The Long Sword by Hunter D'Allard - Chapter 01

1962 Genre: Vintage Paperback / Historical Fiction

In the early part of the 17th century, the powerful nobles in France bitterly rebelled against Cardinal Richelieu's efforts to crush them and to centralize authority in the weak king, Louis XIII, over whom he had extraordinary power. The Cardinal was winning easily when a big Irishman, practically single-handed, upset his plans.

Eoghan of Tyrell, descendant of Irish kings, was huge in stature, his hair was fiery red and he had a nature to match. His fighting and loving were outsize, and Eoghan found plenty of both when he fled to France after rescuing his brother from the Tower of London.

Although politically innocent himself, Eoghan became embroiled in the civil war between Richelieu and the French nobles.

The titled and perfumed ladies of Louis XIII's court eagerly invited him to bed and taught him the arts-and the delights—of passion. But it took an exquisite wisp of a virginal Irish lass to inspire and hold his true love.

CHAPTER ONE

The hills and valleys of France can be the fairest in the world and as gentle as a lovely woman, but this night no man alive would dare to guess it.

The storm blew an icy wind through the Stygian air and wave on wave of pounding rain hammered against the fugitives, against the hunched rumps of their running mounts.

The road could not be seen but only felt as the horses slid and stumbled in the slippery quag, and only the animals' instinct kept them from disaster.

The two riders hardly knew it. They rode in the vacuum of despair, blindly, from habit only, being tired beyond the use of reason. Three days of battle at Montmorency's side, four more of flight had sucked their strength away, and now the storm chattered and howled and whipped them like savages with a captive enemy.

It had one single virtue. It hid them from the cardinal's pursuit.

Stirrup to stirrup they drove on, master and man, and the animals kept the road solely because of the hedges which fenced both sides of the way.

The servant moaned suddenly and lay forward over his horse's neck. He hung there a moment and then began to slide, slowly, exhaustion pulling at his consciousness. The master caught his jacket and slapped a stinging hand across the blur of face and hauled the horses up.

"Monseigneur," Germain's old voice was the only dry thing in the night. "I can't. I'm finished. Go on. Just leave me here."

The count was taller than his servant and twice as young.

He clung to the jacket, holding the man in the saddle and shaking him roughly—that being the only way to keep the other alive. He cursed him.

"Call me Monseigneur again and you'll put us both on our knees for the headsman at Toulouse. And if I leave you here they'll have you on the rack by morning. The inn's got to be close by. My God, there can't be this much of France completely unoccupied."

"If we'd turned south we'd be over the Pyrenees by now.

Safe in Spain. It's warm in Spain, Monsieur le Comte."

A rustle of silly laughter shook the wavering frame.

De Greave jerked at him, and with his free hand loosened the clasp of his own sodden cape and slung it across, over the drooping shoulders, and nearly fell from his saddle himself.

The rain stopped abruptly for an instant and there was a space between the · gusts of wind, and in the little interval they saw ahead the weak, fog-shrouded light.

"There," said the count. "Hold on, old man. It isn't half a mile."

The fury struck again and in the deluge they raced on to the inn yard. Except for their extremity the count would never have entered the foul-smelling slough, and even now he cursed, easing Germain from the trembling horse and stepping stiffly to the mire himself.

He took time to scout the stables. There were no hot horses there, which meant that they were still ahead. Perhaps they'd really lost the men who dogged them. He breathed with relief and returned for Germain. He half carried the servant to the door and grasped the knob. It did not give.

The strength of anger hit him. He drew his sword and banged its hilt against the heavy panel, beating continuously until an uncertain voice came to him across the racket.

"You're too late. We're closed."

The Comte de Greave was famed even among soldiers for his magnificent invective, some claiming that he could out-swear the Marshal himself.

"Open the door, you braying animal."

There were noises inside and the thick oak slab swung inches in. A fat man held it, his wide belly sheeted by a dirty apron which fell also over his right hand. De Greave raised a foot, planted the muddy boot against the door and lunged. The wood sprang from the innkeeper's hand and slammed back, and the innkeeper hauled a cocked pistol into view. De Greave did not so much as hesitate. He let go of Germain and slashed the sword hilt downward on the weapon, shouting in his rage.

"What do you mean closed? This is a public house, pig!

We ride on the king's business. I'll break you on the wheel."

The landlord grabbed his hand and stumbled back. "The king's? Oh lord. Thieves, stragglers from the army, traitors, fugitives, they all come here, Your Honor. How could I tell who you were? I have women guests to protect."

Germain sagged against the door frame. De Greave caught him beneath his armpits and walked him forward.

"Never mind." His voice was still a roar. "Move. Send your hosteler to our horses. Rub them down, blanket them, and in an hour give them grain."

As he talked he piloted Germain across the wide room.

What remained of a fire glowed in the deep ashes of a hearth and he lowered the old servant to the wooden bench before it, his stiff fingers unlacing and pulling off the soaked clothes.

"A blanket here, too." He yelled it at the landlord whose back was just hurrying through the kitchen door.

The groom brought the blanket, sleepily, unhappy as he headed for the yard, and de Greave snatched it, tucking it tight about the shuddering figure on the bench. Then he stormed to the kitchen door, shoved it open and yelled.

"Wine. And none of your damned piquette. Bring us a good Armagnac and some hot food."

He had a glimpse of the fat man and his wife gaping at him from beyond the big table, and snarled at the fear in their doughy faces. But at the same time he felt a little guilty. France was rent by civil wars, with the cardinal trying to break the power of the rebellious nobles and strengthen the central authority of the king. The common people were caught in the jaws, trying not to offend either side, for, when the king's own brother fought against his lord, who knew what to believe? With the breeding of a thousand years of rule de Greave realized that he should not take out his spleen on these poor louts, but just now he was too tired to care. Too tired, too mad, too worried.

He turned back to Germain and knelt, rubbing blood into the old arms and legs until the wine arrived. The landlord helped, then, pouring the clear liquid into a leather cup, holding it to the blue lips, tipping it to spill a few drops at a time down the chilled throat. And he watched de Greave in curiosity as the master fussed over his servant.

The count had been born in a caste which ignored the rights of others, which had sought its glory in knighthood on the battlefields of France. It was not normal that he should so spend his energy on a squire.

But his father had been a dark and handsome stranger who returned only periodically to the estates, and it had been Germain who raised de Greave. Germain had taught him to ride, trained him to arms, found women for him among the serving girls and ridden at his stirrup when de Greave went out with Montmorency. Germain was more than servant to the count.

The landlord shrugged and went again to the kitchen. He came back, a long loaf of crusty bread caught under one arm, a clutch of bottles in the other and a pewter plate with a joint of beef balanced between.

De Greave dragged the long table close to the fire, sat down with Germain and began to eat. Food, wine and heat began to thaw his weariness and thought began to return. Thought brought caution.

Again he hailed the landlord, and when the man appeared he scowled a threat.

"What people are here tonight?"

The fat man raised his shoulders. "Two women only, sir.

I have a room for you."

De Greave nodded. "All right. Now lock the door. And hide our horses well. Let no one else come in tonight."

The man's eyes opened, he started to protest. De Greave stood up, drawing his pistol and the landlord scurried for the door. Even as he reached it it slammed open, knocking him aside, and a tall figure filled the windswept portal.

Germain made a strangled sound. De Greave stood still, searching the dripping face, the bedraggled shape. It was not one of Montmorency's officers, of that he was sure, and barring that he could think only of the cardinal's avengers.

"Stand."

The man in the door stared at him in astonishment. De Greave brought up the pistol deliberately. "I won't be taken." He was not thinking clearly. He squeezed the trigger.

The pistol missed fire, for the priming was soaked by the weather. He held it for an instant, looking at it with fatigue-dulled eyes, then with an oath he flung it aside. He pulled his sword and charged across the room as fast as his weary legs would carry him.

There was no clear purpose behind his action, only the sense that every hand in France was against him, that this stranger must be an enemy to be disposed of as quickly as possible.

The man in the doorway had been caught entirely by surprise. He had stepped into the entry from the pitch blackness of the courtyard, half blinded by the sudden light, to see a man who he could only assume had lost his wits, pointing a pistol at his head.

For an instant he had been certain that he was a dead man, then the pistol missed fire and now de Greave was coming at him with a naked blade.

He drew his own sword quickly. He set himself to meet the rush, parrying the thrust which the Frenchman sent at his breast with a delicate flip of his own blade.

The clash of steel rang through the room. Germain had half risen from his seat as if to come to the count's aid, but although the purpose was there the squire lacked the strength to obey the impulse of his will and he settled back with a groan.

The landlord had been halfway to the door. He spun and fled like a fat frightened rabbit, seeking the shelter of the kitchen, crossing himself as he ran. Nothing like this had happened in his house within a dozen years.

Neither of the swordsmen paid him the least attention.

Both were masters of the blade, but de Greave was near the end of his strength. It was his fortune that his opponent was hampered by a dripping greatcoat whose wool was tripled in weight with the rain.

The stranger swore, his voice a guttural foreign sound.

He had no desire to kill this madman but neither had he any intention of dying for no reason.

De Greave fought in utter silence, conserving what little breath he had. He fought with instinctive cunning, with a desperation which triumphed over the leaden fatigue that bound his muscles.

The fury of the first onslaught passed and neither had the advantage. It would be no quick fight, he saw, for they both fenced carefully, circling, each guarding himself and studying the other for an opening. He fought, with waning strength, but still he fought. Better to die of an honest thrust of steel than be taken by the Cardinal.

He did not see the second figure that suddenly filled the door.

The newcomer was immense. His soaked traveling cloak brushed both sides of the entrance; the crown of his drooping hat scraped the door's top. The heavy plume, a rat tail now of straggling, dripping feathers, hung against long hair that shone a fiery red. The face was huge and the features likewise; the eyes were blue-gray. Germain, watching from his bench, saw their deep smile just before it vanished, leaving them hard as slate.

Eoghan of Tyrell's mouth fell open. He was used enough to surprises, but only moments before he and his brother had turned alone into the wretched inn yard. He did not expect to find Kilmodoch already engaged in a passage that was plainly not for pleasure.

Eoghan wore the longest of swords. He wore a brace of pistols and a wicked dirk at his belt but he gave no thought to them now. Without a sound, moving like a huge stalking cat he lunged the distance from the door to the circling fighters. He caught the back of de Greave's collar in one huge hand, his crotch in the other, and the next instant the count was lifted into the air, his feet kicking for the floor.

De Greave' s breath sucked in with shock. His mind had given way, he knew. He was hoisted, as if by levitation, laid helplessly on his back in the giant's hands—a full seven feet above the floor—and his sword was slashing harmlessly against the ceiling beams. He turned his head and saw below the upturned, grinning face. He twisted to stare down at his late opponent.

The man had stepped back, lowered his blade and his dark, handsome face was split to expose his strong white teeth in a happy smile. The next thing de Greave knew, he was being spun around wildly as the giant whirled on the heel of one foot.

"Don't hurt him, Tyrell," the swordsman called.

Eoghan of Tyrell brought his grin down to his brother.

"Why not?"

"He's daft." The earl laughed outright. "I no more than stepped in the door and he fired a pistol at my head. Thank St. Christopher it missed fire. Then he drew and rushed at me as wild as a boar."

De Greave had stayed quiet in the cradle of Eoghan's big palms, catching his gasping breath, but he began to struggle now. Eoghan looked up again.

"What will I do with him?"

"Take his arms and let him down."

De Greave kicked and twisted. He was choked with rage.

After four days of successful flight, to be taken was bad enough, but the humiliation of being manhandled like a child was more than he could endure.

"Let me down, thief catcher."

"Insulting little banty, isn't he?" Eoghan was amused. "Why is it, Kilmodoch, the smaller the cock the louder the crow?"

He lowered the count gently to the floor.

At once de Greave wrenched to pull free. Eoghan cuffed him good-humoredly as he might have cuffed an overly playful dog. De Greave's head rang. He went to his knees and his sword clattered against the stone paving at his side.

He stayed down for an instant and when he rose his dirk was drawn from his belt. His hot dark eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot, desperate. He lunged at his big tormentor.

Eoghan could easily have killed him. Instead he sidestepped, tripped the staggering de Greave neatly and watched him sprawl flat on his face. He stooped with an easy grace startling in one so large, retrieved the fallen knife and set a foot lightly in the middle of de Greave's back as the count stirred and tried again to rise.

"Lie quiet, my little rooster, until we decide what to do about you."

"Anthony Fitzmaurice! Kilmodoch !"

It was a high cry of delight. The earl was stepping forward toward his brother to view their struggling prisoner more closely. He swung instantly, his naked sword automatically coming up.

A woman stood halfway down the railed stairway where she had been attracted by the clash of fighting. She looked about forty but her figure was still as slim as a girl's.

"Tony." She looked at him with astonishment. As he turned she made certain of her identification, as though she had not believed her eyes.

"Marie," the earl's surprise matched hers. "What are you doing in this dung heap of an inn?"

"And what are you doing in France?"

They moved toward each other and Kilmodoch again felt the stir of blood that she had roused at their first meeting.

He kissed her cheeks and felt the quick touch of her body and then stepped back, suddenly conscious of the steel still in his hand. He sheathed it and grinned.

"Fighting a crazy man it seems. I thought you were hiding in Italy?"

"And I heard that King Charles had you safely locked in the Tower."

Kilmodoch nodded. "So he did, until my witless brother came roaring out of Ireland and got me free. We took ship then for Spain."

"Bravo. But this isn't Spain, my boy."

He shrugged. "He who runs seldom carries a full purse.

We're headed for Paris in search of funds." He remembered his manners abruptly and swung to where his brother still stood tapping his foot gently on de Greave's prone back, his blue eyes wide with patient inquiry.

"Allow me, Madame. My brother, Eoghan, Baron of Tyrell." To Eoghan he said, "This is Marie de Rohan, Duchess of Chevreuse."

Eoghan's curiosity quickened. Marie de Rohan was known in every capital of Europe, confidante of the queen, friend to half a dozen reigning monarchs, archenemy of the cardinal.

Here, before him, stood the soul of the conspiracy against Richelieu which had embroiled France in these civil wars. He bowed as well as he could while still resting a foot on de Greave.

"I would kiss your pretty hand, Madame, if I dared take my foot off our madman. But he'd try to get up and start playing again."

For the first time the woman's eyes dropped to the prisoner who now lay perfectly still. She blinked her eyes. She smothered a little cry, ran past the earl and dropped to her knees beside the prostrate count.

"Maurice, poor baby. Are you hurt?"

De Greave managed to twist himself onto one elbow. "If you would make the barbarian remove his boot."

Eoghan stepped back and de Greave sat up. His wet face was black from the dirty floor and bloody where his nose had struck the paving. Marie suppressed a giggle, then used a wisp of linen handkerchief to gently wipe his face.

"My darling. I thought you had made it safely into Spain."

De Greave shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"I should have, more fool that I am for not going. But the Marshal was taken. Even now he waits the pleasure of the headsman. I thought that in Paris I might still find someone to intercede with the King."

She moaned. "No use. There's no one left. Du Plessis is in full command, with Louis so frightened by Montmorency' s rebellion that he does everything Richelieu tells him. Even his brother Orleans has run to Flanders."

De Greave's eyes searched hers for hope they did not find.

"I had counted on Orleans, if all else failed." Suddenly he bent and buried his face in his hands.

Fitzmaurice and Eoghan watched, puzzled. The duchess rose and gestured sadly.

"Help him up."

Eoghan moved with that swift grace, lifting the battered count as gently as he would have touched a child, carrying him to the table beside the fire from which Germain had watched the whole proceedings in horror.

The duchess and Kilmodoch followed, Marie speaking in her soft voice.

"He is the Comte de Greave. Until the battle four days ago he was Captain of Horse in Marshal Montmorency's rebellion.

They were defeated by the cardinal's men and scattered like so many flushed quail. Why were you fighting him?"

Kilmodoch still looked bewildered. "Damned if I know.

He came at us like a cornered lion as soon as we opened the door. We didn't have time to think."

"He probably mistook you for Richelieu's guards." She reached the table where de Greave was reviving himself with a cup of wine. "Monsieur le Comte, this is an old friend who was very kind to me at the English court. Anthony Fitzmaurice, Earl of Kilmodoch. The redhead here is his brother, the Baron of Tyrell."

De Greave rose hesitantly. "You are English? I thought you were trying to capture me."

"Irish." Kilmodoch's head jerked up. "You run from the cardinal, M. le Comte. We run from Charles Stuart. I'm sorry if we used you ill, but we' re so used to being attacked that we fight first and ask questions after."

The trace of a self-mocking smile touched de Greave's lips and was gone, leaving his features more somber than before.

"Your pardon, milord. My man and I are being hunted like animals. We too fight first and ask later." He looked at Germain and found that the old servant had quietly slipped into sleep, his head bowed on the far end of the bare table.

He raised his voice and hailed the landlord from the kitchen, ordering more wine. Then he looked at Eoghan and shook his head in wonder.

"If you'd been first through the door I doubt that I'd have attacked. You're as big as anything I've ever seen on two . feet."

Tyrell threw back his head and laughed, a rolling, joyous roar. He had been a soldier since his fourteenth year, fighting the English almost constantly, but it had not destroyed his Irish humor.

"And I wouldn't have laid a hand on you if I'd known your name." He pointed at the joint of beef. "Is that for eating or is there some surprise about it too?'"

"Eat it," said de Greave, "and here comes wine, good wine.

You are hungry, milord Kilmodoch?"

"We've had nothing since noon," said the earl, and followed his brother. Tyrell cut a great slice of the meat and reached for a bottle, cracking off its neck with a sharp blow against the table's edge and drinking thirstily.

"A happy ending to a day," he laughed. "A fight, good wine, meat and a fire." He glanced at the duchess but refrained from adding her to his list of pleasures, though she caught his glance and winked.

Kilmodoch was saying, "We all seem to be accounted for, Marie. Now, what are you doing in this hole, or is it something better left unsaid?"

She hesitated for a moment. "No reason not to tell you, I think. Months ago a dozen of our leading lords decided the time had come to remove Richelieu. Our only chance was to fight the king. Not that we meant Louis personal harm, but until we broke the royal army the cardinal was beyond our reach."

Kilmodoch frowned. He had been raised at the English court, a hostage to the good behavior of his people, and from that company he had picked up a good deal of world politics. He knew that Richelieu had worked for a dozen years to crush the power of the French nobles, many of whom were nearly as strong as the king himself.

Riding north from Spain, at the inns where he and his brother had found lodging, he had heard further gossip.

There was much talk of the battle of Castelnaudary, where the rebels had lost a thousand men. Half their officers were killed and Marshal Montmorency himself was taken.

"The rising is over," the duchess went on in sorrow. "It remains for us to salvage what we can from our defeat, and we have but one chance. Margaret of Orleans, wife of the king's brother, is on our side. Her husband is heir to the throne and, as such, Louis will probably listen to him after he recovers from the terror the rebellion threw him into."

Kilmodoch nodded his understanding. It was laughed about through all of Europe that the French King was a physical coward, that he feared to sleep alone in a dark room and that the very word rebellion sent him into a quaking chill.

"So what has this to do with you?"

She sipped her wine and her fine eyes narrowed. "Orleans has fled to Flanders but his wife is trapped in Paris. Richelieu knows she's there but he can't find her. He's bending all effort to keep her from leaving the city."

"Why?" The earl was shocked. "Surely even Richelieu wouldn't dare send the daughter of Lorraine to the ax?"

Marie made a scornful face. "Not that, but the beast has other ways of enforcing his wishes. He has applied to the Pope to divorce the duchess and duke." Indignation tightened her tone. "If he finds her he can force her to sign his petition. It claims that she is not a fit wife."

"And how does that help him?"

De Rohan spread her hands dramatically. "Plenty. Richelieu plans to marry his own niece to Orleans. That would make her the wife of the heir to the throne. Once and for all it would break whatever power we have left. If he succeeds in that nasty little plan our party is finished."

The Irishmen stared at her in disbelief. De Greave groaned as if the words caused him mortal pain.

"So," she went on, "I've left Italy and safety. I have to go to Margaret in Paris, to try to smuggle her away and join her with her husband. It's a desperate move but it's our last chance."

''What will it gain you?"

The duchess' smile was not a gentle one. "Gaston, Duke of Orleans, is a weakling alone. He's afraid of the king and the cardinal too. But Margaret is a determined woman and when she is with him he's more afraid of her than of the others put together."

Kilmodoch's grin flashed in appreciation. "How will you get her out if he's watching the gates?"

She sipped at the wine and watched him above the cup's brim. "I'll find some men, brave and smart, to escort us, and I'll take her as my serving maid."

Eoghan had been only half listening. His interest in France did not extend to her politics and what little he had seen of the country he disliked thoroughly. But he was charmed by this unusual woman. He leaned toward her and held her eyes with his smiling ones.

"Maybe Kilmodoch and I?"

Her surprise was not quite genuine, he thought, and laughed. "We are foreigners," he said. "Who will suspect us of meddling in French matters?"

De Greave came aware suddenly and new hope sped blood through his weary brain. "He's right." Then he looked sharply at the duchess, "If you can trust them."

Kilmodoch's handsome face went dark but Eoghan laughed again.

"M. le Comte, you seem determined to get yourself killed tonight."

It was de Greave's turn to flush. "It was clumsy. I am sorry. But suspicion grows to be part of a man when he's hunted."

The duchess started. "Hunted. Yes, you said you were pursued."

He nodded.

"How closely?"

He shrugged. "I thought your friends were Richelieu's men.

But who knows, maybe they lost the trail in the storm."

The duchess rose, suddenly active, suddenly not a woman but a general.

"Bar the door, Tyrell. It will give us a little warning at least."

He was on his feet at her first word, taking time to open the door and look hard out into the night. If anything, the storm had increased its fury. He could see nothing at all.

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