XIX.

HOW A SQUIRE OF ENGLAND MET A SQUIRE OF FRANCE

Sir Robert Knolles with his little fleet had sighted the Breton coast

near Cancale; they had rounded the Point du Grouin, and finally had

sailed past the port of St. Malo and down the long narrow estuary of

the Rance until they were close to the old walled city of Dinan, which

was held by that Montfort faction whose cause the English had espoused.

Here the horses had been disembarked, the stores were unloaded, and the

whole force encamped outside the city, whilst the leaders waited for

news as to the present state of affairs, and where there was most hope

of honor and profit.

The whole of France was feeling the effects of that war with England

which had already lasted some ten years, but no Province was in so

dreadful a condition as this unhappy land of Brittany. In Normandy or

Picardy the inroads of the English were periodical with intervals of

rest between; but Brittany was torn asunder by constant civil war apart

from the grapple of the two great combatants, so that there was no

surcease of her sufferings. The struggle had begun in 1341 through the

rival claims of Montfort and of Blois to the vacant dukedom. England

had taken the part of Montfort, France that of Blois. Neither faction

was strong enough to destroy the other, and so after ten years of

continual fighting, history recorded a long ineffectual list of

surprises and ambushes, of raids and skirmishes, of towns taken and

retaken, of alternate victory and defeat, in which neither party could

claim a supremacy. It mattered nothing that Montfort and Blois had both

disappeared from the scene, the one dead and the other taken by the

English. Their wives caught up the swords which had dropped from the

hands of their lords, and the long struggle went on even more savagely

than before.

In the south and east the Blois faction held the country, and Nantes

the capital was garrisoned and occupied by a strong French army. In the

north and west the Montfort party prevailed, for the island kingdom was

at their back and always fresh sails broke the northern sky-line

bearing adventurers from over the channel.

Between these two there lay a broad zone comprising all the center of

the country which was a land of blood and violence, where no law

prevailed save that of the sword. From end to end it was dotted with

castles, some held for one side, some for the other, and many mere

robber strongholds, the scenes of gross and monstrous deeds, whose

brute owners, knowing that they could never be called to account, made

war upon all mankind, and wrung with rack and with flame the last

shilling from all who fell into their savage hands. The fields had long

been untilled. Commerce was dead. From Rennes in the east to Hennebon

in the west, and from Dinan in the north to Nantes in the south, there

was no spot where a man’s life or a woman’s honor was safe. Such was

the land, full of darkness and blood, the saddest, blackest spot in

Christendom, into which Knolles and his men were now advancing.

But there was no sadness in the young heart of Nigel, as he rode by the

side of Knolles at the head of a clump of spears, nor did it seem to

him that Fate had led him into an unduly arduous path. On the contrary,

he blessed the good fortune which had sent him into so delightful a

country, and it seemed to him as he listened to dreadful stories of

robber barons, and looked round at the black scars of war which lay

branded upon the fair faces of the hills, that no hero of romances or

trouveur had ever journeyed through such a land of promise, with so

fair a chance of knightly venture and honorable advancement.

The Red Ferret was one deed toward his vow. Surely a second, and

perhaps a better, was to be found somewhere upon this glorious

countryside. He had borne himself as the others had in the sea-fight,

and could not count it to his credit where he had done no more than

mere duty. Something beyond this was needed for such a deed as could be

laid at the feet of the Lady Mary. But surely it was to be found here

in fermenting war-distracted Brittany. Then with two done it would be

strange if he could not find occasion for that third one, which would

complete his service and set him free to look her in the face once

more. With the great yellow horse curveting beneath him, his Guildford

armor gleaming in the sun, his sword clanking against his stirrup-iron,

and his father’s tough ash-spear in his hand, he rode with a light

heart and a smiling face, looking eagerly to right and to left for any

chance which his good Fate might send.

The road from Dinan to Caulnes, along which the small army was moving,

rose and dipped over undulating ground, with a bare marshy plain upon

the left where the river Rance ran down to the sea, while upon the

right lay a wooded country with a few wretched villages, so poor and

sordid that they had nothing with which to tempt the spoiler. The

peasants had left them at the first twinkle of a steel cap, and lurked

at the edges of the woods, ready in an instant to dive into those

secret recesses known only to themselves. These creatures suffered

sorely at the hands of both parties, but when the chance came they

revenged their wrongs on either in a savage way which brought fresh

brutalities upon their heads.

The new-comers soon had a chance of seeing to what lengths they would

go, for in the roadway near to Caulnes they came upon an English

man-at-arms who had been waylaid and slain by them. How they had

overcome him could not be told, but how they had slain him within his

armor was horribly apparent, for they had carried such a rock as eight

men could lift, and had dropped it upon him as he lay, so that he was

spread out in his shattered case like a crab beneath a stone. Many a

fist was shaken at the distant woods and many a curse hurled at those

who haunted them, as the column of scowling soldiers passed the

murdered man, whose badge of the Molene cross showed him to have been a

follower of that House of Bentley, whose head, Sir Walter, was at that

time leader of the British forces in the country.

Sir Robert Knolles had served in Brittany before, and he marshaled his

men on the march with the skill and caution of the veteran soldier, the

man who leaves as little as possible to chance, having too steadfast a

mind to heed the fool who may think him overcautious. He had recruited

a number of bowmen and men-at-arms at Dinan; so that his following was

now close upon five hundred men. In front under his own leadership were

fifty mounted lancers, fully armed and ready for any sudden attack.

Behind them on foot came the archers, and a second body of mounted men

closed up the rear. Out upon either flank moved small bodies of

cavalry, and a dozen scouts, spread fanwise, probed every gorge and

dingle in front of the column. So for three days he moved slowly down

the Southern Road.

Sir Thomas Percy and Sir James Astley had ridden to the head of the

column, and Knolles conferred with them as they marched concerning the

plan of their campaign. Percy and Astley were young and hot-headed with

wild visions of dashing deeds and knight errantry, but Knolles with

cold, clear brain and purpose of iron held ever his object in view.

“By the holy Dunstan and all the saints of Lindisfarne!” cried the

fiery Borderer, “it goes to my heart to ride forward when there are

such honorable chances on either side of us. Have I not heard that the

French are at Evran beyond the river, and is it not sooth that yonder

castle, the towers of which I see above the woods, is in the hands of a

traitor, who is false to his liege lord of Montford? There is little

profit to be gained upon this road, for the folk seem to have no heart

for war. Had we ventured as far over the marches of Scotland as we now

are in Brittany, we should not have lacked some honorable venture or

chance of winning worship.”

“You say truth, Thomas,” cried Astley, a red-faced and choleric young

man. “It is well certain that the French will not come to us, and

surely it is the more needful that we go to them. In sooth, any soldier

who sees us would smile that we should creep for three days along this

road as though a thousand dangers lay before us, when we have but poor

broken peasants to deal with.”

But Robert Knolles shook his head. “We know not what are in these

woods, or behind these hills,” said he, “and when I know nothing it is

my wont to prepare for the worst which may befall. It is but prudence

so to do.”

“Your enemies might find some harsher name for it,” said Astley with a

sneer. “Nay, you need not think to scare me by glaring at me, Sir

Robert, nor will your ill-pleasure change my thoughts. I have faced

fiercer eyes than thine, and I have not feared.”

“Your speech, Sir James, is neither courteous nor good,” said Knolles,

“and if I were a free man I would cram your words down your throat with

the point of my dagger. But I am here to lead these men in profit and

honor, not to quarrel with every fool who has not the wit to understand

how soldiers should be led. Can you not see that if I make attempts

here and there, as you would have me do, I shall have weakened my

strength before I come to that part where it can best be spent?”

“And where is that?” asked Percy. “’Fore God, Astley, it is in my mind

that we ride with one who knows more of war than you or I, and that we

would be wise to be guided by his rede. Tell us then what is in your

mind.”

“Thirty miles from here,” said Knolles, “there is, as I am told, a

fortalice named Ploermel, and within it is one Bambro, an Englishman,

with a good garrison. No great distance from him is the Castle of

Josselin where dwells Robert of Beaumanoir with a great following of

Bretons. It is my intention that we should join Bambro, and so be in

such strength that we may throw ourselves upon Josselin, and by taking

it become the masters of all mid-Brittany, and able to make head

against the Frenchmen in the south.”

“Indeed I think that you can do no better,” said Percy heartily, “and I

swear to you on jeopardy of my soul that I will stand by you in the

matter! I doubt not that when we come deep into their land they will

draw together and do what they may to make head against us; but up to

now I swear by all the saints of Lindisfarne that I should have seen

more war in a summer’s day in Liddesdale or at the Forest of Jedburgh

than any that Brittany has shown us. But see, yonder horsemen are

riding in. They are our own hobblers, are they not? And who are these

who are lashed to their stirrups?”

A small troop of mounted bowmen had ridden out of an oak grove upon the

left of the road. They trotted up to where the three knights had

halted. Two wretched peasants whose wrists had been tied to their

leathers came leaping and straining beside the horses in their effort

not to be dragged off their feet. One was a tall, gaunt, yellow-haired

man, the other short and swarthy, but both so crusted with dirt, so

matted and tangled and ragged, that they were more like beasts of the

wood than human beings.

“What is this?” asked Knolles. “Have I not ordered you to leave the

countryfolk at peace?”

The leader of the archers, old Wat of Carlisle, held up a sword, a

girdle and a dagger. “If it please you, fair sir,” said he, “I saw the

glint of these, and I thought them no fit tools for hands which were

made for the spade and the plow. But when we had ridden them down and

taken them, there was the Bentley cross upon each, and we knew that

they had belonged to yonder dead Englishman upon the road. Surely then,

these are two of the villains who have slain him, and it is right that

we do justice upon them.”

Sure enough, upon sword, girdle and dagger shone the silver Molene

cross which had gleamed on the dead man’s armor. Knolles looked at them

and then at the prisoners with a face of stone. At the sight of those

fell eyes they had dropped with inarticulate howls upon their knees,

screaming out their protests in a tongue which none could understand.

“We must have the roads safe for wandering Englishmen,” said Knolles.

“These men must surely die. Hang them to yonder tree.”

He pointed to a live-oak by the roadside, and rode onward upon his way

in converse with his fellow-knights. But the old bowman had ridden

after him.

“If it please you, Sir Robert, the bowmen would fain put these men to

death in their own fashion,” said he.

“So that they die, I care not how,” Knolles answered carelessly, and

looked back no more.

Human life was cheap in those stern days when the footmen of a stricken

army or the crew of a captured ship were slain without any question or

thought of mercy by the victors. War was a rude game with death for the

stake, and the forfeit was always claimed on the one side and paid on

the other without doubt or hesitation. Only the knight might be spared,

since his ransom made him worth more alive than dead. To men trained in

such a school, with death forever hanging over their own heads, it may

be well believed that the slaying of two peasant murderers was a small

matter.

And yet there was special reason why upon this occasion the bowmen

wished to keep the deed in their own hands. Ever since their dispute

aboard the Basilisk, there had been ill-feeling betwixt Bartholomew the

old bald-headed bowyer, and long Ned Widdington the Dalesman, which had

ended in a conflict at Dinan, in which not only they, but a dozen of

their friends had been laid upon the cobble-stones. The dispute raged

round their respective knowledge and skill with the bow, and now some

quick wit amongst the soldiers had suggested a grim fashion in which it

should be put to the proof, once for all, which could draw the surer

shaft.

A thick wood lay two hundred paces from the road upon which the archers

stood. A stretch of smooth grassy sward lay between. The two peasants

were led out fifty yards from the road, with their faces toward the

wood. There they stood, held on a leash, and casting many a wondering

frightened glance over their shoulders at the preparations which were

being made behind them.

Old Bartholomew and the big Yorkshireman had stepped out of the ranks

and stood side by side each with his strung bow in his left hand and a

single arrow in his right. With care they had drawn on and greased

their shooting-gloves and fastened their bracers. They plucked and cast

up a few blades of grass to measure the wind, examined every small

point of their tackle, turned their sides to the mark, and widened

their feet in a firmer stance. From all sides came chaff and counsel

from their comrades.

“A three-quarter wind, bowyer!” cried one. “Aim a body’s breadth to the

right!”

“But not thy body’s breadth, bowyer,” laughed another. “Else may you be

overwide.”

“Nay, this wind will scarce turn a well-drawn shaft,” said a third.

“Shoot dead upon him and you will be clap in the clout.”

“Steady, Ned, for the good name of the Dales,” cried a Yorkshireman.

“Loose easy and pluck not, or I am five crowns the poorer man.”

“A week’s pay on Bartholomew!” shouted another. “Now, old fat-pate,

fail me not!”

“Enough, enough! Stint your talk!” cried the old bowman, Wat of

Carlisle. “Were your shafts as quick as your tongues there would be no

facing you. Do you shoot upon the little one, Bartholomew, and you,

Ned, upon the other. Give them law until I cry the word, then loose in

your own fashion and at your own time. Are you ready! Hola, there,

Hayward, Beddington, let them run!”

The leashes were torn away, and the two men, stooping their heads, ran

madly for the shelter of the wood amid such a howl from the archers as

beaters may give when the hare starts from its form. The two bowmen,

each with his arrow drawn to the pile, stood like russet statues,

menacing, motionless, their eager eyes fixed upon the fugitives, their

bow-staves rising slowly as the distance between them lengthened. The

Bretons were half-way to the wood, and still Old Wat was silent. It may

have been mercy or it may have been mischief, but at least the chase

should have a fair chance of life. At six score paces he turned his

grizzled head at last.

“Loose!” he cried.

At the word the Yorkshireman’s bow-string twanged. It was not for

nothing that he had earned the name of being one of the deadliest

archers of the North and had twice borne away the silver arrow of

Selby. Swift and true flew the fatal shaft and buried itself to the

feather in the curved back of the long yellow-haired peasant. Without a

sound he fell upon his face and lay stone-dead upon the grass, the one

short white plume between his dark shoulders to mark where Death had

smote him.

The Yorkshireman threw his bowstave into the air and danced in triumph,

whilst his comrades roared their fierce delight in a shout of applause,

which changed suddenly into a tempest of hooting and of laughter.

The smaller peasant, more cunning, than his comrade, had run more

slowly, but with many a backward glance. He had marked his companion’s

fate and had waited with keen eyes until he saw the bowyer loose his

string. At the moment he had thrown himself flat upon the grass and had

heard the arrow scream above him,—and seen it quiver in the turf

beyond. Instantly he had sprung to his feet again and amid wild whoops

and halloos from the bowmen had made for the shelter of the wood. Now

he had reached it, and ten score good paces separated him from the

nearest of his persecutors. Surely they could not reach him here. With

the tangled brushwood behind him he was as safe as a rabbit at the

mouth of his burrow. In the joy of his heart he must needs dance in

derision and snap his fingers at the foolish men who had let him slip.

He threw back his head, howling at them like a dog, and at the instant

an arrow struck him full in the throat and laid him dead among the

bracken. There was a hush of surprised silence and then a loud cheer

burst from the archers.

“By the rood of Beverley!” cried old Wat, “I have not seen a finer

roving shaft this many a year. In my own best day I could not have

bettered it. Which of you loosed it?”

“It was Aylward of Tilford—Samkin Aylward,” cried a score of voices,

and the bowman, flushed at his own fame, was pushed to the front.

“Indeed I would that it had been at a nobler mark,” said he. “He might

have gone free for me, but I could not keep my fingers from the string

when he turned to jeer at us.”

“I see well that you are indeed a master-bowman,” said old Wat, “and it

is comfort to my soul to think that if I fall I leave such a man behind

me to hold high the credit of our craft. Now gather your shafts and on,

for Sir Robert awaits us on the brow of the hill.”

All day Knolles and his men marched through the same wild and deserted

country, inhabited only by these furtive creatures, hares to the strong

and wolves to the weak, who hovered in the shadows of the wood. Ever

and anon upon the tops of the hills they caught a glimpse of horsemen

who watched them from a distance and vanished when approached.

Sometimes bells rang an alarm from villages amongst the hills, and

twice they passed castles which drew up their drawbridges at their

approach and lined their walls with hooting soldiers as they passed.

The Englishmen gathered a few oxen and sheep from the pastures of each,

but Knolles had no mind to break his strength upon stone walls, and so

he went upon his way.

Once at St. Meen they passed a great nunnery, girt with a high gray

lichened wall, an oasis of peace in this desert of war, the black-robed

nuns basking in the sun or working in the gardens, with the strong

gentle hand of Holy Church shielding them ever from evil. The archers

doffed caps to them as they passed, for the boldest and roughest dared

not cross that line guarded by the dire ban and blight which was the

one only force in the whole steel-ridden earth which could stand

betwixt the weakling and the spoiler.

The little army halted at St. Meen and cooked its midday meal. It had

gathered into its ranks again and was about to start, when Knolles drew

Nigel to one side.

“Nigel,” said he, “it seems to me that I have seldom set eyes upon a

horse which hath more power and promise of speed than this great beast

of thine.”

“It is indeed a noble steed, fair sir,” said Nigel. Betwixt him and his

young leader there had sprung up great affection and respect since the

day that they set foot in the Basilisk.

“It will be the better if you stretch his limbs, for he grows

overheavy,” said the knight. “Now mark me, Nigel! Yonder betwixt the

ash-tree and the red rock what do you see on the side of the far hill?”

“There is a white dot upon it. Surely it is a horse.”

“I have marked it all morning, Nigel. This horseman has kept ever upon

our flank, spying upon us or waiting to make some attempt upon us. Now

I should be right glad to have a prisoner, for it is my wish to know

something of this country-side, and these peasants can speak neither

French nor English. I would have you linger here in hiding when we go

forward. This man will still follow us. When he does so, yonder wood

will lie betwixt you and him. Do you ride round it and come upon him

from behind. There is broad plain upon his left, and we will cut him

off upon the right. If your horse be indeed the swifter, then you

cannot fail to take him.”

Nigel had already sprung down and was tightening Pommers’ girth.

“Nay, there is no need of haste, for you cannot start until we are two

miles upon our way. And above all I pray you, Nigel, none of your

knight-errant ways. It is this roan that I want, him and the news that

he can bring me. Think little of your own advancement and much of the

needs of the army. When you get him, ride westwards upon the sun, and

you cannot fail to find the road.”

Nigel waited with Pommers under the shadow of the nunnery wall, horse

and man chafing with impatience, whilst above them six round-eyed

innocent nun-faces looked down on this strange and disturbing vision

from the outer world. At last the long column wound itself out of sight

round a curve of the road, and the white dot was gone from the bare

green flank of the hill. Nigel bowed his steel head to the nuns, gave

his bridle a shake, and bounded off upon his welcome mission. The

round-eyed sisters saw yellow horse and twinkling man sweep round the

skirt of the wood, caught a last glimmer of him through the

tree-trunks, and paced slowly back to their pruning and their planting,

their minds filled with the beauty and the terror of that outer world

beyond the high gray lichen-mottled wall.

Everything fell out even as Knolles had planned. As Nigel rounded the

oak forest, there upon the farther side of it, with only good

greensward between, was the rider upon the white horse. Already he was

so near that Nigel could see him clearly, a young cavalier, proud in

his bearing, clad in purple silk tunic with a red curling feather in

his low black cap. He wore no armor, but his sword gleamed at his side.

He rode easily and carelessly, as one who cares for no man, and his

eyes were forever fixed upon the English soldiers on the road. So

intent was he upon them that he gave no thought to his own safety, and

it was only when the low thunder of the great horse’s hoofs broke upon

his ears that he turned in his saddle, looked very coolly and steadily

at Nigel, then gave his own bridle a shake and darted off, swift as a

hawk, toward the hills upon the left.

Pommers had met his match that day. The white horse, two parts Arab,

bore the lighter weight, since Nigel was clad in full armor. For five

miles over the open neither gained a hundred yards upon the other. They

had topped the hill and flew down the farther side, the stranger

continually turning in his saddle to have a look at his pursuer. There

was no panic in his flight, but rather the amused rivalry with which a

good horseman who is proud of his mount contends with one who has

challenged him. Below the hill was a marshy plain, studded with great

Druidic stones, some prostrate, some erect, some bearing others across

their tops like the huge doors of some vanished building. A path ran

through the marsh with green rushes as a danger signal on either side

of it. Across this path many of the huge stones were lying, but the

white horse cleared them in its stride and Pommers followed close upon

his heels. Then came a mile of soft ground where the lighter weight

again drew to the front, but it ended in a dry upland and once again

Nigel gained. A sunken road crossed it, but the white cleared it with a

mighty spring, and again the yellow followed. Two small hills lay

before them with a narrow gorge of deep bushes between. Nigel saw the

white horse bounding chest-deep amid the underwood.

Next instant its hind legs were high in the air, and the rider had been

shot from its back. A howl of triumph rose from amidst the bushes, and

a dozen wild figures armed with club and with spear, rushed upon the

prostrate man.

“_À moi, Anglais, à moi!_” cried a voice, and Nigel saw the young rider

stagger to his feet, strike round him with his sword, and then fall

once more before the rush of his assailants.

There was a comradeship among men of gentle blood and bearing which

banded them together against all ruffianly or unchivalrous attack.

These rude fellows were no soldiers. Their dress and arms, their

uncouth cries and wild assault, marked them as banditti—such men as had

slain the Englishman upon the road. Waiting in narrow gorges with a

hidden rope across the path, they watched for the lonely horseman as a

fowler waits by his bird-trap, trusting that they could overthrow the

steed and then slay the rider ere he had recovered from his fall.

Such would have been the fate of the stranger, as of so many cavaliers

before him, had Nigel not chanced to be close upon his heels. In an

instant Pommers had burst through the group who struck at the prostrate

man, and in another two of the robbers had fallen before Nigel’s sword.

A spear rang on his breastplate, but one blow shore off its head, and a

second that of him who held it. In vain they thrust at the steel-girt

man. His sword played round them like lightning, and the fierce horse

ramped and swooped above them with pawing iron-shod hoofs and eyes of

fire. With cries and shrieks they flew off to right and left amidst the

bushes, springing over boulders and darting under branches where no

horseman could follow them. The foul crew had gone as swiftly and

suddenly as it had come, and save for four ragged figures littered

amongst the trampled bushes, no sign remaining of their passing.

Nigel tethered Pommers to a thorn-bush and then turned his attention to

the injured man. The white horse had regained his feet and stood

whinnying gently as he looked down on his prostrate master. A heavy

blow, half broken by his sword, had beaten him down and left a great

raw bruise upon his forehead. But a stream gurgled through the gorge,

and a capful of water dashed over his face brought the senses back to

the injured man. He was a mere stripling, with the delicate features of

a woman, and a pair of great violet-blue eyes which looked up presently

with a puzzled stare into Nigel’s face.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Ah yes! I call you to mind. You are the young

Englishman who chased me on the great yellow horse. By our Lady of

Rocamadour whose vernicle is round my neck! I could not have believed

that any horse could have kept at the heels of Charlemagne so long. But

I will wager you a hundred crowns, Englishman, that I lead you over a

five-mile course.”

“Nay,” said Nigel, “we will wait till you can back a horse ere we talk

of racing it. I am Nigel of Tilford, of the family of Loring, a squire

by rank and the son of a knight. How are you called, young sir?”

“I also am a squire by rank and the son of a knight. I am Raoul de la

Roche Pierre de Bras, whose father writes himself Lord of Grosbois, a

free vavasor of the noble Count of Toulouse, with the right of fossa

and of furca, the high justice, the middle and the low.” He sat up and

rubbed his eyes. “Englishman, you have saved my life as I would have

saved yours, had I seen such yelping dogs set upon a man of blood and

of coat-armor. But now I am yours, and what is your sweet will?”

“When you are fit to ride, you will come back with me to my people.”

“Alas! I feared that you would say so. Had I taken you, Nigel—that is

your name, is it not?—had I taken you, I would not have acted thus.”

“How then would you have ordered things?” asked Nigel, much taken with

the frank and debonair manner of his captive.

“I would not have taken advantage of such a mischance as has befallen

me which has put me in your power. I would give you a sword and beat

you in fair fight, so that I might send you to give greeting to my dear

lady and show her the deeds which I do for her fair sake.”

“Indeed, your words are both good and fair,” said Nigel. “By Saint

Paul! I cannot call to mind that I have ever met a man who bore himself

better. But since I am in my armor and you without, I see not how we

can debate the matter.”

“Surely, gentle Nigel, you could doff your armor.”

“Then have I only my underclothes.”

“Nay, there shall be no unfairness there, for I also will very gladly

strip to my underclothes.”

Nigel looked wistfully at the Frenchman; but he shook his head. “Alas!

it may not be,” said he. “The last words that Sir Robert said to me

were that I was to bring you to his side, for he would have speech with

you. Would that I could do what you ask, for I also have a fair lady to

whom I would fain send you. What use are you to me, Raoul, since I have

gained no honor in the taking of you? How is it with you now?”

The young Frenchman had risen to his feet. “Do not take my sword,” he

said. “I am yours, rescue or no rescue. I think now that I could mount

my horse, though indeed my head still rings like a cracked bell.”

Nigel had lost all traces of his comrades; but he remembered Sir

Robert’s words that he should ride upon the sun with the certainty that

sooner or later he would strike upon the road. As they jogged slowly

along over undulating hills, the Frenchman shook off his hurt and the

two chatted merrily together.

“I had but just come from France,” said he, “and I had hoped to win

honor in this country, for I have ever heard that the English are very

hardy men and excellent people to fight with. My mules and my baggage

are at Evran; but I rode forth to see what I could see, and I chanced

upon your army moving down the road, so I coasted it in the hopes of

some profit or adventure. Then you came after me and I would have given

all the gold goblets upon my father’s table if I had my harness so that

I could have turned upon you. I have promised the Countess Beatrice

that I will send her an Englishman or two to kiss her hands.”

“One might perchance have a worse fate,” said Nigel. “Is this fair dame

your betrothed?”

“She is my love,” answered the Frenchman. “We are but waiting for the

Count to be slain in the wars, and then we mean to marry. And this lady

of thine, Nigel? I would that I could see her.”

“Perchance you shall, fair sir,” said Nigel, “for all that I have seen

of you fills me with desire to go further with you. It is in my mind

that we might turn this thing to profit and to honor, for when Sir

Robert has spoken with you, I am free to do with you as I will.”

“And what will you do, Nigel?”

“We shall surely try some small deed upon each other, so that either I

shall see the Lady Beatrice, or you the Lady Mary. Nay, thank me not,

for like yourself, I have come to this country in search of honor, and

I know not where I may better find it than at the end of your

sword-point. My good lord and master, Sir John Chandos, has told me

many times that never yet did he meet French knight nor squire that he

did not find great pleasure and profit from their company, and now I

very clearly see that he has spoken the truth.”

For an hour these two friends rode together, the Frenchman pouring

forth the praises of his lady, whose glove he produced from one pocket,

her garter from his vest, and her shoe from his saddle-bag. She was

blond, and when he heard that Mary was dark, he would fain stop then

and there to fight the question of color. He talked too of his great

château at Lauta, by the head waters of the pleasant Garonne; of the

hundred horses in the stables, the seventy hounds in the kennels, the

fifty hawks in the mews. His English friend should come there when the

wars were over, and what golden days would be theirs! Nigel too, with

his English coldness thawing before this young sunbeam of the South,

found himself talking of the heather slopes of Surrey, of the forest of

Woolmer, even of the sacred chambers of Cosford.

But as they rode onward towards the sinking sun, their thoughts far

away in their distant homes, their horses striding together, there came

that which brought their minds back in an instant to the perilous

hillsides of Brittany.

It was the long blast of a trumpet blown from somewhere on the farther

side of a ridge toward which they were riding. A second long-drawn note

from a distance answered it.

“It is your camp,” said the Frenchman.

“Nay,” said Nigel; “we have pipes with us and a naker or two, but I

have heard no trumpet-call from our ranks. It behooves us to take heed,

for we know not what may be before us. Ride this way, I pray you, that

we may look over and yet be ourselves unseen.”

Some scattered boulders crowned the height, and from behind them the

two young Squires could see the long rocky valley beyond. Upon a knoll

was a small square building with a battlement round it. Some distance

from it towered a great dark castle, as massive as the rocks on which

it stood, with one strong keep at the corner, and four long lines of

machicolated walls. Above, a great banner flew proudly in the wind,

with some device which glowed red in the setting sun. Nigel shaded his

eyes and stared with wrinkled brow.

“It is not the arms of England, nor yet the lilies of France, nor is it

the ermine of Brittany,” said he. “He who holds this castle fights for

his own hand, since his own device flies above it. Surely it is a head

gules on an argent field.”

“The bloody head on a silver tray!” cried the Frenchman. “Was I not

warned against him? This is not a man, friend Nigel. It is a monster

who wars upon English, French and all Christendom. Have you not heard

of the Butcher of La Brohinière?”

“Nay, I have not heard of him.”

“His name is accursed in France. Have I not been told also that he put

to death this very year Gilles de St. Pol, a friend of the English

King?”

“Yes, in very truth it comes back to my mind now that I heard something

of this matter in Calais before we started.”

“Then there he dwells, and God guard you if ever you pass under yonder

portal, for no prisoner has ever come forth alive! Since these wars

began he hath been a king to himself, and the plunder of eleven years

lies in yonder cellars. How can justice come to him, when no man knows

who owns the land? But when we have packed you all back to your island,

by the Blessed Mother of God, we have a heavy debt to pay to the man

who dwells in yonder pile!”

But even as they watched, the trumpet-call burst forth once more. It

came not from the castle but from the farther end of the valley. It was

answered by a second call from the walls. Then in a long, straggling

line there came a wild troop of marauders streaming homeward from some

foray. In the van, at the head of a body of spearmen, rode a tall and

burly man, clad in brazen armor, so that he shone like a golden image

in the slanting rays of the sun. His helmet had been loosened from his

gorget and was held before him on his horse’s neck. A great tangled

beard flowed over his breastplate, and his hair hung down as far

behind. A squire at his elbow bore high the banner of the bleeding

head. Behind the spearmen were a line of heavily laden mules, and on

either side of them a drove of poor country folk, who were being herded

into the castle. Lastly came a second strong troop of mounted spearmen,

who conducted a score or more of prisoners who marched together in a

solid body.

Nigel stared at them and then, springing on his horse, he urged it

along the shelter of the ridge so as to reach unseen a spot which was

close to the castle gate. He had scarce taken up his new position when

the cavalcade reached the drawbridge, and amid yells of welcome from

those upon the wall, filed in a thin line across it. Nigel stared hard

once more at the prisoners in the rear, and so absorbed was he by the

sight that he had passed the rocks and was standing sheer upon the

summit.

“By Saint Paul!” he cried, “it must indeed be so. I see their russet

jackets. They are English archers!”

As he spoke, the hindmost one, a strongly built, broad-shouldered man,

looked round and saw the gleaming figure above him upon the hill, with

open helmet, and the five roses glowing upon his breast. With a sweep

of his hands he had thrust his guardians aside and for a moment was

clear of the throng.

“Squire Loring! Squire Loring!” he cried. “It is I, Aylward the archer!

It is I, Samkin Aylward!” The next minute a dozen hands had seized him,

his cries were muffled with a gag, and he was hurled, the last of the

band, through the black and threatening archway of the gate. Then with

a clang the two iron wings came together, the portcullis swung upward,

and captives and captors, robbers and booty, were all swallowed up

within the grim and silent fortress.

XX.

HOW THE ENGLISH ATTEMPTED THE CASTLE OF LA BROHINIÈRE

For some minutes Nigel remained motionless upon the crest of the hill,

his heart, like lead within him, and his eyes fixed upon the huge gray

walls which contained his unhappy henchman. He was roused by a

sympathetic hand upon his shoulder and the voice of his young prisoner

in his ear.

“_Peste!_” said he. “They have some of your birds in their cage, have

they not? What then, my friend? Keep your heart high! Is it not the

chance of war, to-day to them, to-morrow to thee, and death at last for

us all? And yet I had rather they were in any hands than those of

Oliver the Butcher.”

“By Saint Paul, we cannot suffer it!” cried Nigel distractedly. “This

man has come with me from my own home. He has stood between me and

death before now. It goes to my very heart that he should call upon me

in vain. I pray you, Raoul, to use your wits, for mine are all curdled

in my head. Tell me what I should do and how I may bring him help.”

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. “As easy to get a lamb unscathed

out of a wolves’ lair as a prisoner safe from La Brohinière. Nay,

Nigel, whither do you go? Have you indeed taken leave of your wits?”

The Squire had spurred his horse down the hillside and never halted

until he was within a bowshot of the gate. The French prisoner followed

hard behind him, with a buzz of reproaches and expostulations.

“You are mad, Nigel!” he cried. “What do you hope to do then? Would you

carry the castle with your own hands? Halt, man, halt, in the name of

the Virgin!”

But Nigel had no plan in his head and only obeyed the fevered impulse

to do something to ease his thoughts. He paced his horse up and down,

waving his spear, and shouting insults and challenges to the garrison.

Over the high wall a hundred jeering faces looked down upon him. So

rash and wild was his action that it seemed to those within to mean

some trap, so the drawbridge was still held high and none ventured

forth to seize him. A few long-range arrows pattered on the rocks, and

then with a deep booming sound a huge stone, hurled from a mangonel,

sang over the head of the two Squires and crushed into splinters

amongst the boulders behind them. The Frenchman seized Nigel’s bridle

and forced him farther from the gateway.

“By the dear Virgin!” he cried, “I care not to have those pebbles about

my ears, yet I cannot go back alone, so it is very clear, my crazy

comrade, that you must come also. Now we are beyond their reach! But

see, my friend Nigel, who are those who crown the height?”

The sun had sunk behind the western ridge, but the glowing sky was

fringed at its lower edge by a score of ruddy twinkling points. A body

of horsemen showed hard and black upon the bare hill. Then they dipped

down the slope into the valley, whilst a band of footmen followed

behind.

“They are my people,” cried Nigel joyously. “Come, my friend, hasten,

that we may take counsel what we shall do.”

Sir Robert Knolles rode a bowshot in front of his men, and his brow was

as black as night. Beside him, with crestfallen face, his horse

bleeding, his armor dinted and soiled, was the hot-headed knight, Sir

James Astley. A fierce discussion raged between them.

“I have done my devoir as best I might,” said Astley. “Alone I had ten

of them at my sword-point. I know not how I have lived to tell it.”

“What is your devoir to me? Where are my thirty bowmen?” cried Knolles

in bitter wrath. “Ten lie dead upon the ground and twenty are worse

than dead in yonder castle. And all because you must needs show all men

how bold you are, and ride into a bushment such as a child could see.

Alas for my own folly that ever I should have trusted such a one as you

with the handling of men!”

“By God, Sir Robert, you shall answer to me for those words!” cried

Astley with a choking voice. “Never has a man dared to speak to me as

you have done this day.”

“As long as I hold the King’s order I shall be master, and by the Lord

I will hang you, James, on a near tree if I have further cause of

offense! How now, Nigel? I see by yonder white horse that you at least

have not failed me. I will speak with you anon. Percy, bring up your

men, and let us gather round this castle, for, as I hope for my soul’s

salvation, I win not leave it until I have my archers, or the head of

him who holds them.”

That night the English lay thick round the fortress of La Brohinière so

that none might come forth from it. But if none could come forth it was

hard to see how any could win their way in, for it was full of men, the

walls were high and strong, and a deep dry ditch girt it round. But the

hatred and fear which its master had raised over the whole country-side

could now be plainly seen, for during the night the brushwood men and

the villagers came in from all parts with offers of such help as they

could give for the intaking of the castle. Knolles set them cutting

bushes and tying them into fagots. When morning came he rode out before

the wall and he held counsel with his knights and squires as to how he

should enter in.

“By noon,” said he, “we shall have so many fagots that we may make our

way over the ditch. Then we will beat in the gates and so win a

footing.”

The young Frenchman had come with Nigel to the conference, and now,

amid the silence which followed the leader’s proposal, he asked if he

might be heard. He was clad in the brazen armor which Nigel had taken

from the Red Ferret.

“It may be that it is not for me to join in your counsel,” said he,

“seeing that I am a prisoner and a Frenchman. But this man is the enemy

of all, and we of France owe him a debt even as you do, since many a

good Frenchman has died in his cellars. For this reason I crave to be

heard.”

“We will hear you,” said Knolles.

“I have come from Evran yesterday,” said he. “Sir Henry Spinnefort, Sir

Peter La Roye and many other brave knights and squires lie there, with

a good company of men, all of whom would very gladly join with you to

destroy this butcher and his castle, for it is well known amongst us

that his deeds are neither good nor fair. There are also bombards which

we could drag over the hills, and so beat down this iron gate. If you

so order it I will ride to Evran and bring my companions back with me.”

“Indeed, Robert,” said Percy, “it is in my mind that this Frenchman

speaks very wisely and well.”

“And when we have taken the castle—what then?” asked Knolles.

“Then you could go upon your way, fair sir, and we upon ours. Or if it

please you better you could draw together on yonder hill and we on this

one, so that the valley lies between us. Then if any cavalier wished to

advance himself or to shed a vow and exalt his lady, an opening might

be found for him. Surely it would be shame if so many brave men drew

together and no small deed were to come of it.”

Nigel clasped his captive’s hand to show his admiration and esteem, but

Knolles shook his head.

“Things are not ordered thus, save in the tales of the minstrels,” said

he. “I have no wish that your people at Evran should know our numbers

or our plans. I am not in this land for knight errantry, but I am here

to make head against the King’s enemies. Has no one aught else to say?”

Percy pointed to the small outlying fortalice upon the knoll, on which

also flew the flag of the bloody head. “This smaller castle, Robert, is

of no great strength and cannot hold more than fifty men. It is built,

as I conceive it, that no one should seize the high ground and shoot

down into the other. Why should we not turn all our strength upon it,

since it is the weaker of the twain?”

But again the young leader shook his head. “If I should take it,” said

he, “I am still no nearer to my desire, nor will it avail me in getting

back my bowmen. It may cost a score of men, and what profit shall I

have from it? Had I bombards, I might place them on yonder hill, but

having none it is of little use to me.”

“It may be,” said Nigel, “that they have scant food or water, and so

must come forth to fight us.”

“I have made inquiry of the peasants,” Knolles answered, “and they are

of one mind that there is a well within the castle, and good store of

food. Nay, gentlemen, there is no way before us save to take it by

arms, and no spot where we can attempt it save through the great gate.

Soon we will have so many fagots that we can cast them down into the

ditch, and so win our way across. I have ordered them to cut a

pine-tree on the hill and shear the branches so that we may beat down

the gate with it. But what is now amiss, and why do they run forward to

the castle?”

A buzz had risen from the soldiers in the camp, and they all crowded in

one direction, rushing toward the castle wall. The knights and squires

rode after them, and when in view of the main gate, the cause of the

disturbance lay before them. On the tower above the portal three men

were standing in the garb of English archers, ropes round their necks

and their hands bound behind them. Their comrades surged below them

with cries of recognition and of pity.

“It is Ambrose!” cried one. “Surely it is Ambrose of Ingleton.”

“Yes, in truth, I see his yellow hair. And the other, him with the

beard, it is Lockwood of Skipton. Alas for his wife who keeps the booth

by the bridge-head of Ribble! I wot not who the third may be.”

“It is little Johnny Alspaye, the youngest man in the company,” cried

old Wat, with the tears running down his cheeks, “’Twas I who brought

him from his home. Alas! Alas! Foul fare the day that ever I coaxed him

from his mother’s side that he might perish in a far land.”

There was a sudden flourish of a trumpet and the drawbridge fell.

Across it strode a portly man with a faded herald’s coat. He halted

warily upon the farther side and his voice boomed like a drum. “I would

speak with your leader.” he cried.

Knolles rode forward.

“Have I your knightly word that I may advance unscathed with all

courteous entreaty as befits a herald?”

Knolles nodded his head.

The man came slowly and pompously forward. “I am the messenger and

liege servant,” said he, “of the high baron, Oliver de St. Yvon, Lord

of La Brohinière. He bids me to say that if you continue your journey

and molest him no further he will engage upon his part to make no

further attack upon you. As to the men whom he holds, he will enroll

them in his own honorable service, for he has need of longbowmen, and

has heard much of their skill. But if you constrain him or cause him

further displeasure by remaining before his castle he hereby gives you

warning that he will hang these three men over his gateway and every

morning another three until all have been slain. This he has sworn upon

the rood of Calvary, and as he has said so he will do upon jeopardy of

his soul.”

Robert Knolles looked grimly at the messenger. “You may thank the

saints that you have had my promise,” said he, “else would I have

stripped that lying tabard from thy back and the skin beneath it from

thy bones, that thy master might have a fitting answer to his message.

Tell him that I hold him and all that are within his castle as hostage

for the lives of my men, and that should he dare to do them scathe he

and every man that is with him shall hang upon his battlements. Go, and

go quickly, lest my patience fail.”

There was that in Knolles’ cold gray eyes and in his manner of speaking

those last words which sent the portly envoy back at a quicker gait

than he had come. As he vanished into the gloomy arch of the gateway

the drawbridge swung up with creak and rattle behind him.

A few minutes later a rough-bearded fellow stepped out over the portal

where the condemned archers stood and seizing the first by the

shoulders he thrust him over the wall. A cry burst from the man’s lips

and a deep groan from those of his comrades below as he fell with a

jerk which sent him half-way up to the parapet again, and then after

dancing like a child’s toy swung slowly backward and forward with limp

limbs and twisted neck.

The hangman turned and bowed in mock reverence to the spectators

beneath him. He had not yet learned in a land of puny archers how sure

and how strong is the English bow. Half a dozen men, old Wat amongst

them, had run forward toward the wall. They were too late to save their

comrades, but at least their deaths were speedily avenged.

The man was in the act of pushing off the second prisoner when an arrow

crashed through his head, and he fell stone dead upon the parapet. But

even in falling he had given the fatal thrust and a second russet

figure swung beside the first against the dark background of the castle

wall.

There only remained the young lad, Johnny Alspaye, who stood shaking

with fear, an abyss below him, and the voices of those who would hurl

him over it behind. There was a long pause before anyone would come

forth to dare those deadly arrows. Then a fellow, crouching double, ran

forward from the shelter, keeping the young archer’s body as a shield

between him and danger.

“Aside, John! Aside!” cried his comrades from below.

The youth sprang as far as the rope would allow him, and slipped it

half over his face in the effort. Three arrows flashed past his side,

and two of them buried themselves in the body of the man behind. A howl

of delight burst from the spectators as he dropped first upon his knees

and then upon his face. A life for a life was no bad bargain.

But it was only a short respite which the skill of his comrades had

given to the young archer. Over the parapet there appeared a ball of

brass, then a pair of great brazen shoulders, and lastly the full

figure of an armored man. He walked to the edge and they heard his

hoarse guffaw of laughter as the arrows clanged and clattered against

his impenetrable mail. He slapped his breast-plate, as he jeered at

them. Well he knew that at the distance no dart ever sped by mortal

hands could cleave through his plates of metal. So he stood, the great

burly Butcher of La Brohinière, with head uptossed, laughing insolently

at his foes. Then with slow and ponderous tread he walked toward his

boy victim, seized him by the ear, and dragged him across so that the

rope might be straight. Seeing that the noose had slipped across the

face, he tried to push it down, but the mail glove hampering him he

pulled it off, and grasped the rope above the lad’s head with his naked

hand.

Quick as a flash old Wat’s arrow had sped, and the Butcher sprang back

with a howl of pain, his hand skewered by a cloth-yard shaft. As he

shook it furiously at his enemies a second grazed his knuckles. With a

brutal kick of his metal-shod feet he hurled young Alspaye over the

edge, looked down for a few moments at his death agonies, and then

walked slowly from the parapet, nursing his dripping hand, the arrows

still ringing loudly upon his back-piece as he went.

The archers below, enraged at the death of their comrades, leaped and

howled like a pack of ravening wolves.

“By Saint Dunstan,” said Percy, looking round at their flushed faces,

“if ever we are to carry it now is the moment, for these men will not

be stopped if hate can take them forward.”

“You are right, Thomas!” cried Knolles. “Gather together twenty

men-at-arms each with his shield to cover him. Astley, do you place the

bowmen so that no head may show at window or parapet. Nigel, I pray you

to order the countryfolk forward with their fardels of fagots. Let the

others bring up the lopped pine-tree which lies yonder behind the horse

lines. Ten men-at-arms can bear it on the right, and ten on the left,

having shields over their heads. The gate once down, let every man rush

in. And God help the better cause!”

Swiftly and yet quietly the dispositions were made, for these were old

soldiers whose daily trade was war. In little groups the archers formed

in front of each slit or crevice in the walls, whilst others scanned

the battlements with wary eyes, and sped an arrow at every face which

gleamed for an instant above them. The garrison shot forth a shower of

crossbow bolts and an occasional stone from their engine, but so deadly

was the hail which rained upon them that they had no time to dwell upon

their aim, and their discharges were wild and harmless. Under cover of

the shafts of the bowmen a line of peasants ran unscathed to the edge

of the ditch, each hurling in the bundle which he bore in his arms, and

then hurrying back for another one. In twenty minutes a broad pathway

of fagots lay level with the ground upon one side and the gate upon the

other. With the loss of two peasants slain by bolts and one archer

crushed by a stone, the ditch had been filled up. All was ready for the

battering-ram.

With a shout, twenty picked men rushed forward with the pine-tree under

their arms, the heavy end turned toward the gate. The arbalesters on

the tower leaned over and shot into the midst of them, but could not

stop their advance. Two dropped, but the others raising their shields

ran onward still shouting, crossed the bridge of fagots, and came with

a thundering crash against the door. It splintered from base to arch,

but kept its place.

Swinging their mighty weapon, the storming party thudded and crashed

upon the gate, every blow loosening and widening the cracks which rent

it from end to end. The three knights, with Nigel, the Frenchman Raoul

and the other squires, stood beside the ram, cheering on the men, and

chanting to the rhythm of the swing with a loud “Ha!” at every blow. A

great stone loosened from the parapet roared through the air and struck

Sir James Astley and another of the attackers, but Nigel and the

Frenchman had taken their places in an instant, and the ram thudded and

smashed with greater energy than ever. Another blow and another! the

lower part was staving inward, but the great central bar still held

firm. Surely another minute would beat it from its sockets.

But suddenly from above there came a great deluge of liquid. A hogshead

of it had been tilted from the battlement until soldiers, bridge, and

ram were equally drenched in yellow slime. Knolles rubbed his gauntlet

in it, held it to his visor, and smelled it.

“Back, back!” he cried. “Back before it is too late!”

There was a small barred window above their heads at the side of the

gate. A ruddy glare shone through it, and then a blazing torch was

tossed down upon them. In a moment the oil had caught and the whole

place was a sheet of flame. The fir-tree that they carried, the fagots

beneath them, their very weapons, were all in a blaze.

To right and left the men sprang down into the dry ditch, rolling with

screams upon the ground in their endeavor to extinguish the flames. The

knights and squires protected by their armor strove hard, stamping and

slapping, to help those who had but leather jacks to shield their

bodies. From above a ceaseless shower of darts and of stones were

poured down upon them, while on the other hand the archers, seeing the

greatness of the danger, ran up to the edge of the ditch, and shot fast

and true at every face which showed above the wall.

Scorched, wearied and bedraggled, the remains of the storming party

clambered out of the ditch as best they could, clutching at the

friendly hands held down to them, and so limped their way back amid the

taunts and howls of their enemies. A long pile of smoldering cinders

was all that remained of their bridge, and on it lay Astley and six

other red-hot men glowing in their armor.

Knolles clinched his hands as he looked back at the ruin that was

wrought, and then surveyed the group of men who stood or lay around him

nursing their burned limbs and scowling up at the exultant figures who

waved on the castle wall. Badly scorched himself, the young leader had

no thought for his own injuries in the rage and grief which racked his

soul. “We will build another bridge,” he cried. “Set the peasants

binding fagots once more.”

But a thought had flashed through Nigel’s mind. “See, fair sir,” said

he. “The nails of yonder door are red-hot and the wood as white as

ashes. Surely we can break our way through it.”

“By the Virgin, you speak truly!” cried the French Squire. “If we can

cross the ditch the gate will not stop us. Come, Nigel, for our fair

ladies’ sakes, I will race you who will reach it first, England or

France.”

Alas for all the wise words of the good Chandos! Alas for all the

lessons in order and discipline learned from the wary Knolles. In an

instant, forgetful of all things but this noble challenge, Nigel was

running at the top of his speed for the burning gate. Close at his

heels was the Frenchman, blowing and gasping, as he rushed along in his

brazen armor. Behind came a stream of howling archers and men-at-arms,

like a flood which has broken its dam. Down they slipped into the

ditch, rushed across it, and clambered on each other’s backs up the

opposite side. Nigel, Raoul and two archers gained a foothold in front

of the burning gate at the same moment. With blows and kicks they burst

it to pieces, and dashed with a yell of triumph through the dark

archway beyond. For a moment they thought with mad rapture that the

castle was carried. A dark tunnel lay before them, down which they

rushed. But alas! at the farther end it was blocked by a second gateway

as strong as that which had been burned. In vain they beat upon it with

their swords and axes. On each side the tunnel was pierced with slits,

and the crossbow bolts discharged at only a few yards’ distance crashed

through armor as if it were cloth and laid man after man upon the

stones. They raged and leaped before the great iron-clamped barrier,

but the wall itself was as easy to tear down.

It was bitter to draw back; but it was madness to remain. Nigel looked

round and saw that half his men were down. At the same moment Raoul

sank with a gasp at his feet, a bolt driven to its socket through the

links of the camail which guarded his neck. Some of the archers, seeing

that certain death awaited them, were already running back to escape

from the fatal passage.

“By Saint Paul!” cried Nigel hotly. “Would you leave our wounded where

this butcher may lay his hands upon them? Let the archers shoot inwards

and hold them back from the slits. Now let each man raise one of our

comrades, lest we leave our honor in the gate of this castle.”

With a mighty effort he had raised Raoul upon his shoulders and

staggered with him to the edge of the ditch. Several men were waiting

below where the steep bank shield them from the arrows, and to them

Nigel handed down his wounded friend, and each archer in turn did the

same. Again and again Nigel went back until no one lay in the tunnel

save seven who had died there. Thirteen wounded were laid in the

shelter of the ditch, and there they must remain until night came to

cover them. Meanwhile the bowmen on the farther side protected them

from attack, and also prevented the enemy from all attempts to build up

the outer gate. The gaping smoke-blackened arch was all that they could

show for a loss of thirty men, but that at least Knolles was determined

to keep.

Burned and bruised, but unconscious of either pain or fatigue for the

turmoil of his spirit within him, Nigel knelt by the Frenchman and

loosened his helmet. The girlish face of the young Squire was white as

chalk, and the haze of death was gathering over his violet eyes, but a

faint smile played round his lips as he looked up at his English

comrade.

“I shall never see Beatrice again,” he whispered. “I pray you, Nigel,

that when there is a truce you will journey as far as my father’s

château and tell him how his son died. Young Gaston will rejoice, for

to him come the land and the coat, the war-cry and the profit. See

them, Nigel, and tell them that I was as forward as the others.”

“Indeed Raoul, no man could have carried himself with more honor or won

more worship than you have done this day. I will do your behest when

the time comes.”

“Surely you are happy, Nigel,” the dying Squire murmured, “for this day

has given you one more deed which you may lay at the feet of your

lady-love.”

“It might have been so had we carried the gate,” Nigel answered sadly;

“but by Saint Paul! I cannot count it a deed where I have come back

with my purpose unfulfilled. But this is no time, Raoul, to talk of my

small affairs. If we take the castle and I bear a good part in it, then

perchance all this may indeed avail.”

The Frenchman sat up with that strange energy which comes often as the

harbinger of death. “You will win your Lady Mary, Nigel, and your great

deeds will be not three but a score, so that in all Christendom there

shall be no man of blood and coat-armor who has not heard your name and

your fame. This I tell you—I, Raoul de la Roche Pierre de Bras, dying

upon the field of honor. And now kiss me, sweet friend, and lay me

back, for the mists close round me and I am gone!”

With tender hands the Squire lowered his comrade’s head, but even as he

did so there came a choking rush of blood, and the soul had passed. So

died a gallant cavalier of France, and Nigel as he knelt in the ditch

beside him prayed that his own end might be as noble and as debonair.

XXI.

HOW THE SECOND MESSENGER WENT TO COSFORD

Under cover of night the wounded men were lifted from the ditch and

carried back, whilst pickets of archers were advanced to the very gate

so that none should rebuild it. Nigel, sick at heart over his own

failure, the death of his prisoner and his fears for Aylward, crept

back into the camp, but his cup was not yet full, for Knolles was

waiting for him with a tongue which cut like a whip-lash. Who was he, a

raw squire, that he should lead an attack without orders? See what his

crazy knight errantry had brought about. Twenty men had been destroyed

by it and nothing gained. Their blood was on his head. Chandos should

hear of his conduct. He should be sent back to England when the castle

had fallen.

Such were the bitter words of Knolles, the more bitter because Nigel

felt in his heart that he had indeed done wrong, and that Chandos would

have said the same though, perchance, in kinder words. He listened in

silent respect, as his duty was, and then having saluted his leader he

withdrew apart, threw himself down amongst the bushes, and wept the

hottest tears of his life, sobbing bitterly with his face between his

hands. He had striven hard, and yet everything had gone wrong with him.

He was bruised, burned and aching from head to foot. Yet so high is the

spirit above the body that all was nothing compared to the sorrow and

shame which racked his soul.

But a little thing changed the current of his thoughts and brought some

peace to his mind. He had slipped off his mail gauntlets, and as he did

so his fingers lighted upon the tiny bangle which Mary had fastened

there when they stood together upon St. Catharine’s Hill on the

Guildford Road. He remembered the motto curiously worked in filigree of

gold. It ran: “_Fais ce que dois, adviegne que pourra—c’est commandé au

chevalier_.”

The words rang in his weary brain. He had done what seemed right, come

what might. It had gone awry, it is true; but all things human may do

that. If he had carried the castle, he felt that Knolles would have

forgiven and forgotten all else. If he had not carried it, it was no

fault of his. No man could have done more. If Mary could see she would

surely have approved. Dropping into sleep, he saw her dark face,

shining with pride and with pity, stooping over him as he lay. She

stretched out her hand in his dream and touched him on the shoulder. He

sprang up and rubbed his eyes, for fact had woven itself into dream in

the strange way that it does, and some one was indeed leaning over him

in the gloom, and shaking him from his slumbers. But the gentle voice

and soft touch of the Lady Mary had changed suddenly to the harsh

accents and rough grip of Black Simon, the fierce Norfolk man-at-arms.

“Surely you are the Squire Loring,” he said, peering close to his face

in the darkness.

“I am he. What then?”

“I have searched through the camp for you, but when I saw the great

horse tethered near these bushes, I thought you would be found hard by.

I would have a word with you.”

“Speak on.”

“This man Aylward the bowman was my friend, and it is the nature that

God has given me to love my friends even as I hate my foes. He is also

thy servant, and it has seemed to me that you love him also.”

“I have good cause so to do.”

“Then you and I, Squire Loring, have more reason to strive on his

behalf than any of these others, who think more of taking the castle

than of saving those who are captives within. Do you not see that such

a man as this robber lord would, when all else had failed him, most

surely cut the throats of his prisoners at the last instant before the

castle fell, knowing well that come what might he would have short

shrift himself? Is that not certain?”

“By Saint Paul! I had not thought of it.”

“I was with you, hammering at the inner gate,” said Simon, “and yet

once when I thought that it was giving way I said in my heart:

‘Good-by, Samkin! I shall never see you more.’ This Baron has gall in

his soul, even as I have myself, and do you think that I would give up

my prisoners alive, if I were constrained so to do? No, no; had we won

our way this day it would have been the death-stroke for them all.”

“It may be that you are right, Simon,” said Nigel, “and the thought of

it should assuage our grief. But if we cannot save them by taking the

castle, then surely they are lost indeed.”

“It may be so, or it may not,” Simon answered slowly. “It is in my mind

that if the castle were taken very suddenly, and in such a fashion that

they could not foresee it, then perchance we might get the prisoners

before they could do them scathe.”

Nigel bent forward eagerly, his hand on the soldier’s arm.

“You have some plan in your mind, Simon. Tell me what it is.”

“I had wished to tell Sir Robert, but he is preparing the assault for

to-morrow and will not be turned from his purpose. I have indeed a

plan, but whether it be good or not I cannot say until I have tried it.

But first I will tell you what put it into my thoughts. Know then that

this morning when I was in yonder ditch I marked one of their men upon

the wall. He was a big man with a white face, red hair and a touch of

Saint Anthony’s fire upon the cheek.”

“But what has this to do with Aylward?”

“I will show you. This evening after the assault I chanced to walk with

some of my fellows, round yonder small fort upon the knoll to see if we

could spy a weak spot in it. Some of them came to the wall to curse us,

and among them whom should I see but a big man with a white face, red

hair and a touch of Anthony’s fire upon his cheek? What make you of

that, Squire Nigel?”

“That this man had crossed from the castle to the fort.”

“In good sooth, it must indeed be so. There are not two such

ken-speckled men in the world. But if he crossed from the castle to the

fort, it was not above the ground, for our own people were between.”

“By Saint Paul! I see your meaning!” cried Nigel. “It is in your mind

that there is a passage under the earth from one to the other.”

“I am well sure of it.”

“Then if we should take the small fort we may pass down this tunnel,

and so carry the great castle also.”

“Such a thing might happen,” said Simon, “and yet it is dangerous also,

for surely those in the castle would hear our assault upon the fort and

so be warned to bar the passage against us, and to slay the prisoners

before we could come.”

“What then is your rede?”

“Could we find where the tunnel lay, Squire Nigel, I know not what is

to prevent us from digging down upon it and breaking into it so that

both fort and castle are at our mercy before either knows that we are

there.”

Nigel clapped his hands with joy. “’Fore God!” he cried. “It is a most

noble plan! But alas! Simon, I see not how we can tell the course of

this passage or where we should dig.”

“I have peasants yonder with spades,” said Simon. “There are two of my

friends, Harding of Barnstable and West-country John who are waiting

for us with their gear. If you will come to lead us, Squire Nigel, we

are ready to venture our bodies in the attempt.”

What would Knolles say in case they failed? The thought flashed through

Nigel’s mind, but another came swiftly behind it. He would not venture

further unless he found hopes of success. And if he did venture further

he would put his life upon it. Giving that, he made amends for all

errors. And if on the other hand success crowned their efforts, then

Knolles would forgive his failure at the gateway. A minute later, every

doubt banished from his mind, he was making his way through the

darkness under the guidance of Black Simon.

Outside the camp the two other men-at-arms were waiting for them, and

the four advanced together. Presently a little group of figures loomed

up in the darkness. It was a cloudy night, and a thin rain was falling

which obscured both the castle and the fort; but a stone had been

placed by Simon in the daytime which assured that they were between the

two.

“Is blind Andreas there?” asked Simon.

“Yes, kind sir, I am here,” said a voice.

“This man,” said Simon, “was once rich and of good repute, but he was

beggared by this robber lord, who afterwards put out his eyes so that

he has lived for many years in darkness at the charity of others.”

“How can he help us in our enterprise if he be indeed blind?” asked

Nigel.

“It is for that very reason, fair lord, that he can be of greater

service than any other man,” Simon answered; “for it often happens that

when a man has lost a sense the good God will strengthen those that

remain. Hence it is that Andreas has such ears that he can hear the sap

in the trees or the cheep of the mouse in its burrow. He has come to

help us to find the tunnel.”

“And I have found it,” said the blind man proudly. “Here I have placed

my staff upon the line of it. Twice as I lay there with my ear to the

ground I have heard footsteps pass beneath me.”

“I trust you make no mistake, old man,” said Nigel.

For answer the blind man raised his staff and smote twice upon the

ground, once to the right and once to the left. The one gave a dull

thud, the other a hollow boom.

“Can you not hear that?” he asked. “Will you ask me now if I make a

mistake?”

“Indeed, we are much beholden to you!” cried Nigel. “Let the peasants

dig then, and as silently as they may. Do you keep your ear upon the

ground, Andreas, so that if anyone pass beneath us we shall be warned.”

So, amid the driving rain, the little group toiled in the darkness. The

blind man lay silent, flat upon his face, and twice they heard his

warning hiss and stopped their work, whilst some one passed beneath. In

an hour they had dug down to a stone arch which was clearly the outer

side of the tunnel roof. Here was a sad obstacle, for it might take

long to loosen a stone, and if their work was not done by the break of

day then their enterprise was indeed hopeless. They loosened the mortar

with a dagger, and at last dislodged one small stone which enabled them

to get at the others. Presently a dark hole blacker than the night

around them yawned at their feet, and their swords could touch no

bottom to it. They had opened the tunnel.

“I would fain enter it first,” said Nigel. “I pray you to lower me

down.” They held him to the full length of their arms and then letting

him drop they heard him land safely beneath them. An instant later the

blind man started up with a low cry of alarm.

“I hear steps coming,” said he. “They are far off, but they draw

nearer.”

Simon thrust his head and neck down the hole. “Squire Nigel,” he

whispered, “can you hear me?”

“I can hear you, Simon.”

“Andreas says that some one comes.”

“Then cover over the hole,” came the answer. “Quick, I pray you, cover

it over!”

A mantle was stretched across it, so that no glimmer of light should

warn the new-comer. The fear was that he might have heard, the sound of

Nigel’s descent. But soon it was clear that he had not done so, for

Andreas announced that he was still advancing. Presently Nigel could

hear the distant thud of his feet. If he bore a lantern all was lost.

But no gleam of light appeared in the black tunnel, and still the

footsteps drew nearer.

Nigel breathed a prayer of thanks to all his guardian saints as he

crouched close to the slimy wall and waited breathless, his dagger in

his hand. Nearer yet and nearer came the steps. He could hear the

stranger’s coarse breathing in the darkness. Then as he brushed past

Nigel bounded upon him with a tiger spring. There was one gasp of

astonishment, and not a sound more, for the Squire’s grip was on the

man’s throat and his body was pinned motionless against the wall.

“Simon! Simon!” cried Nigel loudly.

The mantle was moved from the hole.

“Have you a cord? Or your belts linked together may serve.”

One of the peasants had a rope, and Nigel soon felt it dangling against

his hand. He listened and there was no sound in the passage. For an

instant he released his captive’s throat. A torrent of prayers and

entreaties came forth. The man was shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Nigel pressed the point of his dagger against his face and dared him to

open his lips. Then he slipped the rope beneath his arms and tied it.

“Pull him up!” he whispered, and for an instant the gray glimmer above

him was obscured.

“We have him, fair sir,” said Simon.

“Then drop me the rope and hold it fast.”

A moment later Nigel stood among the group of men who had gathered

round their captive. It was too dark to see him, and they dare not

strike flint and steel.

Simon passed his hand roughly over him and felt a fat clean-shaven

face, and a cloth gabardine which hung to the ankles. “Who are you?” he

whispered. “Speak the truth and speak it low, if you would ever speak

again.”

The man’s teeth chattered in his head with cold and fright. “I speak no

English,” he murmured.

“French, then,” said Nigel.

“I am a holy priest of God. You court the ban of holy Church when you

lay hands upon me. I pray you let me go upon my way, for there are

those whom I would shrive and housel. If they should die in sin, their

damnation is upon you.”

“How are you called then?”

“I am Dom Peter de Cervolles.”

“De Cervolles, the arch-priest, he who heated the brazier when they

burned out my eyes,” cried old Andreas. “Of all the devils in hell

there is none fouler than this one. Friends, friends, if I have done

aught for you this night, I ask but one reward, that ye let me have my

will of this man.”

But Nigel pushed the old man back. “There is no time for this,” he

said. “Now hark you, priest—if priest indeed you be—your gown and

tonsure will not save you if you play us false, for we are here of a

set purpose and we will go forward with it, come what may. Answer me

and answer me truly or it will be an ill night for you. In what part of

the Castle does this tunnel enter?”

“In the lower cellar.”

“What is at the end?”

“An oaken door.”

“Is it barred?”

“Yes, it is barred.”

“How would you have entered?”

“I would have given the password.”

“Who then would have opened?”

“There is a guard within.”

“And beyond him?”

“Beyond him are the prison cells and the jailers.”

“Who else would be afoot?”

“No one save a guard at the gate and another on the battlement.”

“What then is the password?”

The man was silent.

“The password, fellow!”

The cold points of two daggers pricked his throat; but still he would

not speak.

“Where is the blind man?” asked Nigel. “Here, Andreas, you can have him

and do what you will with him.”

“Nay, nay,” the priest whimpered. “Keep him off me. Save me from blind

Andreas! I will tell you everything.”

“The password then, this instant?”

“It is ‘_Benedicite!_’”

“We have the password, Simon,” cried Nigel. “Come then, let us on to

the farther end. These peasants will guard the priest, and they will

remain here lest we wish to send a message.”

“Nay, fair sir, it is in my mind that we can do better,” said Simon.

“Let us take the priest with us, so that he who is within may know his

voice.”

“It is well thought of,” said Nigel, “and first let us pray together,

for indeed this night may well be our last.”

He and the three men-at-arms knelt in the rain and sent up their simple

orisons, Simon still clutching tight to his prisoner’s wrist.

The priest fumbled in his breast and drew something forth. “It is the

heart of the blessed confessor Saint Enogat,” said he. “It may be that

it will ease and assoil your souls if you would wish to handle it.”

The four Englishmen passed the flat silver case from hand to hand, each

pressing his lips devoutly upon it. Then they rose to their feet. Nigel

was the first to lower himself down the hole; then Simon; then the

priest, who was instantly seized by the other two. The men-at-arms

followed them. They had scarcely moved away from the hole when Nigel

stopped.

“Surely some one else came after us,” said he.

They listened, but no whisper or rustle came from behind them. For a

minute they paused and then resumed their journey through the dark. It

seemed a long, long way, though in truth it was but a few hundred yards

before they came to a door with a glimmer of yellow light around it,

which barred their passage. Nigel struck upon it with his hand.

There was the rasping of a bolt and then a loud voice “Is that you,

priest?”

“Yes, it is I,” said the prisoner in a quavering voice. “Open, Arnold!”

The voice was enough. There was no question of passwords. The door

swung inward, and in an instant the janitor was cut down by Nigel and

Simon. So sudden and so fierce was the attack that save for the thud of

his body no sound was heard. A flood of light burst outward into the

passage, and the Englishmen stood with blinking eyes in its glare.

In front of them lay a stone-flagged corridor, across which lay the

dead body of the janitor. It had doors on either side of it, and

another grated door at the farther end. A strange hubbub, a kind of low

droning and whining filled the air. The four men were standing

listening, full of wonder as to what this might mean, when a sharp cry

came from behind them. The priest lay in a shapeless heap upon the

ground, and the blood was rushing from his gaping throat. Down the

passage, a black shadow in the yellow light, there fled a crouching

man, who clattered with a stick as he went.

“It is Andreas,” cried West-country Will. “He has slain him.”

“Then it was he that I heard behind us,” said Nigel. “Doubtless he was

at our very heels in the darkness. I fear that the priest’s cry has

been heard.”

“Nay,” said Simon, “there are so many cries that one more may well

pass. Let us take this lamp from the wall and see what sort of devil’s

den we have around us.”

They opened the door upon the right, and so horrible a smell issued

from it that they were driven back from it. The lamp which Simon held

forward showed a monkeylike creature mowing and grimacing in the

corner, man or woman none could tell, but driven crazy by loneliness

and horror. In the other cell was a graybearded man fettered to the

wall, looking blankly before him, a body without a soul, yet with life

still in him, for his dull eyes turned slowly in their direction. But

it was from behind the central door at the end of the passage that the

chorus of sad cries came which filled the air.

“Simon,” said Nigel, “before we go farther we will take this outer door

from its hinges. With it we will block this passage so that at the

worst we may hold our ground here until help comes. Do you back to the

camp as fast as your feet can bear you. The peasants will draw you

upward through the hole. Give my greetings to Sir Robert and tell him

that the castle is taken without fail if he comes this way with fifty

men. Say that we have made a lodgment within the walls. And tell him

also, Simon, that I would counsel him to make a stir before the gateway

so that the guard may be held there whilst we make good our footing

behind them. Go, good Simon, and lose not a moment!”

But the man-at-arms shook his head. “It is I who have brought you here,

fair sir, and here I bide through fair and foul. But you speak wisely

and well, for Sir Robert should indeed be told what is going forward

now that we have gone so far. Harding, do you go with all speed and

bear the gentle Nigel’s message.”

Reluctantly the man-at-arms sped upon his errand. They could hear the

racing of his feet and the low jingle of his harness until they died

away in the tunnel. Then the three companions approached the door at

the end. It was their intention to wait where they were until help

should come, but suddenly amid the babel of cries within there broke

forth an English voice, shouting in torment.

“My God!” it cried, “I pray you, comrades, for a cup of water, as you

hope for Christ’s mercy!”

A shout of laughter and the thud of a heavy blow followed the appeal.

All the hot blood rushed to Nigel’s head at the sound, buzzing in his

ears and throbbing in his temples. There are times when the fiery heart

of a man must overbear the cold brain of a soldier. With one bound he

was at the door, with another he was through it, the men-at-arms at his

heels. So strange was the scene before them that for an instant all

three stood motionless with horror and surprise.

It was a great vaulted chamber, brightly lit by many torches. At the

farther end roared a great fire. In front of it three naked men were

chained to posts in such a way that flinch as they might they could

never get beyond the range of its scorching heat. Yet they were so far

from it that no actual burn would be inflicted if they could but keep

turning and shifting so as continually to present some fresh portion of

their flesh to the flames. Hence they danced and whirled in front of

the fire, tossing ceaselessly this way and that within the compass of

their chains, wearied to death, their protruding tongues cracked and

blackened with thirst, but unable for one instant to rest from their

writhings and contortions.

Even stranger was the sight at each side of the room, whence came that

chorus of groans which had first struck upon the ears of Nigel and his

companions. A line of great hogsheads were placed alongside the walls,

and within each sat a man, his head protruding from the top. As they

moved within there was a constant splashing and washing of water. The

white wan faces all turned together as the door flew open, and a cry of

amazement and of hope took the place of those long-drawn moans of

despair.

At the same instant two fellows clad in black, who had been seated with

a flagon of wine between them at a table near the fire, sprang wildly

to their feet, staring with blank amazement at this sudden inrush. That

instant of delay deprived them of their last chance of safety. Midway

down the room was a flight of stone steps which led to the main door.

Swift as a wildcat Nigel bounded toward it and gained the steps a

stride or two before the jailers. They turned and made for the other

which led to the passage, but Simon and his comrades were nearer to it

than they. Two sweeping blows, two dagger thrusts into writhing

figures, and the ruffians who worked the will of the Butcher lay dead

upon the floor of their slaughter-house.

Oh, the buzz of joy and of prayer from all those white lips! Oh, the

light of returning hope in all those sunken weary eyes! One wild shout

would have gone up had not Nigel’s outstretched hands and warning voice

hushed them to silence.

He opened the door behind him. A curving newel staircase wound upward

into the darkness. He listened, but no sound came down. There was a key

in the outer lock of the iron door. He whipped it out and turned it on

the inner side. The ground that they had gained was safe. Now they

could turn to the relief of these poor fellows beside them. A few

strong blows struck off the irons and freed the three dancers before

the fire. With a husky croak of joy, they rushed across to their

comrades’ water-barrels, plunged their heads in like horses, and drank

and drank and drank. Then in turn the poor shivering wretches were

taken out of the barrels, their skins bleached and wrinkled with long

soaking. Their bonds were torn from them; but, cramped and fixed, their

limbs refused to act, and they tumbled and twisted upon the floor in

their efforts to reach Nigel and to kiss his hand.

In a corner lay Aylward, dripping from his barrel and exhausted with

cold and hunger. Nigel ran to his side and raised his head. The jug of

wine from which the two jailers had drunk still stood upon their table.

The Squire placed it to the archer’s lips and he took a hearty pull at

it.

“How is it with you now, Aylward?”

“Better, Squire, better, but may I never touch water again as long as I

live! Alas! poor Dicon has gone, and Stephen also—the life chilled out

of them. The cold is in the very marrow of my bones. I pray you, let me

lean upon your arm as far as the fire, that I may warm the frozen blood

and set it running in my veins once more.”

A strange sight it was to see these twenty naked men crouching in a

half-circle round the fire with their trembling hands extended to the

blaze. Soon their tongues at least were thawed, and they poured out the

story of their troubles with many a prayer and ejaculation to the

saints for their safe delivery. No food had crossed their lips since

they had been taken. The Butcher had commanded them to join his

garrison and to shoot upon their comrades from the wall. When they

refused he had set aside three of them for execution.

The others had been dragged to the cellar, whither the leering tyrant

had followed them. Only one question he had asked them, whether they

were of a hot-blooded nature or of a cold. Blows were showered upon

them until they answered. Three had said cold, and had been condemned

to the torment of the fire. The rest who had said hot were delivered up

to the torture of the water-cask. Every few hours this man or fiend had

come down to exult over their sufferings and to ask them whether they

were ready yet to enter his service. Three had consented and were gone.

But the others had all of them stood firm, two of them even to their

death.

Such was the tale to which Nigel and his comrades listened whilst they

waited impatiently for the coming of Knolles and his men. Many an

anxious look did they cast down the black tunnel, but no glimmer of

light and no clash of steel came from its depths. Suddenly, however, a

loud and measured sound broke upon their ears. It was a dull metallic

clang, ponderous and slow, growing louder and ever louder—the tread of

an armored man. The poor wretches round the fire, all unnerved by

hunger and suffering, huddled together with wan, scared faces, their

eyes fixed in terror on the door.

“It is he!” they whispered. “It is the Butcher himself!”

Nigel had darted to the door and listened intently. There were no

footfalls save those of one man. Once sure of that, he softly turned

the key in the lock. At the same instant there came a bull’s bellow

from without.

“Ives! Bertrand!” cried the voice. “Can you not hear me coming, you

drunken varlets? You shall cool your own heads in the water-casks, you

lazy rascals! What, not even now! Open, you dogs. Open, I say!”

He had thrust down the latch, and with a kick he flung the door wide

and rushed inward. For an instant he stood motionless, a statue of dull

yellow metal, his eyes fixed upon the empty casks and the huddle of

naked men. Then with the roar of a trapped lion, he turned, but the

door had slammed behind him, and Black Simon, with grim figure and

sardonic face, stood between.

The Butcher looked round him helplessly, for he was unarmed save for

his dagger. Then his eyes fell upon Nigel’s roses.

“You are a gentleman of coat-armor,” he cried. “I surrender myself to

you.”

“I will not take your surrender, you black villain,” said Nigel. “Draw

and defend yourself. Simon, give him your sword.”

“Nay, this is madness,” said the blunt man-at-arms. “Why should I give

the wasp a sting?”

“Give it him, I say. I cannot kill him in cold blood.”

“But I can!” yelled Aylward, who had crept up from the fire. “Come,

comrades! By these ten finger-bones! has he not taught us how cold

blood should be warmed?”

Like a pack of wolves they were on him, and he clanged upon the floor

with a dozen frenzied naked figures clutching and clinging above him.

In vain Nigel tried to pull them off. They were mad with rage, these

tortured starving men, their eyes fixed and glaring, their hair on end,

their teeth gnashing with fury, while they tore at the howling,

writhing man. Then with a rattle and clatter they pulled him across the

room by his two ankles and dragged him into the fire.

Nigel shuddered and turned away his eyes as he saw the brazen figure

roll out and stagger to his knees, only to be hurled once more into the

heart of the blaze. His prisoners screamed with joy and clapped their

hands as they pushed him back with their feet until the armor was too

hot for them to touch. Then at last he lay still and glowed darkly red,

whilst the naked men danced in a wild half-circle round the fire.

But now at last the supports had come. Lights flashed and armor gleamed

down the tunnel. The cellar filled with armed men, while from above

came the cries and turmoil of the feigned assault upon the gate. Led by

Knolles and Nigel, the storming party rushed upward and seized the

courtyard. The guard of the gate taken in the rear threw down their

weapons and cried for mercy. The gate was thrown open and the

assailants rushed in, with hundreds of furious peasants at their heels.

Some of the robbers died in hot blood, many in cold; but all died, for

Knolles had vowed to give no quarter. Day was just breaking when the

last fugitive had been hunted out and slain. From all sides came the

yells and whoops of the soldiers with the rending and riving of doors

as they burst into the store-rooms and treasure-chambers. There was a

joyous scramble amongst them, for the plunder of eleven years, gold and

jewels, satins and velvets, rich plate and noble hangings were all to

be had for the taking.

The rescued prisoners, their hunger appeased and their clothes

restored, led the search for booty. Nigel, leaning on his sword by the

gateway, saw Aylward totter past, a huge bundle under each arm, another

slung over his back and a smaller packet hanging from his mouth. He

dropped it for a moment as he passed his young master.

“By these ten finger-bones! I am right glad that I came to the war, and

no man could ask for a more goodly life,” said he. “I have a present

here for every girl in Tilford, and my father need never fear the frown

of the sacrist of Waverley again. But how of you, Squire Loring? It

standeth not aright that we should gather the harvest whilst you, who

sowed it, go forth empty-handed. Come, gentle sir, take these things

that I have gathered, and I will go back and find more.”

But Nigel smiled and shook his head. “You have gained what your heart

desired, and perchance I have done so also,” said he.

An instant later Knolles strode up to him with outstretched hand. “I

ask your pardon, Nigel,” said he. “I have spoken too hotly in my

wrath.”

“Nay, fair sir, I was at fault.”

“If we stand here now within this castle, it is to you that I owe it.

The King shall know of it, and Chandos also. Can I do aught else,

Nigel, to prove to you the high esteem in which I hold you?”

The Squire flushed with pleasure. “Do you send a messenger home to

England, fair sir, with news of these doings?”

“Surely, I must do so. But do not tell me, Nigel, that you would be

that messenger. Ask me some other favor, for indeed I cannot let you

go.”

“Now God forbid!” cried Nigel. “By Saint Paul! I would not be so

caitiff and so thrall as to leave you, when some small deed might still

be done. But I would fain send a message by your messenger.”

“To whom?”

“It is to the Lady Mary, daughter of old Sir John Buttesthorn who

dwells near Guildford.”

“But you will write the message, Nigel. Such greetings as a cavalier

sends to his lady-love should be under seal.”

“Nay, he can carry my message by word of mouth.”

“Then I shall tell him for he goes this morning. What message, then,

shall he say to the lady?”

“He will give her my very humble greeting, and he will say to her that

for the second time Saint Catharine has been our friend.”

XXII.

HOW ROBERT OF BEAUMANOIR CAME TO PLOERMEL

Sir Robert Knolles and his men passed onward that day, looking back

many a time to see the two dark columns of smoke, one thicker and one

more slender, which arose from the castle and from the fort of La

Brohinière. There was not an archer nor a man-at-arms who did not bear

a great bundle of spoil upon his back, and Knolles frowned darkly as he

looked upon them. Gladly would he have thrown it all down by the

roadside, but he had tried such matters before, and he knew that it was

as safe to tear a half-gnawed bone from a bear as their blood-won

plunder from such men as these. In any case it was but two days’ march

to Ploermel, where he hoped to bring his journey to an end.

That night they camped at Mauron, where a small English and Breton

garrison held the castle. Right glad were the bowmen to see some of

their own countrymen once more, and they spent the night over wine and

dice, a crowd of Breton girls assisting, so that next morning their

bundles were much lighter, and most of the plunder of La Brohinière was

left with the men and women of Mauron. Next day their march lay with a

fair sluggish river upon their right, and a great rolling forest upon

their left which covered the whole country. At last toward evening the

towers of Ploermel rose before them and they saw against a darkening

sky the Red Cross of England waving in the wind. So blue was the river

Duc which skirted the road, and so green its banks, that they might

indeed have been back beside their own homely streams, the Oxford

Thames or the Midland Trent, but ever as the darkness deepened there

came in wild gusts the howling of wolves from the forest to remind them

that they were in a land of war. So busy had men been for many years in

hunting one another that the beasts of the chase had grown to a

monstrous degree, until the streets of the towns were no longer safe

from the wild inroads of the fierce creatures, the wolves and the

bears, who swarmed around them.

It was nightfall when the little army entered the outer gate of the

Castle of Ploermel and encamped in the broad Bailey yard. Ploermel was

at that time the center of British power in Mid-Brittany, as Hennebon

was in the West, and it was held by a garrison of five hundred men

under an old soldier, Richard of Bambro, a rugged Northumbrian, trained

in that great school of warriors, the border wars. He who had ridden

the marches of the most troubled frontier in Europe, and served his

time against the Liddlesdale and Nithsdale raiders was hardened for a

life in the field.

Of late, however, Bambro had been unable to undertake any enterprise,

for his reinforcements had failed him, and amid his following he had

but three English knights and seventy men. The rest were a mixed crew

of Bretons, Hainaulters and a few German mercenary soldiers, brave men

individually, as those of that stock have ever been, but lacking

interest in the cause, and bound together by no common tie of blood or

tradition.

On the other hand, the surrounding castles, and especially that of

Josselin, were held by strong forces of enthusiastic Bretons, inflamed

by a common patriotism, and full of warlike ardor. Robert of

Beaumanoir, the fierce seneschal of the house of Rohan, pushed constant

forays and excursions against Ploermel so that town and castle were

both in daily dread of being surrounded and besieged. Several small

parties of the English faction had been cut off and slain to a man, and

so straitened were the others that it was difficult for them to gather

provisions from the country round.

Such was the state of Bambro’s garrison when on that March evening

Knolles and his men streamed into the bailey-yard of his Castle.

In the glare of the torches at the inner gate Bambro was waiting to

receive them, a dry, hard, wizened man, small and fierce, with beady

black eyes and quick furtive ways.

Beside him, a strange contrast, stood his Squire, Croquart, a German,

whose name and fame as a man-at-arms were widespread, though like

Robert Knolles himself he had begun as a humble page. He was a very

tall man, with an enormous spread of shoulders, and a pair of huge

hands with which he could crack a horse-shoe. He was slow and

lethargic, save in moments of excitement, and his calm blond face, his

dreamy blue eyes and his long fair hair gave him so gentle an

appearance that none save those who had seen him in his berserk mood,

raging, an iron giant, in the forefront of the battle, could ever guess

how terrible a warrior he might be. Little knight and huge squire stood

together under the arch of the donjon and gave welcome to the

newcomers, whilst a swarm of soldiers crowded round to embrace their

comrades and to lead them off where they might feed and make merry

together.

Supper had been set in the hall of Ploermel wherein the knights and

squires assembled. Bambro and Croquart were there with Sir Hugh

Calverly, an old friend of Knolles and a fellow-townsman, for both were

men of Chester. Sir Hugh was a middle-sized flaxen man, with hard gray

eyes and fierce large-nosed face sliced across with the scar of a

sword-cut. There too were Geoffrey D’Ardaine, a young Breton seigneur,

Sir Thomas Belford, a burly thick-set Midland Englishman, Sir Thomas

Walton, whose surcoat of scarlet martlets showed that he was of the

Surrey Waltons, James Marshall and John Russell, young English squires,

and the two brothers, Richard and Hugh Le Galliard, who were of Gascon

blood. Besides these were several squires, unknown to fame, and of the

new-comers, Sir Robert Knolles, Sir Thomas Percy, Nigel Loring and two

other squires, Allington and Parsons. These were the company who

gathered in the torch-light round the table of the Seneschal of

Ploermel, and kept high revel with joyous hearts because they thought

that much honor and noble deeds lay before them.

But one sad face there was at the board, and that belonged to him at

the head of it. Sir Robert Bambro sat with his chin leaning upon his

hand and his eyes downcast upon the cloth, whilst all round him rose

the merry clatter of voices, everyone planning some fresh enterprise

which might now be attempted. Sir Robert Knolles was for an immediate

advance upon Josselin. Calverly thought that a raid might be made into

the South where the main French power lay. Others spoke of an attack

upon Vannes.

To all these eager opinions Bambro listened in a moody silence, which

he broke at last by a fierce execration which drew a hushed attention

from the company. “Say no more, fair sirs,” he cried; “for indeed your

words are like so many stabs in my heart. All this and more we might

indeed have done. But of a truth you are too late.”

“Too late?” cried Knolles. “What mean you, Richard?”

“Alas; that I should have to say it, but you and all these fair

soldiers might be back in England once more for all the profit that I

am like to have from your coming. Saw you a rider on a white horse ere

you reached the Castle?”

“Nay, I saw him not?”

“He came by the western road from Hennebon. Would that he had broken

his neck ere he came here. Not an hour ago he left his message and now

hath ridden on to warn the garrison of Malestroit. A truce has been

proclaimed for a year betwixt the French King and the English, and he

who breaks it forfeits life and estate.”

“A truce!” Here was an end to all their fine dreams. They looked

blankly at each other all round the table, whilst Croquart brought his

great fist down upon the board until the glasses rattled again. Knolles

sat with clenched hands as if he were a figure of stone, while Nigel’s

heart turned cold and heavy within him. A truce! Where then was his

third deed, and how might he return without it?

Even as they sat in moody silence there was the call of a bugle from

somewhere out in the darkness.

Sir Richard looked up with surprise. “We are not wont to be summoned

after once the portcullis is up,” said he. “Truce or no truce, we must

let no man within our walls until we have proved him. Croquart, see to

it!”

The huge German left the room. The company were still seated in

despondent silence when he returned.

“Sir Richard,” said he, “the brave knight Robert of Beaumanoir and his

Squire William de Montaubon are without the gate, and would fain have

speech with you.”

Bambro started in his chair. What could the fierce leader of the

Bretons, a man who was red to the elbow with English blood, have to say

to them? On what errand had he left his castle of Josselin to pay this

visit to his deadly enemies?

“Are they armed?” he asked.

“They are unarmed.”

“Then admit them and bring them hither, but double the guards and take

all heed against surprise.”

Places were set at the farther end of the table for these most

unexpected guests. Presently the door was swung open, and Croquart with

all form and courtesy announced the two Bretons, who entered with the

proud and lofty air of gallant warriors and high-bred gentlemen.

Beaumanoir was a tall dark man with raven hair and long swarthy beard.

He was strong and straight as a young oak, with fiery black eyes, and

no flaw in his comely features save that his front teeth had been

dashed from their sockets. His Squire, William of Montaubon, was also

tall, with a thin hatchet face, and two small gray eyes set very close

upon either side of a long fierce nose. In Beaumanoir’s expression one

read only gallantry and frankness; in Montaubon’s there was gallantry

also, but it was mixed with the cruelty and cunning of the wolf. They

bowed as they entered, and the little English seneschal advanced with

outstretched hand to meet them.

“Welcome, Robert, so long as you are beneath this roof,” said he.

“Perhaps the time may come in another place when we may speak to each

other in another fashion.”

“So I hope, Richard,” said Beaumanoir; “but indeed we of Josselin bear

you in high esteem and are much beholden to you and to your men for all

that you have done for us. We could not wish better neighbors nor any

from whom more honor is to be gained. I learn that Sir Robert Knolles

and others have joined you, and we are heavy-hearted to think that the

orders of our Kings should debar us from attempting a venture.” He and

his squire sat down at the places set for them, and filling their

glasses drank to the company.

“What you say is true, Robert,” said Bambro, “and before you came we

were discussing the matter among ourselves and grieving that it should

be so. When heard you of the truce?”

“Yester-evening a messenger rode from Nantes.”

“Our news came to-night from Hennebon. The King’s own seal was on the

order. So I fear that for a year at least you will bide at Josselin and

we at Ploermel, and kill time as we may. Perchance we may hunt the wolf

together in the great forest, or fly our hawks on the banks of the

Duc.”

“Doubtless we shall do all this, Richard,” said Beaumanoir; “but by

Saint Cadoc it is in my mind that with good-will upon both sides we may

please ourselves and yet stand excused before our Kings.”

Knights and squires leaned forward in their chairs, their eager eyes,

fixed upon him. He broke into a gap-toothed smile as he looked round at

the circle, the wizened seneschal, the blond giant, Nigel’s fresh young

face, the grim features of Knolles, and the yellow hawk-like Calverly,

all burning with the same desire.

“I see that I need not doubt the good-will,” said he, “and of that I

was very certain before I came upon this errand. Bethink you then that

this order applies to war but not to challenges, spear-runnings,

knightly exchanges or the like. King Edward is too good a knight, and

so is King John, that either of them should stand in the way of a

gentleman who desires to advance himself or to venture his body for the

exaltation of his lady. Is this not so?”

A murmur of eager assent rose from the table.

“If you as the garrison of Ploermel march upon the garrison of

Josselin, then it is very plain that we have broken the truce and upon

our heads be it. But if there be a private bickering betwixt me, for

example, and this young squire whose eyes show that he is very eager

for honor, and if thereafter others on each side join in and fight upon

the quarrel, it is in no sense war, but rather our own private business

which no king can alter.”

“Indeed, Robert,” said Bambro, “all that you say is very good and

fair.”

Beaumanoir leaned forward toward Nigel, his brimming glass in his hand.

“Your name, squire?” said he.

“My name is Nigel Loring.”

“I see that you are young and eager, so I choose you as I would fain

have been chosen when I was of your age.”

“I thank you, fair sir,” said Nigel. “It is great honor that one so

famous as yourself should condescend to do some small deed upon me.”

“But we must have cause for quarrel, Nigel. Now here I drink to the

ladies of Brittany, who of all ladies upon this earth are the most fair

and the most virtuous, so that the least worthy-amongst them is far

above the best of England. What say you to that, young sir?”

Nigel dipped his finger in his glass and leaning over he placed its wet

impress on the Breton’s hand. “This in your face!” said he.

Beaumanoir swept off the red drop of moisture and smiled his approval.

“It could not have been better done,” said he. “Why spoil my velvet

paltock as many a hot-headed fool would have done. It is in my mind,

young sir, that you will go far. And now, who follows up this quarrel?”

A growl ran round the table.

Beaumanoir ran his eye round and shook his head. “Alas!” said he,

“there are but twenty of you here, and I have thirty at Josselin who

are so eager to advance themselves that if I return without hope for

all of them there will be sore hearts amongst them. I pray you,

Richard, since we have been at these pains to arrange matters, that you

in turn will do what you may. Can you not find ten more men?”

“But not of gentle blood.”

“Nay, it matters not, if they will only fight.”

“Of that there can be no doubt, for the castle is full of archers and

men-at-arms who would gladly play a part in the matter.”

“Then choose ten,” said Beaumanoir.

But for the first time the wolf-like squire opened his thin lips.

“Surely, my lord, you will not allow archers,” said he.

“I fear not any man.”

“Nay, fair sir, consider that this is a trial of weapons betwixt us

where man faces man. You have seen these English archers, and you know

how fast and how strong are their shafts. Bethink you that if ten of

them were against us it is likely that half of us would be down before

ever we came to handstrokes.”

“By Saint Cadoc, William, I think that you are right,” cried the

Breton. “If we are to have such a fight as will remain in the memories

of men, you will bring no archers and we no crossbows. Let it be steel

upon steel. How say you then?”

“Surely we can bring ten men-at-arms to make up the thirty that you

desire, Robert. It is agreed then that we fight on no quarrel of

England and France, but over this matter of the ladies in which you and

Squire Loring have fallen out. And now the time?”

“At once.”

“Surely at once, or perchance a second messenger may come and this also

be forbidden. We will be ready with to-morrow’s sunrise.”

“Nay, a day later,” cried the Breton Squire. “Bethink you, my lord,

that the three lances of Radenac would take time to come over.”

“They are not of our garrison, and they shall not have a place.”

“But, fair sir, of all the lances of Brittany—”

“Nay, William, I will not have it an hour later. To-morrow it shall be,

Richard.”

“And where?”

“I marked a fitting place even as I rode here this evening. If you

cross the river and take the bridle-path through the fields which leads

to Josselin you come midway upon a mighty oak standing at the corner of

a fair and level meadow. There let us meet at midday to-morrow.”

“Agreed!” cried Bambro. “But I pray you not to rise, Robert! The night

is still young and the spices and hippocras will soon be served. Bide

with us, I pray you, for if you would fain hear the latest songs from

England, these gentlemen have doubtless brought them. To some of us

perchance it is the last night, so we would make it a full one.”

But the gallant Breton shook his head. “It may indeed be the last night

for many,” said he, “and it is but right that my comrades should know

it. I have no need of monk or friar, for I cannot think that harm will

ever come beyond the grave to one who has borne himself as a knight

should, but others have other thoughts upon these matters and would

fain have time for prayer and penitence. Adieu, fair sirs, and I drink

a last glass to a happy meeting at the midway oak.”

XXIII.

HOW THIRTY OF JOSSELIN ENCOUNTERED THIRTY OF PLOERMEL

All night the Castle of Ploermel rang with warlike preparations, for

the smiths were hammering and filing and riveting, preparing the armor

for the champions. In the stable yard hostlers were testing and

grooming the great war-horses, whilst in the chapel knights and squires

were easing their souls at the knees of old Father Benedict.

Down in the courtyard, meanwhile, the men-at-arms had been assembled,

and the volunteers weeded out until the best men had been selected.

Black Simon had obtained a place, and great was the joy which shone

upon his grim visage. With him were chosen young Nicholas Dagsworth, a

gentleman adventurer who was nephew to the famous Sir Thomas, Walter

the German, Hulbitee—a huge peasant whose massive frame gave promise

which his sluggish spirit failed to fulfil—John Alcock, Robin Adey and

Raoul Provost. These with three others made up the required thirty.

Great was the grumbling and evil the talk amongst the archers when it

was learned that none of them were to be included, but the bow had been

forbidden on either side. It is true that many of them were expert

fighters both with ax and with sword, but they were unused to carry

heavy armor, and a half-armed man would have short shrift in such a

hand-to-hand struggle as lay before them.