Part 9

"I fear so. I think it must be this evil knight of whom I have told thee. The blow with which I worsted him in the lists at Bordeaux was severe, and I know that his head had to be much bandaged. Then before I left I learned that he had already gone. 'Tis he of a surety. He hath followed his victim."

"Can he know that thou art here?"

"I think not; but one cannot be sure, and he will guess that I would not remain idle."

"Then it is this knight, this enemy of thine, who hath caused the watch to be doubled. 'Twill be the harder for thee to find a way in by thy stratagem. Hast brought a rope with thee?"

"No. I must make enquiries and obtain one."

"I will do so for thee. Thou wilt only arouse suspicion and make folk talk. Leave it to me, Sir Squire."

Edgar thanked the priest warmly, and stipulated that it should be both light and strong. Then they went on to talk of other things, and the priest told Edgar stories of his work amongst the poor peasantry. Some were humoursome, others bright stories illustrating the homely virtues of the folk and their generosity one to another; but the greater part were tales of cruelty and oppression, which made Edgar's blood boil--tales of men tortured into revealing where their little store of worldly wealth, laid by with much self-denial, had been hidden away; and tales of men done to death for their "obstinacy", when they had no store whose whereabouts they could reveal to satisfy their relentless persecutors. It all seemed almost incredible to Edgar, until he recollected the stories he had heard handed down of the deeds done in his own land but a century or two before.

It was three days before Edgar obtained a rope that he thought gave him the least hope of success in the venture he had in hand. The good priest did all in his power, and scarce a rope in the neighbourhood but was brought in and tried. But the ropes that the peasants possessed were rough and heavy and in no way suited to Edgar's purpose. In despair, at last he saddled his steed and rode away to the nearest town and purchased one there, returning by a forced march the same day.

That same night Peter and he, accompanied by the priest, made their way into the woods surrounding Castle Ruthenes. By a stroke of good fortune the night was a favourable one. Heavy clouds shrouded the light of the moon, and made even the biggest objects loom black and indistinct. A watcher on the walls would need the sharpest eyes to see a figure at the foot, and with the comforting feeling that all was so far going in their favour the two young men took leave of the priest at the edge of the wood and stole across the narrow strip of sward.

"God be with thee!" the priest had whispered, and with a pressure of the hand that Edgar now knew to be the hand of a friend, he had bade them adieu.

The point at which they left the woods was, they knew, in a line with that part of the moat where the low bank rose at the foot of the wall, and as soon as they reached the edge of the water, both slipped noiselessly in and swam gently towards the castle walls.

Both were good swimmers, even Peter, in spite of his infirmity, having long since learned to keep himself afloat without difficulty. Edgar carried the line and the improvised grapnel, which had been well swathed in cloths to ensure its falling dully wherever it struck. He also, wore his shirt of mail and his sword. The weight was considerable, but he was too practised a swimmer for that to trouble him for a few dozen yards, and he had a decided objection to being quite defenceless when he had gained entry into the enemy's quarters.

The water struck chill. Heavy weeds that appeared almost to choke the stream clung to their legs and impeded their progress. They could see nothing save a wall of blackness that rose before them forbiddingly. All seemed to be as silent as the tomb.

They were slow in making the passage, as their one desire was to make no sound, but presently they reached the side. Touching bottom in several feet of mud, they slowly raised themselves out of the water and began to crawl up the bank.

Suddenly they were startled beyond measure by a tremendous screech and flutter which arose from right under their very noses. In their amazement and alarm they sprang back a couple of feet into deep water with a splash, and then saw, or rather heard, a flock of frightened ducks rise with a whirr and cackle from the bank and fly above their heads round the angle of the castle walls.

Deeply chagrined, the two young men crawled from the moat upon the bank and lay there listening intently. Such a mischance they had never dreamed of, and it seemed more than possible that it might have alarmed one of the guards and brought him to the spot to learn the cause of the birds' alarm. With deepest annoyance Edgar upbraided himself for not observing that a flock of half-wild ducks belonging to the castle had made a home on the bank he had counted upon in his plans.

For half an hour the two lay in the mud and water without stirring, listening with all their ears and gazing up at the outline of the top of the walls, which they could discern dimly against the sky. But the peering figures of the sentinels that they half-expected to appear never came.

"All is well after all, I think, Peter," said Edgar at last. "That was a bad start indeed, and had I not thought Sir John's need a most urgent one, I should have been tempted to try another night. But as 'tis, if any have marked the flutter and scare they have doubtless thought them due to winged enemies of the wild fowl, and not to those with intent to disturb the peace of the castle. Now let us try the powers of the line and grapnel we obtained after so much time and trouble. 'Twould be hard indeed to find them fail us now."

The outer walls were comparatively low, little more than twenty feet or so in height, and the throw of the grapnel was not a very difficult one. But it proved exceedingly difficult to obtain a lodgment with it. Time after time it was thrown with success well over the wall, but the darkness of the night forced them to fling it at random, and as soon as a strain was put upon it, down it fell again.

At last, however, it held fast even when the weight of both was tried upon it, and, overjoyed, Edgar instantly began to haul himself up hand over hand until he reached the top. Here he rested arms and shoulders on the wall while he paused a moment to listen. All was quiet, however, and drawing himself right up he signalled to Peter with the rope that all was clear for him to ascend in his turn.

In a few minutes both were safely on the wall, crouching in the deepest shadows they could find. The first stage of their enterprise had been successfully accomplished, and though cold and wet and shivering as with the ague, they felt elated that they were well on the way to the accomplishment of their formidable task.

"Draw up and coil the rope, Peter. We must take it with us, for doubtless we shall need it 'gainst our return."

Peter silently obeyed.

"Now follow me quietly, lad," and Edgar led the way softly along the wall, keeping well in the shadow, until they reached a narrow flight of stone steps that led down to the castle courtyard. Against them loomed the deep shadow of a corner turret, and, thinking that this might possibly be a likely place for a man-at-arms to be stationed on the watch, Edgar paused and listened intently.

"Forward, Peter," he whispered; "Black Eustace and his men are asleep, I verily believe."

"Black Eustace never sleeps," echoed a rough voice from the blackness of the turret, and a dark form sprang suddenly upon Edgar and nearly brought him to the ground. Other figures followed, and in a twinkling Edgar and Peter were struggling in the grip of half a dozen men.

"Slay them not--at present," commanded the deep voice of the man who had first spoken. "Bring torches and bind them well. Then shall we see who hath dared to set foot upon the walls of the castle of Eustace de Brin--Black Eustace, one of the knaves called me, did he? We shall see. Mayhap he will be right."

It was but a spring from the walls to safety, and Edgar struggled fiercely to fling off his many assailants. A desperate effort freed his right arm, and a heavy blow rid him of one of them for a time. But he was no nearer even temporary freedom, for one of the men had clutched him firmly round the waist from behind with one hand while with the other he seized him by the hair and dragged his head forcibly back. Slowly but surely, notwithstanding his most frantic efforts, Edgar found his head dragged relentlessly back until his neck seemed on the point of snapping beneath the cruel strain. To struggle on was hopeless, and, weak from his exertions and with his senses nearly gone, Edgar allowed his arms to be drawn behind his back and there secured without further resistance.

Torches were brought. One was thrust close to Edgar's face--so close that his hair was singed and his cheek scorched--and a man peered searchingly at him.

"I know not the varlet," he growled, and Edgar recognized the voice of the man who had first spoken and who had admitted himself to be Eustace de Brin. "He seemeth not to belong to these dogs of peasants who would dearly love to bite the hand of their master an they got the chance. Here, camarade, perchance this is one of the hounds thou hast feared might be on thy track."

A man who had held aloof from the struggle came forward at the call, and Edgar, whose head had now been released from its intolerable strain, had no difficulty in recognizing, in spite of his bandages, the fierce eyes and harsh visage of Sir Gervaise de Maupas. The recognition was mutual, for with a shout of astonishment and savage joy, the knight cried:

"It is! It is! This is none other than that braggart esquire of whom I told thee, Eustace."

"What! The boy who gave thee that clout in the lists that nearly sent thee where thou art so eagerly awaited?" cried De Brin with a loud laugh.

"Nay, Eustace," cried De Maupas, giving the speaker no very friendly look. "He is the boy who played me a base trick that by an unfortunate mischance I could not frustrate. But he will play me no more. Give him to me, Eustace, as an earnest of the goodwill thou hast so often spoken of, but of which I have seen little enough solid evidence; as some slight return, too, for the many profitable ventures I have put thee in the way of."

"Well, well, we will talk more of that anon, camarade Gervaise. The disposal of the boy's body is nothing to me, so long as he is punished for his insolent daring in scaling the walls of my castle; but first I must know how we stand in this business. D'ye know the other man?"

Peter was next examined. "Yes," growled the knight, "this dog is one of the plotters. He is somewhat of a cripple--Baulch hath told me of him--but is not too crippled to give us trouble. Guard him well, Eustace, or thou wilt regret it."

"Ha! ha! ha! friend Gervaise, thou wilt, when thou know'st me better, find that I have a shorter way than that with those who might inconvenience me did they but get the chance."

The words were spoken with meaning, and De Maupas looked doubtfully at the speaker, as though neither liking nor understanding what he meant. "If thou meanest to imply----" he began at length.

"Lead on, men," cried Eustace de Brin, taking no notice of his friend. "Conduct the prisoners to the strongest cell beneath the donjon and see them fast. Duprez, thou wilt have to answer for them--so guard them well."

Down the stone steps Edgar and Peter were marched until they reached the courtyard. Here several of the men-at-arms left them, and, escorted only by Duprez and one other, they skirted the massive walls of the donjon until they came to a small low door. Through this door they were hurried, and found themselves in what seemed to be a vast system of underground passages and vaults which must have dated back to the remoter days of the first beginnings of the castle. Some of the vaults were below the donjon, while others seemed to burrow beneath the flagstones of the courtyard.

By the light of a single torch they were conducted along a passage whose gloomy arched walls echoed back the sound of their footsteps with a sullen insistence that seemed to make them contract yet more closely upon the unhappy prisoners. Presently they reached an ancient, monastic-looking cell, which they judged to be one of those situated beneath the courtyard. Into this they were roughly thrust. The torch was stuck into an iron ring above the doorway, and by its light Duprez and his assistant proceeded to release the arms of their prisoners from their bonds, and to load them afresh with heavy iron shackles which had been hanging ready for use from a hook upon the wall. The chamber was dank and heavy with moisture, and the shackles were thickly coated with rust, wet and smeary to the touch.

"Thou wilt find these safe enough for all their looks," growled Duprez, as he shackled Edgar's right arm to his left leg and his left arm to his right leg, so that he could barely stand upright. "These shackles have held secure captives as strong as thou--aye, and men of noble and knightly birth. Not once in my time has their grip relaxed until death claimed their victims. Sir Eustace said I would have to answer for thee--I object not to that, ha! ha!"

"'Tis a poor thing to make merry at thy prisoners' expense," replied Edgar shortly.

Duprez stared at him as though scarcely comprehending his meaning. Probably the sentiment was foreign to him. Then he turned to Peter and trussed him in similar fashion, growling half to himself:

"Cripple though thou art, 'twill be as well to shackle thee. After all, 'tis an honour to treat thee as a man of sound limbs, so let that thought comfort thee 'gainst thy pleasant stay in the dungeons of Ruthenes. Come, Rolfe, pick up their swords and daggers, and let us be off to our beds. Long enough have we spent over this business."

Sardonically bidding them good night, Duprez and his man left the chamber, carrying with them the torch and the weapons they had taken from their prisoners. The door clanged heavily to behind them, and Edgar and Peter were left in total darkness to think over their most perilous situation, and to wonder for how much of it they had to thank their old foe, Sir Gervaise de Maupas.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*Prisoners*

Worn out and dispirited, Edgar and Peter sank to the floor and lay there motionless. Their sudden capture, after so successful a beginning, was a stunning blow, and though neither was easily discouraged, they needed time and thought to recover from it.

After a time they grew drowsy, and presently forgot their troubles in sleep. When they awoke they judged it to be broad daylight. Their cell was still in semi-darkness, the only light that entered coming from a grating high up at the summit of the arched stone roof. This grating, Edgar calculated from his recollection of the trend of the passages they had traversed, was on a level with the flagstones of the courtyard.

The priest had told Edgar something of the history of the castle, and from the appearance of the cell he came to the conclusion that the network of underground dungeons and passages belonged to its more ancient days, and had been left intact when it had been partially pulled down and rebuilt. The conclusion brought him little additional hope, for the walls were massively built of stone, and seemed to have been but slightly affected by the lapse of time.

"Canst think of any plan, Peter, by which we may effect our escape?" asked Edgar, when he had carefully weighed all the chances in his own mind.

"Nay, unless we can reach up to the grating by standing on one another's shoulders."

"With these shackles? I fear there is little hope there, unless we can first rid ourselves of these irons."

"Yes, we must knock off our shackles first. As thou know'st, Master Edgar, I was an armourer's assistant, and know something of chains and rivets. If there be any weak spots I can find them, and shall know how to deal with them. Had they left us but a dagger it would not have been long, I'll warrant thee, before we moved our limbs in freedom."

"Yes, yes; but it must be done without a dagger. And before we start we must have some plan by which to escape when our shackles are off. 'Twould be useless to remove them only to be discovered by Duprez on his next visit. They would be replaced by a stronger pair, and our plight would be hopeless indeed. We must have a plan first. What doth the door offer? Let us examine it carefully."

Both moved eagerly to the door. As they did so their chains clanked hideously, making a sound that seemed to strike into their hearts with dread, bringing irresistibly home to them their desperate position.

"Of a truth, it would be worth much to be rid of these shameful bonds alone," cried Edgar passionately. "Nevertheless, we must not think of it until we have our plans ready formed to our hands, Peter. Ha! 'Tis as I feared. This door belongeth not to the age when these walls were built. It is of far later make, and seems prodigiously strong--shake it and feel its weight, Peter."

Peter did so, and then stood back and gave a despondent shake of the head. "Had they left us a piece of metal, however small, Master Edgar, we might in time have scraped a hole through the door around the lock and so opened it. But they have left nothing with me. Art sure they have left thee nothing?"

"They have left me nothing, Peter. They have taken my purse and all it contains, so that not even a coin remains for such a task. But stay--they have not touched my shirt of mail. Perchance we might do something with a few of its links, small as they are."

"Let us try--but hush, Master Edgar, someone approaches. I hear footsteps in the passage outside."

Both held their peace, and then, at a gesture from Edgar, sat down again on the stones in an attitude of dejection. A key grated in the lock of the door, and with much creaking and groaning the door was opened. Two men were outside--Duprez and another man, a stranger to Edgar. One bore an armful of rugs and the other some rough cakes and a pitcher, probably containing water.

"Thy bedding," grunted Duprez surlily. "Here, Guilbert, fling it in yon corner. Thou art lucky," he went on, turning to Edgar, "to get as much."

"Lucky indeed," replied Edgar in a tone of weary indifference; "but can thine other prisoner spare the rugs?"

"Aye, they belong not--But what know ye--why talk ye of another prisoner?" cried Duprez savagely, as he began to suspect that he had told too much.

"Oh, nothing! Surely one might guess ye had other prisoners in so large a castle. Is this our food, friend Duprez? They do not intend to starve us at any rate. Doubtless we may expect a meal twice or thrice in the day?"

"Ye may expect me when ye see me," cried the man harshly. "Ye would like me to tell ye all, I make no doubt. Get ye to your food, and cease to bandy words with me, or it may chance you will lose all appetite."

"Hast ever found thy prisoners kept their appetites in such noisome and dismal dungeons as these?" cried Edgar indignantly. "Didst thou take away the desire to eat, doubtless 'twould but do the work this cell will do as surely in a few short weeks."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Duprez with great zest. "Thou art a sharp fellow. 'Tis very true. My customers soon lose appetite, and finding they do not appreciate my trouble in bringing them their food, sometimes I forget it for a day or two. Ha! ha! It saves a lot of trouble in the end, and Sir Eustace makes no bones."

"Begone! callous brute that ye are," cried Edgar, jumping to his feet in a burst of involuntary indignation. "Kill us outright an ye be a man."

Duprez's merriment instantly vanished, and was succeeded by a burst of passion that he made no attempt to hold in check. "Silence, knave!" he cried savagely, as he struck Edgar violently on the mouth with his clenched fist. He then gave the pitcher his man had brought a vicious kick that dashed it into fragments, and, turning on his heel, sullenly left the cell.

* * * * *

As soon as they had eaten the cakes still left to them, Edgar and Peter began to ponder means of escape. The shirt of mail was tried, and several links obtained after much labour, but they were so small and so unsuited to the purpose the two had dimly in view that after a few minutes' trial the idea was given up in disgust. Even if it escaped detection, an attempt by such means would have taken so long as to be almost hopeless of success.

During the remainder of the day Duprez never came near the prisoners. Doubtless he had counted upon his destruction of the pitcher inflicting much suffering upon them. But happily the water had splashed upon the oaten cakes, and had wetted them so thoroughly that they had rather helped to assuage the pangs of thirst than added to them.

As near as the pair could judge, it was late on the afternoon of the second day when they again heard footsteps outside the door. Their first thought was that Duprez and his man were returning at last; but as the footsteps came nearer they gathered that only one person was approaching, and that probably that someone was more lightly shod than either of their jailers. The door opened, and to their astonishment Sir Gervaise de Maupas entered.

At the sight of him Edgar involuntarily sprang to his feet, dominated for the moment by feelings of anger and excitement.

De Maupas raised his hand and calmly waved him back. "It seems thou art surprised to see me," he said easily. "Thou wilt, I think, be more so when thou hast learned somewhat of mine errand and found how magnanimous I can be."

With an effort, Edgar mastered his indignation and simply nodded his head as though waiting to hear more before accepting such a statement. The knight spoke with quiet confidence. Most of his bandages were now gone, and he seemed himself again and sure that the errand on which he had come would end as he desired.

"What ye have learned of me," he went on, pacing slowly up and down the narrow limits of the cell, "doubtless ye have learned from Sir John. Well, know this, that Sir John is the lifelong enemy of me and mine, and the fault of it lies not with me but with him. Aught that he hath told ye to my disadvantage is therefore not to be relied upon, for he hateth me and maligns me for his own base purposes. He is no true knight, and ye are mistaken in espousing his cause. I have told you the truth, so that ye may know that ye are honourably released from all allegiance to him."

"But if thou art the true knight thou sayest, how comes it that thou art staying as a friend in the castle of this Eustace de Brin, a knight of ill reputation and one of the enemies of our country?"