A Mysterious Message
The sunset of that memorable evening, as it faded from the scene of the
wolf-fight, sent its last rays streaming through the small, narrow,
loophole-like window of a plainly furnished upper room in Motte-Brun
Castle (which stood two miles away on the edge of the wood), lighting
up the face and figure of a tall, stately, grey-bearded man of middle
age—whose plumed cap and rich dress showed him to be a noble—as he
paced restlessly to and fro.
He was still strong and active for his years, and so markedly handsome
that no one could guess him to have the unenviable renown of being
father to the ugliest lad in Brittany. Yet such was the case, for this
man was the Seigneur Du Guesclin himself, the lord of Motte-Brun.
The temper of a feudal lord of that age was usually anything but sweet;
and Messire Yvon du Guesclin thought nothing of flinging a knife at his
son or wife in the middle of dinner, or knocking out the teeth of some
unlucky vassal with his sword-hilt. But, on this particular evening,
his bent brows, his short, fierce step, and the very strong language
that came growling through his set teeth, told that he was in an even
worse temper than usual, or (as an observant man-at-arms of his
poetically said) “as ill at ease as a fat friar in Lent.”
For this ill-humour, however, there was really some excuse. In the
first place, Sir Yvon’s bandaged right arm showed that he was, for the
present at least, disabled from taking part in the constant fights
which were then so recognizedly the chief amusement of a gentleman,
that when no foes were to be had, men would fight their friends just to
keep their hand in. Secondly, he seemed likely to be kept waiting for
dinner (no trifle to the fourteenth-century barons, who had the
appetite of other wild beasts as well as their ferocity), for his wife,
Lady Euphrasie du Guesclin, had not yet returned from her afternoon
visit to a neighbouring convent; and though (like most gentlemen of
that “chivalrous” age) the good knight would have had no scruple about
laying his whip lustily over the shoulders of his lady-wife when she
happened to displease him, he would never have dreamed of offering her
such an affront as sitting down to dinner without her.
But the worthy knight’s third cause of complaint was of a higher and
more lasting kind.
Rumours had long been afloat (vague and doubtful at first, but growing
ever clearer and more defined) of an impending breach between France
and England, and a renewal of that never-ending conflict which seemed
to have become the recognized state of things betwixt the two warlike
races. When the war did break out, the Duke of Brittany, as one of the
great vassals of the French crown, must, of course, take the field for
the King of France with all his Breton knights and nobles, among whom
Sir Yvon du Guesclin, the representative of one of the oldest families
in the Duchy, must appear with a meagre train of but thirty
men-at-arms, instead of the five hundred spears that had followed his
more fortunate ancestors.
Never had the stout old warrior so bitterly regretted the poverty and
decay of his once formidable house; and a yet keener pang shot through
his bold heart as he looked down into the courtyard from the balconied
platform of the bartizan, and saw his three stalwart nephews trying
their strength with blunted swords, amid the applauding murmurs of a
ring of watching men-at-arms.
“Would to Heaven,” muttered the sturdy baron, clenching his unwounded
hand till the knuckles grew white, “that yon brave lads were indeed
mine; so should our ancient name be worthily represented. Of what sin
have I been guilty, that Heaven should thus mock my prayers by giving
me this black-avised abortion for my only son?”
This idea had been often in Sir Yvon’s mind (if, indeed, it could be
said to be ever out of it) since he had given a home, a few years
before, to his three orphan nephews, whose own home had been destroyed
in one of the merciless wars of those “good old times.” All the old
knight’s friends fully expected him to adopt one of the three as his
son, and disinherit the unsightly Bertrand; and probably it was only
the consciousness that it _was_ so universally expected, which, acting
on his native Breton obstinacy, kept him from doing it at once.
“Yonder comes my lagging dame at last,” growled the baron, as several
riders issued from the wood, with a female figure in their midst; “and
methinks she is in as great haste for the even-meat as I, for she
rideth as if for a wager! If any churl hath dared to molest her——”
And, with a black frown on his face, the old warrior hurried down the
narrow, winding stair to meet his lady’s return.
He had plenty of time to reach the inner gate ere she entered it; for
in those days the admission of a lady to her own house, after even the
shortest excursion outside the walls, was a work of no small time and
trouble. To begin with, it was out of the question for her to venture
forth at all without at least a dozen well-armed attendants clattering
at her heels; and when she and her train returned, drawbridge must
fall, and bolt and bar go grating back, ere she could enter her own
home.
At the first glimpse of his wife’s face, as he stepped forward to aid
her to dismount, the Sire du Guesclin started in spite of himself. What
could it be that had broken the habitual melancholy of that sad though
still beautiful face with the dawn of a new and exciting hope? So might
some prisoner look, who, doomed for life to a gloomy dungeon, should be
told, after long years of weary captivity, that he was a free man once
more.
“Husband—husband—I have heard——” she began brokenly, and then
stopped, as if unable to say more.
“What hast thou heard, dame?” cried the old baron. “No ill news, I
trust?”
“No, no! joyful news; great good news of our poor Bertrand!”
“Good of _him_?” growled Bertrand’s father, with a scornful laugh.
“When a kite becomes an eagle, then may he prove worthy of our name!”
Four centuries later, the father of another great man was as hard of
belief in any good coming of his “disgrace to the family.” When he
heard that his despised son had achieved a feat that filled the whole
world with his renown, and changed the history of a mighty empire, his
sole comment was to growl, “The booby has got something in him after
all!” For the world is ever slow to recognize its greatest; and he who
told the tale of the “Ugly Duckling” that grew into a swan, might have
found an apt illustration of it, either in Bertrand du Guesclin or in
Robert Clive.
“Nay, take it not amiss, sweetheart,” cried Sir Yvon, softening his
harsh tones as he saw his lady’s face cloud at finding her great news
so ill received. “Go, busk thee speedily for supper, and over the good
cheer I will hear thy tale; for if it be ill talk ’twixt a full man and
a fasting, ’twixt two fasting folks it must be even worse.”
Then turning to his attendants, he shouted, with the full might of a
voice that made the whole castle echo—
“Ho, there! bid the knave cooks be speedy, or their skins shall smart!”
The terrified cooks knew well that this was no idle threat, and
bestirred themselves so briskly that ere Lady Euphrasie had completed
her toilet, the evening meal was smoking on the board.
This baronial dining-room would have greatly startled any householder
of our time; for in this primitive stronghold (where the refinements
that had begun to make their way in England were still unknown) the
lord and lady of the castle dined in the same hall and at the same
table with the soldiers of their garrison, the only difference being
that the latter sat at the lower end. The ponderous rafters were
literally coated with soot by the smoke, which seemed to go everywhere
but up the chimney; and the rotting rushes that strewed the stone floor
were crusted with mud from scores of booted feet, and littered with the
bones flung to the big, hairy wolf-hounds that lay round the huge fire.
The harsh voices and coarse oaths of the men-at-arms were plainly
audible at the upper end of the board; and the torches that crackled
and sputtered in iron cressets along the wall (adding their
contribution of smoke to that which already filled the hall), kept
quivering and flaring in the night-wind that whistled through the
glassless windows.
In a word, the dirtiest and noisiest London tavern of our day would
compare favourably, both in cleanliness and comfort, with the
dining-hall of this high-born gentleman of the good old times.
“Now, dame,” said Sir Yvon at last, through a huge mouthful of roast
beef, “let us hear this news of thine.”
And the lady, instinctively lowering her voice, began thus—
“The vesper-bell had not ceased when I drew bridle at the convent gate,
and I went into the chapel to join my prayers with those of the holy
sisters; and when prayers were over, my cousin, the Abbess, would fain
have me tarry for the evening meal. But to that I said nay, for I knew
thou wouldest be watching for my return.”
A kindly look thanked her from the old castellan’s keen eyes.
“But I thought it ill to depart without visiting Sister Agnes, the
holiest of them all; and I craved such comfort as she could best
bestow, for my heart was exceeding heavy. So I hied me up to her cell
in the rock.”
Here she paused a moment, while her three nephews (who sat a little
below her, in order of age) bent forward in silent attention. None of
the three, however, ventured to speak, for in that age it would have
been the worst possible presumption for any young man (especially if
not yet made a knight) to join unasked in the talk of his elders; and
the youths had seen enough of their good uncle’s surprising readiness
with his hands in such cases, to find in it an effectual curb to their
natural forwardness.
“Ere I passed the threshold,” went on the lady, “she called me by name,
and bade me enter. As I did so, she rose from her stony seat, and took
me by the hand (the like did she not for the Duchess of Brittany
herself) and said, more blithely than she was ever wont to speak,
‘Welcome, thou favoured of Heaven! I am sent unto thee with glad
tidings. Go tell thy lord to cease his murmuring against God for
sending him a son like Bertrand; for lo! that same Bertrand shall yet
be the glory of his house, and of the whole realm of France!’”
“What? what?” cried the baron, excitedly; “said she, ‘the whole realm
of France’?”
“That did she,” said his wife, in a voice trembling with emotion;
“those were her very words!”
The hearers exchanged looks of speechless amazement.
“And as she spake—whether it was but the echoes that answered her, or
a choir of unseen angels sent to guard the holy place—methought I
heard many voices repeat her words: ‘The glory of his house, and of the
whole realm of France!’”
She ceased, and hid her face in her hands as if overcome by emotion.
Such prophecies were then matter of implicit faith; and those of Sister
Agnes, in particular, were famed through all Brittany for their exact
and often immediate fulfilment. Hence neither Bertrand’s scornful
father, his desponding mother, nor his sneering cousins (utterly
astounded though they all were by this prediction) had a doubt that
this clumsy, ill-favoured lad of whom they were so ashamed was destined
to rise above them all; but how, no one could imagine.
But ere any one could speak, a clamour of voices was heard outside, and
a hurried trampling of feet.
“Ha!” cried the old baron, frowning, “who dares make such ado in _my_
castle? By St. Yves of Bretagne, I will take some order with these
roisterers, be they who they may!”
But as he sprang up to make good his threat, the hall door flew open,
and in came the grey-haired gate-porter.
“Woe is me, my lord, that I should bring you evil tidings! A woodman
hath come hither but now, having found in the forest Messire Bertrand’s
hunting-knife lying by a slain wolf; but of my young lord himself saw
he nought!”
“Oh, my son, my son!” wailed Lady Euphrasie, whose motherly heart awoke
too late.
“Peace with thy whining, wench!” said her husband, angrily; “this is no
time for tears and cries. Where is this woodman, fellow? Bring him
hither straightway.”
A moment later a sturdy peasant, in soiled leather jerkin and leggings,
slouched bashfully into the hall, and, bowing awkwardly to his lord,
laid at the latter’s feet the well-known hunting-knife and the dead
wolf, at whose huge carcass the old Du Guesclin (a sportsman to his
very finger-tips) looked admiringly, even in the height of his anxiety
and grief.
“If the boy hath done such a deed unaided, he is my true son, uncomely
though he be. And methinks he is yet alive, for no wounded man could
deal a blow like this; and had there been other wolves there, they
could not have borne him off so clean but what some trace of him would
be left. What ho! without there! Go quickly forth, knaves, some six of
ye, with spear and wood-knife, and let this fellow guide ye to the spot
where the wolf was slain; and whoso brings tidings of my son shall have
for his guerdon as many silver pennies as he can grasp in one hand.”
The men obeyed with a will, for this sullen, ill-favoured, awkward lad,
while hated and despised by his equals, had always been strangely
popular with those beneath him; and there was not one of his father’s
men-at-arms who would not have gladly perilled life and limb for his
sake.
But this time there was no need to do either, for hardly had the
searchers gone half a mile when they met the missing boy himself, and
bore him home in triumph.
When Bertrand entered the hall, the expectant group started at the
change that a few hours had wrought in him. Whether from the effect of
the wonderful revelation made to him that day, or from the encouraging
sense of having achieved a feat of which the best of those who despised
him might have been proud, he seemed to have grown all at once from a
rude, passionate, uncouth boy into a calm, fearless, self-reliant man.
His once drooping head was now proudly erect; his heavy figure had an
upright, manly bearing that half redeemed its clumsiness; and his harsh
features wore a look of power and command that froze into wondering
silence the jeers that rose to the lips of his handsome, scornful
cousins.
The first to speak was the old knight, who, more ashamed of his
momentary tenderness toward his lost son than of his former unjust
harshness to him, relieved his feelings in the usual gentlemanly style
of that age—with a burst of oaths worthy of a street-rough.
“Honoured father and lady mother,” said Bertrand, as he knelt to kiss
the hands of his parents, seemingly not a whit discomposed by the
verbal piquancy of his loving sire, “it grieves me much that ye have
been ill at ease on my account. I had been here long since, had I not
missed my way in the forest.”
His hearers, who had expected him to boast of having slain the wolf, or
at least make some allusion to it, exchanged glances of mute surprise.
“And what of this?” asked Sir Yvon, pointing to the gaunt grey carcass
on the floor.
“It was not I who slew him,” said the boy, with that innate modesty
that in after years set off so strikingly the great deeds which he did.
“He fell upon a half-crazed lad whom I met in the wood, and I, having
let fall my knife by mischance, took him by the throat and strove to
throttle him, in which grappling the boy came to my aid, and slew the
beast with mine own knife.”
There was another pause of silent amazement; and perhaps even the
haughty youths who listened felt a passing twinge of shame at the
thought that they had been mocking and despising one who could face
such a monster with his bare hands, and well-nigh master it too.
“We will hear the rest of thy tale anon,” said his father at last,
“for, as the old saying goes, it is ill talk between a full man and a
fasting. Ho, there, fellows, bring hither some food straightway!”
He was at once obeyed; and Bertrand, hungry as a hawk after his late
battle, fell to with a will, secretly pleased to find his rigid father
relaxing for once the strictness of his oft-quoted rule—
“They who came not at the first call
Till the next meal gat nothing at all.”