THE ABBOT OF CHALONNES
The captain gave a start. He stared a while at the man. A slow
understanding smile curled at the corners of his mouth and he said,
“There is no such person as the Abbot of Chalonnes. He is only a myth
for the simple country folk to believe in. You are some one else.”
The Abbot raised his hand.
“The two archers, whom you have taken captive, are mine,” he said with
great calm. “I have also an interest in the two lads. If you are wise,
you will give them up.”
The captain stiffened himself.
“—and if I don’t?” he demanded.
For a second there was no answer. The Abbot sat on his horse as silent
as a statue without a stir. Then, with a gesture that was more
convincing than words, he said, “Did you not hear the warning of the
Dwarf?”
A jar ran through us and even the captain recoiled. The Abbot had come
to us straight down the road. The Dwarf, as far as we knew, was a mile
or more behind us. How the two ever could have had an understanding was
more than we could guess.
But the captain was not easily rebuffed.
“There are ten of us here, Sir Abbot,” he said pointing to his men. “You
are but one. It is true you are clad in armor, but even at that you are
taking a chance.”
The Abbot took the reins again in his hands.
“For the last time, I ask you,” he said, “will you give up your
prisoners?”
The captain fairly roared.
“No!” he cried.
The Abbot clapped his spurs into the horse’s flanks. The archers raised
their bows. As he came on an arrow or two struck against his armor and
dropped like dead leaves to the road. He made straight for the captain.
Within the space of a single breath the horses were side by side. The
captain drew a dagger and leaned far forward, but the Abbot curled his
fist and bent his arm. He caught his enemy alongside the jaw with a
sweeping blow. The captain’s head went back with a snap. The light left
his eyes and he dropped from his horse as though he had been felled with
a mighty club.
That was the first stroke. The Abbot was now in the midst of us. The
archers, seeing that their prisoners were only an encumbrance to their
movements, loosed the ropes that bound us from their saddles. You may be
sure that Charles and I, and the two captive archers made for the side
of the road as fast as we were able so that we might not only be out of
danger but might view a fight that promised enough of excitement.
The Abbot spun the horse about. One of the men who was nearest him
realized that neither arrow nor dagger could wound a man who was so
finely protected, raised himself in his stirrups. He then threw himself
with all his weight at his opponent. It was his intention to thus
overcome him and drag him to the earth. If they once could pounce upon
him they could pummel him to death, or, what was just as good, could
bind him and lead him off, their prisoner.
But this fellow had counted without a knowledge of the skill and
adroitness of his foe. No sooner had he thrown himself forward when the
Abbot bent his elbow into a kind of a crook. The sharp point of his
armor was opposite the archer’s throat. With a jerk the Abbot drove it
forward. It caught the man hard like the thrust of a pike or lance. He
uttered a low moaning cry and toppled, like the captain, in a heap to
the road.
From where we were standing we saw the Abbot wheel about. Once more he
dug his spurs into the horse and rode back a dozen paces. Here he turned
and faced the others who were left.
“He,” he cried pointing to the man who had just fallen, “is the second.
Who of you will be the third?”
The men looked questioningly at each other. One of them growled and said
something about their fallen captain. I heard the words “disgrace” and
“punishment if we return.” They glanced at us and frowned and then,
although I knew it was against their wills, they drew up once more in a
kind of line and faced the Abbot.
Each of the archers drew taut his bow. The Abbot urged the horse forward
with a touch of the spur. Eight arrows flew as straight as they could
go. The eight of them crashed against the steel of the armor. A few were
turned aside and sped on a little further but the most of them struck
with a ring and dropped to the ground.
Like a flash the archers fastened each another arrow in his bow. Then of
a sudden one of them sang out, “Kill the horse! We can get him when he
is dismounted on the road!”
The Abbot was coming on. At the sound of the man’s voice he pulled in
hard and rose in the saddle.
“Touch him if you dare!” he cried and his voice rang out like a trumpet.
“For every drop of his blood that’s spilled, I’ll roast one of you
alive!”
With that he went back to the starting place at a slow canter and then
with all the deliberation in the world wheeled the horse once more about
to face his foes.
I saw now that he was anxious to end the fray. He dug the spurs in
deeper than before. The arrows of the archers rattled against his casque
and armor and fell without injury at the horse’s feet. He came on, but
this time he took the mace from the saddle at his side. He struck the
first man he met a blow in the arm. It cracked with a noise like the
snapping of a dry branch, so by that I knew he had broken the bone. Like
a flash the Abbot swung in his saddle. He struck the second man in the
chest with his mailed fist. Then he rode through the others and came out
in their rear.
It was like mowing in a field of grain. The Abbot was the scythe and his
enemies were standing stalks. At this second thrust the six of them, who
had struck at him with what they had at their command, saw the futility
of their attempts. They drew aside and lined themselves along the edge
of the road. One of them began to unsling his quiver of arrows as a sign
of submission when he glanced in an off-hand way down the road. Then he
brightened up. He rose in his stirrups and uttered a loud cry to the
others to follow him, sank his spurs into his horse and was off at a
hard gallop.
The Abbot by this time had wheeled about to face them once again. But
they rode past him with the speed of the wind. I shaded my eyes and
peered in the direction they were going. To my surprise I saw riding to
meet them three other men, each of them on horseback with armor that
covered them from head to heel. And what troubled me most was that the
foremost carried a long lance in rest that sparkled and shone in the
afternoon sun.
A kind of fear ran through me for I realized that the odds were against
us. It had been easy enough for the Abbot to tumble over men who were as
open to attack as the archers. It would be a different thing to confront
men who were armed equally as well as he, one of whom besides had a
lance that could knock him from his seat before he could come at him
with his shorter weapons like the sword and the mace.
I waited with my breath in my throat. As soon as the Abbot saw over his
shoulder these new enemies riding towards him, he touched the horse in
the side and cantered slowly down the road. The three in armor spurred
on faster. When the Abbot was within a stone’s throw of them he cut over
to the edge of the highway. Then he hastened his speed. His enemy
swerved to meet him and as the first of them came on lowered his lance
to strike him full in the chest.
It was this sudden turning that saved the day. As the knight with the
lance drove into the Abbot he was forced to take his aim a little off
the straight line. The point of the weapon struck the Abbot a hard blow
on the mail under his arm. His horse veered, half staggering but
continued on his course. The knight found himself in a sort of a knot,
for the shaft of his lance was twisted by the swerving of the Abbot’s
horse and was almost torn from his grasp. The butt of it drove back and
took him on the shoulder with such force that it was within a hair of
knocking him from the saddle.
Then the skill of the Abbot showed itself. As soon as his horse had
steadied itself, he drove his spurs into its side. As fast as he could
ride he made for the two knights who were coming up in the rear. He laid
his hand upon his mace and held it in readiness by his side. The two
knights, who had just witnessed the smoothness with which he had warded
off the attack of the rider with the lance, now braced themselves to
deliver him a blow that would end the fight once for all. They saw him
coming down the middle of the road. They separated with a space between
them wide enough to allow him to pass through. It was plain to be seen
that they intended to let him into the trap so that they could attack
him with one on each side.
The Abbot sped on. Little by little he verged to the edge of the road.
The two knights verged with him but kept the opening between them as
wide as before. They came on and on. They drove their spurs into their
horses. But the Abbot never altered his pace until he was within a few
feet of them. Then he drew his left rein, sharply and with great
quickness. The horse under him was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. He
crossed to the side of the two assailants. When he was abreast of them
he swung his mace a crashing blow on the head and shoulders of the
nearest rider that shook him to his heel. From where we were standing we
saw the man try to shift his weapon from the one hand to the other. We
heard the clang of the mace upon the ringing steel. The knight fell
forward. In his helplessness he tried to hold on by grasping the horse’s
mane. But his strength was gone. His fingers clutched into the empty air
and he sprawled like a sack of meal to the earth.
The Abbot, after he passed these two, drew up with a jerk. He wheeled
around before the last of the three men could think fast enough to make
a move, and before the first knight (the one with the lance) was in
position to return to the fray. It was now one against one. With all
odds for the final victory in favor of the Abbot, he grasped his mace in
his hand and was about to put spurs to his horse to make an attack.
I heard a cry from one of the archers who were now coming up at a slower
pace in the rear. He rose in his saddle and pointed down the road
towards the bend. Just turning into full view we saw first the glint of
the sun upon bright steel. There were four men riding towards us
now—four, who, if they proved to be our foes, would settle the combat
without the shadow of a doubt.
The Abbot lowered his mace. As though it were hardly worth his effort to
strike down the last of the three who was now turning towards him to
defend himself alone, he pressed his knees against the horse, and with a
courage which I considered nothing more than folly rode on to meet his
new foes.
You will understand, of course, that what I have been telling you
happened in a very short time and with a swiftness that kept our eyes
dancing from spot to spot. It was a whirlwind for speed and suddenness.
Most of the time I was filled with marvel. Never once did I consider,
now that I was free, that I ought to find a means of escape nor did
Charles or the two captive archers, I am sure, have any other thought
except their interest in the fight.
The Abbot took his course down the road. The men who had attacked him at
the very beginning (the archers of the King) drew up on the side to let
him pass. Not one of them raised his bow. With all the ease in the world
they could have shot down the horse from under him, but instead they let
out a shout that rang with approval. It was their sense of fairness, I
suppose, that caused them to do this, and their respect for the boldness
of the man. His deliberation, his surpassing skill, his ease, but above
all now his utter confidence against such odds stirred their hearts with
admiration and regard.
The battle was to be fought further down the road. Like a crowd of
spectators at a tournament we saw we had no advantage where we were
standing, so swept by the fervor and excitement of it all, the two
captive archers, Charles and I ran along the bank at the side of the
highway. We were within earshot when the four knights and the Abbot met.
Indeed the latter was maneuvering his horse to dash into the fray when
the foremost of his adversaries raised his hand as a signal that he was
anxious for a parley.
“You are not a servant of the King?” he demanded.
“I am his enemy!” came the sturdy answer.
“There are four of us here,” were the next words. “Are you anxious to
die?”
“I shall die when my time comes, not before,” replied the Abbot. “If
there were a dozen, it would make little difference.”
The knight made a gesture with his hand.
“We will give you every advantage,” he said. “We will fight you one by
one. Before we begin, will you let me see your face?”
The Abbot hesitated and then laughed.
“Agreed!” he replied. “Provided you let me see yours.”
Both men made a move with their hands, when the eyes of us all were
drawn to the figure of a lone rider who had just come into sight around
the bend in the road. He was on a horse as black as the raven’s wing. He
must have been driving hard for its flanks were covered with white sweat
and the froth was dripping from its mouth. The man himself was not much
bigger than the Abbot. Although he was clad in a suit of black chained
mail and had a casque on with the visor closed, I was able to see that
his body was of unusual sturdiness with great breadth of shoulders and
thickness of limb.
When he came up he drew rein, and with a smoothness that I had not
expected, asked, “A fight, my gentles?”
The Abbot answered.
“—about to begin,” he said.
“Ho, ho!” was the reply. “But, I hope, not the four of you against one?”
I am sure the knight flushed under his helmet at the slyness of the
taunt.
“Not at the same time,” he answered, and shifted uneasily on his saddle.
“But no matter. He ought to die, for he is enemy of the King.”
The other laughed, and slowly moved over to the side of the Abbot.
“And so am I,” he answered. “Do you think I ought to die too?”
The knight gathered the reins in his hands.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The Abbot interrupted.
“When you were coming up, my lord,” he said turning to the rider, “we
were about to uncover. I have a suspicion that I know this man. He tells
me that before I die he would like to know me——”
But the knight made a gesture full of wrath.
“We are wasting time!” he cried and put his hand to his visor. “When you
drop from your saddle—dead, you will know that it was the Sieur de
Marsac who killed you!”
The Abbot laughed, a slow taunting laugh.
“You know me as the Abbot of Chalonnes, my lord de Marsac. My shadow has
hovered over these hills and valleys. I have balked your schemes and
plans a hundred times,” he said impressively. “But I have worn other
garbs than these,—and other faces. I have been a fool, a beggar, a
highwayman—a dozen persons in one. I have watched you try trick after
trick. I have snapped my fingers under your nose. All the time you
thought yourself so clever, you have been but a bungler and a dunce.” He
raised his visor inch by inch till his whole face was revealed. “Did you
ever dream that you would be confronted, in armor such as this and on a
footing equal to yours, your old friend, the Scrivener, the Highwayman
of Tours?”
De Marsac’s mouth fell open. He looked, as though he were in a dream,
from the Scrivener to the knight on the black horse.
“You!” he cried. “I have seen you, too, some time and some place
before!”
“You have, de Marsac,” came the reply in a voice that shook like a peal
of thunder. “We have met ere this. But today it will be for the last
time. I shall not raise my visor, for I think you know now it would be
useless. I am Edward, the son of England’s King, the Black Prince!”