The Launching of Roger Brook (64 page)

He risked one swift glance over his shoulder. Count Lucien was running silently and well, no more than six paces from his heels, and had the lead over the heavier de Caylus by some twenty yards.

Suddenly Roger stopped dead and swung about. He did not attempt to throw himself on guard but thrust out his sword and tensed his arm. Count Lucien had just time to make a downward stroke deflecting the point of Roger’s blade from his chest to his thigh, then his own impetus carried him right on to it. The steel ripped through the upper part of his leg. With a wild cry, he twisted, dropped his sword and fell.

Roger’s blade was caught fast in the muscle, and de Caylus had already covered half the distance between them. Swiftly lifting his left foot, Roger jammed it down hard on Count Lucien’s writhing body, gave a sharp tug, and freed his sword. He had one moment’s breathing space and he used it to get well clear of the still squirming Count. Throwing himself on guard in the middle of the road, he panted at de Caylus:

‘Now we’re man to man again, we’ll see if an Englishman’s not as good as a French nigger! Kill me if you can!’

Again their blades clashed, clung together, slithered and parted; only to rasp and send the sparks flying again a second later. Up—down. Up—down. Lunge—stamp. Parry—twist. Up—down. Up—down. Feint—stamp—thrust. Clash—clash—clash.

Roger’s breath was coming quickly now. In running for his life he had used up his first wind. But de Caylus was no better off, as the pursuit had taken a lot of his breath out
of him. While giving chase to Roger he had thrown aside the white powdered wig in which he had come from Versailles, and the lingering afterglow of the sunset showed his coarse, crisp black hair, matted in tight curls to his skull. His thick-lipped mouth hung slightly open and two rows of fine white teeth gleamed from it in a ferocious smile. The yellowish whites of his eyes were slightly bloodshot and they glittered like those of a wild boar avid for the kill.

He was still superbly confident and he took risks that Roger would not have dared to take; yet Roger could not get through his guard. Their eyes never left one another’s for a second; but both of them knew that de la Tour d’Auvergne had come up with some of de Caylus’s people and was ordering them to carry Count Lucien back to the coach.

So far Roger had required every iota of his skill to defend himself from the violence of the Count’s attack; but now, de Caylus, realising at last that he was up against an antagonist worthy of him, began to fight more warily, which enabled Roger to attempt some of his favourite thrusts.

Four times they circled round one another, then he delivered a lunge that he had learned from Monsieur St. Paul, the ex-musketeer fencing-master of Rennes. It very nearly did the trick, but de Caylus jerked himself as upright as a matador on tiptoe before a charging bull, and Roger’s blade, missing him by a quarter inch, ripped through the satin lapels of his coat.

Again, for a space they circled warily; then again Roger came in, this time with a thrust that had defeated him in one of his practice bouts only a few days before. But the Count must have known it. Quick as lightning he parried, made a swift encircling movement that almost forced Roger’s sword from his hand, and stabbed straight at his eyes.

Roger jerked aside his head and the gleaming blade slithered past his ear; but his evasive action had been so violent that it threw him off his balance. For a second he was poised on the ball of one foot, then he tripped and fell.

With a cry of triumph de Caylus was upon him, his sword drawn back to skewer him to the ground. Roger flung himself sideways, rolled over twice and was brought up by the roadside bank edging the ditch. As de Caylus came
at him again he squirmed over into the ditch, twisted, and came up with one knee on the bank. Throwing up his sword his luck, and not his judgment, enabled him to parry the thrust.

For a moment they fought with renewed ferocity, the Count striving with might and main to finish his antagonist while he had him half crouching in the ditch. The very fury of his attack proved his temporary undoing. Instead of confining himself to thrusts he fought wild, using all his giant strength to beat down Roger’s guard. Suddenly his sword snapped off short at the hilt.

As de Caylus jumped back it was Roger’s turn to give a cry of Humph. Coming to his feet he sprang out of the ditch and rushed upon his adversary. But before he could get into position to lunge the Count had flung the hilt of his broken sword in his face.

Roger ducked, but just not quickly enough. The sword hilt caught him on the forehead, bounced from it and fell with a clang on to the road. For a moment he was half stunned and stood tottering there. De Caylus meanwhile had leapt back once more and cast a frantic glance round. His eye fell upon Count Lucien’s sword, which had been left lying by the roadside some fifteen yards away. Rushing towards it, he snatched it up.

By the time Roger had recovered from his knock on the head sufficiently to advance again, de Caylus was on guard and ready for him. Again the deepening shadows echoed to the clash of swords. Up—down. Up—down. Thrust—stamp—parry. Clash—clash—clash.

But both the combatants were tired now. Neither had had a chance to take off their coats or neckbands, and both were streaming with sweat. Panting, grasping, their clothes disordered, their faces haggard and the perspiration trickling into their eyes, they fought doggedly on. Each thrust they gave grew weaker yet neither could get past the other’s guard.

Suddenly de Caylus made a desperate bid to end matters. Charging in on Roger he lined his sword high and lunged downwards. It was a cunning but unorthodox stroke, since it left its deliverer’s breast temporarily exposed; yet it was the one that had defeated de la Tour d’Auvergne two months before.

Having heard the Vicomte describe exactly how it had
been administered Roger knew the pass. It was his opportunity. Instead of endeavouring to parry the stroke he delivered a counter thrust himself. Lunging with every ounce of his remaining strength he went almost to his knees as he followed through, his left arm flung straight out behind him. De Caylus’s blade passed harmlessly over his shoulder; his own pierced the Count through the heart and came out six inches behind his back.

For a moment de Caylus remained standing there, his eyes goggling. Then the blood gushed from his mouth and, with a horrible choking noise, he crashed to the ground. The falling body wrenched Roger’s sword-hilt from his hand; he staggered back, swayed drunkenly, and fell himself.

Almost overcome with exhaustion he lay gasping for breath in the middle of the road; then, dimly, he heard someone shouting at him. De la Tour d’Auvergne had ridden up and, wild with excitement, was congratulating him on his victory. Another voice joined in, and as Roger struggled panting to his knees he saw de Périgord coming at a limping run towards him.

‘’Twas a marvel!’ cried the Abbé. That final thrust of yours was superb! By the most cursed luck I missed the beginning. Before I could get to my coach you had all disappeared, and in following, my fool of a man took the wrong fork of the road a quarter of a mile back. But there is blood on your face. Are you badly hurt?’

‘Nay,’ gasped Roger. ‘I’ve naught but a scratch on the shoulder; and a cut on the head—where his sword-hilt struck—when he threw it at me.’

The Abbé cast a glance at de Caylus’s prostrate body. ‘He’ll throw no more sword-hilts,’ he said grimly. ‘I left the doctor in my coach, and the coach just round the bend of the road behind us; since the less he knows the better. Unless you need his ministrations yourself, ’tis pointless to call him.’

‘I pray you do so. Abbé,’ cut in the Vicomte. ‘Count Lucien de Rochambeau is wounded and should have attention.’

‘What!’ exclaimed de Périgord. ‘Did he then join in the fight?’

Roger nodded. ‘The young caitiff sought to strike me down from behind. But worse! While I was parleying at
the coach door he snatched off my mask and, like an imbecile, cried aloud both my name and his sister’s. So all is known. De Caylus’s people will be retailing the story to half Paris before another hour is past.’

‘
Sacré bleu
! Then the question of your returning to your mother is settled for you. You must fly instantly! To horse, man! To horse!’

De la Tour d’Auvergne manœuvred Roger’s mount round for him, and cried: ‘The Abbé is right! Your life will depend on the distance you can put between Paris and yourself before morning.’

‘One moment!’ muttered Roger, and putting his foot on de Caylus’s carcase he began to tug upon his sword to get it free.

The Vicomte went on quickly to de Périgord. ‘I had Count Lucien carried back to their coach. One of the footmen is wounded also. I had to shoot him before we could bring them to a halt. ’Twould be wise to leave your doctor to do what he can for them, and get away from here as quickly as possible yourself. In your place I would go into hiding for a while.’

The Abbé considered for a moment, then he said: ‘Nay, ’tis not necessary. I saw only the end of the fight, not its beginning, and shall maintain that having delivered M. le Chevalier de Brook’s message to M. de Caylus I was in no way responsible for what followed. But your case,
mon cher
Vicomte, is very different. Since you pistolled one of the servants, and played a major part in holding up the coach, you have laid yourself open to most serious charges.’

‘I know it, and intend to seek safety in flight.’

Having recovered his sword Roger mounted his horse, and said to the Abbé: ‘I’ve no choice now but to bid you farewell; but I thank you mightily for your help in this night’s work and pray that no ill will come to you on account of it.’

‘Fear not for me,’ de Périgord smiled. To make my innocence the more plain I intend to drive on to de Caylus’s
petite maison
and, with appropriate face, prepare them to receive his body. Besides, the night is yet young, and the beautiful Olympe should not be deprived of her supper. I’ll carry her back to Passy in my coach and do my poor best to console her for the loss of her rich lover.’

Roger could not help laughing. ‘Abbé, you are incorrigible!
May your zest for enjoyment never flag; and may we meet again to talk of this night at our ease, over a good bottle.’

‘We will,
mon ami
. If a warrant is issued to prevent your return I will seek you out when I go to England. In the meantime pray bear my greetings to Lord and Lady Grey, and to Mr. Pitt, should you see him. Take occasion also to wait upon your uncle, and tell my Lord Kildonan to bring me news of you when next he comes to Paris.’

De la Tour d’Auvergne had already turned his horse in the direction of Sevres. Roger followed suit, and with shouts of farewell they galloped off into the gathering darkness.

After two miles they eased their pace and walked their horses to give them a breather. It was the Vicomte who broke the silence, by saying a little coldly:

‘From de Périgord’s parting messages I gather that your mother lives in England, and that you are, in fact, an Englishman?’

‘’Tis true,’ Roger admitted. ‘My real name is Brook.’

‘’Then may one ask why you have always given yourself out to be a Frenchman from the German provinces?’

‘’Twas not through any wish to deceive a good friend such as yourself,’ Roger assured him quickly. ‘It came about through my once having narrowly escaped being mobbed by some sailors who had ample cause to hate the English; and, later, to unsay what I had already said to various people seemed to invite too many needless complications. De Périgord discovered the truth only because he heard me babbling while unconscious from a blow on the head, and it then transpired that he is acquainted with my uncle. The story of how I came to France and entered M. de Rochambeau’s service is a long one. I have often meant to tell it you, but no suitable occasion ever seemed to occur. I do trust that you are not offended by my having failed to make you this confidence?’

‘Nay, not the least, now I understand the reason for your reticence. I was wondering, though, if Athénaïs knows that you are an Englishman and of noble birth.’

‘Yes, she has done so for a long time past. But why do you ask?’

‘Because it seemed to me that if she knew your secret and
had long regarded you as her equal, she could not help but love you.’

‘Monsieur le Vicomte, you pay me a great compliment.’

‘No more than is your due as a most handsome and gallant gentleman. The romance of your situation, too, could hardly fail to appeal to any maiden, and, since you have told her this long story of yours, I can only assume that at times you must have managed to meet in private. Loving her as you do you would have been scarce human had you not attempted it.’

Roger sighed. ‘Were anyone else to question me on this I’d deny it with my last breath; but, to you, I will avow it. Athénaïs and I have met many times in secret and we love one another very dearly.’

‘I should have had the wit to guess it,’ murmured the Vicomte; then, after a moment, he added: ‘That being so, I find it surprising that you did not attempt to elope together.’

‘We toyed with the idea,’ Roger admitted. ‘But almost from the first both of us knew in our hearts that we could never marry.’

‘Why so?’

‘The sword of religion lies between us. I am a Protestant, and neither of us are prepared to give up our faith for that of the other. We recognised that our love must remain no more than a romantic attachment.’

‘Yet you knew that she must marry, and marry soon?’

‘We accepted that. But both of us pinned our hopes upon her being given a husband who would love her and whom she would grow to love.’

‘’Twas a slender hope,’ remarked the Vicomte cynically, ‘seeing the manner in which such marriages are arranged.’

‘Nay, not so slender in her case. Both she and I knew of your devotion to her and discussed it many times. She vowed that she would be mighty pleased to have so true a gentleman as yourself for her husband and would give all her mind to proving a good and loyal wife. ‘Twas as savage a blow to us as to you when her father chose M. de Caylus for her.’