These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘You – you won’t go to-morrow without saying goodbye, will you, Monseigneur?’

‘You shall hand me into my coach,’ promised the Duke, and gave him his hand to kiss.

Seven

Satan and Priest at One

The village of Bassincourt, which lay some six or seven miles to the west of Saumur, in Anjou, was a neat and compact place whose white houses were for the most part gathered about its hub, a square market-place paved by cobblestones as large as a man’s fist. On the north the square was flanked by various houses of the more well-to-do inhabitants; on the west by smaller cottages, and by a lane that led into the square at right angles to this side, and which stretched out into the open country, winding this way and that to touch each of the three farms that lay to the west of Bassincourt. On the south side was the small grey church, within whose square tower a cracked bell was wont to ring out its summons to the villagers. The church stood back from the market-place with its burial ground all about it and beyond, on one side, the Curé’s modest house, squatting in its own garden, and seeming to smile across the square in gentle rulership.

The east side of the square was close-packed by shops, a blacksmith’s yard, and a white inn, over whose open door hung a gay green shield, with a painting of the Rising Sun thereon. The sign swung to and fro with every wind that blew, creaking a little if the gale were fierce, but more often sighing only on its rusted chains.

On this particular day of November the square was a-hum with voices, and echoing occasionally to a child’s shrill laugh, or to the stamp of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Old Farmer Mauvoisin had driven into Bassincourt with three pigs for sale in his cart, and had drawn up at the inn to exchange the time of day with the landlord, and to quaff a tankard of thin French ale while his pigs grunted and snuffled behind him. Close by, gathered about a stall where La Mère Gognard was selling vegetables, was a group of women, alternately haggling and conversing. Several girls in stiff gowns kilted high above their ankles, their feet in clumsy wooden sabots, stood chattering beside the ancient porch which led into the graveyard; in the centre of the square, near to the fountain, some sheep were herded, while a party of possible buyers picked their way amongst them, prodding and inspecting at will. From the blacksmith’s yard came the ring of hammer on anvil, mingled with spasmodic snatches of song.

Into this busy, contented scene rode his Grace of Avon, upon a hired horse. He came trotting into the market-place from the eastern road that led to Saumur, dressed all in sombre black, with lacing of gold. As soon as his horse’s hoofs struck the uneven cobblestones he reined in, and sitting gracefully at ease in the saddle, one gloved hand resting lightly on his hip, cast a languid glance round.

He attracted no little attention. The villagers stared at him from his point-edged hat to his spurred boots, and back again. One tittering girl, remarking those cold eyes and the thin, curling lips, whispered that it was the devil himself come amongst them. Although her companion scoffed at her for a foolish maid, she crossed herself surreptitiously, and drew back into the shelter of the porch.

The Duke’s glance swept all round the square, and came to rest at last on a small boy, who watched him with goggling eyes, and his thumb in his mouth. One hand in its embroidered gauntlet beckoned imperiously, and the small boy took a hesitating step forward in answer to the Duke’s summons.

His Grace looked down at him, faintly smiling. He pointed to the house beside the church.

‘Am I right in thinking that that is the abode of your Curé?’

The boy nodded.

‘Yes, milor’.’

‘Do you think that I shall find him within?’

‘Yes, milor’. He came back from the house of Madame Tournaud an hour since, if you please, milor’.’

Avon swung himself lightly down from the saddle, and twitched the bridle over his horse’s head.

‘Very well, child. Be so good as to hold this animal for me until I return. You will thus earn a louis.’

The boy took the bridle willingly.

‘A whole louis, milor?’ For holding your horse?’ he said breathlessly.

‘Is it a horse?’ The Duke eyed the animal through his quizzing glass. ‘Perhaps you are right. I thought it was a camel. Take it away and water it.’ He turned on his heel, and sauntered up to the Curé’s house. The wondering villagers saw M. de Beaupré’s housekeeper admit him, and started to propound their views on this strange visitation, one to the other.

His Grace of Avon was led through a tiny spotless hall to the Curé’s sanctum, a sunny room at the back of the house. The rosy-cheeked housekeeper ushered him into her master’s presence with unruffled placidity.

‘Here, mon père, is a gentleman who desires speech with you,’ she said, and then withdrew, without another glance at the Duke.

The Curé was seated at a table by the window, writing on a sheet of paper. He looked up to see who was his visitor, and perceiving a stranger, laid down his quill and rose. He was slight, with thin, beautiful hands, calm blue eyes, and aristocratic features. He wore a long soutane, and his head was uncovered. For an instant Avon thought that the milky-white hair was a wig, so ordered were the soft waves, and then he saw that it was natural, brushed smoothly back from a broad low brow.

‘M. de Beaupré, I believe?’ His Grace bowed deeply.

‘Yes, m’sieur, but you have the advantage of me.’

‘I am one Justin Alastair,’ said the Duke, and laid his hat and gloves on the table.

‘Yes? You will pardon me, monsieur, if I do not at once recognise you. I have been out of the world for many years, and for the moment I cannot call to mind whether you are of the Alastairs of Auvergne, or of the English family.’ De Beaupré cast him an appraising look, and put forward a chair.

Justin sat down.

‘The English family, monsieur. You perhaps knew my father?’