CHAPTER III

A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT

I stood stock still in the middle of the floor. My brother looked at me from head to foot.

“Le Brun has been here, Henri,” he said calmly. And then in a low voice, “I was afraid that something had happened to you, you return so late.”

“Something has happened,” I burst forth and in shaking tones told him of my adventures in the woods.

“They are agents of the King,” cried the old Count. “They are everywhere about us. They are not satisfied that they have taken my son. They will——”

My mouth fell open in amazement.

“They have taken Charles?” I asked. “Is it true then that he was at the meeting at Rouen? You can——”

“It was a meeting of the nobles of Normandy,” he interrupted. “I thought I was too old to go myself so I sent my only son. They were to make plans to protect us against the aggressions of the King. But the secret leaked out. Some traitor in our ranks betrayed us. Every man in the gathering was taken. A full dozen were beheaded behind the walls of the town. A few were sent off as prisoners, to be scattered among the castles of the King.”

“—and Charles?” I cried.

The old man sighed and ground his teeth.

“He is on his way down the valley of the Loire,” he rumbled deep in his throat, “to be mewed up till the crack of doom.”

The blood left my face. A chill of horror ran through every limb.

“We shall bring him back, Henri,” said André with a ring in his voice. “If it takes the last drop of blood of the last Norman, we shall bring him back. But we shall have to wait.”

The old Count flung his hand in the air. The fire flashed from his eyes and he began to stride again across the floor.

“Wait!” he demanded. “Wait! That is the only word you know. We have waited long enough already. I’ll not bide another day.” He turned wildly towards the rack that held my brother’s arms. “I’ll take this,” he cried laying his strong hand upon a battle-ax. “I’ll go to the King, where he sits upon his throne. I’ll demand of him why he dared to lay his finger upon my son. I’ll offer him his choice, whether he will give me my son back—or perish at my feet.”

Here André raised his hand for peace.

“If you do that,” he said quietly, “you will only be playing into their nets. It will mean the destruction of us all.”

The Count flung himself into a chair.

“There’s one last fight in me yet, André,” he growled in his heavy voice. “I’ll summon a thousand archers from the countryside. I’ll find the castle where they have him prisoner. We’ll storm it and burn it to the ground.”

But André, who ever was on the side of wisdom, saw the folly of his intentions.

“If you do,” he warned, “it will only be a signal for an attack. The armies of France will sweep us from our homes.”

He took two or three paces to and fro in the room and returned to me. There was a smile of sadness on his face as he spoke.

“The Black Prince of England is our only hope,” he said.

“He is ravaging the western coast of France,” I told him. “It is his presence there that holds the King in check.”

He opened his mouth to answer but the long whine of one of the dogs out of doors interrupted him. We kept silent until the sound died away. Then he took up a tinder and went to the hearth.

“I shall make a fire,” he said. “The chill of the air has pierced me to the bone.”

I looked at his wounded arm.

“How did you get that, André?” I asked.

He laughed.

“We were attacked by knaves as we came along the road.”

The whine of the dog began again. Then like a chorus there arose a barking and yelping as though the whole pack of them had gone suddenly mad.

“There is someone in the yard,” muttered the old Count without raising his head. “I thought I heard the crunching of the gravel on the walk.”

With a kind of instinct I turned towards the window. I could not see clearly what it was, but there flashed across the pane what seemed to be the image of a man’s face. By the suddenness with which he moved away, it struck me that he must have been loitering there, peering in. My heart rose in my throat for I thought of the enemies who were lurking about the house.

I was on the verge of raising my hand to point and call out, when amid the sharp howling of the dogs there came a rapping on the panels of the door. Like a flash André sprang forward. Without a single weapon in case he was attacked he jerked the door open. The light of the candles shone dimly into the haze. For all that, I was able to see the figure of a man standing on the stone step. He was booted and spurred and clad from neck to heels in the long black cloak of a traveler. He wore a broad brimmed hat with a feather in it. When he saw the anxious expression on my brother’s face he smiled and touched his forehead like a salute. Then he bowed with the gravity of a courtier.

“May I come in out of the rain?” he asked.