fair shoulders!’
“Oh, Agnes,” she sobbed, falling on her knees, and clasping my legs. “Have Mercy! I – ”
“I’ll spare your worthless life,” I said angrily, beginning to unsling my sword belt. “But I mean to turn up your petticoats and whip you as no beadle ever did.”
“Nay, Agnes!” she wailed. “First hear me! I did not lie! It is true that I saw you and the Scotsman coming from the alley with naked swords in your hands. But the watch said merely that three bodies were lying in the alley, and two were masked, showing they were thieves. Tristan said whoever slew them did a good night’s work, and asked me if I had seen any coming from the alley. So I thought no harm, and replied that I had seen you and the Scotsman John Stuart. But when I spoke your name, he smiled and told his men that he had his reasons for desiring to get Agnes de La Fere in a dungeon, helpless and unarmed; and bade them do as he told them. So he told me that my testimony about you would be accepted, but the rest, about John Stuart, and the two thieves he would not accept. And he threatened me so terribly that I dared not defy him.”
“The foul dog,” I muttered. “Well, there is a new captain of the watch in hell tonight.”
“But you said three bodies,” broke in John Stuart. “Were there not four? Pelligny, two thieves, and the body of Costranno?”