A Strange Tale
“Raise thy lance-point a thought higher, lad; ay, so. Now put thy steed
to his full career, but see thou keep him well in hand. Now wheel
him—so, deftly done! Yet a few months’ training, and, though thou hast
but sixteen years, and needest no barber, I trow thy gay cousins will
find thee their match, boast as they may.”
The speaker was Sir Godefroi de Tinteniac, a near neighbour of the Sire
du Guesclin; and the lad whom he was training to manage horse and lance
on a wide sweep of greensward a few miles from Rennes, was Bertrand du
Guesclin himself.
“Think you, then, noble sir,” said Bertrand, with sparkling eyes,
“that, with the aid of your kind teaching, I may yet make some figure
in the ranks of chivalry?”
“That thou wilt, and no mean figure either, if I know aught of men,”
said the old knight, heartily. “I ever said thy kinsfolk did ill to
leave thee thus untaught, and to gloom upon thee because thou hast not
the smooth face of my lady’s page, nor the dainty shape of a
court-minion. Marry, if it were sin to be hard-favoured, what of me?”
Bertrand could not repress a smile as he glanced at the veteran
warrior’s grim visage (which, thanks to the countless scars that seamed
it, was almost as ugly as his own), and Sir Godefroi smiled
good-humouredly in his turn.
“Thou seest they lie not who call me ‘The Grim Knight,’” said the old
gentleman, with a hoarse chuckle. “Hark ye, my son; how if I appoint
myself thy godfather, and dub thee the Grim Knight after myself? A good
knight may be grim, thou know’st, in the eyes of foes as well as
friends; and I warrant thou wilt not shame the title.”
“Gramercy for your courtesy, kind sir,” said Du Guesclin, with
characteristic modesty, “but ’tis overmuch for one who hath never done
any deed of arms. Wait but till I have proved my manhood, and then will
I be prouder to be your godson, than if men should crown me King of
France!”
“So be it; and methinks I shall not wait long. But who comes here in
such hot haste?”
Two men were seen galloping toward them, the foremost of whom, as he
came nearer, proved to be one of Tinteniac’s own followers, seemingly
acting as guide to a tall, soldier-like man-at-arms, in a steel cap and
leathern “jack,” quilted with lozenge-shaped scales of iron, on a
strong black horse.
“Here is one with a letter and token, an’t please your worship,” said
the retainer, “which he is charged to give into no hand but your own.”
The letter was mere Greek to Sir Godefroi, who, like most gentlemen of
his time, could neither read nor write, and was vastly proud of the
fact. But the token (a small ruby ring) seemed to have a special
importance of its own, for hardly had he looked at it, when he said
hastily to Bertrand—
“Think me not uncourteous, I pray, if I leave thee somewhat suddenly,
for this matter must be dealt with straightway. Follow me to the
castle, good fellow,” added he to the messenger, “and when thou hast
had food and rest, thou shalt bear back mine answer.”
Away he dashed, attended by his own follower, while Du Guesclin and the
messenger came after them at an easier pace.
“Thou art well mounted, friend,” said Bertrand, eyeing the man’s
splendid horse admiringly. “Hast ridden him far to-day?”
“From Chateau Raguenel, my lord, since I broke my fast; and he hath
borne me well, too, for, having charge to make speed, I let not grass
grow under his hoofs, I trow.”
“Chateau Raguenel!” cried the boy. “A good ride, in sooth! and, as thou
say’st, he hath borne thee well, for few steeds would have carried a
man of thy inches so far, and shown as smooth a coat when ’twas over.”
He patted the gallant beast’s smooth, shining neck; and it pricked its
ears at the caress, and rubbed its velvety muzzle against his shoulder.
“Now I bethink me,” resumed Bertrand, “is not the Sire de Raguenel he
who hath a daughter that is a fairy?”
“Say rather a saint,” cried the man-at-arms warmly; “for, were the Lady
Epiphanie to be taken up to heaven this very day, like the blessed St.
Eloi (Elijah) of old, the angels would find little to mend in her, to
fit her for their company!”
“I meant no slur on the lady—Heaven forbid!” said Du Guesclin,
quickly. “But methinks I have heard men call her ‘Tiphaine la Fée’.”
“It may not be denied that she has strange power, though she has ever
used it for good,” replied the spearman, sinking his voice to an
impressive whisper. “Without doubt she can read the future as I would
the face of the sky; and there is such might in her lightest word that
none may say her nay. In truth, had she not had power to make me break
a vow that I had made (and that, too, when she was but a child) by this
time my body had been feeding the ravens on a gallows-tree, and my soul
in a worse place still.”
“Say’st thou so?” cried Bertrand, eyeing him keenly. “Tell me the tale,
then, for it must needs be worth hearing.”
The soldier, visibly pleased at finding so attentive a listener to a
story that he was evidently burning to tell, began as follows—
“I am of Normandy, noble sir, and it fared with me as with other
peasants of those parts; all alike were crushed and trampled down by
the oppression of our master. Count me not, I pray, as one who loves to
speak ill of dignities, for well I wot that men cannot live without
seigneurs and nobles, and that a land which lacked them would be as a
body without bones; but in our case the old saying was made good, that
the shepherd may be worse than the wolf. This man had his cottage burnt
down, and that man had his daughter carried off, and the other had his
only son hanged for killing a hare in his lord’s woods, to save his old
father from dying of hunger; and——”
“Say no more of that, good fellow,” said the young noble, wincing as if
in sudden pain. “I know but too well that many of us nobles have sinned
grievously against God in such wise as thou sayest; and, for mine own
part, I have made a solemn vow that if ever I rule in my father’s stead
(long may it be ere that day come!), every vassal of mine shall have as
fair play as if he were the Duke of Brittany himself!”
“Now, may God bless you for that word, noble sir!” cried the other,
fervently, “and would to Heaven every noble in the land would make the
same vow, and keep it. But to my tale. Heavier and heavier waxed our
burden, till at last we could bear no more; and we said in our hearts
that it was better to die at once and all together, biting and tearing
to the last, as dies a wolf at bay, than be destroyed one by one, as a
butcher slays sheep. So we forsook our homes, banded ourselves
together, and went forth to the wild wood, to live by point of arrow
and edge of knife!”
“Thou hast been an outlaw of the forest, then?” said Bertrand, with an
interest unalloyed by any tinge of scorn or aversion; for, at a time
when every petty baron was himself a robber on a grand scale, the
disgrace in such cases lay not in having robbed, but in not having
robbed enough.
“Ay, and a captain of outlaws, for I was the leader of our band; and
they and I sware a solemn oath never to spare knight or noble who might
fall into our hands; and, should we do so, the Evil One should that
moment snatch us away.”
“And how fared ye after that?” asked young Du Guesclin, eagerly.
“The ballads and romaunts would have us believe that outlaws live right
merrily,” said the ex-bandit, with a bitter smile; “but trust them not.
Vengeance we had, indeed, in full measure; but vengeance is as when one
eateth snow to slake one’s thirst—it is good for a time, but then is
the torment greater than before. And then for pleasure—such pleasure
as we had was as when one in mortal pain drowneth his agony for a brief
space in strong wine. While we were fighting and plundering and
slaying, or rioting and revelling over our booty, we could hold at bay
the thoughts which hunted us like bloodhounds day and night; but when
the drink had died out of us, and we lay awake beneath the black,
whispering trees through the long dark hours of night, beside our dying
fire, then was the time when the Wicked One dug his claws into our
hearts! And then, with the thought of all that lay behind us, and still
more with the thought of all that lay before, ’twas marvel we went not
clean distraught!”
Here he paused a moment, as if overcome with the terror of these gloomy
recollections, while Bertrand eyed him with a look of heartfelt pity
which the rough soldier seemed fully to understand and appreciate.
“One night,” he resumed at length, “we were at the height of our mad
revels, shouting and brawling over our liquor, singing ribald songs,
and defying Heaven itself with mockery and blasphemy, when all at once
there stood in the midst of us, full in the light of the fire—no man
could tell whence or how—a little child clothed in white, with long,
fair hair, and a face like that of the Holy Child in the great
minster-church of Rouen.
“Then we all shrank back affrighted, thinking no less than that this
must be our Lord Himself, appearing to us in the same form in which He
first came on earth; and all the black deeds we had done rose up at
once in our memory, blacker than ever.
“The child came forward as boldly as if it had no fear of our grim
faces and bare blades, and, holding out her little hands to us, said
pleadingly—
“‘Oh, please come quick to help my father; he is sore hurt!’
“Then I plucked up heart somewhat, seeing that it was but a little maid
of mortal mould; and I made shift to ask—
“‘Who is thy father, fair child?’
“‘The Sire Robert de Raguenel,’ she replied.”
“Raguenel!” echoed Du Guesclin. “Then this child was the Demoiselle
Tiphaine herself!”
“Even she, and no other. Then she caught my wrist with both her tiny
hands, as if to drag me with her by main force, and cried impatiently—
“‘Quick—quick to my father! I have not strength to drag the horse off
him myself!’
“We thought of our compact that the Evil One should carry us away if we
ever spared knight or noble. We looked at each other, and at the
child’s pleading face, and then—we were all hurrying to her father’s
aid, one faster than another.”
“Well done! well done!” shouted the boy-noble, excitedly. “And what
befell next?”
“We found there an armed knight entangled beneath his steed, and all
alone; for, as we learned later, he had outridden his train, and,
losing his way in the darkness with but two followers, had got deeper
into the wood instead of out. Then his horse, taking fright at the
fire-glow and the din of our wild ado, had fallen with him and kept him
down, while his two retainers, thinking themselves assailed by the
forest-demons, had left their lord and taken flight, like
chicken-hearted dastards as they were.”
“So, then,” cried Bertrand, with sparkling eyes, “this child came alone
into the midst of a band of armed robbers to seek help for her father!
In good truth, ’twas as bold a deed as ever was done!”
“You say sooth, my lord. Braver deed hath no man done—no, not Roland
himself! In a trice we got the knight clear of his steed and bore him
away, for he was too sore hurt to walk. But there was well-nigh a fight
among us who was to carry the child, for every one would be the man to
do it. Howbeit, it was at last accorded to me as captain; and when I
lifted her in my arms, and felt her tiny hand cling trustfully to my
neck, I bethought me how St. Christopher bare the Holy Child in like
manner across the flooded river, and, for the first time for many a
weary month, I dared to pray.”
Du Guesclin, more moved than he would have cared to own, held out his
hand to the ex-robber, who grasped it warmly.
“By good hap the knight had no bones broken, though he was sore
bruised; and, there being no doctor within a league, he mended apace,
being a strong and likely man, and having the free air of the greenwood
to aid him. As for the little demoiselle, she made friends with us
straightway, sitting on our knees and taking food from our hands as if
she had known us all her life; and ere she had abode three days with
us, there was not a man but would gladly have perilled his life to
please her; and from brawls and blasphemy and mis-seeming words we
refrained as heedfully as had we been before our holy father the pope.
“Now, when the good knight was once more able to sit saddle-fast, he
called me unto him, and thus he said—
“‘Good fellow, thou and thy comrades have done me right masterful
service, and it is not the wont of Robert de Raguenel to show himself
ungrateful. What men ye are I know not, nor care; but if ye be
disbanded soldiers in quest of fresh employ’ (and there was a twinkle
in his eye as he spake, which showed he knew right well how the case
really stood), ‘ye might do worse than take service with me. How say
ye?’
“You may think we were not minded to haggle over such an offer; but
that all might be done fairly and honestly, I told him of our impious
vow, which devoted our lives and souls to the Evil One. But he made
light of it, saying that such vows were better broken than kept, and
that as Satan had not claimed the forfeit, it was plain that he had no
power to do it; and we should all be absolved from our rash oath as
soon as we got into Brittany.
“‘Then,’ quoth I, ‘ere we pledge ourselves to be thy men, let yon fair
child of thine pray for us to God; for methinks her pure soul is nearer
to Him than the holiest monk in Christendom.’
“As I said, so it was done; and when I saw her tiny hands folded, and
heard her clear, sweet voice praying for me—for _me_! it was as if a
heavy stone were rolled from off my heart.”
He ceased, and both were silent for a while.
“And since that time,” asked Bertrand at last, “thou hast followed De
Raguenel’s banner?”
“That have I,” said the Norman, “and follow it I will while I can put
foot in stirrup, or take lance in hand.”
“Long may’st thou be able to do both, brave man,” said Du Guesclin,
heartily. “But tell me, I pray thee—this Lady Tiphaine, who readeth
the future as a pilot reads the stars, hath she ever told aught of thy
destiny?”
“She hath, in good sooth, for my lord her father craved it of her; but
all she told us thereof was that my life must end on that day when she
should meet for the first time the man who was appointed to save her
from her greatest peril, and aid France in its sorest need.”
Du Guesclin started visibly, for the words brought back to his mind,
suddenly and startlingly as a flash of lightning, his mysterious dream,
and the strange prophecies that had preceded it; and for some moments
he was silent and thoughtful.
“Said she who the destined man was to be?” he inquired at length. “Some
mighty champion, belike?”
“Nay, of that she said nought,” replied the man-at-arms. “She did but
tell us that the day of his coming should be the day of my death. And,
for mine own part, I am well content with such a bode; for in this I am
of the mind of an old hunting-hound—when my teeth fail, and others can
do better service to my master and mistress than I can, then ’tis full
time that my life should end.”