The White Company & Sir Nigel (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Conan Doyle

over to you.”

      “Then with the King’s leave, I will hand it back to him,” said Nigel, troubled and stammering; “for indeed I had rather never ride to the wars than take from a brave man his only suit of plate.”

      “There spoke your father’s spirit!” cried the King. “By the rood! Nigel, I like you full well. Let the matter bide in my hands. But I marvel much that Sir Aymery the Lombard hath not come to us yet from Windsor.”

      From the moment of his arrival at Tilford, again and again King Edward had asked most eagerly whether Sir Aymery had come, and whether there was any news of him, so that the courtiers glanced at each other in wonder. For Aymery was known to all of them as a famous mercenary of Italy, lately appointed Governor of Calais, and this sudden and urgent summons from the King might well mean some renewal of the war with France, which was the dearest wish of every soldier. Twice the King had stopped his meal and sat with sidelong head; his wine-cup in his hand, listening attentively when some sound like the clatter of hoofs was heard from outside; but the third time there could be no mistake. The tramp and jingle of the horses broke loud upon the ear, and ended in hoarse voices calling out of the darkness, which were answered by the archers posted as sentries without the door.

      “Some traveler has indeed arrived, my liege,” said Nigel. “What is your royal will?”

      “It can be but Aymery,” the King answered, “for it was only to him that I left the message that he should follow me hither. Bid him come in, I pray you, and make him very welcome at your board.”

      Nigel cast open the door, plucking a torch from its bracket as he did so. Half a dozen men-at-arms sat on their horses outside, but one had dismounted, a short, squat, swarthy man with a rat face and quick, restless brown eyes which peered eagerly past Nigel into the red glare of the well-lit hall.

      “I am Sir Aymery of Pavia,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, tell me! is the King within?”

      “He is at table, fair sir, and he bids you to enter.”

      “One moment, young man, one moment, and a secret word in your ear. Wot you why it is that the King has sent for me?”

      Nigel read terror in the dark cunning eyes which glanced in sidelong fashion into his. “Nay, I know not.”

      “I would I knew—I would I was sure ere I sought his presence.”

      “You have but to cross the threshold, fair sir, and doubtless you will learn from the King’s own lips.”

      Sir Aymery seemed to gather himself as one who braces for a spring into ice-cold water. Then he crossed with a quick stride from the darkness into the light. The King stood up and held out his hand with a smile upon his long handsome face, and yet it seemed to the Italian that it was the lips which smiled but not the eyes.

      “Welcome!” cried Edward. “Welcome to our worthy and faithful Seneschal of Calais! Come, sit here before me at the board, for I have sent for you that I may hear your news from over the sea, and thank you for the care that you have taken of that which is as dear to me as wife or child. Set a place for Sir Aymery there, and give him food and drink, for he has ridden fast and far in our service to-day.”

      Throughout the long feast which the skill of the Lady Ermyntrude had arranged, Edward chatted lightly with the Italian as well as with the barons near him. Finally, when the last dish was removed and the gravy-soaked rounds of coarse bread which served as plates had been cast to the dogs, the wine-flagons were passed round; and old Weathercote the minstrel entered timidly with his harp in the hope that he might be allowed to play before the King’s majesty. But Edward had other sport afoot.

      “I pray you, Nigel, to send out the servants, so that we may be alone. I would have two men-at-arms at every door lest we be disturbed in our debate, for it is a matter of privacy. And now, Sir Aymery, these noble lords as well as I, your master, would fain hear from your own lips how all goes forward in France.”

      The Italian’s face was calm; but he looked restlessly from one to another along the line of his listeners.

      “So far as I know, my liege, all is quiet on the French marches,” said he.

      “You have not heard then that they have mustered or gathered to a head with the intention of breaking the truce and making some attempt upon our dominions?”

      “Nay, sire, I have heard nothing of it.”

      “You set my mind much at ease, Aymery,” said the King; “for if nothing has come to your ears, then surely it cannot be. It was said that the wild Knight de Chargny had come down to St. Omer with his eyes upon my precious jewel and his mailed hands ready to grasp it.”

      “Nay, sire, let him come. He will find the jewel safe in its strong box, with a goodly guard over it.”

      “You are the guard over my jewel, Aymery.”

      “Yes, sire, I am the guard.”

      “And you are a faithful guard and one whom I can trust, are you not? You would not barter away that which is so dear to me when I have chosen you out of all my army to hold it for me?”

      “Nay, sire, what reasons can there be for such questions? They touch my honor very nearly. You know that I would part with Calais only when I parted with my soul.”

      “Then you know nothing of de Chargny’s attempt?”

      “Nothing sire.”

      “Liar and villain!” yelled the King, springing to his feet and dashing his fist upon the table until the glasses rattled again. “Seize him, archers! Seize him this instant! Stand close by either elbow, lest he do himself a mischief! Now do you dare to tell me to my face, you perjured Lombard, that you know nothing of de Chargny and his plans?”

      “As God is my witness I know nothing of him!” The man’s lips were white, and he spoke in a thin, sighing, reedy voice, his eyes wincing away from the fell gaze of the angry King.

      Edward laughed bitterly, and drew a paper from his breast. “You are the judges in this case, you, my fair son, and you, Chandos, and you, Manny, and you, Sir Hubert, and you also, my Lord Bishop. By my sovereign power I make you a court that you may deal justice upon this man, for by God’s eyes I will not stir from this room until I have sifted the matter to the bottom. And first I would read you this letter. It is superscribed to Sir Aymery of Pavia, nomme Le Lombard, Chateau de Calais. Is not that your name and style, you rogue?”

      “It is my name, sire; but no such letter has come to me.”

      “Else had your villainy never been disclosed. It is signed ‘Isidore de Chargny’. What says my enemy de Chargny to my trusted servant? Listen! ‘We could not come with the last moon, for we have not gathered sufficient strength, nor have we been able to collect the twenty thousand crowns which are your price. But with the next turn of the moon in the darkest hour we will come and you will be paid your money at the small postern gate with the rowan-bush beside it.’ Well, rogue, what say you now?”

      “It is a forgery!” gasped the Italian.

      “I pray you that you will let me see it, sire,” said Chandos. “De Chargny was my prisoner, and so many letters passed ere his ransom was paid that his script is well-known to me. Yes, yes, I will swear that this is indeed his. If my salvation were at stake I could swear it.”

      “If it were indeed written by de Chargny it was to dishonor me,” cried Sir Aymery.

      “Nay, nay!” said the young Prince. “We all know de Chargny and have fought against him. Many faults he has, a boaster and a brawler, but a braver man and one of greater heart and higher of enterprise does not ride beneath the lilies of France. Such a man would never stoop to write a letter for the sake of putting dishonor upon one of knightly rank. I, for one, will never believe it.”

      A gruff murmur from the others showed that they were of one mind with the Prince. The light of the torches from the walls beat upon the line of stern faces at the high table. They had sat like flint, and the Italian