Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

upon the landing of a winding stair, and it had windows of a proper size, though no other door.

Perducas swore that he was as good a leech as any man, and we stripped Etienne and set to work reviving him. Indeed, he showed to be as roughly handled as any man I had ever seen, not to be mortally wounded. But when we had washed the blood and dust off his body, we found that none of his dagger-wounds had touched a vital spot, nor was his skull fractured, though the scalp had been split in several places. His right arm was broken, and the other black with bruises, and the broken bone we set, I helping Perducas with some skill, for accidents and wounds had always been common enough in la Fere.

When we had his wounds bandaged, and him laid in a clean bed, he recovered his senses enough to gulp wine and inquire where he was. When he told him, he muttered: “Leave me not, Agnes; Perducas is a man among men, but I require a woman’s tender care.”

“Saint Denis deliver me from such tender care as this hell-cat has shown,” quoth Perducas under his breath. And I said: “I will remain until you are upon your feet again, Etienne.” And he seemed satisfied therewith, and went into a calm slumber.

I then demanded a room for myself, and Perducas, having sent a boy to attend the stallion, showed me a chamber adjoining that of Etienne, though not connected with it by any door. I laid myself down on the bed just as the sun was coming up, it being the first feather bed I had ever seen, much less lain on, and slept for many hours.

When I came again to Etienne, I found him in full possession of his senses, and free of delirium. Indeed, in those days men were iron, and if their wounds were not instantly mortal, they quickly recovered, unless their hurts became poisoned through the carelessness or ignorance of the leeches. Perducas would have none of the nauseous and childish remedies praised by the physicians, but divers clean herbs and plants he gathered in the depths of the woods. He told me that he learned his art from the hakims of the Saracens, among whom he had travelled in his youth. He was a man of many unexpected sides, was Perducas.

Together he and I tended Etienne, who healed rapidly. Little speech passed between us. He and Perducas talked much together, but much of the time Etienne merely lay and looked silently at me.

Perducas talked to me a little, but seemed to fear me. When I spoke of my score, he replied that I owed him naught; that as long as Etienne desired my presence, food and lodging were mine, without pay. But he earnestly desired me not to converse with the town’s people, lest their curiosity lead to the discovery of Etienne. His servants, he said, could be trusted to silence. I asked him naught of the reason for le duc d’Alencon’s hatred for Etienne, but, quoth he: “It is no common score which the Duke holdeth against Etienne Villiers. Etienne was once in this nobleman’s train, and was unwise enough to perform for him a most delicate mission. D’Alencon is ambitious; ’tis whispered that naught but the rank of constable of France will satisfy him. He is now high in favor with the king; that favor might not shine with such lustre were it known what letters once passed between the Duke and Charles of Germany, whom men now know as the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

“Etienne alone knows the full extent of that plotted treason. Therefore d’Alencon burns for Etienne’s death, yet dares not strike openly, lest his victim damn him forever with his dying breath. He would strike subtly and silently, by hidden dagger, poison or ambush. As long as Etienne is within his reach, Etienne’s only safety lies in secrecy.”

“Suppose there are others like that rogue Thibault?” I demanded.

“Nay,” quoth he. “ ’Tis no doubt there are. I know that band of gallows’ bait well. But ’tis their one point of honor that they betray not one of their comrades. And in time past Etienne was one of them – cut-purses, woman- snatchers, thieves and murderers that they are.”

I shook my head, musing on the strangeness of men, insomuch that Perducas, an honest man, was friend to a rogue like Etienne, knowing well his villainies. Well, many an honest man secretly admires a rogue, seeing in him that which he himself would be, if he lacked not the courage.

Ah well, I heeded well Perducas’ desires, and time dragged heavily on my hands. I seldom left the tavern, save at night, and then only to wander in the woods, avoiding the people of the country-side and of the market-town. And a growing restlessness stirred me, and a feeling that I was waiting for something I knew not what, and that I should be up and doing – I knew not what.

A week had passed in this manner, when I met Guiscard de Clisson.

III

Beyond the creak of rat-gnawed beams in squalid peasant huts: Above the groan of ox-wain wheels that ground the muddy ruts: I heard the beat of distant drums that called me night and day To roads where armored captains ride, in steel and roses panoplied, With banners flowing crimson-dyed – over the world away!– Drums in My Ears

I entered into the tavern one morning, after an early walk in the woods, and halted at the sight of the stranger gnawing a beef-bone at the board. He too stopped short in his gorging and stared at me. He was a tall man, rangy and hard of frame. A scar seamed his lean features, and his grey eyes were cold as steel. He was, indeed, a man of steel, clad in cuirass, thigh-pieces and greaves. His broadsword lay across his knees, his morion rested on the bench beside him.

“By God!” quoth he. “Are you man or woman?”

“What do you think?” I asked, leaning my hands on the board and looking down at him.

“Only a fool would ask the question I asked,” said he, with a shake of his head. “You are all woman; yet your attire strangely becomes you. A pistol in your girdle, too. You remind me of a woman I once knew; she marched and fought like a man, and died of a pistol ball on the field of battle. She was dark where you are fair, but there is something similar in the set of your chin, in your carriage – nay, I know not. Sit ye down and converse with me. I am Guiscard de Clisson. Have you heard of me?”

“Many a time,” I answered, seating myself. “In my native village they tell tales of you. You are a leader of mercenaries and Free Companions.”

“When men have guts enough to be led,” quoth he, quaffing, and holding out the flagon to me. “Ha, by the tripe and blood of Judas, you guzzle like a man! Mayhap women are becoming men, for ’tis truth, by Saint Trignan, that men are become women these days. Not a recruit for my company have I gained in this province, where, in days I can remember, men fought for the honor of following a captain of mercenaries. Death of Satan! With the Emperor gathering his accursed Lanzknecht to sweep de Lautrec out of Milan, and the king in such dire need of soldiers – to say nothing of the rich loot in Italy – every able-bodied Frenchman ought to be marching southward, by God! Ah, for the old-time spirit of men!”

Now as I looked at this war-scarred veteran, and heard his talk, my heart beat quick with a strange longing, and I seemed to hear, as I had heard so often in my dreams, the distant beating of drums.

“I will ride with you!” I exclaimed. “I am weary of being a woman. I will make one of your company!”

He laughed and slapped the board with his open hand, as if at a great jest.

“By Saint Denis, girl,” quoth he, “you have a proper spirit, but it takes more than a pair of breeches to make a man.”

“If that other woman of whom you spoke could march and fight, so can I!” I cried.

“Nay.” He shook his head. “Black Margot of Avignon was one in a million. Forget this foolish fancy, girl. Don thy petticoats and become a proper woman once more. Then – well, in your proper place I might be glad to have you ride with me!”

Ripping out an oath that made him start, I sprang up, knocking my bench backward so it fell with a crash. I stood before him, clenching and unclenching my hands, seething with the rage that always rose quickly in me.

“Ever the man in men!” I said between my teeth. “Let a woman know her proper place: let her milk and spin and sew and bake and bear children, nor look beyond her threshold or the command of her lord and master! Bah! I spit on you all! There is no man alive who can face me with weapons and live, and before I die, I’ll prove it to the world. Women! Cows! Slaves! Whimpering, cringing serfs, crouching to blows, revenging themselves by – taking their own lives, as my sister urged me to do. Ha! You deny me a place among men? By God, I’ll live as I please and