Dennis Wheatley - The Launching of Roger Brook

Silent, grim, merciless, the Marquis came round its edge at him. Roger stepped back a pace and threw himself on guard. The swords of both combatants were light, but none the less deadly. They met with a "ting," bent, slithered and circled, catching the rays from the steadily-burning candles.

Now that Roger was armed his hopes of getting away had risen. His victory over de Caylus had given him immense confidence in his sword-play. He did not believe that a man of fifty, who rarely took any exercise, could stand up to him for more than half-a-dozen passes; but he soon found that he had been counting his chickens before they were hatched.

De Rochambeau was no mean swordsman, and he fought with cool, calculated cunning. He made no attempt to disable his antagonist but simply sought to keep him in play while warily defending himself. After he had parried three rapid thrusts Roger divined his intent. He was taking no chances but playing for time, till the door should collapse and the shouting mob outside come streaming in to his assistance.

Roger knew then that he must finish matters or be captured. Suddenly closing in he ran his blade along that of the Marquis until the two swords were hilt to hilt, then he gave a violent twist of his wrist. The stroke was an extremely risky one, as, to make it, he had had to throw himself off balance, but he was gambling on the Marquis's wrist proving weaker than his own. For a second the decision lay in the lap of the gods, then de Rochambeau's wrist gave way. His hand doubled back and his weapon sailed across the room to strike with a clang against his ornate desk.

For an instant only, the Marquis's eyes showed indecision, then, risking a thrust, he stretched out clawing hands and rushed right in on Roger. Short of killing him there was only one thing to do. Throwing up his sword so that it slanted back across his shoulder, Roger drove the butt of its hilt into his aggressor's face. The gilded ball of the pommel struck the Marquis above the left eye.

With a loud cry, the first sound he had uttered since he had snatched up his sword, he sagged at the knees, and fell sprawling at Roger's feet.

Turning about Roger threw a swift look at the door. The lock and one hinge still held but both the upper panels had been stove in, and one of the footmen was striving to wriggle through one of the jagged holes. Full of apprehension now as to what reception he might meet with in the courtyard, Roger ran back to the window.

Normally at this hour the stable hands would have been asleep, but it was not much over a quarter of an hour since the nobles attending the conference had departed, so in the past few minutes someone might easily have mustered them.

Throwing a section of the window open, he peered out. With infinite relief he saw that it was not occupied, as he had feared it would be, by another group of M. de Rochambeau's people waiting to set upon him. Evidently it had not occurred to any of those upstairs that he might risk the drop into the courtyard.

It was dark down there and the place was full of shadows but there was no sign of life except near the gate, where a coach was standing. It sped through his mind that it must be the one which was to carry M. de Rayneval to The Hague.

Taking his sword between his teeth he threw one leg over the low sill. As he did so a figure moved out of the patch of shadow at the back of the coach, and called something up to him; but he did not catch the words as, at that moment, the door gave with a crash behind him.

Drawing his other leg over the sill he squirmed round and, gripping the woodwork with his hands, lowered himself, letting his feet dangle.

He was now looking into the room. The door had given way with the wretched footman still halfway through the smashed panel. His head and shoulders were buried beneath it while his legs kicked grotesquely in the air. But none of the others were attempting to help him. With M. de Rayneval at their head eight or ten members of the household were scrambling over the wrecked door and coming straight at Roger.

He sent up a fleeting prayer that the man by the coach would not be upon him before he could recover from his fall, took the sword from his mouth with his right hand, hung for a second suspended by his left, then let go of the sill.

With a frightful jolt he landed on his feet. He let his knees go slack in an effort to take up the shock, but overbalanced and fell backwards. For a moment the wind was knocked out of him and he lay there gasping. But the sound of running feet upon the cobbles made him force himself to turn over and struggle to his knees.

De Rayneval and the rest had reached the windows above him. They were now shouting to attract the attention of the stable hands, and anyone else who might yet prevent Roger's escape. As he heard their cries he knew that if he did not get away in the next few moments he would certainly be overwhelmed. His one hope now lay in over­coming the man who was running at him, then making a dash for the street.

Count Lucien's unexpected arrival had deprived him of the chance of collecting his savings, and now this outcry rendered it impossible for him to saddle a horse. Instead of riding away on a fast mount with a full purse and several hours' start of his pursuers, he must now take to his heels and seek to avoid an immediate hue and cry as best he could. And he was not yet even clear of the courtyard. Unless he could deal speedily with the man who was now almost on him, the driver of the coach would close the gates, and he would be trapped there.

These frantic thoughts all jostled through his brain as, still shaken by his fall, he came to his feet, and turned to face the figure that was running at him out of the darkness. Staggering back against the wall he threw himself on guard to gain a moment's breathing-space.

Suddenly, as his sight adjusted itself to the darkness, he saw that the man had a sword at his side but had not drawn it. Next second a familiar voice cried: "To the coach, man! To the coach! Don't linger there or they'll have you yet!"

Only then, with a gasp of mingled amazement and thankfulness, did Roger recognise his friend de la Tour d'Auvergne.

Giving a cry of relief he started forward. But before he had covered three paces he suddenly remembered his own sword, which he had left in a corner of the porch, close by. The fine old Toledo blade had been his companion through good fortune and ill from the very first day that he had landed in France, over four years before; and that night it had served him supremely well. For the sake of another few moments he could not bring himself to abandon it.

The light of torches now came from the stable end of the courtyard. Above him shouts and cries still rent the stillness of the night. Answering shouts came from the grooms and ostlers only a hundred paces away, as they streamed out into the yard. But Roger ignored both them and de la Tour d'Auvergne's frantic appeals to hurry. Swerving as he ran he dashed towards the porch, flung down Count Lucien's gilded rapier and snatched up his own plain but deadly blade.

As he leapt down the steps the crowd of stablemen were only fifty paces from him; but de la. Tour d'Auvergne had now drawn his sword, and stood ready to come to his assistance. A moment later the two friends were running side by side for the coach.

"Bless you!" panted Roger, as they ran. " 'Twas a marvellous thought of yours to bring a coach, and stand by here lest I found myself in some extremity."

The Vicomte laughed. "I can take no credit for that, mon ami. I had thought you on your way to England. 'Twas but five minutes back that I heard your voice and that of M. de Rochambeau, raised in altercation, above there—and delayed my departure to learn the outcome."

As they reached the coach Roger saw that it was only a one-horse hired hackney; but they were still forty paces ahead of the yelling mob of stable hands, and the coachman was on the alert, ready to drive off the instant they were inside it.