CHAPTER XXVIII.
HOW THE COMRADES CAME OVER THE MARCHES OF FRANCE
After passing Cahors, the party branched away from the main road,
and leaving the river to the north of them, followed a smaller
track which wound over a vast and desolate plain. This path led
them amid marshes and woods, until it brought them out into a
glade with a broad stream swirling swiftly down the centre of it.
Through this the horses splashed their way, and on the farther
shore Sir Nigel announced to them that they were now within the
borders of the land of France. For some miles they still
followed the same lonely track, which led them through a dense
wood, and then widening out, curved down to an open rolling
country, such as they had traversed between Aiguillon and
Cahors.
If it were grim and desolate upon the English border, however,
what can describe the hideous barrenness of this ten times
harried tract of France? The whole face of the country was
scarred and disfigured, mottled over with the black blotches of
burned farm-steadings, and the gray, gaunt gable-ends of what had
been chateaux. Broken fences, crumbling walls, vineyards
littered with stones, the shattered arches of bridges--look where
you might, the signs of ruin and rapine met the eye. Here and
there only, on the farthest sky-line, the gnarled turrets of a
castle, or the graceful pinnacles of church or of monastery
showed where the forces of the sword or of the spirit had
preserved some small islet of security in this universal flood of
misery. Moodily and in silence the little party rode along the
narrow and irregular track, their hearts weighed down by this
far-stretching land of despair. It was indeed a stricken and a
blighted country, and a man might have ridden from Auvergne in
the north to the marches of Foix, nor ever seen a smiling village
or a thriving homestead.
From time to time as they advanced they saw strange lean figures
scraping and scratching amid the weeds and thistles, who, on
sight of the band of horsemen, threw up their arms and dived in
among the brushwood, as shy and as swift as wild animals. More
than once, however, they came on families by the wayside, who
were too weak from hunger and disease to fly, so that they could
but sit like hares on a tussock, with panting chests and terror
in their eyes. So gaunt were these poor folk, so worn and
spent--with bent and knotted frames, and sullen, hopeless,
mutinous faces--that it made the young Englishman heart-sick to
look upon them. Indeed, it seemed as though all hope and light
had gone so far from them that it was not to be brought back; for
when Sir Nigel threw down a handful of silver among them there
came no softening of their lined faces, but they clutched
greedily at the coins, peering questioningly at him, and champing
with their animal jaws. Here and there amid the brushwood the
travellers saw the rude bundle of sticks which served them as a
home--more like a fowl's nest than the dwelling-place of man.
Yet why should they build and strive, when the first adventurer
who passed would set torch to their thatch, and when their own
feudal lord would wring from them with blows and curses the last
fruits of their toil? They sat at the lowest depth of human
misery, and hugged a bitter comfort to their souls as they
realized that they could go no lower. Yet they had still the
human gift of speech, and would take council among themselves in
their brushwood hovels, glaring with bleared eyes and pointing
with thin fingers at the great widespread chateaux which ate like
a cancer into the life of the country-side. When such men, who
are beyond hope and fear, begin in their dim minds to see the
source their woes, it may be an evil time for those who have
wronged them. The weak man becomes strong when he has nothing,
for then only can he feel the wild, mad thrill of despair. High
and strong the chateaux, lowly and weak the brushwood hut; but
God help the seigneur and his lady when the men of the brushwood
set their hands to the work of revenge!
Through such country did the party ride for eight or it might be
nine miles, until the sun began to slope down in the west and
their shadows to stream down the road in front of them. Wary and
careful they must be, with watchful eyes to the right and the
left, for this was no man's land, and their only passports were
those which hung from their belts. Frenchmen and Englishmen,
Gascon and Provencal, Brabanter, Tardvenu, Scorcher, Flayer, and
Free Companion, wandered and struggled over the whole of this
accursed district. So bare and cheerless was the outlook, and so
few and poor the dwellings, that Sir Nigel began to have fears as
to whether he might find food and quarters for his little troop.
It was a relief to him, therefore, when their narrow track opened
out upon a larger road, and they saw some little way down it a
square white house with a great bunch of holly hung out at the
end of a stick from one of the upper windows.
"By St. Paul!" said he, "I am right glad; for I had feared that
we might have neither provant nor herbergage. Ride on, Alleyne,
and tell this inn-keeper that an English knight with his party
will lodge with him this night."
Alleyne set spurs to his horse and reached the inn door a long
bow-shot before his companions. Neither varlet nor ostler could
be seen, so he pushed open the door and called loudly for the
landlord. Three times he shouted, but, receiving no reply, he
opened an inner door and advanced into the chief guest-room of
the hostel.
A very cheerful wood-fire was sputtering and cracking in an open
grate at the further end of the apartment. At one side of this
fire, in a high-backed oak chair, sat a lady, her face turned
towards the door. The firelight played over her features, and
Alleyne thought that he had never seen such queenly power, such
dignity and strength, upon a woman's face. She might have been
five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline nose, firm yet
sensitive mouth, dark curving brows, and deep-set eyes which
shone and sparkled with a shifting brilliancy. Beautiful as she
was, it was not her beauty which impressed itself upon the
beholder; it was her strength, her power, the sense of wisdom
which hung over the broad white brow, the decision which lay in
the square jaw and delicately moulded chin. A chaplet of pearls
sparkled amid her black hair, with a gauze of silver network
flowing back from it over her shoulders; a black mantle was
swathed round her, and she leaned back in her chair as one who is
fresh from a journey.
In the opposite corner there sat a very burly and broad-shouldered
man, clad in a black jerkin trimmed with sable, with a black
velvet cap with curling white feather cocked upon the side
of his head. A flask of red wine stood at his elbow, and he
seemed to be very much at his ease, for his feet were stuck up on
a stool, and between his thighs he held a dish full of nuts.
These he cracked between his strong white teeth and chewed in a
leisurely way, casting the shells into the blaze. As Alleyne
gazed in at him he turned his face half round and cocked an eye
at him over his shoulder. It seemed to the young Englishman that
he had never seen so hideous a face, for the eyes were of the
lightest green, the nose was broken and driven inwards, while the
whole countenance was seared and puckered with wounds. The
voice, too, when he spoke, was as deep and as fierce as the growl
of a beast of prey.
"Young man," said he, "I know not who you may be, and I am not
much inclined to bestir myself, but if it were not that I am bent
upon taking my ease, I swear, by the sword of Joshua! that I
would lay my dog-whip across your shoulders for daring to fill
the air with these discordant bellowings."
Taken aback at this ungentle speech, and scarce knowing how to
answer it fitly in the presence of the lady, Alleyne stood with
his hand upon the handle of the door, while Sir Nigel and his
companions dismounted. At the sound of these fresh voices, and
of the tongue in which they spoke, the stranger crashed his dish
of nuts down upon the floor, and began himself to call for the
landlord until the whole house re-echoed with his roarings. With
an ashen face the white-aproned host came running at his call,
his hands shaking and his very hair bristling with apprehension.
"For the sake of God, sirs," he whispered as he passed, "speak
him fair and do not rouse him! For the love of the Virgin, be
mild with him!"
"Who is this, then?" asked Sir Nigel.
Alleyne was about to explain, when a fresh roar from the stranger
interrupted him.
"Thou villain inn-keeper," he shouted, "did I not ask you when I
brought my lady here whether your inn was clean?"
"You did, sire."
"Did I not very particularly ask you whether there were any
vermin in it?"
"You did, sire."
"And you answered me?"
"That there were not, sire."
"And yet ere I have been here an hour I find Englishmen crawling
about within it. Where are we to be free from this pestilent
race? Can a Frenchman upon French land not sit down in a French
auberge without having his ears pained by the clack of their
hideous talk? Send them packing, inn-keeper, or it may be the
worse for them and for you."
"I will, sire, I will!" cried the frightened host, and bustled
from the room, while the soft, soothing voice of the woman was
heard remonstrating with her furious companion.
"Indeed, gentlemen, you had best go," said mine host. "It is but
six miles to Villefranche, where there are very good quarters at
the sign of the `Lion Rouge.'"
"Nay," answered Sir Nigel, "I cannot go until I have seen more of
this person, for he appears to be a man from whom much is to be
hoped. What is his name and title?"
"It is not for my lips to name it unless by his desire. But I
beg and pray you, gentlemen, that you will go from my house, for
I know not what may come of it if his rage should gain the
mastery of him."
"By Saint Paul!" lisped Sir Nigel, "this is certainly a man whom
it is worth journeying far to know. Go tell him that a humble
knight of England would make his further honorable acquaintance,
not from any presumption, pride, or ill-will, but for the
advancement of chivalry and the glory of our ladies. Give him
greeting from Sir Nigel Loring, and say that the glove which I
bear in my cap belongs to the most peerless and lovely of her
sex, whom I am now ready to uphold against any lady whose claim
he might be desirous of advancing."
The landlord was hesitating whether to carry this message or no,
when the door of the inner room was flung open, and the stranger
bounded out like a panther from its den, his hair bristling and
his deformed face convulsed with anger.
"Still here!" he snarled. "Dogs of England, must ye be lashed
hence? Tiphaine, my sword!" He turned to seize his weapon, but
as he did so his gaze fell upon the blazonry of sir Nigel's
shield, and he stood staring, while the fire in his strange green
eyes softened into a sly and humorous twinkle.
"Mort Dieu!" cried he, "it is my little swordsman of Bordeaux. I
should remember that coat-armor, seeing that it is but three days
since I looked upon it in the lists by Garonne. Ah! Sir Nigel,
Sir Nigel! you owe me a return for this," and he touched his
right arm, which was girt round just under the shoulder with a
silken kerchief.
But the surprise of the stranger at the sight of Sir Nigel was as
nothing compared with the astonishment and the delight which
shone upon the face of the knight of Hampshire as he looked upon
the strange face of the Frenchman. Twice he opened his mouth and
twice he peered again, as though to assure himself that his eyes
had not played him a trick.
"Bertrand!" he gasped at last. "Bertrand du Guesclin!"
"By Saint Ives!" shouted the French soldier, with a hoarse roar
of laughter, "it is well that I should ride with my vizor down,
for he that has once seen my face does not need to be told my
name. It is indeed I, Sir Nigel, and here is my hand! I give you
my word that there are but three Englishmen in this world whom I
would touch save with the sharp edge of the sword: the prince is
one, Chandos the second, and you the third; for I have heard much
that is good of you."
"I am growing aged, and am somewhat spent in the wars," quoth Sir
Nigel; "but I can lay by my sword now with an easy mind, for I
can say that I have crossed swords with him who hath the bravest
heart and the strongest arm of all this great kingdom of France.
I have longed for it, I have dreamed of it, and now I can scarce
bring my mind to understand that this great honor hath indeed
been mine."
"By the Virgin of Rennes! you have given me cause to be very
certain of it," said Du Guesclin, with a gleam of his broad white
teeth.
"And perhaps, most honored sir, it would please you to continue
the debate. Perhaps you would condescend to go farther into the
matter. God He knows that I am unworthy of such honor, yet I can
show my four-and-sixty quarterings, and I have been present at
some bickerings and scufflings during these twenty years."
"Your fame is very well known to me, and I shall ask my lady to
enter your name upon my tablets," said Sir Bertrand. "There are
many who wish to advance themselves, and who bide their turn, for
I refuse no man who comes on such an errand. At present it may
not be, for mine arm is stiff from this small touch, and I would
fain do you full honor when we cross swords again. Come in with
me, and let your squires come also, that my sweet spouse, the
Lady Tiphaine, may say that she hath seen so famed and gentle a
knight."
Into the chamber they went in all peace and concord, where the
Lady Tiphaine sat like queen on throne for each in turn to be
presented to her. Sooth to say, the stout heart of Sir Nigel,
which cared little for the wrath of her lion-like spouse, was
somewhat shaken by the calm, cold face of this stately dame, for
twenty years of camp-life had left him more at ease in the lists
than in a lady's boudoir. He bethought him, too, as he looked at
her set lips and deep-set questioning eyes, that he had heard
strange tales of this same Lady Tiphaine du Guesclin. Was it not
she who was said to lay hands upon the sick and raise them from
their couches when the leeches had spent their last nostrums?
Had she not forecast the future, and were there not times when in
the loneliness of her chamber she was heard to hold converse with
some being upon whom mortal eye never rested--some dark familiar
who passed where doors were barred and windows high? Sir Nigel
sunk his eye and marked a cross on the side of his leg as he
greeted this dangerous dame, and yet ere five minutes had passed
he was hers, and not he only but his two young squires as well.
The mind had gone out of them, and they could but look at this
woman and listen to the words which fell from her lips--words
which thrilled through their nerves and stirred their souls like
the battle-call of a bugle.
Often in peaceful after-days was Alleyne to think of that scene
of the wayside inn of Auvergne. The shadows of evening had
fallen, and the corners of the long, low, wood-panelled room were
draped in darkness. The sputtering wood fire threw out a circle
of red flickering light which played over the little group of
wayfarers, and showed up every line and shadow upon their faces.
Sir Nigel sat with elbows upon knees, and chin upon hands, his
patch still covering one eye, but his other shining like a star,
while the ruddy light gleamed upon his smooth white head. Ford
was seated at his left, his lips parted, his eyes staring, and a
fleck of deep color on either cheek, his limbs all rigid as one
who fears to move. On the other side the famous French captain
leaned back in his chair, a litter of nut-shells upon his lap,
his huge head half buried in a cushion, while his eyes wandered
with an amused gleam from his dame to the staring, enraptured
Englishmen. Then, last of all, that pale clear-cut face, that
sweet clear voice, with its high thrilling talk of the
deathlessness of glory, of the worthlessness of life, of the pain
of ignoble joys, and of the joy which lies in all pains which
lead to a noble end. Still, as the shadows deepened, she spoke
of valor and virtue, of loyalty, honor, and fame, and still they
sat drinking in her words while the fire burned down and the red
ash turned to gray.
"By the sainted Ives!" cried Du Guesclin at last, "it is time
that we spoke of what we are to do this night, for I cannot think
that in this wayside auberge there are fit quarters for an
honorable company."
Sir Nigel gave a long sigh as he came back from the dreams of
chivalry and hardihood into which this strange woman's words had
wafted him. "I care not where I sleep," said he; "but these are
indeed somewhat rude lodgings for this fair lady."
"What contents my lord contents me," quoth she. "I perceive, Sir
Nigel, that you are under vow," she added, glancing at his
covered eye.
"It is my purpose to attempt some small deed," he answered.
"And the glove--is it your lady's?"
"It is indeed my sweet wife's."
"Who is doubtless proud of you."
"Say rather I of her," quoth he quickly. "God He knows that I am
not worthy to be her humble servant. It is easy, lady, for a man
to ride forth in the light of day, and do his devoir when all men
have eyes for him. But in a woman's heart there is a strength
and truth which asks no praise, and can but be known to him whose
treasure it is."
The Lady Tiphaine smiled across at her husband. "You have often
told me, Bertrand, that there were very gentle knights amongst
the English," quoth she.
"Aye, aye," said he moodily. "But to horse, Sir Nigel, you and
yours and we shall seek the chateau of Sir Tristram de Rochefort,
which is two miles on this side of Villefranche. He is Seneschal
of Auvergne, and mine old war companion."
"Certes, he would have a welcome for you," quoth Sir Nigel; "but
indeed he might look askance at one who comes without permit over
the marches."
"By the Virgin! when he learns that you have come to draw away
these rascals he will be very blithe to look upon your face.
Inn-keeper, here are ten gold pieces. What is over and above
your reckoning you may take off from your charges to the next
needy knight who comes this way. Come then, for it grows late
and the horses are stamping in the roadway."
The Lady Tiphaine and her spouse sprang upon their steeds without
setting feet to stirrup, and away they jingled down the white
moonlit highway, with Sir Nigel at the lady's bridle-arm, and
Ford a spear's length behind them. Alleyne had lingered for an
instant in the passage, and as he did so there came a wild outcry
from a chamber upon the left, and out there ran Aylward and John,
laughing together like two schoolboys who are bent upon a prank.
At sight of Alleyne they slunk past him with somewhat of a
shame-faced air, and springing upon their horses galloped after
their party. The hubbub within the chamber did not cease,
however, but rather increased, with yells of: "A moi, mes amis! A
moi, camarades! A moi, l'honorable champion de l'Eveque de
Montaubon! A la recousse de l'eglise sainte!" So shrill was the
outcry that both the inn-keeper and Alleyne, with every varlet
within hearing, rushed wildly to the scene of the uproar.
It was indeed a singular scene which met their eyes. The room
was a long and lofty one, stone floored and bare, with a fire at
the further end upon which a great pot was boiling. A deal table
ran down the centre, with a wooden wine-pitcher upon it and two
horn cups. Some way from it was a smaller table with a single
beaker and a broken wine-bottle. From the heavy wooden rafters
which formed the roof there hung rows of hooks which held up
sides of bacon, joints of smoked beef, and strings of onions for
winter use. In the very centre of all these, upon the largest
hook of all, there hung a fat little red-faced man with enormous
whiskers, kicking madly in the air and clawing at rafters, hams,
and all else that was within hand-grasp. The huge steel hook had
been passed through the collar of his leather jerkin, and there
he hung like a fish on a line, writhing, twisting, and screaming,
but utterly unable to free himself from his extraordinary
position. It was not until Alleyne and the landlord had mounted
on the table that they were able to lift him down, when he sank
gasping with rage into a seat, and rolled his eyes round in every
direction.
"Has he gone?" quoth he.
"Gone? Who?"
"He, the man with the red head, the giant man."
"Yes," said Alleyne, "he hath gone."
"And comes not back?"
"No."
"The better for him!" cried the little man, with a long sigh of
relief. "Mon Dieu! What! am I not the champion of the Bishop
of Montaubon? Ah, could I have descended, could I have come down,
ere he fled! Then you would have seen. You would have beheld a
spectacle then. There would have been one rascal the less upon
earth. Ma, foi, yes!"
"Good master Pelligny," said the landlord, "these gentlemen have
not gone very fast, and I have a horse in the stable at your
disposal, for I would rather have such bloody doings as you
threaten outside the four walls of mine auberge."
"I hurt my leg and cannot ride," quoth the bishop's champion. "I
strained a sinew on the day that I slew the three men at
Castelnau."
"God save you, master Pelligny!" cried the landlord. "It must be
an awesome thing to have so much blood upon one's soul. And yet
I do not wish to see so valiant a man mishandled, and so I will,
for friendship's sake, ride after this Englishman and bring him
back to you."
"You shall not stir," cried the champion, seizing the inn-keeper
in a convulsive grasp. "I have a love for you, Gaston, and I
would not bring your house into ill repute, nor do such scath to
these walls and chattels as must befall if two such men as this
Englishman and I fall to work here."
"Nay, think not of me!" cried the inn-keeper. "What are my
walls when set against the honor of Francois Poursuivant d'Amour
Pelligny, champion of the Bishop of Montaubon. My horse, Andre!"
"By the saints, no! Gaston, I will not have it! You have said
truly that it is an awesome thing to have such rough work upon
one's soul. I am but a rude soldier, yet I have a mind. Mon
Dieu! I reflect, I weigh, I balance. Shall I not meet this man
again? Shall I not bear him in mind? Shall I not know him by
his great paws and his red head? Ma foi, yes!"
"And may I ask, sir," said Alleyne, "why it is that you call
yourself champion of the Bishop of Montaubon?"
"You may ask aught which it is becoming to me to answer. The
bishop hath need of a champion, because, if any cause be set to
test of combat, it would scarce become his office to go down into
the lists with leather and shield and cudgel to exchange blows
with any varlet. He looks around him then for some tried
fighting man, some honest smiter who can give a blow or take one.
It is not for me to say how far he hath succeeded, but it is
sooth that he who thinks that he hath but to do with the Bishop
of Montaubon, finds himself face to face with Francois Poursuivant
d'Amour Pelligny."
At this moment there was a clatter of hoofs upon the road, and a
varlet by the door cried out that one of the Englishmen was
coming back. The champion looked wildly about for some corner of
safety, and was clambering up towards the window, when Ford's
voice sounded from without, calling upon Alleyne to hasten, or he
might scarce find his way. Bidding adieu to landlord and to
champion, therefore, he set off at a gallop, and soon overtook
the two archers.
"A pretty thing this, John," said he. "Thou wilt have holy
Church upon you if you hang her champions upon iron hooks in an
inn kitchen."
"It was done without thinking," he answered apologetically, while
Aylward burst into a shout of laughter.
"By my hilt! mon petit," said he, "you would have laughed also
could you have seen it. For this man was so swollen with pride
that he would neither drink with us, nor sit at the same table
with us, nor as much as answer a question, but must needs talk to
the varlet all the time that it was well there was peace, and
that he had slain more Englishmen than there were tags to his
doublet. Our good old John could scarce lay his tongue to French
enough to answer him, so he must needs reach out his great hand
to him and place him very gently where you saw him. But we must
on, for I can scarce hear their hoofs upon the road."
"I think that I can see them yet," said Ford, peering down the
moonlit road.
"Pardieu! yes. Now they ride forth from the shadow. And yonder
dark clump is the Castle of Villefranche. En avant camarades! or
Sir Nigel may reach the gates before us. But hark, mes amis,
what sound is that?"
As he spoke the hoarse blast of a horn was heard from some woods
upon the right. An answering call rung forth upon their left,
and hard upon it two others from behind them.
"They are the horns of swine-herds," quoth Aylward. "Though why
they blow them so late I cannot tell."
"Let us on, then," said Ford, and the whole party, setting their
spurs to their horses, soon found themselves at the Castle of
Villefranche, where the drawbridge had already been lowered and
the portcullis raised in response to the summons of Du Guesclin.
