XXVI. HOW NIGEL FOUND HIS THIRD DEED
Four archers lay behind a clump of bushes ten yards in front of
the thick hedge which shielded their companions. Amid the long
line of bowmen those behind them were their own company, and in
the main the same who were with Knolles in Brittany. The four in
front were their leaders: old Wat of Carlisle, Ned Widdington the
red-headed Dalesman, the bald bowyer Bartholomew, and Samkin
Alyward, newly rejoined after a week's absence. All four were
munching bread and apples, for Aylward had brought in a full
haversack and divided them freely amongst his starving comrades.
The old Borderer and the Yorkshireman were gaunt and hollow-eyed
with privation, while the bowyer's round face had fallen in so
that the skin hung in loose pouches under his eyes and beneath his
jaws.
Behind them lines of haggard, wolfish men glared through the
underwood, silent and watchful save that they burst into a fierce
yelp of welcome when Chandos and Nigel galloped up, sprang from
their horses and took their station beneath them. All along the
green fringe of bowmen might be seen the steel-clad figures of
knights and squires who had pushed their way into the front line
to share the fortune of the archers.
"I call to mind that I once shot six ends with a Kentish woldsman
at Ashford - " began the Bowyer.
"Nay, nay, we have heard that story!" said old Wat impatiently.
"Shut thy clap, Bartholomew, for it is no time for redeless
gossip! Walk down the line, I pray you, and see if there be no
frayed string, nor broken nock nor loosened whipping to be
mended."
The stout bowyer passed down the fringe of bowmen, amidst a
running fire of rough wit. Here and there a bow was thrust out at
him through the hedge for his professional advice.
"Wax your heads!" he kept crying. "Pass down the wax-pot and wax
your heads. A waxed arrow will pass where a dry will be held.
Tom Beverley, you jack-fool! where is your bracer-guard? Your
string will flay your arm ere you reach your up-shot this day.
And you, Watkin, draw not to your mouth, as is your wont, but to
your shoulder. You are so used to the wine-pot that the string
must needs follow it. Nay, stand loose, and give space for your
drawing arms, for they will be on us anon."
He ran back and joined his comrades in the front, who had now
risen to their feet. Behind them a half-mile of archers stood
behind the hedge, each with his great warbow strung, half a dozen
shafts loose behind him, and eighteen more in the quiver slung
across his front. With arrow on string, their feet firm-planted,
their fierce eager faces peering through the branches, they
awaited the coming storm.
The broad flood of steel, after oozing slowly forward, had stopped
about a mile from the English front. The greater part of the army
had then descended from their horses, while a crowd of varlets and
hostlers led them to the rear. The French formed themselves now
into three great divisions, which shimmered in the sun like
silvery pools, reed-capped with many a thousand of banners and
pennons. A space of several hundred yards divided each. At the
same time two bodies of horsemen formed themselves in front. The
first consisted of three hundred men in one thick column, the
second of a thousand, riding in a more extended line.
The Prince had ridden up to the line of archers. He was in dark
armor, his visor open, and his handsome aquiline face all glowing
with spirit and martial fire. The bowmen yelled at him, and he
waved his hands to them as a huntsman cheers his hounds.
"Well, John, what think you now?" he asked. "What would my noble
father not give to be by our side this day? Have you seen that
they have left their horses?"
"Yes, my fair lord, they have learned their lesson," said Chandos.
"Because we have had good fortune upon our feet at Crecy and
elsewhere they think that they have found the trick of it. But it
is in my mind that it is very different to stand when you are
assailed, as we have done, and to assail others when you must drag
your harness for a mile and come weary to the fray."
"You speak wisely, John. But these horsemen who form in front and
ride slowly towards us, what make you of them?"
"Doubtless they hope to cut the strings of our bowmen and so clear
a way for the others. But they are indeed a chosen band, for mark
you, fair sir, are not those the colors of Clermont upon the left,
and of d'Andreghen upon the right, so that both marshals ride with
the vanguard?"
"By God's soul, John!" cried the Prince, "it is very sure that you
can see more with one eye than any man in this army with two. But
it is even as you say. And this larger band behind?"
"They should be Germans, fair sir, by the fashion of their
harness."
The two bodies of horsemen had moved slowly over the plain, with a
space of nearly a quarter of a mile between them. Now, having
come two bowshots from the hostile line, they halted. All that
they could see of the English was the long hedge, with an
occasional twinkle of steel through its leafy branches, and behind
that the spear-heads of the men-at-arms rising from amidst the
brushwood and the vines. A lovely autumn countryside with
changing many-tinted foliage lay stretched before them, all bathed
in peaceful sunshine, and nothing save those flickering fitful
gleams to tell of the silent and lurking enemy who barred their
way. But the bold spirit of the French cavaliers rose the higher
to the danger. The clamor of their war-cries filled the air, and
they tossed their pennoned spears over their heads in menace and
defiance. From the English line it was a noble sight, the
gallant, pawing, curveting horses, the many-colored twinkling
riders, the swoop and wave and toss of plume and banner.
Then a bugle rang forth. With a sudden yell every spur struck
deep, every lance was laid in rest, and the whole gallant squadron
flew like a glittering thunderbolt for the center of the English
line.
A hundred yards they had crossed, and yet another hundred, but
there was no movement in front of them, and no sound save their
own hoarse battle-cries and the thunder of their horses. Ever
swifter and swifter they flew. From behind the hedge it was a
vision of horses, white, bay and black, their necks stretched,
their nostrils distended, their bellies to the ground, whilst of
the rider one could but see a shield with a plume-tufted visor
above it, and a spear-head twinkling in front.
Then of a sudden the Prince raised his hand and gave a cry.
Chandos echoed it, it swelled down the line, and with one mighty
chorus of twanging strings and hissing shafts the long-pent storm
broke at last.
Alas for the noble steeds! Alas for the gallant men. When the
lust of battle is over who would not grieve to see that noble
squadron break into red ruin before the rain of arrows beating
upon the faces and breasts of the horses? The front rank crashed
down, and the others piled themselves upon the top of them, unable
to check their speed, or to swerve aside from the terrible wall of
their shattered comrades which had so suddenly sprung up before
them. Fifteen feet high was that blood-spurting mound of
screaming, kicking horses and writhing, struggling men. Here and
there on the flanks a horseman cleared himself and dashed for the
hedge, only to have his steed slain under him and to be hurled
from his saddle. Of all the three hundred gallant riders, not one
ever reached that fatal hedge.
But now in a long rolling wave of steel the German battalion
roared swiftly onward. They opened in the center to pass that
terrible mound of death, and then spurred swiftly in upon the
archers. They were brave men, well led, and in their open lines
they could avoid the clubbing together which had been the ruin of
the vanguard; yet they perished singly even as the others had
perished together. A few were slain by the arrows. The greater
number had their horses killed under them, and were so shaken and
shattered by the fall that they could not raise their limbs,
over-weighted with iron, from the spot where they lay.
Three men riding together broke through the bushes which sheltered
the leaders of the archers, cut down Widdington the Dalesman,
spurred onward through the hedge, dashed over the bowmen behind
it, and made for the Prince. One fell with an arrow through his
head, a second was beaten from his saddle by Chandos, and the
third was slain by the Prince's own hand. A second band broke
through near the river, but were cut off by Lord Audley and his
squires, so that all were slain. A single horseman whose steed
was mad with pain, an arrow in its eye and a second in its
nostril, sprang over the hedge and clattered through the whole
army, disappearing amid whoops and laughter into the woods behind.
But none others won as far as the hedge. The whole front of the
position was fringed with a litter of German wounded or dead,
while one great heap in the center marked the downfall of the
gallant French three hundred.
Whilst these two waves of the attack had broken in front of the
English position, leaving this blood-stained wreckage behind them,
the main divisions had halted and made their last preparations for
their own assault. They had not yet begun their advance, and the
nearest was still half a mile distant, when the few survivors from
the forlorn hope, their maddened horses bristling with arrows,
flew past them on either flank.
At the same moment the English archers and men-at-arms dashed
through the hedge, and dragged all who were living out of that
tangled heap of shattered horses and men. It was a mad wild rush,
for in a few minutes the fight must be renewed, and yet there was
a rich harvest of wealth for the lucky man who could pick a
wealthy prisoner from amid the crowd. The nobler spirits
disdained to think of ransoms whilst the fight was still
unsettled; but a swarm of needy soldiers, Gascons and English,
dragged the wounded out by the leg or the arm, and with daggers at
their throats demanded their names, title and means. He who had
made a good prize hurried him to the rear where his own servants
could guard him, while he who was disappointed too often drove the
dagger home and then rushed once more into the tangle in the hope
of better luck. Clermont, with an arrow through the sky-blue
Virgin on his surcoat, lay dead within ten paces of the hedge;
d'Andreghen was dragged by a penniless squire from under a horse
and became his prisoner. The Earl of Salzburg and of Nassau were
both found helpless on the ground and taken to the rear. Aylward
cast his thick arms round Count Otto von Langenbeck, and laid him,
helpless from a broken leg, behind his bush. Black Simon had made
prize of Bernard, Count of Ventadour, and hurried him through the
hedge. Everywhere there was rushing and shouting, brawling and
buffeting, while amidst it all a swarm of archers were seeking
their shafts, plucking them from the dead, and sometimes even from
the wounded. Then there was a sudden cry of warning. In a moment
every man was back in his place once more, and the line of the
hedge was clear.
It was high time; for already the first division of the French was
close upon them. If the charge of the horsemen had been terrible
from its rush and its fire, this steady advance of a huge phalanx
of armored footmen was even more fearsome to the spectator. They
moved very slowly, on account of the weight of their armor, but
their progress was the more regular and inexorable. With elbows
touching - their shields slung in front, their short five-foot
spears carried in their right hands, and their maces or swords
ready at their belts, the deep column of men-at-arms moved onward.
Again the storm of arrows beat upon them clinking and thudding on
the armor. They crouched double behind their shields as they met
it. Many fell, but still the slow tide lapped onward. Yelling,
they surged up to the hedge, and lined it for half a mile,
struggling hard to pierce it.
For five minutes the long straining ranks faced each other with
fierce stab of spear on one side and heavy beat of ax or mace upon
the other. In many parts the hedge was pierced or leveled to the
ground, and the French men-at-arms were raging amongst the
archers, hacking and hewing among the lightly armed men. For a
moment it seemed as if the battle was on the turn.
But John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, cool, wise and crafty in war,
saw and seized, his chance. On the right flank a marshy meadow
skirted the river. So soft was it that a heavily-armed man would
sink to his knees. At his order a spray of light bowmen was
thrown out from the battle line and forming upon the flank of the
French poured their arrows into them. At the same moment Chandos,
with Audley, Nigel, Bartholomew Burghersh, the Captal de Buch, and
a score of other knights sprang upon their horses, and charging
down the narrow lane rode over the French line in front of them.
Once through it they spurred to left and right, trampling down the
dismounted men-at-arms.
A fearsome sight was Pommers that day, his red eyes rolling, his
nostrils gaping, his tawny mane tossing, and his savage teeth
gnashing in fury, as he tore and smashed and ground beneath his
ramping hoofs all that came before him. Fearsome too was the
rider, ice-cool; alert, concentrated of purpose, with, heart of
fire and muscles of steel. A very angel of battle he seemed as he
drove his maddened horse through the thickest of the press, but
strive as he would: the tall figure of his master upon his
coal-black steed was ever half a length before him.
Already the moment of danger was passed. The French line had
given back. Those who had pierced the hedge had fallen like brave
men amid the ranks of their foemen. The division of Warwick had
hurried up from the vineyards to fill the gaps of Salisbury's
battle-line. Back rolled the shining tide, slowly at first, even
as it had advanced, but quicker now as the bolder fell and the
weaker shredded out and shuffled with ungainly speed for a place
of safety. Again there was a rush from behind the hedge. Again
there was a reaping of that strange crop of bearded arrows which
grew so thick upon the ground, and again the wounded prisoners
were seized and dragged in brutal haste to the rear. Then the
line was restored, and the English, weary, panting and shaken,
awaited the next attack.
But a great good fortune had come to them - so great that as they
looked down the valley they could scarce credit their own senses.
Behind the division of the Dauphin, which had pressed them so
hard, stood a second division hardly less numerous, led by the
Duke of Orleans. The fugitives from in front, blood-smeared and
bedraggled, blinded with sweat and with fear, rushed amidst its
ranks in their flight, and in a moment, without a blow being
struck, had carried them off in their wild rout. This vast array,
so solid and so martial, thawed suddenly away like a snow-wreath
in the sun. It was gone, and in its place thousands of shining
dots scattered over the whole plain as each man made his own way
to the spot where he could find his horse and bear himself from
the field. For a moment it seemed that the battle was won, and a
thundershout of joy pealed up from the English line.
But as the curtain of the Duke's division was drawn away it was
only to disclose stretching far behind it, and spanning the valley
from side to side, the magnificent array of the French King,
solid, unshaken, and preparing its ranks for the attack. Its
numbers were as great as those of the English army; it was
unscathed by all that was past, and it had a valiant monarch to
lead it to the charge. With the slow deliberation of the man who
means to do or to die, its leader marshaled its ranks for the
supreme effort of the day.
Meanwhile during that brief moment of exultation when the battle
appeared to be won, a crowd of hot-headed young knights and
squires swarmed and clamored round the Prince, beseeching that he
would allow them to ride forth.
"See this insolent fellow who bears three martlets upon a field
gales!" cried Sir Maurice Berkeley. "He stands betwixt the two
armies as though he had no dread of us."
"I pray you, sir, that I may ride out to him, since he seems ready
to attempt some small deed," pleaded Nigel.
"Nay, fair sirs, it is an evil thing that we should break our
line, seeing that we still have much to do," said the Prince.
"See! he rides away, and so the matter is settled."
"Nay, fair prince," said the young knight who had spoken first.
"My gray horse, Lebryte, could run him down ere he could reach
shelter. Never since I left Severn side have I seen steed so
fleet as mine. Shall I not show you?" In an instant he had
spurred the charger and was speeding across the plain.
The Frenchman, John de Helennes, a squire of Picardy, had waited
with a burning heart, his soul sick at the flight of the division
in which he had ridden. In the hope of doing some redeeming
exploit, or of meeting his own death, he had loitered betwixt the
armies, but no movement had come from the English lines. Now he
had turned his horse's head to join the King's array, when the low
drumming of hoofs sounded behind him, and he turned to find a
horseman hard upon his heels. Each had drawn his sword, and the
two armies paused to view the fight. In the first bout Sir
Maurice Berkeley's lance was struck from his hand, and as he
sprang down to recover it the Frenchman ran him through the thigh,
dismounted from his horse, and received his surrender. As the
unfortunate Englishman hobbled away at the side of his captor a
roar of laughter burst from both armies at the spectacle.
"By my ten finger-bones!" cried Aylward, chuckling behind the
remains of his bush, "he found more on his distaff that time than
he knew how to spin. Who was the knight?"
"By his arms," said old Wat, "he should either be a Berkeley of
the West or a Popham of Kent."
"I call to mind that I shot a match of six ends once with a
Kentish woldsman - " began the fat Bowyer.
"Nay, nay, stint thy talk, Bartholomew!" cried old Wat. "Here is
poor Ned with his head cloven, and it would be more fitting if you
were saying aves for his soul, instead of all this bobance and
boasting. Now, now, Tom of Beverley?"
"We have suffered sorely in this last bout, Wat. There are forty
of our men upon their backs, and the Dean Foresters on the right
are in worse case still."
"Talking will not mend it, Tom, and if all but one were on their
backs he must still hold his ground."
Whilst the archers were chatting, the leaders of the army were in
solemn conclave just behind them. Two divisions of the French had
been repulsed, and yet there was many an anxious face as the older
knights looked across the plain at the unbroken array of the
French King moving slowly toward them. The line of the archers
was much thinned and shredded. Many knights and squires had been
disabled in the long and fierce combat at the hedge. Others,
exhausted by want of food, had no strength left and were stretched
panting upon the ground. Some were engaged in carrying the
wounded to the rear and laying them under the shelter of the
trees, whilst others were replacing their broken swords or lances
from the weapons of the slain. The Captal de Buch, brave and
experienced as he was, frowned darkly and whispered his misgivings
to Chandos.
But the Prince's courage flamed the higher as the shadow fell,
while his dark eyes gleamed with a soldier's pride as he glanced
round him at his weary comrades, and then at the dense masses of
the King's battle which now, with a hundred trumpets blaring and a
thousand pennons waving, rolled slowly over the plain. "Come what
may, John, this has been a most noble meeting," said he. "They
will not be ashamed of us in England. Take heart, my friends, for
if we conquer we shall carry the glory ever with us; but if we be
slain then we die most worshipfully and in high honor, as we have
ever prayed that we might die, and we leave behind us our brothers
and kinsmen who will assuredly avenge us. It is but one more
effort, and all will be well. Warwick, Oxford, Salisbury,
Suffolk, every man to the front! My banner to the front also!
Your horses, fair sirs! The archers are spent, and our own good
lances must win the field this day. Advance, Walter, and may God
and Saint George be with England!"
Sir Walter Woodland, riding a high black horse, took station by
the Prince, with the royal banner resting in a socket by his
saddle. From all sides the knights and squires crowded in upon
it, until they formed a great squadron containing the survivors of
the battalions of Warwick and Salisbury as well as those of the
Prince. Four hundred men-at-arms who had been held in reserve
were brought up and thickened the array, but even so Chandos' face
was grave as he scanned it and then turned his eyes upon the
masses of the Frenchmen.
"I like it not, fair sir. The weight is overgreat," he whispered
to the Prince.
"How would you order it, John? Speak what is in you mind."
"We should attempt something upon their flank whilst we hold them
in front. How say you, jean?" He turner to the Captal de Buch,
whose dark, resolute face reflected the same misgivings.
"Indeed, John, I think as you do," said he. "The French King is a
very valiant man, and so are those who are about him, and I know
not how we may drive them back unless we can do as you advise. If
you will give me only a hundred men I will attempt it."
"Surely the task is mine, fair sir, since the thought has come
from me," said Chandos.
"Nay, John, I would keep you at my side. But you speak well,
Jean, and you shall do even as you have said. Go ask the Earl of
Oxford for a hundred men-at-arms and as many hobblers, that you
may ride round the mound yonder, and so fall upon them unseen.
Let all that are left of the archers gather on each side, shoot
away their arrows, and then fight as best they may. Wait till
they are past yonder thorn-bush and then, Walter, bear my banner
straight against that of the King of France. Fair sirs, may God
and the thought of your ladies hold high your hearts!"
The French monarch, seeing that his footmen had made no impression
upon the English, and also that the hedge had been well-nigh
leveled to the ground in the course of the combat, so that it no
longer presented an obstacle, had ordered his followers to remount
their horses, and it was as a solid mass of cavalry that the
chivalry of France advanced to their last supreme effort. The
King was in the center of the front line, Geoffrey de Chargny with
the golden oriflamme upon his right, and Eustace de Ribeaumont
with the royal lilies upon the left. At his elbow was the Duke of
Athens, High Constable of France, and round him were the nobles of
the court, fiery and furious, yelling their warcries as they waved
their weapons over their heads. Six thousand gallant men of the
bravest race in Europe, men whose very names are like blasts of a
battle-trumpet - Beaujeus and Chatillons, Tancarvilles and
Ventadours - pressed hard behind the silver lilies.
Slowly they moved at first, walking their horses that they might
be the fresher for the shock. Then they broke into a trot which
was quickening into a gallop when the remains of the hedge in
front of them was beaten in an instant to the ground and the broad
line of the steel-clad chivalry of England swept grandly forth to
the final shock. With loose rein and busy spur the two lines of
horsemen galloped at the top of their speed straight and hard for
each other. An instant later they met with a thunder-crash which
was heard by the burghers on the wall of Poitiers, seven good
miles away.
Under that frightful impact horses fell dead with broken necks,
and many a rider, held in his saddle by the high pommel, fractured
his thighs with the shock. Here and there a pair met breast to
breast, the horses rearing straight upward and falling back upon
their masters. But for the most part the line had opened in the
gallop, and the cavaliers, flying through the gaps, buried
themselves in the enemy's ranks. Then the flanks shredded out,
and the thick press in the center loosened until there was space
to swing a sword and to guide a steed. For ten acres there was
one wild tumultuous swirl of tossing heads, of gleaming weapons
which rose and fell, of upthrown hands, of tossing plumes and of
lifted shields, whilst the din of a thousand war-cries and the
clash-clash of metal upon metal rose and swelled like the roar and
beat of an ocean surge upon a rock-bound coast. Backward and
forward swayed the mighty throng, now down the valley and now up,
as each side in turn put forth its strength for a fresh rally.
Locked in one long deadly grapple, great England and gallant
France with iron hearts and souls of fire strove and strove for
mastery.
Sir Walter Woodland, riding hard upon his high black horse, had
plunged into the swelter and headed for the blue and silver banner
of King John. Close at his heels in a solid wedge rode the
Prince, Chandos, Nigel, Lord Reginald Cobham, Audley with his four
famous squires, and a score of the flower of the English and
Gascon knighthood. Holding together and bearing down opposition
by a shower of blows and by the weight of their powerful horses,
their progress was still very slow, for ever fresh waves of French
cavaliers surged up against them and broke in front only to close
in again upon their rear. Sometimes they were swept backward by
the rush, sometimes they gained a few paces, sometimes they could
but keep their foothold, and yet from minute to minute that blue
and silver flag which waved above the press grew ever a little
closer. A dozen furious hard-breathing French knights had broken
into their ranks, and clutched at Sir Walter Woodland's banner,
but Chandos and Nigel guarded it on one side, Audley with his
squires on the other, so that no man laid his hand upon it and
lived.
But now there was a distant crash and a roar of "Saint George for
Guienne!" from behind. The Captal de Buch had charged home.
"Saint George for England!" yelled the main attack, and ever the
counter-cry came back to them from afar. The ranks opened in
front of them. The French were giving way. A small knight with
golden scroll-work upon his armor threw himself upon the Prince
and was struck dead by his mace. It was the Duke of Athens,
Constable of France, but none had time to note it, and the fight
rolled on over his body. Looser still were the French ranks.
Many were turning their horses, for that ominous roar from the
rear had shaken their resolution. The little English wedge poured
onward, the Prince, Chandos, Audley and Nigel ever in the van.
A huge warrior in black, bearing a golden banner, appeared
suddenly in a gap of the shredding ranks. He tossed his precious
burden to a squire, who bore it away. Like a pack of hounds on
the very haunch of a deer the English rushed yelling for the
oriflamme. But the black warrior flung himself across their path.
"Chargny! Chargny a la recousse!" he roared with a voice of
thunder. Sir Reginald Cobham dropped before his battle-ax, so did
the Gascon de Clisson. Nigel was beaten down on to the crupper of
his horse by a sweeping blow; but at the same instant Chandos'
quick blade passed through the Frenchman's camail and pierced his
throat. So died Geoffrey de Chargny; but the oriflamme was saved.
Dazed with the shock, Nigel still kept his saddle, and Pommers,
his yellow hide mottled with blood, bore him onward with the
others. The French horsemen were now in full flight; but one
stern group of knights stood firm, like a rock in a rushing
torrent, beating off all, whether friend or foe, who tried to
break their ranks. The oriflamme had gone, and so had the blue
and silver banner, but here were desperate men ready to fight to
the death. In their ranks honor was to be reaped. The Prince and
his following hurled themselves upon them, while the rest of the
English horsemen swept onward to secure the fugitives and to win
their ransoms. But the nobler spirits - Audley, Chandos and the
others - would have thought it shame to gain money whilst there
was work to be done or honor to be won. Furious was the wild
attack, desperate the prolonged defense. Men fell from their
saddles for very exhaustion.
Nigel, still at his place near Chandos' elbow, was hotly attacked
by a short broad-shouldered warrior upon a stout white cob, but
Pommers reared with pawing fore feet and dashed the smaller horse
to the ground. The falling rider clutched Nigel's arm and tore
him from the saddle, so that the two rolled upon the grass under
the stamping hoofs, the English squire on the top, and his
shortened sword glimmered before the visor of the gasping,
breathless Frenchman.
"Je me rends! je axe rends!" he panted.
For a moment a vision of rich ransoms passed through Nigel's
brain. That noble palfrey, that gold-flecked armor, meant fortune
to the captor. Let others have it! There was work still to be
done. How could he desert the Prince and his noble master for the
sake of a private gain? Could he lead a prisoner to the rear when
honor beckoned him to the van? He staggered to his feet, seized
Pommers by the mane, and swung himself into the saddle.
An instant later he was by Chandos' side once more and they were
bursting together through the last ranks of the gallant group who
had fought so bravely to the end. Behind them was one long swath
of the dead and the wounded. In front the whole wide plain was
covered with the flying French and their pursuers.
The Prince reined up his steed and opened his visor, whilst his
followers crowded round him with waving weapons and frenzied
shouts of victory. "What now, John!" cried the smiling Prince,
wiping his streaming face with his ungauntleted hand. "How fares
it then?"
"I am little hurt, fair lord, save for a crushed hand and a
spear-prick in the shoulder. But you, sir? I trust you have no
scathe?"
"In truth, John, with you at one elbow and Lord Audley at the
other, I know not how I could come to harm. But alas! I fear
that Sir James is sorely stricken."
The gallant Lord Audley had dropped upon the ground and the blood
oozed from every crevice of his battered armor. His four brave
Squires - Dutton of Dutton, Delves of Doddington, Fowlhurst of
Crewe and Hawkstone of Wainhill - wounded and weary themselves,
but with no thought save for their master, unlaced his helmet and
bathed his pallid blood-stained face.
He looked up at the Prince with burning eyes. "I thank you, sir,
for deigning to consider so poor a knight as myself," said he in a
feeble voice.
The Prince dismounted and bent over him. "I am bound to honor you
very much, James," said he, "for by your valor this day you have
won glory and renown above us all, and your prowess has proved you
to be the bravest knight."
"My Lord," murmured the wounded man, "you have a right to say what
you please; but I wish it were as you say."
"James," said the Prince, "from this time onward I make you a
knight of my own household, and I settle upon you five hundred
marks of yearly income from my own estates in England."
"Sir," the knight answered, "God make me worthy of the good
fortune you bestow upon me. Your knight I will ever be, and the
money I will divide with your leave amongst these four squires who
have brought me whatever glory I have won this day." So saying
his head fell back, and he lay white and silent upon the grass.
"Bring water!" said the Prince. "Let the royal leech see to him;
for I had rather lose many men than the good Sir James. Ha,
Chandos, what have we here?"
A knight lay across the path with his helmet beaten down upon his
shoulders. On his surcoat and shield were the arms of a red
griffin.
"It is Robert de Duras the spy," said Chandos.
"Well for him that he has met his end," said the angry Prince.
"Put him on his shield, Hubert, and let four archers bear him to
the monastery. Lay him at the feet of the Cardinal and say that
by this sign I greet him. Place my flag on yonder high bush,
Walter, and let my tent be raised there, that my friends may know
where to seek me."
The flight and pursuit had thundered far away, and the field was
deserted save for the numerous groups of weary horsemen who were
making their way back, driving their prisoners before them. The
archers were scattered over the whole plain, rifling the
saddle-bags and gathering the armor of those who had fallen, or
searching for their own scattered arrows.
Suddenly, however, as the Prince was turning toward the bush which
he had chosen for his headquarters, there broke out from behind
him an extraordinary uproar and a group of knights and squires
came pouring toward him, all arguing, swearing and abusing each
other in French and English at the tops of their voices. In the
midst of them limped a stout little man in gold-spangled armor,
who appeared to be the object of the contention, for one would
drag him one way and one another, as though they would pull him
limb from limb. "Nay, fair sirs, gently, gently, I pray you!" he
pleaded. "There is enough for all, and no need to treat me so
rudely." But ever the hubbub broke out again, and swords gleamed
as the angry disputants glared furiously at each other. The
Prince's eyes fell upon the small prisoner, and he staggered back
with a gasp of astonishment.
"King John!" he cried.
A shout of joy rose from the warriors around him. "The King of
France! The King of France a prisoner!" they cried in an ecstasy.
"Nay, nay, fair sirs, let him not hear that we rejoice! Let no
word bring pain to his soul!" Running forward the Prince clasped
the French King by the two hands.
"Most welcome, sire!" he cried. "Indeed it is good for us that so
gallant a knight should stay with us for some short time, since
the chance of war has so ordered it. Wine there! Bring wine for
the King!"
But John was flushed and angry. His helmet had been roughly torn
off, and blood was smeared upon his cheek. His noisy captors
stood around him in a circle, eying him hungrily like dogs who
have been beaten from their quarry. There were Gascons and
English, knights, squires and archers, all pushing and straining.
"I pray you, fair Prince, to get rid of these rude fellows," said
King John, "for indeed they have plagued me sorely. By Saint
Denis! my arm has been well-nigh pulled from its socket."
"What wish you then?" asked the Prince, turning angrily upon the
noisy swarm of his followers.
"We took him, fair lord. He is ours!" cried a score of voices.
They closed in, all yelping together like a pack of wolves. "It
was I, fair lord!" - " Nay, it was I!" - " You lie, you rascal, it
was I!" Again their fierce eyes glared and their blood-stained
hands sought the hilts of their weapons.
"Nay, this must be settled here and now!" said the Prince. "I
crave your patience, fair and honored sir, for a few brief
minutes, since indeed much ill-will may spring from this if it be
not set at rest. Who is this tall knight who can scarce keep his
hands from the King's shoulder?"
"It is Denis de Morbecque, my lord, a knight of St. Omer, who is
in our service, being an outlaw from France."
"I call him to mind. How then, Sir Denis? What say you in this
matter?"
"He gave himself to me, fair lord. He had fallen in the press,
and I came upon him and seized him. I told him that I was a
knight from Artois, and he gave me his glove. See here, I bear it
in my hand."
"It is true, fair lord! It is true!" cried a dozen French voices.
"Nay, sir, judge not too soon!" shouted an English squire, pushing
his way to the front. "It was I who had him at my mercy, and he
is my prisoner, for he spoke to this man only because he could
tell by his tongue that he was his own countryman. I took him,
and here are a score to prove it."
"It is true, fair lord. We saw it and it was even so," cried a
chorus of Englishmen.
At all times there was growling and snapping betwixt the English
and their allies of France. The Prince saw how easily this might
set a light to such a flame as could not readily be quenched. It
must be stamped out now ere it had time to mount.
"Fair and honored lord," he said to the King, "again I pray you
for a moment of patience. It is your word and only yours which
can tell us what is just and right. To whom were you graciously
pleased to commit your royal person?"
King John looked up from the flagon which had been brought to him
and wiped his lips with the dawnings of a smile upon his ruddy
face.
"It was not this Englishman," he said, and a cheer burst from the
Gascons, "nor was it this bastard Frenchman," he added. "To
neither of them did I surrender."
There was a hush of surprise.
"To whom then, sir?" asked the Prince.
The King looked slowly round. "There was a devil of a yellow
horse," said he. "My poor palfrey went over like a skittle-pin
before a ball. Of the rider I know nothing save that he bore red
roses on a silver shield. Ah! by Saint Denis, there is the man
himself, and there his thrice-accursed horse!"
His head swimming, and moving as if in a dream, Nigel found
himself the center of the circle of armed and angry men.
The Prince laid his hand upon his shoulder. "It is the little
cock of Tilford Bridge," said he. "On my father's soul, I have
ever said that you would win your way. Did you receive the King's
surrender?"
"Nay, fair lord, I did not receive it."
"Did you hear him give it?"
"I heard, sir, but I did not know that it was the King. My master
Lord Chandos had gone on, and I followed after."
"And left him lying. Then the surrender was not complete, and by
the laws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque, if his
story be true."
"It is true," said the King. "He was the second."
"Then the ransom is yours; Denis. But for my part I swear by my
father's soul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has
gathered than all the richest ransoms of France."
At these words spoken before that circle of noble warriors Nigel's
heart gave one great throb, and he dropped upon his knee before
the Prince. "Fair lord, how can I thank you?" he murmured.
"These words at least are more than any ransom."
"Rise up!" said the smiling Prince, and he smote with his sword
upon his shoulder. "England has lost a brave Squire, and has
gained a gallant knight. Nay, linger not, I pray! Rise up, Sir
Nigel!"
