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The Tavern Knight

R >> Rafael Sabatini >> The Tavern Knight




"Gregory, you fool, you have drunk overdeep in my absence."

"I have, I have," wailed Gregory, "and, my God, 'twas he was my
table-fellow, and set me the example."

"Like enough, like enough," returned Joseph, with a
contemptuous laugh. "My poor Gregory, the wine has so fouled
your worthless wits at last, that they conjure up phantoms to
sit at the table with you. Come, man, what petticoat business
is this? Bestir yourself, fool."

At that Gregory caught the drift of Joseph's suspicions.

"Tis you are the fool," he retorted angrily, springing to his
feet, and towering above his brother.

"It was no ghost sat with me, but Roland Marleigh, himself, in
the flesh, and strangely changed by time. So changed that I
knew him not, nor should I know him now but for that which, not
ten minutes ago, I overheard."

His earnestness was too impressive, his sanity too obvious, and
Joseph's suspicions were all scattered before it.

He caught Gregory's wrist in a grip that made him wince, and
forced him back into his seat.

"Gadslife, man, what is it you mean?" he demanded through set
teeth. "Tell me."

And forthwith Gregory told him of the manner of Kenneth's
coming to Sheringham and to Castle Marleigh, accompanied by one
Crispin Galliard, the same that had been known for his mad
exploits in the late wars as "rakehelly Galliard," and that was
now known to the malignants as "The Tavern Knight" for his
debauched habits. Crispin's mention of Roland Marleigh on the
night of his arrival now returned vividly to Gregory's mind,
and he repeated it, ending with the story that that very
evening he had overheard Kenneth telling Cynthia.

"And this Galliard, then, is none other than that pup of
insolence, Roland Marleigh, grown into a dog of war?" quoth
Joseph.

He was calm - singularly calm for one who had heard such news.

"There remains no doubt of it."

"And you saw this man day by day, sat with him night by night
over your damned sack, and knew him not? Oddswounds, man,
where were your eyes?"

"I may have been blind. But he is greatly changed. I would
defy you, Joseph, to have recognized him."

Joseph sneered, and the flash of his eyes told of the contempt
wherein he held his brother's judgment and opinions.

"Think not that, Gregory. I have cause enough to remember
him," said Joseph, with an unpleasant laugh. Then as suddenly
changing his tone for one of eager anxiety:

"But the lad, Gregory, does he suspect, think you?"

"Not a whit. In that lies this fellow's diabolical cunning.
Learning of Kenneth's relations with us, he seized the
opportunity Fate offered him that night at Worcester, and bound
the lad on oath to help him when he should demand it, without
disclosing the names of those against whom he should require
his services. The boy expects at any moment to be bidden to go
forth with him upon his mission of revenge, little dreaming
that it is here that that tragedy is to be played out."

"This comes of your fine matrimonial projects for Cynthia,"
muttered Joseph acridly. He laughed his unpleasant laugh
again, and for a spell there was silence.

"To think, Gregory," he broke out at last, "that for a
fortnight he should have been beneath this roof, and you should
have found no means of doing more effectively that which was
done too carelessly eighteen years ago."

He spoke as coldly as though the matter were a trivial one.
Gregory shuddered and looked at his brother in alarm.

"What now, fool?" cried Joseph, scowling. "Are you as cowardly
as you are blind? Damn me, sir, it seems well that I am
returned. I'll have no Marleigh plague my old age for me." He
paused a moment, then continued in a quieter voice, but one
whose ring was sinister beyond words: "Tomorrow I shall find a
way to draw this your dog of war to some secluded ground. I
have some skill," he pursued, tapping his hilt as he spoke,
"besides, you shall be there, Gregory." And he smiled darkly.
"Is there no other way?" asked Gregory, in distress.

"There was," answered Joseph. "There was in Parliament. At
Whitehall I met a man - one Colonel Pride - a bloodthirsty old
Puritan soldier, who would give his right hand to see this
Galliard hanged. Galliard, it seems, slew the fellow's son at
Worcester. Had I but known," he added regretfully - "had your
wits been keener, and you had discovered it and sent me word, I
had found means to help Colonel Pride to his revenge. As it
is" - he shrugged his shoulders - "there is not time."

"It may be - " began Gregory, then stopped abruptly with an
exclamation that caused Joseph to wheel sharply round. The
door had opened, and on the threshold Sir Crispin Galliard
stood, deferentially, hat in hand.

Joseph's astonished glance played rapidly over him for a
second. Then:

"Who the devil may you be?" he blurted out.

Despite his anxiety, Gregory chuckled at the question. The
Tavern Knight came forward. "I am Sir Crispin Galliard, at
your service," said he, bowing. "I was told that the master of
Marleigh was returned, and that I should find you here, and I
hasten, sir, to proffer you my thanks for the generous shelter
this house has given me this fortnight past."

Whilst he spoke he measured Joseph with his eyes, and his
glance was as hateful as his words were civil. Joseph was lost
in amazement. Little trace was there in this fellow of the
Roland Marleigh he had known. Moreover, he had looked to find
an older man, forgetting that Roland's age could not exceed
thirty-eight. Then, again, the fading light, whilst revealing
the straight, supple lines of his lank figure, softened the
haggardness of the face and made him appear yet younger than
the light of day would have shown him.

In an instant Joseph had recovered from his surprise, and for
all that his mind misgave him tortured by a desire to learn
whether Crispin was aware of their knowledge concerning him -
his smile was serene, and his tones level and pleasant, as he
made answer:

"Sir, you are very welcome. You have valiantly served one dear
to us, and the entertainment of our poor house for as long as
you may deign to honour it is but the paltriest of returns."




CHAPTER XVI

THE RECKONING


Sir Crispin had heard naught of what was being said as he
entered the room wherein the brothers plotted against him, and
he little dreamt that his identity was discovered. He had but
hastened to perform that which, under ordinary circumstances,
would have been a natural enough duty towards the master of the
house. He had been actuated also by an impatience again to
behold this Joseph Ashburn - the man who had dealt him that
murderous sword-thrust eighteen years ago. He watched him
attentively, and gathering from his scrutiny that here was a
dangerous, subtle man, different, indeed, to his dull-witted
brother, he had determined to act at once.

And so when he appeared in the hall at suppertime, he came
armed and booted, and equipped as for a journey.

Joseph was standing alone by the huge fire-place, his face to
the burning logs, and his foot resting upon one of the
andirons. Gregory and his daughter were talking together in
the embrasure of a window. By the other window, across the
hall, stood Kenneth, alone and disconsolate, gazing out at the
drizzling rain that had begun to fall.

As Galliard descended, Joseph turned his head, and his eyebrows
shot up and wrinkled his forehead at beholding the knight's
equipment.

"How is this, Sir Crispin?" said he. "You are going a
journey?"

"Too long already have I imposed myself upon the hospitality of
Castle Marleigh," Crispin answered politely as he came and
stood before the blazing logs. "To-night, Mr. Ashburn, I go
hence."

A curious expression flitted across Joseph's face. The next
moment, his brows still knit as he sought to fathom his sudden
action, he was muttering the formal regrets that courtesy
dictated. But Crispin had remarked that singular expression on
Joseph's face - fleeting though it had been - and it flashed
across his mind that Joseph knew him. And as he moved away
towards Cynthia and her father, he thanked Heaven that he had
taken such measures as he had thought wise and prudent for the
carrying out of his resolve.

Following him with a glance, Joseph asked himself whether
Crispin had discovered that he was recognized, and had
determined to withdraw, leaving his vengeance for another and
more propitious season. In answer - little knowing the measure
of the man he dealt with - he told himself it must be so, and
having arrived at that conclusion, he there and then determined
that Crispin should not depart free to return and plague them
when he listed. Since Galliard shrank from forcing matters to
an issue, he himself would do it that very night, and thereby
settle for all time his business. And so ere he sat down to
sup Joseph looked to it that his sword lay at hand behind his
chair at the table-head.

The meal was a quiet one enough. Kenneth was sulking 'neath
the fresh ill-usage - as he deemed it - that he had suffered at
Cynthia's hands. Cynthia, in her turn, was grave and silent.
That story of Sir Crispin's sufferings gave her much to think
of, as did also his departure, and more than once did Galliard
find her eyes fixed upon him with a look half of pity, half of
some other feeling that he was at a loss to interpret.
Gregory's big voice was little heard. The sinister glitter in
his brother's eye made him apprehensive and ill at ease. For
him the hour was indeed in travail and like to bring forth
strange doings - but not half so much as it was for Crispin and
Joseph, each bent upon forcing matters to a head ere they
quitted that board. And yet but for these two the meal would
have passed off in dismal silence. Joseph was at pains to keep
suspicion from his guest, and with that intent he talked gaily
of this and that, told of slight matters that had befallen him
on his recent journey and of the doings that in London he had
witnessed, investing each trifling incident with a garb of wit
that rendered it entertaining.

And Galliard - actuated by the same motives grew reminiscent
whenever Joseph paused and let his nimble tongue - even
nimblest at a table amuse those present, or seem to amuse them,
by a score of drolleries.

He drank deeply too, and this Joseph observed with
satisfaction. But here again he misjudged his man. Kenneth,
who ate but little, seemed also to have developed an enormous
thirst, and Crispin grew at length alarmed at that ever empty
goblet so often filled. He would have need of Kenneth ere the
hour was out, and he rightly feared that did matters thus
continue, the lad's aid was not to be reckoned with. Had
Kenneth sat beside him he might have whispered a word of
restraint in his eat, but the lad was on the other side of the
board.

At one moment Crispin fancied that a look of intelligence
passed from Joseph to Gregory, and when presently Gregory set
himself to ply both him and the boy with wine, his suspicions
became certainties, and he grew watchful and wary.

Anon Cynthia rose. Upon the instant Galliard was also on his
feet. He escorted her to the foot of the staircase, and there:

"Permit me, Mistress Cynthia," said he, "to take my leave of
you. In an hour or so I shall be riding away from Castle
Marleigh."

Her eyes sought the ground, and had he been observant of her he
might have noticed that she paled slightly.

"Fare you well, sir," said she in a low voice. "May happiness
attend you."

"Madam, I thank you. Fare you well."

He bowed low. She dropped him a slight curtsey, and ascended
the stairs. Once as she reached the gallery above she turned.
He had resumed his seat at table, and was in the act of filling
his glass. The servants had withdrawn, and for half an hour
thereafter they sat on, sipping their wine, and making
conversation - while Crispin drained bumper after bumper and
grew every instant more boisterous, until at length his
boisterousness passed into incoherence. His eyelids drooped
heavily, and his chin kept ever and anon sinking forward on to
his breast.

Kenneth, flushed with wine, yet master of his wits, watched him
with contempt. This was the man Cynthia preferred to him!
Contempt was there also in Joseph Ashburn's eye, mingled with
satisfaction. He had not looked to find the task so easy. At
length he deemed the season ripe.

"My brother tells me that you were once acquainted with Roland
Marleigh," said he.

"Aye," he answered thickly. "I knew the dog - a merry,
reckless soul, d -n me. 'Twas his recklessness killed him,
poor devil - that and your hand, Mr. Ashburn, so the story
goes."

"What story?"

"What story?" echoed Crispin. "The story that I heard. Do you
say I lie?" And, swaying in his chair, he sought to assume an
air of defiance.

Joseph laughed in a fashion that made Kenneth's blood run cold.

"Why, no, I don't deny it. It was in fair fight he fell.
Moreover, he brought the duel upon himself."

Crispin spoke no word in answer, but rose unsteadily to his
feet, so unsteadily that his chair was overset and fell with a
crash behind him. For a moment he surveyed it with a drunken
leer, then went lurching across the hall towards the door that
led to the servants' quarters. The three men sat on, watching
his antics in contempt, curiosity, and amusement. They saw him
gain the heavy oaken door and close it. They heard the bolts
rasp as he shot them home, and the lock click; and they saw him
withdraw the key and slip it into his pocket.

The cold smile still played round Joseph's lips as Crispin
turned to face them again, and on Joseph's lips did that same
smile freeze as he saw him standing there, erect and firm, his
drunkenness all vanished, and his eyes keen and fierce; as he
heard the ring of his metallic voice:

"You lie, Joseph Ashburn. It was no fair fight. It was no
duel. It was a foul, murderous stroke you dealt him in the
back, thinking to butcher him as you butchered his wife and his
babe. But there is a God, Master Ashburn" he went on in an
ever-swelling voice, "and I lived. Like a salamander I came
through the flames in which you sought to destroy all trace of
your vile deed. I lived, and I, Crispin Galliard, the
debauched Tavern Knight that was once Roland Marleigh, am here
to demand a reckoning."

The very incarnation was he then of an avenger, as he stood
towering before them, his grim face livid with the passion into
which he had lashed himself as he spoke, his blazing eyes
watching them in that cunning, half-closed way that was his
when his mood was dangerous. And yet the only one that quailed
was Kenneth, his ally, upon whom comprehension burst with
stunning swiftness.

Joseph recovered quickly from the surprise of Crispin's
suddenly reassumed sobriety. He understood the trick that
Galliard had played upon them so that he might cut off their
retreat in the only direction in which they might have sought
assistance, and he cursed himself for not having foreseen it.
Still, anxiety he felt none; his sword was to his hand, and
Gregory was armed; at the very worst they were two calm and
able men opposed to a half-intoxicated boy, and a man whom
fury, he thought, must strip of half his power. Probably,
indeed, the lad would side with them, despite his plighted
word. Again, he had but to raise his voice, and, though the
door that Crispin had fastened was a stout one,, he never
doubted but that his call would penetrate it and bring his
servants to his rescue.

And so, a smile of cynical unconcern returned to his lips and
his answer was delivered in a cold, incisive voice.

"The reckoning you have come to demand shall be paid you, sir.
Rakehelly Galliard is the hero of many a reckless deed, but my
judgment is much at fault if this prove not his crowning
recklessness and his last one. Gadswounds, sir, are you mad to
come hither single-handed to beard the lion in his den?"

"Rather the cur in his kennel," sneered Crispin back. "Blood
and wounds, Master Joseph, think you to affright me with
words?"

Still Joseph smiled, deeming himself master of the situation.

"Were help needed, the raising of my voice would bring it me.
But it is not. We are three to one."

"You reckon wrongly. Mr. Stewart belongs to me to-night -
bound by an oath that 'twould damn his soul to break, to help
me when and where I may call upon him; and I call upon him now.
Kenneth, draw your sword."

Kenneth groaned as he stood by, clasping and unclasping his
hands.

"God's curse on you," he burst out. "You have tricked me, you
have cheated me."

"Bear your oath in mind," was the cold answer. "If you deem
yourself wronged by me, hereafter you shall have what
satisfaction you demand. But first fulfil me what you have
sworn. Out with your blade, man."

Still Kenneth hesitated, and but for Gregory's rash action at
that critical juncture, it is possible that he would have
elected to break his plighted word. But Gregory fearing that
he might determine otherwise, resolved there and then to remove
the chance of it. Whipping out his sword, he made a vicious
pass at the lad's breast. Kenneth avoided it by leaping
backwards, but in an instant Gregory had sprung after him, and
seeing himself thus beset, Kenneth was forced to draw that he
might protect himself.

They stood in the space between the table and that part of the
hall that abutted on to the terrace; opposite to them, by the
door which he had closed, stood Crispin. At the table-head
Joseph still sat cool, self-contained, even amused.

He realized the rashness of Gregory's attack upon one that
might yet have been won over to their side; but he never
doubted that a few passes would dispose of the lad's
opposition, and he sought not to interfere. Then he saw
Crispin advancing towards him slowly, his rapier naked in his
hand, and he was forced to look to himself. He caught at the
sword that stood behind him, and leaping to his feet he sprang
forward to meet his grim antagonist. Galliard's eyes flashed
out a look of joy, he raised his rapier, and their blades met.

To the clash of their meeting came an echoing clash from beyond
the table.

"Hold, sir!" Kenneth had cried, as Gregory bore down upon him.
But Gregory's answer had been a lunge which the boy had been
forced to parry. Taking that crossing of blades for a sign of
opposition, Gregory thrust again more viciously. Kenneth
parried narrowly, his blade pointing straight at his aggressor.
He saw the opening, and both instinct and the desire to repel
Gregory's onslaught drew him into attempting a riposte, which
drove Gregory back until his shoulders touched the panels of
the wall. Simultaneously the boy's foot struck the back of the
chair which in rising Crispin had overset, and he stumbled.
How it happened he scarcely knew, but as he hurtled forward his
blade slid along his opponent's, and entering Gregory's right
shoulder pinned him to the wainscot.

Joseph heard the tinkle of a falling blade, and assumed it to
be Kenneth's. For the rest he was just then too busy to dare
withdraw for a second his eyes from Crispin's. Until that hour
Joseph Ashburn had accounted himself something of a swordsman,
and more than a match for most masters of the weapon. But in
Crispin he found a fencer of a quality such as he had never yet
encountered. Every feint, every botte in his catalogue had he
paraded in quick succession, yet ever with the same result -
his point was foiled and put aside with ease.

Desperately he fought now, darting that point of his hither and
thither in and out whenever the slightest opening offered; yet
ever did it meet the gentle averting pressure of Crispin's
blade. He fought on and marvelled as the seconds went by that
Gregory came not to his aid. Then the sickening thought that
perhaps Gregory was overcome occurred to him. In such a case
he must reckon upon himself alone. He cursed the
over-confidence that had led him into that ever-fatal error of
underestimating his adversary. He might have known that one
who had acquired Sir Crispin's fame was no ordinary man, but
one accustomed to face great odds and master them. He might
call for help.

He marvelled as the thought occurred to him that the clatter of
their blades had not drawn his servants from their quarters.
Fencing still, he raised his voice:

"Ho, there! John, Stephen!"

"Spare your breath," growled the knight. "I dare swear you'll
have need of it. None will hear you, call as you will. I gave
your four henchmen a flagon of wine wherein to drink to my safe
journey hence. They have emptied it ere this, I make no doubt,
and a single glass of it would set the hardest toper asleep for
the round of the clock."

An oath was Joseph's only answer - a curse it was upon his own
folly and assurance. A little while ago he had thought to have
drawn so tight a net about this ruler, and here was he now
taken in its very toils, well-nigh exhausted and in his enemy's
power.

It occurred to him then that Crispin stayed his hand. That he
fenced only on the defensive, and he wondered what might his
motive be. He realized that he was mastered, and that at any
moment Galliard might send home his blade. He was bathed from
head to foot in a sweat that was at once of exertion and
despair. A frenzy seized him. Might he not yet turn to
advantage this hesitancy of Crispin's to strike the final blow?

He braced himself for a supreme effort, and turning his wrist
from a simulated thrust in the first position, he doubled, and
stretching out, lunged vigorously in quarte. As he lengthened
his arm in the stroke there came a sudden twitch at his wrist;
the weapon was twisted from his grasp, and he stood disarmed at
Crispin's mercy.

A gurgling cry broke despite him from his lips, and his eyes
grew wide in a sickly terror as they encountered the knight's
sinister glance. Not three paces behind him was the wall, and
on it, within the hand's easy reach, hung many a trophied
weapon that might have served him then. But the fascination of
fear was upon him, benumbing his wits and paralysing his limbs,
with the thought that the next pulsation of his tumultuous
heart would prove its last. The calm, unflinching courage that
had been Joseph's only virtue was shattered, and his iron will
that had unscrupulously held hitherto his very conscience in
bondage was turned to water now that he stood face to face with
death.

Eons of time it seemed to him were sped since the sword was
wrenched from his hand, and still the stroke he awaited came
not; still Crispin stood, sinister and silent before him,
watching him with magnetic, fascinating eyes - as the snake
watches the bird - eyes from which Joseph could not withdraw
his own, and yet before which it seemed to him that he quaked
and shrivelled.

The candles were burning low in their sconces, and the corners
of that ample, gloomy hall were filled with mysterious shadows
that formed a setting well attuned to the grim picture made by
those two figures - the one towering stern and vengeful, the
other crouching palsied and livid.

Beyond the table, and with the wounded Gregory - lying
unconscious and bleeding - at his feet, stood Kenneth looking
on in silence, in wonder and in some horror too.

To him also, as he watched, the seconds seemed minutes from the
time when Crispin had disarmed his opponent until with a laugh
- short and sudden as a stab - he dropped his sword and caught
his victim by the throat.

However fierce the passion that had actuated Crispin, it had
been held hitherto in strong subjection. But now at last it
suddenly welled up and mastered him, causing him to cast all
restraint to the winds, to abandon reason, and to give way to
the lust of rage that rendered ungovernable his mood.

Like a burst of flame from embers that have been smouldering
was the upleaping of his madness, transfiguring his face and
transforming his whole being. A new, unconquerable strength
possessed him; his pulses throbbed swiftly and madly with the
quickened coursing of his blood, and his soul was filled with
the cruel elation that attends a lust about to be indulged the
elation of the beast about to rend its prey.

He was pervaded by the desire to wreak slowly and with his
hands the destruction of his broken enemy. To have passed his
sword through him would have been too swiftly done; the man
would have died, and Crispin would have known nothing of his
sufferings. But to take him thus by the throat; slowly to
choke the life's breath out of him; to feel his desperate,
writhing struggles; to be conscious of every agonized twitch of
his sinews, to watch the purpling face, the swelling veins, the
protruding eyes filled with the dumb horror of his agony; to
hold him thus - each second becoming a distinct, appreciable
division of time - and thus to take what payment he could for
all the blighted years that lay behind him - this he felt would
be something like revenge.

Meanwhile the shock of surprise at the unlooked-for movement
had awakened again the man in Joseph. For a second even Hope
knocked at his heart. He was sinewy and active, and perchance
he might yet make Galliard repent that he had discarded his
rapier. The knight's reason for doing so he thought he had in
Crispin's contemptuous words:

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