Swords From the Desert Read Online Free

street corners, while the butchers came forth from the markets with poleax and knife to join them. Rumors ran through the alleys that the duke had become master of the city. Certainly he held the gates, while the retinue at his house-the Hotel St. Pol-was more like an army. Both Giron and stout Pied-a-Botte could not help wondering how much Renault would pay to hear that the man he had thought slain was lying alive in a certain cellar. And Jeanne read their thoughts.
    "Asses, with long ears!" she cried. "You would flit off to the duke's men and gab for a silver pound. And then what would befall you? Why, Renault, who hath taken pains to hide this deed, would swing you up to dance in the air, to still your tongues."
    The straw beside her stirred, and a deep voice muttered drowsily, "What is this talk? Where is-my horse?"
    Aroused by their voices, the wounded man had raised himself on his elbow, to stare wearily at the fire. His brown hand quivered as he raised it to his head, then fumbled at his side for the missing sword.
    "Messire," said Athir quietly, "you were struck down before nightfall and left to die. Your horse is lost, with all you carried on you, and these people-"
    "Get me a mount. I must go on!" He rose to his knee, thrusting aside the Arab's restraining arm as if it had been an empty sleeve.
    "Nay, this night you cannot sit a horse, messire. Wait, and sleep."
    The sleeping draught had begun to take effect, and the boy's head swayed on his shoulders. Only by an effort did he keep his eyes open. "I tell you," he said hoarsely, "I carry word to the king, and it may not wait."
    "The king!" Giron and Pied-a-Botte, stared, round-eyed, but the alchemist glanced shrewdly at the half-conscious messenger.
    "Then, messire," he suggested quickly, "write it down, or tell it me."
    "Am I a clerk, to write a missive?" The wounded man shook his head and swore under his breath: "Sieur Dieu! No one but I may bear it." He tried to stand up, but sank back on the straw instead. "Aye, Sir Rohan and De Trault, they lie dead by the road-"
    As his eyes closed and his limbs relaxed, Athir touched his shoulder. "Your name," he whispered urgently, "what is it?"
    The two rogues edged closer, their ears cocked, and the wounded man smiled a little. "You may well ask that, but you'll not know it." And in another moment he was asleep.
    Athir, however, could guess at a good deal. By his profession he was brought close to the court, and for some time he had heard whispers that the rising star of John of Burgundy would soon eclipse that of the sickly and irresolute monarch of France. Did not John the Fearless virtually hold Paris in his grasp-so that he might at any hour close the gates? He had gained the support of the guilds by promises, and had rid himself of some nobles of the king's party by a reign of terror in the streets.
    And now John of Burgundy had the monarch of France a guest in the Hotel St. Pol. Few men gained admittance to Louis without the duke's consent, and rumor had it that the Lord of France could not leave the gardens of St. Pol until the duke chose for him to do so.
    The king, no doubt, had officers and servitors to attend him, and even John of Burgundy would not risk harming his person. But Louis was a prey to moods, and the Burgundian persuaded him that only in his house would His Majesty be safe from the mobs of Paris. Athir suspected that John of Burgundy had not wished this stranger to reach the presence of the king with his message, and if so it was no matter to meddle in.
    "Keep him here," he advised Jeanne, "if you wish him to live."
    Then he went thoughtfully up the narrow stair. As he did so he heard above him a sound as of a rat scampering on the stones. Hastening his step, he gained the top and glanced quickly to right and left along the alley. The only light came from the stars and a distant lantern, but Athir had eyes accustomed to dark nights, and he made out the figure of a man slipping away under the wall-a man