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The King's Esquires: The Jewel of France, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 36. Somebody's Wound |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMEBODY'S WOUND As if to aid the fugitives' escape, the moon, which had been shining brightly the greater part of the evening, had become overclouded almost from the minute they set off, and headed by the King, who bent low over the pommel of his saddle, and at the start had seemed to drive his spurs into his horse's flanks, the little party tore over the darkened road at a furious pace, no one uttering a word. The King led; that was sufficient for two of the party, who set their teeth and gave the horses their heads, merely taking care to rein up slightly as every now and then they came upon some terribly untended piece of the road. "The King leads," thought the two young men, "and all we have to do is to keep close at his heels, ready if wanted, and for France." Saint Simon was one who thought little and said less. They had had an exciting charge, mastered those who opposed them, behaved like gentlemen of France, and that was enough. But as Denis galloped on with the wind coming cool and pleasant to cheeks fevered by the excitement that he had passed through, picture after picture flitted through his brain, dominated by that in the stable entry when he had felt his rapier glide through his adversary's neck. Had he killed this man? something seemed to ask him again and again. Then came the strong feeling of dissatisfaction as imaginary pictures took the others' place, illustrating the breaking open of the cabinet and the stealing of the jewel--imaginary so far as he was concerned, for no communication as to this having been accomplished had been made to him. But he took it all for granted, and though he had taken no active part in the theft--for theft his conscience persisted in calling it--the base action pressed upon him more and more, in spite of his combating it with declarations that it was an act of warfare to regain the King's own, and that it was for France. At last as they galloped on with their horses following their natural instinct and keeping closely together as in a knot, the trouble, the worry became almost unbearable. "Oh, if something fresh would only happen--something exciting!" Denis muttered. "I could then bear it better." At last a thought flashed through his brain, and he started, rose a little in his stirrups, and began looking about him. "Are we going right?" he said to himself, and he looked straight ahead now--beyond Francis, who was slightly in advance, he being on the King's left, while Leoni's horse galloped level with his own, the beautiful animal's head being almost within touch of the King's saddle upon the right. But all was dark and cloudy, and he could make out nothing. "The King leads," he muttered, "and what the King does is right." Thinking this to himself, Denis rode on, perfectly unconscious of the fact that he who rode on his right was vastly troubled too, and regardless of everything else kept one eye fixed upon his liege, for he had noticed that Francis was not riding according to his wont. He was generally upright in his saddle, and he had never seen him bend low before like this. At first he comforted himself with the thought that it was all due to excitement and the dread of being captured after this nefarious act; for gloze it over as he would, the subtle Franco-Italian knew in his heart that though it might be for reasons of State, and to ensure the stability and future of his King, the scheme was vile. Then, too, there was all that had taken place that night, the peculiar semi-trance-like state in which the King had seemed to be plunged. There was the draught, too, that had been taken, and its effects before he had grasped the King's wrist and had led him, a passive instrument in his hands, to where the cabinet stood in the obscurity of the gallery, and had him standing there, participator of that which had followed, but in a half unconscious condition the while. Once or twice after coming to the conclusion, and owning to himself that the state of Francis was due entirely to the draught he had administered, Leoni started nervously in his saddle, for the King had suddenly given a lurch as if partly unseated; but he regained his balance on the instant, and muttered angrily at his horse for stumbling. They rode on now at a hand gallop, their horses' hoofs beating heavily upon the road, but not drowning the King's voice, as every now and then he made his horse lay back its ears to listen to the rider's words, which at times came angrily and fast. But they were incoherent and strange, and it was only now and then that Leoni, on his right, and Denis, on his left, caught their import, always something about the hunt and losing their quarry. It was just after one of these mutterings that the clouds were swept from the face of the moon, passing onward like a vast black velvet curtain edged with silver, and leaving visible a third, later on a half, of the vast arch overhead, studded here and there with stars whose lustre was paled by the effulgent moon. And now it was that, after studying the sky overhead for some minutes to make sure, Denis could control himself no longer, and involuntarily exclaimed; "Are we going right?" "What!" cried Leoni sharply, for the King paid no heed, but galloped on, muttering to himself the while. "Are we going right?" repeated the lad. "What do you mean, boy?" "The road is straight, sir, and we are riding to the north. Should we not be making for the south?" "Are you mad, boy? What do you mean?" "Look, sir--the stars. That must be the Bear." Leoni was silent for a few moments, breathing heavily the while, as they rode steadily on. Then the doctor's voice came in a low angry hiss: "Yes, boy," he said, and his voice sounded like a harsh whisper, "we are upon the wrong road; but the Count led, and I thought of nothing but making our escape." "Are we to rein in, sir? Will you not tell him at once?" whispered Denis, leaning towards him as near as he could get. "No; we can do nothing now but gallop on. There is certainly pursuit going on hot foot behind us--somewhere," he added, after a slight pause; "and perhaps it is in the Count's wisdom that he has chosen this way, for if we were beyond earshot when pursuit commenced, the guard would naturally divine that we should be making for some southern port. Perhaps all is working for the best." "Ah!" ejaculated Denis excitedly, for Francis reeled again in his saddle, this time towards his young esquire, who spurred his steed level with the King's just in time to save him from falling headlong to the ground. "Ah!" he muttered angrily. "This horse is going lame, and we shall be last. Poor broken beast, I have ridden him too hard, and--I like it not; I like it not." "Master Leoni!" cried Denis excitedly, as the King recovered himself once more. "The Comte, sir--the Comte!" "I know. I saw. Keep as you are now, as close as you can ride. I'll keep level on the other side. We must reach water somehow, and I will give him to drink. It is the excitement. He is ill." "No, no, sir!" cried Denis wildly. "He is wounded." "What!" shouted Leoni. "My hand and sleeve are wet with blood. Look, sir, look!" For the moon was shining brightly down upon them now. "A horrible cut upon his brow!" "Halt!" cried Leoni; and at the command the horses stopped so suddenly that but for the hands of his followers the King would have been thrown upon his horse's neck. "Are we to get him down?" panted Denis. "No," said Leoni, cool and stern as if, in spite of the emergency, danger was afar. "Support him that side." And letting his horse's rein fall upon the neck he drew his little _flacon_ from the breast of his doublet, unscrewed the top, and passing his arm round the King's shoulders, the head fell back, and the doctor pressed the neck of the little flask between his lips, while Francis yawned slightly, and a few drops trickled over his dry hot tongue. A few drops--no more--and then the top was screwed on the flask, it was returned to its owner's breast, and he busily examined the King's forehead, after drawing back the plumed cap which had been dragged down over his eyes. "A cut from sword or axe," muttered Leoni. "It must have been given by one of those halberdiers. He has borne it bravely, gentlemen, and like a king. Hah! My handkerchief!" He snatched it out, just as it was, folded like a pad. "Now then, a scarf," he said. "Yours, Denis. I will unfasten it myself. You, Saint Simon, ride back a hundred yards and listen. Make out if you can whether we are pursued." Saint Simon turned off and rode back without a word, while Leoni hastily unfastened and drew off the young esquire's silken scarf, and said with his white teeth glistening in a sardonic smile in the bright moonlight: "Why, Denis, boy, you will be honoured to-night. You must save this scarf as an heirloom, for when you get it back it will be deeply stained with the royal blood of France." "Hist!" whispered the lad, flushing. "The Comte will hear." "Perhaps," said Leoni coolly; "but he will not understand. Ah, that is better: raise his head a little.--Stand still, horse!" he cried angrily; and then, as Denis raised the King's head a trifle, the white handkerchief was bound tightly over the wound, and the scarf adjusted so that it retained it in its place and formed into a turban-like cover, while the King's jewelled cap was secured by its strap to the embroidered baldric he wore. _ |
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