DEFIANT TILL DEATH
The Count de Perche found himself in a woeful plight. He was on foot,
for his charger had been killed under him, and he was almost alone in
the midst of the foes whom he had ever treated with such contempt. His
friends and allies had fled or yielded, but he neither thought of flying
nor yielding. At that moment, life, as life, had no charms for him; but,
unfortunately, the prospect of death was bitter and horrible; for being,
like his lord, an excommunicated man, he knew that he was not even
entitled to Christian burial.
De Perche’s proud soul was wrung with bitter agony, and as his enemies
slowly advanced he groaned aloud and uttered a sharp cry, the groan and
cry of a superlatively proud warrior in extreme mental anguish. Scarcely
knowing what he did in his perplexity, the count retreated slowly to the
churchyard of the cathedral, and, setting his back against a wall, he
shouted defiance at his assailants as they came resolutely on.
De Perche’s foes formed themselves in front of him in a semi-circle, and
the Earl of Pembroke, who could not but admire the count’s dauntless
bearing in the hour of defeat and despair, invited him to surrender.
“Yield, sir count,” said the earl in accents which he meant to be
persuasive. “You have done all that a brave man could. Therefore yield
and live. Life has its sweets.”
“No; not with glory gone,” replied De Perche with energy. “Never shall
it be told in Christendom, to my dispraise, that sweet France fell into
contempt through me. Let those yield who love life better than honour.
Never by me shall such evil example be set. But before I die I will sell
myself dear.”
“Yield, yield!” cried Pembroke, and Salisbury, and others of the
English, impatiently. “Yield, sir count.”
“Never!” exclaimed De Perche, irritated by the impatience of their tone.
“By the bones of St. John the Baptist, never shall any but liars have it
in their power to tell that I yielded to a pack of tailed English, who
are traitors to their lawful sovereign, Lord Louis.”
The victors, who stood before De Perche in a semi-circle, still
hesitated; for, in spite of the count’s insulting language, the courage
he displayed in the presence of such manifest peril excited their
admiration. But one English knight lost temper and sprang forward.
“By the mass,” exclaimed he, setting his teeth on edge, “such pride and
petulance merit sharp punishment: and if this scornful Frank will not
yield to Englishmen, he must die by an Englishman’s hand.”
A keen combat ensued, but it was brief as keen. The knight aimed a blow
at De Perche; the count warded off the blow, and returned it with such
force that sparks of fire flew from the knight’s helmet, and he was
almost beaten to his knee. But quick as thought the English knight
recovered himself, and making a fierce thrust at De Perche’s eye,
pierced him to the brain. Without uttering a word, the count rolled
lifeless on the ground.
A brief silence succeeded De Perche’s fall; and as the victors stood in
a circle, gazing on the lifeless body of their foe, who while living had
been so scornful, the silence was rudely interrupted by a shout of
vengeance. Breaking through the crowd, a young warrior burst wildly into
the circle, in a guise which made nobles and knights stare--his steel
cap battered, his shield bruised with blows, his axe reeking with gore,
his white jacket spotted red with that day’s carnage, his eyes flashing
fire, his teeth grinding with rage, and the word “Revenge!” on his
tongue.
It was Oliver Icingla; and he came to execute the vengeance he had,
weeks earlier, sworn to take on the head of the Count de Perche,
whenever and wherever he might meet the man whom he regarded as his
mother’s murderer.
“You are too late, Master Icingla,” said the Earl of Salisbury to his
former squire and fellow-captive. “De Perche has fallen by the hand of
another.”
“I grieve to hear it,” said Oliver.
“The noble count, pierced through brain and eye, has already gone to his
account.”
“So perish all England’s enemies!” exclaimed Oliver, glancing at the
fallen Frenchman.
“But we war not with the dead,” said Salisbury, solemnly; “and in the
hour of victory it grieves me to call to mind that the body of a warrior
who died so bravely cannot be laid in a Christian grave. But,” added the
earl in a whisper, “may his soul be admitted within the gates of
Paradise, and may it repose in holy flowers!”
“Amen,” added Oliver earnestly, as he crossed himself. “My lord, I doubt
not you are right. Death clears all scores; so they say, at least. And I
trust that his soul will be pardoned, and find repose in the regions
whither it has winged its flight.”