“How long is it since you have seen England, Sir Hugh?” asked Dame Carleon languidly.
“Some eighteen months, lady, although in truth it seems more, for many things have happened to me in that time.”
“Eighteen months only! Why, ‘tis four long years since I looked upon the downs of Sussex, which are my home, the dear downs of Sussex, that I shall see never again.”
“Why say you so, lady, who should have many years of life before you?”
“Because they are done, Sir Hugh. Oh, in my heart I feel that they are done. That should not grieve me, since my only child is buried in this glittering, southern city whereof I hate the sounds and sights that men call so beautiful. Yet I would that I might have been laid at last in the kind earth of Sussex where for generations my forbears have been borne to rest,” and suddenly she began to weep.
“What ails you, lady? You are not well?”
“Oh, I know not. I think it is the heat or some presage of woe to come, not to me only, but to all men. Look, nature herself is sick,” and she led him to the broad balcony of the chamber and pointed to long lines of curious mist which in the bright moonlight they could see creeping toward Venice from the ocean, although what wind there was appeared to be off land.
“Those fogs are unnatural,” she went on. “At this season of the year there should be none, and these come, not from the lagoons, but up from the sea where no such vapours were ever known to rise. The physicians say that they foretell sickness, whereof terrible rumours have for some time past reached us from the East, though none know whether these be true or false.”
“The East is a large place, where there is always sickness, lady, or so I have heard.”
“Ay, ay, it is the home of Death, and I think that he travels to us thence. And not only I, not only I; half the folk in Venice think the same, though why, they cannot tell. Listen.”
As she spoke, the sound of solemn chanting broke upon Hugh’s ear. Nearer it grew, and nearer, till presently there emerged from a side street a procession of black monks who bore in front of them a crucifix of white ivory. Along the narrow margin which lay between the houses and the canal they marched, followed by a great multitude of silent people.
“It is a dirge for the dead that they sing,” said Dame Carleon, “and yet they bury no man. Oh! months ago I would have escaped from this city, and we had leave to go. But then came orders from the King that we must bide here because of his creditors. So here we bide for good and all. Hush! I hear my husband coming; say nothing of my talk, it angers him. Rest you well, Sir Hugh.”
“Truly that lady has a cheerful mind,” grumbled Grey Dick, when she had gone, leaving them alone upon the balcony. “Ten minutes more of her and I think I should go hang myself, or squat upon these stones and howl at the moon like a dog or those whimpering friars.”
Hugh made no answer, for he was thinking of his father’s tale of the prophecies of Sir Andrew Arnold, and how they grew sad in Dunwich also. In truth, like Lady Carleon, he found it in his heart to wish that he too were clear of Venice, which he had reached with so much toil.
“Bah!” he said presently, “this place stinks foully. It puts me in mind of some woman, most beauteous indeed, but three days dead. Let us go in.”
On the following morning, while they sat at breakfast, there came a messenger from the Doge of Venice, whose name Hugh learned was Andrea Dandolo, bearing a letter sealed with a great seal. This letter, when opened, was found to be from some high officer. It stated that the Doge would hold a Court at noon, after which it was his pleasure to receive the English knight who came as a messenger from the mighty monarch, King Edward, and to talk with him on matters set out in the letter of Sir Geoffrey Carleon. The writing added that the Seigneur of Cattrina, who in France was known as the Count de Noyon and in England as Sir Edmund Acour, would be present at the Court and doubtless ready to answer all questions that might be put to him.
“Then at last we shall come face to face,” said Hugh, with a fierce laugh.
“Yes, master,” put in Dick, “but you’ve done that several times before and always ended back to back. Pray the Saints such may not be the finish of this meeting also.”
Then he turned and went to clean his master’s armour, for in this martial dress, notwithstanding the great heat, Hugh determined to appear before the Doge. It was good armour, not that, save for the sword, which Sir Arnold had given him, whereat the Court at Windsor had laughed as out of date, but mail of a newer fashion, some of it, from the bodies of knights who fell at Crecy, after which battle such wares had been cheap.
Still, Dick could have wished that it had been better for so fine an occasion, seeing that it was marked with many a battle dint and that right across the Cressi cognizance, which Hugh had painted on his shield after he was knighted—a golden star rising from an argent ocean—was a scar left by the battle-axe of a Calais man-at-arms. Moreover Hugh, or rather Dick, took with him other armour, namely, that of the knight, Sir Pierre de la Roche, whom Hugh had killed at Crecy thinking that he was Edmund Acour, whose mail Pierre wore.
For the rest, Dick clad himself in his uniform of a captain of archers of King Edward’s guard, wearing a green tunic over his mail shirt, and a steel-lined cap from which rose a heron’s plume, pinned thereto with his Grace’s golden arrow.
All being ready they started in a painted barge, accompanied by Sir Geoffrey Carleon, who wore his velvet robe of office, and grumbled at its weight and warmth. A row of some fifteen minutes along the great canal brought them to a splendid portal upon the mole, with marble steps. Hence they were conducted by guards across a courtyard, where stood many gaily dressed people who watched them curiously, especially Grey Dick, whose pale, sinister face caused them to make a certain sign with their fingers, to avert the evil eye, as Sir Geoffrey explained to them. Leaving this courtyard they went up more steps and along great corridors into the finest apartment that they had ever seen. It was a glitter of gold and marble, and rich with paintings.
Here on a kind of throne sat the Doge Dandolo, an imperial-looking man, magnificently attired. Guards stood like statues behind him, while in front, talking together and moving from place to place, were gathered all the great nobles of Venice, with their beauteous ladies. From time to time the Doge summoned one or other of these, who was called to him by a black-robed secretary. Advancing with bows the courtier talked to him a while, then was dismissed by a gracious motion of the hand.
As the Englishmen entered this hall a herald called their names thus from a written slip of paper:
“The Cavalier Geoffrey Carleon, Ambassador of England. The Cavalier Hugh de Cressi, Messenger from the King of England, and the Captain Richard Archer, his companion.”
Now all talk was hushed and every eye turned to scan these strangers of whose business, it would seem, something was already known.
“A fine man,” said one lady to another of Hugh, “but why does he come here in dinted armour?”
“Oh! he is English and the English are barbarians who like to be ready to cut some one’s throat,” answered her companion. “But Holy Jesus! look at the long fellow with the death’s head who walks behind him, and carries his luggage in a sack. His face makes my back creep.”
Fortunately neither Hugh nor Dick understood these and other such sayings which Sir Geoffrey repeated to them afterward and therefore walked on with their host unconcerned. Once, however, Grey Dick nudged his master and whispered in his ear:
“Be glad, our man is here. It is he who mocks us to those popinjays. Nay, turn not to look; you will see plenty of his sweet face presently.”
Now they stood before the chair of state, from which the Doge rose, and advanced two steps to greet the Ambassador of England. When these courtesies were over Sir Geoffrey presented Hugh to him, to whom he bowed, and Dick, whose salute he acknowledged with a wave of his jewelled hand. Afterward they talked, all crowding round to listen, Sir Geoffrey himself, who spoke Italian well, acting as the interpreter.
“You come hither, Cavalier de Cressi,” said the Doge, “on behalf of his royal Grace, King Edward, who speaks of you in his letter in terms of which any knight may well be proud. We understand that this captain with you is your companion,” and he glanced curiously at Dick out of the corners of his dark eyes, adding, “If those are gifts which he bears in that leathern sack and the long case in his hand, let our servants relieve him of them.”
“Let his servants leave me alone,” growled Grey Dick when this was translated. “Say to this fine lord, Sir Knight, that the gifts in the sack are not for him, and that which the case scatters he would scarcely care to have.”
Sir Geoffrey made some explanation in a low voice, and with a smile the Doge waved the matter by, then said:
“Will the noble cavalier be so good as to set out his business, unless it is for our private ear alone?”
Hugh answered that it was for the public ear of all Venice, and especially for that of the lord who was called Sir Edmund Acour in England, the Count de Noyon in France, and the Seigneur of Cattrina in Italy.
“Will you pleased to point out this lord to us,” said the Doge, glancing at the gorgeous throng which was gathered behind them.
“I cannot, illustrious Doge,” answered Hugh, “that is, with certainty. As it chances I have seen his face but twice—once in a marsh when I had other things to think of who must watch my enemy’s sword, and once at eve in the corner of a dark chapel, where he had just gone through the rite of marriage with a lady whom he had drugged, which lady was my affianced wife. Often afterward I sought to see that face, especially in the great fray of Crecy, but failed, in a case which with your leave I will narrate to you.”
Now when all that company understood the meaning of these outspoken words, they swayed to and fro and whispered like reeds in an evening wind. Presently above this whispering a soft yet penetrating voice was heard to say:
“If this English knight desires to study the poor face of Acour, de Noyon, and Cattrina, he who owns it is much honoured and prays your Excellency’s leave to wait upon his pleasure.”
So saying a tall and noble-looking man, who wore the badge of a white swan worked in pearls upon his rich tunic, stepped forward out of the ring of courtiers and bowed, first to the Doge and next to Hugh.
De Cressi looked at his handsome face with its quick dark eyes and little, square-cut, black beard, and answered:
“I thank you, Sir Edmund Acour, for I take it you are he. Now I shall never forget you again, for though a man may shift his armour he cannot change his countenance”—a saying at which de Noyon coloured a little and looked down uneasily.
“Cavalier de Cressi, he whom you seek is before you; we ourselves vouch for his identity,” said the Doge. “Now be pleased to set out your case.”
“My private case I thrust to one side,” answered Hugh, Sir Geoffrey interpreting all the time, “for it is a matter between this Count, a certain lady and myself, and can wait. That which I have to lay before you, Illustrious, has to do with my master the King of England, as whose champion I am here to-day. I accuse this lord of the three names of black treachery to his august liege, Edward, all details of which treason I am prepared to furnish, and on behalf of that most puissant monarch I challenge him to single combat, as I am empowered and commissioned to do.”
“Why should I fight the King of England’s bravoes?” inquired Acour in a languid voice of those who stood about him, a question at which they laughed.
“If the charge of treason is not sufficient,” went on Hugh, “I’ll add to it one of cowardice. At the battle of Crecy, as a man here will bear me witness,” and he pointed to Dick, “I overcame in single combat a knight who wore upon his shield the cognizance of a wolf and on his helm a wolf’s head, which were the arms of Sir Pierre de la Roche. At this knight’s prayer I spared his life, for that day we took no prisoners, and let him go. Afterward I fought with another knight carrying the cognizance of a white swan, the arms of the Count de Noyon, and slew him in fair and single fight. But before he died he told me that he bore that armour by command of his lord, the Count de Noyon, and that the said Count fought that day in his mail because he feared the vengeance of the King of England and my own. Thus it came about that the Wolf who fought paid the price for the Swan who fled away, hid in the armour of his friend, whom he left to die for him.”
There followed a great silence, for all those noble lords and ladies who thought little of treason, which to most of them was a very familiar thing, were not a little stirred by this tale of cowardice and false arms. The Doge said:
“Noble Cattrina, you have heard the story of the English knight. What do you answer to it?”
“Only that it is a lie, Illustrious, like everything else that he has told us,” replied Acour with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
“You said that you had a witness, Cavalier de Cressi,” said the Doge. “Where is he?”
“Here,” answered Hugh. “Stand forward, Dick, and tell what you saw.”
Dick obeyed, and in his low, rasping voice, with more detail than Hugh had given, set out the story of those two combats at Crecy, of the sparing of the wolf knight and the slaying of the swan knight.
“What say you now, noble Cattrina?” asked the Doge.
“I say that the man lies even better than his master,” answered Acour coolly, and all the Court laughed.
“Illustrious,” said Hugh, “doubtless you have some herald at your Court. I pray that he may fetch his book and tell us what are the arms of de Noyon and Cattrina, with all their colourings and details.”
The Doge beckoned to an officer in a broidered tabard, who with bows, without needing to fetch any book, described the crest and arms of Cattrina in full particular. He added that, to his knowledge, these were borne by no other family or man in Italy, France, or England.
“Then you would know them if you saw them?” said Hugh.
“Certainly, cavalier. On it I stake my repute as a herald.”
Now while all wondered what this talk might mean, the Doge and Acour most of any, although the latter grew uneasy, fearing he knew not what, Hugh whispered to Dick. Then Dick loosed the mouth of the leather sack he carried, and out of it tumbled on to the marble floor a whole suit of blood-stained armour.
“Whence came these?” asked Hugh of Dick.
“Off the body of the night, Sir Pierre de la Roche, whom you slew at Crecy. I stripped him of them myself.”
“Whose crest and cognizance are these, herald?” asked Hugh again, lifting the helm and shield and holding them on high that all might see.
The herald stepped forward and examined them.
“Without doubt,” he said slowly, “they are those of the lord of Cattrina. Moreover,” he added, “five years ago I limned yonder swan upon this very shield with my own hand. I did it as a favour to Cattrina there, who said that he would trust the task to none but an artist.”
Now the silence grew intense, so much so that the rustle of a lady’s dress sounded loud in the great hall.
“What say you now, my lord of Cattrina?” asked the Doge.
“I say that there is some mistake, Illustrious. Even if there were none,” he added slowly, “for their own good and lawful purposes knights have changed armour before to-day.”
“There is no mistake!” cried Hugh in a ringing voice. “This signor of so many names is a signor of many coats also, which he can change to save his skin. He wore that of Sir Pierre de la Roche to protect himself from the vengeance of the King of England and of the English squire whom he had wronged. He took mercy from the hand of that squire, who, as he knew well, would have shown him none had he guessed the truth. He left the poor knight, whom he had bribed to be his double, to die beneath that same squire’s hand who thought him named de Noyon. Therefore the blood of this de la Roche is on his head. Yet these are small matters of private conduct, and one that is greater overtops them. This false lord, as Sir Edmund Acour, swore fealty to Edward of England. Yet while he was bound by that sacred oath he plotted to depose Edward and to set up on his throne the Duke of Normandy.
“The King of England learned of that plot through me, and gave me charge to kill or capture the traitor. But when we came face to face in a consecrated church where I thought it sacrilege to draw sword, he, who had just done me bitter wrong, stayed not to answer the wrong. He slunk away into the darkness, leaving me felled by a treacherous blow. Thence he fled to France and stirred up war against his liege lord under the Oriflamme of King Philip. Now that this banner is in the dust he has fled again to Venice, and here, as I have heard, broods more mischief. Once, when after the sack of Caen I sent him my challenge, he returned to me an insolent answer that he did not fight with merchants’ sons—he who could take mercy from the hand of a merchant’s son.
“Now that for deeds done a King has made me knight, and now that this King under his seal and sign has named me his champion, in your presence, Illustrious, and in that of all your Court, I challenge Cattrina again to single combat to the death with lance and sword and dagger. Yes, and I name him coward and scullion if he refuses this, King Edward’s gage and mine,” and drawing the gauntlet from his left hand, Hugh cast it clattering to the marble floor at de Noyon’s feet.
A babel of talk broke out in the great hall, and with it somevivasand clapping of hands, for Hugh had spoken boldly and well; moreover, the spectators read truth in his grey eyes. A dark figure in priest’s robe—it was that of Father Nicholas, the secretary who had brewed Red Eve’s potion—glided up to Cattrina and whispered swiftly in his ear. Then the Doge lifted his hand and there was silence.
“My lord of Cattrina,” he said, “Sir Hugh de Cressi, speaking as the champion of our ally, the King of England, has challenged you to single combatà outrance. What say you?”
“I, Illustrious?” he answered in his rich voice, drawling out his words like one who is weary. “Oh, of course, I say that if yon brawler wishes to find a grave in fair Venice, which is more than he deserves, I am not the man to thwart him, seeing that his cut-throat King——”
“As the ambassador of that King I protest,” broke in Sir Geoffrey. “It is an insult that such a word should be used before me.”
“I accept the protest of his Excellency, who forgot his noble presence,” replied Cattrina bowing back. “Seeing that his King, who is not a cut-throat”—here a titter of laughter went through the company, though it was evident from the frown upon his face that the Doge liked the jest ill—“has chosen to make a knight of this de Cressi. Or so he says, which will show you, friends all, how hard it must be to find gentlemen in England.”
Again the company tittered, though Dick’s grey face turned scarlet and he bit upon his pale lip until the blood ran.
“As you accept the challenge,” broke in the Doge shortly, “cease from gibes, my lord, which more befit an angry woman’s mouth than that of one whose life is about to be put to hazard, and take up the gage of his Grace of England.”
Cattrina looked round and bade a page who waited on his person obey the Doge’s command, saying:
“Your pardon, most Illustrious, if I do not touch that glove myself, as it seems somewhat foul. I think it must have served its owner in his useful labours at the dyer’s vat before his master made him noble.”
Now it was Hugh’s turn to colour, but when he understood the insult Grey Dick could contain himself no more.
“Ay, Sir Cheat and Traitor,” he said in his hissing voice. “The vat in which it has been dipped was that of the life-blood of your dupe, Sir Pierre de la Roche, and of many a nobler Norman. Oh, did we not stand where we do I’d thrust it down your false throat, and with it twist out your slanderous tongue.”
“Peace, peace!” cried the Doge, while those present who understood English translated Dick’s wild words to their neighbours, and Cattrina laughed mockingly at the success of his sneer. “Have I not said that such words are unseemly? Ah! I thought it; well, my lord, you have brought it on yourself.”
For while he spoke, the page, a mincing young man tied up with bows and ribbon like a woman, had lifted the glove. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he returned it to Hugh with a low, mock bow, being careful as he did so, as all might see, to tread upon Dick’s foot and hustle him. Next moment two things happened. The first was that, dropping his cased bow, Grey Dick seized that young in his iron grip and hurled him into the air so that he fell heavily on the marble floor and lay there stunned, the blood running from his nose and mouth. The second was that, seizing his gauntlet, Hugh strode to where Cattrina stood, and struck him with it across the face, saying:
“Let your lips kiss what your fingers are too fine to touch.”
With an oath Cattrina drew his sword and out flashed Hugh’s in answer, as he cried:
“Ay, here and now if you will! Here and now!”
Then the Guard rushed in and forced them apart.
“Is this a place for brawling?” cried Dandolo in wrath, adding: “Yet I cannot blame the Englishmen overmuch, seeing that they were sore affronted, as I saw with my eyes and heard with my ears. Be silent, my lord of Cattrina. After your fashion you make trouble at my Court. And—hearken all—blood so hot had best be quickly cooled lest one or other of these knights should take a fever. Moreover, the noble Cattrina has but to-day asked my leave to ride from Venice to-morrow, having urgent business at Avignon at the Court of Pope Clement. So I decree that this combatà outranceshall take place in our presence on the Campo del Marte to-morrow, three hours before noon, ere the sun grows too hot. To all the details of the combat our heralds will attend forthwith. Officer, take soldiers and escort the Ambassador and the Champion of his Grace of England, together with this Captain of Archers, back to their own door. Set guards there and see that none molest them by word or deed under pain of fine and strait imprisonment. Sir Geoffrey Carleon, your requests are granted; be pleased to write it to the most puissant Edward, whom you serve, and for this time fare you well. Why, what is it, Captain Ambrosio?” he added irritably, addressing a raw-boned, lantern-jawed giant of a man clad in the splendid uniform of the Guard who stepped before his throne and saluted.
“Most Illustrious,” said Ambrosio, in bad, guttural Italian, “my mother was a Swiss.”
“Then congratulations to the Swiss, Ambrosio, but what of it?”
“Very Illustrious,” replied the captain in his hollow voice, “the Swiss are brave and do not swallow insults. That lad whom the Englishman kicked, or smote, or tossed like a bull,” and he pointed to the poor page, who, still senseless, was being carried from the hall, “is my youngest brother, who resembles our Venetian father somewhat more than I do.”
“We see it, we see it. Indeed are you sure that the father was——” and the Doge checked himself. “The point, captain; we would dine.”
“Illustrious, I would avenge my brother and myself on the Englishman, whom I will beat to a jelly,” said the giant. “I crave leave to fight him to-morrow when the lord Cattrina fights his master,” and advancing toward Grey Dick he made as though he would pull his nose.
“What is it he wants?” asked Grey Dick, staring up at the great fellow with a look in his eyes that caused Ambrosio to cease flourishing his fists.
The challenge was translated to him, and its reason. “Oh,” said Dick, “tell him I am much obliged and that I will fight him with the bow or with the axe and dagger, or with all three. Then we will see whether he beats me to a jelly, or whether I cut him into collops, who, as I think, needs shortening.”
Now the Captain Ambrosio consulted with his friends, who with much earnestness prayed him have nothing to do with arrows. They pointed out that there his bulk would put him at a disadvantage, especially in dealing with an English archer who had an eye like a snake and a face like that of death itself.
In short, one and all they recommended the battle-axe and the dagger as his most appropriate weapons—since his adversary refused swords. The battle-axe with which to knock him down, as he could easily do, being so strong, and the dagger with which to finish him.
When this was explained to Grey Dick he assented to the proposal with a kind of unholy joy that was almost alarming to those who saw it. Moreover, as neither of them had gauntlets to throw down or pick up, he stretched out his hand to seal the bargain, which, incautiously enough, the huge, half-breed Swiss accepted.
Dick’s grasp, indeed, was so firm and long that presently the giant was observed first to move uneasily, secondly to begin to dance and thirdly to shout out with pain.
“What is the matter?” asked his friends.
“The matter is,” he groaned, as Dick let go, “that this son of Satan has a blacksmith’s vise in place of a hand,” and he showed his great fingers, from beneath the nails of which the blood was oozing.
His Venetian companions of the Guard looked at them, then they looked at Grey Dick and gave him a wide berth. Also Ambrosio said something about having offered to fight a man and not a fiend. But it was too late to retract, for the Doge, taking, as was natural, no share in this small matter, had already left his throne.
Then, escorted by Sir Geoffrey and the city Guards, Hugh and Grey Dick passed through that splendid company away home to dinner, Dick carrying his bow-case in one hand and the sack of armour which de Noyon had not thought fit to claim in the other.
In the midst of dead silence, they departed, for now no one seemed to find either of them a fit subject for jest. Indeed there were some who said, as they watched the pair pass the door, that Cattrina and the giant would do well to consult a lawyer and a priest that night.
In a great, cool room of his splendid Venetian palace, Sir Edmund Acour, Seigneur of Cattrina sat in consultation with the priest Nicholas. Clearly he was ill at ease; his face and his quick, impatient movements showed it.
“You arrange badly,” he said in a voice quite devoid of its ordinary melodious tones. “Everything goes wrong. How is it you did not know that this accursed Englishman and his Death’s-head were coming here? What is the use of a spy who never spies? Man, they should have been met upon the road, for who can be held answerable for what brigands do? Or, at the least, I might have started for Avignon two days earlier.”
“Am I omnipotent, lord, that I should be held able to read the minds of men in far countries and to follow their footsteps?” asked the aggrieved Nicholas. “Still it might have been guessed that this bulldog of a Briton would hang to your heels till you kick out his brains or he pulls you down. Bah! the sight of that archer, who cannot miss, always gives me a cold pain in the stomach, as though an arrow-point were working through my vitals. I pity yonder poor fool of a Swiss to-morrow, for what chance has he against a fish-eyed wizard?”
“Ten thousand curses on the Swiss!” said Acour. “He thrust himself into the affair and will deserve all he gets. I pity myself. You know I am no coward, as not a few have learned before to-day, but I have little luck against this Englishman. I tell you that there at Crecy I went down before him like a ninepin, and he spared my life. My God! he spared my life, being a fool like all his breed. And now the tale is known against me and that of the changed armour, too. Why could not de la Roche die without speaking, the faithless hound whom I had fed so well! So, so, regrets are vain; de Cressi is here, and must be faced or I be shamed.”
“You may be killed as well as shamed,” Nicholas suggested unpleasantly. “It is certain that either you or that Englishman will die to-morrow, since he’s set for no fancy tilting with waving of ladies’ kerchiefs and tinsel crowns of victory, and so forth. Merchant bred or not, he is a sturdy fighter, as we all learned in France. Moreover, his heart is full with wrong, and the man whose quarrel is just is always to be feared.”
“A pest on you!” snarled Cattrina. “Have you the evil eye that you then croak disaster in my ears? Look you, priest, I must come through this game unharmed. Death is a companion I do not seek just yet, who have too much to live for—power and wealth and high renown, if my plans succeed; and as you should know, they are well laid. Moreover, there is that English girl, Red Eve, my wife, from whose sweet side you made me flee. I tell you, Nicholas, I burn for her and had rather taste her hate than the love of any other woman on the earth. Now, too, the Pope has summoned me to Avignon, and her also, to lay our causes before him. Being bold, mayhap she will come, for his Holiness has sent her safe-conduct under his own hand. Nor has he mentioned—for I saw a copy of the brief—that the same business will take me to Avignon about this time. Well, if she comes she will not go away again alone; the French roads are too rough for ladies to travel unescorted. And if she does not come, at least our marriage will be declared valid and I’ll take her when and where I can, and her wealth with her, which will be useful.”
“Only then, lord, you must not die, nor even be wounded, to-morrow. It is the Englishman who should die, for whatever the Pope may decree I think that while de Cressi lives the slumbrous eyes of that Eve of yours will find a way to charm you to a sleep that has no wakening. She is not a fair-haired toy that weeps, forgets and at last grows happy in her babe. She’s a woman to make men or break them. Oh, when her sense came back to her, for a flash she looked me cold yonder in that English chapel, and it seemed to me that God’s curse was in her stare.”
“You’ve caught the terror, Nicholas, like so many just now in Venice. Why, to-day I’ve not met a man or woman who is not afraid of something, they know not what—save the Englishman and his death’s-head. I think ‘tis the unwholesome air of this strange season, and all the signs and omens we hear of on every side that conjure vapours to the brain.”
“Yes, I’ve the terror,” said Nicholas with something like a groan. “Every sin I ever did—and most of them have been for you, lord—seems to haunt my sleep. Yes, and to walk with me when I wake, preaching woe at me with fiery tongues that repentance or absolution cannot quench or still.”
“Yet, Nicholas, I think that you must add one more to their count, or a share of it, which should weigh light among so many. Either I or de Cressi must pack for our last journey, and if we meet face to face to-morrow, how know I that it will be de Cressi? Better far that we should not meet.”
“Lord, lord, you cannot fly! He is King Edward’s champion, so proclaimed before all whose names are written in the Golden Book of Venice. He would cry your shame in every Court, and so would they. There’s not a knight in Europe but would spit upon you as a dastard, or a common wench but would turn you her back! You cannot fly!”
“Nay, fool, but he can die—and before to-morrow. What makes your brain so dull, Nicholas? It is not its wont.”
“Ah, I see—not flight, murder. I had forgotten; it is not a usual sauce to a banquet of honour even in Italy, and therefore, perhaps, the safer to serve. But how is it to be done? Poison? He is in Carleon’s house; Carleon has faithful servants. Though perhaps a basket of rare fruits—but then he might not eat them; those Englishmen live mostly on half-raw meat. The signora would probably eat them, and the others.”
“Nay, no more of your drugs; your skill in them is too well known. Come, these men have been watched since they set foot in Venice. Have they offended none besides myself and the Swiss?”
A look of intelligence crept into the eyes of Nicholas.
“Now that you mention it, lord, they have. There is a certain boatman and bravo called Giuseppe. With him and his mates they quarrelled about their fare and threw them into the canal in front of the ambassador’s house, just because they drew a knife or two. A woman I know told me of it. He’s a great villain, this Giuseppe, who would do anything for ten pieces, also revengeful and a hater of cold water.”
“Send for him, Nicholas, or send this woman to him—that may be safer. Ten pieces! I’ll pay him fifty.”
“Ay, lord, but the Englishman may not give him a chance. Only fools would go out walking in Venice along after dark if they should happen to have enemies here, and the house is watched by the Doge’s Guards. Yet one can try. Fortune loves the brave, and Englishmen are very great fools. They might stroll abroad to see the moon rise over the Adriatic.”
“Try, Nicholas, try as you never tried before. Succeed, too, lest you and I should part company and you never be named abbot after all.”
The afternoon of the day of their reception by the Doge was well filled for Hugh and Dick. Scarcely had they eaten with their host when the Marshal and his officers arrived with the articles of the Morrow’s combat very fully drawn up, each of which must be considered with the help of Sir Geoffrey Carleon, lest they should hide some trick, before they confirmed them with their signatures. Not that Hugh was over-anxious about the details. As he said to Sir Geoffrey, all he sought was to come face to face with his enemy, even if he had but a club for a weapon.
At length these articles were signed and the Marshal departed with his fee, for they must be paid for as though they were a legal document. Next Hugh must try various horses from Sir Geoffrey’s stable, and choose one of them as his war steed for the morrow, since the beast he had ridden to Venice was in no condition to bear a full-armed knight. In the end he selected a grey gelding, quiet of temperament and rather heavy of build, which it was reported had been used by its former owner in several tournaments and there borne itself handsomely. This done, well or ill, his armour must be seen to, and Dick’s also, such as it was; his lance tested, and all their other weapons sharpened on a whetstone that Sir Geoffrey borrowed. For this was a task that Grey Dick would leave to no other hand.
At length all was prepared as well as possible in such haste, and they went to supper with Lady Carleon, who, now she understood that they were to fight for their lives on the morrow, was more mournful even than she had been on the previous night. When at last she asked what they desired as to their funerals and if they had any tokens to be sent to friends in England, Hugh, whose thoughts were already sad enough, could bear no more of it. So he rose, saying that he would seek Sir Geoffrey, who was already in his cabinet engaged upon a letter to King Edward descriptive of these events and other business. But when they were out of the room he said that he must have fresh air or he would faint, which was not strange, seeing that heat prevailed on this night in Venice of an intensity unknown there at this season of the year.
“Whither shall we go?” asked Dick, mopping his brow. “Guards stand at the door and, I doubt, will not let us pass.”
“I wish to see the place where we are to fight to-morrow,” answered Hugh, “so as to form my judgment of it, if only we may come there.”
At this moment an English lad of Sir Geoffrey’s household chanced to pass by, having come to ask as to the feeding of the horse which Hugh should ride. Dick caught him by the arm and asked whether he could get them out of the house secretly, so that the Guards would not see them, and conduct them to the spot called the Place of Arms, where they understood they were to fight.
The lad, whose name was David Day, replied somewhat doubtfully that he could do so by a back door near the kitchen, and guide them also, but that they must protect him from the anger of Sir Geoffrey. This Hugh promised to do. So presently they started, carrying their weapons, but wearing no mail because of the intense heat, although Dick reminded his master how they had been told that they should not venture forth without body armour.
“I have a sword and you have bow and axe,” answered Hugh, “so we’ll risk it. In leather-lined mail we should surely melt.”
So they put on some light cloaks made of black silk, with hoods to them, such as the Venetians wore at their masques, for David knew where these were to be found. Slipping out quite unobserved by the kitchen door into a little courtyard, they passed into an unlighted back street through a postern gate whereof the lad had the key. At the end of the street they came to a canal, where David, who talked Italian perfectly, hailed a boat, into which they entered without exciting remark. For this sharp youth pointed to their cloaks and told the boatman that they were gallants engaged upon some amorous adventure.
On they rowed down the silent lanes of water, through the slumbrous city of palaces, turning here, turning there, till soon they lost all knowledge of the direction in which they headed. At length David whispered to them that they drew near the place where they must land. Everybody seemed to speak in a whisper that heavy night, even the folk, generally so light of heart and quick of tongue, who sat on the steps or beneath the porticoes of their houses gasping for air, and the passers-by on therivasor footwalks that bordered the canals. At a sign from David the boat turned inward and grated against the steps of a marble quay. He paid the boatman, who seemed to have no energy left to dispute the fare, telling him in the same low voice that if he cared to wait he might perhaps row them back within an hour or so. Then they climbed steps and entered a narrow street where there was no canal, on either side of which stood tall houses or dark frowning gateways.
Just as they stepped into the shadow of this street they heard the prow of another boat grate against the marble steps behind them and caught the faint sound of talk, apparently between their rower and others in the second boat.
“Forward, Sir Hugh,” said Day a little nervously. “This part of Venice has no good name, for many wicked deeds are done here, but soon we shall be through it.”
So they stepped out briskly, and when they were about half-way down the street heard other steps behind them. They turned and looked back through the gloom, whereon the sound of the following steps died away. They pushed on again, and so, unless the echo deceived them, did those quick, stealthy steps. Then, as though by common consent, though no one gave the word, they broke into a run and gained the end of the street, which they now saw led into a large open space lit by the light of the great moon, that broke suddenly through the veil of cloud or mist. Again, as though by common consent, they wheeled round, Hugh drawing his sword, and perceived emerging from the street six or seven cloaked fellows, who, on catching sight of the flash of steel, halted and melted back into the gloom.
“Who follow us so fast?” asked Hugh.
“Thieves, I think,” answered David, even more nervously than before, adding, “but if so, we are safe from them here.”
“Yes, sure enough,” said Grey Dick, “for I can shoot by moonlight,” and, drawing the black bow from its case, which he threw to the lad to carry, he strung it, after which they saw no more of their pursuers.
Having waited a while, they began to examine the spot where they found themselves, which Day told them was that Place of Arms where they must fight on the morrow. It was large and level, having been used as a drilling ground for generations. Perhaps it measured four hundred yards square, and almost in the centre of it rose a stand of painted timber roofed with canvas, and ornamented with gilded flagstaffs, from which hung banners. On this stand, David said, the Doge and nobles would take their seats to see the fray, for in front of it the charging knights must meet.
They walked up and down the course taking note of everything, and especially of how the sun would shine upon them and the foothold of the soil, which appeared to be formed of fine, trodden sand.
“I ask no better ground to fight on,” said Hugh at length, “though it is strange to think,” he added with a sigh, “that here within a dozen hours or so two men must bid the world farewell.”
“Ay,” answered Dick, who alone seemed untouched by the melancholy of that night. “Here will die the knave with three names and the big fool of a half-bred Swiss, and descend to greet their ancestors in a place that is even hotter than this Venice, with but a sorry tale to tell them. By St. George! I wish it were nine of the clock to-morrow.”
“Brag not, Dick,” said Hugh with a sad smile, “for war is an uncertain game, and who knows which of us will be talking with his ancestors and praying the mercy of his Maker by this time to-morrow night?”
Then, having learned all they could, they walked across the ground to the quay that bordered it on the seaward side. Here, as they guessed from the stone pillars to which ships were made fast, was one of the harbours of Venice, although as it happened none lay at that quay this night. Yet, as they looked they saw one coming in, watched curiously by groups of men gathered on the wall.
“Never knew I vessel make harbour in such a fashion,” exclaimed Dick presently. “See! she sails stern first.”
Hugh studied her and saw that she was a great, decked galley of many oars, such as the Venetians used in trading to the East, high-bowed and pooped. But the strange thing was that none worked these oars, which, although they were lashed, swung to and fro aimlessly, some yet whole and some with their blades broken off and their shafts bundles of jagged splinters. Certain sails were still set on the ship’s mast, in tatters for the most part, though a few remained sound, and it was by these that she moved, for with the moonrise a faint wind had sprung up. Lastly, she showed no light at peak or poop, and no sound of officer’s command or of boatswain’s whistle came from her deck. Only slowly and yet as though of set purpose she drifted in toward the quay.
Those who watched her, sailors such as ever linger about harbours seeking their bread from the waters, though among these were mingled people from the town who had come to this open place to escape the heat, began to talk together affrightedly, but always in the dread whisper that was the voice of this fearful knight. Yes, even the hoarse-throated sailormen whispered like a dying woman.
“She’s no ship,” said one, “she’s the wraith of a ship. When I was a lad I saw such a craft in the Indian seas, and afterward we foundered, and I and the cook’s mate alone were saved.”
“Pshaw!” answered another, “she’s a ship right enough. Look at the weed and barnacles on her sides when she heaves. Only where in Christ’s name are her crew?”
“Yes,” said a third, “and how could she win through all the secret channels without a pilot?”
“What use would be a pilot,” said a fourth, “if there are none to work the rudder and shift the sails? Do I not know, who am of the trade?”
“At least she is coming straight to the quay,” exclaimed a fifth, “though what sends her Satan alone knows, for the tide is slack and this wind would scarce move a sponge boat. Stand by with the hawser, or she’ll swing round and stave herself against the pier.”
So they talked, and all the while the great galley drifted onward with a slow, majestic motion, her decks hid in shadow, for a sail cut off the light of the low moon from them. Presently, too, even this was gone, for the veil of cloud crept again over the moon’s face, obscuring everything.
Then of a sudden a meteor blazed out in the sky, such a meteor as no living man had ever seen in Venice, for the size of it was that of the sun. It seemed to rise out of the ocean to the east and to travel very slowly across the whole arc of the firmament till at last it burst with a terrible noise over the city and vanished. While it shone, the light it gave was that of mid-day, only pale blue in colour, turning all it touched to a livid and unnatural white.
It showed the placid sea and fish leaping on its silver face half-a-mile or more away. It showed the distant land with every rock and house and bush. It showed the wharf and the watchers on it; among them Hugh noted a man embracing his sweetheart, as he thought under cover of the cloud. But most of all it showed that galley down to her last rope and even the lines of caulking on her deck. Oh, and now they saw the rowers, for they lay in heaps about the oars. Some of them even hung over these limply, moving to and fro as they swung, while others were stretched upon the benches as though they slept. They were dead—all dead; the wind following the meteor and blowing straight on shore told them that they were certainly all dead. Three hundred men and more upon that great ship, and all dead!
Nay, not all, for now on the high poop stood a single figure who seemed to wear a strange red head-dress, and about his shoulders a black robe. Straight and silent he stood, a very fearful figure, and in his hand a coil of rope. The sight of him sent those watchers mad. They ceased from their whisperings, they raved aloud.
“It is Satan!” they shouted, “Satan, who comes to drag the folk of Venice down to hell. Kill him ere he lands. Kill him!”
Even Grey Dick went mad like a dog when he meets a ghost. His pale hair rose upon his head, his cold, quiet eyes started. He set an arrow on the string of the black bow, drew it to his ear and loosed at the figure on the poop. But that arrow never left the string; it shattered to flinders where it was and fell tinkling to the marble floor. Only the barb of it turned and wounded Grey Dick in the chin, yes, and stuck there for a while, for his right arm was numbed so that he could not lift his hand to pull it forth.
“Truly, I have shot at the Fiend and hit that at which I did not aim,” muttered Grey Dick, and sat himself down on a post of the quay to consider the matter. Only, as it seemed to him, he who stood on the poop of the ship not ten yards away smiled a little.
Unheeding of the clamour, this man upon the poop suddenly lifted the coil of rope and threw it shoreward. It was a thick and heavy rope, with a noose at its end, so heavy that none would have believed that one mortal could handle it. Yet it shot from him till it stood out stiff as an iron bar. Yes, and the noose fell over one of the stone posts on the quay, and caught there. Now the rope grew straighter still, stretching and groaning like a thing in pain as it took the weight of the great, drifting ship. She stayed; she swung round slowly and ranged herself broadside on against the quay as a berthed ship does. Then down the ladder on her side came the Man. Deliberately he set his white-sandalled feet upon the quay, advanced a few paces into the full light of the bright moon and stood still as though to suffer himself to be seen of every eye.
Truly he was worth the seeing. Hugh noted his garments first, and particularly the head-dress, which caught his glance and held it, for never had he known such a one before. It was a cap fitting tight to the skull, only running across the crown of it was a stiff raised ridge, of leather perhaps, jagged and pointed something like the comb of a cock. This comb, of brilliant red, was surmounted at its highest point by a ball of black of the size of a small apple. The cap itself was yellow, except its lowest band, which stood out from it and was also black. In the centre of this band upon the forehead glowed a stone like a ruby.
Such was the head-dress. The broad shoulders beneath were covered with a cape of long and glossy fur blacker than coal, on to either shoulder of which drooped ear-rings made of rings of green stone which afterward Hugh came to know was jade. The cape of fur, which hung down to the knees and was set over a kind of surplice of yellow silk, was open in front, revealing its wearer’s naked bosom that was clothed only with row upon row of round gems of the size of a hazel nut. These like the fur were black, but shone with a strange and lustrous sheen. The man’s thick arms were naked, but on his hands he wore white leather gloves made without division like a sock, as though to match the white sandals on his feet.
This was the Man’s attire. Now for him who wore it. He was tall, but not taller than are many other men; he was broad, but not broader than many other men, and yet he looked stronger than all the men in the world. On his brow, which was prominent, smooth black hair parted in the middle was plastered back as that of women sometimes is, making hard lines against the yellow skin below. He had very thin eyebrows that ran upward on either side of a bow-shaped wrinkle in the centre of his forehead. The eyes beneath were small and pale—paler even than those of Grey Dick—yet their glance was like the points of thrusting swords. With those little eyes alone he seemed to smile, for the rest of his countenance did not move. The nose was long and broad at the end with wide spreading nostrils and a deep furrow on either side. The mouth was thin-lipped and turned downward at the corners, and the chin was like a piece of iron, quite hairless, and lean as that of a man long dead.
There he stood like some wild vision of a dream, smiling with those small unblinking eyes that seemed to take in all present one by one. There he stood in the moonlit silence, for the mob was quiet enough now for a little while, that yet was not silence because of a soughing noise which seemed to proceed from the air about his head.
Then suddenly the tumult broke out again with its cries of “Kill the devil! Tear the wizard to pieces! Death is behind him! He brings death! Kill, kill, kill!”
A score of knives flashed in the air, only this time Grey Dick set no arrow on his string. Their holders ran forward; then the Man lifted his hand, in which was no weapon, and they stopped.
Now he spoke in a low voice so cold that, to Hugh’s excited fancy, the words seemed to tinkle like falling ice as one by one they came from his lips. He spoke in Italian—perfect Italian of Venice—and young Day, whose teeth where chattering with fear, translated his words.
“Is this your welcome to a stranger,” he said, “the companions of whose voyage have unhappily met with misfortune?” Here with a faint motion of his fingerless glove he indicated the dead who lay all about the decks of that fatal ship. “Would you, men of Venice, kill a poor, unarmed stranger who has travelled to visit you from the farthest East and seen much sorrow on his way?”
“Ay, we would, sorcerer!” shouted one. “Our brothers were in that ship, which we know, and you have murdered them.”
“How did you learn Italian in the farthest East?” asked another.
Then for the second time, like hounds closing in on a stag at bay, they sprang toward him with their poised knives.
Again he lifted his hand, again the semi-circle halted as though it must, and again he spoke.
“Are there none here who will befriend a stranger in a strange land? None who are ashamed to see a poor, unarmed stranger from the East done to death by these wolves who call themselves children of the white Christ of Mercy?”
Now Hugh touched Dick upon the shoulder.
“Rise and come,” he said, “it is our fate”; and Dick obeyed.
Only after he had translated the Man’s words, David fell down flat upon the quay and lay there.
They stepped to the yellow-capped Man and stood on each side of him, Hugh drawing his sword and Dick the battle-axe that he carried beneath his robe of silk.
“We will,” said Hugh shortly, in English.
“Now there are three of us,” went on the Man. “The stranger from the East has found defenders from the West. On, defenders, for I do not fight thus,” and he folded his arms across his broad breast and smiled with the awful eyes.
Hugh and Dick knew no Italian, yet they both of them understood, and with a shout leaped forward toward those hungry knives. But their holders never waited for them. Some sudden panic seized them all, so that they turned and ran—ran straight across the wide Place of Arms and vanished into the network of narrow streets by which it was surrounded.