Part 14 (1/2)

I afterward learned that there was but one entrance to the castle from the town. It was known as the Postern, though it had a portcullis and a drawbridge spanning the moat. To the Postern the duke took his way, as we could see at intervals by looking down cross streets. Yolanda did not follow him. She held her course down a narrow street flanked by overhanging eaves. Looking down this street, I could see that it terminated abruptly at the castle wall, which rose dark and unbroken sixty feet above the ground.

At the end of this street a stone footbridge spanned the moat, leading to a strip of ground perhaps one hundred yards broad and two hundred long that lay between the moat and the castle wall. At either end of this strip the moat again turned to the castle. The Cologne River joined the moat at the north end of this tract of ground and flowed on by the castle wall to the Somme. In a grove of trees stood a large two-story house of time-darkened stone, built against the castle wall. One could not leave the strip of ground save by the stone footbridge, unless by swimming the moat or scaling the walls.

When we reached the footbridge, Yolanda and Twonette, without a word of farewell, urged their horses across, and, springing from their saddles, hurriedly entered the house. Max and I turned our horses' heads, and, as we were leaving the footbridge, saw the duke's cavalcade enter the Postern, which was perhaps three hundred yards back and north of the strip on which stood the House under the Wall.

To reach the Postern in the castle wall from the footbridge one must go well up into the town and cross the great bridge that spans the Cologne; then back along the north bank of the river by the street that leads to the Postern. From the House under the Wall to the Postern, by way of the Cologne bridge, is a half-hour's walk, though in a direct line, as the crow flies, it may be less than three hundred yards. Neither Max nor I knew whether our journey had been a success or a failure.

We rode leisurely back to the centre of the town, and asked a carter to direct us to Marcus Grote's inn, The Mitre. We soon found it, and gave mine host the letter that we bore from Castleman. Although the hour of nine in the morning had not yet struck, Max and I eagerly sought our beds, and did not rise till late in the afternoon. The next morning we dismissed our squires, fearing they might talk. We paid the men, gave them each a horse, and saw them well on their road back to Switzerland.

They were Swiss lads, and could not take themselves out of Burgundy fast enough to keep pace with their desires.

Notwithstanding Castleman's admonition, Max determined to remain in Peronne; not for the sake of Mary the princess, but for the smile of Yolanda the burgher girl. I well knew that opposition would avail nothing, and was quite willing to be led by the unseen hand of fate.

The evening of the second day after our arrival I walked out at dusk and by accident met my friend, the Sieur d'Hymbercourt. He it was to whom my letters concerning Max had been written, and who had been responsible for the offer of Mary's hand. He recognized me before I could avoid him, so I offered my hand and he gave me kindly welcome.

”By what good fortune are you here, Sir Karl?” he asked.

”I cannot tell,” I answered, ”whether it be good or evil fortune that brings me. I deem it right to tell you that I am here with my young pupil, the Count of Hapsburg.”

Hymbercourt whistled his astonishment.

”We are out to see a little of the world, and I need not tell you how important it is that we remain unknown while in Burgundy. I bear my own name; the young count has a.s.sumed the name of his mother's family and wishes to be known as Sir Maximilian du Guelph.”

”I shall not mention your presence even to my wife,” he replied. ”I advise you not to remain in Burgundy. The duke takes it for granted that Styria will aid the Swiss, or at least will sympathize with them in this brewing war, and I should fear for your safety were he to discover you.”

”I understand the duke recently arrived in Peronne?” I asked.

”Yes,” answered Hymbercourt, ”we all came yesterday morning.”

”How is the fair princess? Did she come with you?” I asked, fearing to hear his reply.

”She is well, and more beautiful than ever before,” he answered. ”She did not come with us from Ghent; she has been here at the castle with her stepmother, the d.u.c.h.ess Margaret. They have lived here during the last two or three years. The princess met her father just inside the Postern, lovely and fresh as a dew-dipped rose.”

”She met her father just inside the Postern?” I asked, slowly dropping my words in astonishment. ”She was in the castle yard when her father entered,--and at the Postern?”

”Yes, she took his hand and sprang to a seat behind him,” answered Hymbercourt.

”She met him inside the Postern, say you?” I repeated musingly.

”What is there amazing about so small an act?” asked Hymbercourt. ”Is it not natural that she should greet her father whom she has not seen for a year?”

”Indeed, yes,” I replied stumblingly, ”but the weather is very hot, and--and I was thinking how much I should have enjoyed witnessing the meeting. She doubtless was dressed in gala attire for so rare an occasion?” I asked, wis.h.i.+ng to talk upon the subject that touched me so nearly. Yolanda was in short skirts, stained and travel-worn, when she left us.

”Indeed she was,” answered Hymbercourt. ”I can easily describe her dress. She loves woman's finery, and I must confess that I too love it.

She wore a hawking costume; a cap of crimson--I think it was velvet--with little knots on it and gems scattered here and there. A heron's plume clasped with a diamond brooch adorned the cap. Her hair hung over her shoulders. It is very dark and falls in a great bush of fluffy curls. When her headgear is off, her hair looks like a black corona. She is wonderfully beautiful, wonderfully beautiful. Her gown was of red stuff. Perhaps it was of velvet like the cap. It was. .h.i.tched up with a cord and girdle, with ta.s.sels of gold lace and--and--Sir Karl, you are not listening.”

”I am listening,” I replied. ”I am greatly interested. Her gown--she wore a gown--she wore a gown--”

”Yes, of course she wore a gown,” laughingly retorted Hymbercourt. ”Your lagging attention is what I deserve, Sir Karl, for trying in my lame fas.h.i.+on to describe a woman's gear to a man who is half priest, half warrior. I do not wonder that you did not follow me.”

I had heard him, but there was another question dinning in my ears so loudly that it drowned all other sounds--”Who is Yolanda?”