REDWARD'S CONFESSION
IT was close on nightfall ere the two scouts sent out by Sir John
Hacket returned to the captured fortress. They reported that there
was a fairly wide road which joined the highway to Caen about three
leagues from that town, and that there were no signs of any hostile
force in the district they had explored.
So that night the company made merry in the stronghold of the Count
of Tancarville, wine and food being found in abundance, although Sir
John did not for one moment relax the vigilance so necessary in a
strange country.
At daybreak preparations were made for the evacuation of the
fortress, and, headed by the two scouts, the little force set out on
its march to the camp.
First came a strong party of men-at-arms, ready for instant action in
case of attack. Then followed the Constable and his squires,
accompanied by the two peasants and the Norman guide, and surrounded
by a body of dismounted archers, who marched with their bows strung
and their quivers swinging from the hip.
The carts came next, drawn by the horses of the dismounted archers,
and piled high with the spoils of the fortress, including the
captured bombards and as much powder as they could possibly hold.
Next came a small troop of men-at-arms, followed by some more carts,
in which the wounded, including the rescued soldier, lay on heaps of
hay and straw; while the rear was composed of the rest of the
men-at-arms and mounted archers.
In this order they issued under the great gateway, passed over the
drawbridge, and crossed the wide belt of open ground. When the head
of the column reached the edge of the gloomy forest a tucket sounded
and the soldiers came to a halt.
Seeing Sir John and his squires gazing intently at the abandoned
stronghold the men did likewise. They saw the grim and gaunt pile
standing clearly out against the dark background of the forest, and
from the black flag-staff fluttered the blue banner of the company,
with its well-known device of the golden crescent.
Even as they watched, the figure of a man made its appearance on the
battlements; the banner was slowly lowered, and the man disappeared.
A few moments later the same man, mounted on a swift steed, emerged
from the gateway and thundered across the turf. Reining in his horse
before Sir John, the rider handed the banner to the guidon-bearer,
saluted, and fell in with his comrades; but still the Constable kept
his eyes steadfastly on the fortress.
What could it mean?
Slowly the moments sped. To the perplexity of the soldiers, the
castle had an irresistible fascination for their leaders, and,
following their example, they, too, looked in silent wonderment at
the gaunt masses of masonry.
Suddenly, with a flash, a roar, and a cloud of smoke and dust, the
castle appeared to split asunder; huge masses of stone flew skyward,
then with an appalling crash the walls subsided, and in place of the
massive outlines of the fortress there was nothing to be seen save a
pile of blackened stones, over which floated a heavy pall of dense
vapour.
The remainder of the powder had been fired, and the sylvan stronghold
of the Count of Tancarville was no more!
"'Tis well done," was Sir John's only comment, then, on receiving the
word of command, the company resumed its march, and plunged into the
sombre shadows of the forest.
Almost unnoticed, the little force reached the camp, for in the
excitement of the sack of the rich town of Caen the absence of the
company on their successful raid was of small moment to the rest of
the army intent as they were on the gain of booty.
There were two exceptions at least. One was Redward Buckland, who,
being apprised of his son's safety, had left the Sussex company, only
to find to his great disappointment that his comrades had departed on
their raid.
The other was the great Chandos, who, recognising more than most
Englishmen of his day the possibilities of artillery, showed the
greatest interest in Sir John Hacket's report of the expedition,
promising at the first available opportunity to inform the King of
the great service rendered by the Constable of Portchester and his
favourite squire.
But other events were taking place that effectually eclipsed for the
time being the glory of the brilliant raid. Edward, having plundered
Caen, described by Froissart as "large, strong, full of draperies and
all sorts of merchandise; rich citizens, noble dames, damsels, and
fine churches," had reserved for his own share all the plate, jewels,
and choice cloths. The plunder, together with three hundred of the
more opulent citizens, was placed on board the English ships and sent
over the Channel; then, hoping to sack Rouen in a similar manner, the
King advanced with his army up the fertile valley of the Seine.
Foiled in this attempt, he continued his march towards Paris, only to
find the bridges broken down, with a strong hostile force on the
nether bank, and Philip with a large army rapidly approaching from
Guienne.
A desolate track, dotted with the ashes of countless towns and
villages, marked the ruthless advance of the English, till at the
very gates of Paris the flood-tide of invasion became the ebb of
retreat, and Edward, hard pressed, was in danger of being cut off by
overwhelming numbers.
One night, when lying near the village of Poissy, the camp was
aroused, and orders given to prepare to march.
"Whither are we bound?" asked Raymond of his father as they met in
the semi-darkness.
Redward shook his head. "'Tis not a soldier's part to question
orders," quoth he. "I did hear that the King would try to reach
Flanders, but methinks this way leadeth to Paris."
There was no occasion for silence, and, talking freely amongst
themselves, the soldiers struck their tents, and at daybreak were
well on the road to Paris, while the light-armed horsemen attached to
the French army, who hovered around the flanks, wheeled about and
galloped off to inform the French King of the advance of the
invaders.
Hardly had the cavalry disappeared than a halt was ordered; then,
with great celerity, the whole English army turned and retraced its
footsteps.
The Hampshire companies, which at the outset formed the rearguard,
now found themselves in the van, and great was their delight when it
was rumoured that the King had entrusted to them the task of forcing
the passage of the Seine.
"'Tis Sir John Chandos' own doing," remarked Redward, "and as clever
a feint as ever I met with. While the French are massing to prevent
our supposed march on Paris, we are quietly slipping away towards
Flanders."
As they came in sight of the turbid river a horseman spurred madly
towards them. "The bridge! The bridge is broken down!" he shouted,
then without slackening his speed he rode onwards towards the main
body which the King had under his own command.
"The bridge!" growled Redward, "what of the bridge? 'Tis easily
repaired, provided the enemy do not line the farther bank."
"Then show all men what we can do," exclaimed the Constable. "Pull
down that house for me, and I'll warrant there will be a goodly stock
of timber sufficient to build a bridge, let alone patch one up."
The men worked with a will, and soon the house was a shapeless mass
of wood and plaster, while the soldiers, selecting the largest and
strongest beams, dragged them to the spot where the jagged ends of
the riven bridge gaped a good ten yards apart.
Meanwhile Redward and two score of his comrades had thrown off their
armour and quilted jackets, and, with ropes fastened to their waists,
plunged into the swift-flowing river.
To clamber up the woodwork of the broken arch was the work of a few
minutes; then, hauling at the ropes with a will, they dragged two of
the largest beams across the chasm, and after this was done the work
of completing the temporary bridge was a comparatively easy matter.
By this time the whole English army had crowded on its advance guard,
and many anxious glances were thrown backwards in the direction from
which the French attack was expected, but to every one's relief no
enemy appeared till the last waggon of the retreating host had
rumbled over the swaying structure. Then, as the van of the French
army came in sight, the temporary span, together with two additional
arches, crashed into the river, effectually preventing all pursuit
for a considerable period.
The retreat continued, the King making towards Flanders, yet at the
same time gradually approaching the shores of the English Channel, so
as to be able to re-embark should he find himself hemmed in by the
hordes of infuriated Frenchmen.
As the English came on swiftly and in good order, a considerable
force, under Godemar de Faye, fell back before them, seeking a
favourable chance to hinder their advance, while in their rear came
the hundred thousand armed men of King Philip, who had meantime found
means of crossing the Seine and were swiftly pursuing.
At length the English reached the valley of the Somme. Here the same
difficulty awaited them. The bridges were broken down by the
redoubtable Godemar, after he had crossed and drawn up his troops on
the right bank to oppose the passage of the retreating army.
Edward was sore puzzled with the problem of how to effect a crossing,
till a miserable Norman peasant, one Gobin Agace, was brought before
him. Not by threats, but by promises of rich reward, was this
unworthy Frenchman induced to betray his country; and, on his
informing the King of a certain ford, the order for a general advance
was at once given.
Led by the peasant, the English rushed towards the ford. In front
flowed the river, lapping over the white stones and shingle as it
babbled along, an apparently peaceful stream, towards the sea.
On the opposite bank lay the troops of Godemar; but not for one
moment did the King hesitate. Commanding the archers to pour a heavy
covering fire into the masses of Frenchmen, he drew his sword, and
setting himself at the head of his knights and mounted troops, Edward
dashed across the river. Short and fierce was the conflict, but
unable to withstand the fierce onslaught, the Frenchmen gave way, and
were soon in headlong flight.
"Haste, sir," exclaimed Sir John Chandos; "command the main body to
cross." And even as he spoke the dark outlines of the pursuing army
appeared on the crest of a distant hill.
Never was a ford crossed with such celerity. The waggons were dragged
or lifted by the united efforts of crowds of archers, and though
waist-deep in water, the whole army crossed in safety.
Then the order was given to resume the march, the Hampshire companies
being given the post of honour--the task of covering the retreat.
As Raymond stood with his men watching the advancing Frenchmen, their
innumerable banners waving like a reed-covered pond, the archers had
slipped into a long, extended line, and quietly, yet resolutely,
awaited the oncoming enemy.
Suddenly the squire noticed a change in the appearance of the river.
Instead of a silently-flowing stream that ran towards the sea, a wave
of foaming water rushed up in the opposite direction, and almost
instantly the river became a mass of broken water, impassable to man
or beast. The flood-tide had begun, and for six hours at least King
Philip was doomed to rave in fruitless anger on the wrong side of the
Somme.
"We are safe enough for the present," remarked Redward to his son,
"but methinks before daybreak there will be few of us left, for the
best we can do is to hold them in check for an hour after the tide
has run out. Many a tight corner have we been in ere now, but,
certes, this is the worst."
But the master-bowman was wrong, for presently a messenger came to
Sir John Hacket with an urgent order from the King. With an
irrepressible shout of delight, the fiery old knight summoned his
sturdy little band around him.
"It is not fated that our bones bleach on the banks of this river,
_mes enfans_," he exclaimed. "News hath arrived that the King intends
to give battle with the enemy, and hath already ordered his forces in
a strong position but three leagues hence. Thither we are to repair
with all haste. Forward, then, and ere night we shall be with the
main body!"
Eagerly the company fell in, and with hope renewed they set out for
the camp.
"Mark my word, Raymond," said his father, "'tis but putting off the
evil day. A great fight is before us, and, by the rood, 'tis hard to
say how it will end. But I have a small matter on my mind of which I
would speak anon. As soon, therefore, as we arrive in camp, come
aside with me for one brief hour."
Raymond assented, and in silence they rode onwards towards their
destination, a journey which was to many the last they would ever
make on earth.
The sun was sinking low ere they heard the trumpets of the English
host. The place Edward had chosen to make a stand was one of great
natural strength. The army was encamped on the edge of a low plateau,
the right wing being additionally protected by a narrow stream, while
in the rear was a small wood. On the summit of the hill a wooden
windmill stood out clearly against the sky, while but a bowshot away
was the little village of Crécy, its houses, though ransacked by the
invaders, still standing--a contrast to those which had previously
stood in the path of the ruthless army.
As the Constable's company moved towards the quarters assigned them,
Raymond noticed that the archers were already hard at work digging
trenches and cutting stakes for palisades, for the King had given
orders that everything should be ready ere night, so as to allow his
troops a well-earned rest.
After a good repast, for provisions were plentiful in that fertile
valley, Raymond sought his father, and together they walked through
the camp towards the solitude of the neighbouring wood. On the way
they passed the royal pavilion, where, with his chief lords, King
Edward sat at supper, and, judging by the cheerful voices of the
company, it was evident that few doubts were entertained as to the
issue of to-morrow's conflict.
But, silent and sad, the master-bowman and his son went on their way,
for Raymond knew instinctively that there was a great burden on his
father's mind. At length they reached the dark shadows of the wood,
and here Redward halted.
"Raymond, my beloved son," he exclaimed in a voice broken with
emotion, "'tis hard that I should have to tell thee what I am about
to utter, but, before Heaven, I must do it, both for mine own peace
of mind and for thine own. Two score and three years ago this very
day I slew a man. The quarrel was of his own seeking, 'tis true, but,
nevertheless, the law was set against me, and I was made outlaw!"
The master-bowman paused to note the effect of this announcement,
but, beyond a tightening of his lips, Raymond betrayed no sign of
dismay at this astounding confession.
"Then I fled from the country, and assumed a name to which I have no
right," resumed Redward. "In this I did thee a great injustice, for
the ban falls on the outlaw's children equally with himself; and on
this account I ought never to have taken a wife or to have had a
son."
"I care not for myself, father. But what if, even now, thou art
recognised?"
"It matters not, my son. A secret kept for over two score years may
well remain a secret; but I have a misgiving that I shall never see
the sun set to-morrow."
"Father!"
"Nay, Raymond, 'tis but a small matter. I cannot live much longer,
and to fall in battle is a worthy end. But the worst is to be told.
Thou wouldst marry the Lady Audrey!"
The young squire shuddered at the altered prospect.
"Alack a day!" he groaned.
"Ay, Raymond. I fear thou wilt curse the day thou camest into the
world, for to my sorrow I must tell thee--the brother of that lady's
father was the man I slew!"
For a moment the squire was incapable of speech, then, recovering
himself with an effort, he exclaimed, "Nay, father, I blame you not.
It is rather the fate of circumstances and my own foolish pride that
made me look so high. I cannot for one moment continue my suit for
the hand of the Lady Audrey, neither can I ever hope to wear the
spurs of knighthood; but I am still thy son."
"And wouldst thou know thy true name?"
"Not unless it please thee, father; 'Raymond Buckland' hath served me
well these four-and-twenty years; but," he added with pardonable
curiosity, "if I may I would desire to know."
"Dost call to mind Sir Edmund Revyngton?"
"Indifferently so; I wot he is a knight of Devon."
"He is also my brother, and, being without issue, his heir would be,
but for the bar of outlawry, Redward Revyngton, now known to all men
as Redward Buckland."
It was a long story, that narrative of life marred by an act
committed in a moment of anger, but breathlessly Raymond listened
till the master-bowman had finished.
"And if so be thou comest scatheless from the wars," he added, "the
abbot of Netley will deliver into thy hands certain documents
pertaining to thy welfare, and, should Heaven grant that this decree
of outlawry be rescinded (though I shall never live to see the day),
I pray that thou wilt ever acquit thyself as an honourable gentleman
of Devon."
Slowly father and son returned towards the camp, and as they passed
between the long lines of tents, Redward paused before a lodging in
front of which was a shield displaying a mailed hand argent on a
field azure.
Leaving Raymond standing in the gloom, the master-bowman went up and
spoke to a man-at-arms who stood outside the tent.
"My master cannot hold converse with any one this night, especially
an archer," exclaimed the man roughly.
"Convey my message to thy master and leave him to decide the point,
sirrah!" replied Redward in a tone of authority, and, on seeing that
a squire had joined him, the soldier obeyed.
Soon he reappeared, and holding open the flap of the tent, signed for
the visitors to enter.
Following his father, Raymond saw a tall, well-built man, who in
spite of his grey hairs and carefully-trimmed white beard, carried
his years with ease. He had laid aside his armour, and, judging by
the still lighted candles in front of a prie-dieu, he had but just
risen from his orisons.
With a knightly courtesy he waited for the master-bowman to speak,
thinking that one of his followers had come to ask a boon, when to
his surprise Redward addressed him by name.
"Sir Maurice," he exclaimed. "Dost thou not know me? I am thy brother
Redward!"
"Redward? Back from the dead after all these years? Nay, it cannot
be! But yet----"
Drawing nearer he looked closely into the master-bowman's rugged and
bronzed face, then, "Thank Heaven! I have found thee!" he exclaimed,
and Raymond beheld the extraordinary sight of a belted knight and a
surcoated archer falling on one another's necks in a transport of
joy.
Then the squire had to be presented to his uncle. "A fine and gallant
youth, and a credit to the old stock of Revyngtons," declared the
knight. "But, tell me, Redward, why didst thou not seek me out ere
now, knowing I was in the camp?"
"But for one thing, Maurice, I had as lief let it be thought that
Redward Revyngton was no longer in this world. It is Raymond of whom
I think, for I know that to-morrow's battle will count me amongst the
slain. How think ye, Maurice? Is there hope that the King will set
aside the outlawry, and free my son from its curse?"
The knight shook his head sorrowfully. "Sir Reginald Scarsdale is
ever with the King, and his wrath against his brother's slayer dies
not."
"And to make matters worse Raymond, ignorant of my past, seeks his
daughter's hand in marriage."
Sir Maurice smiled grimly.
"I'll do my best, even if it be to beg a favour of Scarsdale himself!
But sit down, Redward, and let us talk at ease, for the hours of
darkness fly quickly, and there is much to be said."
It was after midnight before the brothers bade each other farewell,
and Redward and Raymond returned to their tents.
On gaining the lines of the Hampshire companies, father and son
parted, the former to compose his mind for his anticipated death, the
latter to ponder over the astounding revelations he had just heard.
Sleep was banished from Raymond's eyes, and long he tossed uneasily
on his hard pallet, till the dawn grew ruddy in the east and the
trumpets heralded the advent of the eventful day.