The Riddle of the Lost Lover (26 page)

For the third time he'd been obliged to detour around impenetrable clumps of trees and undergrowth and now it seemed to be getting dark. He looked up and found that the sky was hidden by dense branches. It was the trees shutting out the light, not storm clouds as he'd supposed. He had been so lost in thought that he'd not paid sufficient attention to his route; as a consequence, he was completely surrounded by trees and there was no longer a sign of the road. It was the sort of lapse that would have provoked him into dealing any of his subordinates a sharp reprimand. Vexed and frustrated, he informed Bruine that she was being ridden by an idiot and reined her to the left, his sense of direction telling him he wasn't far off his route. Instead of dwindling away, however, the trees and shrubs became ever more dense so that he was forced into more detours and had to acknowledge at last that this was no small patch of woodland, but a forest.

Dismounting, he led the mare back the way they had come. They had left no tracks on the thick carpet of leaves and twigs and he saw nothing he recognized as having passed before. The trees met overhead in a dark canopy, and the quiet deepened to a hush that was oddly oppressive. That he should be delayed by this stupid predicament was infuriating, and he was bedevilled by the awareness that unless he found his way out soon, the rogues following might come up with Kincraig before he did. But with each passing moment the more the trees closed in, the more crushing became the quiet.

He was greatly relieved to come suddenly upon a well-worn path. If people travelled this way he would have to risk asking for directions. Preparing to mount again, he saw Bruine's ears perk up and she stood quite still, gazing ahead fixedly. Faint sounds drifted on the air … strange sounds; a low bubbling sort of moan, followed by a very soft and chilling ripple of laughter. He saw something from the corner of his eye and, looking up, beheld a pale shape that floated among the branches. The hair on the back of his neck began to lift. For most of his life he had scoffed at tales of the supernatural, but a recent and uncanny experience at his ancient manor house in Dorsetshire had defied all logic and forced him to revise his opinions. Even so, he drew the pistol from his coat pocket and walked forward boldly. “Come down here, else I shall fire,” he shouted.

The result was chaos. Howls and oaths rang out. He had a fleeting impression that ruffians were materializing from behind every tree. The pistol was smashed from his hand. He struck out instinctively and a yelp added to the uproar. Brutal fists grabbed him. He twisted free and landed another solid right, but they were too many. Blows were raining at him. Trying futilely to protect his head, he was down. Boots spurned him. A fierce voice yelled “Kill the filthy spy!”

He thought numbly that he had been found out, and for a moment the scene dimmed before his eyes.…

They were hauling him up again. Peering dazedly, he did not seem to distinguish military uniforms.

Someone groaned, “Break his accursed nose! He has broken mine!”

Another voice exclaimed, “I have seen him. This, it is the same wild man who was attacking everyone on the
Saucy Maid!
”

Vespa was shaken hard, which hurt his head. A harsh voice snarled, “Speak—curse you! How did you find us? Who sent you?”

But when he tried to explain they were evidently offended by his halting words, and he was shaken more violently.

“He is foreign! Listen to his ugly accent!”

“Kill the
saleté!
”

“Cut his lying throat!”

Glancing up, Vespa saw something white hurtling at him. “Hey!” he croaked, and threw out his arms.

For what seemed a long time, he did not hear them any more. Then, a boyish voice was crying, “But he
saved
me, Papa! He saved my whole life!”

Vespa opened his eyes, and gasped faintly, “Is—is that you—Pierre?”

“It is I. Alain. I was the ghost in the tree. I am a good ghost, but my sheet caught on a branch and I fell. Most bravely you have caught me, monsieur.”

He had…? It had been an instinctive attempt to fend off whatever was falling on him. However … least said soonest mended.…

A great unkempt brute of a man with very long moustachios appeared before him, and growled, “This, it is truth. This
canaille
saved the life of my son. So what now must I do?”

He was the recipient of a chorus of advice on the various and gruesome methods for despatching the spy, and there was no lack of volunteers willing to administer the ‘despatch.'

“If you mean to—to kill me,” said Vespa faintly. “I think you might at least offer me some brandy first.”

This was evidently considered to be a reasonable request. He was dragged to a tree and allowed to lie propped against it while a bottle was produced.

The large father of Alain thrust it at him. “You first, spy. And likely it's your last,” he growled.

It was excellent brandy. Vespa's initial conviction that he had been rolled over by several gun carriages began to fade.

The bottle was taken and they all sat down and stared at him while the brandy made the rounds.

Alain's father demanded, “Why were you fighting everyone on the vessel?”

Simplifying matters, Vespa answered, “A rogue stole my lady.”

They appeared to accept this as logical enough, but,

“Who sent you to spy on us?” snarled a fierce young man with very black hair and dense jet eyebrows.

“Nobody. I was trying to find—”

A thin bald man cried angrily, “Why do we talk and talk? He will lie, whatever we ask. It is truth that he caught your son, Jules, but he cannot be allowed to go free, you know this!”

There were shouted responses—most approving.

It seemed to Vespa that he was trapped in another of the very strange dreams he'd experienced while convalescing from his war injuries. Here they all sat, in this hushed forest clearing, the birds twittering blithely, Bruine placidly munching at the grass and these men contemplating his murder even as they shared their brandy with him. But it was not a dream, and he knew quite well that his life hung in the balance. He thought of Consuela and prayed he would see her dear face again.

A tall man with a deeply lined face said with authority. “Léon is right. Restore him to his feet for the trial, Jules.”

The boy rushed forward. “No! You cannot! Papa! He saved—”

Jules said gruffly, “Go to the tents, boy. This is man's work.”

Vespa was pulled to his feet, and the boy was led away, protesting bitterly.

The tall man said, “If you have any last words, monsieur, this is the time.”

“I work for the Chevalier de Coligny,” said Vespa, and seeing their scowls added hurriedly, “I regret if my speech is confusing. I was born in Italy and my Bretagne is not good.”

“How did you find us?” demanded the man called Léon.

“I wasn't trying to find you. I am not here to spy on you, but to try and find the man who goes about collecting carpets.”

This drew derisive hoots and the consensus that even a pompous ass like the Chevalier de Coligny would have no use for a lunatic. A husky individual wielding a gory handkerchief reiterated, “He broke my nose, the villain! Kill him!”

“He saved Alain's life,” argued Jules, scowling.

“You'll not exchange it for mine!” The eyebrows of the fierce young man met like a bristling black bar across his nose, and he flourished a long knife and glared at the prisoner murderously.

His sentiments won enthusiastic approval. Trying to speak, Vespa was shouted down, and rough hands wrenched his arms behind him.

“Are you all gone mad?” A newcomer pushed his way through the angry group. “I could hear you a mile back. What is all this—
Jacques!
”

Vespa's uninvited overnight guest gazed at him in astonishment.

“Paul!” he said breathlessly. “For Lord's sake, tell these fellows—”

The tall man demanded, “You know this one, Paul?”

“But of a certainty,” said Paul. “We fought in the war together. This is the man who shared his fire with me when you found me last night, Raoul. What are you doing here, my Jacques? Did you come seeking me?”

The tension eased, there were mutterings of relief and the bruising hands relaxed their grip.

Vespa said ruefully, “I wish I could say I had. The truth is, I was trying to avoid a pair of ruffians who were following me—at least, I think they were. I dodged into some trees, and suddenly found myself in this forest. I'm no woodsman and in no time I was blasted well lost!”

“They all wanted to kill him, Uncle Paul,” cried Alain, wriggling through the onlookers. “And he saved my life!”

Aghast, Paul picked up the boy and hugged him. “This is so, Jacques?”

It did not seem the moment for absolute truth. Vespa said modestly, “Well, I—er…”

“He caught me,” declared Alain proudly. “I was at that time the ghost of King Arthur, but I fell from the tree, and Monsieur Jacques caught me, and I knocked him down, and then they all tried to—”

“Be still,” said his father. “What is your business here, Monsieur Jacques?”

“It is as I told you. I am sent to find the crazy man who collects rugs.”

Alain said shrilly, “Ah! My friend!”

“Why?” asked Léon suspiciously.

Vespa shrugged. “I do not know. I think it is Madame who wants him.”

“Ah … Madame…!” Grins, nudges, and knowing nods were exchanged.

“If I don't find him,” sighed Vespa, “I shall be in much trouble.”

“If Madame wants him and you
do
find him, the chevalier will be in much trouble,” quipped Léon.

This was received as a great witticism.

Alain started to jump up and down and, over the howls of laughter, shouted, “I know where he is! He has heard of a flying carpet and is even now on his way to buy it! He promised to take me for a ride in the sky when he gets it!”

“They should clap up that one, before he does someone harm,” grunted the bloodthirsty young man, sheathing his knife.

“Indeed, they may do so,” agreed Paul. “Those fellows who ask all the questions—I told you of them, Jacques—they also are seeking your Crazy Rug Collector. They mean to collect
him,
I think.”

Vespa said, “Then I must find him first. Can you direct me, Alain?”

The boy looked uneasily at his father. “I can tell you he took the St. Just road,” he said. “But I cannot guide you out of the forest, monsieur. It is—the ghosts, you see. And there are the menhirs, which I do not at all like.” He added solemnly, “One chased me, on a time.”

This claim was greeted with scornful laughter, and Jules said with a broad grin that he wished he might have seen a great block of stone chase anyone.

“You must not make up the stories,
mon petit chou,
or they might come true,” warned Paul. “I'll show you the way, Jacques. The ghosts do not trouble me.”

Curious, Vespa asked, “What ghosts?”

They all stared at him. Jules said, “Why, Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, of course.”

Bewildered, Vespa said, “Here? But I thought—” He cut off his knowledge of the British legend hurriedly.

“Long ago, they lived here,” said Alain. “And Merlin, also—eh, Papa?”

Jules nodded. “I think Monsieur Jacques knows little of the Forest of Paimpont and of our great King Arthur. But then, I know nothing of Italy, so there you are. Go with Paul, monsieur.” From somewhere he produced an intriguing bottle which he slipped into Vespa's saddlebags. “And—thank you for my son's life.”

Bruine was led up and, having taken a solemn oath never to betray their meeting place, Vespa mounted cautiously, very aware of the various bruises he had collected. He turned to the individual named Raoul. “When you came to my camp last night Paul told me you'd seen men asking a lot of questions. By any chance did one of them ride a black horse?”

Raoul nodded. “
Mais oui!
There was a man alone mounted on just such a horse. A very fine beast.”

“Ah. And the rider also was seeking the Crazy Carpet Man?”

“No, Monsieur. That was two other men—very wicked ones—the kind who would sell their mother for a bottle of brandy! They rode dapple-grey horses; nice, but not to compare with the black animal.”

“Then what did the owner of the black horse want?”

“He asked about strangers in the district. But he was a stranger himself. A Parisian, I guessed. So I did not answer, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Vespa and, waving goodbye to Alain, followed Paul from the clearing.

*   *   *

Vespa pushed Bruine hard after he left the forest. Soon he could again see Rennes in the distance and was considerably surprised to note how far to the southwest he had wandered. The early afternoon was bleak, a chill wind sent low-lying clouds racing and carried the scent of rain. The road was bustling with traffic. Fretting against all the delays he rode on long after his injured leg had become a relentless ache and his head throbbed as viciously. But he could not ignore the needs of his faithful little mare and, following Paul's advice, he turned off the road at length and walked the tired horse into the yard of a small villainous-looking inn that huddled under a solitary and leafless tree as if trying to hide from the public eye.

The ostler stared blankly and seemed quite baffled by Vespa's accent, but at last shrugged and led Bruine away kindly enough. The innkeeper, a fat little man with crafty eyes and a perpetual smile, ushered the new guest into a spotlessly clean parlour and accepted unblinkingly his explanation of his accent. Vespa relayed Paul's recommendation. The smile broadened, and the innkeeper laid a finger beside his nose and purred that he knew Paul Crozon well, and Monsieur need not be troubled, for it was his habit to ask no questions. There was a fine bed available for Monsieur, in a room he could share with a glassblower who had come from Rome to help with the reconstruction of St. Peter's Cathedral. As Monsieur knew, this cathedral it had survived the great fire only to fall down forty-two years later. “You two sons of sunny Italy will have much to chat about,” he said, beaming.