OF THE MIDNIGHT DESCENT OF THE FRENCH INVADERS
THE first shout was enough to rouse the old archer into active
alertness, for, with his experience of camp life, he was accustomed
to awaken readily at the least noise. Hastily springing up, he rushed
to the window, swung aside the wooden flap and the flimsy fabric that
served to admit the light, and looked out. The darkness was intense,
save for some small tongues of dark red flame that were beginning to
shoot up from one of the houses near the waterside, the fire casting
a dull glare upon the neighbouring buildings and serving but to
intensify the inky blackness of the night.
"A fire," he said aloud, yet on second thoughts the ever-increasing
shrieks, groans, shouts, and curses that were borne on the air belied
his surmise. Moreover, his quick ear detected commands and
ejaculations in a foreign language--the tongues of Picardy, Normandy,
and Spain.
His ready brain grasped the situation--it must be a raid by the
French and Spaniards, who at that time swarmed in the English
Channel.
These inroads upon our shores by the French during the Hundred Years'
War are apt to be ignored or lightly passed over by modern
historians, yet during a time when England was busy pouring the best
of her blood and treasure into France there was hardly a town on the
South Coast that escaped the ravages of the French and their allies,
the Spaniards and Genoese.
"Awake! awake! Raymond!" shouted his father. "The French are upon
us!"
Raymond sprang up and began to hastily don his clothes, while the
archer laid hands on every heavy article in the room, barricading the
door and securing the windows. Then, having made ready his bow, he
again looked out towards the village.
By this time a series of unequal combats were taking place in the
narrow streets or within the houses, where the terrified inhabitants
were being routed out like rabbits. All who came across the path of
the ruthless invaders were cut down without mercy--men, women, and
children--while their homes were being plundered and afterwards fired
by men to whom the sacking of a town was almost a familiar task.
To add to the din the church bell was ringing a violent tocsin, and
all who were able to escape fled either to the stout Norman tower to
seek shelter, or else across the open country towards the town of
Southampton.
Raymond, white-faced with pardonable fear and shaking in every limb,
now joined his father. Flight for them was now out of the question,
for already some of the foemen had passed the house, hard in pursuit
of a party of fugitives, the slowest of whom fell under the weapons
of the relentless marauders. Like bloodhounds on the trail, this band
of pursuers passed by the solitary house, ignoring its existence or
else meaning to plunder it at their leisure after the chase of the
fugitives was ended.
Suddenly four or five dark figures, silhouetted against the now
bright glare of the burning village, came running up the hill and
headed straight for the house.
"Quickly, Raymond, notch a shaft!" hissed the archer, and setting an
example, he fitted an arrow to his bow and waited, with the weapon
slightly bent, the opportunity to let fly.
"By St. George, they are our friends!" exclaimed Redward.
"Andrew Walter! Dick!" he shouted. "This way, for your lives, and ye
are safe!" And throwing his great bulk against the barricade behind
the door, he moved it sufficiently to enable the door to be opened to
admit the fugitives.
Then the furniture was replaced against the door, and the men sank
breathless and panic-stricken on the floor. There were six in all, so
that the little garrison now amounted to eight men, whereof three had
had experience in warfare.
"Get ye up!" ordered Redward roughly. "Think ye that I opened my
doors to allow a set of cowardly curs to lie about my hearth? Up with
ye!"
Stung by the rebuke, the men armed themselves with bow and sword,
gripping their weapons with newborn resolve.
"Ah, by Our Lady, 'tis well ye look on the right side o' things. But
if we are to see the light of another day we must stand firm," said
the archer grimly. "And," he added, "let no man loose bow till I give
the word, and may God and St. George look favourably upon us this
night!"
"Ay, gossip!" replied Walter Bevis, a veteran of Falkirk. "An' if we
cannot live we can at least die like Englishmen! But, who comes?"
Another dark figure came flying up the hill, hotly pursued by half a
score of Frenchmen.
"'Tis Will Lightfoot, of Hook!" replied one of the defenders. "Run,
Will, run!"
"Now loose!" cried Redward, and immediately five arrows flew on their
deadly errand. It was the first time that Raymond had seen a shaft
sped in anger, and the sight thrilled him strangely. The pursuers,
standing out strongly against the glare, made easy marks; four of
them fell face forwards on the ground, writhing in mortal agony; the
fifth, struck in the right fore-arm, dropped his sword and yelled
lustily. The others, amazed at meeting with any attempt at organised
resistance, turned and fled towards the village, two more falling as
the result of a second flight of the deadly arrows.
Will Lightfoot, holding a dagger in his left hand and a broken sword
in his right, came up to the improvised fortress with an easy stride,
for his name well suited him amid the encouraging shouts of his
friends.
"Wait while I unbar the door," called Redward to the fugitive, at the
same time directing the others to assist him in removing the
barricade.
"Nay, keep the door fast; the villains will be here anon," replied
Lightfoot. "I'll find a way in."
And suiting the action to the word, he sprang on a low fence, and
from thence vaulted easily on to the thatched roof. Getting a grip
with his broken sword and dagger, he ran up the sloping roof of
thatch like a cat, and dropped through the aperture that did duty for
a chimney, and alighted in the midst of the smouldering logs on the
hearth.
"Pardon, friends, for my mode of entry," he exclaimed. "But methinks
the mischief I have done to thy roof, Master Buckland, will ill
compare with the damage that our attackers will do ere a few hours
are spent."
In the lull that followed the besieged took steps to strengthen their
defences. Redward brought out a large oaken chest filled with arrows,
whereat his son wondered all the more at the reason for the journey
to Botley on the previous day. Thick boards were spiked to the
windows, dividing each opening into two oylets, or slots for
discharging arrows, while on the side where no windows existed a few
of the stones were removed so as to form an additional outlook
commanding the hitherto invisible ground on the north.
Food they had sufficient for three or four days, but water was
scarce. This necessary they must procure, so once again the door was
opened, and Raymond crept out stealthily with two leathern jacks to
procure some of the precious fluid from the well, while the others
crowded to the loopholes to cover his retreat if molested.
With an indescribable feeling of fear, mingled with the dread of
being thought a coward by the defenders, Raymond did his work
silently and quickly. Thrice did he go to the well, till there was
sufficient water stored in the house to last for a considerable
time.
All the while the shouts, groans, and cries continued, the crackling
and roaring of the flames making a fitting accompaniment, and giving
evidence that resistance was still being kept up in another quarter.
At length the pale dawn began to show a welcome change to the anxious
men, on whom the weary waiting told far more than the actual
struggle.
Gradually the daylight increased, and by its aid the besieged were
able to realise more fully their hazardous position. Nearly every
house was in flames, some even now reduced to a heap of glowing
ashes. Here and there the corpse of a Spaniard or a Frenchman showed
that, in spite of the surprise, the attack had been fiercely opposed.
Those villagers who had taken refuge in the church tower still
resisted, though, from the desultory arrows that came from the top of
the structure, it was evident that their store of missiles was
well-nigh exhausted.
The invaders, too, were aware of this, for those wearing armour
advanced also to the base of the tower, avoiding, however, the pieces
of stone that the desperate men detached from the pinnacles and
hurled down on their adversaries. Others, keeping further off, shot
their bolts at the tower, stamping and jumping as if to terrify their
quarry. Some of the foreign crossbowmen were so close to the house
that sheltered Buckland's party that they could hear the clicking of
their moulinets and the deep bass hum of the strings as the quarrels
sped towards the mark.
Out in mid-stream, their hulls swinging to the tide, lay three long,
low-lying galleys, and between them and the shore a number of small
boats were rowing to and fro, those putting off being full of
plunder; and as fast as each little craft discharged its load into
the capacious hold of its parent galley it returned to the shore to
remove some of the huge heap of booty, which was still being
replenished by parties of foragers.
Loud and long were the maledictions of the men in Redward's house, as
they saw their homes given to the flames and their kinsfolk and
friends either cruelly murdered or else houseless fugitives; but soon
their attention was riveted on the final scene in the resistance of
those on the church tower.
The crossbowmen redoubled their fire, and, covered by the heavy rain
of missiles, a party of men-at-arms advanced with their shields held
over their heads. A shower of blows with their heavy battle-axes soon
splintered the oaken door, and when at length only a few fragments
of wood and the bent and battered remains of the massive hinges
remained, the men retreated in the same order, though two were left
lying crushed beneath a ponderous piece of coping that the assailed
had toppled over.
Already the church was sacked. Crucifixes, candlesticks,
altar-cloths, rich vestments, and tapestries had been ruthlessly
taken off to the galleys; while the priest, with a score of persons,
men, women and children, who had vainly sought sanctuary, lay dead
within the altar rails.
And now a body of lightly-armed men--Spaniards, judging by their
swarthy complexions--advanced, bearing bundles of straw and faggots,
almost unmolested, for the arrows of the besieged had long given out,
and the hail of bolts from the crossbows skimmed across the top of
the parapet like hail. The men reached the base of the tower, where
they heaped their burdens within the doorway.
A lighted torch was applied to the fuel, and a tongue of flame,
darting from amid the thick cloud of suffocating smoke, licked the
grim stone walls, while the spiral staircase, acting like a lofty
chimney, fanned the fire till it glowed like a potter's furnace.
A ring of armed men surrounded the tower. The crossbowmen, their work
done, ceased their firing, discharging only an occasional bolt as the
tormented wretches on the tower, unable to bear the choking heat,
showed themselves above the protection of the parapet. Some of the
defenders, maddened by their agony, threw themselves headlong;
others, sword in hand, attempted to descend the stairs, and hurl
themselves upon their enemies, though they perished in the flames
long before they reached the ground; others, defying and cursing the
invaders, shook their weapons in impotent rage, till a well-directed
quarrel or the rapidly-increasing flames claimed the last of the
gallant band of forgotten heroes.
When resistance in this quarter was at an end, the invaders were free
to direct their energies against the solitary stone house that had
already wrought great mischief upon them; and, led by two knights in
complete armour, the men-at-arms began to fall in in close order at a
distance of two hundred paces from where Redward Buckland and his
devoted companions awaited the onslaught.
"With yonder ruin to serve as an example," said the master-bowman,
pointing to the flaming tower, "we must fight to the death. While
there is yet time it would be well that each man doth confess his
sins for the betterment of his soul."
So saying, all the defenders knelt down reverently, though Redward,
trained soldier that he was, kept an eye on their gathering foes. The
prayers _in extremis_ were hurriedly said; then, in the absence of a
friar, they confessed to each other, according to the Roman custom
when in peril of death. One of the villagers produced a slip of the
Holy Thorn, brought from the miraculous tree of Glastonbury, and this
they all kissed devoutly in the hope of obtaining spiritual
consolation.
This done, they arose from their knees, embraced each other, and
hurried to their posts.
All preparations for the attack having apparently been completed, the
leaders advanced to the head of their men and harangued them, though
the distance was too great for the Englishmen to hear what was said.
This done, one of the knights closed his visor, and the other tried
to follow his example, but the calque, dented from the effects of a
blow, refused to allow the visor to descend. A couple of squires
sprang forward to aid their lord, and the group, standing well in
front of the rest, made a tempting mark.
Redward was quick to act.
"Quickly, Dick; nine score paces, and no windage!"
Dick, a lusty yet experienced archer, had already notched his bow and
fitted an arrow. Leaning slightly forward, and throwing all his
weight into the act of drawing the six-foot bow, the man loosed the
shaft. Even as it sped Buckland also let fly, and the defenders
anxiously awaited the result of their comrades' skill.
The first arrow struck and shivered itself against the uplifted visor
of the French knight; but Redward's fared better, for, hitting the
mail-clad figure under the raised arm, it sank deeply into the
leader's body. Amid a roar of execrations on the invaders' side, and
a hearty English cheer on the part of the bowmen, the knight
staggered and fell on his face. The two squires stood their ground
bravely, and with difficulty raised the ponderous armour-clad body of
their master and bore it to the rear.
"Here they come!" shouted the master-bowman. "See, they shoot! On
your faces, men!"
Crouching down behind the friendly shelter of the stone walls, the
eight defenders awaited the onslaught, Redward alone watching the
advance through a loophole, his head protected by an iron cap, while
he held a stout buckler over the aperture as an additional protection
against the deadly hail of arrows and bolts.
Raymond, crouching close to his father, felt that the bitterness of
death had passed; his terror had vanished, and he was as ready as the
rest to strike a blow in self-defence, though against tremendous
odds. The unfamiliar sound of the arrows striking the woodwork and
quivering with an indescribable _ping_, or shattering themselves
against the stonework, the invaders' war cry of "St. Denis," and the
metallic clanging of the advancing men-at-arms were signs of an
invisible enemy whom he was on the point of meeting in mortal combat,
and when, after a seemingly long and weary wait, the hail of arrows
slackened and he heard his father cry, "To arms!" he actually
welcomed what might prove to be his death-summons.
At the word of command the defenders sprang to their feet, rushed to
the loopholes, and fired as fast as they were able into the dense
masses of the advancing enemy. At that short range neither leathern
coat nor iron hauberk was proof against the deadly arrows, and man
after man fell writhing on the ground, their fall serving to dismay
their comrades and to cheer their antagonists.
Clambering over the low fencing, the men-at-arms still advanced; the
air was thick with the groans of the wounded and the shouts of "St.
Denis!" "Tuez les miserables!" "A bas les poltrons!" To which the
defenders answered not a word, but in grim silence discharged their
arrows into the disorderly press before them.
By sheer weight of numbers the French men-at-arms gained the front of
the house, and with reckless bravery attempted to tear away the
improvised defences. Bows were cast aside, and the defenders, seizing
swords and spears, made vicious thrusts through the loopholes as the
shadows of the enemy were thrown across them.
At length the planks across one of the windows gave way, and a crowd
of mail-clad warriors essayed to clamber through. Thereupon the
defenders retreated to the opposite wall, and resuming their bows,
volleyed their deadly shafts against the rash intruders, who,
overwhelmed by the concentration of arrows in the narrow space, gave
back in disorder.
Suddenly a figure clad from head to foot in plate armour--a form of
defensive mail only just coming into use--appeared in the window. In
vain the arrows rattled on the thrice-welded plate, and for a moment
it seemed certain that the intaking was accomplished. But Redward,
dropping his weapon, sprang forward, and before the mail-clad warrior
could swing his long and heavy sword, the archer had thrown himself
bodily upon the Frenchman.
Realising the danger, the man tried to return, but Redward, seizing
him in his powerful grip, strove to drag him into the house. Lying
across the window ledge, his bulk filling the whole aperture, the
Frenchman effectually prevented any of his comrades from coming to
his assistance, his mail-clad legs, kicking and sprawling without,
keeping his would-be helpers at a discreet distance.
Then came a terrific struggle, Redward heaving and hauling on his
enemy's bascinet, while the other tried his utmost to shake off the
relentless grip. Nothing short of the breaking of the laces of the
Frenchman's calque would release the man, and even then his
unprotected head would be pierced by a ready arrow.
The knight's resistance grew feebler, till at length a hollow voice
exclaimed, "Je me rends!"
"No quarter to base ravagers!" was the stern reply, and with a final
mighty heave Redward dragged the steel-clad warrior through the
window, and cast him with a sickening clang upon the stone floor.
Then, drawing the knight's own _misericorde_, he cut the laces of his
bascinet and plunged the dagger into his Adversary's throat.