The Justice of the King Part 38

"Ursula! You! Why are you here? Who is with you?"

"Where else should I be?" she answered between laughter and a sob.

"Did you think I could wait, breaking my heart alone in Amboise?

Besides, there is no danger. Father John is with me, and now we shall be together to the end."

"But the Dauphin?"

"Your orders are cancelled, don't you remember? There is no longer any fear for the Dauphin. And if there was," she added half defiantly, "I would be here all the same."

From the shadow of the pines La Mothe's captor rode slowly forward.

"For what purpose, mademoiselle?"

"To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe will never tell him--that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-be murderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as all France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the most loyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre. My one fear was I might be too late, and all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach Valmy before me."

"But there is no entering Valmy in the dark."

"Monsieur La Mothe's signet----"

"La Mothe, you never told me that."

"Why should I?" replied La Mothe. "I owed you no information. You took your instructions from the King. But, Ursula, you cannot, must not, dare not, go to Valmy. Remember Saxe. The risk would be madness, the danger----"

"Where you go I go," she answered steadily. "Dear, do not try to dissuade me, it would be no use. Let us not fret ourselves in the little time we have. And is the danger less for you than for me?"

"Do you mean," demanded Molembrais, "that the signet will give admission to the King at any hour, day or night?"

"At any hour, yes."

"And we are ready to go," said the girl, ranging her horse by the side of Grey Roland, so that La Mothe was within touch of her hand.

"Neither you nor the priest--La Mothe and La Mothe only," he answered, his voice roughening into pa.s.sion for the first time. "Come, sir, I hold your parole."

"But this does not touch Monsieur La Mothe's parole."

"Mademoiselle, you read my instructions; they have nothing to do with you."

"Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but I believe the King will thank you."

"Flatly, I decline to take you."

"Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not."

"Father!" and in his angry perplexity Molembrais turned, appealing to the priest.

"She is right," answered the Franciscan, speaking for the first time, "and when one is right there is no turning back, no matter what the end may be. Yes," he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly seen in the gloom, "I know you are armed and we are not, but, short of killing me, you can no more turn me back from the right than you can turn back the finger of G.o.d from lifting the sun yonder."

He faced the east as he spoke, and at the sweep of his arm all faced with him. Dawn trembled in birth below the hard rim of the world. The leaden sullenness was colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, but the impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the coming glory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was as if indeed the Divine had clothed itself in visibility, that the troubled in spirit might take comfort, and faith go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid.

Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips the monk sat in silence, like one tranced. "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and the King of Glory shall come in,'" he murmured. Then he roused, straightening himself in the saddle. "Let us ride on. Have no fear, mademoiselle. By the Christ of Love whom I serve you shall taste no harm."

"They will never let you pa.s.s the outer guard."

"A way will open; ride on."

"Well ride, then!" And ride they did, furiously. The fewer sleepless eyes in Valmy the better for his purpose; the surer, too, his chance of escape in the confusion which must follow the King's death. Once only Molembrais looked round.

"Remember your parole. Keep near me, La Mothe!" Then, crouching low, he drove his spurs home and dashed forward at a reckless gallop.

But if he thought to shake off Ursula de Vesc and the Franciscan, he was mistaken. Thanks to the good offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, they had changed horses at Chateau-Renaud, and now their freshness more than balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. Even Father John, the weakest rider of the four, never flinched or fell behind, but, stiff with pain and every joint a living fire from the unaccustomed fatigue, kept his place, second in the troop. Stephen and Ursula came last, side by side. Crossing the Loire the pace slackened, and for the first time speech was possible.

"Stephen, you are not vexed? I could not wait in Amboise eating my heart out, knowing nothing."

"How could love vex me?" he answered as they clasped hands across the current. "But, beloved, I am in terror for you. The King----"

"Hush! do not talk of the King. Father John is right, G.o.d's over all, and I have no fear." The clasp tightened in a message neither could speak. But it was only for a moment; already their horses were scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart.

"G.o.d guard you, Ursula."

"Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye?" For answer he shook his head, but not in denial; none knew for certain how suddenly good-byes might be said in Valmy.

Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La Mothe to close up with him.

"We must keep together now. If I have done my part courteously, help me in return by silence. Remember, no one in Valmy knows of the arrest. Mademoiselle de Vesc and the monk must fend for themselves."

La Mothe nodded agreement. The request was natural. For his part he had no desire to be a target for curious questions. He had no explanation to give, nor was he even certain whether, as Villon said, he knew too much, or was accused of disloyalty in joining the Dauphin's party. As to Ursula, it seemed safer for her to be disa.s.sociated from him in either case; safer, too, that the King should see him first and alone; the heat of his wrath might exhaust itself. So the two rode on ahead, Ursula and Father John following more leisurely. The dawn was as yet little more than a haze of yellow mist.

CHAPTER x.x.xV

THE DAWN BROADENS

While they were still a bow-shot from the walls a hoa.r.s.e voice shouted a command to halt, but Molembrais, holding the signet above his head, called back "In the King's name," and rode on. Every moment of gloom was precious, and a bold a.s.sertion of privilege was his surest hope.

If he appeared to doubt his own credentials, who would believe? There is always a certain willingness to take a man at his own valuation, especially if the valuation be a low one. Waiting for no challenge, and faithful to his policy, he flung himself from his horse at the outer gate with every appearance of haste.

"In the King's name," he cried, scarcely giving himself time to light upon his feet and holding fast by Paul Beaufoy's formula. "To His Majesty, Monsieur La Mothe and I--quickly now."

As he more than half expected, the very importunity staggered opposition.

"His Majesty is asleep; you cannot pa.s.s----"

"His orders are imperative--sleeping or waking--any hour by day or by night. Who is on guard?"

"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre."

"Send for him, then. Stir yourself, my man, and don't stand there gaping like a fish."