A League to Rosthny

A League to Rosthny

by

Frank L. Packard, Stoughton, Mass.

3600 Words.

An unpublished short story, perhaps./drf             Stillwoods.Blogspot.Ca           December 2018.

Louis returned to consciousness and to the knowledge that his head throbbed painfully. He staggered slowly to his feet and passed his hand dazedly across his eyes. The recollection of having been set upon by some three or four ruffians was all that remained to him of the affair.

He looked around the room. It was richly, even luxuriously, furnished. The window gave upon a courtyard beneath, fronting a long stretch of road that ran to right and left. ‘Twas evidently the country estate of some wealthy personage, and yet, if such it were, ‘twas strange he should be treated thus. The cords with which he had been bound still lay in a heap where they had cut them from him. It had a sinister air. Even did he owe his rescue to his host, ‘twas still no courteous act to leave a wounded gentleman lying upon a bare floor and unattended.

He walked over to the door. It was fastened. He banged upon the panels with his fists.

“Ho, there!” he cried.

There was no response. He turned his back to the door and began to hammer it vigorously with the heels of his boots.

Presently there was the sound of a heavy, shuffling step without.

“Hold your noise, you fool,” came a gruff, harsh voice.

“Fool, yourself,” retorted Louis angrily, as he banged the louder.

A key was turned in the lock, and then the door was opened a cautious space. Some three or four inches of sword point was inserted, followed by a scowling face as the door was pushed gradually open.

“Mayhap an inch or two of this would teach you better manners,” snarled the man, prodding at Louis with the sword and forcing him back into the middle of the room.

‘“Twould at least rid me of the necessity of looking on so vile a countenance,” was Louis’ haughty response.

“Ventre de gris!” growled the man, flushing under the taunt. “‘Tis well for you, my young bantam, that the Count, my master, has business with you first, else,” —he made a ferocious lunge in the air— “I’d spit you—like that!”

“We can dispense with your heroics, Jules,” said a sharp, sarcastic voice from the doorway, “and—your presence.”

As Jules slunk out, his master entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Louis crossed the room to peer into the other’s face.

“Chateauroy!” he exclaimed.

The Count bowed mockingly. “The recognition is mutual,” he said, smiling ironically. “That Monsieur Louis de Lima should deign to pay my poor house a visit, is an honor, of which, believe me, I am deeply sensible. At least he will not reproach me with lack of ardor in his reception. Will monsieur be seated?”

Disdaining any reply, Louis took the chair the Count indicated,

“Ah, that is better,” resumed the Count, carelessly throwing his hat and cloak upon the table and seating himself opposite. “Ho, Jules!” he shouted, “lights here and wine.”

Jules entered the room and lit the candles in the brackets as he was bidden. With a grimace at Louis, he placed a decanter of wine and single goblet upon the table.

“Pig of a Gascon!” roared De Chateauroy, jumping to his feet, “can you not see I have a guest, and you bring a single glass?” With a sounding whack on the side of the man’s head that sent him staggering halfway to the door, he shouted: “A glass! A glass for monsieur, and see that it is here betimes.”

Jules hastily placed another glass upon the table, taking care to keep well out of his master’s reach the while. “Monsieur is served?” he asked from the doorway.

“Aye, damnably served! Now get you gone!” The Count turned to Louis. “I owe monsieur apology,” he said, suavely. “The unspeakable insult the fellow—”

“Your apology, my lord,” broke in Louis, angrily, “is superfluous. I do not doubt your hospitality—the manner of my reception leaves no room for that. Flung like a trussed fowl into the corner yonder, is evidence enough of your unfailing courtesy. The Count de Chateauroy’s reputation is well established; and, permit me to add, I find his personality no less savory.”

“The allusion to my reputation,” snarled the Count, “we will discuss later.” He unsheathed his sword and laid it across his knees. “For contingencies, monsieur,” he explained; then modulating his voice to an even tone, the insincerity of which brought home to Louis the vindictiveness opposed to him.

“No one regrets more deeply than myself, the circumstances that honor me with your presence. Let it suffice that they were unavoidable. Monsieur will pardon the indelicacy of introducing a lady’s name. He will understand it is but natural to speak of what is most in mind.” Louis stirred impatiently.

“I regret,” said the Count, derisively, “to core monsieur with details and that he finds the conversation tedious. I had hoped to receive his congratulations. I am about to be married. Mademoiselle Anne de Mars—”

“You lie!” shouted Louis leaping to his feet, his hands clinched, his face white with passion. “You lie!” he repeated, taking a step as though to throw himself upon the leering face before him.

The Count, too, had risen to his feet. “Sit down, you fool!” he cried, his sword at Louis’ throat. “Monsieur is no longer apathetic,” he sneered, as Louis sank back into his chair with a groan. “That I lie, is but another subject for future discussion.” He stopped abruptly, then bowed with malicious mockery. “Drink!” he cried, raising his glass to his lips. “Drink, monsieur, to her future happiness—to the wedding we celebrate tonight.”

“I’d sooner drink with Satan himself, than drink with such as you,” said Louis hotly, pushing the glass violently from him.

“Say you so?” shouted the Count, furiously, “I’ll warrant you will crave and pray and beg another drink at my hands presently, my young coxcomb—and get it not. One cup you shall drink, and to the dregs—I’ll be bound you’ll not find it over sweet.” He drew a ring from his pocket and flung it upon the table.

Louis looked at it curiously. “My ring,” he said. “My signet ring.”

“Precisely!” grinned the Count, then he added cunningly.

“Monsieur will be proud to know it proved an ‘open sesame’. My lady was a little coy at first, as was but proper. But—what would you! ‘Tis unfortunate that we should have a common preference, you and I; and she—a choice!”

“Ah,” said Louis slowly, his face haggard, the calm of desperation in his voice, “I see it now. ‘Twas you that had me treacherously waylaid and carried here. ‘Twas you that robbed me of my ring, and used it to entice her—whose name is too pure and sacred to be mentioned in your presence—into your vile trap. ‘Twas a plan worthy of the Arch Fiend himself.”

“Monsieur pays too much honor to these poor wits of mine!” The Count poured himself a generous portion from the flagon and gulped it down at a draught. Then, as the wine flushed to his face, “Hark you, sir! think you that I, Victor de Chateauroy, am to be flaunted by a few frills and laces, spurned as dirt beneath my lady’s dainty feet—Ha! have a care, monsieur, the point is sharp—and for your pretty baby face? Aye, she did that,” he screamed, his voice rising in an ungovernable fit of passion, “spurned me, me—I, who fear not man nor beast, nor God nor devil! Yet, monsieur,” his tones were smooth and oily once more—“even in my victory you find me generous. I would gainsay her nothing that would pleasure her. She asked for you—cried your name. ‘Twill do you little good to know it now—she loves you. So, my friend, there is another role for you to play, in this neat comedy of ours. I said she asked for you; then, what would be more meet or fitting than to take you to her—wedding—as a witness! Ha, ha,” he laughed in mocking triumph. “By my faith, ‘twill be a merry jest. Come, monsieur, ‘tis but a league, the inn at Rosthny. A good landlord and, better still, a faithful one. What! my lord a sluggard when my lady calls? For shame! The horses saddled, and beauty in distress? Monsieur looks pale and ill. A little wine before he goes, ‘twill do him good.” —pouring the goblets to the brim—“Drink, my lord, drink to—”

With a choking cry Louis struck furiously at the goblet with his fist, dashing the wine full in De Chateauroy’s face. The Count half blinded, staggered back, tripped against his chair and lost his balance. Before he could recover, Louis flung himself with all his strength against the heavy oaken table and pushed it over upon the Count bringing him to the floor. He stooped and seized the sword, but a glance showed him there was no need for weapon. De Chateauroy lay motionless. A little stream of blood trickled from his head where he had struck in falling.

Louis crossed to the door and listened. There was no sound, save the noisy rioting of the retainers from the hall beneath. A groan brought Louis back to De Chateauroy, who, still dazed, had opened his eyes and with returning consciousness was attempting to get upon his feet. Before he could do so Louis threw him back. Cramming a portion of the riding gauntlet lying beside him into the Count’s mouth, he knotted it securely into place with his handkerchief. Then he bound the man’s feet and arms with the cords so lately used upon himself.

“You dog!” cried Louis at last, as De Chateauroy lay helpless before him, ‘“tis my turn now. Perchance the game pleases you less. Mayhap you’ve found the stakes too heavy, my lord.”

The Count’s face was hideous, livid with rage—blind, impotent fury—mortification—each struggling for the mastery. His eyes, as they followed his late victim, seemed fairly bursting from their sockets with the intensity of their malignant hatred.

“Mark you,” said Louis, grimly, “as there is a God in heaven, hear me! If she be so much as wronged by one word of yours, I swear by all my soul’s chances in the world to come, I’ll kill you as I would a poison snake—aye, and with less mercy.” He picked up the Count’s hat and cloak. “Au revoir. my Lord Count! Goodnight, my Lord Coward!”

Louis closed the door softly behind him; stepped into the hall, and leaned over the balustrade. The open door of a room below threw a shaft of light into the passage beneath him. Above the boisterous laughter and carousal he could distinguish the voice of Jules, recounting to his companions some coarse jest interlarded with many oaths.

To gain the outer door he would be obliged to pass the line of light in full view of those inside the room. Even with the disguise the hat and cloak afforded, it seemed hardly probable they would mistake him for their master. Yet, win through he must, and that quickly. De Chateauroy might make himself heard at any minute. The thought of Anne, and what would happen then, made Louis grip his sword in grim resolve.

He crept downstairs noiselessly and had reached the bottom step when he was arrested by Jules’ voice raised yet more loudly than before.

“Mille tonneres!” shouted that worthy, as a gust of wind shook the house, bringing with it a whinny and the stamp of horses’ hoofs, “a fit night for the master’s ride, paroleu! Go you, Jacques, and see to the beasts, ‘twill cool your head.”

Jacques grumblingly staggered into the hall. Louis drew back into the shadow, pressing hard against the wall. The fellow reached the outer door, opened it and reeled through. A rush of wind blew the door open behind him and, sweeping into the house, set the candles to flickering and spluttering in a way that evoked a round of malediction on the servitor’s devoted head.

Louis waited for no more, but sprang from the stairway, dashed through the open door and down the steps outside. A howl behind, warned him that he had been seen. In the darkness he could just distinguish the outline of the horses at the gate. Jacques, muttering drunkenly to himself, was standing a few paces away. Louis ran past him and threw himself upon the nearest horse. A shout from the doorway, then oaths and curses and the sound of blows, told him they had mistaken the worthy Jacques for their quarry.

Louis turned his horse out into the road and urged the animal into a furious gallop.

“A league,” he muttered. “The inn at Rosthny. Well, ‘tis a fair start. Five minutes for that clumsy Jules to discover his mistake, another five to release my lord, and five more before they are on the road—fifteen minutes in all. God! what a night,” he continued, as the rain beat down pitilessly upon him, drenching him to the skin.

He leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck. “Your best, mon orave,” he coaxed. The beast reached forward into a stronger stride. “Faster! faster!” he urged; then, through his set teeth: “‘Fore God, why did I not kill the hound? And yet, withal, he told me what she never would. She loves me. ‘Twere well worth it all to know that. Ah, Anne, dear child, had you but confessed the love that only peril rung from those sweet lips!”

The splash of the galloping horse, the howl of the wind through the naked branches of the trees, kept tune with Louis’ mood; the wild thoughts surging through his brain—of love, of hate—then hope, then fear.

Another mile of furious riding brought him to the little inn that made the corner, where the roads branched to right and left. Throwing himself from the saddle, he led the horse into the thicket and fastened the bridle to a branch. Then he boldly crossed the road to the inn. Not a light showed. He shook the door, banging on it fiercely with the pommel of his sword as he shouted at the top of his voices “Open! Open!”

A window overhead was cautiously opened and a man’s head thrust out.

“Who is there?” he demanded.

“Fool!” cried Louis, and for the first time that night was thankful for the storm that made his voice unrecognizable, “‘tis I, De Chateauroy.”

“Yes, my lord, instantly.” The window closed with a bang. The landlord shuffled hurriedly down the stairs, fumbled a moment with the locks and bolts, then flung open the door. Before he could fathom his mistake Louis had caught him by the throat and pinned him to the wall.

“Where is she?” he cried. “Out with it!”

“My lord,” gasped the man in terror, falling to his knees, “spare—”

“Answer me!” thundered Louis, shaking the man till his teeth chattered. “Where is she? Quick!”

“Upstairs, my lord,” he faltered.

“Then lead the way! A trick, and I’ll wager the morrow will find one knave the less.”

The fellow turned the mounted the stairs. Louis followed him with his sword point, pressing the small of the landlord’s back. Reaching the landing, they turned to the right and halted before a door.

“Open it!” commanded Louis, sharply. “Mademoiselle!” he called from the threshold, as the door swung back.

She started to her feet from a kneeling posture by the bed.

“Thank God! you are safe,” he said, reverently.

“Monsieur de Lima! Louis! you here?” she cried, running towards him. “Save me! Save me!”

“Aye, please God! I will,” he answered. “Quick! a hat and cloak. Our time is nearly sped. They’re close behind.” He turned abruptly upon the landlord. “Who else is in this cursed house?” he demanded.

“No one, my lord.”

Louis shook him roughly. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, grimly.

‘”Tis true, I swear it,” the man whimpered. ‘”Twas by the master’s orders.”

“I am minded to put you where you’ll do no more devil’s work at your master’s bidding,” said Louis, sternly. “You are ready, mademoiselle? Then we’ll be gone. As for you, you scoundrel, you may kick your heels and yell your throat out in there.” He shoved the fellow into the room, banged shut the door and locked it.

“Come, mademoiselle,” he said, and led her down the stairs and to the door. She shivered and half drew back as the storm beat in upon her. “Your pardon, mademoiselle,” he murmured, picking her up in his arms. “You could not walk through all this mud and mire. Listen! They are coming.”

The wind blowing strong toward them, carried the sound of horses’ hoofs.

“‘Twas close work,” he panted, as he set his burden upon her feet beside his horse. “Look!” he whispered, as four horsemen thundered by.

“Louis, I’m afraid! What is it?”

“De Chateauroy and three of his rascals. There’ll be the devil to pay when he finds us gone.”

“Louis,” she said with a little sob, as her hand tightened on his arm, “he told me—”

“Aye, I know,” he broke in, grimly. “He told you overmuch. We have some scores to settle, my lord Count and I.”

“See!” she cried, “they are at the inn. Oh, let us go!”

“Not yet,” he said, drawing her a little closer to him, “we cannot make a race of it. Our horse must carry double. Ah! ‘twas as I thought.”

The Count and his men came tumbling out of the inn, and leaping onto their horses dashed two down the right, two down the left hand road.

“They did not think to look for us behind them,” said Louis, quietly. “They have left the way clear—to what, mademoiselle?” he asked, softly.

She did not answer, only clung to him with her face hidden.

He led the horse out into the road, swung himself into the saddle and stooping over kissed her as he lifted her gently up before him. For a mile no word was spoken.

“Anne,” he said teasingly, at last, “thou wilt make an obedient wife.”

“And pray for whom, monsieur?” she asked demurely, her spirits back again.

“Ah, Anne, dear heart,” he laughed, holding her tightly to him, “since thou wilt obey even my poor signet ring; is there any need to ask?”

The End.

[3100 words]