Who Killed the Courier?
L'Estang's information caused me a certain amount of anxiety, and during the next few weeks I was rarely abroad except for a ride in the broad daylight. Cordel, who was still at home, occasionally came into the village, but nothing happened that served to show he was pushing on his plot.
Indeed, as Jacques pointed out one evening when we were discussing the matter, the lawyer had a difficult game to play. He could strike at me only outside the castle walls, while the villagers were my devoted friends, and every man of them would be eager to put me on my guard.
But Cordel's threats had apparently ended in smoke. Week followed week; the old year gave place to the new, and I remained unmolested.
About the beginning of February, 1572, I received another letter from Jeanne, informing me that her royal mistress had finally consented to journey to Blois, and that they would set out in a week or two at the latest. She also added, in a brief postscript at the end, that Roger Braund intended to pay us a visit before the summer ended.
About the same time a message reached me from Felix, who was at Blois again, in attendance on our patron. The king, he wrote, was more than ever fixed on the marriage of his sister Margaret to Henry of Beam, though the Pope and all the Guises were bitterly opposed to the match. "But the marriage is certain to take place," he concluded, "and then, if not before, I trust Charles will see that justice is done you."
"'Twas from Monsieur Bellièvre, Jacques," I said, when the messenger had departed with my reply; "he is at Blois once more. There is to be a marriage between the king's sister and our Prince Henry, and the Court is filled with excitement. Do you know, Jacques, I am getting weary of this life. If we were at Blois I should have a chance of meeting the king and pressing my claims. The longer we stay here, the more likely I am to be forgotten."
"True, monsieur; in my opinion it was a mistake to come. When one is not in sight, one is not in mind, and the Admiral has many weighty matters to think about."
"I have told Monsieur Bellièvre what I think, and asked his advice. But still, I cannot return without the Admiral's commands."
The next morning Jacques came early to my room before I had risen. "Monsieur," he said, "will you get up? A strange thing has happened."
"A strange thing?" I repeated, springing from the bed.
"A man has been slain—at least I believe the poor fellow is dead—on the highroad. Urie found him; he was not dead then, and had sufficient strength to whisper your name. Urie declares that he said quite distinctly, 'Monsieur Le Blanc!' so he had him brought here."
"Do we know him?" I asked, now thoroughly roused.
"He is a stranger to me. I have never seen him before, and he does not belong to these parts. But one thing is certain: he is no peaceable citizen."
All this time I was hastily dressing, and now, filled with curiosity, I accompanied Jacques to the room where the wounded man lay. He was a sturdy-looking fellow, in the prime of life, tough, wiry, and with muscles well developed by exercise. His dress was that of an ordinary trooper; he wore a long knife at his girdle, and Urie had placed his sword, which was broken and stained with blood, by his side. The mark of an old scar disfigured his left cheek, and his chest showed that he had been wounded more than once in his life. Jacques was certainly right in saying he was no peaceable citizen.
Urie had fetched the curé, who had bandaged his hurts, but the worthy priest shook his head at me as if to say, "There was really little use in doing it."
"Foul work!" I exclaimed; "the man must have made a desperate struggle for life. Where did you find him, Urie?"
"Just outside the little wood, monsieur. The ground all around was ploughed up by horses' hoofs, and stained with blood. I should say he was attacked by at least three horsemen. I thought he was dead, but when I bent over him he was muttering 'Monsieur Le Blanc'"
"Did he seem sensible?"
"I asked him several questions, but he did not reply, except to repeat monsieur's name, so I had him brought here."
"It is very strange," I said; "he is a perfect stranger; I have never seen him before. Why should he mention my name? Is it possible for him to recover?"
"Quite impossible, my son," exclaimed the curé; "he is dying fast; no surgeon could do anything for him. The wonder is that he has lived so long. He has been fearfully hurt."
"Did you meet no strange persons in the village?" I asked Urie.
"Not a soul, monsieur. It was very early; the villagers were not yet about, and the road was empty."
The wounded man groaned, and the curé partly raised his head, when he seemed more comfortable. His eyes were closed, and his breath came in quick gasps; the shadow of death was stealing across his face. Would he have strength to speak before he died? It was unlikely.
Who was he? What was his secret? How did it concern me? These and a dozen similar questions ran through my mind as I stood there watching him die, and quite helpless to obtain the information I needed. Once or twice he stirred uneasily; his eyes opened; his fingers strayed uncertainly over the bed as if seeking something that had gone astray, and presently he said quite distinctly, but very, very faintly, "Le Blanc! Monsieur Le Blanc!"
"He is here," said the curé softly. "This is Monsieur Le Blanc. What have you to tell him?"
I do not know if the man heard; his eyes remained open; his fingers were still fumbling among the bedclothes; a frown clouded his forehead, and presently he whispered, but to himself, not to us, "The note! I can't find it. It has gone."
I bent over, him, placing my hand on his brow. "The note?" I said, "tell me about it. Who gave it you? Come, who gave you the note that is lost?"
My question produced an effect, but not the one I intended. The angry scowl spread over his face; the dying eyes filled with passion; the voice became quite strong again as the man cried angrily, "I did not lose it. I earned my money. It was stolen. They set on me—three of them—they were too many—I—I—"
A great hush fell across us, and we gazed at each other blankly. "It is too late," said the curé; "he has carried his secret to the grave."
"Is he dead?"
"Dead, monsieur."
"We must make inquiries," I murmured. "Urie shall show us the place where he found the body. Come, Jacques, we can do no good here."
"I will follow in a few minutes, monsieur. I wish to discover if there is anything by which we can identify the stranger."
Urie and I went out together, but the keenest search failed to help us. The dead man's horse had disappeared, and his assailants had left no trace behind them. I questioned the villagers closely, but none could throw any light on the tragedy. The victim was unknown to them, and no one had seen any strange persons in the neighbourhood. Jacques, too, was at fault, having failed to find anything in the stranger's clothing that would tend to solve the mystery.
"It is a curious thing, monsieur," he remarked that evening. "A dead body on the highroad is not an uncommon sight, but this man was coming to you on a special errand."
"It is evident he was bringing me a letter. The question is—did his murderers kill him to obtain possession of it?"
"The note has disappeared."
"True, and I am inclined to think it was the possession of the letter that cost him his life. Now, who are the persons likely to write to me? My sister—but we can dismiss her—one doesn't commit murder for a page of ordinary gossip."
"No," said Jacques, "I do not think the poor fellow was a messenger from Mademoiselle Jeanne."
"There is Monsieur Bellièvre! He is at Court and aware of what is going on there. Is it likely that he has heard some favourable news, and—"
"Ah, monsieur," Jacques broke in hastily, "our thoughts are the same. These cut-throats are in the pay of Etienne Cordel, and in killing this poor fellow they have struck at you. But how, I cannot understand."
"We know that Cordel has friends at Court," I continued. "Let us suppose for an instant that the king has agreed to sign the papers; the lawyer would learn the news quickly enough."
"Yes, monsieur," agreed Jacques, "that is so. But how does that help us?"
"Thus. Monsieur Bellièvre or the Admiral writes, giving me the information, and advising me to return. I arrive at Blois, or wherever the Court may be; the papers are signed, and Cordel's chance of the estates has vanished. He certainly might kill me afterwards, but it could be only in revenge."
"But, monsieur, the news could not have been kept from you for long. Besides, the journey to Blois would have given the lawyer the very chance he wanted. It would have suited him better for the letter to have reached you. Then his ruffians would have waited, and have waylaid you on the road."
"He might not have thought of that!"
"It would not have needed much cunning, monsieur!"
"There is just one other solution possible," I said. "You remember the man who came here on the night of the wild storm? You did not recognize him, but—"
"I am hardly likely to forget the man who tried hard to kill both of us!" interrupted Jacques.
"You have kept your knowledge very close then!" I replied.
"I had no wish to pry into your secrets, monsieur."
"It was not exactly a secret. Something happened while you were with the Count of St Cyr. I had this man's life in my hand, and spared it."
Jacques shrugged his shoulders as if to imply that he had hardly thought me capable of acting so foolishly.
"He is in Monseigneur's service, and, as you know, came to warn me against Etienne Cordel. He promised, if he could ferret out the lawyer's schemes, to write to me."
"Do you really trust this fellow, monsieur?"
"He bears no love to those of the Religion," I answered; "but for me personally I believe he would lay down his life."
"Very good," said Jacques, as if argument was utterly useless against such folly.
"I was thinking it possible that in coming to or going from Le Blanc he was recognized. If so, the lawyer would be put on his guard."
"There is certainly something in that, monsieur."
"And if he sent me a warning message, it would be to Cordel's interest to secure it."
"'Twould be easy to test the truth of the matter," said Jacques. "This fellow will be with Monseigneur; let me go to him, and put the question directly. In that way, if you are right, we shall get at the lawyer's schemes in spite of his villainy. I will not loiter on the road, and I don't see how any danger can happen to you before my return."
We talked the plan over, and at length I agreed that Jacques should start on the journey the next morning. I gave him the name of my strange friend, and he promised to get to work with the utmost caution.
"It is possible," I remarked, "you will find him at Blois, and in that case you will have an opportunity of talking with Monsieur Bellièvre. Tell him that Mademoiselle Jeanne is accompanying the Queen of Navarre."
He went to the stables, and I did not see him again until just before my time for going to bed, when he returned looking gloomy and troubled.
"I have been thinking, monsieur," he said rather shamefacedly, "and I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of my advice. If Cordel's ruffians are close at hand, my going away will make their work easier. Now that it comes to the point I do not like leaving you, and that is the truth."
"That's a poor compliment, Jacques!" I laughed; "evidently you don't think I can take care of myself."
"The poor fellow they brought here this morning was as strong as you, and had as much experience, but he is dead all the same."
"I will take care, Jacques; I will go only into the village, and if it will make you feel more easy, Urie shall sleep here at night all the time you are away."
He was somewhat relieved by this promise, and his face brightened considerably.
"Let Urie bring an iron bar," he laughed, "and a man need wear a thick steel cap to save his skull!"
I went to bed hoping to obtain a good night's rest, but the startling tragedy had weakened my nerves more than I guessed, and I lay awake a long time, wondering what the secret was that the dead man had carried with him to the grave. Was he really a messenger from L'Estang? And if so, what was the news he was bringing? I little dreamed that one of these questions was to be answered within a few hours.
We rose early; I saw that Jacques made a good breakfast, and was standing in the courtyard giving him his final instructions when we heard the clatter of hoofs, and saw a horseman coming at a gallop up the slope.
"Another visitor!" I exclaimed, "and one apparently in a desperate hurry."
Jacques dismounted, saying, "He looks as if he had been frightened half out of his wits. Stay here, monsieur, while I find out what he wants."
In a few minutes he returned with the man, who, jumping from his horse, said questioningly, "Monsieur Le Blanc?"
"Yes," I said, looking at him keenly. He might have been own brother to the poor fellow whom Urie had found by the wood. He was short but strongly built; his face was scarred; his skin red and rough through continual exposure to the weather. He carried a sword and a long knife, and a pair of pistols peeped from the holsters. Plainly he was a man accustomed to take his life in his hand.
"You have ridden fast!" I remarked, for his animal's sides were lathered with foam.
"I was paid to ride fast!" he answered surlily; "my employer feared you would have started."
"Started!" I echoed unsurprised, "whither?"
"He did not confide in me," the fellow replied, "and I didn't ask; 'twould have been no use. My orders were to ride for my life, to give you a letter, and afterwards to guide you to a certain place mentioned in the note."
"And who is your employer?"
"I had no orders to tell that; I expect he has written it down here," and the fellow handed me a sealed packet.
As he raised his arm I noticed a hole, apparently made by a bullet, through his cloak.
"What is the meaning of that?" I asked.
"It means," said he grimly, "that had I not received orders to make no delay on my journey, there would have been one rogue less in your part of the world, monsieur."
"You have been attacked on the road?" I said, with a swift glance at Jacques.
"The bullet went a trifle wide," he answered shortly, "but it came close enough for my comfort."
"Well," exclaimed Jacques, "a miss is as good as a mile. Come and have some breakfast, while monsieur reads his letter. Both you and the animal need food and rest."
Leaving my servant and the messenger together, I returned to my own room, and opened the packet. As I more than half expected, the letter was signed "D'Angely." It was very short, but it answered one of the questions I had been asking myself.
"Since sending my first messenger," it ran, "Monseigneur's business calls me immediately to Poictiers; so I must meet you there instead. Start at once; you can trust the bearer."
Directly Jacques was at liberty he joined me, and I handed him the letter without comment.
"That clears up one point of the mystery," said he. "It is plain the lawyer knows he has this L'Estang to fight against; but 'tis a pity your friend does not give a hint of what is in progress. He might, for instance, have sent a description of Cordel's tools."
"Very probably he did. You forget that this letter only supplements the first one."
"Yes," said Jacques, adding, "will you go to Poictiers, monsieur?"
"I must. L'Estang may have something of importance to tell me."
"He could have written it," said Jacques. "I don't like this journey. These assassins are on the watch. One messenger killed, and the next shot at—we can be sure they won't let you pass free."
"There are three of us," I replied lightly—"you and I and L'Estang's courier, and he seems well able to take care of himself. Let us get ready while he is resting."