He scrambled out, screaming and beating at his flaming clothes.
Now it was just the bold one and myself. I looked across my blade at him, and smiled. There was no coward in him, and he came at me. Suddenly, and surprisingly, I knew this was no ordinary rogue. I faced a master.
We fought desperately, silently, our blades like dancing light. Time and again I thought I had him, but each time he had a counter, a swift riposte. Nor could he reach me.
Suddenly he drew back and stopped. “Who are you?” he demanded. “From whence do you come?”
Stepping back in my own time, I flipped my blade through those ropes that bound the girl’s wrists. Quickly, she freed herself.
“Does it matter now?” I said carelessly.
“You handle a blade exceeding well,” he replied. “There are not five men in Europe who can stand against me.”
“I would think you could find a better trade,” I commented, “and better company.”
He shrugged. “It is the fortunes of war. I was a gentleman once and knighted. My name is Tankarville. I held vast estates from my father and mother. There was much intrigue about court and I supported the wrong side. We lost. Some of us were beheaded, some fled, some were imprisoned. My estates were taken by the crown and I was lucky to escape with my head and a sword. That was ten years and now I am a brigand, living as best I can.”
“And what of the lady here?”
“Take her, and welcome. But guard yourself well, my friend, or she will have a knife in your ribs.”
I laughed. “You asked my name. It is Tatton Chantry, and I ride to Rouen. If you wish another bout with the blades you have only to seek me out.”
“And I may,” he said cheerfully.
Tucking the empty pistol behind my belt, I touched the other to make sure it was still with me, and then, sword in hand, I backed from the room. The girl came with me.
When I had recovered my horse she said, “Their horses are down below, and mine, also.”
“You were riding when they took you?”
“Oh, no! They raided the chateau where I live. They came when they knew that all were away, and looted it, stealing all they could find. When I discovered them, they took me as well, exchanging their horses for our better ones.”
“Then let us get your horse.”
Leading my own and walking beside her, we went down a steep path, and there in a clump of trees were the horses.
She went straight to her horse. At the base of the tree to which he was tied, she picked up a small bundle.
I helped her to the saddle, and together we rode down the slope and back to the high road which led toward Rouen. It led across a high, open plain with only rare clumps of trees. We rode briskly, and she seemed disinclined to talk.
She was a comely lass and I’d not have minded talking, but my few attempts to open a conversation came to nothing.
“Where lies your home?” I asked finally.
“Yonder,” she pointed off to the south, “but I dare not go there now for fear they might come back.”
“Were there no servants?”
“They were away when the brigands came and will not know what to make of my misfortune. I dare not go back. Take me with you to Rouen.”
“Do you have friends there?”
“Of course! Although,” she added, “it is a town to which I rarely go. Our market town was Dreux, although there were villages closer. My family is gone and I am afraid to go back alone.”
It seemed a far way to take her from home, yet she must know best so I asked no further questions. The night was already well along and I, for one, was weary. All day I had been riding and my horse needed rest.
The road was dark, and there were no stars. “Know you a place where we might take shelter?” I suggested. “The night has far to go, and my horse and I have been long upon the road.”
“There is an abbey further along, and also an inn, the Great Stag, I believe, or something of the kind. I have not often come this way.”
The village was small, and built along the banks of the Seine. But the hostelry itself was large for the time. Half-timbered in structure, it was a post-house. And I did recall some story that this was the place where the father of Henry of Navarre had died after being wounded at the siege of Rouen. A single light showed from a lower window.
The door opened readily enough at my knock and a man in a leather jerkin held high a light. “Two wayfarers,” I said, “seeking food and shelter.”
“You be late, but come in nevertheless.”
“We have horses,” I suggested. “Aye, aye! Cannot I see? They will be taken care of.” He spoke in a mixture of French and English and with a strong English accent.
“You are an Englishman,” I said.
“I am! Although I married a Frenchwoman and have lived much of my life here.” He peered at me. “You be English?”
“From the Hebrides, if you call that English.” He showed us to a bench by the fire, and a fine fire it was with a goodly blaze on the hearth. I extended my hands to it, and saw the man’s eyes go to the maid with me. Her clothing was soiled from the rough treatment she’d received.
Curiosity can be an ill thing and can lead to all manner of speculation, so I thought to quiet his doubts at once.
“The lady and I have had a rough night of it. An encounter with brigands,” I explained.
“Well, well! ‘Tis not uncommon! They be fond of this country hereabouts, but not of this place. Here you may rest secure.”
He gestured. “All are asleep but me. Sit you, and when I have put up your horses I shall find what food I can.”
He disappeared, and after a few minutes returned and brought a loaf, some cold meat, and cheese to the table, and with it a bottle of cider.
He looked again at me. “The dapple is your horse? I seem to know it.”
“It was given me,” I explained, “by the King.”
“Aye,” there was respect in his tone, “a fine animal! I knew I had seen it.” He glanced at my companion. “And your horse also. I know it.”
“We recovered it from the brigands,” I said.
He looked at my companion again but offered no comment. Nor, to my surprise, did she. Although her home was some distance off, such a man as this would be likely to know any noble family thereabouts, know of them at least.
When he was gone I said, “You have not told me your name.”
“Marie d’Harcourt,” she replied.
It was a familiar name. There were several d’Harcourt families, I believed, though I knew little of French names.
Soon the man returned. When we had eaten, he showed us to our separate chambers. Marie clutched tight the strings of her bundle and refused help in carrying it, but once when it bumped her leg I heard a fault clank, a metallic sound.
No sooner had my body touched the bed than I was off into a sound sleep, and did not awaken until the sun was high. For a few minutes I lay still, then sat up, ordered some water brought, and bathed.
The maid lingered at the door, glancing at me with large eyes and what seemed an inviting expression, although I was but a poor judge of such things.
“Has the lady next door eaten?” I asked.
“She is gone.”
“Gone?”
She smiled openly at my astonishment. “She left hours ago, before it was light.”
I did not believe it, but a quick glance into her room proved the maid was right. Marie d’Harcourt was indeed gone.
When I reached the common room of the inn food was placed upon the table for me. He who served me was not the same who had served me the night before. He explained that the lady did not wish me disturbed. She had left at daylight on the road to Rouen.
“It is not safe for her to be on the highroad alone,” I objected. “You should have awakened me.”
“Do not worry,” the innkeeper said dryly, “she will fare well. She has beauty but she also has wit.”
“You know her then? You know Marie d’Harcourt?”
“I do not know her,” he replied, “nor is she a d’Harcourt, for of them I know much, and a fine family they are. What her name might be I know not, but it is not d’Harcourt.”
So … I had been fooled! But who was she then? And who did the brigands believe she was? “You had trouble along the road?” I explained my adventures of the night before and when I described my opponent he shook his head. “My friend, you are fortunate, indeed—or one of the finest swordsmen in Europe. The man whom you met is Andre de Tankarville, and it is said no man has stood against him.”