TRAPPED!

BEFORE the raiders had proceeded very far a short exclamation from one of the men-at-arms caused them to pull up sharply.

"What's amiss?" demanded Raymond in a whisper.

"The peasant's horse hath gone lame," replied one of the soldiers.

"Can we not despatch the guide, for, certes, he is of no further use, and it will save us the trouble of looking after him?"

"Nay!" replied Raymond st.u.r.dily. "I am loth to cause a harmless peasant to be slain. Make him mount behind thee, Robert, but keep a tight hold on his chain."

Once again the advance was resumed, the horses floundering over the slippery, leaf-strewn path, their riders being put to great trouble by reason of the overhanging branches that often almost swept them from their saddles.

Presently they began to descend a steep declivity, the slope requiring all the skill of the hors.e.m.e.n to keep their steeds on their feet, while the rain, now falling in torrents, had transformed the little path into a foaming stream.

Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning rent the darkness of the night, and in the dazzling glare Raymond beheld, with a thrill of horror, two of the men who were leading disappear into a yawning chasm almost at his feet, their cries drowned by the appalling crash of the accompanying thunder. By dint of reining in his horse till the animal was almost on its haunches, the young squire saved himself from a similar fate, and slipping to the ground he awaited, in terrible suspense, the next flash that would give some idea of his position.

The succeeding period of darkness seemed to weigh upon him like a suffocating shroud, while the silence was broken only by the frantic prancing of the remaining horses, the feeble groans of one of the fallen men, and a low gurgling sound a short distance away--a sound that caused indescribable terror in the mind of the young squire.

Then came another crash and a ponderous ma.s.s fell across the path he had just pa.s.sed, and another shriek of agony rent the air. To the horrified Raymond, whose superst.i.tious feelings were aroused by the war of the elements and the tragedy of his surroundings, the place savoured of the infernal regions; and gazing with wide-open eyes into the inky blackness, he dumbly awaited the next gleam of blinding light.

At length, after a seemingly endless suspense, it came--a double flash. Short as was the duration of the glare it served to intensify the horror of his position.

At his feet yawned the pit, wherein the feebly-moving limbs of two of his men still writhed in the throes of death, while their horses were frantically kicking each other in the confined s.p.a.ce. Behind him lay another man-at-arms, the blood welling from a gaping wound in his throat, while a fourth lay crushed--beyond recognition by a heavy tree-trunk that, falling across the path, effectually prevented a retreat. There was no sign of their guide, but the fifth soldier was leaning against a tree-trunk, his hands pressed tightly over his eyes as if trying to shut out the ghastly scene.

The next flash showed that he, too, had vanished, and Raymond was alone, though the shouts and cries of the unfortunate man-at-arms betokened that he was being haled off through the forest by some invisible agency--whether by men, animals, or spirits the squire dared not imagine.

And now the underwood on either side seemed alive with movement, and Raymond felt, or fancied he felt, rough hands groping towards him.

Frenzy took possession of his shaking body, and, lashed into the energy of despair, he unsheathed his sword and slashed madly about him. The blade came in violent contact with an overhanging bough and snapped off close to the hilt; at the same moment the squire felt a pair of sinewy arms encircle his feet, and with a l.u.s.ty heave he was upset and thrown with a crash to the ground, the point of a knife pressing against his throat warning him of the utter uselessness of further resistance.

Bound hand and foot, the unfortunate squire was carried or dragged through a thick growth of underwood, till at length his captors gained a large clearing. By the aid of a momentary flash he saw the outlines of a low building. In response to a violent knocking he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn, and, borne on the shoulders of four strong men, he was carried into the house, and dropped unceremoniously upon the rush-strewn floor.

Some one took a torch from its socket and bent over the prostrate squire. Raymond recognised the features--it was the traitorous guide!

But gone was the heavy l.u.s.treless expression of his eyes and the stolid set of his swarthy jaws; instead a look of malevolent intelligence overspread his face, and by the subservience with which he was treated by his comrades it was evident that he was a man of authority.

"Ah! Dolt, fool, beast of an Englishman! How nicely hast thou borne the Count of Tancarville back to the camp of the cursed invader of Normandy! Dead or alive, eh? Little didst thou know how near thy purpose was fulfilled when thy base _routier_ made to pa.s.s a knife across my throat. I--even I--am the Count of Tancarville!"

He paused to observe the effect of this startling announcement, but Raymond preserved a dignified silence.

"And that simpleton the Constable, thy master," he resumed. "To think that the Count of Tancarville would be dallying at a hunting lodge when base English defile the coasts of Normandy! Ah! That was a near one," he added as another blinding flash of lightning lit up the room.

"Knowest thou, thou miserable fool," he continued as soon as the crash of the thunder permitted, "that did that fiery fork but touch this place thou and I would be scattered, so that all the armies of Philip and Edward would fail to find a fragment? Eh, I interest thee?

'Tis well; I'll tell thee more, seeing that the knowledge will profit thee but little. Henri! Cut asunder the bonds that bind this Englishman's legs, and do thou and Etienne stand close lest he do himself an injury!"

Handing the torch to a serving-man, the Count led the way, closely followed by Raymond and his two guards. In an adjoining apartment, so open to the winds that the torch was almost extinguished, lay seven sinister-looking objects, which the squire readily recognised as bombards.

These early cannon were composed of straight lengths of flat iron, held together by shrunk-on iron hoops, and lashed down to a heavy baulk of timber, so that in training these clumsy contrivances, carriage and gun were practically one piece.

"These are the beasts I hunt in this forest," quoth the Count. "King Philip hath need of them, and, by our Lady of Nimes, 'twill be a sight to see the vaunted English bowmen being bowled over by these bombards. And food these beasts must have! Forward, garcons, and show this dolt mine animals' food. But, Bertrand, stand aside with that torch. I am in no mind to go heavenwards yet awhile."

The next room was little better than a cell, lightened by the feeble light of an oil lamp that glimmered through a horn lanthorn. In a far corner could be discerned the bent figure of a monk, his cowl thrown back on his shoulders and his arms bared to the elbow. Ignoring the interruption, he continued his labours, working a pestle with untiring energy.

"Behold the worthy successor to Michael Schwartz! My faith! It does my heart good to show the accursed English the resources of la belle France; yet, 'tis pa.s.sing strange that the secret of the making of the devil's powder should be divulged to a priest of G.o.d. Five score barrels full of the powder are ready for the use of our forces, and I'll warrant---- Ah! What wouldst thou? Down with him, mes garcons!"

For Raymond, suddenly fired with a reckless determination, had thrown himself upon the torch-bearer, and with a shower of sparks the burning brand was dashed upon the floor, missing the bench with its dangerous compound by less than a span!

The Count and the monk, both white with fear, stamped upon the blazing embers, while the guards with no gentle hand had forced their prisoner to the ground.

"A senseless piece of folly," growled the Norman. "And little credit to thyself."

"'Twould have rid the King of England of a dangerous foe," replied Raymond stoutly, opening his lips for the first time since his capture.

"Away with him, till I find a means to make use of him, Etienne!"

exclaimed the Count, taking no notice of the squire's remark.

"To the oubliette?"

"Nay; two of these accursed Englishmen in one den would plague us far more than if kept apart. One never knows what the rogues get up to when they plan amongst themselves. Lock him in the old arrow-store."

The old arrow-store was a damp and dismal chamber next to the cell where Raymond had seen the monk at his researches. It was on the ground floor, and lighted only by one lancet-shaped window, far too narrow to admit the pa.s.sage of a man. The roof was vaulted, the arches springing from a central pillar, while the floor was paved with heavy slabs set in strong cement.

This much the young squire saw while the men were making a cursory examination by the aid of two additional torches; and after removing an old chest they quitted the room, bolting and locking the heavy iron-plated door behind them.

Left to himself, Raymond fell a prey to the deepest despondency. The failure of his ill-starred attempt, the comparative ease of his capture, and the mortification which the Constable would feel at his non-return, weighed upon the unhappy squire far more than the danger of his hopeless position, and, grief-stricken, he lay on a stone bench, listlessly marking the sound of the rapidly-retreating storm, till a feeble glimmer through the lancet window betokened that the day was dawning. He had one consolation, sorry though it was--there remained another Englishman within the stronghold, the solitary survivor of five picked men-at-arms.

Presently Raymond stood up and stretched his cramped limbs, then standing on the bench he found that he could just reach the window.

Grasping the stone ledge with his hands, he raised himself sufficiently to look out.

It was a cheerless outlook. In front, a bow-shot away, lay the dense ma.s.ses of the forest, still hazy with the morning mist. An open s.p.a.ce, broken only by a moat full of slimy water, lay between the forest and the stronghold, though no drawbridge was visible on that side.

And beyond the forest lay, at an unknown distance, the English camp, where even now Sir John Hacket was doubtless expecting his return with the expected captive. Overcome with the irony of the situation, Raymond clambered down from the window and relapsed into his moody and despondent att.i.tude.

For several hours he remained thus, till aroused by the drawing back of the bolts of his prison door. The door was thrown open, and an armed man entered, bearing a pitcher of water and a trencher of black bread, while another man stood without, for fear of an outburst of the prisoner. Without a word the jailer set down the meal and retired.

Twice daily was this done, and thus the days sped, slowly and cheerlessly, but no visit from the Count of Tancarville served to break the dismal monotony.

On the fifth day Raymond heard the sound of martial preparations, and climbing to the window he caught a brief glimpse of a body of armed and mounted men riding past his prison; one of whom, he had no doubt, was the Count. Then came the rumble of heavily-laden wains, but in which direction the party disappeared the squire was unable to see.

Evidently the little garrison of this sylvan fortress was considerably depleted, for Raymond noticed that his jailer came into his prison alone. He thought, though, that this might have been through a sense of familiarity at his prisoner's dejected mien. Yet daily, for hours together, the sound of the pestle, dimly heard through the thick adjoining wall, showed that the taciturn old monk still pursued his dangerous task.

Four more days pa.s.sed in dreadful solitude, till, maddened by the hopelessness of his condition, Raymond resolved on desperate measures to attempt his escape. Plan after plan flashed through his brain, only to be put aside as impracticable. Feigning death, burrowing through the stone walls of his prison, attacking his jailer, all seemed hopeless, till at length a scheme, hazardous in the extreme, yet capable of meeting with possible success, matured in his mind and hourly increased his hopes of ultimate success.

Usually the jailer found him sitting dejectedly upon the stone bench, practically invisible in the gloom to any one entering from the dazzling sunlight without. But on this particular morning Raymond, awaiting the jailer's footsteps, carefully removed his surcoat and hid behind the door. Directly the man entered he made, as was his wont, direct for the bench, when the squire, springing upon him from behind, m.u.f.fled his head in the surcoat and bore him to the ground.

The jug and platter fell with a resounding crash, and Raymond, seizing the broken pitcher, struck the jailer such a shrewd blow that it all but split his skull, leaving him senseless on the floor.

Hastily dragging his body across to the darkest corner, Raymond possessed himself of his dagger and escaped from his prison.

Without a moment's hesitation he burst into the adjoining apartment, where the old monk, engrossed in his work, did not take the slightest notice of his abrupt entry. Raymond had argued with himself that a priest engaged in warlike pursuits thereby puts himself without the pale of the Church; so, overcoming his scruples, he wrenched the pestle from the hand of the astonished monk and stunned him ere he could utter a sound.

Then with feverish haste he stripped off and donned the monk's capacious gown, pulling the cowl well down over his eyes; then, strapping the wooden sandals over his own pointed shoes, he walked boldly into the corridor, with bent head and clattering gait.