Part 3

"Yes, St Aubin du Cormier," repeated de Coray, moving a little nearer, as if he feared his words might be overheard. "Listen, monsieur, and you will understand why, at sight of yon dog lying under the greenwood, I cried to you to yield him no mercy, but to mete out to him the dog's death he deserved."

"Speak," said de Mereac hoarsely, "I can ill brook such preamble."

"The battle was a bloody one, as you may well remember," began de Coray. "We of Brittany fought gallantly, as we ever do, and the English archers of Lord Woodville yielded only to the French with their lives; for myself, I had escaped throughout the fight, and towards evening found myself driven back, close to a wood, by the side of the Prince of Orange, who, seeing the chances of the day had gone against us, tore from his breast the black cross of Brittany, urging us, his followers, to do the same, for that nothing remained to us but flight. His words were true, but, for all that, no true Breton amongst us tore the cross from his tunic, though we sought flight readily enough amongst the trees, and in so doing it chanced that I became separated from the rest, and, wandering alone through the wood, came suddenly in sight of a man clad in the armour of a Frenchman, who walked stealthily; for an instant I paused, and, alas! monsieur, before I could conceive the meaning of the situation, it was too late. A Breton knight, whom I recognised on the instant as my cousin Yvon, was standing spent and weary by his horse's side, whilst the animal drank greedily of the water from a brook which ran hard by. Yvon's vizor was up, and I could see he was pale with excitement and exhaustion, though methinks unwounded. His back was turned towards his enemy, and before I could cry a word of warning, the cowardly traitor had sprung forward and cloven him from brow to chin, so that he fell dead by his horse's side. I sprang forward also, with a cry, but the Frenchman was true to his colours; for one instant he looked at me, then, fearing doubtless that friends of mine and the dead man's might be near, he drove fiercely at me with his sword, and fled, so that in the twilight I missed him, though, so thirsty grew my own good blade for his blood, that I searched till darkness fell and all hope of finding him was gone."

"And?" groaned de Mereac.

De Coray smiled pensively. "Monsieur," he added, "the French traitor's vizor was also raised, so that I read well the features which I saw not again till I beheld them yonder in the forest."

With a bitter curse the old man sprang to his feet with such vigour that Gloire and Reine raised their great heads with a short bark of excitement.

"He?" cried de Mereac, his voice quivering with fury, "he?--the man whose life I spared? the man who has partaken of my hospitality and eaten my salt? He? the base murderer of my Yvon?--my boy--my boy!" In spite of his anger his voice broke over the last words; then a fresh tempest seized him. "Fool!" he cried, gripping de Coray by the shoulder, "wherefore didst thou not tell me this when we found him yonder? wherefore prolong by an hour the life of so foul a thing?"

"Nay," faltered de Coray, paling before the storm he had evoked. "Methought--the Lady Gwennola----"

"Gwennola!" shouted the old man. "Thrice double fool! thinkest thou there would be one throb of pity in her pure maiden's heart for such an one as the murderer of her brother? Ay, murderer he is, and as such shall die. Hie thee, varlet, bid come hither on the instant Job and Henri. Ay! and bid them drag down yon foul thing from the chamber where he lieth so softly, and he shall learn what Breton justice is. Bah! the rope that should hang him would be for ever a thing dishonoured; rather would I give him to my good hounds yonder to tear limb from limb; though, by the bones of St Yves, such death even were too gentle and easy a thing for him."

Pierre the fool, thus roughly roused from slumber to be sent in search of Job and his comrade, stood gaping and gasping before his master's anger, whilst the ape from his shoulder grinned and gibbered in mocking imitation of its lord's wrath; but before de Mereac's fury could burst forth again upon the head of his witless retainer, a voice beside him turned the swift current of his thoughts into another channel. It was his daughter Gwennola who stood before him, pale but resolute, with no look of fear in her blue eyes as they met his stormy frown, but rather returning look for look, boldly and bravely.

"My father," she said steadily, laying one white hand upon the sleeve of his long furred gown, "I have heard what"--her voice trembled--"what Monsieur de Coray has been saying, and," she added, turning a blazing face of indignation towards the younger man, who stood leaning against the tapestry near, "I call him coward and liar to his face!"

There was an instant's pause, de Mereac's brows drawn ominously down as he glanced from his daughter to de Coray, whose mocking smile seemed to sting the girl to fresh anger.

"Liar and coward!" she cried, stamping her little foot, her blue eyes still ablaze. "Ah, monsieur my father, it is incredible that you believe him."

"Incredible?" said the old man slowly, "and wherefore, child? More incredible to me that my daughter should take the part of a foul murderer, an enemy to her country and house, rather than the word of her betrothed husband."

De Coray's smile deepened. "Monsieur," he said, with a mocking bow, "you asked me why I told a traitor's secret now rather than yesterday--perhaps monsieur is answered."

De Mereac's eyes sought his daughter's face sternly, but again she met them with a glance almost defiant, then softening, as she read a dumb agony behind the anger, till her own blue eyes brimmed with tears.

"Oh, my father!" she cried, drawing nearer to his side with outstretched hands, "in the name of justice listen to me, and heed not the words of yon cruel man. See, my father, if Monsieur d'Estrailles has done this thing, willingly would my hands tie the knot which bound the rope round his coward's throat, but, my father, is it justice? is it a thing of honour to strike like the adder in the dark? I, yes, I, Gwennola de Mereac, challenge you, Guillaume de Coray, to repeat your lying tale before the man you accuse, and let my father judge between true knight and false."

De Coray's smile faded as he met her fearless gaze, then glanced sideways towards de Mereac, who stood hesitating, eagerly, it seemed, awaiting his answer.

"So be it, my fairest law-giver," he said at last, with a forced smile. "To-morrow will be as good a hanging day as to-night, and perchance, as you suggest, the office shall fall to your own fair hands."

She did not reply, but turned, curtsying gravely to her father as she quitted the hall.

Not another word was spoken between the two men left standing there amongst the shadows. De Mereac, whose transport of rage seemed to have died down, since his daughter's interference, into a sullen moodiness, soon strode away, leaving Guillaume alone. The young man's meditations seemed perchance to be scarcely of a soothing nature, for, till darkness fell, he continued pacing up and down the hall, lost in thought, till a hand touching his roused him with a startled curse, and, looking down, he saw to his surprise the thin, shrewd face of Pierre the fool looking wistfully up into his.

"Monsieur," said the boy softly, "I am monsieur's slave; if I may be allowed to serve monsieur, perchance I can do much."

Guillaume de Coray looked thoughtfully down into the oblique, uncanny eyes, then he smiled. "A friend," he quoth lightly, "is at times a necessity, and should not be refused, mon Pierre, even when the friend is but a fool. Yes, I will accept, and," he added, drawing a piece of money from his pocket, and placing it in the lad's outstretched palm, "I will pay the price of true friendship, mon ami. See, there is already a service you can render me." He drew Pierre as he spoke into a recess, dropping his voice, as if fearing that the pictured figures on the tapestry had ears to hear. "Yonder in the forest," he said softly, "there wanders a man whom I would fain have speech with, a man, short, thick-set, with a red beard and black eyes; tell him," he added, speaking slowly and impressively, with both hands on Pierre's shoulders, "that his _friend_, his _friend_, mark you, boy, Guillaume de Coray, would have speech with him; that there is naught to fear and much to gain, and that to any rendezvous he may appoint I will come alone."

Pierre's black eyes shone as he looked up into de Coray's pale face, nodding slowly. "Pierre understands," he muttered. "Monsieur has trusted to Pierre the fool, who is now the friend of monsieur, and therefore it is understood that the man with the red beard shall be found. Is it not so, mon choux?" he added, caressing the ape, which he still carried in his arms. "Tiens! it is clear that Pierre the fool will soon be rich and great, and the little Gabrielle far away in the forest shall no more weep for hunger." And as he turned away, the boy looked lovingly down at the piece of leather money with its small centre of silver which de Coray had given him. "Without doubt monsieur has a great heart," he murmured softly. "As for the Lady Gwennola, I have no love for her, though she be fair as the dawn, for she has no love for monsieur, and none also for petit Pierre. Is it not so, mon petit? Bah! we shall be great soon, thou and I, mon Pierrot, very great."

*CHAPTER V*

"Ah, Marie, Marie, what shall I do? Tiens! petite, canst say no word to comfort me? Bah! with thy great eyes thou hast no more sense than the owls which cry all night in the forest yonder. Nay! forgive me, Marie, and comfort me, because, because----"

"Nay, lady," sighed the waiting-maid, "I fear me there is little to be said, for see, you tell me that on the morrow Monsieur de Mereac----"

"Ah, listen then, Marie, and I will explain all to thee," said Gwennola, clasping her hands as she looked piteously across into Marie's sympathetic face.

"Monsieur de Coray, viper that he is, has for some reason I know not conceived a hatred for Monsieur d'Estrailles, therefore he has told to monsieur my father many false lies, saying that Monsieur d'Estrailles foully murdered the poor Yvon, whose soul rest in peace, at the battle of St Aubin du Cormier, three years since; but Marie, it is false Monsieur d'Estrailles could do no such unknightly deed--nay, I am assured of it."

"But wherefore, mistress?" demanded Marie stolidly. "We know nothing of this French monsieur; it may be that his tongue is no smoother than his heart false. Jobik hath ofttimes bid me beware if a Frenchman cross my path, for they are altogether children of the devil in their deceitful ways."

"Jobik is a fool!" declared his young mistress tartly, "and thou also art lacking in all sense, my Marie, to listen to him. See then how many noble Frenchmen have been true friends to Brittany; think of Monsieur d'Orleans and Monsieur the Count Dunois, who even now seeks to aid our sweet Duchess; but all such talk is foolishness. Be assured, Marie, that I, thy mistress, am convinced that Monsieur d'Estrailles is a good and true knight, and yet, alas! alas! to-morrow morn it may well chance that he will hang as if he were some cowardly traitor or foul murderer--for see then, Marie, it is the word of a Frenchman against a Breton, and though the latter be thrice times a traitor knave, yet well I know he hath the trick of lying with as smooth a brow as any guileless babe, and so--and so--my father will believe him. Alas! alas!" and the young girl broke down into a flood of tears.

Marie stood watching her mistress's distress, tears brimming in her own brown eyes, although in her heart was still some doubting of the Frenchman's honour. But, after all, what maid of any age is proof against romance? and the fact that Gwennola was deeply interested in the handsome stranger was apparent enough to the waiting-woman's eyes. And what wonder, seeing that fate had hitherto offered naught but so sorry a lover as Monsieur de Coray? There was no love for the latter in Marie's heart, which went the farther in his rival's favour.

"Alas! my lady," she murmured, with a sob, "'tis grievous to think of, and that he should die, this poor monsieur, at dawn, on the word of such an one as Monsieur de Coray! If it had been that he were not injured, we might even have helped him to escape, but alas----"

"Alas!" sobbed Gwennola, "with such a wound 'twere death to attempt it. No, Marie, he will die, and I, it may be, will find shelter in a convent, as Father Ambrose hath ofttimes suggested, for well I wot I would marry no murderer, liar and coward, such as Guillaume de Coray."

The passion of her hatred against her betrothed husband for the moment had roused Gwennola from her grief. Now she dried her tears, and, rising, began slowly to pace the room, her head thrown back, and a light gradually dawning in her blue eyes. The wild untamable spirit of daring which had raced so madly through the veins of countless generations of ancestors had lifted her from the weak and unavailing grief of womanhood.

"I will save him," she said slowly, as she faced Marie Alloadec; "yes, it is possible. See, little one," she added, pointing reverently to a small figure of the Madonna placed on a table near, "it is the Holy Mother herself who has shown me how to do it; but go, my Marie, for there is little time to lose, even in prayers, go, tell Father Ambrose that I would see him now, quickly, if may be, in the chapel."

Marie stared. "But, mademoiselle!" she gasped.

Gwennola laid both hands firmly on the other's shoulders, looking down kindly but commandingly into the frightened brown eyes upraised to hers.

"Listen, Marie," she said quietly; "thou must obey without questioning. A noble knight's life hangs perchance in the issue, therefore 'tis no time for woman's fears or weakness; but what I purpose doing I tell neither to thee nor any other, seeing that it were ill for any save myself alone to refuse to answer when my father commands; only this thing I ask thee: go, tell Father Ambrose that I await him in the chapel, see that he fails me not, and, for the rest, be silent. Nay," she added, as tears rose in the girl's eyes, "'tis not that I doubt thy faithfulness, child, but that I would spare thee pain, ay, and myself too, though one thing more there is I would ask of thee which I had well-nigh forgotten. Bid Job lead the stranger's horse from the stables in an hour's time and tether him within the wood close by the river's bank; let none see him do it, neither let him speak of what he does. Also, should he fancy he seeth a figure pass him by whilst he standeth on guard at the outer postern, let him cross himself and deem 'tis a spirit, such as he already dreamt to see to-day, and take heed that he goeth not to inquire too closely as to whether there is aught of flesh and blood about it, for to-morrow mayhap it will have been well for him to have been somewhat blind and deaf."

Marie curtsied, not daring to reply, as she saw the determination in her mistress's face. Nevertheless, as she sped on her errand, she muttered many an ave to her patron saint, knowing well what the fury of the lord of the chateau would be did his daughter succeed in her daring intention.

It may have been that even Gwennola's heart half failed her as she sank on her knees in the dimly lighted chapel of the castle. Wrapped in a long hooded cloak, she might well have passed for a shadow amongst the shadows which the moonlight flung around. Involuntarily the young girl crossed herself as she watched the cold, clear beams which fell long and pale across the altar, streaming down in flickering waves of light towards where she knelt in one of the stalls; for, high-born as she was, the superstitions of the day ran riot in her mind, and well she knew the baneful influence of the moon on the destiny of the Breton, and yet--as she argued to herself--the evil omen of the ghostly light might be averted, seeing that he whom she would fain succour was no Breton; and with the thought came others, more mocking and bewildering. Why did she thus dare brave her father's anger, and outrage her maiden modesty for the sake of a stranger and an enemy? The burning blushes which overspread her cheeks at the thought of the plan she had conceived might have convinced her, but the mad whirl of her mind refused to be analysed too closely. In vain she argued with herself that it was but her own keen sense of justice, so certain was she that the tale of Guillaume de Coray was false. But why should it be false? That she could not reply to, except by the illogical, but all-convincing, sense of her woman's intuition. A false quantity that in a hall of justice. Gwennola shuddered as she felt the frailty of such an argument, shuddered as she saw how fast the net of fate had immeshed this stranger. There was a little sob in her throat as she bowed her head in her hands, a sob which, like her deeper thoughts, she refused to analyse. Surely it was but a note of pity for an innocent man whom jealous hatred or some passion she could not divine was condemning to death? A hand laid on her shoulder roused her, and with a little frightened cry she sprang to her feet, but it was only Father Ambrose, that good father who had known and loved her ever since she had first lisped out baby confessions of infantine sin and wickedness at his knee. Yes, it had been a happy thought to send for him, though for his own good she must deceive him as to her intentions.

"The hour is late, my daughter," said the old priest gently. "What wouldest thou with me, child? Surely 'tis no time," he added with a smile, "even for confessions?"

"Nay, my father," she said softly, "'tis no confession, but perchance more of pity for one unjustly condemned to death that moves me to crave thy help."

"To death?" he echoed, glancing keenly at her. "Nay, daughter, but what hath chanced? and who in the chateau of thy gallant father may dare to condemn unjustly?"

"Nay," she replied, "listen, my father, and thou shalt judge for thyself," and in a few hurried sentences she told her tale.

Father Ambrose listened with bent brows, narrowly watching the fair face of the narrator as she spoke.

"Yes," he said gently, when she had finished, "I too am of thy opinion, my child, for I have watched by this sick man's side for many hours, and methinks truly he is a brave and loyal knight, with no such cruel smirch of treachery lying at his heart; but for all that, daughter, we have scarce known him for two days, and it may well be that we are deceived, for wherefore should Guillaume de Coray conceive so terrible a tale in falseness?"

"Nay, that I know not," replied Gwennola, sighing, "except that he is false, father, false to the heart's core, and speaketh lies as easily as he who is the father of them. Nay, father, reprove me not, for never husband of mine shall he be, by the grace of St Enora herself I swear it; rather would I die, far, far rather bury myself behind convent walls than marry a traitor and coward."

"Nay, daughter," rebuked Father Ambrose, "talk not so wildly, though in the life of the convent there be much peace and happiness for those who find little without; but thou, my child," he added with a shrewd smile, "wert no more born to be a nun than to be the wife of a traitor. But see, the night grows apace, and methinks we do little good in speaking ill of thy kinsman; better it were to pray for the soul of this poor gentleman who dies with the morrow's sun, or rather, that if it please the holy saints to alter so sad a destiny, to send succour to one whom we, at least, do look upon as innocent of this black crime whereof he is accused."

"Pray for his soul?" murmured Gwennola with a sigh; then a half smile parted her lips. "Nay, father," she murmured, "surely 'twill be a fairer division between us if thou prayest for his soul and I for his body. But nay, look not reprovingly, dear father, but listen to the prayer of thy little Gwennola, who called thee hither to crave a favour, besides telling thee of this sad work of the morrow."

"And that, my daughter?" questioned the old priest with a whimsical smile, well knowing the coaxing tones with which she pleaded.

"That," she whispered, whilst the colour surged back into her pale cheeks, "is to bring hither Monsieur d'Estrailles, that I myself may tell him of his danger and--and bid him farewell, for I will not be present on the morrow to see a noble knight suffer such cruel injustice."

For a moment Father Ambrose was silent, eyeing her gravely and thoughtfully.

"Child," he said at last, "this knight is but a stranger who scarcely knoweth thee. Deemest thou it be seemly or maidenly on thy part thus to crave audience with such an one, alone, at night?"

With crimson cheeks but undaunted eyes Gwennola faced the old man.

"Nay, father," she said steadily, "deem me not unmaidenly. Hast ever found thy little Gwennola aught but discreet and jealous of her honour? Nay, father, had I known this poor knight better, I could not have craved such an interview, but seeing he is but a stranger whom--whom I pity, surely there were no harm!"

"But wherein the good?" questioned the priest. "Surely it were best for me to seek Monsieur d'Estrailles' chamber and tell him all; then, when I have shriven him, we may well pass the night in prayer for his soul, and that the saints may give him fortitude for the morrow."

"Nay, father," whispered Gwennola pleadingly, "I too am praying for the good knight's body, as thou didst agree, and I would fain give him one word anent the preserving of it, which can be but for his ears alone. Nay, dear father, thy little Gwennola pleads with thee not to deny so trifling a boon. What ill can befall? A few simple words of comfort and farewell to a poor stranger who to-morrow must die, and then for the rest of the night thou mayest wrestle alone with him in needful prayer for his soul."

"Nay, child, but 'tis scarce seemly," sighed Father Ambrose. "And didst thy father hear of it, methinks my office of confessor would be held but a brief space. Still----"

"Still," urged Gwennola softly, "thou wilt not deny me so small a boon--but ten minutes, my father, and then thou and he may spend the hours that remain in making peace with Heaven."

"I fear me," sighed the priest heavily, "that thou hast inherited the spirit of our first mother, my daughter, and temptest man with fair words as she did with pleasant fruit. Yet--well I wot thou art discreet, child, and thy heart is soft and warm with pity, doubtless,--nay, there can be no warmer feeling in thy breast for this poor knight. 'Twere impossible that love can find an entrance in so brief a space." He looked curiously into the flushed, smiling face as he spoke.

"Nay, father," laughed Gwennola softly. "Fie on thee! Am I not betrothed to my cousin?"

Father Ambrose sighed as his keen ear caught the ring of defiance in the last words.

"I pray our Blessed Lady that I do no harm," he murmured, crossing himself devoutly. "Methinks there can be little ill in so kind a thought of pity, and it may be that the poor monsieur will regard more thy words than mine. Mary, Mother, have pity on his soul!"

"And his body," whispered Gwennola. "See, father, we say amen to both petitions; and now, haste thee quickly, for the time, as thou sayest, draws on apace."