covered by a line of men on either side bearing big wooden shields,
advanced, cheering loudly, to the attack.
Again there was a shout of alarm from the garrison at the sight of this
new danger, and after a few minutes' commotion the master of the castle,
Sir Eustace, appeared on the walls above the gate. He was clad in full
armour, and, recklessly exposing himself to the fire of the mangonels,
strove to encourage his retainers by himself taking the lead in hurling
great stones at the bearers of the ram. His example was followed, and
with shouts of encouragement to one another the defenders crowded to the
ramparts and recommenced the fusillade with the greatest energy. A
perfect rain of stones and rocks descended upon the men driving the ram,
and for a moment the advance was checked.
"Hang not back, men," cried Edgar with energy. "Press forward the more
quickly and our task will be the sooner ended. Forward!"
With a shout the line of men bent to their work, and the great tree
rolled forward with terrific weight and momentum. The ram was well
aimed, and with a mighty crash struck the raised drawbridge full in the
centre and split it from top to bottom.
"Back a dozen yards and then press to the attack again," cried Edgar,
and the tree, moving with comparative ease upon the big wheels, swung
back and was urged forward once more. Again the ram struck the
drawbridge, widening the cracks and bending its timbers back towards the
great gates behind. Six times the ram was swung before the last remnants
of the bridge gave way before its onslaught, leaving naught but a pile
of splintered boards and a few pieces of woodwork dangling from the
chains on either side of the gateway.
The attack had not been without its penalties. Eight men had fallen
crushed and bruised beneath the stones flung with such furious energy by
the defenders. Their places had been instantly taken by fresh men, for
the blood of the peasants was now up, and none recked of the danger so
long as the attack went on unchecked.
"Now for the gates, men!" cried Edgar cheerily, as they prepared to
swing forward for the seventh time. The fusillade from the walls had
now slackened, for the imminence of an attack upon the gates had
compelled the defenders to withdraw half the men from the ramparts and
to station them in the courtyard ready for the moment when the gates had
been battered down. No one, not even the defenders, believed that the
gates were capable of withstanding the onslaughts of the deadly weapon
devised by the attackers.
Missing the grim figure of De Brin from the walls, Edgar hoped, with no
little satisfaction, that they would soon meet hand to hand beneath the
gateway. So far all had gone as he had anticipated. Every surprise had
been sprung by the attackers, but, to his sorrow, he had yet to find
that the defenders had one or two things left to them that he had not
taken full account of. So uniform had been his success thus far that it
seemed that but one more effort need be made, and the castle would be
won.
Four times, with four tremendous crashes, the ram was swung against the
iron-plated gates, and still they held. The fifth time they gave, and
fell inwards so suddenly and completely that the ram rolled forward
almost unchecked until the wheels sank to the axles in the mud and
brushwood of the filled-in moat.
Loudly the horns were wound, and every man of the peasants' force rushed
to do his appointed work. The men commanded by Father Armand advanced
in little clusters from a dozen points and planted great ladders in
position against the walls. Led by the priest in person, they began to
mount with every sign of determination. Again the move was evidently
unexpected by the garrison, for the few men now left upon the walls
shouted loudly to their comrades for aid. A number answered to the
call, and set about repelling the attack with the utmost desperation.
Some essayed to lever out with their halberds the ladders weighted with
their loads of climbing men, and strove to cast them bodily backwards.
Others occupied themselves in casting down great stones in the hope of
smashing the ladders or sweeping their occupants downwards to
destruction.
The ladder by which the priest was himself mounting was one of the first
singled out for attention. Ere he had reached the top and could lift a
hand to interfere, two men who had been savagely thrusting at it with
all their might succeeded in lifting it outward a couple of feet. Unable
to thrust it farther, they gave it a savage side jerk and let go. Down
it fell with a crash, bringing with it another ladder just reared a yard
or two away.
Fortunately most of the men fell upon the brushwood, and were more
shaken than hurt. The priest himself, nothing daunted, again sprang to
the attack with a fresh ladder, and with varying fortunes the fight went
on. Once or twice a footing was gained upon the walls, but every time a
combined rush by the defenders flung the attackers backwards before the
footing could be made good.
Beneath the gateway the conflict was even more fierce and deadly. The
instant the gates were down Edgar and Peter had sprung forward, followed
by the best and strongest fighters among the peasantry. They were met
by the most heavily armed of the men-at-arms among the garrison, and
were opposed with fierce determination. The defenders knew only too
well how their merciless cruelties had inflamed the countryside against
them, and feared that if the castle were won their own chances of mercy
were slight indeed. Thus they bent to their work with the fierce
stubbornness born of despair.
Of De Maupas or De Brin Edgar could catch no glimpse, and though he
called their names aloud as he fought, and challenged them to meet him
hand to hand, there was no response. Concluding at last that they must
be directing operations from the walls, our hero devoted all his
energies to overcoming the resistance of the defenders at the gate and
winning a way through to the courtyard. Once a footing could be obtained
inside, the continued defence of the walls would be useless.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, Edgar and his band fought their way onward.
Most of the execution was done by his own and Peter's sword, for the
peasantry had neither the skill nor the weapons to oppose the
men-at-arms with much success in a hand-to-hand combat. The front of
the fighting beneath the gates was a narrow one, and the peasants could
fight only man to man, and were unable to bring their superior numbers
into play. In spite of this disadvantage, however, the defenders were
driven back slowly and surely, until Edgar felt that the moment for the
final effort had come.
"On, on! Strike home!" he cried loudly, and at the call his men gave a
surge forward that gained a couple of yards and brought them almost
through the gateway into the courtyard.
Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded, and, as though by a prearranged
signal, the defenders disengaged themselves from the conflict and fled
at the top of their speed down the courtyard and round an angle of the
donjon.
With loud shouts of exultation, the peasants surged unchecked through
the gateway and began to advance along the courtyard in pursuit of their
beaten foes. Scarcely, however, had they taken a dozen steps when there
came a terrible interruption. From the roof of the keep fell showers of
molten lead! In streams and showers, burning, blinding, and scorching,
the fearful liquid fell, and the shouts of joy were turned into screams
of dreadful agony. With one thought but to escape the fearful hail, the
men who had won their way with such dauntless courage into the courtyard
turned and flung themselves madly back into the gateway, struggling and
fighting with those still pouring in. Their flight was assisted by more
showers of the metal, flung in burning streams upon those massed in the
gateway, until, with one accord, the victorious body of peasantry turned
tail in utter panic and fled headlong back across the moat to the cover
of the woods.
At this moment the thunder of horses' hoofs was heard, and round the
angle of the courtyard swept a body of armour-clad horsemen. Eustace de
Brin, De Maupas, and wellnigh a dozen men-at-arms clad in full armour,
in a line stretching from wall to wall, bore down upon the already
fleeing men like a living wall of steel. Edgar and Peter alone,
shoulder to shoulder, stood fast--not because their courage was more
unquenchable than that of their followers, but because their mail had
enabled them to endure the burning showers better. The charge of the
horsemen swept them headlong against the walls of the keep.
Peter received a stunning blow upon the helmet, and, dizzy and sick, was
forced to cling to the wall to save himself from falling. Wielding a
battleaxe he had snatched from a stricken man-at-arms, Edgar beat off
those who assailed him, and the horsemen, unable to stop their impetuous
charge, swept heavily onwards past him. Some thundered through the
gateway hot upon the track of the fleeing peasants, whilst others, after
careering a dozen yards along the courtyard, checked their steeds and
prepared to charge back again upon the only two of their enemies yet
remaining on their feet within the four walls of the castle.
To Edgar all seemed lost. The peasants were in hopeless flight, and the
way to safety through the castle gates was barred by the horsemen
already spurring through. De Maupas was one of the horsemen who had
refrained from following up the fleeing peasantry, and seeing the
hopeless plight of the young esquire, he gave a cry of savage joy and
shouted to his companions to spur down upon him and beat him into the
dust.
To rush for the gateway, and to strive to escape that way, meant being
caught in the rear by the charging horsemen. This was obvious, and,
with the speed of thought, Edgar seized upon another opening so bold and
desperate that it appeared the counsel of sheer despair.
"Quick, Peter!" he cried in sentences short and sharp, like the jab of a
sword. "To the donjon--we must take refuge there! Rouse thyself, or we
are sped!"
Shaking off his dizziness as best he could, Peter tottered towards the
open door of the keep a yard or two away. It was guarded by two
men-at-arms, but Edgar had already attacked them with the energy born of
despair and of the ruin of all his plans. Swinging his axe with a
strength that crushed down all his opposition, he clove his way through
the doorway, seized the great iron-plated door, and, as Peter sprang
through, flung it violently to behind him.
"A hand here, Peter, if thou canst!" he cried rapidly, indicating a
number of great blocks of stone piled against the wall to halfway up the
stairs. Dropping his axe and seizing one with both hands, he swung it
against the door. Another and another followed, until in a few seconds
the strength of the door was doubled and trebled by the weight of a
solid mass of great stones piled behind.
Peter was now almost himself again, and seeing that entry by the main
gateway was effectually barred for a time, cried excitedly:
"But what of the door from the courtyard to the dungeons, Master Edgar?
Will they not enter there? If 'tis only to sell our lives dearly that
thou hast fought thy way in here, let us climb upwards and defend
ourselves upon the summit of the keep."
"'Tis not that alone, Peter, that made me dash in hither instead of
meeting De Maupas and settling our account once and for all. 'Tis more
because I saw a glimmer of hope, remote but clear. As for the other
door, 'twill be fast locked, and what jailer would carry his keys to the
battle? Nay, we have a few minutes' respite--let us use it well.
Upward, Peter, upward! 'Tis the lady Beatrice we must next seek and
succour if we can."
So saying, Edgar took the lead and sprang quickly up the stairs. He
knew where to look, for while in the very midst of the melee raging
about the outer gates he had caught a glimpse of a hand, small and
white, stretched out in mute appeal from a little window high up in the
walls of the mighty donjon.
*CHAPTER XX*
*The Last Hope*
"Hark!" cried Beatrice, springing from the couch on which she had passed
her second night at Ruthenes. "Hark, Jeannette, the call to arms is
once more sounding! Dawn is breaking, and some deadly conflict is, I
feel sure, about to begin outside."
From all sides indeed the blare of trumpets and the shouts of the
men-at-arms, as they roused themselves from their slumbers and hastened
excitedly to obey the call, resounded through the air. To one
accustomed to the routine of castles it was clear that something of
tremendous moment was happening, and hurrying to the little window of
their chamber, Beatrice strove to catch a glimpse of what was afoot.
The thickness of the walls, however, was so great that, strain as she
would, she could see no more than a few feet of the courtyard about the
gates, and here, save for a few men-at-arms passing to and fro, nothing
unusual was going on. Upward upon the outer walls, however, men were
clustering more thickly, and in a moment or two they began to busy
themselves in hurling down stones upon some enemy beyond. It was
evident that the castle was attacked. But De Maupas had said that Edgar
Wintour was a captive: who, then, could be the enemy? Suddenly there
was a tremendous thud against the walls a few yards above her head, and
splinters of stone flew in all directions.
"Oh, the castle is being battered down!" cried Jeannette in alarm.
"Yes; that must have been a great stone cast by a mangonel or catapult,
Jeannette. 'Twill go hard with us if one strikes here. 'Tis fortunate
our window is not above the level of the outer walls."
"Hist, mistress--someone is at the door!"
It was true someone was at the door--someone, too, who appeared on
secrecy bent, for the approach had been made without a sound and the key
was being turned with the greatest caution. At last the door swung open
and De Maupas entered.
He appeared to be labouring under great excitement, for his bearing was
nervous and his looks were disordered.
"Maiden," he cried, speaking rapidly, "I must have thine answer to my
proposal. Wilt thou become my bride and save the lives of Sir John and
his esquire? Choose quickly, for we are attacked by a cruel and
infuriated peasantry, who will spare neither age nor sex. At any moment
they may break through our defences, for the castle is but half-manned
and the peasants are fighting like men possessed. If thou wilt consent
I am able to convey you all to safety outside the castle by a secret
way. Decide quickly, or it will be too late.
"But wouldst desert thy friend?" cried Beatrice with cool disdain.
"Perchance this is some new ruse to obtain my consent to a proposal I
abhor. This castle is strong--why shouldst thou be so anxious to leave
it?"
"Lady, 'tis no ruse. Your peril is great, for as I have said, though
the castle is strong the garrison is weak. More than half our men did
we lose in a skirmish outside the walls but yesterday.
"This is brave news thou art telling me, Sir Gervaise," cried Beatrice,
whose serene bearing was in such contrast to the agitation of De Maupas
that their situations appeared to have been reversed. "These peasants
will not make war upon the tyrant's prisoners. They will accept as
friends the victims of their oppressor."
"Think not so, lady," cried De Maupas vehemently. "Thou know'st not
this rabble. They hate those of gentle blood with so deadly a hatred
that all inside these walls who are not of themselves they will destroy.
Sir John and Edgar Wintour will perish beneath the burning ruins, if
they have not been dragged out of their cells and slain before the work
of the torch begins."
For a moment Beatrice covered her face with her hands, as though the
thought appalled her. Then she answered bravely:
"I prefer the mercies of the revolted peasantry to thine, Sir Gervaise.
As for Sir John and his esquire, I refuse to believe that the rage of
the peasants will extend even to the poor creatures buried alive in the
castle dungeons. Besides----"
Beatrice stopped suddenly, for loud insistent shouts for De Maupas rang
within the donjon and outside in the castle courtyard.
"'Tis De Brin calling me," cried De Maupas savagely, as he rushed
hastily to the door. "Think not that thou wilt escape me," he added
vengefully over his shoulder as he left the chamber. "If the worst comes
to the worst I will bear thee hence by force."
A cry from Jeannette, who had gone to the window while her mistress had
been parleying with De Maupas, brought back Beatrice's attention to the
conflict being waged outside.
"The gates are down, Mistress Beatrice!" the maid cried in a voice
shrill with excitement. "See, the defenders are gathering thickly in
the breach."
Beatrice craned her neck to see, just in time to catch the first glimpse
of the great rush of the peasantry which followed closely upon the
battering-in of the gates. A confused medley of fiercely-fighting men
was all she could make out for some minutes, but presently, as the
defenders were driven back inch by inch towards the courtyard, two
figures began to stand out from the press, and she recognized with a
thrill of astonishment and joy--Edgar Wintour and his servant, Peter!
De Maupas had lied--and they were alive and free! Then might not Sir
John also----?
The fight at the gates was growing in intensity, and all her thoughts
became concentrated on the exciting scene. Would they win a way
through? Beatrice was a knight's daughter and could gauge a warrior's
powers at a glance. She could see that the real strength of the attack
lay in Edgar and Peter alone, and that the ill-armed peasantry, brave
though they were, could make little impression on the mail-clad and
well-disciplined men-at-arms.
Nevertheless she felt, with a certainty that surprised her, that victory
would at last reward the attackers and that the castle would be won.
She seemed to feel that one who could play such a part as Edgar Wintour
in the lists of Bordeaux was not born to be defeated here. But
see!--the attackers were gathering for a last leap forward--Edgar had
raised his battle cry--Hurrah! the defenders were fleeing headlong down
the courtyard, and the castle was won----
Ere Beatrice could cry aloud in the joy of victory, a sudden fearful
change swept over the scene. From the roof of the donjon, somewhere
above her head, a burning hail of molten lead swept down, and the cries
of victory were quenched and smothered in a louder burst of screams and
wails. So dreadful were the anguished cries of many of the poor
creatures, scorched and withered by the burning blast, that Beatrice,
completely unnerved, cowered down upon the floor and wept.
Jeannette replaced her at the lattice and, with many ejaculations of
disappointment, told of the charge of the armour-clad horsemen and the
defeat and destruction of the broken remnants of the gallant peasants.
Of Edgar and Peter she could see nothing. Knowing how loath they would
be to flee, Beatrice felt, with a crushing sense of sorrow and
disappointment, that even if they had escaped the showers of molten lead
they must of a certainty have been overwhelmed and slain by the charging
horsemen.
She was aroused from her prostration by another cry from Jeannette, who
had turned from the window and was hearkening, not to the clangour
outside, but to a noise that had attracted her attention within the
donjon.
"It must be De Maupas," she cried excitedly. "I hear
footsteps--doubtless it is De Maupas returning to press his suit now
that the peasants are destroyed?"
Beatrice jumped quickly to her feet. Her prostration had vanished, and
she faced the door with her eyes flashing and her little hands clenched.
Jeannette could see that something had roused her beyond measure.
"Let not De Maupas approach me after slaying my poor friends!" she
cried, stamping her foot with anger. "Refuse him admittance--tell him I
abhor him and will not see him."
Jeannette fled to do her bidding. As she reached the door, however, it
suddenly opened and a man strode hastily in, brushing aside the hand
which the maid put out to detain him. It was Edgar Wintour.
At the sight of him Beatrice gave a gasp and looked as though she were
about to fall. Edgar darted instantly to her side and took her gently
by the arms. "Come, Beatrice," he cried, with breathless rapidity.
"Our cause is lost, but if thou wilt trust thyself to me I will strive
yet to save thee. The hope is indeed faint, but at the worst if I fail
they can but compel me to surrender thee again."
*[Illustration: "'COME, BEATRICE, I WILL STRIVE YET TO SAVE THEE.'"
(missing from book)*
"I would come," replied Beatrice vehemently, "though there had been no
hope. But how canst dream of escape when the courtyard is held by the
enemy?"
"Because a few days since a secret way led from out this donjon beneath
courtyard and moat into the shelter of the woods. If 'tis not destroyed
we may yet escape thence."
"It is not destroyed," cried Beatrice triumphantly. "'Tis but an hour
since De Maupas besought me to let him bear me to safety through it."
"Then we shall yet escape," cried Edgar joyously. "Come--no more delay,
for even now Black Eustace and his men are thundering at the gate.
Onward, Peter--bring Jeannette, for we must be gone."
He sprang to the door and, taking Beatrice by the hand, hurried her
along the passages towards the stone staircase by which he had escaped
with Sir John but a few days before. As they passed the main stairway
leading to the gate, the sound of axe and hammer strokes reverberating
upwards made him pause.
"The door is giving way," he cried anxiously. "I fear they will be
hotfoot upon our track in a few moments." Raising his voice he bade
Peter hasten and hurried his companion on downwards to the vaults below.
Scarcely had they reached them when there was a sudden crash from above,
followed by a roar of savage cheers.
At the dread sound, Jeannette gave a scream of terror and almost
collapsed.
"Hush!" cried Edgar sharply. "Dost wish to bring them upon us? Be
silent as the tomb, or we are lost."
In another moment they reached the level of the dungeons and were within
sight of the flight of steps leading downwards to the door of the
underground passage. Most anxiously Edgar gazed before him into the
gloom. It might well be that a guard had been posted.
No sign of a guard was to be seen, but a barricade of some sort appeared
to have been erected at the head of the stairs. Could it be that the
way was blocked after all? Running quickly to the spot, Edgar saw that
what he had taken to be a barricade was a pile of great blocks of stone,
similar to those heaped about the staircase, no doubt placed ready to
fling down and block the way of an enemy advancing through the
underground passage. The steps themselves were clear, and with a deep
sigh of relief Edgar turned to his companions and once more bade them
hasten.
There was of a truth no time to lose. The cheers from above had died
away, but the more ominous rattle and clank of armed and mail-clad men
advancing down the winding staircase was to be heard in its place. It
was clear that De Brin or De Maupas had guessed that Edgar's object in
taking refuge in the keep had been to escape by the underground passage,
and that they were seeking him first in that direction. A bare
half-minute would see them upon the scene.
"Canst not hew down the door?" cried Peter, as Edgar hesitated for a
moment.
"Take my axe and give me thy sword," replied Edgar curtly. "Do thou hew
it down while I defend the passage against our pursuers. Thou shalt
save time. On, Peter, on!"
Peter seized the axe, sprang down the steps, and without an instant's
pause attacked the door. After the first blow he gave a startled
exclamation.
"What is it?" cried Edgar, turning as he was about to advance towards
the enemy now almost at the foot of the stone stairway.
"The door is open!" cried Peter in an awed tone. "I fear a trap!"
"Either 'tis a trap or there is a sentinel stationed at the farther
end," cried Edgar. "But we cannot now draw back. Onward, lad, and win
a way through. Maidens, I beseech ye heed not the darkness but descend
and follow closely upon Peter."