The Strangled Queen Read Online Free

Cceur-de-Lion. There was much sweeping and cleaning. Had an archer lost his quiver? Where could it have got to? And what of those coats of mail rusted under the armpits? Go on, take handfuls of sand, polish them till they shine!
    `Should Messire de Pareilles appear suddenly, I don't want him to find a troop of ruffians! " shouted Bersumee. "Make haste, get a move on there!"
    The guard-house was cleaned; the chains of the drawbridge greased. The cauldrons for boiling pitch were brought out, as if the fortress were to be attacked within the hour. And bad luck to anyone who did not hurry! Private Gros-Guillaume, the same who had hoped for an extra ration of wine, got a kick on the backside. Sergeant Lalaine was worn out.
    Doors were slamming everywhere; Chateau-Gaillard had an atmosphere of moving house. If the Princesses had wished to escape, this was the one day to choose among a hundred. Such was the chaos, no one would have seen them leave.
    By evening Bersumee had lost his voice, and his archers slept upon the battlements. But the following day when, in the early hours of the morning, the look-outs reported a troop of horsemen, a banner at their head, advancing along the Seine from the direction of Paris, the Captain congratulated himself upon having taken the steps he had.
    He rapidly donned his smartest coat of mail, his best boots, no more than five years old with spurs three inches long, and, putting on his helmet, went out into the courty ard. He had a few moments left in which to glance with anxious satisfaction at his still tired men, but their arms, well polished, shone in the pale winter light.
    "Certainly no one can reprimand me, for this turn-out," he said to himself. "And it will make it easier for me to complain of the meagreness of my salary, and the arrears of money due to me for the men's food.
    Already the horsemen's trumpets were sounding under the cliff, and the clatter of their horses hooves could be heard upon the chalky soil.
    "Raise the portcullis! Lower the drawbridge! "
    The chains of the portcullis quivered in the guide-blocks and, a moment later, fifteen horsemen, bearing the royal arms and surr ounding a red-clothed cavalier, who sat his mount as if impersonating his own equestrian statue, passed like a whirlwind beneath the vault of the guard-house and debouched into the courtyard of Chateau-Gaillard.
    "Can it be the King?" thought Bersumee, rushing forward. "Good God! Can the King have come to fetch his wife already?"
    From emotion his breath came in short gasps, and it took him a moment to recognize the man in the blood-red cloak who, slipping from his horse, colossal in mantle, furs, leather and silver, was forcing a way towards him through the surrounding horsemen.
    "On the King's service," said the huge cavalier, fluttering a parchment with dependent seal under Bersumee's nose, but giving him no time to read it. "I am Count Robert of Artois."
    The salutations were cut short. Monseigneur Robert of Artois slapped Bersumee on the shoulder to show that he was not haughty and made him wince; then asked for mulled wine for himself and his escort in a voice that made the watchmen turn about upon their towers. He created a hurricane about him as he paced to and fro.
    Bersumee, the night before, had decided to shine whoever his visitor might be, had determined not to be caught napping, to appear the perfect captain of an impeccable fortress, to make an, impression that would not be forgotten. He had a speech ready but it was never delivered.
    Almost at once Bersumee found himself `being invited to drink the wine he had been ordered to produce, heard himself stuttering servile flattery, saw the four rooms of his lodging, which was attached to the keep, reduced to absurd proportions by the immense size of his visitor, was aware of nervously, spilling the contents of his goblet, and then of finding himself in the prisoners' tower, following in the wake of the Count of Artois, who was racing up the dark