VICTORY ... AND HOME
I may say now that I have come to the end of my tale. I had come through
as the Abbot said. But to my way of thinking it was more by blundering
and good luck than by any craft or circumspection of mine.
I was glad to have my horse back again. The feel of him under me was
like home. I rode along towards the west—that is towards the encampment
of the army of the Black Prince—with more joy in my heart than had been
my share for many a day.
It was by merest chance, I learned, that the Prince was in the
neighborhood at all. His army lay a good two days’ journey off. He had
sent scouts out to scour the country round about to warn him if the
highways were safe for him to march to the south to his headquarters for
the winter at Bordeaux. He had even gone out on an expedition himself.
He had come upon a troop of the King’s horsemen and in pursuing them had
ridden far out of his way, had outdistanced his followers and was lost
for a night in the woods. He was on his way back when he came upon us,
riding hard, for he had suspicions that there were more foes in the
neighborhood than he had imagined.
But when I unfolded to him the tale of what I had gone through—of the
activities in the valley of the Loire, the preparations for war that
were going on on every hand, the vast number of soldiers (there were
sixteen thousand, twice the number of his entire force) that were moving
with the greatest secrecy towards the west, when he heard this, I say,
he gritted his teeth and cried out, “They want to cut us off on our way
south. They think they can crush the power of England in France. They
are tricksters and knaves, men like De Marsac and his crew. But we have
English brawn back of us, men who will take their lives in their hands
for the joy of battle and of conflict. We’ll beat them yet.” He clenched
his fists and repeated it. “We’ll beat them yet.”
And in the end it proved that he was right. I could spend another hour
in your company and relate to you all that followed. But I feel that my
manner of telling it would be incomplete. Besides the scribes of our
times—men who knew how to wield the quill with greater skill than I—have
written a history of it for all who will to read.
We came to the army of the Prince on the morning of the third day where
it was lying north of the city of Poitiers. At once the movement started
towards the south. The wisest plan would be to avoid a battle if we
could. But we were scarcely under arms and it was while we were passing
the city to the east that we saw the pennons of the King and after a
while his horsemen and his knights. The army that I had seen piecemeal
traveling down the valley of the Loire was joined in one. There was no
escape from it now for they were bent on destruction and slaughter.
We faced them. The Prince was a master in the art of war. He chose his
ground with all the care he could for he had to offset the greater
number of his foes with matchless skill. The battle raged from early
morn to the setting of the sun. The archers shot their arrows as thick
as hail so that the air seemed filled with flakes of snow with the
darting of the white feathers. Knights, who had won fame and name in
every part of Europe, hewed and hacked with their battle-axes and their
maces. Bright swords flashed like polished silver. The lancers charged.
Men were toppled from their horses and rose again to fight it out upon
the ground. It was like a sea tossed into storm. And when night fell the
enemy withdrew fewer in number than they began, humiliated in defeat,
with a blow delivered at them from which they for years to come were not
able to recover.
The flower of their warriors threw their lives away in their arrogance
and pride. The valley of the Loire was opened up in case we chose to
take it. If we had had an army big enough the whole of France might have
been annexed to the English crown, for when the prisoners were brought
in it was to the amazement of us all that among them was the greatest
enemy we had—the King of France himself!
You may be a bit curious to learn what part I took in the fight. I was
but a lad, of course, and hardly of the strength to cope with knights
who were seasoned and toughened by years of life in camp and on the
field of battle. But even at that I did what might be considered my
share. The Abbot furnished me with what accoutrement was needful. I rode
beside him in the fray. The mace he gave me was of a weight that I could
wield and the sword I used did its work as well as it might have done in
older hands than mine.
At the first go I was overfull of haste. I had singled out a foe and was
hard at it when the swaying of the fight carried him from me down the
field. On another occasion I found myself between two knights who were
vying with each other to see who could strike me down the first. I
warded off their fury with what skill I had until one of them was
stricken from behind by a hand that was as sudden as it was sure. The
other I struck a fortunate blow for I stunned him so hard that he rode
off the field to nurse his wound.
Late in the afternoon I was knocked from my horse, but had wit enough
left to scramble again into the saddle. I was tossed here and there with
driving force as the battle swayed this way or that. My helmet was
dented in from the swing of a mace. My right arm near the shoulder was
numbed from over action and from a sword beat that had landed on it.
But I came out of it with a whole skin and no bones broken which was
enough to make me thankful. As for Charles of Gramont, I never laid eyes
on him from the outbreak of the fight. It was long after dark when I
found him inquiring among the troops who had been near me if they knew
if I had fallen. When he saw me he threw out his hands. I must confess
that a kind of weakness came over me at the sight of my companion. As
though we were children we flew to each other’s arms and cried like
babies.
Then came the parting. It is true that the Black Prince asked us to go
along with him to Bordeaux to stay there for the winter with the promise
that he would take us with him in the early spring on a campaign into
Spain. For a while we were divided two ways, but the longing for home
won in the end. Charles was anxious to get home to put his house in
order and (now that he was left alone) to give care to the estate. As
for me, I knew that my brother, André, was lying awake far into the
nights, wondering what had become of me and whether he would ever lay
eyes on me again. Besides the fall was coming on (it was already
September) and I knew the streams were full of fish and that the woods
about my home were thick with game.
You should have been present in our village when we rode in. The country
folk (they had been warned of our coming beforehand) gathered from the
fields. They wore their best of everything and I can tell you that their
simple dress of velvet jerkins, their breeches of leather, their hats
with feathers in them, never looked more welcome or more pleasing to my
eye. You would have thought it was some great holiday for the country
players were assembled. Jugglers and sleight-of-hand artists and to my
surprise the man with the birds whom I had met on my journey out, came
to greet us and to display the best of their wares. And in the midst of
all the merrymaking it was my brother, André, who was the proudest man
alive. He never left my side and when my name was mentioned, he boasted
of my courage and my strength of will that led me on a quest through the
heart of our enemies, till I had to turn my face away in shame.
We settled down to the quiet life of the countryside. The first snows of
winter came and the fields about the house were covered white, when a
courier rode into the yard. He was from Bordeaux on his way to the great
city of Paris to negotiate for peace and a return of the King. He had
been commanded, he said, to deliver a letter from his master, the Black
Prince.
With my brother André looking over my shoulder, I broke the seal and
read,
At Bordeaux.
December
_To Henri la Mar, the Norman,
My lad_,
It has long been in my minde to write you a lettre of thanks for the
helpfull deed you performed. Your name shall always be enscrolled in
my memorie and I shall think of you as a brave and worthie servant of
your countrie. If there come a time when you wish to try your hande as
a soldier of England, you will but come to me.
Your timely warning saved an army from destruction. Not only that, it
saved your land and fireside from the greed of your enemies.
Edward.
_Postscriptum._
It may be to your interest to learn that De Marsac recovered from the
blow I gave him when we fought together on the highway. But he was
slain later at Poitiers.
That was all.
“Well, Henri,” said André, “that letter is worth while.”
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
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