Possessed Swine
A feat like the capture of Fougeray Castle would have been enough for
most men; but it could not satisfy Du Guesclin, to whom it was but the
first step in the achievement of a far more daring design—nothing less
than the defeat of the whole English army then besieging Rennes for the
second time.
This would have seemed hopeless to any man but himself; for that army
was one of the finest that England had ever sent forth, and led by the
formidable Duke of Lancaster, a leader worthy of his father, Edward
III. But the Breton hero’s chivalrous spirit was stirred to its inmost
depths by the peril of the beloved city where he had made his first
essay in arms, and had received at the altar the hand of his beautiful
bride; and he vowed that, come what might, it should not lack a helper
in its need.
The stormy sunset was casting a red and angry glare on the dark
ramparts of Rennes, on the evening after the capture of Fougeray, and
the stout English beleaguerers were gathered round their camp-fires
over a very scanty supper, for by this time the besiegers were almost
as much straitened as the besieged. Like true Englishmen, they were
grumbling unstintedly at the cold and short commons; but, like true
Englishmen, they were ready to face all this, and more, in the course
of their duty.
One group, which lay nearest the town, seemed blither than the rest;
for the music of a rollicking ballad came from the centre of the ring,
and frequent bursts of laughter applauded the performance of a
north-country minstrel, who was singing to his little three-stringed
lute the old ballad of “Adam Bell and Clym of the Clough,” which,
celebrating as it did the exploits of three English bowmen, was always
a favourite with the sturdy archers of Old England.
The singer had got well on with the third “fytte” (part) of his song,
and had just reached the point where Adam and Clym, and their
fellow-outlaw, William of Cloudeslee, go to the king to ask pardon for
having “slain his fallow-deer” (wisely saying nothing of their greater
misdeeds) and the king—who was at first for hanging them on the
spot—pardons them at the queen’s entreaty, and even invites them to
dine with him—
“They had not sitten but a while
Certain without leasing (lying),
When there came messengers from the north
With letters to our king.
“And when they came before the king,
They kneeled down on their knee,
And said, ‘Sir, your officers greet you well
From Carlisle in the north countree.’
“‘How fares my justice?’ said our king,
‘And my sheriff also?’
‘Sir, they be slain without leasing,
And many an officer mo’ (more).
“‘Who hath them slain?’ said then our king.
‘Anon that tell thou me.’
‘Adam Bell, and Clym of the Clough,
And William of Cloudeslee.’
“‘Alas for ruth,’ said then our king,
‘My heart is wondrous sore;
I had rather than a thousand pound
I had known of this before!
“‘For I have granted them my grace,
And that forthinketh (repenteth) me;
But had I known all this before,
They had been hanged all three.’
“The king he opened the letter anon,
Himself he read it tho (then)
And he found how these three outlaws had slain
Three hundred men and mo’.
“First the justice, and the sheriff,
And the mayor of Carlisle town
Of all the constables and catchipolls
Alive were left not one.
“The bailiffs and the beadles too,
And sergeants of the law,
And forty foresters of the fee
These outlaws had y-slaw (slain)
“And broke his parks, and slain his deer,
Over all they chose the best;
So perilous outlaws as they were
Walked not by east nor west.
“When as our king this letter had read,
In heart he sighed full sore;
‘Take up the table,’ anon he bade,
‘For now I may eat no more.’”
Just at this point (though many of the listeners knew the song as well
as the minstrel himself) the growing laughter swelled into a
full-mouthed, side-shaking roar that made the air ring. As it died
away, a big spearman called out to the singer—
“Stand to it, Ralph! Here comes one of these French minstrels to have a
bout with thee. At him boldly, for the honour of Old England!”
Into the circle of light cast by the fire came a thin, small, rather
flighty-looking man in minstrel garb, with a lute slung at his back,
beside whom stalked a huge form, a full head and shoulders taller, with
a shaggy black beard, and clothes so tattered and grimed as to suggest
a charcoal-burner’s shirt.
“What ho, friends! who are ye? The Wandering Jew and his brother, with
the dust of ages on your clothes?” cried a big archer, winking to his
comrades to watch how he would “chaff” the new-comers.
“Thou hast guessed it, good sir,” said the smaller man in French, with
an impish grin; “we are, indeed, the Wandering Jew and his brother,
who——Ha! what see I? that face—those eyes——Brother, brother! our
weary penance is ended at last!”
And, throwing his arms round the bantering archer’s neck, he uttered a
series of joyful howls worthy of a scalded cat.
“How now? what means this?” sputtered the astounded archer, struggling
in vain to free himself from his new friend’s embrace, while the rest
gathered round, laughing loudly both at the heavy, ox-like bewilderment
of the assailed man, and the monkeyish grimaces of the assailant.
“It was foretold to me a thousand years ago,” cried the latter,
rapturously, “that my weary wanderings should end, whenever I could
find a greater fool than myself, and, the saints be praised, I have
found him!”
This retort (which most of them knew French enough to understand) was
received with a louder roar than ever, these thorough John Bulls being
ever ready to enjoy a good hard hit, whether in words or blows; and
they hastened to throw themselves between the rash joker and their
aggrieved comrade, who, clenching a fist like a shoulder of mutton,
seemed about to avenge himself on the spot.
“Nay, nay, Sim—fair play, lad! The first blow was thine, and he hath
but hit thee back. See’st thou not he is a jester? and such are ever
privileged men. And who art thou, friend?” said the speaker to the
jester’s tall comrade. “Art thou come to join our ranks? Speak out if
thou be a true man, though in truth thou look’st more like a thief!”
“The worse luck mine,” said the black-bearded giant, with a hoarse
laugh, “for ye English let no thieves thrive here but yourselves!”
The wit was just suited to the audience, and another loud laugh broke
out, amid which the giant added coolly—
“If ye would know who I am, my name is Wolf, and I can bite!”
“Say’st thou so, Master Wolf?” cried a big man-at-arms, holding up his
heavy spear. “Thou talk’st big, but can thy teeth crush a bone like
that?”
The giant seized the strong shaft, and with one jerk of his mighty
hands broke it like a biscuit.
“Not ill done for an outlander!” cried another man, patronizingly; for
John Bull in the fourteenth century was even more John Bullish than
now. “Hast a mind to join us, comrade? Thou wouldst be a right stalwart
recruit.”
“Of that hereafter,” said the Black Wolf (for it was indeed he), “but
first I would tell your general some news that I have learned of the
doings of Bertrand du Guesclin.”
“Ha! know’st thou aught of him?” cried a dozen voices at once. “What is
thy news, then? Let us hear.”
“Now, comrades, is this fair?” said the Wolf, in an injured tone. “If I
be the first to bring news to your general, belike he will reward me
well; but if a score of others know it already, what profit have I?”
“Thou wast not born yesterday, lad,” said a tall archer, chuckling,
“and if it be as thou say’st, I had best go call our captain, and
report the matter to him.”
As he tramped off, the jester said with a majestic air—
“I too will join your host, good fellows, and myself lead ye to battle.
Ye have all heard of me; my name is Roland.”
“What? the greatest of Charlemagne’s Paladins?” cried a soldier,
laughing. “Welcome to our camp, mighty champion; with thee among us, we
have nought to fear!”
“Sing us the ‘Song of Roland,’ if thou be he,” said another man, in a
tone betwixt jest and earnest. “I heard it once from an old harper of
Gascony, and, St. George be my speed! it stirred my blood like a
trumpet!”
The jester at once struck up what was undoubtedly the Song of Roland in
one sense, for it was his own composition, and certainly bore every
mark of originality—
“My old grey mare made friends with a bear,
And together they went a-dancing,
But out came a snail, and their courage did fail,
When they saw the monster advancing.
“The miller-loon flew up to the moon,
So strong the wind was blowing;
The tailor brave jumped into a grave
When he heard a cock a-crowing.
“The butterfly gave the ox a stab
That leech-craft could not cure, sirs;
The robin he wept sore for a flea
Who died of biting a Moor, sirs!
“The man of the north went sailing forth
To find in the sea some forage;
The man of the south he burned his mouth
With eating frozen porridge!”
“Callest thou that the ‘Song of Roland’?” said the man who had asked
for it, with a broad grin.
“Marry, that do I!” cried Roland; for it was indeed Du Guesclin’s
adventurous jester, once more in an English camp in disguise. “It is
the self-same song, as sung on the field of Hastings in the days of the
great Duke William, by his good knight Taillefer, when we French went
over and beat you English as flat as your own dough-cakes!”
This joke was less successful than his former ones. The rough soldiers
bent their brows ominously, and muttered that their bow-strings were
well fitted to scourge the malapertness out of a prating fool. But just
then, luckily for poor Roland, their captain came up, and bade the
new-comers follow him.
They were led straight to the Duke of Lancaster’s tent, where the
officer bade them wait while he went in to ask the duke’s pleasure
concerning them. As they stood waiting, Roland (who, as we have seen,
had learned English, though carefully concealing the fact) twisted his
face into a grin of impish glee as he caught the words of an order that
the duke was giving to one of his officers.
The next moment he and his comrade stood before the general, in reply
to whose questions the Wolf told briefly Du Guesclin’s capture of
Fougeray and destruction of the English foraging party.
“And what wert thou doing the while, good fellow?” asked the duke,
never dreaming that the man who had just given him so important a
warning could be a foe in disguise.
“Watching for dead men to plunder,” said the Wolf, with a frankness
that brought a momentary smile to Lancaster’s grave face.
“Be that as it may,” said the duke, “thou hast brought us timely
warning, and it shall not be forgotten. Sir Eustace,” added he, to a
knight beside him, “see these men well cared for, for they have done us
good service.”
Had he guessed what kind of “service” these men were really doing him,
he would have hanged both on the spot; but he was not to know it till
too late.
“Who goes there?” cried a sentry on the gate-tower of Rennes late that
night.
“Ar fol goët” (the fool of the forest), said a voice from below.
A murmur of joyful surprise, only restrained by prudence from swelling
into a shout, greeted this strange password; but to the captain of the
gate it came like a reproach, for he was no other than Du Guesclin’s
cousin, Huon de St. Yvon, and this name (now a signal-word at which
every Breton heart leaped) had been given to Bertrand long ago by
himself and his dead brothers, in mockery of the boy’s habit of roaming
the woods alone.
“Art thou there, Bertrand?” said he, peering over the wall into the
gloom.
“Nay, noble Sir Huon,” replied the jester’s familiar voice, “but
Messire Bertrand is not far away, and hath sent thee a token, if thou
wilt lower a cord to draw it up.”
The token proved to be Bertrand’s own signet-ring, stamped with his
crest of the two-headed eagle, and it secured instant admittance for
both men. Roland was at once summoned to a conference with De Penhoën,
the commandant, from which the rough old Breton came forth with such a
grin of mischievous glee as was never seen on his iron face before.
Meanwhile the Wolf was led by St. Yvon into the presence of a richly
clad lady, whose face was so marvellously beautiful, and yet so sweet
and saintly, that the fierce man started at the sight of it, and cried—
“So would our Blessed Lady look were she to come on earth once more. No
marvel thy lord overcame me in fight, when he had one like thee to pray
for him!”
Sunrise showed to the wondering garrison a vast herd of wild swine,
grunting, squeaking, and jostling, on the wide plain before the town.
These had been driven in from the neighbouring woods by order of
Lancaster, who, little dreaming that Roland had overheard and betrayed
his plan, counted on the starving defenders making a sally to seize
this tempting prey, and thus laying themselves open to a counter-attack
that might win the town itself.
But crafty old Penhoën had set a soldier just within the postern-gate
abutting on the river, that at this point washed the town wall, and as
he began to pull the tail of a pig that he had with him, the injured
animal expostulated in a series of squeals that might have been heard a
mile away. No sooner did the swine outside hear their comrade’s cries,
than they all went galloping toward the town!
The English, who had never thought of letting this good meat really
escape them, stared after the flying herd for a moment in blank
bewilderment, and then flew in chase. But their shouting and trampling
only scared the excited beasts yet more, and in a trice the whole herd
had plunged into the river and were swimming to the postern.
“They be possessed!” cried an archer, “like yon swine in Holy Writ,
whereof good Father John used to tell.”
“Be that tale true, then?” said another. “Sure, even a pig could ne’er
be so foolish as to drown itself for nought!”
“Why, man, dost thou doubt Holy Writ?”
“Nay, not I; but since the thing befell so long ago, mayhap the tale be
not true.”
“Why, Dickon, thou talk’st like a heretic or a Saracen! Heed well thy
tongue, for on such matters Holy Church knoweth no jesting. Hark ye,
comrade; I will give ye proof of yon tale such as would convince St.
Thomas the Doubter himself. When I was but a lad, father bought a pig
at Guildford Fair, and bade me lead it home. What doth Gaffer Pig but
twitch the cord out of my hand, and send me sprawling in the dirt? And
then he upset a child that stood by, and galloped right over an old
wife and her egg-basket, breaking every egg therein, and scared the nag
whereon a gay spark was riding past, whereby the spark gat a fall that
brake him a rib or twain; and after all these pranks he plunged into
the river and well-nigh drowned himself, even as yon swine are doing
now. Now, lad, if one pig did all that of his own mind, what think ye a
whole herd would do with the devil in ’em?”
Just then this theological discussion was cut short by an unexpected
turn of the adventure.
As the swimming porkers neared the postern-gate, whence the unseen
pig’s squeals were still issuing, it was suddenly flung open, and a
light portable bridge thrust out, on to which the wild hogs clambered,
vanishing through the gate—which was instantly shut on them—before
the very eyes of the baffled and enraged English, while the jester
bowed gracefully from the ramparts to the exasperated pursuers, and
gravely thanked them for supplying the hungry town with food.