RAYMOND'S ERRAND
NEARLY four years have elapsed since the young squire's mission to
Hennebon. They have been years of comparatively uneventful waiting.
To him the dark clouds of unkind fate showed no signs of the silver
lining of good fortune, for he fully realised that until he had risen
above the rank of squire he dare not hope for the hand of the fair
Lady Audrey Scarsdale.
Thus, there was nothing to do but wait patiently, under the orders of
kindly Sir John Hacket, fervently hoping for the call to arms that
would give him the opportunities of winning his spurs upon the soil
of France.
The three years' truce had been ill-kept. Already the Earl of Derby
had crossed into Guienne, but news, though scanty, was far from
reassuring, and daily the Constable of Portchester was awaiting the
summons to assemble his men and march to join the King's forces at
Southampton.
One afternoon, in the month of May 1346, the watch on the keep of the
castle perceived a man limping towards the gate. He was tall,
broad-shouldered, and bronzed-faced, yet bent with physical
infirmity, being compelled to use a rough crutch to aid his tottering
footsteps.
"Ho, Watkin!" exclaimed one of the soldiers to a comrade. "Surely
that looks like Long Edney, of Wickham, yet methinks I am mistaken."
"If't be, then, certes, he hath made a grievous error; for he went to
Guienne, hoping to return speedily with much booty. This man hath
pain to carry himself, let alone the plunder he hath not!"
"'Tis Edney, of a surety. See, he waves his hand to us!"
In a few moments the luckless man-at-arms was within the castle,
surrounded by a crowd of rough sympathisers. Hearing the sound of
voices, Sir John Hacket appeared, and, recognising the man as one who
had left his service some time previously to join the forces under
Lord Norwich, sent Raymond to lead Edney into his presence.
"'Tis a sad home-coming for thee," exclaimed the knight
sympathetically. "Yet Heaven knows there are many such. The highways
are thick with broken soldiers."
"Ay, Sir John," returned the man despondently. "A bolt through the
thigh is a sorry return for my trouble, and not a silver penny's
worth of spoil to show for it! Nevertheless, the saints helping me, I
hope to adventure myself again in this matter."
"And with better luck," rejoined the Constable. "And, now tell me,
how goes the war in Guienne?"
"Faith, it goeth against us in the main. Pembroke and Sir Walter
Manny are shut up in Aiguillon, and when I left Bordeaux they had
sent urgent appeals for succour. For my part I know but little of
Aiguillon, being besieged with Lord Norwich in Angoulême."
"And how fared Norwich?"
"As crafty as ever."
"How so?"
"The Duke of Normandy pressed him sorely, so that the French looked
likely to take the town by escalade. Thereupon Norwich beat a parley.
'How, now!' exclaimed the Duke. 'Dost wish to give in?' 'Nay,'
replied our leader, 'but as to-morrow is the Feast of the Virgin, to
whom we both bear great devotion, I desire a cessation of strife for
that day.' 'Right willingly,' replied the Duke, and Norwich, nigh
bursting with badly-concealed merriment, descended from the walls.
That night he ordered us to prepare our baggage, and early next
morning we marched out straight for the enemy's camp. The Frenchmen
flew to arms, but Norwich, forbidding our men to draw, sent a knight
to remind the Duke of his promise."
"And what did the Duke?"
"He kept his word. 'I see the sly fox has outwitted us, but let us be
content with gaining the town,' he exclaimed; and right between the
lines of astonished Frenchmen we marched, without losing as much as a
single stick."
"Ho! ho! ho!" laughed Sir John. "A clever trick, but, methinks,
'twill not pass another time. And Pembroke hath sent an urgent
message to the King for aid, didst thou say?"
"Ay, directly our ship tied up alongside the quay at Southampton the
messenger rode off at headlong speed to Windsor, although he could
scarce keep his seat by reason of sea-sickness."
"Then, Raymond," exclaimed the Constable, turning to his squire, "the
summons will be here anon. But, mark my word, this will be no
child's-play, for, methinks, the King will be loth to let Guienne
slip through his fingers. And now, bring me the tally of the bows,
arrows, and spears, for no time must be lost."
Joyfully the squire hastened away to get the required information,
and the castle was soon alive with excitement at the thought of
active service.
The old knight was not wrong; the call to arms came, and, thanks to
his sagacity and forethought, the Constable was soon ready to take
the field. Ere June had arrived Sir John's company had marched into
Southampton to await the King's good pleasure.
Raymond saw great changes as he gazed around the old familiar place.
The walls had been raised and strengthened; larger houses had taken
the place of the charred ruins that the French invaders had left
behind them, while a fleet of large ships showed that Southampton had
quickly recovered from the horrors of pillage.
The fleet was typical of the resources of Hampshire, for Southampton
contributed twenty-one ships manned by 476 mariners, Lymington sent
nine, Portsmouth five, Leepe, Newtown, and Yarmouth two each, while
the county of Dorset supplied twenty-five vessels, of which Weymouth
sent twenty-one and Poole four.
Farther down the Water towards Hythe lay a larger fleet, composed of
vessels from the Cinque Ports, London, Ipswich, and Great Yarmouth,
while towards the Netley side were the West Country ships from
Dartmouth, Sutton, Fowey, and Falmouth.
Altogether there were not far short of eight hundred sail, assembled
in less than fourteen days, to bear across the Channel the huge army
destined for the conquest of France.
On Midsummer Day, the Feast of St. John the Baptist, the news came
that the King had left the Queen in the care of his cousin, the Earl
of Kent, and was on the road to Southampton.
Instantly the work of embarking the troops, horses, and baggage
began, and never before did the good townsmen of Southampton behold
such a fair and martial sight. Throughout the long June day the task
proceeded, and a seemingly endless procession wended through the West
Gate, each division having its appointed order.
The Portsmouth ships were to form the rearguard, so that it was the
duty of the Constable of Portchester to embark last of all. From his
quarters, close to the West Gate, Sir John watched the embarkation,
pointing out to his squires the respective devices and banners of the
various contingents.
From all parts of the kingdom, save the northern counties, whose men
were required to watch the restive Scots, had this army foregathered,
the flower of chivalry and the stoutest of the yeomen of England.
There were the lions rampant of the Percies, Mowbrays, and d'Albini,
each distinguishable by the "field," the ruddy chevrons of the de
Claves, the gilded cockle-shell of the de Malets, and the more
complicated devices of de Montfichet, Quince, Fortibus, de Bohun, de.
Vere, and Fitz-Walter. Each baron had his following of men-at-arms
and archers, the former having to lower the points of their long
slender spears as they passed beneath the vaulted archway. After the
feudal army, numbering four thousand men-at-arms and ten thousand
archers, came a horde of fierce-eyed, hairy men of short stature,
each armed with a long knife and a double-bladed axe.
"Ah," exclaimed Sir John, noting the look of inquiry on Raymond's
face. "Heaven help the Frenchman who falls wounded in the field, for
these are the Welsh levies. I have marked their method of fighting
before to-day, and, certes, I am of no mind to praise them for it."
The Welshmen were succeeded by a straggling body of tall,
gaunt-looking men, armed with a small shield and short spear. They
lacked the grim stolidity of the Englishmen, and marched with merry
laugh and careless jest uttered in a strange tongue.
"The Irish levies from Leinster," remarked the Constable,
"good-natured in peace, honest fighting-men, yet terrible when
roused. I can recall a little affair before Cadsand, but 'tis too
long to relate at the moment. But hark!"
Redoubled cheering echoed down the narrow sloping street, and the
knight and his squires strained their ears to ascertain the cause.
The last of the troops had passed, yet still the archers who lined
the route pushed back the excited townsmen with their six-foot
staves.
"The King!" exclaimed the Constable.
Attended by a number of lords and barons, Edward rode slowly through
the crowded street, acknowledging the acclamations by the faintest
inclination of his head. He was then in his thirty-fourth year, yet
the cares of his kingdom and the claims of his Lombard and Flemish
creditors had made him look considerably older. A longish dark beard
partially concealed a hard, firm mouth, while his dark piercing eyes,
glittering beneath his broad forehead and bushy eyebrows, betokened a
war-like temperament. His coat of plate-armour, fashioned in the
latest style, was covered by a surcoat, upon which were embroidered
his newly-assumed arms, the fleur-de-lis of France, quartered with
the silver lions of England, while a velvet cap took the place, for
the time being, of his plumed bascinet.
At his right hand rode his fifteen-year-old son, Edward, afterwards
known to fame as The Black Prince; while at his left rode Lord
Godfrey of Harcourt, the King's much-esteemed councillor.
Burning with ill-concealed impatience Edward, with his suite,
embarked that very evening, and ere morning dawned the fleet had left
the shelter of Southampton Water, and was heading westward for the
English Channel, the Portsmouth ships, with the Constable and his
company, rolling sluggishly in the rear, about a league astern of the
main body.
With the favouring north-easterly breeze all went well, and steadily
the floating army neared the coasts of France; but on the third day
came a flat calm, so that the ships were compelled to use their
sweeps to prevent themselves drifting into one another.
The calm was succeeded by a strong south-westerly gale, so that all
advantage of the previous favourable breeze was totally lost; and,
unable to make headway, the fleet was driven back towards the English
coast, taking shelter in the Cornish harbour of Fowey.
For six days the fleet lay weather-bound, till Sir Godfrey of
Harcourt counselled the King to give up the idea of landing in
Gascony.
"Sire," he exclaimed, "Normandy is one of the plenteous countries of
the world. On jeopardy of my head, if thou wouldst land there, there
is none to resist thee. The people of Normandy are not used to war,
and all the knights and squires of the country are now at the siege
before Aiguillon."
The advice, though hardly correct, the King took, and, the wind
moderating and blowing more in their favour, the fleet again put to
sea, and reached La Hogue without further incident.
Arrived on the coast of Normandy, the English began to make a
revengeful attack on the ports of Cherbourg and Barfleur, the ships
of these ports having harried the coasts of England in times past,
and with fierce shouts the soldiers pillaged the defenceless towns,
burning every ship they found in the harbours.
One night, Sir John Hacket, who had been in audience with the King,
returned to his quarters in high glee.
"Raymond," he exclaimed, "the King hath again done signal honour to
my Company. News hath reached us that the Count of Tancarville, who
is the most puissant noble in Normandy, lieth at a hunting lodge near
the village of Brique, within five leagues of the camp. He hath, we
are told, no knowledge of our presence. Could we but entrap him and
bring him a prisoner into the camp, it will clear the way for our
advance, for, bereft of the counsel of the Count of Tancarville, all
Normandy would be masterless. Now, consider; I have a free hand in
this small matter, and can use the whole of my Company to my
advancement. What think ye? Is it better to take but a few mounted
men, or adventure with them all?"
"In my humble opinion, Sir John," replied Raymond, "the matter is
best undertaken by but a few. Too many would give alarm. A few would,
in the case of our plans miscarrying, be but little missed, and if
they do succeed, then the greater the honour!"
"Thy words do thee credit, Raymond, and, by St. George, a better
leader for the enterprise than thou I cannot choose. Take your choice
of mounted men, and begone. A guide is even now detained in the camp,
who will lead you to Brique. Now, remember, alive or dead, bring the
Count into the camp, but alive by choice."
Quickly the young squire went about preparations for his mission.
Five trusted men-at-arms were chosen, and their arms and horses
carefully inspected by their young leader, who resolved to leave
nothing to chance. Then, placing their guide, a heavy-limbed Norman
peasant, upon a spare horse, and attaching a light chain to his wrist
(one end being held by a soldier with orders to despatch the man at
the first sign of treachery), the little party left the camp, passed
the outlying cordon of sentries, and plunged into the darkness.
By degrees the horsemen became accustomed to the gloom, and, riding
closely together, with the guide in their midst, they maintained a
brisk pace towards their goal, and ere long the camp-fires of their
comrades were lost to sight behind them.
The night was sultry; not a leaf stirred on the branches of the trees
that lined the road, and a dull oppressive feeling pervaded the
atmosphere.
Suddenly the faint rumble of distant thunder was borne to their ears,
and instinctively the horsemen glanced at one another, for a
thunder-storm was looked upon by the mediaeval soldier as a harbinger
of evil.
Nearer and nearer came the storm, till the lightning flashed across
their path, illuminating the horizon with its sulphurous glow, but as
yet not a drop of rain had fallen.
Meanwhile their guide had kept perfectly silent, answering the
questions put to him with either a nod or a shake of his head. Though
Raymond had acquired a smattering of the French language he was
unable to understand the patois of the peasant, so one of the
men-at-arms was deputed to put any necessary question to their
impassive guide.
At length they reached the confines of a dense forest, and hardly had
they gained the dangerous shelter of the trees than down came the
rain, accompanied by almost incessant flashes of lightning.
Dazzled by the appalling light, and almost deafened by the sharp
detonating rattle of the thunder, the little party rode in fear and
trembling till their guide stopped them with a motion of his hand,
and indicating an almost invisible avenue that forked from the road
they were following, exclaimed, "V'là, m'sieurs!"
"Ask him how far it is to the Count's hunting-lodge!" exclaimed
Raymond.
"He says 'not far.'"
"Certes, I am as wise as before. Ask him again." The man mumbled
something unintelligible, then held up two fingers.
"A murrain on his thick-headedness; fair Sir, I cannot rightly tell
what he doth mean."
"Then be cautious. Remember, directly we catch sight of the place,
one man remains with the guide and the rest follow me!"
The path was too narrow for two to ride abreast, so they proceeded in
single file, the guide leading, with a soldier, leaning over his
crupper to give the necessary length of chain, following closely
behind and through the avenue, so dense that even the lightning
almost failed to illumine, Raymond's party rode on their desperate
errand.