THE ADVENTURE AT THE RUINED MILL
IN his tent, in terrible suspense, the young knight, Raymond
Revyngton, lay helpless, wondering how went the fight. In due course,
through the opening of his tent, he saw a stream of wounded men
returning, singly or in small parties, some with rough bandages round
their limbs or their heads.
At length came one whom he knew--an archer of the Portchester
company.
"Stephen! Stephen!" called Raymond, as loudly as he could.
In obedience to the knight's cry, the man entered the tent, nursing
the maimed fingers of his right hand with his left, while the blood
poured freely from the stumps and trickled in a crimson stream down
his arm, soaking his sleeve.
Deftly and quickly, notwithstanding his weakness, Raymond bound the
wounded hand, and poured out a cup of wine for the almost fainting
archer. The draught revived him, and the colour began to steal back
into his ashy-grey face.
"How goes the battle?" asked Raymond anxiously.
"'Tis not a battle, Sir Raymond, but a slight passage of arms, though
I perceive that as a bowman my work is done. The French King hath
tried to relieve the town, but my Lord Chandos and seven thousand of
our men have withstood him amid the sand-hills and marshes. Save for
a few hand-to-hand blows, the French never made a stand, and already
they are in full flight."
"Dost feel well enough to walk?" the young knight asked, after a long
pause.
"Yea, Sir Raymond."
"Then get thee outside the camp, and bring me fresh tidings."
The man obeyed, but ere long he returned, exclaiming: "'Tis all over.
The enemy are nowhere in sight and our men are even now returning."
"Then do not tarry longer, but go to thine own tent, for thou needest
better care for thy hurts than I can give thee. This flask of wine I
give thee, for, by St. Thomas, thou hast need of it. Nay, do not
thank me, but away!"
Once more the camp was alive with men, for the threatened attack of
the huge army that Philip had gathered together for the relief of
Calais had been ignominiously repelled, and it was known that the
fate of the town was sealed. Raymond gathered a fairly true account
of the fight from the conversation and joyous exclamations of the
elated soldiery, and presently Sir John Hacket, covered with dust and
showing signs of the conflict, entered the tent.
"Art feeling better, Raymond?"
"Ay, Sir John. But how goes it with us?"
"Passably well but ever I seem to be a messenger of momentous tidings
to thee, whether of good or evil."
"Then there is something amiss?" questioned the young man eagerly,
instinctively surmising that the news was unfavourable.
"Yea, Raymond. My speech was ever blunt, and methinks the sooner I
unburden myself of a message of ill-tidings the easier 'tis for both
of us. Briefly, Sir Maurice hath fallen like the true and gallant
knight he was, and thou art the last of the Revyngtons of Churston."
"Alack-a-me that it should be so! For though I knew but little of
him, I esteemed him a gallant, gentle, and honourable knight even
before I wot he was my kinsman. And Sir Reginald Scarsdale--what of
him?"
"His heart is stronger than his body. In the first impact he was
swept from his saddle by a mere stripling."
"And he is killed, wounded, or taken?"
"Neither, save that he is shaken by the fall, and the King vows that
since he cannot hold his own against a youth he will send him home,
seeing that his fighting days are over."
"And does Sir Reginald know of this?"
"Ay, and if the King will not relent--and he is hard to turn from his
purpose--'twill be the first Scarsdale since the Conquest whose feet
on his altar-tomb rest not upon a lion."
"Alas! the King's decision will hit him hard! Do you, Sir John,
convey my expressions of regret to the gentle knight, and say that it
will give me great pleasure should he deign to visit me."
For several days more Raymond lay weak and ill in his tent, but as
April drew on and the weather became warmer his strength began slowly
to return. At length, pale and wan, the young knight was able to walk
slowly about the camp, supported by two of his archers.
Still the siege continued, a long-drawn, tedious task, with little
chance of knightly deeds of daring to earn advancement. The
close-drawn lines of the besiegers still kept tenacious grip upon the
town, and, though famine and disease wrought havoc amongst its
gallant defenders, the end seemed as far off as ever.
The return of summer found Sir Raymond Revyngton completely restored
in health, though still chafing with impatience at the life of
inactivity, for the younger knights looked with disfavour upon the
King's methods of conducting the siege, and would rather have had the
opportunity of leading their men to the assault than sit down before
the town waiting for famine to do its fell work.
Friendly tilting-matches, hawking, and sports of a similar nature
were indulged in, and Raymond, with an exuberance of energy, took a
leading part in the pastimes. Many a pleasant afternoon was spent in
the open country around the English lines, hunting or making sport
with hounds and falcons, for not an armed Frenchman was to be seen
within twenty leagues of Calais, save the starving wretches within
its gates.
One afternoon in July Raymond and a score of young knights rode
south-eastwards along the sand-dunes, each knight accompanied by a
mounted serving-man and a number of hounds. The country was not of a
nature to yield much sport, yet, eager to while away the time, the
little cavalcade rode carelessly on over the low sandhills.
On their right spread the blue waters of the English Channel, in
front towered the chalky heights of Gris-nez, while behind lay the
red-tiled houses and grey walls of Calais, with the semicircle of
tents that marked the English lines.
At length they reached the summit of a low hill, and here they reined
in their steeds.
"No sign of a living creature," remarked one of the party, "though
the land away on our left seemeth well wooded. How call you yonder
forest, Armand?" he inquired, addressing one of the attendants, a
Gascon who had spent the greater part of his life in the
neighbourhood of Calais.
"'Tis the forest of Ambleteuse, sir," replied the man; "there the
wild boar is to be found."
"Ah There is good sport, fair sirs Let us ride forward."
Half-an-hour's sharp canter brought them to the edge of the wood, and
in a long, straggling line the gay-hearted Englishmen, with loud
shouts and many a blast upon their horns, plunged into the gloom of
the forest glades.
For a while no signs of animal life appeared, then suddenly there
came from one of the rearmost horsemen shouts of "A boar!"
Instantly the party turned, and crashing through the underwood, made
towards the sound. Raymond, who had been in the van, now found
himself in the rear, and, spurring his steed and calling to his
attendant to follow, he strove to overtake his companions, while the
loud grunts of the hunted boar could be distinctly heard amid the
snapping of the brushwood.
At length the glade descended towards a babbling brook, and here the
press of horsemen became so thick that many were riding hip to hip.
Suddenly Raymond's horse trod in a rabbit-hole, and before he could
realise what had happened he found himself hurtling through the air
and striking the soft earth with a heavy thud. Fortunately, the young
knight was lightly clad, and fell without injury, but on leaping to
his feet he saw his body-servant lying, senseless on the ground,
while the two steeds, entangled in their fall, were madly kicking
each other with their iron-shod hoofs.
In the excitement of the chase the rest of the cavalcade had rushed
onwards, heedless of their companions' misfortunes, and the sound of
feet was already dying away.
With a bound Raymond sprang to the side of his attendant and dragged
him out of the reach of the perilous hoofs. Then he sought for his
horn to summon assistance, but the instrument was crushed and
rendered useless by the fall. Baffled in his purpose, he applied his
energies to the task of restoring the unconscious man, bathing his
forehead with water obtained from the brook.
His efforts at length were rewarded, for the servant sat up and gazed
around in a dazed way.
"Art hurt, Thompson?" asked Raymond anxiously.
"Can scarcely tell, Sir Raymond, save that my head is swimming round
like a roasting joint, and my shoulder-blades seem growing out of my
neck."
"'Tis of small moment. But stand up if thou canst." Thompson
staggered to his feet, and to the knight's satisfaction he found that
none of the man's limbs were broken.
"'Tis a sorry pass, for we must needs find our way back afoot. Pull
thyself together, man, for 'tis a goodly step betwixt us and the
camp."
Drawing his hunting-knife, Raymond put the two struggling
horses--each of whom had a leg broken--out of their misery, then the
twain set out on their homeward way. By the time they emerged from
the forest their shadows fell far athwart the path, for the sun was
sinking in the west; but Thompson was rapidly recovering, and their
pace was well maintained.
"There is the hill from whence we first saw the wood," remarked the
knight. "But methinks we can leave that well on our left, for the
camp lies yonder."
"I deem thee to be right, fair sir. But, mark ye! Look at yonder
clouds."
Raymond looked in the direction indicated, and saw that a storm was
rapidly driving towards them.
"Night cometh on apace, and with it a tempest," quoth he. "Hasten, or
we shall be benighted in this dreary plain."
Hardly had they traversed a distance of three arrow-flights than the
wind, hitherto a faint westerly breeze, sprang up with terrific
violence. The sand rose in thick clouds, shutting out everything
except in their immediate vicinity, and the sun, in a mist of pale
yellow sky, sank beneath the indigo-coloured clouds.
Onward they steadily plodded through the heavy yielding sand, the
swiftly-falling darkness bringing with it a heavy storm of rain and
hail. Wondering whether his comrades were faring as badly, the young
knight stumbled and plunged resolutely onwards, his serving-man
following closely at his heels, the whistling of the wind making
conversation impossible.
For over two hours the twain pursued their uncomfortable walk, till
at length a dark object blocked their path. It was a ruined windmill.
Making their way round its massive base, the weary travellers found
some slight shelter from the force of the wind, and, panting from
their exertions, they leaned against the stonework to recover their
breath.
"Dost know where we are?" shouted Raymond, his voice almost inaudible
in the howling wind.
"No, sir," replied the man.
"But a short distance from where we left the wood, I marked this
tower on our left, and, certes, we have been walking round and round
for half the night."
"Then we must needs set out once more?"
"Nay. This will suffice for the present, and here we'll rest till
daylight comes and the storm spends itself. The door is not barred, I
hope."
Walking slowly round the mill, the knight felt for the opening, till
he stumbled over a low stone step. Cautiously ascending, he found at
the fourth step a flat ledge, protected by a broken rail, and here
was the door hanging by a solitary rusted hinge.
[Illustration: TREACHERY AFOOT]
Yielding to the pressure of his shoulder, the door flew open, and the
knight and his companion carefully groped their way in, closing the
door after them. Here, in absolute blackness, they found shelter, the
storm howling wildly outside, yet scarcely to be heard within the
massive stone walls. They had no means of procuring a light, but by
continuing their investigations they felt a pile of broken hurdles
and the lower-most rungs of a ladder.
Raymond was about to ascend, when his servant laid a detaining hand
upon his arm. "Hist!" he exclaimed. "Some one moves in the room
above."
"Nay, thou dreamest!... Ay, thou art right! Hide here, quickly. Art
armed?"
"Nought but a knife."
"'Twill suffice. Now, hold thyself in readiness, but act not till I
give the word."
Crouching behind the pile of hurdles, knight and servant waited in
breathless silence. There was the sound of a heavy trap-door being
raised, and a voice exclaimed in French: "Is it thou, Jehan?"
Receiving no reply, the questioner slowly descended a few steps of
the ladder, and drawing a horn lantern from underneath a cloak, swung
it around him, peering about the room.
Then, perceiving no one, he muttered: "Mon Dieu! It is but fancy, yet
why doth he tarry?" And again concealing the light, he ascended to
the upper story and dropped the trap-hatch with a resounding thud.
"There's fell treachery afoot," whispered Raymond. "Dost know who it
is?"
"'Tis René de Caux, of the following of the Captal de Buche, our
King's trusted favourite. Wait patiently, for ere long no little
advancement will be gained."
Silently the Englishmen waited, every fiercer blast of the storm
causing them to imagine that the expected visitor had arrived. At
last they heard the door pushed open, and a dark form made its way
into the room with a confidence gained by long practice. A low
whistle, like the cry of a night-bird, and the trapdoor was again
removed.
"Ah, Jehan! 'Tis thou at last! Close the door ere I show a light."
"A thousand pests take the weather. This storm hath all but been my
undoing."
The light of the lantern shone upon the face of the new arrival. He
was a tall, slender man, with light hair and refined features, and on
removing his sodden cloak a garment of slashed velvet was revealed,
betokening that the wearer was a gentleman of quality. Armour he wore
none, but a light sword hung from his belt, balanced by a large
leather bag.
"And how fares Sir John de Vienne?"
"Strong in courage when last I saw him."
"And that was----?"
"But yesternight."
"And he agreed to allow you to poison the wells?"
"Nay, by Our Lady, he would not."
"Well spoken, like a brave and gallant knight, for, by St. Denis, the
plan is not to my liking even though these insolent islanders deserve
all that is evil. But, see here! This letter must be given to the
Governor of the town by to-morrow, though, alas! it is cold comfort
to Sir John. Canst arrange to deliver it?"
"They will admit me by the postern of the Boulogne Gate at midnight.
'Twill be done."
"Then take thy reward. Hold the light closer while I count, for I
know a Gascon of old! See to it: all bright crowns, of good weight."
The Frenchman addressed as Jehan handed a sealed document to the
Gascon, who placed it in his doublet; then, setting the lantern on
the ground and extending his hand, the latter counted the coins as
Jehan took them from his wallet.
Loosening his poignard and motioning to Thompson to draw his knife,
Raymond prepared to spring from his hiding-place.
Ere the two conspirators could recover from their astonishment the
young knight had leapt upon them, and with one thrust of his weapon
laid the traitorous Gascon dead at his feet. Instinctively the
Frenchman sprang backwards and whipped out his sword.
"Yield thee!" thundered Raymond.
"To no man!"
In an instant their blades met, the dull light of the lantern
flashing on the glittering steel. Though Jehan had the longer weapon,
he possessed neither the strength nor the skill of his antagonist,
and in less than half a minute's swordplay the Frenchman's blade
caught in the notch that the hilt of most poignards possess, and with
a quick, powerful turn of the wrist Raymond snapped the sword off
close to the guard.
"Now wilt yield?"
"If thou art a gentleman I will; if not, pass the dagger through me
rather than let me disgrace myself."
"I am Sir Raymond Revyngton, knight."
"Then, Sir Raymond, I yield myself to thee; though I pray thee,
certify my master that I fought well ere I yielded."
"And thy name and quality?"
"I am Jehan de Sous-Cahors, seneschal de Vimereux, and of the
household of King Philip."
"Then I have had great honour in taking thee!" said Raymond with due
courtesy. "And now have I thy promise that there shall
be no attempt at escape? Otherwise, though it grieve me to mishandle
a knight, thou must be brought bound into the camp."
"I swear, by St. Denis."
The grey dawn was beginning to break, and the storm was dying away.
Raymond looked out of the door, and saw with great satisfaction the
knight's horse stabled in a small adjoining hut that had been
invisible on the previous night. There in the distance the smoke of
the English camp-fires showed distinctly in the now clear air, while
less than a bowshot from the mill lay the wood that had been the
cause of their misfortune.
Suddenly the young knight heard the sound of scuffling and Thompson's
voice shouting "Help, master, help!"
Darting back to the room, he found his servant engaged in a desperate
struggle with the captive, who was endeavouring to destroy the letter
he had entrusted to the double-dealing Gascon, a portion of which he
had attempted to swallow.
With no gentle hand Raymond aided his man to throw the prisoner on
his back and wrench the missive from him.
"Thy parole, Sir Knight!" he exclaimed.
"----has been kept," gasped the captive, "but I trow thou wilt admit
that no farther compact was made. I am foiled in this matter, but I
pray thee, of thy courtesy, give me leave to finish my work and
destroy this missive."
"That I cannot do. This letter, which I doubt not is of great moment,
I will take charge of, and hand over to my Lord Chandos. 'Tis now
daylight, and we must needs return to the camp. I am loth to let thee
walk, but as there is but one horse between two knights, 'tis better
that neither ride."
Walking side by side, and followed by Thompson leading the captive's
horse, Raymond and the French knight arrived at the camp without
further incident, and, after handing his prisoner over to the
camp-martial, the young knight repaired with all despatch to find Sir
John Hacket.
On hearing Raymond's story the Constable accompanied him to the tent
of Sir John Chandos, whose banner floated close to the royal
pavilion.
Lord Chandos opened the letter which Raymond had gained possession
of, and found that its contents were practically undamaged in the
struggle.
"Canst read?" he asked of the Constable. "For this crabbed fist doth
sorely try my one eye."
"Nay," replied Sir John Hacket with a grim smile. "Only enough for
mine own use, for from my seventh year the sword ever proved a more
pleasing companion than a scrawling, musty parchment."
"And canst thou, Sir Raymond?"
"I will try my best, fair sir."
Raymond took the missive and began to read the superscription,
written in French: "To the very puissant knight, Sir John de Vienne,
seneschal of our town of Calais, greeting."
The body of the letter began by thanking the Governor for his brave
resistance, and expressing hopes of being able to speedily succour
the besieged. It then confirmed the arrangements, previously made
through the Gascon traitor, for a sally, in conjunction with an
attempt on the part of the French forces to break the English lines
from without. Should the French be unable to carry out their part and
attack the English camp, three white lights were to be shown from the
ruins of an old mill near Sangatte, and the besieged would then be at
liberty to make the best terms they could for the surrender of
Calais. The epistle was signed by no less a personage than King
Philip of France.
"By St. George, we have them," exclaimed Chandos, striking his fist
heavily upon an oaken chest. "Though I would rather that René de Caux
were swinging from a gallows in view of the town than lying dead at
thy hands in the ruined mill. No matter; this letter must reach the
Governor of Calais. Five hundred lances and two thousand archers will
suffice to keep the Frenchmen from advancing upon us; and to-morrow
night will see three white lights from the old mill at Sangatte."
At nightfall a squire of the Captal de Buche crept cautiously to the
postern of the Boulogne Gate, and, representing himself as an
emissary of the false René de Caux, handed the fatal letter to the
Governor, Sir John de Vienne. The presence of a strong force of
Englishmen beyond the dunes of Sangatte prevented the expected French
army from occupying the mill and signalling to their friends in the
beleaguered city, and the following night three white lights flashed
their message of despair to the hitherto undaunted garrison.
Thus the fall of Calais was hastened, but Raymond saw nothing of the
final act in the drama, when the heroic Eustace de St. Pierre and his
five companions were nearly sacrificed to appease the anger of the
English King (Queen Philippa's intercession alone saved their lives),
for the young knight was with the five hundred lances that guarded
the approach from Boulogne; and on the 6th of August, two days after
Edward had taken possession of the town, the Hampshire companies,
with whom was Sir Reginald Scarsdale, embarked for the shores of
England.