The Launching of Roger Brook (67 page)

Count Lucien’s voice came, now from his rear. ‘He says he’s the nephew of an Earl, and that his father is an
Admiral of the English Fleet. The Abbé de Périgord swore to that on his behalf.’

Suddenly the Marquis’s whole attitude changed. From a distraught and humiliated parent he became again the imperialist statesman. His whole body tensed from the swift realisation that his precious plans were now in vital peril. His mighty scheme might yet be undone if, in ignorance, he had taken an enemy into his employ. Drawing himself up, he cried above the din: ‘I demand the truth! Have you deceived me as to your origin?’

‘Yes,’ Roger shouted back. ‘I am an Englishman, and proud of it. Now get from my path, or I’ll no longer let the fact that you are Athénaïs’s father weigh with me.’

De Rochambeau’s reply was a sharp command: ‘Lucien! Have at him! He must not leave the room alive!’

The door creaked and groaned; one hinge had given way and the corner above it gaped open. Rhythmic thuds upon the panels told that those who were trying to break it down were now using a heavy piece of furniture as a battering-ram.

At the Marquis’s order the Count drew the frail Court sword that he had been wearing ever since leaving Versailles. As Roger heard it slither from its scabbard he swung round. Only two paces separated them. Before Lucien could poise himself for a lunge Roger clenched his fists and went sailing in. The slender sword hovered, still pointing towards the ceiling, as he struck out with his right. The blow took the young man fair and square beneath the chin.

His head shot backwards, his feet slid from under him; and, as he fell, the edge of the console table struck him sharply behind the ear. His body hit the highly-polished floor with a thud, then slithered along it. His sword flew from his hand and clattered away across the parquet. He rolled over once, groaned, and lay still.

As Roger’s eye followed Lucien’s fall, it suddenly lit upon the letter for the Dutch Republican leaders. It had been lying on his own small table, but had been wafted from it to the floor, when he knocked the table over on Count Lucien’s sudden appearance. Previously it had not even occurred to him that he might get away with the vital document. Now it flashed upon him that, if he could, it would
provide incontestable proof of all he meant to say if he ever succeeded in reaching England.

Stooping, he snatched it up, and thrust it into his pocket. Then he turned again, and ran towards the windows.

But in the half-minute occupied by Roger’s encounter with Lucien the Marquis had not been inactive. The second he had ordered his wounded son to the attack he had swung about and raced for the far end of the room. The dress sword that he had been wearing before the meeting lay there on a chair. Seizing the shagreen scabbard with one hand and its diamond-studded hilt with the other, he wrenched it out.

Roger had reached the long line of low windows and flung one of them open, but a glance over his shoulder told him that he dared not attempt to wriggle through it. Before he could possibly do so the Marquis would be upon him from the rear.

For the second time that night the horrible thought of a glittering steel blade searing through his back seized him. Turning again he left the window in a bound and sped across the room towards Lucien’s limp body.

As he ran his eyes were on the door. The din of blows upon it now half deafened him. Stout as it was, he could see from its swaying that it could not hold much longer. And once the mob of servants broke into the room all chance of escaping by the window would be gone. They would pull him down as surely as a pack of deer hounds founder an exhausted stag at bay.

The impetus of his dash across the room caused him to come up with a crash against the console table. He grabbed at it, missed its edge, and fell. As he rolled over he saw the Marquis coming at him sword in hand. De Rochambeau’s blue eyes were as hard and cold as the steel he held. There was not a trace of mercy in them, and he lunged downwards with all his force, intent to kill.

Roger jerked himself violently aside. The point of the sword stabbed through his coat within an inch of his ribs and buried itself quivering in the floor.

For a moment it was stalemate. Roger was pinned down by his clothes, but the Marquis could not free his blade from the wood that gripped its point; the one strove to wrench himself away; the other tugged with all his strength
upon his sword. Simultaneously, Roger’s coat ripped and the wood yielded up the steel.

The weapon came free with such suddenness that its release nearly sent the Marquis over backwards. As he staggered, and strove to regain his balance for a second thrust, Roger had time to roll over again. His hand shot out and clutched the hilt of Count Lucien’s sword. Squirming under the big oval table, he came up on his knees, bumped his head violently, fell forward, recovered, and stumbled to his feet on its far side.

Silent, grim, merciless, the Marquis came round its edge at him. Roger stepped back a pace and threw himself on guard. The swords of both combatants were light, but none the less deadly. They met with a ‘ting’, bent, slithered and circled, catching the rays from the steadily-burning candles.

Now that Roger was armed his hopes of getting away had risen. His victory over de Caylus had given him immense confidence in his swordplay. He did not believe that a man of fifty, who rarely took any exercise, could stand up to him for more than half-a-dozen passes; but he soon found that he had been counting his chickens before they were hatched.

De Rochambeau was no mean swordsman, and he fought with cool, calculated cunning. He made no attempt to disable his antagonist but simply sought to keep him in play while warily defending himself. After he had parried three rapid thrusts Roger divined his intent. He was taking no chances but playing for time, till the door should collapse and the shouting mob outside come streaming in to his assistance.

Roger knew then that he must finish matters or be captured. Suddenly closing in he ran his blade along that of the Marquis until the two swords were hilt to hilt, then he gave a violent twist of his wrist. The stroke was an extremely risky one, as, to make it, he had had to throw himself off balance, but he was gambling on the Marquis’s wrist proving weaker than his own. For a second the decision lay in the lap of the gods, then de Rochambeau’s wrist gave way. His hand doubled back and his weapon sailed across the room to strike with a clang against his ornate desk.

For an instant only, the Marquis’s eyes showed indecision, then, risking a thrust, he stretched out clawing hands
and rushed right in on Roger. Short of killing him there was only one thing to do. Throwing up his sword so that it slanted back across his shoulder, Roger drove the butt of its hilt into his aggressor’s face. The gilded ball of the pommel struck the Marquis above the left eye.

With a loud cry, the first sound he had uttered since he had snatched up his sword, he sagged at the knees, and fell sprawling at Roger’s feet.

Turning about Roger threw a swift look at the door. The lock and one hinge still held but both the upper panels had been stove in, and one of the footmen was striving to wriggle through one of the jagged holes. Full of apprehension now as to what reception he might meet with in the courtyard, Roger ran back to the window.

Normally at this hour the stable hands would have been asleep, but it was not much over a quarter of an hour since the nobles attending the conference had departed, so in the past few minutes someone might easily have mustered them.

Throwing a section of the window open, he peered out. With infinite relief he saw that it was not occupied, as he had feared it would be, by another group of M. de Rochambeau’s people waiting to set upon him. Evidently it had not occurred to any of those upstairs that he might risk the drop into the courtyard.

It was dark down there and the place was full of shadows but there was no sign of life except near the gate, where a coach was standing. It sped through his mind that it must be the one which was to carry M. de Rayneval to The Hague.

Taking his sword between his teeth he threw one leg over the low sill. As he did so a figure moved out of the patch of shadow at the back of the coach, and called something up to him; but he did not catch the words as, at that moment, the door gave with a crash behind him.

Drawing his other leg over the sill he squirmed round and, gripping the woodwork with his hands, lowered himself, letting his feet dangle. He was now looking into the room. The door had given way with the wretched footman still halfway through the smashed panel. His head and shoulders were buried beneath it while his legs kicked grotesquely in the air. But none of the others were attempting to help him. With M. de Rayneval at their head eight or
ten members of the household were scrambling over the wrecked door and coming straight at Roger.

He sent up a fleeting prayer that the man by the coach would not be upon him before he could recover from his fall, took the sword from his mouth with his right hand, hung for a second suspended by his left, then let go of the sill.

With a frightful jolt he landed on his feet. He let his knees go slack in an effort to take up the shock, but overbalanced and fell backwards. For a moment the wind was knocked out of him and he lay there gasping. But the sound of running feet upon the cobbles made him force himself to turn over and struggle to his knees.

De Rayneval and the rest had reached the windows above him. They were now shouting to attract the attention of the stable hands, and anyone else who might yet prevent Roger’s escape. As he heard their cries he knew that if he did not get away in the next few moments he would certainly be overwhelmed. His one hope now lay in overcoming the man who was running at him, then making a dash for the street.

Count Lucien’s unexpected arrival had deprived him of the chance of collecting his savings, and now this outcry rendered it impossible for him to saddle a horse. Instead of riding away on a fast mount with a full purse and several hours’ start of his pursuers, he must now take to his heels and seek to avoid an immediate hue and cry as best he could. And he was not yet even clear of the courtyard. Unless he could deal speedily with the man who was now almost on him, the driver of the coach would close the gates, and he would be trapped there.

These frantic thoughts all jostled through his brain as, still shaken by his fall, he came to his feet, and turned to face the figure that was running at him out of the darkness. Staggering back against the wall he threw himself on guard to gain a moment’s breathing-space.

Suddenly, as his sight adjusted itself to the darkness, he saw that the man had a sword at his side but had not drawn it. Next second a familiar voice cried: ‘To the coach, man! To the coach! Don’t linger there or they’ll have you yet!’

Only then, with a gasp of mingled amazement and thankfulness, did Roger recognise his friend de la Tour d’Auvergne.

Giving a cry of relief he started forward. But before he had covered three paces he suddenly remembered his own sword, which he had left in a corner of the porch, close by. The fine old Toledo blade had been his companion through good fortune and ill from the very first day that he had landed in France, over four years before; and that night it had served him supremely well. For the sake of another few moments he could not bring himself to abandon it.

The light of torches now came from the stable end of the courtyard. Above him shouts and cries still rent the stillness of the night. Answering shouts came from the grooms and ostlers only a hundred paces away, as they streamed out into the yard. But Roger ignored both them and de la Tour d’Auvergne’s frantic appeals to hurry. Swerving as he ran he dashed towards the porch, flung down Count Lucien’s gilded rapier and snatched up his own plain but deadly blade.

As he leapt down the steps the crowd of stablemen were only fifty paces from him; but de la Tour d’Auvergne had now drawn his sword, and stood ready to come to his assistance. A moment later the two friends were running side by side for the coach.

‘Bless you!’ panted Roger, as they ran. ‘’Twas a marvellous thought of yours to bring a coach, and stand by here lest I found myself in some extremity.’

The Vicomte laughed. ‘I can take no credit for that,
mon ami
. I had thought you on your way to England. ’Twas but five minutes back that I heard your voice and that of M. de Rochambeau, raised in altercation, above there—and delayed my departure to learn the outcome.’

As they reached the coach Roger saw that it was only a one-horse hired hackney; but they were still forty paces ahead of the yelling mob of stable hands, and the coachman was on the alert, ready to drive off the instant they were inside it.

Separating for a moment as they reached the back of the coach they sped along its sides. Each seized a door, wrenched it open and, simultaneously, flung themselves into its dark interior. The coachman’s whip cracked, the horse jerked on the traces and the vehicle jolted forward.

Roger stumbled and fell to his knees. As his head went forward it hit a yielding but solid substance. Thrusting out a hand to steady himself it fell upon folds of rich heavy
silk. There came a quick excited cry but, even before he heard it, Roger had recognised the fragrant scent that partially overcame the musty odour of the old hackney. There, in the pitch darkness, sat Athénaïs.

The Vicomte, knowing of her presence, had thrown himself into the place beside her. Levering himself up as the coach turned into the street, Roger dropped on to the seat opposite them. The lamp on the gate lit their faces for a moment and they were both smiling at him.

‘What—what means this?’ he exclaimed, almost overcome with excitement.

De la Tour d’Auvergne’s rich voice came out of the darkness: ‘We are eloping. ’Twas a decision taken on the spur of the moment, but I vow we’ll not regret it.’

Athénaïs’s clear treble followed close upon his words. ‘Nay, may I die if I do! To your inspiration, Monsieur, and your trust in me I’ll owe my escape from the veil.’ She leaned forward and placed a hand on Roger’s knee. ‘And to you, dear miller’s youngest son, for the slaying of the dragon this night we both owe a debt that we shall ne’er be able to repay.’