in water, Beatrice's heart had almost failed her, not knowing how her
friends had fared exposed to the nearer shock of the dread explosion.
Had they perished, her plight and that of poor Jeannette, whom she bore
in her arms, would have been mournful indeed.
Burning with a desire to see the last of the passage which had almost
become their tomb, Edgar lifted Jeannette without a word, grasped
Beatrice by the hand, and stumbled back along the tunnel, Peter going on
ahead. A faint light could be seen gleaming in the distance, and full
of hope that the way lay open to the sky, they pressed on faster and
faster.
Two-thirds of the length of the passage had been traversed when they
encountered great heaps of fallen earth and masonry, over the top of
which the gleam of daylight dimly struggled. Crawling and scrambling on
all-fours as best they could, they made their way onward still, until at
last they emerged into the open air in the midst of a great pit torn in
the earth by the force of the explosion.
The air was still sultry with the heat of the fires, burning embers and
blackened branches lay strewn about in all directions, and a thin veil
of smoke lay over all. But not a sign of life was there, save upon the
walls of the castle, where one or two figures could be seen peeping
fearfully over the battlements.
Clambering up the side of the pit, the little party plunged hurriedly
into the woods. The fate of the soldiery who had revelled about the
fires they knew not, but they had no mind to be recaptured after all the
terrors and privations they had endured. Even when well within the
shelter of the woods, they still pressed breathlessly onward until they
met a party of the peasants approaching the scene of the strange
explosion with slow and timid steps. At the sight of Edgar's party they
stopped and made as though to flee.
"Where is Father Armand?" cried Edgar quickly. "Fear not--we are flesh
and blood. Take us to Father Armand--if he still lives."
With their fear changed into amazement the peasants clustered about the
fugitives with every manifestation of joy and gladness. Then, at
Edgar's repeated request, they led the way for a few hundred yards
through the woods to where a larger number of the peasantry were
gathered, doubtless awaiting the report of their scouts before venturing
to approach the scene of the explosion. In their midst, supporting
himself against the trunk of a tree, was Father Armand. At the sight of
Edgar and his companions he gave a cry of pleasure, and, wounded as he
was, made shift to stumble towards them with hands eagerly outstretched.
"All hope had I given up of seeing you again," he cried in a voice
trembling with emotion. "I feared that you had stayed to fight on, and
had been beaten down at last. Thank God you are safe!"
"Thank God indeed!" replied Edgar reverently, "for were it not for a
strange discovery at the last moment we must have met a dreadful fate.
Almost we were spent."
"That dread noise and quaking of the earth was it then thy doing?"
"Aye, Father; but of that I will tell thee later. Canst now have these
maidens taken to a place of calm and safety, where some of the peasant
women may minister to them? They have been through a trial this day
that might well shake the courage of men used to facing death in many
forms."
"They shall be taken to the cave, and there treated with loving care and
hospitality," cried the priest; and calling two of his men he sent them
off running to the village. Soon they were back with two women, who
took charge of the maidens, and set out with them for the shelter of the
cave.
With the departure of the ladies, Edgar's thoughts turned again to the
task still remaining unaccomplished. Their enemies had no doubt been
thrown into a panic by the strange and unexpected explosion, and, though
exhausted and nerve-shaken, he felt reluctant to lose an opportunity of
subduing them before they had had time to recover. So he proposed to
Father Armand that he should lead those among the peasantry whose
courage was still unbroken to the attack of the castle once more. The
spirits of the depressed peasants had risen considerably at the
appearance of the second of their leaders, and when the priest called
for volunteers to follow Edgar nearly all responded.
Without a moment's delay, and straight forward to the gates of the
castle, Edgar led the men. Crossing the filled-in moat, the band pressed
through the gateway, and found their way barred by the merest handful of
the defenders of the castle. At the first attack these, dumbfounded and
dispirited, threw down their arms and surrendered.
Directing several men to take charge of the prisoners and to treat them
well, Edgar next made for the door of the keep. This again was weakly
defended, and he realized that almost without a stroke the castle had
been won. What, then, could have become of De Brin and De Maupas?
Could they have perished in the explosion?
Questioning the prisoners, Edgar found that only a bare half-dozen of
burnt and panic-stricken men had succeeded in making their way back into
the castle from the circle of fires in the woods. From none of these
could news be obtained of their leaders, and it could only be concluded
that they had been blown to pieces in company with the major part of
their followers.
Desirous of avoiding the giving-up of the castle to promiscuous plunder,
Edgar posted a guard at the gates, and withdrew with the rest of the
band to the woods. Amid the rapturous cheers of the peasantry he
reported their success to Father Armand. The good priest was indeed
overjoyed to hear that the power of the oppressors of his flock was
broken at last, and that no more bloodshed need be incurred.
With Edgar's desire to prevent indiscriminate plundering he heartily
agreed, and a plan was quickly arranged by which all that was useful and
valuable in the castle might be saved and used for the common good, and
the building then be razed to the ground.
This arrangement was carried out to the letter, and in a day or two the
site which had been disgraced by the grim Castle of Ruthenes bore
nothing but a heap of tumbled ruins. No more could the mercenaries of
the castle sally out and burn and destroy without let or hindrance, and
no more need the poor villagers live in hourly dread of violence and
extortion.
The survivors of the garrison were given the choice of settling down in
the neighbourhood, where they could be kept under observation, or of
being conducted over the mountains into Spain, well out of harm's way.
Most elected to take the former offer, and were soon living on good
terms with their erstwhile enemies.
As Father Armand and Edgar well knew, such summary justice might in
ordinary times have brought a fresh body of soldiery to the spot, intent
to rivet a yoke, perchance every whit as irksome, afresh upon their
necks. But the confusion caused by the invasion of the English was so
great that they had hopes that it might pass unnoticed.
Indeed, the invasion of the English was followed closely by the fearful
depredations of the Free Companies and the general insurrection of the
peasantry. Convulsed by these successive blows, France had little time
or energy to spare for internal affairs, and if the news of the capture
of Ruthenes ever reached the ears of the authorities, they were too much
occupied to take any action, and the matter was allowed to fade into the
obscurity of the past.
*CHAPTER XXII*
*The Last of Ruthenes*
The shock and strain of their trying ordeal beneath the castle moat was
so great that it was some days before the lady Beatrice and her maid
were sufficiently recovered to leave the shelter of their quiet retreat
on the slopes of the mountains. They were tended devotedly by the
kindly women-folk of the peasantry, and regularly visited by Edgar and
Peter; but even so, it was nearly a week before Beatrice, eager to be
gone though she was, could pronounce herself fit to travel on horseback.
When the news of their approaching departure was told to Father Armand
he showed much concern.
"Deeply sorry shall I be to lose thee," he said to Edgar in a voice in
which there was more than a trace of sadness. "I know that thy path and
mine must diverge widely and that I shall never see thee more. We have
been comrades, and stood shoulder to shoulder for a brief space, and it
wrings my heart that it must be so no more. But come, 'tis useless to
dwell upon our sorrows; the last act in the story of the freeing of
Ruthenes is about to commence, and at least thou wilt stay to witness
it?"
"What act is that, Father? The castle is now razed to the ground, and
all seemeth already over."
"Nay, there is still one thing more to be done. Ye men of war think that
once the citadel is captured all is done that is worth doing. Stay with
us for a few short hours and then all will be ready."
Edgar assented gladly enough, for the thoughts of a final parting from
the brave old priest were far from pleasing. The time was occupied in
preparations for the departure, and when a summons came from Father
Armand to meet him before the castle ruins all was in readiness for the
journey.
Leading their horses through the wood, the little party presently
emerged on the strip of sward which once surrounded the castle, and
found themselves in the presence of an assemblage of the whole of the
peasantry of the neighbourhood, drawn up in orderly array as though
summoned to a ceremony. In front stood the priest, and as the ladies,
Edgar, and Peter came into sight he beckoned them to approach. The
contrast was great. Father Armand was robed as for Mass, while Edgar
and Peter had donned most of their armour, and looked as martial as
could be.
"'Tis a simple act I have now to perform," the priest said with solemn
dignity, in a voice which reached to the farthest point of the assembly.
"The emblem of cruelty and oppression is gone, and in its place I
purpose to plant emblems of new life, pure and undefiled, which shall be
to my people a sign of new hopes, new progress, and new joys."
Turning towards several young men and maidens clad in white near him,
the priest spread his hands to heaven, and besought that a blessing
might descend upon the act they were appointed to perform. Then he
signed to the others to commence, and, with slow and subdued tread, the
young men and maidens scattered over the ruins, bearing young shrubs,
shoots, and climbing plants, and began to plant them everywhere.
"As these plants blot out the ugly blood-stained wreck of the stronghold
of Eustace de Brin, so I trust will the memory and the injury of the
wicked deeds this place has known grow dim and fade away. As the new
shoots spring up to heaven so shall our faith in God and His goodness
receive fresh life until we are a new people."
Reverently the priest spoke, and reverently his people listened and
watched until the simple task was ended. Still the priest spoke to
them, warning them that they let not slip the chance of fuller life and
growth. Gently, too, he chided them that naught would be gained were
the yoke of their oppressors but exchanged for an inward yoke of
unrestrained selfishness or indulgence.
To Edgar the simple act, and the gentle, earnest words with which it was
accompanied, seemed deeply impressive. The profession of arms, of which
he had till then thought so highly, seemed to shrink and to become mean
and transient when brought into contact with the healing powers of the
good old priest. Almost he regretted that the future held out no hopes
of his being able to relinquish the trade of arms, and to follow a
profession more peaceful and more fraught with benefit to the world at
large.
Presently Father Armand began to refer to their visitors' approaching
departure.
"In the sudden appearance of Sir Squire here at the moment when our need
was greatest I see the finger of God, and to God our thanks are firstly
due. But we must yet tell our friend how much we owe him and his
comrade for the dauntless courage with which they led us peasants,
ignorant of the art of war, to the assault of the mighty castle upon
whose dust we stand. How wisely they counselled us and how gallantly
they led us, ever taking the foremost and heaviest tasks upon their own
shoulders! Upon these maidens, whose misfortunes were the cause of our
doughty friends' appearance, we bestow our blessing, and we trust that
the memory of their sufferings may soon be blotted out in happiness and
joy.
"Sir Squire hath refused to accept any presents from the contents of the
castle, save only two mounts for the ladies from the best steeds the
stables could provide. With those chargers and our thanks we must bid
Godspeed to them, hoping that such a dread experience as the siege
beneath the castle moat may never again be thrust upon them. Farewell,
true friends, farewell!"
The priest advanced and embraced each of the party in turn, while the
simple peasant folk crowded about, and, with many ejaculations of
gratitude, signified in their own way their thanks for the strong and
timely aid rendered them in their fight for freedom. As soon as he
could, Edgar gave the signal for the party to mount, and with a last
farewell they rode slowly and thoughtfully from the scene.
* * * * *
The shadow which lay over the Wolsingham ladies and their escort all the
time they were in the neighbourhood of Ruthenes gradually lifted as they
left the thick, dark woods and the slopes of the Pyrenees behind them.
More and more freely they rode, until they were almost as gay as in
their departure from Wolsingham but a month or two--though it seemed a
lifetime--before.
Edgar took the journey in easy stages. True, Sir John would be
anxiously awaiting their return; but the ladies were still scarcely
recovered from their ordeal, and he had no mind to make any calls upon
their endurance. Besides, somehow he seemed to look forward to the time
when he should hand his charges over to his master with strangely little
eagerness. So they lingered somewhat, and enjoyed to the full their
journey through the beautiful land which was so soon to be devastated by
invasion and internal strife. Beatrice, too, seemed to be content, and
made no complaint that the pace was slow. One day Edgar had been
speaking of Sir John, and wondering whether he would now be recovered
sufficiently to take his place with the earl's force, which had
doubtless by this time moved forward.
"Wilt thou stay with Gertrude in Bordeaux or travel to Faucigny,
Beatrice?" he asked.
"I know not, Edgar," she replied. "I wish with all my heart that we
might take Sir John back to Wolsingham. I am sure he will not be really
strong enough for more campaigning for months to come."
"Ah--then I fear I shall have to bid you all a long adieu."
"Why--what meanest thou? Thou must come, of course."
"Nay, how can I? If Sir John cannot lead the Wolsingham men-at-arms
against the foe, he will be certain to bid me take his place."
"That must not be. I will myself speak to Sir John. Thou hast warred
enough--let others do their share. Thou oughtest now to settle down in
peace."
"Ah--'tis the impossible of which thou speakest. Thou know'st, surely,
that I have naught but my sword. 'Tis easy for those with broad acres
to speak of peace, but for me, war and preparations for war are my
sustenance."
"Take, then, of my acres--my possessions in Guienne, take them in part
payment of my debt to thee. With our country at war with the King of
France, they will need a strong arm indeed to defend them if they are
not to be lost for ever."
Edgar's face flushed. "Nay----" he began, and then stopped suddenly.
Absorbed in the conversation he had been caught napping. He and his
companion had been riding some paces in advance of Peter and the maid,
and had topped a rise without taking any precaution to see first what
might be beyond it. Thus they found themselves in full view of what
looked like an army on the march, with banners streaming and helmets and
lance points gleaming in the sunshine.
One glance, however, was sufficient to tell Edgar that the force was at
any rate largely English, and the hand he had momentarily laid in alarm
upon his companion's bridle dropped again by his side. "'Tis the earl,"
he said. "Let us ride straight forward."
It was evident that they had been seen at least as quickly as they had
seen, for half a dozen knights were already spurring rapidly towards
them.
As they drew near, the foremost slackened speed and, addressing Edgar,
cried:
"Who art thou and what is thine errand?"
"I am Edgar Wintour, esquire to Sir John Chartris. I and my party are
riding into Bordeaux."
"Ha! Methinks I remember seeing thee in the lists a while agone. But
come, follow me to the earl, for he will be glad to question thee and
find out what thou know'st of the movements of our enemy."
Peter and Jeannette had by this time ridden up, and, preceded by the
knights, the whole party moved forward to the head of the advancing
army. As they drew close the column was halted, and in a moment Edgar
found himself in the presence of the Earl of Derby and the other lords
and nobles of the English and Gascon forces. All were mounted and clad
in full mail in readiness for instant action.
"They tell me," said the earl, glancing keenly at the young man who had
just ridden steadily up and saluted him, "they tell me thou art Edgar
Wintour, the esquire of our good Sir John Chartris. If so, tell me what
thou art doing here, in the enemy's country. I have heard somewhat from
Sir John, but tell me all--and briefly, for our time is short."
In a few quick sentences, Edgar told the earl the story of his quest,
its strange vicissitudes, and its successful accomplishment. Though the
story lost much by its baldness and absence of detail, he could see that
it made no small impression upon his hearers. One or two exchanged
glances, though what they meant he scarce knew what to think.
"Humph!" said the earl shortly, "so thou hast been in league with the
subjects of the King of France, hast thou? That remindeth me: was it
not thou who masqueraded as Sir John Chartris in his combat of honour
with our worthy Sir Gervaise de Maupas? Dost remember that, Sir
Walter?" he said, turning to Sir Walter Manny. "Thou wert one of the
marshals that day. Nicely wert thou tricked by this fledgling here."
Sir Walter frowned and growled an inarticulate reply.
Edgar turned pale. Things seemed to be going awry. He glanced at
Beatrice, but she seemed merely amused. Angered at her indifference, he
turned resolutely to the earl:
"I am not ashamed," he said, with a touch of haughtiness. "What I did
seemed for the best, and who can do more?"
"We must see about that," responded the earl, quite unmoved. "Dismount,
Sir Squire."
Mechanically Edgar obeyed. Disgrace and humiliation were hard indeed to
bear, but firmly he held up his head and faced the earl. He would not
flinch, he vowed, before his countrymen any more than he had flinched
before his enemies in the Castle of Ruthenes. The earl's face had
flushed and his eyes sparkled.
"Bow thy head," he cried peremptorily, and his sword flashed from its
sheath. Rapidly but gently it fell upon Edgar's shoulder.
"Sir Edgar Wintour, we are proud of thee. Knightly hast thou borne
thyself in field and castle, and the knight's spurs are thine indeed."
There was a loud murmur of assent from the knights and nobles crowding
about, and as it ceased, the earl went on: "Mount now and come with us a
furlong or two, for time presses and I would ask thee if thou hast seen
aught of our enemies. Then thou canst resume thy journey. But when and
wherever thou wilt, we shall welcome thee to our banners."
Again there was a murmur of cordial agreement, and, with his head in a
whirl, Edgar mounted and rode by the earl's side, answering his eager
questions as best he could. Then he rejoined his companions, and,
halting a few paces from the path of the army, watched them move forward
upon their march of conquest. The sight was an inspiriting one, for the
force seemed to strike the highest note of both hardihood and chivalry,
and Edgar, as he watched, longed to take his place within its ranks.
Presently the last files of the army had passed by, the waving banners
had receded into the distance, and the Wolsingham party, feeling a
sudden sense of loneliness, had nothing left them but to resume their
march towards Bordeaux.
For a long time the party was a silent one. Edgar was thinking over the
changes which must ensue now that he was a gold-spurred knight. For one
thing, he could no longer remain in Sir John's service. His late master
could now scarce afford to support a knight, even if he desired to do
so. Thus his connection with Wolsingham would seem to be at an end.
The thought was hardly a pleasant one.
Beatrice, too, rode as though lost in thoughts none too bright, though
once or twice she stole a quick look at her silent companion. Presently
she roused herself with an effort, and began to rally Edgar on his
gloominess.
"Thou art glum, Sir Edgar," she cried gaily. "Surely thou hast all thou
canst desire--knighthood and a goodly fame, the earl's approval: what
more canst wish for?"
"Yes, yes, Beatrice," replied Edgar half absently, "'tis as thou sayest.
I have much to be thankful for--and yet there are some things I regret,
for I fear 'twill mean that I must leave Sir John's service."
"Is that all?" asked Beatrice, raising her eyebrows in indifference.
Edgar's absence of mind vanished, and he stared at his fair companion
with a chagrin that his sudden astonishment did not give him time to
conceal.
"Is it--is it nothing to thee, then?" he stammered, after an awkward
pause.
"Why should it be, Sir Edgar?" asked Beatrice easily.
"I know not--but I thought that perhaps what hath passed----" Edgar
stopped quickly, feeling that what he was about to say was far from
generous.
"What thou hast done for me, thou meanest? Thou shalt be paid."
"Paid!" almost shouted Edgar. "Not one groat will I accept. How can'st
think of such a thing, Beatrice?"
"Dost scorn payment, Edgar? Mayhap thou wilt one day be glad to accept
what ye now so scorn."
"Never, Beatrice!" cried Edgar emphatically. "'Tis true I am landless,
but at any rate I can always ride away and join the league of the
'knights of the sword', or one of the other bands of knights who spend
their lives defending Christendom from the inroads of the Turks. Long
have I thought that with no means but a ready sword such might be my
fate."
"Dost then look forward to warring all thy days?" asked Beatrice, a look
of trouble coming into her face for the first time.
"Nay, how can I, with Father Armand's words still ringing in my ears?
But----" and Edgar relapsed again into a silence which his companion for
a long time did not care to disturb.
The following day they arrived at Bordeaux.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*Sir John's Choice*
Our story draws to a close, and we must pass over the eager welcome that
awaited the travellers from Sir John and his daughter, who were still at
the inn. Sir John, indeed, had not progressed so rapidly as had been
expected. His fever and his wounds had left him very weak, and he had
but the day before resolved to leave France and return to Wolsingham
until such time as he might have completely recovered. Gertrude, of
course, was to go with him, and now that Beatrice had returned she, too,
must accompany her guardian, and the visit to Faucigny had perforce to
be completely abandoned.
With Edgar a knight, there was no question as to his movements. It was
obvious that his duty was to join the earl's force without delay.
"Thou hast begun well, Edgar," remarked Sir John, when Edgar's final
visit was drawing to a close. "Thou must go on and win fame, for I
believe that this campaign will be filled with deeds which will add much
to the honour and glory of England's name. I would that I might fling
my sword into the conflict and strike a few more blows for my beloved
country. But no--thou must represent me for the nonce."
Edgar bowed slightly.