at their heels, which aroused my curiosity, so I came to see what was forward, especially as I heard the rattle of steel. Saint Andrew! Men said your sword-play was like summer lightning, and it is even as they said! But let us see if the rogues have indeed fled, or are merely lurking beyond that crook to stab us in the back as we depart.”
He stepped cautiously around the crook, and swore under his breath.
“They are gone, in sooth, but I see something lying in the alley. I think it is a dead man.”
Then I remembered the cry I had heard, and I joined him. A few moments later we were bending over two forms that lay sprawled in the mud of the alley. One was a small man, mantled like the three who had fled, with a deep gash in his breast that had let out his life. But as I spoke to Stuart on the matter, he swore suddenly. He had turned the other man on his back, and was staring at him in surprize.
“This man has been dead for hours,” quoth he. “Moreover he died not by sword or pistol. Look! See his features how they are swollen and purple? It is the mark of the gallows! And he is clad still in the gibbet-shirt. By Saint Andrew, Agnes, do you know who this is?” And when I shook my head, “It is Costranno, the Italian sorcerer, who was hanged at dawn this morning on the gibbet outside the walls, for practising the black arts. He it was who poisoned the son of the Duke of Tours and caused the blame to be laid upon an innocent man, but Francoise de Bretagny, suspecting the truth, trapped him into a confession to her, and laid the facts before the authorities.”
“I had heard something of this matter,” quoth I. “But I have been in Chartres only a matter of a week.”
“It is Costranno, well enough,” said Stuart, shaking his head. “His features are so distorted I would not have known him, save that the middle finger of his left hand is missing. And this other is Jacques Pelligny, his pupil in the black arts; sentence of death was passed on him, likewise, but he had fled and could not be found. Well, his art did not save him from a footpad’s sword. Costranno’s followers have cut him down from the gibbet – but why should they have brought the body back into the city?”
“There is something in Pelligny’s hand,” I said, prying the dead fingers apart. It was as if, even in death, they gripped what they held. It was a fragment of gold chain, and fastened to it a most curious red jewel that gleamed in the darkness like an angry eye.
“Saint Andrew!” muttered Stuart. “A rare stone, i’faith – hark!” he started to his feet. “The watch! We must not be found by these corpses!”
Far down the alley I saw the glow of moving lanthorns and heard the tramp of mailed feet. As I scrambled up, the jewel and chain slipped from my fingers – it was almost as if they were snatched from my hand – and fell full on the breast of the dead sorcerer. I did not wish to take the time to retrieve it, so I hurried up the alley after Stuart, and glancing back, I saw the jewel glittering like a crimson star on the dead man’s bosom.
Emerging from the alley into a narrow winding street, scarcely better lighted, we hurried along it until we came to an inn, and entered it. Then, seating ourselves at a table somewhat apart from the others who wrangled and cast dice on the wine-stained boards, we called for wine and the host brought us two great jacks.
“To our better acquaintance,” quoth John Stuart, lifting his tankard. “By Saint Andrew, now that I see you in the light, I admire you the more. You are a fine, tall woman, but even in morion, doublet, trunk-hose and boots none could mistake you for a man. Well are you called Dark Agnes. For all your red hair and fair skin there is something strange and dark about you. Men say you move through life like one of the Fates, unmoved, unchangeable, potent with tragedy and doom, and that the men who ride with you do not live long. Tell me, girl, why did you don breeks and take the road of men?”
I shook my head, unable to say myself, but as he urged me to tell him something of myself, I said: “My name is Agnes de Chastillon, and I was born in the village of La Fere, in Normandy. My father is the bastard son of the Duc de Chastillon and a peasant woman – a mercenary soldier of the Free Companies until he grew too old to march and fight. If I had not been tougher than most he would have killed me with his beating before I was grown. When at last he sought to marry me to a man I hated, I killed that man, and fled from the village. One Ettienne Villiers befriended me, but also taught me that a helpless woman is fair play to all men, and when I bested him in even fight, I learned that I was strong as most men, and quicker.
“Later I fell in with Guiscard de Clisson, a leader of the Free Companies, who taught me the use of the sword before he was slain in an ambush. I took naturally to the life of a man, and can drink, swear, march fight and boast with the best of them. I have yet to meet my equal at sword play.”
Stuart scowled slightly as if my word did not please him overmuch, and he lifted his tankard, quaffed deeply, and said: “There be as good men in Scotland as in France, and there men say that John Stuart’s blade is not made of straw. But who is this?”
The door had opened and a gust of cold wind made the candles flicker, and sent a shiver over the men on the settles. A tall man entered, closing the door behind him. He was wrapped in a wide black mantle, and when he raised his head and his glance over the tavern, a silence fell suddenly. That face was strange and unnatural in appearance, being so dark in hue it was almost black. His eyes were strange, murky and staring. I saw several topers cross themselves as they met his gaze, and then he seated himself at a table in a corner furthest from the candles, and drew his mantle closer about him, though the night was warm. He took the tankard proffered him by an apprehensive slattern and bent his head over it, so his face was no longer visible under his slouch hat, and the hum of the tavern began again, though somewhat subdued.
“Blood on that mantle,” said John Stuart. “If that man be not a cutthroat then I am much befooled. Host, another bottle!”
“You are the first Scotsman I ever met,” said I, “though I have had dealings with Englishmen.”
“A curse on the breed!” he cried. “The devil take them all into his keeping. And a curse on my enemies who exiled me from Scotland.”
“You are an exile?” I asked.
“Aye! With scant gold in my sporran. But fortune ever favors the brave.” And he laid hand on the hilt at his hip.
But I was watching the stranger in the corner, and Stuart turned to stare at him. The man had lifted his hand and crooked a finger at the fat host, and that rogue drew nigh, wiping his hands on his leathern apron and uneasy in his expression. There was something about the black-mantled stranger that repelled men.
The stranger spoke, but his words were a mumble, and mine host shook his head in bewilderment.
“An Italian,” muttered Stuart. “I know that jabber anywhere.”
But the stranger shifted into French, and as he spoke, haltingly at first, his words grew plainer, his voice fuller.
“Francoise de Bretagny,” quoth he, and repeated the name several times. “Where is the house of Francoise de Bretagny?”
The inn-keeper began giving him directions, and Stuart muttered: “Why should that ill-visaged Italian rogue desire to go to Francoise de Bretagny?”
“From what I hear,” I answered cynically, “it is no great surprize to hear any man asking for her house.”
“Lies are always told about beautiful women,” answered Stuart, lifting his tankard. “Because she is said to be the mistress of the Duke of Orleans does not mean that she – ”
He froze suddenly, tankard to lip, staring, and I saw an expression of surprize pass over his brown, scarred face. At that moment the Italian had risen, and drawing his wide mantle about him, made for the door.
“Stop him!” roared Stuart, leaping to his feet, and dragging out his sword. “Stop that rogue!”
But at that instant a band of soldiers in morions and breastplates came shouldering in, and the Italian glided out past them and shut the door behind him. Stuart started forward with a curse, to halt as the soldiers barred the way. Striding into the center of the tavern, and roving a stern glance over all the cringing occupants, the captain, a tall man in a gleaming breastplate, said loudly: “Agnes de La Fere, I arrest you for the murder of Jacques Pelligny!”
“What do you mean, Tristan?” I exclaimed angrily, springing up. “I did not kill Pelligny!”
“This woman saw you leave the alley where the man was slain,” answered he, indicating a tall, fair wench in feathers and gauds who cowered in the grasp of a burly man-at-arms and would not meet my gaze. I knew her well, a courtesan whom I had befriended, and whom I would not have expected to give false testimony against me.
“Then she must have seen me too,” quoth John Stuart, “for I was with Agnes. If you arrest her you must arrest me too, and by Saint Andrew, my sword will have something to say about that.”
“I have naught to do with you,” answered Tristan. “My business is with this woman.”
“Man, you are a fool!” cried Stuart gustily. “She did not kill Pelligny. And what if she did. Was not the rogue
