XIX. HOW A SQUIRE OF ENGLAND MET A SQUIRE OF FRANCE
Sir Robert Knolles with his little fleet had sighted the Breton
coast near Cancale; they had rounded the Point du Grouin, and
finally had sailed past the port of St. Malo and down the long
narrow estuary of the Rance until they were close to the old
walled city of Dinan, which was held by that Montfort faction
whose cause the English had espoused. Here the horses had been
disembarked, the stores were unloaded, and the whole force
encamped outside the city, whilst the leaders waited for news as
to the present state of affairs, and where there was most hope of
honor and profit.
The whole of France was feeling the effects of that war with
England which had already lasted some ten years, but no Province
was in so dreadful a condition as this unhappy land of Brittany.
In Normandy or Picardy the inroads of the English were periodical
with intervals of rest between; but Brittany was torn asunder by
constant civil war apart from the grapple of the two great
combatants, so that there was no surcease of her sufferings. The
struggle had begun in 1341 through the rival claims of Montfort
and of Blois to the vacant dukedom. England had taken the part of
Montfort, France that of Blois. Neither faction was strong enough
to destroy the other, and so after ten years of continual
fighting, history recorded a long ineffectual list of surprises
and ambushes, of raids and skirmishes, of towns taken and retaken,
of alternate victory and defeat, in which neither party could
claim a supremacy. It mattered nothing that Montfort and Blois
had both disappeared from the scene, the one dead and the other
taken by the English. Their wives caught up the swords which had
dropped from the hands of their lords, and the long struggle went
on even more savagely than before.
In the south and east the Blois faction held the country, and
Nantes the capital was garrisoned and occupied by a strong French
army. In the north and west the Montfort party prevailed, for the
island kingdom was at their back and always fresh sails broke the
northern sky-line bearing adventurers from over the channel.
Between these two there lay a broad zone comprising all the center
of the country which was a land of blood and violence, where no
law prevailed save that of the sword. From end to end it was
dotted with castles, some held for one side, some for the other,
and many mere robber strongholds, the scenes of gross and
monstrous deeds, whose brute owners, knowing that they could never
be called to account, made war upon all mankind, and wrung with
rack and with flame the last shilling from all who fell into their
savage hands. The fields had long been untilled. Commerce was
dead. From Rennes in the east to Hennebon in the west, and from
Dinan in the north to Nantes in the south, there was no spot where
a man's life or a woman's honor was safe. Such was the land, full
of darkness and blood, the saddest, blackest spot in Christendom,
into which Knolles and his men were now advancing.
But there was no sadness in the young heart of Nigel, as he rode
by the side of Knolles at the head of a clump of spears, nor did
it seem to him that Fate had led him into an unduly arduous path.
On the contrary, he blessed the good fortune which had sent him
into so delightful a country, and it seemed to him as he listened
to dreadful stories of robber barons, and looked round at the
black scars of war which lay branded upon the fair faces of the
hills, that no hero of romances or trouveur had ever journeyed
through such a land of promise, with so fair a chance of knightly
venture and honorable advancement.
The Red Ferret was one deed toward his vow. Surely a second, and
perhaps a better, was to be found somewhere upon this glorious
countryside. He had borne himself as the others had in the
sea-fight, and could not count it to his credit where he had done
no more than mere duty. Something beyond this was needed for such
a deed as could be laid at the feet of the Lady Mary. But surely
it was to be found here in fermenting war-distracted Brittany.
Then with two done it would be strange if he could not find
occasion for that third one, which would complete his service and
set him free to look her in the face once more. With the great
yellow horse curveting beneath him, his Guildford armor gleaming
in the sun, his sword clanking against his stirrup-iron, and his
father's tough ash-spear in his hand, he rode with a light heart
and a smiling face, looking eagerly to right and to left for any
chance which his good Fate might send.
The road from Dinan to Caulnes, along which the small army was
moving, rose and dipped over undulating ground, with a bare marshy
plain upon the left where the river Rance ran down to the sea,
while upon the right lay a wooded country with a few wretched
villages, so poor and sordid that they had nothing with which to
tempt the spoiler. The peasants had left them at the first
twinkle of a steel cap, and lurked at the edges of the woods,
ready in an instant to dive into those secret recesses known only
to themselves. These creatures suffered sorely at the hands of
both parties, but when the chance came they revenged their wrongs
on either in a savage way which brought fresh brutalities upon
their heads.
The new-comers soon had a chance of seeing to what lengths they
would go, for in the roadway near to Caulnes they came upon an
English man-at-arms who had been waylaid and slain by them. How
they had overcome him could not be told, but how they had slain
him within his armor was horribly apparent, for they had carried
such a rock as eight men could lift, and had dropped it upon him
as he lay, so that he was spread out in his shattered case like a
crab beneath a stone. Many a fist was shaken at the distant woods
and many a curse hurled at those who haunted them, as the column
of scowling soldiers passed the murdered man, whose badge of the
Molene cross showed him to have been a follower of that House of
Bentley, whose head, Sir Walter, was at that time leader of the
British forces in the country.
Sir Robert Knolles had served in Brittany before, and he marshaled
his men on the march with the skill and caution of the veteran
soldier, the man who leaves as little as possible to chance,
having too steadfast a mind to heed the fool who may think him
overcautious. He had recruited a number of bowmen and men-at-arms
at Dinan; so that his following was now close upon five hundred
men. In front under his own leadership were fifty mounted
lancers, fully armed and ready for any sudden attack. Behind them
on foot came the archers, and a second body of mounted men closed
up the rear. Out upon either flank moved small bodies of cavalry,
and a dozen scouts, spread fanwise, probed every gorge and dingle
in front of the column. So for three days he moved slowly down
the Southern Road.
Sir Thomas Percy and Sir James Astley had ridden to the head of
the column, and Knolles conferred with them as they marched
concerning the plan of their campaign. Percy and Astley were
young and hot-headed with wild visions of dashing deeds and knight
errantry, but Knolles with cold, clear brain and purpose of iron
held ever his object in view.
"By the holy Dunstan and all the saints of Lindisfarne!" cried the
fiery Borderer, "it goes to my heart to ride forward when there
are such honorable chances on either side of us. Have I not heard
that the French are at Evran beyond the river, and is it not sooth
that yonder castle, the towers of which I see above the woods, is
in the hands of a traitor, who is false to his liege lord of
Montford? There is little profit to be gained upon this road, for
the folk seem to have no heart for war. Had we ventured as far
over the marches of Scotland as we now are in Brittany, we should
not have lacked some honorable venture or chance of winning
worship."
"You say truth, Thomas," cried Astley, a red-faced and choleric
young man. "It is well certain that the French will not come to
us, and surely it is the more needful that we go to them. In
sooth, any soldier who sees us would smile that we should creep
for three days along this road as though a thousand dangers lay
before us, when we have but poor broken peasants to deal with."
But Robert Knolles shook his head. "We know not what are in these
woods, or behind these hills," said he, "and when I know nothing
it is my wont to prepare for the worst which may befall. It is
but prudence so to do."
"Your enemies might find some harsher name for it," said Astley
with a sneer. "Nay, you need not think to scare me by glaring at
me, Sir Robert, nor will your ill-pleasure change my thoughts. I
have faced fiercer eyes than thine, and I have not feared."
"Your speech, Sir James, is neither courteous nor good," said
Knolles, "and if I were a free man I would cram your words down
your throat with the point of my dagger. But I am here to lead
these men in profit and honor, not to quarrel with every fool who
has not the wit to understand how soldiers should be led. Can you
not see that if I make attempts here and there, as you would have
me do, I shall have weakened my strength before I come to that
part where it can best be spent?"
"And where is that?" asked Percy. "'Fore God, Astley, it is in my
mind that we ride with one who knows more of war than you or I,
and that we would be wise to be guided by his rede. Tell us then
what is in your mind."
"Thirty miles from here," said Knolles, "there is, as I am told, a
fortalice named Ploermel, and within it is one Bambro', an
Englishman, with a good garrison. No great distance from him is
the Castle of Josselin where dwells Robert of Beaumanoir with a
great following of Bretons. It is my intention that we should
join Bambro', and so be in such strength that we may throw
ourselves upon Josselin, and by taking it become the masters of
all mid-Brittany, and able to make head against the Frenchmen in
the south."
"Indeed I think that you can do no better," said Percy heartily,
"and I swear to you on jeopardy of my soul that I will stand by
you in the matter! I doubt not that when we come deep into their
land they will draw together and do what they may to make head
against us; but up to now I swear by all the saints of Lindisfarne
that I should have seen more war in a summer's day in Liddesdale
or at the Forest of Jedburgh than any that Brittany has shown us.
Bat see, yonder horsemen are riding in. They are our own
hobblers, are they not? And who are these who are lashed to their
stirrups?"
A small troop of mounted bowmen had ridden out of an oak grove
upon the left of the road. They trotted up to where the three
knights had halted. Two wretched peasants whose wrists had been
tied to their leathers came leaping and straining beside the
horses in their effort not to be dragged off their feet. One was
a tall, gaunt, yellow-haired man, the other short and swarthy, but
both so crusted with dirt, so matted and tangled and ragged, that
they were more like beasts of the wood than human beings.
"What is this?" asked Knolles. "Have I not ordered you to leave
the countryfolk at peace?"
The leader of the archers, old Wat of Carlisle, held up a sword, a
girdle and a dagger. "If it please you, fair sir," said he, "I
saw the glint of these, and I thought them no fit tools for hands
which were made for the spade and the plow. But when we had
ridden them down and taken them, there was the Bentley cross upon
each, and we knew that they had belonged to yonder dead Englishman
upon the road. Surely then, these are two of the villains who
have slain him, and it is right that we do justice upon them."
Sure enough, upon sword, girdle and dagger shone the silver Molene
cross which had gleamed on the dead man's armor. Knolles looked
at them and then at the prisoners with a face of stone. At the
sight of those fell eyes they had dropped with inarticulate howls
upon their knees, screaming out their protests in a tongue which
none could understand.
"We must have the roads safe for wandering Englishmen," said
Knolles. "These men must surely die. Hang them to yonder tree."
He pointed to a live-oak by the roadside, and rode onward upon his
way in converse with his fellow-knights. But the old bowman had
ridden after him.
"If it please you, Sir Robert, the bowmen would fain put these men
to death in their own fashion," said he.
"So that they die, I care not how," Knolles answered carelessly,
and looked back no more.
Human life was cheap in those stern days when the footmen of a
stricken army or the crew of a captured ship were slain without
any question or thought of mercy by the victors. War was a rude
game with death for the stake, and the forfeit was always claimed
on the one side and paid on the other without doubt or hesitation.
Only the knight might be spared, since his ransom made him worth
more alive than dead. To men trained in such a school, with death
forever hanging over their own heads, it may be well believed that
the slaying of two peasant murderers was a small matter.
And yet there was special reason why upon this occasion the bowmen
wished to keep the deed in their own hands. Ever since their
dispute aboard the Basilisk, there had been ill-feeling betwixt
Bartholomew the old bald-headed bowyer, and long Ned Widdington
the Dalesman, which had ended in a conflict at Dinan, in which not
only they, but a dozen of their friends had been laid upon the
cobble-stones. The dispute raged round their respective knowledge
and skill with the bow, and now some quick wit amongst the
soldiers had suggested a grim fashion in which it should be put to
the proof, once for all, which could draw the surer shaft.
A thick wood lay two hundred paces from the road upon which the
archers stood. A stretch of smooth grassy sward lay between. The
two peasants were led out fifty yards from the road, with their
faces toward the wood. There they stood, held on a leash, and
casting many a wondering frightened glance over their shoulders at
the preparations which were being made behind them.
Old Bartholomew and the big Yorkshireman had stepped out of the
ranks and stood side by side each with his strung bow in his left
hand and a single arrow in his right. With care they had drawn on
and greased their shooting-gloves and fastened their bracers.
They plucked and cast up a few blades of grass to measure the
wind, examined every small point of their tackle, turned their
sides to the mark, and Widened their feet in a firmer stance.
>From all sides came chaff and counsel from their comrades.
"A three-quarter wind, bowyer!" cried one. "Aim a body's breadth
to the right!"
"But not thy body's breadth, bowyer," laughed another. "Else may
you be overwide."
"Nay, this wind will scarce turn a well-drawn shaft," said a
third. "Shoot dead upon him and you will be clap in the clout."
" Steady, Ned, for the good name of the Dales," cried a
Yorkshireman. " Loose easy and pluck not, or I am five crowns the
poorer man."
"A week's pay on Bartholomew!" shouted another. "Now, old
fat-pate, fail me not!"
"Enough, enough! Stint your talk!" cried the old bowman, Wat of
Carlisle. "Were your shafts as quick as your tongues there would
be no facing you. Do you shoot upon the little one, Bartholomew,
and you, Ned, upon the other. Give them law until I cry the word,
then loose in your own fashion and at your own time. Are you
ready! Hola, there, Hayward, Beddington, let them run!"
The leashes were torn away, and the two men, stooping their heads,
ran madly for the shelter of the wood amid such a howl from the
archers as beaters may give when the hare starts from its form.
The two bowmen, each with his arrow drawn to the pile, stood like
russet statues, menacing, motionless, their eager eyes fixed upon
the fugitives, their bow-staves rising slowly as the distance
between them lengthened. The Bretons were half-way to the wood,
and still Old Wat was silent. It may have been mercy or it may
have been mischief, but at least the chase should have a fair
chance of life. At six score paces he turned his grizzled head at
last.
"Loose!" he cried.
At the word the Yorkshireman's bow-string twanged. It was not for
nothing that he had earned the name of being one of the deadliest
archers of the North and had twice borne away the silver arrow of
Selby. Swift and true flew the fatal shaft and buried itself to
the feather in the curved back of the long yellow-haired peasant.
Without a sound he fell upon his face and lay stone-dead upon the
grass, the one short white plume between his dark shoulders to
mark where Death had smote him.
The Yorkshireman threw his bowstave into the air and danced in
triumph, whilst his comrades roared their fierce delight in a
shout of applause, which changed suddenly into a tempest of
hooting and of laughter.
The smaller peasant, more cunning, than his comrade, had run more
slowly, but with many a backward glance. He had marked his
companion's fate and had waited with keen eyes until he saw the
bowyer loose his string. At the moment he had thrown himself flat
upon the grass and had heard the arrow scream above him,- and seen
it quiver in the turf beyond. Instantly he had sprung to his feet
again and amid wild whoops and halloos from the bowmen had made
for the shelter of the wood. Now he had reached it, and ten score
good paces separated him from the nearest of his persecutors.
Surely they could not reach him here. With the tangled brushwood
behind him he was as safe as a rabbit at the mouth of his burrow.
In the joy of his heart he must needs dance in derision and snap
his fingers at the foolish men who had let him slip. He threw
back his head, howling at them like a dog, and at the instant an
arrow struck him full in the throat and laid him dead among the
bracken. There was a hush of surprised silence and then a loud
cheer burst from the archers.
"By the rood of Beverley!" cried old Wat, "I have not seen a finer
roving shaft this many a year. In my own best day I could not
have bettered it. Which of you loosed it?"
"It was Aylward of Tilford - Samkin Aylward," cried a score of
voices, and the bowman, flushed at his own fame, was pushed to the
front.
"Indeed I would that it had been at a nobler mark," said he. "He
might have gone free for me, but I could not keep my fingers from
the string when he turned to jeer at us."
"I see well that you are indeed a master-bowman," said old Wat,
"and it is comfort to my soul to think that if I fall I leave such
a man behind me to hold high the credit of our craft. Now gather
your shafts and on, for Sir Robert awaits us on the brow of the
hill."
All day Knolles and his men marched through the same wild and
deserted country, inhabited only by these furtive creatures, hares
to the strong and wolves to the weak, who hovered in the shadows
of the wood. Ever and anon upon the tops of the hills they caught
a glimpse of horsemen who watched them from a distance and
vanished when approached. Sometimes bells rang an alarm from
villages amongst the hills, and twice they passed castles which
drew up their drawbridges at their approach and lined their walls
with hooting soldiers as they passed. The Englishmen gathered a
few oxen and sheep from the pastures of each, but Knolles had no
mind to break his strength upon stone walls, and so he went upon
his way.
Once at St. Meen they passed a great nunnery, girt with a high
gray lichened wall, an oasis of peace in this desert of war, the
black-robed nuns basking in the sun or working in the gardens,
with the strong gentle hand of Holy Church shielding them ever
from evil. The archers doffed caps to them as they passed, for
the boldest and roughest dared not cross that line guarded by the
dire ban and blight which was the one only force in the whole
steel-ridden earth which could stand betwixt the weakling and the
spoiler.
The little army halted at St. Meen and cooked its midday meal. It
had gathered into its ranks again and was about to start, when
Knolles drew Nigel to one side.
"Nigel," said he, "it seems to me that I have seldom set eyes upon
a horse which hath more power and promise of speed than this great
beast of thine."
"It is indeed a noble steed, fair sir," said Nigel. Betwixt him
and his young leader there had sprung up great affection and
respect since the day that they set foot in the Basilisk.
"It will be the better if you stretch his limbs, for he grows
overheavy," said the knight. "Now mark me, Nigel! Yonder betwixt
the ash-tree and the red rock what do you see on the side of the
far hill?"
"There is a white dot upon it. Surely it is a horse."
"I have marked it all morning, Nigel. This horseman has kept ever
upon our flank, spying upon us or waiting to make some attempt
upon us. Now I should be right glad to have a prisoner, for it is
my wish to know something of this country-side, and these peasants
can speak neither French nor English. I would have you linger
here in hiding when we go forward. This man will still follow us.
When he does so, yonder wood will lie betwixt you and him. Do you
ride round it and come upon him from behind. There is broad plain
upon his left, and we will cut him off upon the right. If your
horse be indeed the swifter, then you cannot fail to take him."
Nigel had already sprung down and was tightening Pommers' girth.
"Nay, there is no need of haste, for you cannot start until we are
two miles upon our way. And above all I pray you, Nigel, none of
your knight-errant ways. It is this roan that I want, him and the
news that he can bring me. Think little of your own advancement
and much of the needs of the army. When you get him, ride
westwards upon the sun, and you cannot fail to find the road."
Nigel waited with Pommers under the shadow of the nunnery wall,
horse and man chafing with impatience, whilst above them six
round-eyed innocent nun-faces looked down on this strange and
disturbing vision from the outer world. At last the long column
wound itself out of sight round a curve of the road, and the white
dot was gone from the bare green flank of the hill. Nigel bowed
his steel head to the nuns, gave his bridle a shake, and bounded
off upon his welcome mission. The round-eyed sisters saw yellow
horse and twinkling man sweep round the skirt of the wood, caught
a last glimmer of him through the tree-trunks, and paced slowly
back to their pruning and their planting, their minds filled with
the beauty and the terror of that outer world beyond the high gray
lichen-mottled wall.
Everything fell out even as Knolles had planned. As Nigel rounded
the oak forest, there upon the farther side of it, with only good
greensward between, was the rider upon the white horse. Already
he was so near that Nigel could see him clearly, a young cavalier,
proud in his bearing, clad in purple silk tunic with a red curling
feather in his low black cap. He wore no armor, but his sword
gleamed at his side. He rode easily and carelessly, as one who
cares for no man, and his eyes were forever fixed upon the English
soldiers on the road. So intent was he upon them that he gave no
thought to his own safety, and it was only when the low thunder of
the great horse's hoofs broke upon his ears that he turned in his
saddle, looked very coolly and steadily at Nigel, then gave his
own bridle a shake and darted off, swift as a hawk, toward the
hills upon the left.
Pommers had met his match that day. The white horse, two parts
Arab, bore the lighter weight, since Nigel was clad in full armor.
For five miles over the open neither gained a hundred yards upon
the other. They had topped the hill and flew down the farther
side, the stranger continually turning in his saddle to have a
look at his pursuer. There was no panic in his flight, but rather
the amused rivalry with which a good horseman who is proud of his
mount contends with one who has challenged him. Below the hill
was a marshy plain, studded with great Druidic stones, some
prostrate, some erect, some bearing others across their tops like
the huge doors of some vanished building. A path ran through the
marsh with green rushes as a danger signal on either side of it.
Across this path many of the huge stones were lying, but the white
horse cleared them in its stride and Pommers followed close upon
his heels. Then came a mile of soft ground where the lighter
weight again drew to the front, but it ended in a dry upland and
once again Nigel gained. A sunken road crossed it, but the white
cleared it with a mighty spring, and again the yellow followed.
Two small hills lay before them with a narrow gorge of deep bushes
between. Nigel saw the white horse bounding chest-deep amid the
underwood.
Next instant its hind legs were high in the air, and the rider had
been shot from its back. A howl of triumph rose from amidst the
bushes, and a dozen wild figures armed with club and with spear,
rushed upon the prostrate man.
"A moi, Anglais, a moi!" cried a voice, and Nigel saw the young
rider stagger to his feet, strike round him with his sword, and
then fall once more before the rush of his assailants.
There was a comradeship among men of gentle blood and bearing
which banded them together against all ruffianly or unchivalrous
attack. These rude fellows were no soldiers. Their dress and
arms, their uncouth cries and wild assault, marked them as
banditti - such men as had slain the Englishman upon the road.
Waiting in narrow gorges with a hidden rope across the path, they
watched for the lonely horseman as a fowler waits by his
bird-trap, trusting that they could overthrow the steed and then
slay the rider ere he had recovered from his fall.
Such would have been the fate of the stranger, as of so many
cavaliers before him, had Nigel not chanced to be close upon his
heels. In an instant Pommers had burst through the group who
struck at the prostrate man, and in another two of the robbers had
fallen before Nigel's sword. A spear rang on his breastplate, but
one blow shore off its head, and a second that of him who held it.
In vain they thrust at the steel-girt man. His sword played round
them like lightning, and the fierce horse ramped and swooped above
them with pawing iron-shod hoofs and eyes of fire. With cries and
shrieks they flew off to right and left amidst the bushes,
springing over boulders and darting under branches where no
horseman could follow them. The foul crew had gone as swiftly and
suddenly as it had come, and save for four ragged figures littered
amongst the trampled bushes, no sign remaining of their passing.
Nigel tethered Pommers to a thorn-bush and then turned his
attention to the injured man. The white horse had regained his
feet and stood whinnying gently as he looked down on his prostrate
master. A heavy blow, half broken by his sword, had beaten him
down and left a great raw bruise upon his forehead. But a stream
gurgled through the gorge, and a capful of water dashed over his
face brought the senses back to the injured man. He was a mere
stripling, with the delicate features of a woman, and a pair of
great violet-blue eyes which looked up presently with a puzzled
stare into Nigel's face.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Ah yes! I call you to mind. You are
the young Englishman who chased me on the great yellow horse. By
our Lady of Rocamadour whose vernicle is round my neck! I could
not have believed that any horse could have kept at the heels of
Charlemagne so long. But I will wager you a hundred crowns,
Englishman, that I lead you over a five-mile course."
"Nay," said Nigel, "we will wait till you can back a horse ere we
talk of racing it. I am Nigel of Tilford, of the family of
Loring, a squire by rank and the son of a knight. How are you
called, young sir?"
"I also am a squire by rank and the son of a knight. I am Raoul
de la Roche Pierre de Bras, whose father writes himself Lord of
Grosbois, a free vavasor of the noble Count of Toulouse, with the
right of fossa and of furca, the high justice, the middle and the
low." He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Englishman, you have saved
my life as I would have saved yours, had I seen such yelping dogs
set upon a man of blood and of coat-armor. But now I am yours,
and what is your sweet will?"
" When you are fit to ride, you will come back with me to my
people."
"Alas! I feared that you would say so. Had I taken you, Nigel -
that is your name, is it not? - had I taken you, I would not have
acted thus."
"How then would you have ordered things?" asked Nigel, much taken
with the frank and debonair manner of his captive.
"I would not have taken advantage of such a mischance as has
befallen me which has put me in your power. I would give you a
sword and beat you in fair fight, so that I might send you to give
greeting to my dear lady and show her the deeds which I do for her
fair sake."
"Indeed, your words are both good and fair," said Nigel. "By
Saint Paul! I cannot call to mind that I have ever met a man who
bore himself better. But since I am in my armor and you without,
I see not how we can debate the matter."
"Surely, gentle Nigel, you could doff your armor."
"Then have I only my underclothes."
"Nay, there shall be no unfairness there, for I also will very
gladly strip to my underclothes."
Nigel looked wistfully at the Frenchman; but he shook his head.
"Alas! it may not be," said he. "The last words that Sir Robert
said to me were that I was to bring you to his side, for he would
have speech with you. Would that I could do what you ask, for I
also have a fair lady to whom I would fain send you. What use are
you to me, Raoul, since I have gained no honor in the taking of
you? How is it with you now?"
The young Frenchman had risen to his feet. "Do not take my
sword," he said. "I am yours, rescue or no rescue. I think now
that I could mount my horse, though indeed my head still rings
like a cracked bell."
Nigel had lost all traces of his comrades; but he remembered Sir
Robert's words that he should ride upon the sun with the certainty
that sooner or later he would strike upon the road. As they
jogged slowly along over undulating hills, the Frenchman shook off
his hurt and the two chatted merrily together.
"I had but just come from France," said he, "and I had hoped to
win honor in this country, for I have ever heard that the English
are very hardy men and excellent people to fight with. My mules
and my baggage are at Evran; but I rode forth to see what I could
see, and I chanced upon your army moving down the road, so I
coasted it in the hopes of some profit or adventure. Then you
came after me and I would have given all the gold goblets upon my
father's table if I had my harness so that I could have turned
upon you. I have promised the Countess Beatrice that I will send
her an Englishman or two to kiss her hands."
"One might perchance have a worse fate," said Nigel. "Is this
fair dame your betrothed?"
"She is my love," answered the Frenchman. "We are but waiting for
the Count to be slain in the wars, and then we mean to marry. And
this lady of thine, Nigel? I would that I could see her."
"Perchance you shall, fair sir," said Nigel, "for all that I have
seen of you fills me with desire to go further with you. It is in
my mind that we might turn this thing to profit and to honor, for
when Sir Robert has spoken with you, I am free to do with you as I
will."
"And what will you do, Nigel?"
"We shall surely try some small deed upon each other, so that
either I shall see the Lady Beatrice, or you the Lady Mary. Nay,
thank me not, for like yourself, I have come to this country in
search of honor, and I know not where I may better find it than at
the end of your sword-point. My good lord and master, Sir John
Chandos, has told me many times that never yet did he meet French
knight nor squire that he did not find great pleasure and profit
from their company, and now I very clearly see that he has spoken
the truth."
For an hour these two friends rode together, the Frenchman pouring
forth the praises of his lady, whose glove he produced from one
pocket, her garter from his vest, and her shoe from his
saddle-bag. She was blond, and when he heard that Mary was dark,
he would fain stop then and there to fight the question of color.
He talked too of his great chateau at Lauta, by the head waters of
the pleasant Garonne; of the hundred horses in the stables, the
seventy hounds in the kennels, the fifty hawks in the mews. His
English friend should come there when the wars were over, and what
golden days would be theirs! Nigel too, with his English coldness
thawing before this young sunbeam of the South, found himself
talking of the heather slopes of Surrey, of the forest of Woolmer,
even of the sacred chambers of Cosford.
But as they rode onward towards the sinking sun, their thoughts
far away in their distant homes, their horses striding together,
there came that which brought their minds back in an instant to
the perilous hillsides of Brittany.
It was the long blast of a trumpet blown from somewhere on the
farther side of a ridge toward which they were riding. A second
long-drawn note from a distance answered it.
"It is your camp," said the Frenchman.
"Nay," said Nigel; "we have pipes with us and a naker or two, but
I have heard no trumpet-call from our ranks. It behooves us to
take heed, for we know not what may be before us. Ride this way,
I pray you, that we may look over and yet be ourselves unseen."
Some scattered boulders crowned the height, and from behind them
the two young Squires could see the long rocky valley beyond.
Upon a knoll was a small square building with a battlement round
it. Some distance from it towered a great dark castle, as massive
as the rocks on which it stood, with one strong keep at the
corner, and four long lines of machicolated walls. Above, a great
banner flew proudly in the wind, with some device which glowed red
in the setting sun. Nigel shaded his eyes and stared with
wrinkled brow.
"It is not the arms of England, nor yet the lilies of France, nor
is it the ermine of Brittany," said he. "He who holds this castle
fights for his own hand, since his own device flies above it.
Surely it is a head gules on an argent field."
"The bloody head on a silver tray!" cried the Frenchman. "Was I
not warned against him? This is not a man, friend Nigel. It is a
monster who wars upon English, French and all Christendom. Have
you not heard of the Butcher of La Brohiniere?"
"Nay, I have not heard of him."
" His name is accursed in France. Have I not been told also that
he put to death this very year Gilles de St. Pol, a friend of the
English King?"
"Yes, in very truth it comes back to my mind now that I heard
something of this matter in Calais before we started."
"Then there he dwells, and God guard you if ever you pass under
yonder portal, for no prisoner has ever come forth alive! Since
these wars began he hath been a king to himself, and the plunder
of eleven years lies in yonder cellars. How can justice come to
him, when no man knows who owns the land? But when we have packed
you all back to your island, by the Blessed Mother of God, we have
a heavy debt to pay to the man who dwells in yonder pile!"
But even as they watched, the trumpet-call burst forth once more.
It came not from the castle but from the farther end of the
valley. It was answered by a second call from the walls. Then in
a long, straggling line there came a wild troop of marauders
streaming homeward from some foray. In the van, at the head of a
body of spearmen, rode a tall and burly man, clad in brazen armor,
so that he shone like a golden image in the slanting rays of the
sun. His helmet had been loosened from his gorget and was held
before him on his horse's neck. A great tangled beard flowed over
his breastplate, and his hair hung down as far behind. A squire
at his elbow bore high the banner of the bleeding head. Behind
the spearmen were a line of heavily laden mules, and on either
side of them a drove of poor country folk, who were being herded
into the castle. Lastly came a second strong troop of mounted
spearmen, who conducted a score or more of prisoners who marched
together in a solid body.
Nigel stared at them and then, springing on his horse, he urged it
along the shelter of the ridge so as to reach unseen a spot which
was close to the castle gate. He had scarce taken up his new
position when the cavalcade reached the drawbridge, and amid yells
of welcome from those upon the wall, filed in a thin line across
it. Nigel stared hard once more at the prisoners in the rear, and
so absorbed was he by the sight that he had passed the rocks and
was standing sheer upon the summit.
"By Saint Paul!" he cried, "it must indeed be so. I see their
russet jackets. They are English archers!"
As he spoke, the hindmost one, a strongly built, broad-shouldered
man, looked round and saw the gleaming figure above him upon the
hill, with open helmet, and the five roses glowing upon his
breast. With a sweep of his hands he had thrust his guardians
aside and for a moment was clear of the throng.
"Squire Loring! Squire Loring!" he cried. "It is I, Aylward the
archer! It is I, Samkin Aylward!" The next minute a dozen hands
had seized him, his cries were muffled with a gag, and he was
hurled, the last of the band, through the black and threatening
archway of the gate. Then with a clang the two iron wings came
together, the portcullis swung upward, and captives and captors,
robbers and booty, were all swallowed up within the grim and
silent fortress.
