THE REJECTED GUERDON
MORNING came, and with it the trumpets again sounded for the troops
to assemble. Was it that a renewal of the fight was expected? Nay,
for the French were in headlong flight, their King being already well
on the way to La Broye. But Edward, sensible of the advantage gained,
had determined to advance on Calais.
Silently the weary soldiers fell into their ranks. The archers, their
white surcoats soiled with mud and stained with blood, the
men-at-arms, with battered armour, and, in many cases,
roughly-bandaged wounds, stood grimly in their martial array,
conscious of the many comrades who had stood thus but a day before
and had gone to their last account.
Suddenly a fanfare of trumpets announced the approach of the King.
With his eyes shining with pardonable pride, the monarch rode slowly
down the war-worn lines, stopping at intervals to bestow honours and
praise as cases of individual merit were pointed out to him. At his
right hand rode the Prince of Wales, and attending him were Sir John
Chandos, the Earls of Warwick, Arundel, Oxford, and Southampton.
When in front of the Hampshire companies the King again drew rein,
and surveyed the stern, determined faces of the men on whom the brunt
of the attack had fallen. Sir John Hacket, attended by his three
squires, stood in front of his command, the banners, according to
custom, being lowered to the ground in the presence of the Sovereign.
"By Our Lady! 'Tis our trusted Constable of Portchester!" exclaimed
Edward. "And by report thou didst hold thyself right gallantly on
yesterday's field. Ah, Sir John, we have something in store to make
amends for our former forgetfulness. Advance thy banner!"
The Constable, taking his banner from the hands of the guidon-bearer,
stepped forward, and, with bended knee, presented the blue silk
emblazoned with the golden crescent to the King, who, drawing a
dagger from his belt, deftly cut off the pointed end of the pennon.
Handing the severed portion to a knight in attendance, the King
returned the banner to Sir John.
The action, simple as it seemed, roused the company to the highest
pitch of enthusiasm, for their adored leader had achieved the great
distinction of being created a knight-banneret, the greatest honour
to be paid by the sovereign, only on the field of battle.
Ere the cheering had died away, the Prince of Wales had plucked his
father's sleeve, and whispered in his ear.
"Of a truth, 'tis the squire who brought the Count of Tancarville to
our camp! And he is the man that came betwixt thee and thine enemies
in the thickest of the fray! 'Tis our pleasure to bestow honours
freely to-day, though, methinks, they be well deserved, and no man
will chide us for being too freehanded. Thy squire's name, Sir John?"
"He is named Raymond Buckland, sire."
"Come hither, squire," commanded the King, alighting from his palfrey
and taking a sword from the hand of the Earl of Warwick.
The supreme moment of Raymond's life was at hand, but the squire,
instead of kneeling to receive the honour of knighthood, advanced a
few paces and stood irresolutely before his sovereign.
"On thy knees, squire!" commanded Edward.
"Nay, sire, I cannot," replied the unhappy Raymond. Low murmurs of
astonishment arose from the King's attendants, while Sir John Hacket,
placing his hand heavily on his squire's shoulder, hissed into his
ear, "Kneel, thou fool! Art bereft of thy senses?"
A dark cloud gathered on the King's face. Then a thought seemed to
strike him, and he spoke again.
"Here, sirrah, tell us the reason of this strange refusal. Nay, have
no fear," he added, in a more kindly tone, observing the squire's
dejection, "for we perceive there is something amiss that will
account for thy demeanour."
Encouraged by the King's words, and rendered bold by the desperate
position in which circumstances had placed him, Raymond replied, in a
low yet distinct voice, "Sire, I am the son of an outlaw, and
therefore unworthy of the honour thou would'st bestow."
"Ah!" exclaimed the King. "This requires further consideration. Sir
John, knowest aught of this?"
"Nay, sire," replied the amazed Constable.
Once again the young Prince of Wales whispered in his father's ear.
The King nodded in response, and again addressed the squire.
"It is our desire to hear more of this matter. See to it that thou
comest before us in our pavilion at noon, Sir John. I hold thee
responsible for thy squire's appearance. And, Sir William," he added,
turning to his scrivener, "I pray thee see to it that the worthy
Constable of Portchester and his squire be instantly admitted to our
presence at that hour."
Remounting his steed, the King, accompanied by his retinue, continued
his tour of inspection, and, on this being completed, he returned to
his pavilion. The ranks broke, and the men were told to enjoy a
well-earned rest ere the march to Calais was begun on the morrow,
while the camp-followers were put to the melancholy task of burying
the dead who had fallen in the fight.
On hearing the story from Raymond's own lips, the kind-hearted Sir
John Hacket's expressions of surprise and pity were unbounded. For
not for one moment had he suspected that the sturdy master-bowman,
though an outlaw, was at one time a gentleman of quality.
"Take it not too much to heart, Raymond," he said. "Many a man hath
been in a worse scrape. I am of a mind to bring Sir Maurice Revyngton
with us when we repair to the King's presence, and 'twould be well if
I saw the knight at once."
So saying, the Constable hastened away, leaving his squire still torn
with conflicting emotions of hope and fear--hope that his own
stainless character and deeds of bravery would wipe out the
undeserved blot that threatened to mar his prospects, and fear that
the formidable barrier of social custom and royal etiquette would for
ever debar him from the road to success.
In less than an hour Sir John returned, a broad smile of satisfaction
overspreading his grim features. "Thy uncle will bear us company, ay,
and another knight, if I mistake not, will interest himself on thy
behalf. Now, bear thyself cheerfully, for I perceive that things will
turn out aright. Waste no more time in gloomy meditations, but make
thyself fit to appear in the King's presence, for the hour of
audience is at hand."
"And the style of mine attire?"
"In full harness, Raymond, for the King will doubtless think fit to
reward thee for bravery on the field, and on that score I have no
doubt. 'Tis meet that thou shouldst appear in the garb of a soldier
rather than in the dress of a common suppliant. And, moreover, our
King delights in the wearing of harness, and looks with favour on
those who doff their armour but rarely when they come to the wars. So
again I tell thee, hasten!"
The squire repaired to his own tent and put on his complete suit of
armour--the same that his father had given him years ago on the eve
of the sack of Hamble--and well the dented and tarnished steel
befitted his tall and erect figure. Then girding on his scabbard,
wherein was thrust the remaining part of the broken blade, and
grasping the fragment of the shield that had diverted the murderous
sweep of the Frenchman's two-handed sword, Raymond repaired to his
master's tent.
The Constable surveyed him with appreciation. "Eh, lad, thou dost
well to bear the silent testimony of thy courage on thine arm. In any
case but the present, when thy future is at stake, 'twould have been
a braggart's ruse. But the King doth know full well that thou art no
boaster, seeing that it was in thy power to accept honour at his
hands, and thou didst shrink from it. But come, the hour of noon is
near. Let us make for the royal pavilion."
Between the long lines of tents, where crowds of soldiers gathered,
in silent wonder, to see the man who had so strangely withstood his
sovereign, the knight and the squire walked side by side, and with a
fresh wave of doubt and fear sweeping over him, Raymond found himself
in the anteroom of the royal tent.