RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Blue Book, April 1947, with "The King's Jewel"
The strange Sphinx Emerald which Richard had brought home to England from the Crusades was the property of Edward III in this year 1349—a year of triumph because of victory; of terror because of pestilence. And when a beautiful woman coveted the jewel, its tragic power came again to life.
SIR THOMAS JESSOP rode his black mare along the roads toward Norwich with an ever-gathering blackness, blacker than his good mare, surrounding him on all sides. The King had sent him from London; Sir Thomas wished most devoutly that someone else had been sent here into East Anglia, because horrible things were happening here—happening all around and ahead of him.
It was a lovely countryside in this late spring weather, and Norwich was the second greatest city of England, but Jessop had no love for it. He was afraid, and he had good reason for fear. There were no highways in those days, and he had to track from town to town, village to village; in all of them he found death, invisible and pitiless, and the farther he went, the more death he found—it traveled faster than he did.
He had seen the wars in France, but this was different—a different death, more deadly and terrible. One could not escape it, for it struck by stealth. He was a youngish man, strong and stalwart, a good horseman; he had strong features and fine eyes and was said to have a brave future ahead at court. Indeed, his present errand as King's messenger was proof of favor. Because of his very strength, he knew he was afraid, and denied it not. This year, as figured in the Rolls of Parliament and elsewhere, was the twenty-third of Edward III—which is to say, the year of our Lord 1349.
Only a few short months since, Jessop had seen the King enter London in triumph, the greatest man in Europe. England was bursting with such glory and power as she had never before known. France had been shattered at Cressy, Calais had been taken. The King of Scotland lay a prisoner in the Tower. King Edward had been chosen as Emperor of Austria, and had refused the extra crown with contempt. Everywhere in England money burned in pockets and there was wild spending. And now, only a few days north of London, Jessop found himself in a different world, with death grinning at his very elbow.
His errand lay to the Bishop of Norwich. William Bateman, the Bishop, was in France as ambassador, but in his place had left an official named Thomas de Methwold. To this man lay Jessop's errand: to obtain a royal jewel found in the Bishop's coffers—a jewel belonging to the Crown—and to fetch it back to London. A simple errand, apparently. Now, with Norwich close ahead, fear bestrode the roads acutely. He felt it athrob in him. True, the pestilence—some sort of Oriental plague—had been bad in London before he left, and was said to be abroad in some of the shires. But this—this was worse than anyone had dreamed, and worsening daily!
A ghastly chain of death was working inland from the coast—village and town and manor linked by invisible fingers. Jessop drew up at the inn of a village just outside Norwich, and the host brought him cheese and ale and gossip. Half the folk here were gone; at Earlham and Wytton and Horsford and other villages, all within five miles of the city, it was said to be worse. Jessop shivered as he ate and gulped and rode on. The city, by all accounts, was a charnel-house. And he was going through this hell because of a jewel—a jewel for the King! The thought brought a croaking laugh from him.
Norwich at last, hovels and palaces, creaking wagons piled with corpses, all going his way, and he soon found out why. The churchyards were all full; the great cemetery was in the cathedral close. The open space between the cathedral and the Bishop's palace and the Erpingham gate on the west, was the goal all day long of wagons piled high with corpses, tilting them over into the mammoth pits made ready. Jessop, like all other comers to the palace, must pass across this graveyard, and pass it he did.
In the vicar-general he sought, he found a most unhappy man. Thomas de Methwold was grim and gaunt and shaken with horror. He received Jessop courteously, read his letter, nodded, and ordered wine served. Then he took Jessop by the arm and led him to the window. He was quiet enough, but in him Jessop sensed frightful tension, nerve-strain almost at the breaking-point.
"It is two months since the Bishop went to France and the pestilence came," he said, pointing to the huge graveyard. "I have lived with that—with the pestilential stench filling the palace! Everyone who comes, must come this way. I'm breaking; I can stand it no longer. The Bishop has a residence in Essex, and I'm going there next week. I was told to stay here, but I'm finished. I've reached the end."
The King's jewel? Oh, yes, it was being fetched. He went on about his duty here, which was to institute new priests in the parishes as fast as they died. Twenty-three in April, seventy- four in May—they were dying faster now. Half the population was gone.
At this point a servant came in with a leather case. Methwold took it and laid it on the table—papers to sign and so forth:
"When are you leaving?" he asked.
"Just as quickly as I have your permission," Jessop said frankly.
"I don't blame you." Methwold sighed and nodded. "Will you pass by Gillingham on your way back? The Bishop's brother, Sir Bartholomew Bateman, lives there. I've certain letters and papers that should go to him; if you'll take them, it'll be a gracious favor."
Jessop agreed gladly. Methwold sent his servant for the letters, and for food and wine for Jessop to take with him. It should be a pleasant stop at Gillingham, he said. Sir Bartholomew was a man of great wealth and standing, had represented Norfolk in Parliament, and so forth. Here was the receipt, and it would be best for Jessop to look at the jewel. He opened the leather case, removed the silk packing, and Jessop saw the Sphinx emerald.
At the moment, it meant little to him—a huge green stone set in a ring of worn gold. Methwold said King Richard had brought it from the Crusades, some hundred and fifty years before. It had been lying in the diocesan treasury here a long time, and had but recently been discovered.
The receipt was signed. Jessop pocketed the leather case; it was not a large object. The letters for Gillingham came, and the packet of food and wine. Jessop was glad; the air here was damnable. His horse had been baited and was ready. He took his leave, and rode away with enormous relief. It was hard not to spur and get out of the plague-struck city at a gallop.
NOON was now a little past; twenty miles to go—sunset
should see him at Sir Bartholomew's mansion. An overnight stop
there, then on to London town. All very simple….
The day was hot. Incredibly, a village where that morning he had breakfasted, was now empty, deserted, abandoned. Reaching toward Gillingham, Jessop sighted wanderers who took to their heels at his approach, and saw frightened faces peering from among the trees in wooded stretches. Sunset brought a glimpse of church towers—Gillingham supported three churches in those fat days—and in the sprawling half-emptied town, Jessop was directed to the manor—a fine lordly mansion amid oak trees.
Death, he perceived, was here ahead of him. His shout had no answer. The doors were wide open. He dismounted and walked into the house. Just inside, he came face to face with a young woman clad in black.
"I was coming to answer your call," she said. "No one is left. I am Eleanor Bateman."
Jessop saluted her. She had an oddly sweet and gracious air, friendly, gladsome, with youthful charm.
"I have brought letters from Norwich for Sir Bartholomew," he said.
"He died last week. In two days nearly everyone died," she said calmly. "My mother, Lady Petronilla, has gone to the nunnery at Bungay. They are dying there, too. If you are not afraid, enter and welcome."
Afraid? He was, but scorned to show his fear; he walked in and produced the letters. She laughed, brought ale and cakes, and they talked. That the two of them were alone in a world of the dead drew them together. Jessop was delighted by her, yet alarmed for her safety.
"Not safe to be here alone," he said. "The woods are full of rascals. Houses are broken into everywhere."
"This is home," she said simply. "Indeed, I do lock up at night! The pestilence is all around, so this is safe as anywhere. Will you remain for the night? You must."
True enough. Stay here or take to the woods! Get her some help from the town? No one would come, she said. She was calm and well-poised. Panic and terror were everywhere, but not in her. Jessop was heartened by her quiet composure.
So he stayed, making himself useful the while.
He buckled in to help her get the place closed and locked; he put up his own horse, carried in water and wood for the cook- fire, and helped her to prepare the supper. Odd work for him, odd work for her, but she was very cheerful about it. She seemed not to mourn her lost father too heavily, and Sir Thomas Jessop found her a singularly charming woman.
They proved to have mutual friends in London, and as they chatted over the meal, he mentioned the reason for his journey. He pulled out the case, and displayed the King's jewel to her. As they inspected it, he himself really saw it for the first time.
It was Lady Eleanor who discovered the tiny Sphinx within the beryl. Jessop knew nothing whatever about jewels. He had a post in court, estates in the west country, and had served in the French wars. He had never heard of the Sphinx, and did not know an emerald from a bobstay—to him, this was a great gaud and nothing more.
Later, after he had retired within a curtained, boxed-up bed that held the day's heat most damnably, he recalled only vaguely that she had kept the pretty gaud to look at it again; then slumber took him.
NOW it chanced Sir Bartholomew had greatly loved manuscripts
and floriated initials and such things; and since his sight was
not too good, had kept a huge glass that would enlarge them for
his pleasure. So Lady Eleanor sat up to a late hour with two wax
tapers burning, studying the emerald through the glass.
The longer Lady Eleanor examined the emerald, the more remarkable and fascinating she found the stone, and at length she put the ring aside to study by daylight.
Further, among the dead knight's treasures was a manuscript copy of the Chronicle of Raimbaut, the Provençal song telling about King Richard's escapades in his Crusade and how the Sphinx emerald had come to him from Saladin, who thought it an evil thing although most wondrous. So, before getting to sleep, the excited chatelaine got this manuscript and read it over; this was the very same stone, of course. The poem put ideas in her head, or else the emerald had done so; and, like the average high-born damsel of her day, Eleanor was not troubled by inhibitions. The King's jewel this might be, but it was certainly the Sphinx emerald as well, the most wonderful thing she had ever seen. And then and there she determined to have it.
While Sir Thomas Jessop lay late next morning in his hot but luxurious feather bed, fondly imagining himself in perfect security, Lady Eleanor was up and long at work with enlarging glass and emerald, verifying the very strange things she had discovered the previous night. There was a Sphinx within the stone, yes—a tiny yet perfect figure, formed of the angular bubbles and tiny flaws occurring in all emeralds. This was of course mere creative chance.
But, far more, this stone possessed a singular power—a power over her mind.
This was not mere imagination either. It captivated her, but this captivation was an obsession, almost a frenzy. Those green depths, those sparkling, winking vistas shown under the enlarging glass, not only appealed to her, they dominated her. She could not resist them. She felt a furious impulse to keep this ring for herself at any cost, to make it her own and jealously keep it. As the green facets sped refracted lights to her brain, the stone spoke to her. She had never heard of auto-hypnosis, but she had actually hypnotized herself with the jewel. From unknown depths of her nature, hitherto unguessed, had been wakened things that held her powerless. She must have this gem—she must!
Nothing strange or fanciful about this. The Sphinx emerald was famed in history for just such workings—perhaps because of its delicate refraction and its odd little figure, it appealed irresistibly to the imagination. Lady Eleanor was therefore scarcely to blame if she found in the stone a jeering, malignantly powerful attraction that hinted delightfully wicked ideas.
WITH the sun came heat; the day would be a bad one…. Jessop
crawled from the huge bed, shuddered at sight of his stained,
dusty traveling attire, went to the window and glanced into the
courtyard below. A well was there, with a stone border, a wheel
and bucket, and a huge stone trough into which Lady Eleanor was
drawing water. She wore a long white gown girt with a golden
belt, and had her luxurious hair in two long braids.
"Good morning!" Jessop called. "That water looks attractive. If you'll go away somewhere, I'm tempted to bathe."
She laughed brightly. "All right. I'm getting some water for the kitchen. In a moment you can have the place to yourself and welcome."
Presently she filled a pan and departed, Jessop, who still had the decaying pestilential fumes of Norwich in his nostrils, flung his riding-cloak around him and found his way to the courtyard. He drew more water into the big horse-trough, then doffed his cloak and plunged in. The dip was delicious and made a new man of him. He emerged, donned his cloak, got back to his room and dressed.
He found her in the huge-beamed kitchen, setting a meal on the table there. She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, in usual fashion; she was cheerful, even gay. She had fed and watered his horse, and the two remaining to her in the stables, she said. Since both of them were hungry and the morning was getting late, they sat down at once to the meal she had prepared.
"Well, what to do?" queried Jessop when hunger was eased. "Cannot I see you to some safe place, or will your mother and servants return?"
She shrugged. "You know as well as I do."
"Then I suggest that you collect some clothes and valuables. Load one horse, ride the other, since you have two. I'll see you safe to London or where you will. Eh?"
She reflected. "Yes, I think that will be best. But not at once—in a day or two. I must get things together, you see. You'll not mind delay?"
Jessop laughed. "Would I object to spending a day or so in this pleasant place, rather than face the hell of the countryside? Hardly. With this hot weather, the pestilence will grow worse, I fear. Can't I induce servants to come from the town?"
"No, and they're not needed," she said. "I'm capable. I don't want the poor frightened things. But I would like to have my father's strong-box. It's in the strong-room, up at the east end of the house, and I can't lift it."
"Show me the place," said Jessop.
She nodded. "Very well. Later."
"I forgot to get the King's jewel back from you last night."
She gave him an odd look. "Let me keep it while we're here. I like to play with it. Must the King have it? He has so many!"
"He's devilish intent on getting it, for some reason," Jessop replied carelessly. "And, as I'm responsible, he'll get it. But play with it if you like. It pleases you?"
"Truly, it would please anyone, Sir Thomas. Have you been to the French wars?"
THEY talked of many things—their lives, themselves. The
house was an island that shut out the world of death and
desolation; it was their own and a refuge. Jessop talked of the
war in France, of London, of the court, of the west country that
he loved. From her he heard much about books, of which he knew
nothing, and quiet country living. She made him tell of the great
Cressy battle of two years gone, and they spent the morning very
pleasantly.
Now, Thomas Jessop was no fool; in fact he was a shrewd and able man; but he had no reason for the least suspicion, and he was charmed by this young woman, and more charmed the more he saw of her. That she liked him was evident. She was well-bred, had a thoughtful manner yet was merry withal, and was highly efficient. She was talking to him about getting some of her father's Flemish wine out of the cellar, and cooling it in the well, when a pounding at the front entrance drew them both. A traveler was there—a sweaty man on a sweaty horse, seeking his way to Yarmouth.
He would not dismount; terror had him by the hair. Fulk was his name—a London merchant. He bore terrible news: The pestilence was taking a third of the people there, and was sweeping all the eastern shires like a whirlwind. Fulk accepted a cup of ale, got directions, then went his way. Jessop closed the doors and looked at Lady Eleanor.
"Things are going from bad to worse," he said. "The country is perishing."
"Then stay here. The larder is stocked. Why depart?"
"I must," he said. "My errand. I cannot fail. I'll take you to the King."
"As you like," she replied. "Day after tomorrow we can leave; no hurry."
This unexpected contact with the outside world had shaken them both; she was white and horrified by Fulk's story.
"Get the wine, quickly," she said. "Come. I'll give you a pitcher and show you the way. The cellars are deep and dark."
She got a pewter pitcher and a candle and led him down into the cellars. These were dingy and crowded. The wine-cask stood near a central pillar. Close to it was a huge vat of copper-bound wood on a tall and shaky scaffolding. She put down the candle on the floor and gave him the pitcher.
"There you are—I must go feed the fowl," she said, and departed.
Jessop worked at the spigot, but it ran only with a dribble, so he set the pitcher under it and turned to examine some flitches of bacon hanging at one side. He had just reached them when he heard a scraping noise. Then came a tremendous blast of sound, and he was knocked sprawling. The candle was out.
He was hemmed in by fallen objects. He shouted repeatedly. Finally Lady Eleanor appeared, with a lighted candle, coming to his aid. He saw that the great vat had tumbled over smack upon the wine-cask. The pewter pitcher was a bent mass of metal.
"Rats must have gnawed the supports," she said, helping him to get clear. "Had you been just there—"
Jessop shivered. She was badly upset by his danger. Once out of the cellar, she lost her composure, clung to him, wept, then with shaky laughter remembered that the spigot of the wine-cask must still be turned on, and fled to take care of it. She came back with the pitcher and they got a couple of mugs of wine from the bent mass. Over this, the adventure ended in laughter. But all Jessop now remembered was how she had clung to him; it was a warming kindly memory.
"You spoke of a strong-box," he said.
She shook her head.
"Not now—let it wait." With this, she produced the ring and its great pale emerald, put it on her hand, and began to peer into it. He watched her play with it and was amused by her intent absorption. The thought began to take shape in his mind that she would be a pleasant companion, would make a good wife. She must inherit solidly from Sir Bartholomew, the family was notable, her uncle was Bishop of Norwich. It was all a very happy thought indeed, well worth considering. And it was high time, he reflected, that Tom Jessop was marrying and settling down. With her father so lately dead, however, it was not a subject to broach just now.
They ate sparingly of noon meat; the day was hot and lifeless. She showed him over part of the house: the library, a rare thing to find at that day but not interesting to him, and the armory where the mail and bows and weapons were kept. The chapel was closed. Sir Bartholomew had died there. They stood at the entrance of the room and looked in. She was close to him, almost touching him.
The high-boned turn of her cheek, the curve of her lashes, the firm lips and the white throat, held his gaze. She turned her head a little and her eyes came to his; her lips smiled, but her eyes did not, and it puzzled him. She held up her hand, and on it he saw the Sphinx emerald.
"I must have it—I must!" she murmured. "You must find a way."
One part of him was tempted terribly, so expressive was her face. She was his for the asking, he realized; with that stone, he could win her on the spot. But the hard, practical side of him rebelled. He had been raised in a stern school, and was adept at crushing down the importunities of the flesh.
"The King must have his own, sweet lady," he said.
At his words, a flash lit her eyes, their tenderness departed, and she turned away. Her nostrils quivered, as her breath came rapidly.
"You prate too much of the King," she rejoined.
"I swore him loyalty," said Sir Thomas. "I keep my vows—that is the family motto."
"So much the worse, then, for you." She laughed a little and swung around. "Well, I must get my things together. The house is yours; be comfortable. Later, when it's cooler, we'll go to the strong-room. Really, I'm grateful for having your strength to help me. I could never handle those great weights."
She touched his arm—a massive arm, trained to swing the sword and ax—and smiled at him; again the smile was on her lips, not in her eyes. But Jessop did not notice this, for her touch quickened his pulse. On swift impulse he reached out to take her by the shoulders. She laughed merrily and slid from between his hands like a wraith, leaving him at foolish stance.
"Your chivalric training, my fair knight, is far too good," she said as she slipped away, and perhaps her words held more than one meaning. "However, you may have one more chance to reconsider—so, until later!" She kissed her hand to him and was gone.
Jessop grunted. "Truly, women are vixens until they marry and have a house full of brats!" he muttered angrily. Then, thankful for something he really understood, he swung off to the armory and began a delighted investigation of the armor and weapons, which detained him a long while. He did not pretend to understand Lady Eleanor, but all the same he found her pleasantly full of promise. She would make a good wife, he thought again.
LATER he visited the stables and curried his black mare, found
equipment for the two Bateman horses, and emptied a bucket of
water over his head to cool him. He was shaking the water out of
his hair when, without the least warning, he heard a sound he had
often heard in France—the curt twang of a taut bowstring
loosed.
By sheer instinct and habit, he dropped, every muscle relaxed. He heard the whir and breath of a shaft almost touching him; then the cloth-yard arrow struck the stone curbing of the well and shattered into flinders. Strength had drawn that bow! Someone was in the house, shooting at him—next instant, he was up and running, his brain working fast. No second shot; a trained bowman would have sent two more shafts through him before he had gained his feet. Some country rascal, some lout of the town, had broken in to plunder the manor! A fair shot too; that shaft would have transfixed him, but for his quick drop.
Next minute he was in the house and plunging into room after room, knife in hand. He found only emptiness. There was no sign of anyone. He reached the stairs going to the upper rooms and came face to face with Lady Eleanor.
"What's wrong?" she exclaimed. "And a knife, too—"
"Someone took a shot at me from the house; I was at the well," he said. "There's some rascal in here!"
"Then he's not upstairs," she replied. "I've been in sight of the stairs—going through my wardrobe. Have you looked in the cellars? Here, I'll lend a hand. We'll go over the place carefully."
She produced a knife of her own, a jeweled bodkin that would scarce have killed a thrush, and flung herself into the search. They found no one; but she called him suddenly and pointed to an open window in the dining-room, one used to let out fire-smoke in cold weather. And the bows in the armory were at sixes and sevens.
"There's the way he went," she declared. "His shot failed and he went in haste. Someone must have left this window unlatched. A town rascal, eh?"
Jessop agreed, but took a candle into the cellars none the less, found no one, and gave up any further search.
Lady Eleanor found some wine, and they desisted from their labors, sitting over the cups. This happening pointed up the peril to a lone woman staying here, as Jessop made plain, and she nodded soberly.
"You are right, Sir Thomas. Think you we had better leave tomorrow, instead of the day after? I can be ready if you so decide."
"It's best," he said. She laughed and held out her hand.
"Then let me borrow that stout knife of yours. I must cut some thongs that are shrunken into my chest of clothes and won't come open. Then we can look at the strong-room and get my father's money-box."
He gave her the knife. She put it down, held up her hand, and admired the emerald.
"I must give this back to you, eh?"
"I fear you must," he said, laughing.
She grimaced.
"Tyrant! Not until we actually leave, then. Will no pretty plea tempt you to give it up—no golden money?"
Smiling, Jessop shook his head. "Tempt me, yes; prevail upon me, no. As I've said, it's the King's jewel. Were it mine, you should have it and welcome."
"The King may be dead. All London may be dead—all England, for aught we know! What if we were alone and the world gone to the grave? Then you'd give it to me?"
"Possibly," said he, mock-serious. "And all the crown jewels with it!"
She laughed, picked up the knife, and pushed back her chair.
"Whew! What heat! Shall I show you the strong-room? It must be stifling in there, far too hot to get the box now, but you'll know where it is."
They came to the stairs, which had a solid carved rail of Flemish work. There she stumbled, caught at the rail, and half drooped over it. Jessop's hand stayed her; she clung to his arm.
"Sorry; perhaps it was the wine—I feel all gone," she said faintly.
"It's the heat. You probably need a good dose of greens," he said prosaically. But he did not feel at all prosaic. He held her against him and his pulses were pounding.
She twisted about slightly and looked up into his face. Her fingers touched his cheek caressingly. Her voice was low, gentle, muted.
"So strong! Why must you be hard, unyielding? Life could be so rich, so sweet, if you would let it be!"
"I? Why, what have I done?" he said hoarsely.
"Denied me. The jewel is wonderful; it has shown me magnificent things, my dear knight. We could go to Scotland from here. No one would ever know. Probably the King is dead, and half the court. The emerald on my hand, you in my heart, life beginning anew for us—all sweet and fair. None of the ghastly death that lies all around us, that steals ahead of us in the night—"
Her voice wove a magic spell that weakened him. Truth was in her words. Why, she was offering him the very thing he had been pondering: herself in marriage, away from this horrible pestilence His hands tightened upon her slim warmth. His heart pounded.
"I am so weak against you," she went on, with truth. "Yet together, with the great emerald our friend, we could be so strong!"
He came to sudden life. It was the emerald she wanted, not him.
"Don't tempt me, sweet lass," he said. "I keep my vows—aye, so I do. You don't know what you're saying. Here, now!" He lifted her a little, set her on her feet, and smiled. "Come along and we'll look at the strong-room, then step down to the garden and forget all such pretty nonsense!"
A sigh escaped her, an impatient sound. She turned, took hold of the rail, and stepped up, with a complete change of mood that astonished him.
"Very well. I have the keys here. The room's all of oak; my father built it for safety. None shall ever break in or out, said he, not the strongest!"
He followed, wondering at her. She had a bunch of huge keys that had hung at her belt. She came to a door and paused there, working at a lock. A massive bar of oak was in place, and he lifted it away at her bidding. She swung open the door, and hot air like a furnace-breath smote them.
"Such heat! No one can live there long," she murmured.
Jessop pushed past her and peered around. Here it was quite dark. The house had windows set with thinned and translucent horn; there was one such here, set up high, but it was long and narrow, not six inches wide, and closed fast. He had a vision of massive beams. The wall-studding was massive too, great oaken posts—
He heard a click as the door closed and the lock caught.
For an instant he thought nothing of it, until he heard faintly the scrape as the oak bar was settled into its socket outside. The sound reminded him of the scrape he had heard just before the vat fell. It startled him. He sprang at the door, assailed it, shouted—but only silence responded. Incredibly, she had locked him in!
He was slow to realize this, but it became evident soon enough. Already the intense heat had him in a lather of sweat. He jerked at his clothes, then assailed the door with frantic fury, cursing, shouting, promising, threatening. His spasm of violence gained him nothing save exhaustion.
He steadied, ceased his useless effort, and looked around. The little room was empty. Nothing was in it—no strong-box, nothing. The heat was intolerable; it burned his lungs. He ripped off his clothes, stripped to the buff, then approached the window. His knife—she had taken it! Clinging to the wall, he reached the window and found it nailed fast. He pounded at the thin sheets of horn with his fists, and broke one out. The breath of air was refreshing. It steadied him. He looked out, saw leaves of an oak.
His brain cooled, and he let himself down, began to think.
This had been done on purpose. She had planned it; but why, in God's name? "You may have one chance to reconsider," she had said. Was that the chance, on the stairs? Surely she would not murder him, to get that green stone?
He realized then that he had hit on the truth: that scraping sound before the vat fell—she must have drawn some cord that made it fall! That arrow—she must have been the bowman! She had no strength to cope with him, so she had used her wits, was using them now. He broke into a storm of cursing and fury, hurled himself at the door again, finally clambered up to the opening in the window and gasped in fresh air.
Get out by this window? The thought was folly; a bird might leave, but not he. A look around the little room brought despair; there was no tool, no weapon of any sort. She had him here, and he was safely stowed. Two days or three of this—the idea made him sweat. He spied the roofing: Solid beams, sheathed with lead outside. He had noticed the lead sheathing on the roof as he approached the house, he remembered.
He dropped to the floor, streaming with sweat. The afternoon had been half gone when he came here. Night would bring relief—He cocked his head at a slight brushing sound outside the window. Leaves, twigs—an oak must have grown up against this place. He could hear the branch brushing again; evidently a breeze had sprung up.
Stretching out on the dusty hot floor, he looked up at the roof and got his thoughts in order. She wanted to be rid of him, yes. This was the third attempt. The emerald would be hers, then—all this for an emerald? A wonderful stone, she had said; she was mad about it. Sometimes jewels did that to people. He had heard someone at court talking about the subject. People did go stark mad, sometimes, over jewels.
"I'll be stark mad in another day of this heat, too!" he muttered. "The damned room's an oven, no less—well, I must get out of here this night, or I'm a dead man. How to do it?"
He stared up, unseeing, trying to figure some way. The window made a break in the wall, but his hands could make no effect upon it, except to punch out the horn. The sly puss, to take his knife so coyly! She had figured craftily too: He would be accounted dead of the plague, when he did not return, and no search would be made.
What was that—a stick?
He focused upward, where something out of line caught his eye among the rafters: A short, straight line. Aye, a stick of some sort, left by the builders. Could he gain a cross-beam, he might reach it. He stood up, feeling withered and dried out by the heat. With a spring, he could get his hands to the beam.
He sprang—he got a grip, tried to pull himself up. After a struggle, he made it, but the rough oak beam was covered with splinters that dug into his chest and stomach. No matter—he was up, had his leg over the beam, then rose to his feet. A stick, nothing more—a stout two-inch stave of old hard oak. He got it down, then sought the floor again and began clawing out splinters while the daylight lasted. Already it was waning, the heat was lessening.
BEFORE dark came, he was at the window, scanning it closely,
examining every joint of the wood, getting it fixed in his mind.
He looked out and saw the oak branch close to hand, a scant foot
away, and fixed that in his mind, too. Thirty feet above the
ground would be an unwanted fall.
Then, poised and agonized by both clinging and exerting effort, he fell to work.
He could effect nothing; this was his first sad discovery. After a long while he ceased work, rested, and then in the dark began afresh. This time he forced out the panels of horn and attacked the little cross-pieces of the window. One shattered, then another. The frame gave slightly, that was all.
Another rest. He was certain of one thing—this was the only chink in the solidly built room. Not with an ax could he hope to get through the door, for all the steely strength of his arms and shoulders. Back in his niche once more, he pried away, slowly, carefully. A creak, a slight splintering, rewarded him after a while.
He had to rest anew; not even his strength could long endure the effort.
He dressed, since it was now cool night, and returned to work. He had to be careful not to break the little stout stick; luckily, it proved stouter than the window casing. This creaked more and more, finally splintered and gave the full opening of six inches. Not enough. Another two or three inches, and being slim-built he might pinch through. But how to get that extra space?
He fingered the casing over and over, and at length his fingers discerned a slight upward give in the outer shell of oak. He set the stick to it. The board, probably loosened by rain and weather, gave a little more. He worked at it until he had to drop, exhausted, to the floor and recuperate.
WHEN at length he returned to the work, the board gradually came loose and finally clattered off the side of the house. He explored feverishly with his hand.
The opening was no wider than before.
This was a facer; it nearly knocked him out. At length he pulled himself together and came back to the window. Nothing gained, indeed, but now he had access to another board, and gradually pried and worked at this until it gave a bit. All the sad dark work over again, endless in the night, a fumbling effort without eyes—until suddenly, just as he was on the point of giving up in blank despair, there came a great creak and the board was loose. Space! He might even get through!
This put new life into him. He finished dressing, rested a bit, climbed back to the window and made a determined effort to emerge. His head went through the gap. His shoulders followed and stuck; cloth shredded away, then he moved on. The oak leaves brushed his face. He was through to the waist, but stuck again. His hands found the oak branch. He made shift to pull his hips through, at some cost to clothes and skin, and got a grip on the main oak branch. With this safe hold, he wriggled through somehow, then had a terrific struggle to maintain his hold on the oak branch.
In the midst of this he began to laugh.
It all struck him as ludicrous. He, a veteran of the French wars accustomed to the din of ax and sword on mail, the whistle of bolts and the trumpets of battle—fighting a strife to the death with a girl, crawling about attics and skirmishing with oak trees like a farm boy! It was funny, yet it was damned serious too. He managed eventually to reach the dark tree, felt his way down, lost his hold and fell the last ten feet, but landed unhurt on the sward, scratched, breathless and triumphant.
He lay there a while beside the black bulk of the house, until a noise reached him and he sat up, incredulous. It came again, faint but distinct: a rousing fusillade of oaths in Norman- French. After this sounded a woman's quick startled cry, Lady Eleanor's voice, filled with terror; it was ended abruptly, and all was silence.
From the house, by God's wounds—from within the house! Jessop came to his feet. Everything was dark here, but he went scrambling around to the front. He was seeing his way in the starlight, now. Something black was near the entry—two horses tied fast. A dim light showed at a window upstairs, then moved away. Two horses—two men here! The front door was fast shut, but the side lattice swung open, the same which Eleanor had pointed to as the way of the supposed bowman's escape. Jessop went to it. Must be late, perhaps past midnight, he thought. Well, he could not leave her at the mercy of two rascals—and there was the King's jewel, too. He must get that.
Before anything else, he must get a weapon. No hard task.
He scrambled through into the house, listened, heard nothing. All was dark here, but he knew his way well enough, and headed for the armory. Passing the stairs, he caught a chuckling laugh and a hoarse jest from above, but paused not. He had his mind's eye on a sword he had seen, beautiful of work and balance, a gift to Sir Bartholomew from the City of London. He could put his hand right on it, dark or no dark.
The doors were closed. He made some noise but cared not. Here was the armory. Knowing the spot on the wall, he reached for the sword, but struck a helm and sent it clattering and clashing to the floor. No matter—he had his hand on the sword now, and brought it down from its perch, and bared the blade.
"Well, that's better! Now I'm myself again," he muttered.
He started out of the room, only to hear steps on the stairs and a voice.
"I tell ye there's someone about down here, Wat! Hang your lanthorn on that hook yonder. I'll keep mine."
So they had heard him. He looked and saw them at the foot of the stairs. One was hanging a lantern on a hook projecting from the wall. The other held his light. Both had swords bared; they were burly, leather-clad men, obviously army veterans out for plunder.
"Sheathe swords, lads," said Jessop. "Easy does it, now—we'll not harm you if you're peaceful folk—"
An explosion of startled oaths, as they sighted him in the hall. The one with the lantern plunged for him.
"At him, Wat!" rang out the voice. "Around back—I'll take him i' front—"
"Ah, you fool!" said Jessop, and engaged the blade reaching for him. A savage hot fury took hold of him; the sword in his hand came alive, clashed the seeking blade aside, slashed the arm that held it, slashed again at the shoulder and cut into that—then, as the man screamed and cursed and fell back, Jessop turned to meet the attack of the one called Wat, who was in upon him from the side. Stouter work here, for Wat was a swordsman of skill, but skill availed him little against Jessop's trained hand and hot fury. The London sword slipped from the leathern coat, and slipped again, but the third time it bit and the blade sheared in, drove down once more and the keen edge went home through neck and shoulder. Wat died there, and Jessop looked to see the first man scrambling out past the lattice. He let him go.
Eleanor? No sign from her. Jessop called and had no reply. He took the fallen lantern, leaving the other on its hook, and climbed up the stairs. The second room he glanced into proved to be hers. She was lying across a couch—she had fainted, he thought. He went in and held up the lantern, and his heart stopped.
SHE lay in her night-shift, and the jeweled handle of her
little bodkin dagger, that would scarce kill a thrush, protruded
from her side. She was dead. Jessop looked at her for a long
moment. Realization chilled him, steadied him. She must have
killed herself with the bodkin, probably while struggling with
those two ruffians. He leaned over and touched her hand; it was
still warm. How piteously lovely she looked! She would make a
good wife, he had thought; memory of his errant urgings spurred
at him harshly. That slim fairness would delight no man now.
On the couch he saw a little open leather box, and he roused—the King's jewel! Where? He glanced around. Everything in the room was ransacked and disordered. He came back to her and looked; her hands were clenched, and on one of them he saw a golden band. She had turned in the emerald, had clenched her hand upon the stone. He reached down, and for an instant she seemed to resist him slightly, in death as in life. Then her fingers came open.
Gently, he removed the green-glinting jewel for which she had schemed, for which she may have died. He put it within the case, pocketed this, and picked up the lantern. He paused, went to his knee, and said a short prayer. Then he kissed her hand, rose, and strode out of the room, and on out of the house, to where the black mare awaited him.