"I pray your grace," urged Achanna, starting forward.
"Dost think I will permit this Flemish flouting-jack to make a jest of me?" said the duke furiously.
"Nay, mein Herr – Gott in himmel! I made no jest of you," said Ludwig, unwilling by a brawl to frustrate his own private objects, and future profit.
"Very well – very well – carbonado him if you please, but trouble me not on the subject," replied Albany, with an air of ennui, as he drained his cup again.
"This process of yours will certainly kill our man," said Achanna, in a low voice, as Albany sank his head on the table, already overcome with wine.
"Not immediately," replied the count, with a diabolical grimace. "My Brabanciones will tie him naked on an old bare-backed horse – place a blazing brand under its tail, and then set it loose, mad with pain and fear in the forest among wolves. Der Teufel! a rare thought! but not a word of all this to your soft-hearted duke of Albany," whispered Ludwig; "I do not think he would admire my rough mode for disposing of a rival. He would be for measuring swords with him quietly, and getting run through the body. But I – der Teufels braden! I have this slash on the face to avenge, and with the assistance of my friends, the wolves of the Waal, I shall do it amply! When Ludwig of Endhoven shows his teeth the wolves laugh!"
The singular cruelty of this proposal almost exceeded the malevolence of Achanna, who had no other idea than having Gray cut off by violent means; but as the victim stood in the path of his lord the earl, and a thousand crowns were the price of his removal, Achanna considered it a somewhat secondary matter how it was effected.
Carl Langfanger was despatched into the city of Bommel, with an accurate description of Gray, and of his Muscovite disguise, and with instructions to inquire at all the hostelries, to discover his present quarters. He was also entrusted with the ring of Murielle, which he was to deliver as his credential, and armed therewith, to request Sir Patrick to meet her near the auberge, named The Forester of Flanders, on the Ameldroyen road; and old Carl, a practised plotter, and most careful rascal, departed with confidence to discover their victim, and arrange the rendezvous.
"Are we safe in trusting this man, Carl?" asked Achanna.
"He is sure as he is secret," replied Ludwig; "I would have gone on this mission myself, but I must beware of that old devil the Dyck Graf; for Duke Arnold of Gueldres has sworn to punish me in the same fashion that Count Peter of Orscamp was punished by Baldwin With-the-Hatchet."
"How was that?"
"The poor count was frequently put to his shifts, as I am, and having fancied two bullocks, which belonged to a widow at Vandal, Baldwin ordered him to be cast in his armour into a cauldron of boiling oil, in the market-place of Bruges, where he perished miserably, before a mighty multitude."
"And Duke Arnold has set a price upon you?"
"A thousand guilders. So you see, my friend, I am of some value to the state."
So Achanna thought, and he began to conceive, that these guilders, if he could earn them, would form a very seasonable addition to the thousand crowns from the earl.
Meanwhile, he had no suspicion that the subtle outlaw with whom he plotted had conceived the idea of luring Murielle to a rendezvous there or elsewhere, by means of the same ring, after her lover had been disposed of; and thus, if the snare proved successful, he resolved to delude alike the duke and the earl, and bear her off for his own purposes to one of those wild forests with which that part of Flanders then abounded; and with all the secret paths, strengths, ruined castles, and lurking-places of which, his predatory life had long rendered him familiar.
Drowsily and tipsily the unfortunate duke of Albany slept, half reclined upon the table. While he was in this position, and during the absence of Achanna for more wine, Ludwig took care of his purse, and some other little matters of value, which he might otherwise have lost; and so night closed in upon the solitary auberge, while Langfanger, its proprietor, was pursuing his inquiries amid the busy streets of Bommel.
CHAPTER XXXV
NIGHT – THE SNARE
'Tis not so. Slowly, slowly dies the night,
And with it sinks my soul down from the point
Where late it stood a-tiptoe. —
Longing for the next evening – the third appointed by the abbot, as the time when he was to meet Murielle again, Sir Patrick Gray sat at the latticed window of his room, gazing listlessly down one of the long and picturesque streets of Bommel, then darkening in the twilight and haze, amid which the lamps were beginning to twinkle in the shops and booths. Seven was tolled from the college bell of the Canonry close by. He started at the sound, and with a glow of pleasure, reflected, that at the same hour to-morrow, he should see and be with her he loved.
While this idea occupied him, the tapster announced a visitor, and Carl Langfanger was introduced. On perceiving a stranger, Sir Patrick experienced some uneasiness, as he believed that his presence in Bommel was unknown to all, save Murielle Douglas and the abbot of Tongland.
In addition to the profits of his wine and beer house, and the little pickings which his secret relations with Count Ludwig enabled him to have, our worthy Carl Langfanger, was ostensibly a farrier and horse doctor, who, by painting and patching up old nags, made them – though the veriest Rosinantes – pass for chargers of spirit and mettle; thus he was so well known at all the hostelries in Bommel, that a short time enabled him to discover the temporary residence of Sir Patrick Gray.
This cunning boor had attired himself in a dark suit of respectable broad-cloth, with a clean white ruff round his neck, and a wooden rosary of portentous size at his right wrist; thus he had all the air of a worthy citizen, though his scrubby black hair was brushed straight down to his small stealthy eyes, and cut off squarely above his long and pendant ears.
"You wish to speak with me?" said Gray, in French.
Langfanger, who had served in several countries, replied readily in the same language: "I have a message to monsieur!"
"From whom?"
"A fair demoiselle," replied Carl, in his most insinuating voice, and a glitter in his cunning eyes.
"Indeed – then carry your message elsewhere – you have come to the wrong quarter, my friend," replied Gray, curtly, as he detected something of the bravo in the air of his visitor.
"But the demoiselle is in distress," urged Carl, with some alarm lest his errand might fail.
"I am not the burgomaster, and knights errant are out of fashion, my friend; but who is she?"
"I know not her name, messire," stammered Carl, who had omitted to inform himself of this rather important particular.
"By whom – and in what manner is she wronged?"
"Mademoiselle said that this ring, which I have the honour to present, would inform monsieur of everything," said Carl, stepping forward.
"This ring," reiterated Gray, becoming suddenly interested and perplexed, on recognizing the trinket he had given to Murielle in other days, at the Three Thorns of the Carlinwark, near Thrave; and he kissed and placed it on his finger, for it was a signal with which he could neither delay nor trifle.
What might this summons portend?
Carl Langfanger, who was smoothing down his obstinate forelock, while estimating the value of the victim's habiliments, replied, that by the safety of his sinful soul, he knew not.
Was she in immediate danger?
He did not know that either; but she seemed in great tribulation.
"You have seen her, then?"
"Within an hour, messire."
"Where – and where does she now await me?"
"Near an auberge —The Forester of Flanders– three miles from Bommel; an auberge of the best character, messire."