Wednesday of Lent in the year of Christ 1351 that the men of Ploermel
rode forth from their castle-gate and crossed the bridge of the Due. In
front was Bambro with his Squire Croquart, the latter on a great roan
horse bearing the banner of Ploermel, which was a black rampant lion
holding a blue flag upon a field of ermine. Behind him came Robert
Knolles and Nigel Loring, with an attendant at their side, who carried
the pennon of the black raven. Then rode Sir Thomas Percy with his blue
lion flaunting above him, and Sir Hugh Calverly, whose banner bore a
silver owl, followed by the massive Belford who carried a huge iron
club, weighing sixty pounds, upon his saddlebow, and Sir Thomas Walton
the knight of Surrey. Behind them were four brave Anglo-Bretons, Perrot
de Commelain, Le Gaillart, d’Aspremont and d’Ardaine, who fought
against their own countrymen because they were partisans of the
Countess of Montfort. Her engrailed silver cross upon a blue field was
carried at their head. In the rear were five German or Hainault
mercenaries, the tall Hulbitee, and the men-at-arms. Altogether of
these combatants twenty were of English birth, four were Breton and six
were of German blood.
So, with glitter of armor and flaunting of pennons, their warhorses
tossing and pawing, the champions rode down to the midway oak. Behind
them streamed hundreds of archers and men-at-arms whose weapons had
been wisely taken from them lest a general battle should ensue. With
them also went the townsfolk, men and women, together with
wine-sellers, provisions merchants, armorers, grooms and heralds, with
surgeons to tend the wounded and priests to shrive the dying. The path
was blocked by this throng, but all over the face of the country
horsemen and footmen, gentle and simple, men and women, could be seen
speeding their way to the scene of the encounter.
The journey was not a long one, for presently, as they threaded their
way through the fields, there appeared before them a great gray oak
which spread its gnarled leafless branches over the corner of a green
and level meadow. The tree was black with the peasants who had climbed
into it, and all round it was a huge throng, chattering and calling
like a rookery at sunset. A storm of hooting broke out from them at the
approach of the English, for Bambro was hated in the country where he
raised money for the Montfort cause by putting every parish to ransom
and maltreating those who refused to pay. There was little amenity in
the warlike ways which had been learned upon the Scottish border. The
champions rode onward without deigning to take notice of the taunts of
the rabble, but the archers turned that way and soon beat the mob to
silence. Then they resolved themselves into the keepers of the ground,
and pressed the people back until they formed a dense line along the
edge of the field, leaving the whole space clear for the warriors.
The Breton champions had not yet arrived, so the English tethered their
horses at one side of the ground, and then gathered round their leader.
Every man had his shield slung round his neck, and had cut his spear to
the length of five feet so that it might be more manageable for
fighting on foot. Besides the spear a sword or a battle-ax hung at the
side of each. They were clad from head to foot in armor, with devices
upon the crests and surcoats to distinguish them from their
antagonists. At present their visors were still up and they chatted
gayly with each other.
“By Saint Dunstan!” cried Percy, slapping his gauntleted hands together
and stamping his steel feet. “I shall be right glad to get to work, for
my blood is chilled.”
“I warrant you will be warm enough ere you get through,” said Calverly.
“Or cold forever. Candle shall burn and bell toll at Alnwick Chapel if
I leave this ground alive, but come what may, fair sirs, it should be a
famous joust and one which will help us forward. Surely each of us will
have worshipfully won worship, if we chance to come through.”
“You say truth, Thomas,” said Knolles, bracing his girdle. “For my own
part I have no joy in such encounters when there is warfare to be
carried out, for it standeth not aright that a man should think of his
own pleasure and advancement rather than of the King’s cause and the
weal of the army. But in times of truce I can think of no better way in
which a day may be profitably spent. Why so silent, Nigel?”
“Indeed, fair sir, I was looking toward Josselin, which lies as I
understand beyond those woods. I see no sign of this debonair gentleman
and of his following. It would be indeed grievous pity if any cause
came to hold them back.”
Hugh Calverly laughed at the words. “You need have no fear, young sir,”
said he. “Such a spirit lies in Robert de Beaumanoir that if he must
come alone he would ride against us none the less. I warrant that if he
were on a bed of death he would be borne here and die on the green
field.”
“You say truly, Hugh,” said Bambro. “I know him and those who ride
behind him. Thirty stouter men or more skilled in arms are not to be
found in Christendom. It is in my mind that come what may there will be
much honor for all of us this day. Ever in my head I have a rhyme which
the wife of a Welsh archer gave me when I crossed her hand with a
golden bracelet after the intaking of Bergerac. She was of the old
blood of Merlin with the power of sight. Thus she said—
“’Twixt the oak-tree and the river
Knightly fame aid brave endeavor
Make an honored name forever.’
Methinks I see the oak-tree, and yonder is the river. Surely this
should betide some good to us.”
The huge German Squire betrayed some impatience during this speech of
his leader. Though his rank was subordinate, no man present had more
experience of warfare or was more famous as a fighter than he. He new
broke brusquely into the talk. “We should be better employed in
ordering our line and making our plans than in talking of the rhymes of
Merlin or such old wives’ tales,” said he. “It is to our own strong
arms and good weapons that we must trust this day. And first I would
ask you, Sir Richard, what is your will if perchance you should fall in
the midst of the fight?”
Bambro turned to the others. “If such should be the case, fair sirs, I
desire that my Squire Croquart should command.”
There was a pause while the knights looked with some chagrin at each
other. The silence was broken by Knolles.
“I will do what you say, Richard,” said he, “though indeed it is bitter
that we who are knights should serve beneath a squire. Yet it is not
for us to fall out among ourselves now at this last moment, and I have
ever heard that Croquart is a very worthy and valiant man. Therefore, I
will pledge you on jeopardy of my soul that I will accept him as leader
if you fall.”
“So will I also, Richard,” said Calverly.
“And I too!” cried Belford. “But surely I hear music, and yonder are
their pennons amid the trees.”
They all turned, leaning upon their short spears, and watched the
advance of the men of Josselin, as their troop wound its way out from
the woodlands. In front rode three heralds with tabards of the ermine
of Brittany, blowing loudly upon silver trumpets. Behind them a great
man upon a white horse bore the banner of Josselin which carries nine
golden torteaus upon a scarlet field. Then came the champions riding
two and two, fifteen knights and fifteen squires, each with his pennon
displayed. Behind them on a litter was borne an aged priest, the Bishop
of Rennes, carrying in his hands the viaticum and the holy oils that he
might give the last aid and comfort of the Church to those who were
dying. The procession was terminated by hundreds of men and women from
Josselin, Guegon, and Helleon, and by the entire garrison of the
fortress, who came, as the English had done, without their arms. The
head of this long column had reached the field before the rear were
clear of the wood, but as they arrived the champions picketed their
horses on the farther side, behind which their banner was planted and
the people lined up until they had inclosed the whole lists with a
dense wall of spectators.
With keen eyes the English party had watched the armorial blazonry of
their antagonists, for those fluttering pennons and brilliant surcoats
carried a language which all men could read. In front was the banner of
Beaumanoir, blue with silver frets. His motto “_J’ayme qui m’ayme_” was
carried on a second flag by a little page.
“Whose is the shield behind him—silver with scarlet drops?” asked
Knolles.
“It is his Squire, William of Montaubon,” Calverly answered. “And there
are the golden lion of Rochefort and the silver cross of Du Bois the
Strong. I would not wish to meet a better company than are before us
this day. See, there are the blue rings of young Tintiniac, who slew my
Squire Hubert last Lammastide. With the aid of Saint George I will
avenge him ere nightfall.”
“By the three kings of Almain,” growled Croquart, “we will need to
fight hard this day, for never have I seen so many good soldiers
gathered together. Yonder is Yves Cheruel, whom they call the man of
iron, Caro de Bodegat also with whom I have had more than one
bickering—that is he with the three ermine circles on the scarlet
shield. There too is left-handed Alain de Karanais; bear in mind that
his stroke comes on the side where there is no shield.”
“Who is the small stout man”—asked Nigel—“he with the black and silver
shield? By Saint Paul! he seems a very worthy person and one from whom
much might be gained, for he is nigh as broad as he is long.”
“It is Sir Robert Raguenel,” said Calverly, whose long spell of service
in Brittany had made him familiar with the people. “It is said that he
can lift a horse upon his back. Beware a full stroke of that steel
mace, for the armor is not made that can abide it. But here is the good
Beaumanoir, and surely it is time that we came to grips.”
The Breton leader had marshaled his men in a line opposite to the
English, and now he strode forward and shook Bambro by the hand. “By
Saint Cadoc! this is a very joyous meeting, Richard,” said he, “and we
have certainly hit upon a very excellent way of keeping a truce.”
“Indeed, Robert,” said Bambro, “we owe you much thanks, for I can see
that you have been at great pains to bring a worthy company against us
this day. Surely if all should chance to perish there will be few noble
houses in Brittany who will not mourn.”
“Nay, we have none of the highest of Brittany,” Beaumanoir answered.
“Neither a Blois, nor a Leon, nor a Rohan, nor a Conan, fights in our
ranks this day. And yet we are all men of blood and coat-armor, who are
ready to venture our persons for the desire of our ladies and the love
of the high order of knighthood. And now, Richard, what is your sweet
will concerning this fight?”
“That we continue until one or other can endure no longer, for since it
is seldom that so many brave men draw together it is fitting that we
see as much as is possible of each other.”
“Richard, your words are fair and good. It shall be even as you say.
For the rest, each shall fight as pleases him best from the time that
the herald calls the word. If any man from without shall break in upon
us he shall be hanged on yonder oak.”
With a salute he drew down his visor and returned to his own men, who
were kneeling in a twinkling, many colored group whilst the old bishop
gave them his blessing.
The heralds rode round with a warning to the spectators. Then they
halted at the side of the two bands of men who now stood in a long line
facing each other with fifty yards of grass between. The visors had
been closed, and every man was now cased in metal from head to foot,
some few glowing in brass, the greater number shining in steel. Only
their fierce eyes could be seen smoldering in the dark shadow of their
helmets. So for an instant they stood glaring and crouching.
Then with a loud cry of “_Allez!_” the herald dropped his upraised
hand, and the two lines of men shuffled as fast as their heavy armor
would permit until they met with a sharp clang of metal in the middle
of the field. There was a sound as of sixty smiths working upon their
anvils. Then the babel of yells and shouts from the spectators,
cheering on this party or that, rose and swelled until even the uproar
of the combat was drowned in that mighty surge.
So eager were the combatants to engage that in a few moments all order
had been lost and the two bands were mixed up in one furious
scrambling, clattering throng, each man tossed hither and thither,
thrown against one adversary and then against another, beaten and
hustled and buffeted, with only the one thought in his mind to thrust
with his spear or to beat with his ax against anyone who came within
the narrow slit of vision left by his visor.
But alas for Nigel and his hopes of some great deed! His was at least
the fate of the brave, for he was the first to fall. With a high heart
he had placed himself in the line as nearly opposite to Beaumanoir as
he could, and had made straight for the Breton leader, remembering that
in the out set the quarrel had been so ordered that it lay between
them. But ere he could reach his goal he was caught in the swirl of his
own comrades, and being the lighter man was swept aside and dashed into
the arms of Alain de Karanais, the left-handed swordsman, with such a
crash that the two rolled upon the ground together. Light footed as a
cat, Nigel had sprung up first, and was stooping over the Breton Squire
when the powerful dwarf Raguenel brought his mace thudding down upon
the exposed back of his helmet. With a groan Nigel fell upon his face,
blood gushing from his mouth, nose, and ears. There he lay, trampled
over by either party, while that great fight for which his fiery soul
had panted was swaying back and forward above his unconscious form.
But Nigel was not long unavenged. The huge iron club of Belford struck
the dwarf Raguenel to the ground, while Belford in turn was felled by a
sweeping blow from Beaumanoir. Sometimes a dozen were on the ground at
one time, but so strong was the armor, and so deftly was the force of a
blow broken by guard and shield, that the stricken men were often
pulled to their feet once more by their comrades, and were able to
continue the fight.
Some, however, were beyond all aid. Croquart had cut at a Breton knight
named Jean Rousselot and had shorn away his shoulder-piece, exposing
his neck and the upper part of his arm. Vainly he tried to cover this
vulnerable surface with his shield. It was his right side, and he could
not stretch it far enough across, nor could he get away on account of
the press of men around him. For a time he held his foemen at bay, but
that bare patch of white shoulder was a mark for every weapon, until at
last a hatchet sank up to the socket in the knight’s chest. Almost at
the same moment a second Breton, a young Squire named Geoffrey Mellon,
was slain by a thrust from Black Simon which found the weak spot
beneath the armpit. Three other Bretons, Evan Cheruel, Caro de Bodegat,
and Tristan de Pestivien, the first two knights and the latter a
squire, became separated from their comrades, and were beaten to the
ground with English all around them, so that they had to choose between
instant death and surrender. They handed their swords to Bambro and
stood apart, each of them sorely wounded, watching with hot and bitter
hearts the melee which still surged up and down the field.
But now the combat had lasted half an hour without stint or rest, until
the warriors were so exhausted with the burden of their armor, the loss
of blood, the shock of blows, and their own furious exertions, that
they could scarce totter or raise their weapons. There must be a pause
if the combat was to have any decisive end. “_Cessez! Cessez!
Retirez!_” cried the heralds, as they spurred their horses between the
exhausted men.
Slowly the gallant Beaumanoir led the twenty-five men who were left to
their original station, where they opened their visors and threw
themselves down upon the grass, panting like weary dogs, and wiping the
sweat from their bloodshot eyes. A pitcher of wine of Anjou was carried
round by a page, and each in turn drained a cup, save only Beaumanoir
who kept his Lent with such strictness that neither food nor drink
might pass his lips before sunset. He paced slowly amongst his men,
croaking forth encouragement from his parched lips and pointing out to
them that among the English there was scarce a man who was not wounded,
and some so sorely that they could hardly stand. If the fight so far
had gone against them, there were still five hours of daylight, and
much might happen before the last of them was laid upon his back.
Varlets had rushed forth to draw away the two dead Bretons, and a brace
of English archers had carried Nigel from the field. With his own hands
Aylward had unlaced the crushed helmet and had wept to see the
bloodless and unconscious face of his young master. He still breathed,
however, and stretched upon the grass by the riverside the bowman
tended him with rude surgery, until the water upon his brow and the
wind upon his face had coaxed back the life into his battered frame. He
breathed with heavy gasps, and some tinge of blood crept hack into his
cheeks, but still he lay unconscious of the roar of the crowd and of
that great struggle which his comrades were now waging once again.
The English had lain for a space bleeding and breathless, in no better
case than their rivals, save that they were still twenty-nine in
number. But of this muster there were not nine who were hale men, and
some were so weak from loss of blood that they could scarce keep
standing. Yet, when the signal was at last given to reengage there was
not a man upon either side who did not totter to his feet and stagger
forward toward his enemies.
But the opening of this second phase of the combat brought one great
misfortune and discouragement to the English. Bambro like the others,
had undone his visor, but with his mind full of many cares he had
neglected to make it fast again. There was an opening an inch broad
betwixt it and the beaver. As the two lines met the left-handed Breton
squire, Alain de Karanais, caught sight of Bambro’s face, and in an
instant thrust his short spear through the opening. The English leader
gave a cry of pain and fell on his knees, but staggered to his feet
again, too weak to raise his shield. As he stood exposed the Breton
knight, Geoffrey Dubois the Strong, struck him such a blow with his ax
that he beat in the whole breast-plate with the breast behind it.
Bambro fell dead upon the ground and for a few minutes a fierce fight
raged round his body.
Then the English drew back, sullen and dogged, bearing Bambro with
them, and the Bretons, breathing hard, gathered again in their own
quarter. At the same instant the three prisoners picked up such weapons
as were scattered upon the grass and ran over to join their own party.
“Nay, nay!” cried Knolles, raising his visor and advancing. “This may
not be. You have been held to mercy when we might have slain you, and
by the Virgin I will hold you dishonored, all three, if you stand not
back.”
“Say not so, Robert Knolles,” Evan Cheruel answered. “Never yet has the
word dishonor been breathed with my name, but I should count myself
faineant if I did not fight beside my comrades when chance has made it
right and proper that I should do so.”
“By Saint Cadoc! he speaks truly,” croaked Beaumanoir, advancing in
front of his men. “You are well aware, Robert, that it is the law of
war and the usage of chivalry that if the knight to whom you have
surrendered is himself slain the prisoners thereby become released.”
There was no answer to this and Knolles, weary and spent, returned to
his comrades. “I would that we had slain them,” said he. “We have lost
our leader and they have gained three men by the same stroke.”
“If any more lay down their arms it is my order that you slay them
forthwith,” said Croquart, whose bent sword and bloody armor showed how
manfully he had borne himself in the fray. “And now, comrades, do not
be heavy-hearted because we have lost our leader. Indeed, his rhymes of
Merlin have availed him little. By the three kings of Almain! I can
teach you what is better than an old woman’s prophecies, and that is
that you should keep your shoulders together and your shields so close
that none can break between them. Then you will know what is on either
side of you, and you can fix your eyes upon the front. Also, if any be
so weak or wounded that he must sink his hands his comrades on right
and left can bear him up. Now advance all together in God’s name, for
the battle is still ours if we bear ourselves like men.”
In a solid line the English advanced, while the Bretons ran forward as
before to meet them. The swiftest of these was a certain Squire,
Geoffrey Poulart, who bore a helmet which was fashioned as a cock’s
head, with high comb above, and long pointed beak in front pierced with
the breathing-holes. He thrust with his sword at Calverly, but Belford
who was the next in the line raised his giant club and struck him a
crushing blow from the side. He staggered, and then pushing forth from
the crowd, he ran round and round in circles as one whose brain is
stricken, the blood dripping from the holes of his brazen beak. So for
a long time he ran, the crowd laughing and cock-crowing at the sight,
until at last he stumbled and fell stone-dead upon his face. But the
fighters had seen nothing of his fate, for desperate and unceasing was
the rush of the Bretons and the steady advance of the English line.
For a time it seemed as if nothing would break it, but gap-toothed
Beaumanoir was a general as well as a warrior. Whilst his weary,
bleeding, hard-breathing men still flung themselves upon the front of
the line, he himself with Raguenel, Tentiniac, Alain de Karanais, and
Dubois rushed round the flank and attacked the English with fury from
behind. There was a long and desperate melee until once more the
heralds, seeing the combatants stand gasping and unable to strike a
blow, rode in and called yet another interval of truce.
But in those few minutes whilst they had been assaulted upon both
sides, the losses of the English party had been heavy. The Anglo-Breton
D’Ardaine had fallen before Beaumanoir’s sword, but not before he had
cut deeply into his enemy’s shoulder. Sir Thomas Walton, Richard of
Ireland one of the Squires, and Hulbitee the big peasant had all fallen
before the mace of the dwarf Raguenel or the swords of his companions.
Some twenty men were still left standing upon either side, but all were
in the last state of exhaustion, gasping, reeling, hardly capable of
striking a blow.
It was strange to see them as they staggered with many a lurch and
stumble toward each other once again, for they moved like drunken men,
and the scales of their neck-armor and joints were as red as fishes’
gills when they raised them They left foul wet footprints behind them
on the green grass as they moved forward once more to their endless
contest.
Beaumanoir, faint with the drain of his blood and with a tongue of
leather, paused as he advanced. “I am fainting, comrades,” he cried. “I
must drink.”
“Drink your own blood, Beaumanoir!” cried Dubois, and the weary men all
croaked together in dreadful laughter.
But now the English had learned from experience, and under the guidance
of Croquart they fought no longer in a straight line, but in one so
bent that at last it became a circle. As the Bretons still pushed and
staggered against it they thrust it back on every side, until they had
turned it into the most dangerous formation of all, a solid block of
men, their faces turned outward, their weapons bristling forth to meet
every attack. Thus the English stood, and no assault could move them.
They could lean against each other back to back while they waited and
allowed their foemen to tire themselves out. Again and again the
gallant Bretons tried to make a way through. Again and again they were
beaten back by a shower of blows.
Beaumanoir, his head giddy with fatigue, opened his helmet and gazed in
despair at this terrible, unbreakable circle. Only too clearly he could
see the inevitable result. His men were wearing themselves out. Already
many of them could scarce stir hand or foot, and might be dead for any
aid which they could give him in winning the fight. Soon all would be
in the same plight. Then these cursed English would break their circle
to swarm over his helpless men and to strike them down. Do what he
might, he could see no way by which such an end might be prevented. He
cast his eyes round in his agony, and there was one of his Bretons
slinking away to the side of the lists. He could scarce credit his
senses when he saw by the scarlet and silver that the deserter was his
own well-tried squire, William of Montaubon.
“William! William!” he cried. “Surely you would not leave me?”
But the other’s helmet was closed and he could hear nothing. Beaumanoir
saw that he was staggering away as swiftly as he could. With a cry of
bitter despair, he drew into a knot as many of his braves as could
still move, and together they made a last rush upon the English spears.
This time he was firmly resolved, deep in his gallant soul, that he
would come no foot back, but would find his death there amongst his
foemen or carve a path into the heart of their ranks. The fire in his
breast spread from man to man of his followers, and amid the crashing
of blows they still locked themselves against the English shields and
drove hard for an opening in their ranks.
But all was vain! Beaumanoir’s head reeled. His senses were leaving
him. In another minute he and his men would have been stretched
senseless before this terrible circle of steel, when suddenly the whole
array fell in pieces before his eyes, his enemies Croquart, Knolles,
Calverly, Belford, all were stretched upon the ground together, their
weapons dashed from their hands and their bodies too exhausted to rise.
The surviving Bretons had but strength to fall upon them dagger in
hands, and to wring from them their surrender with the sharp point
stabbing through their visors. Then victors and vanquished lay groaning
and panting in one helpless and blood-smeared heap.
To Beaumanoir’s simple mind it had seemed that at the supreme moment
the Saints of Brittany had risen at their country’s call. Already, as
he lay gasping, his heart was pouring forth its thanks to his patron
Saint Cadoc. But the spectators had seen clearly enough the earthly
cause of this sudden victory, and a hurricane of applause from one
side, with a storm of hooting from the other showed how different was
the emotion which it raised in minds which sympathized with the victors
or the vanquished.
William of Montaubon, the cunning squire, had made his way across to
the spot where the steeds were tethered, and had mounted his own great
roussin. At first it was thought that he was about to ride from the
field, but the howl of execration from the Breton peasants changed
suddenly to a yell of applause and delight as he turned the beast’s
head for the English circle and thrust his long prick spurs into its
side. Those who faced him saw this sudden and unexpected appearance.
Time was when both horse and rider must have winced away from the
shower of their blows. But now they were in no state to meet such a
rush. They could scarce raise their arms. Their blows were too feeble
to hurt this mighty creature. In a moment it had plunged through the
ranks, and seven of them were on the grass. It turned and rushed
through them again, leaving five others helpless beneath its hoofs. No
need to do more! Already Beaumanoir and his companions were inside the
circle, the prostrate men were helpless, and Josselin had won.
That night a train of crestfallen archers, bearing many a prostrate
figure, marched sadly into Ploermel Castle. Behind them rode ten men,
all weary, all wounded, and all with burning hearts against William of
Montaubon for the foul trick that he had served them.
But over at Josselin, yellow gorse-blossoms in their helmets, the
victors were borne in on the shoulders of a shouting mob, amid the
fanfare of trumpets and the beating of drums. Such was the combat of
the Midway Oak, where brave men met brave men, and such honor was
gained that from that day he who had fought in the Battle of the Thirty
was ever given the highest place and the post of honor, nor was it easy
for any man to pretend to have been there, for it has been said by that
great chronicler who knew them all, that not one on either side failed
to carry to his grave the marks of that stern encounter.
XXIV.
HOW NIGEL WAS CALLED TO HIS MASTER
“My sweet ladye,” wrote Nigel in a script which it would take the eyes
of love to read, “there hath been a most noble meeting in the fourth
sennight of Lent betwixt some of our own people and sundry most worthy
persons of this country, which ended, by the grace of our Lady, in so
fine a joust that no man living can call to mind so fair an occasion.
Much honor was gained by the Sieurde Beaumanoir and also by an Almain
named Croquart, with whom I hope to have some speech when I am hale
again, for he is a most excellent person and very ready to advance
himself or to relieve another from a vow. For myself I had hoped, with
Godde’s help, to venture that third small deed which might set me free
to haste to your sweet side, but things have gone awry with me, and I
early met with such scathe and was of so small comfort to my friends
that my heart is heavy within me, and in sooth I feel that I have lost
honor rather than gained it. Here I have lain since the Feast of the
Virgin, and here I am like still to be, for I can move no limb, save
only my hand; but grieve not, sweet lady, for Saint Catharine hath been
our friend since in so short a time I had two such ventures as the Red
Ferret and the intaking of the Reaver’s fortalice. It needs but one
more deed, and sickerly when I am hale once more it will not be long
ere I seek it out. Till then, if my eyes may not rest upon you, my
heart at least is ever at thy feet.”
So he wrote from his sick-room in the Castle of Ploermel late in the
summer, but yet another summer had come before his crushed head had
mended and his wasted limbs had gained their strength once more. With
despair he heard of the breaking of the truce, and of the fight at
Mauron in which Sir Robert Knolles and Sir Walter Bentley crushed the
rising power of Brittany—a fight in which many of the thirty champions
of Josselin met their end. Then, when with renewed strength and high
hopes in his heart he went forth to search for the famous Croquart who
proclaimed himself ever ready night or day to meet any man with any
weapon, it was only to find that in trying the paces of his new horse
the German had been cast into a ditch and had broken his neck. In the
same ditch perished Nigel’s last chance of soon accomplishing that deed
which should free him from his vow.
There was truce once more over all Christendom, and mankind was sated
with war, so that only in far-off Prussia, where the Teutonic knights
waged ceaseless battle with the Lithuanian heathen, could he hope to
find his heart’s desire. But money and high knightly fame were needed
ere a man could go upon the northern crusade, and ten years were yet to
pass ere Nigel should look from the battlements of Marienberg on the
waters of the Frische Haff, or should endure the torture of the hot
plate when bound to the Holy Woden stone of Memel. Meanwhile, he chafed
his burning soul out through the long seasons of garrison life in
Brittany, broken only by one visit to the château of the father of
Raoul, when he carried to the Lord of Grosbois the news of how his son
had fallen like a gallant gentleman under the gateway of La Brohinière.
And then, then at last, when all hope was well-nigh dead in his heart,
there came one glorious July morning which brought a horseman bearing a
letter to the Castle of Vannes, of which Nigel now was seneschal. It
contained but few words, short and clear as the call of a war-trumpet.
It was Chandos who wrote. He needed his Squire at his side, for his
pennon was in the breeze once more. He was at Bordeaux. The Prince was
starting at once for Bergerac, whence he would make a great raid into
France. It would not end without a battle. They had sent word of their
coming, and the good French King had promised to be at great pains to
receive them. Let Nigel hasten at once. If the army had left, then let
him follow after with all speed. Chandos had three other squires, but
would very gladly see his fourth once again, for he had heard much of
him since he parted, and nothing which he might not have expected to
hear of his father’s son. Such was the letter which made the summer sun
shine brighter and the blue sky seem of a still fairer blue upon that
happy morning in Vannes.
It is a weary way from Vannes to Bordeaux. Coastwise ships are hard to
find, and winds blow north when all brave hearts would fain be speeding
south. A full month has passed from the day when Nigel received his
letter before he stood upon the quay-side of the Garonne amid the
stacked barrels of Gascon wine and helped to lead Pommers down the
gang-planks. Not Aylward himself had a worse opinion of the sea than
the great yellow horse, and he whinnied with joy as he thrust his
muzzle into his master’s outstretched hand, and stamped his ringing
hoofs upon the good firm cobblestones. Beside him, slapping his tawny
shoulder in encouragement, was the lean spare form of Back Simon who
had remained ever under Nigel’s pennon.
But Aylward, where was he? Alas! two years before he and the whole of
Knolles’ company of archers had been drafted away on the King’s service
to Guienne, and since he could not write the Squire knew not whether he
was alive or dead. Simon, indeed, had thrice heard of him from
wandering archers, each time that he was alive and well and newly
married, but as the wife in one case was a fair maid, and in another a
dark, while in the third she was a French widow, it was hard to know
the truth.
Already the army had been gone a month, but news of it came daily to
the town, and such news as all men could read, for through the landward
gates there rolled one constant stream of wagons, pouring down the
Libourne Road, and bearing the booty of Southern France. The town was
full of foot-soldiers, for none but mounted men had been taken by the
Prince. With sad faces and longing eyes they watched the passing of the
train of plunder-laden carts, piled high with rich furniture, silks,
velvets, tapestries, carvings, and precious metals, which had been the
pride of many a lordly home in fair Auvergne or the wealthy
Bourbonnais.
Let no man think that in these wars England alone was face to face with
France alone. There is glory and to spare without trifling with the
truth. Two Provinces in France, both rich and warlike, had become
English through a royal marriage, and these, Guienne and Gascony,
furnished many of the most valiant soldiers under the island flag. So
poor a country as England could not afford to keep a great force
overseas, and so must needs have lost the war with France through want
of power to uphold the struggle. The feudal system enabled an army to
be drawn rapidly together with small expense, but at the end of a few
weeks it dispersed again as swiftly, and only by a well-filled
money-chest could it be held together. There was no such chest in
England, and the King was forever at his wits’ end how to keep his men
in the field.
But Guienne and Gascony were full of knights and squires who were
always ready to assemble from their isolated castles for a raid into
France, and these with the addition of those English cavaliers who
fought for honor, and a few thousand of the formidable archers, hired
for fourpence a day, made an army with which a short campaign could be
carried on. Such were the materials of the Prince’s force, some eight
thousand strong, who were now riding in a great circle through Southern
France, leaving a broad wale of blackened and ruined country behind
them.
But France, even with her southwestern corner in English hands, was
still a very warlike power, far richer and more populous than her
rival. Single Provinces were so great that they were stronger than many
a kingdom. Normandy in the north, Burgundy in the east, Brittany in the
west and Languedoc in the south were each capable of fitting out a
great army of their own. Therefore the brave and spirited John,
watching from Paris this insolent raid into his dominions, sent
messengers in hot haste to all these great feudatories as well as to
Lorraine, Picardy, Auvergne, Hainault, Vermandois, Champagne, and to
the German mercenaries over his eastern border, bidding all of them to
ride hard, with bloody spur, day and night, until they should gather to
a head at Chartres.
There a great army had assembled early in September, whilst the Prince,
all unconscious of its presence sacked towns and besieged castles from
Bourges to Issodun, passing Romorautin, and so onward to Vierzon and to
Tours. From week to week there were merry skirmishes at barriers, brisk
assaults of fortresses in which much honor was won, knightly meetings
with detached parties of Frenchmen and occasional spear-runnings where
noble champions deigned to venture their persons. Houses, too, were to
be plundered, while wine and women were in plenty. Never had either
knights or archers had so pleasant and profitable an excursion, so that
it was with high heart and much hope of pleasant days at Bordeaux with
their pockets full of money that the army turned south from the Loire
and began to retrace its steps to the seaboard city.
But now its pleasant and martial promenade changed suddenly to very
serious work of war. As the Prince moved south he found that all
supplies had been cleared away from in front of him and that there was
neither fodder for the horses nor food for the men. Two hundred wagons
laden with spoil rolled at the head of the army, but the starving
soldiers would soon have gladly changed it all for as many loads of
bread and of meat. The light troops of the French had preceded then and
burned or destroyed everything that could be of use. Now also for the
first time the Prince and his men became aware that a great army was
moving upon the eastern side of them, streaming southward in the hope
of cutting off their retreat to the sea. The sky glowed with their
fires at night, and the autumn sun twinkled and gleamed from one end of
the horizon to the other upon the steel caps and flashing weapons of a
mighty host.
Anxious to secure his plunder, and conscious that the levies of France
were far superior in number to his own force, the Prince redoubled his
attempts to escape; but his horses were exhausted and his starving men
were hardly to be kept in order. A few more days would unfit them for
battle. Therefore, when he found near the village of Maupertuis a
position in which a small force might have a chance to hold its own, he
gave up the attempt to outmarch his pursuers, and he turned at bay,
like a hunted boar, all tusks and eyes of flame.
Whilst these high events had been in progress, Nigel with Black Simon
and four other men-at-arms from Bordeaux, was hastening northward to
join the army. As far as Bergerac they were in a friendly land, but
thence onward they rode over a blackened landscape with many a roofless
house, its two bare gable-ends sticking upward—a “Knolles’ miter” as it
was afterward called when Sir Robert worked his stern will upon the
country. For three days they rode northward, seeing many small parties
of French in all directions, but too eager to reach the army to ease
their march in the search of adventures.
Then at last after passing Lusignan they began to come in touch with
English foragers, mounted bowmen for the most part, who were
endeavoring to collect supplies either for the army or for themselves.
From them Nigel learned that the Prince, with Chandos ever at his side,
was hastening south and might be met within a short day’s march. As he
still advanced these English stragglers became more and more numerous,
until at last he overtook a considerable column of archers moving in
the same direction as his own party. These were men whose horses had
failed them and who had therefore been left behind on the advance, but
were now hastening to be in time for the impending battle. A crowd of
peasant girls accompanied them upon their march, and a whole train of
laden mules were led beside them.
Nigel and his little troop of men-at-arms were riding past the archers
when Black Simon with a sudden exclamation touched his leader upon the
arm.
“See yonder, fair sir,” he cried, with gleaming eyes, “there where the
wastrel walks with the great fardel upon his back! Who is he who
marches behind him?”
Nigel looked, and was aware of a stunted peasant who bore upon his
rounded back an enormous bundle very much larger than himself. Behind
him walked a burly broad-shouldered archer, whose stained jerkin and
battered headpiece gave token of long and hard service. His bow was
slung over his shoulder, and his arms were round the waists of two
buxom Frenchwomen, who tripped along beside him with much laughter and
many saucy answers flung back over their shoulders to a score of
admirers behind them.
“Aylward!” cried Nigel, spurring forward.
The archer turned his bronzed face, stared for an instant with wild
eyes, and then, dropping his two ladies, who were instantly carried off
by his comrades, he rushed to seize the hand which his young master
held down to him. “Now, by my hilt, Squire Nigel, this is the fairest
sight of my lifetime!” he cried. “And you, old leather-face! Nay,
Simon, I would put my arms round your dried herring of a body, if I
could but reach you. Here is Pommers too, and I read in his eye that he
knows me well and is as ready to put his teeth into me as when he stood
in my father’s stall.”
It was like a whiff of the heather-perfumed breezes of Hankley to see
his homely face once more. Nigel laughed with sheer joy as he looked at
him.
“It was an ill day when the King’s service called you from my side,”
said he, “and by Saint Paul! I am right glad to set eyes upon you once
more! I see well that you are in no wise altered, but the same Aylward
that I have ever known. But who is this varlet with the great bundle
who waits upon your movements?”
“It is no less than a feather-bed, fair sir, which he bears upon his
back, for I would fain bring it to Tilford, and yet it is overlarge for
me when I take my place with my fellows in the ranks. But indeed this
war has been a most excellent one, and I have already sent half a
wagonload of my gear back to Bordeaux to await my homecoming. Yet I
have my fears when I think of all the rascal foot-archers who are
waiting there, for some folk have no grace or honesty in their souls,
and cannot keep their hands from that which belongs to another. But if
I may throw my leg over yonder spare horse I will come on with you,
fair sir, for indeed it would be joy to my heart to know that I was
riding under your banner once again.”
So Aylward, having given instructions to the bearer of his feather-bed,
rode away in spite of shrill protests from his French companions, who
speedily consoled themselves with those of his comrades who seemed to
have most to give. Nigel’s party was soon clear of the column of
archers and riding hard in the direction of the Prince’s army. They
passed by a narrow and winding track, through the great wood of
Nouaille, and found before them a marshy valley down which ran a
sluggish stream. Along its farther bank hundreds of horses were being
watered, and beyond was a dense block of wagons. Through these the
comrades passed, and then topped a small mound from which the whole
strange scene lay spread before them.
Down the valley the slow stream meandered with marshy meadows on either
side. A mile or two lower a huge drove of horses were to be seen
assembled upon the bank. They were the steeds of the French cavalry,
and the blue haze of a hundred fires showed where King John’s men were
camping. In front of the mound upon which they stood the English line
was drawn, but there were few fires, for indeed, save their horses,
there was little for them to cook. Their right rested upon the river,
and their array stretched across a mile of ground until the left was in
touch with a tangled forest which guarded it from flank attack. In
front was a long thick hedge and much broken ground, with a single
deeply rutted country road cutting through it in the middle. Under the
hedge and along the whole front of the position lay swarms of archers
upon the grass, the greater number slumbering peacefully with sprawling
limbs in the warm rays of the September sun. Behind were the quarters
of the various knights, and from end to end flew the banners and
pennons marked with the devices of the chivalry of England and Guienne.
With a glow in his heart Nigel saw those badges of famous captains and
leaders and knew that now at last he also might show his coat-armor in
such noble company. There was the flag of Jean Grailly, the Captal de
Buch, five silver shells on a black cross, which marked the presence of
the most famous soldier of Gascony, while beside it waved the red lion
of the noble Knight of Hainault, Sir Eustace d’Ambreticourt. These two
coats Nigel knew, as did every warrior in Europe, but a dense grove of
pennoned lances surrounded them, bearing charges which were strange to
him, from which he understood that these belonged to the Guienne
division of the army. Farther down the line the famous English ensigns
floated on the wind, the scarlet and gold of Warwick, the silver star
of Oxford, the golden cross of Suffolk, the blue and gold of
Willoughby, and the gold-fretted scarlet of Audley. In the very center
of them all was one which caused all others to pass from his mind, for
close to the royal banner of England, crossed with the label of the
Prince, there waved the war-worn flag with the red wedge upon the
golden field which marked the quarters of the noble Chandos.
At the sight Nigel set spurs to his horse, and a few minutes later had
reached the spot. Chandos, gaunt from hunger and want of sleep, but
with the old fire lurking in his eye, was standing by the Prince’s
tent, gazing down at what could be seen of the French array, and heavy
with thought. Nigel sprang from his horse and was within touch of his
master when the silken hanging of the royal tent was torn violently
aside and Edward rushed out.
He was without his armor and clad in a sober suit of black, but the
high dignity of his bearing and the imperious anger which flushed his
face proclaimed the leader and the Prince. At his heels was a little
white-haired ecclesiastic in a flowing gown of scarlet sendal,
expostulating and arguing in a torrent of words.
“Not another word, my Lord Cardinal,” cried the angry prince. “I have
listened to you overlong, and by God’s dignity! that which you say is
neither good nor fair in my ears. Hark you, John, I would have your
counsel. What think you is the message which my Lord Cardinal of
Perigord has carried from the King of France? He says that of his
clemency he will let my army pass back to Bordeaux if we will restore
to him all that we have taken, remit all ransoms, and surrender my own
person with that of a hundred nobles of England and Guienne to be held
as prisoners. What think you, John?”
Chandos smiled. “Things are not done in that fashion,” said he.
“But my Lord Chandos,” cried the Cardinal, “I have made it clear to the
Prince that indeed it is a scandal to all Christendom and a cause of
mocking to the heathen, that two great sons of the Church should turn
their swords thus upon each other.”
“Then bid the King of France keep clear of us,” said the Prince.
“Fair son, you are aware that you are in the heart of his country and
that it standeth not aright that he should suffer you to go forth as
you came. You have but a small army, three thousand bowmen and five
thousand men-at-arms at the most, who seem in evil case for want of
food and rest. The King has thirty thousand men at his back, of which
twenty thousand are expert men-at-arms. It is fitting therefore that
you make such terms as you may, lest worse befall.”
“Give my greetings to the King of France and tell him that England will
never pay ransom for me. But it seems to me, my Lord Cardinal, that you
have our numbers and condition very ready upon your tongue, and I would
fain know how the eye of a Churchman can read a line of battle so
easily. I have seen that these knights of your household have walked
freely to and fro within our camp, and I much fear that when I welcomed
you as envoys I have in truth given my protection to spies. How say
you, my Lord Cardinal?”
“Fair Prince, I know not how you can find it in your heart or
conscience to say such evil words.”
“There is this red-bearded nephew of thine, Robert de Duras. See where
he stands yonder, counting and prying. Hark hither, young sir! I have
been saying to your uncle the Cardinal that it is in my mind that you
and your comrades have carried news of our dispositions to the French
King. How say you?”
The knight turned pale and sank his eyes. “My lord,” he murmured, “it
may be that I have answered some questions.”
“And how will such answers accord with your honor, seeing that we have
trusted you since you came in the train of the Cardinal?”
“My lord, it is true that I am in the train of the Cardinal, and yet I
am liege man of King John and a knight of France, so I pray you to
assuage your wrath against me.”
The Prince ground his teeth and his piercing eyes blazed upon the
youth. “By my father’s soul! I can scarce forbear to strike you to the
earth! But this I promise you, that if you show that sign of the Red
Griffin in the field and if you be taken alive in to-morrow’s battle,
your head shall most assuredly be shorn from your shoulders.”
“Fair son, indeed you speak wildly,” cried the Cardinal. “I pledge you
my word that neither my nephew Robert nor any of my train will take
part in the battle. And now I leave you, sire, and may God assoil your
soul, for indeed in all this world no men stand in greater peril than
you and those who are around you, and I rede you that you spend the
night in such ghostly exercises as may best prepare you for that which
may befall.” So saying the Cardinal bowed, and with his household
walking behind him set off for the spot where they had left their’
horses, whence they rode to the neighboring Abbey.
The angry Prince turned upon his heel and entered his tent once more,
whilst Chandos, glancing round, held out a warm welcoming hand to
Nigel.
“I have heard much of your noble deeds,” said he. “Already your name
rises as a squire errant. I stood no higher, nor so high, at your age.”
Nigel flushed with pride and pleasure. “Indeed, my dear lord, it is
very little that I have done. But now that I am back at your side I
hope that in truth I shall learn to bear myself in worthy fashion, for
where else should I win honor if it be not under your banner.”
“Truly, Nigel, you have come at a very good time for advancement. I
cannot see how we can leave this spot without a great battle which will
live in men’s minds forever. In all our fights in France I cannot call
to mind any in which they have been so strong or we so weak as now, so
that there will be the more honor to be gained. I would that we had two
thousand more archers. But I doubt not that we shall give them much
trouble ere they drive us out from amidst these hedges. Have you seen
the French?”
“Nay, fair sir, I have but this moment arrived.”
“I was about to ride forth myself to coast their army and observe their
countenance, so come with me ere the night fall, and we shall see what
we can of their order and dispositions.”
There was a truce betwixt the two forces for the day, on account of the
ill-advised and useless interposition of the Cardinal of Perigord,
Hence when Chandos and Nigel had pushed their horses through the long
hedge which fronted the position they found that many small parties of
the knights of either army were riding up and down on the plain
outside. The greater number of these groups were French, since it was
very necessary for them to know as much as possible of the English
defenses; and many of their scouts had ridden up to within a hundred
yards of the hedge, where they were sternly ordered back by the pickets
of archers on guard.
Through these scattered knots of horsemen Chandos rode, and as many of
them were old antagonists it was “Ha, John!” on the one side, and “Ha,
Raoul!” “Ha, Nicholas!” “Ha, Guichard!” upon the other, as they brushed
past them. Only one cavalier greeted them amiss, a large, red-faced
man, the Lord Clermont, who by some strange chance bore upon his
surcoat a blue virgin standing amid golden sunbeams, which was the very
device which Chandos had donned for the day. The fiery Frenchman dashed
across their path and drew his steed back on to its haunches.
“How long is it, my Lord Chandos,” said he hotly, “since you have taken
it upon yourself to wear my arms?”
Chandos smiled. “It is surely you who have mine,” said he, “since this
surcoat was worked for thee by the good nuns of Windsor a long year
ago.”
“If it were not for the truce,” said Clermont, “I would soon show you
that you have no right to wear it.”
“Look for it then in the battle to-morrow, and I also will look for
yours,” Chandos answered. “There we can very honorably settle the
matter.”
But the Frenchman was choleric and hard to appease. “You English can
invent nothing,” said he, “and you take for your own whatever you see
handsome belonging to others.” So, grumbling and fuming, he rode upon
his way, while Chandos, laughing gayly, spurred onward across the
plain.
The immediate front of the English line was shrouded with scattered
trees and bushes which hid the enemy; but when they had cleared these a
fair view of the great French army lay before them. In the center of
the huge camp was a long and high pavilion of red silk, with the silver
lilies of the King at one end of it, and the golden oriflamme, the
battle-flag of old France, at the other. Like the reeds of a pool from
side to side of the broad array, and dwindling away as far as their
eyes could see, were the banners and pennons of high barons and famous
knights, but above them all flew the ducal standards which showed that
the feudal muster of all the warlike provinces of France was in the
field before them.
With a kindling eye Chandos looked across at the proud ensigns of
Normandy, or Burgundy, of Auvergne, of Champagne, of Vermandois, and of
Berry, flaunting and gleaming in the rays of the sinking sun. Riding
slowly down the line he marked with attentive gaze the camp of the
crossbowmen, the muster of the German mercenaries, the numbers of the
foot-soldiers, the arms of every proud vassal or vavasor which might
give some guide as to the power of each division. From wing to wing and
round the flanks he went, keeping ever within crossbow-shot of the
army, and then at last having noted all things in his mind he turned
his horse’s head and rode slowly back, heavy with thought, to the
English lines.
XXV.
HOW THE KING OF FRANCE HELD COUNSEL AT MAUPERTUIS
The morning of Sunday, the nineteenth of September, in the year of our
Lord 1356, was cold and fine. A haze which rose from the marshy valley
of Muisson covered both camps and set the starving Englishmen
shivering, but it cleared slowly away as the sun rose. In the red
silken pavilion of the French King—the same which had been viewed by
Nigel and Chandos the evening before—a solemn mass was held by the
Bishop of Chalons, who prayed for those who were about to die, with
little thought in his mind that his own last hour was so near at hand.
Then, when communion had been taken by the King and his four young sons
the altar was cleared away, and a great red-covered table placed
lengthwise down the tent, round which John might assemble his council
and determine how best he should proceed. With the silken roof, rich
tapestries of Arras round the walls and Eastern rugs beneath the feet,
his palace could furnish no fairer chamber.
King John, who sat upon the canopied dais at the upper end, was now in
the sixth year of his reign and the thirty-sixth of his life. He was a
short burly man, ruddy-faced and deep-chested, with dark kindly eyes
and a most noble bearing. It did not need the blue cloak sewed with
silver lilies to mark him as the King. Though his reign had been short,
his fame was already widespread over all Europe as a kindly gentleman
and a fearless soldier—a fit leader for a chivalrous nation. His elder
son, the Duke of Normandy, still hardly more than a boy, stood beside
him, his hand upon the King’s shoulder, and John half turned from time
to time to fondle him. On the right, at the same high dais, was the
King’s younger brother, the Duke of Orleans, a pale heavy-featured man,
with a languid manner and intolerant eyes. On the left was the Duke of
Bourbon, sad-faced and absorbed, with that gentle melancholy in his
eyes and bearing which comes often with the premonition of death. All
these were in their armor, save only for their helmets, which lay upon
the board before them.
Below, grouped around the long red table, was an assembly of the most
famous warriors in Europe. At the end nearest the King was the veteran
soldier the Duke of Athens, son of a banished father, and now High
Constable of France. On one side of him sat the red-faced and choleric
Lord Clermont, with the same blue Virgin in golden rays upon his
surcoat which had caused his quarrel with Chandos the night before. On
the other was a noble-featured grizzly-haired soldier, Arnold
d’Andreghen, who shared with Clermont the honor of being Marshal of
France. Next to them sat Lord James of Bourbon, a brave warrior who was
afterwards slain by the White Company at Brignais, and beside him a
little group of German noblemen, including the Earl of Salzburg and the
Earl of Nassau, who had ridden over the frontier with their formidable
mercenaries at the bidding of the French King. The ridged armor and the
hanging nasals of their bassinets were enough in themselves to tell
every soldier that they were from beyond the Rhine. At the other side
of the table were a line of proud and warlike Lords, Fiennes,
Chatillon, Nesle, de Landas, de Beaujeu, with the fierce knight errant
de Chargny, he who had planned the surprise of Calais, and Eustace de
Ribeaumont, who had upon the same occasion won the prize of valor from
the hands of Edward of England. Such were the chiefs to whom the King
now turned for assistance and advice.
“You have already heard, my friends,” said he, “that the Prince of
Wales has made no answer to the proposal which we sent by the Lord
Cardinal of Perigord. Certes this is as it should be, and though I have
obeyed the call of Holy Church I had no fears that so excellent a
Prince as Edward of England would refuse to meet us in battle. I am now
of opinion that we should fall upon them at once, lest perchance the
Cardinal’s cross should again come betwixt our swords and our enemies.”
A buzz of joyful assent arose from the meeting, and even from the
attendant men-at-arms who guarded the door. When it had died away the
Duke of Orleans rose in his place beside the King.
“Sire,” said he, “you speak as we would have you do, and I for one am
of opinion that the Cardinal of Perigord has been an ill friend of
France, for why should we bargain for a part when we have but to hold
out our hand in order to grasp the whole? What need is there for words?
Let us spring to horse forthwith and ride over this handful of
marauders who have dared to lay waste your fair dominions. If one of
them go hence save as our prisoner we are the more to blame.”
“By Saint Denis, brother!” said the King, smiling, “if words could slay
you would have had them all upon their backs ere ever we left Chartres.
You are new to war, but when you have had experience of a stricken
field or two you would know that things must be done with forethought
and in order or they may go awry. In our father’s time we sprang to
horse and spurred upon these English at Crécy and elsewhere as you
advise, but we had little profit from it, and now we are grown wiser.
How say you, Sieur de Ribeaumont? You have coasted their lines and
observed their countenance. Would you ride down upon them, as my
brother has advised, or how would you order the matter?”
De Ribeaumont, a tall dark-eyed handsome man, paused ere he answered.
“Sire,” he said at last, “I have indeed ridden along their front and
down their flanks, in company with Lord Landas and Lord de Beaujeu, who
are here at your council to witness to what I say. Indeed, sire, it is
in my mind that though the English are few in number yet they are in
such a position amongst these hedges and vines that you would be
well-advised if you were to leave them alone, for they have no food and
must retreat, so that you will be able to follow them and to fight them
to better advantage.”
A murmur of disapproval rose from the company, and the Lord Clermont,
Marshal of the army, sprang to his feet, his face red with anger.
“Eustace; Eustace,” said he, “I bear in mind the days when you were of
great heart and high enterprise, but since King Edward gave you yonder
chaplet of pearls you have ever been backward against the English!”
“My Lord Clermont,” said de Ribeaumont sternly, “it is not for me to
brawl at the King’s council and in the face of the enemy, but we will
go further into this matter at some other time. Meanwhile, the King has
asked me for my advice and I have given it as best I might.”
“It had been better for your honor, Sir Eustace, had you held your
peace,” said the Duke of Orleans. “Shall we let them slip from our
fingers when we have them here and are fourfold their number? I know
not where we should dwell afterwards, for I am very sure that we should
be ashamed to ride back to Paris, or to look our ladies in the eyes
again.”
“Indeed, Eustace, you have done well to say what is in your mind,” said
the King; “but I have already said that we shall join battle this
morning, so that there is no room here for further talk. But I would
fain have heard from you how it would be wisest and best that we attack
them?”
“I will advise you, sire, to the best of my power. Upon their right is
a river with marshes around it, and upon their left a great wood, so
that we can advance only upon the center. Along their front is a thick
hedge, and behind it I saw the green jerkins of their archers, as thick
as the sedges by the river. It is broken by one road where only four
horsemen could ride abreast, which leads through the position. It is
clear then that if we are to drive them back we must cross the great
hedge, and I am very sure that the horses will not face it with such a
storm of arrows beating from behind it. Therefore, it is my council
that we fight upon foot, as the English did at Crécy, for indeed we may
find that our horses will be more hindrance than help to us this day.”
“The same thought was in my own mind, sire,” said Arnold d’Andreghen
the veteran Marshal. “At Crécy the bravest had to turn their backs, for
what can a man do with a horse which is mad with pain and fear? If we
advance upon foot we are our own masters, and if we stop the shame is
ours.”
“The counsel is good,” said the Duke of Athens, turning his shrewd
wizened face to the King; “but one thing only I would add to it. The
strength of these people lies in their archers, and if we could throw
them into disorder, were it only for a short time, we should win the
hedge; else they will shoot so strongly that we must lose many men
before we reach it, for indeed we have learned that no armor will keep
out their shafts when they are close.”
“Your words, fair sir, are both good and wise,” said the King, “but I
pray you to tell us how you would throw these archers into disorder?”
“I would choose three hundred horsemen, sire, the best and most forward
in the army. With these I would ride up the narrow road, and so turn to
right and left, falling upon the archers behind the hedge. It may be
that the three hundred would suffer sorely, but what are they among so
great a host, if a road may be cleared for their companions?”
“I would say a word to that, sire,” cried the German Count of Nassau,
“I have come here with my comrades to venture our persons in your
quarrel; but we claim the right to fight in our own fashion, and we
would count it dishonor to dismount from our steeds out of fear of the
arrows of the English. Therefore, with your permission, we will ride to
the front, as the Duke of Athens has advised, and so clear a path for
the rest of you.”
“This may not be!” cried the Lord Clermont angrily. “It would be
strange indeed if Frenchmen could not be found to clear a path for the
army of the King of France. One would think to hear you talk, my Lord
Count, that your hardihood was greater than our own, but by our Lady of
Rocamadour you will learn before nightfall that it is not so. It is for
me, who am a Marshal of France; to lead these three hundred, since it
is an honorable venture.”
“And I claim the same right for the same reason,” said Arnold of
Andreghen.
The German Count struck the table with his mailed fist. “Do what you
like!” said he. “But this only I can promise you, that neither I nor
any of my German riders will descend from our horses so long as they
are able to carry us, for in our country it is only people of no
consequence who fight upon their feet.”
The Lord Clermont was leaning angrily forward with some hot reply when
King John intervened. “Enough, enough!” he said. “It is for you to give
your opinions, and for me to tell you what you will do. Lord Clermont,
and you, Arnold, you will choose three hundred of the bravest cavaliers
in the army and you will endeavor to break these archers. As to you and
your Germans, my Lord Nassau, you will remain upon horseback, since you
desire it, and you will follow the Marshals and support them as best
you may. The rest of the army will advance upon foot, in three other
divisions as arranged: yours, Charles,” and he patted his son, the Duke
of Normandy, affectionately upon the hand; “yours, Philip,” he glanced
at the Duke of Orleans; “and the main battle which is my own. To you,
Geoffrey de Chargny, I intrust the oriflamme this day. But who is this
knight and what does he desire?”
A young knight, ruddy-bearded and tall, a red griffin upon his surcoat,
had appeared in the opening of the tent. His flushed face and
disheveled dress showed that he had come in haste. “Sire,” said he, “I
am Robert de Duras, of the household of the Cardinal de Perigord. I
have told you yesterday all that I have learned of the English camp.
This morning I was again admitted to it, and I have seen their wagons
moving to the rear. Sire, they are in flight for Bordeaux.”
“’Fore God, I knew it!” cried the Duke of Orleans in a voice of fury.
“Whilst we have been talking they have slipped through our fingers. Did
I not warn you?”
“Be silent, Philip!” said the King angrily. “But you, sir, have you
seen this with your own eyes?”
“With my own eyes, sire, and I have ridden straight from their camp.”
King John looked at him with a stern gaze. “I know not how it accords
with your honor to carry such tidings in such a fashion,” said he; “but
we cannot choose but take advantage of it. Fear not, brother Philip, it
is in my mind that you will see all that you would wish of the
Englishmen before nightfall. Should we fall upon them whilst they cross
the ford it will be to our advantage. Now, fair sirs, I pray you to
hasten to your posts and to carry out all that we have agreed. Advance
the oriflamme, Geoffrey, and do you marshal the divisions, Arnold. So
may God and Saint Denis have us in their holy keeping this day!”
The Prince of Wales stood upon that little knoll where Nigel had halted
the day before. Beside him were Chandos, and a tall sun-burned warrior
of middle age, the Gascon Captal de Buch. The three men were all
attentively watching the distant French lines, while behind them a
column of wagons wound down to the ford of the Muisson.
Close in the rear four knights in full armor with open visors sat their
horses and conversed in undertones with each other. A glance at their
shields would have given their names to any soldier, for they were all
men of fame who had seen much warfare. At present they were awaiting
their orders, for each of them commanded the whole or part of a
division of the army. The youth upon the left, dark, slim and earnest,
was William Montacute, Earl of Salisbury, only twenty-eight years of
age and yet a veteran of Crécy. How high he stood in reputation is
shown by the fact that the command of the rear, the post of honor in a
retreating army, had been given to him by the Prince. He was talking to
a grizzled harsh-faced man, somewhat over middle age, with lion
features and fierce light-blue eyes which gleamed as they watched the
distant enemy. It was the famous Robert de Ufford, Earl of Suffolk, who
had fought without a break from Cadsand onward through the whole
Continental War. The other tall silent soldier, with the silver star
gleaming upon his surcoat, was John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, and he
listened to the talk of Thomas Beauchamp, a burly, jovial, ruddy
nobleman and a tried soldier, who leaned forward and tapped his mailed
hand upon the other’s steel-clad thigh. They were old
battle-companions, of the same age and in the very prime of life, with
equal fame and equal experience of the wars. Such was the group of
famous English soldiers who sat their horses behind the Prince and
waited for their orders.
“I would that you had laid hands upon him,” said the Prince angrily,
continuing his conversation with Chandos, “and yet, perchance, it was
wiser to play this trick and make them think that we were retreating.”
“He has certainly carried the tidings,” said Chandos, with a smile. “No
sooner had the wagons started than I saw him gallop down the edge of
the wood.”
“It was well thought of, John,” the Prince remarked, “for it would
indeed be great comfort if we could turn their own spy against them.
Unless they advance upon us, I know not how we can hold out another
day, for there is not a loaf left in the army; and yet if we leave this
position where shall we hope to find such another?”
“They will stoop, fair sir, they will stoop to our lure. Even now
Robert de Duras will be telling them that the wagons are on the move,
and they will hasten to overtake us lest we pass the ford. But who is
this, who rides so fast? Here perchance may be tidings.”
A horseman had spurred up to the knoll. He sprang from the saddle, and
sank on one knee before the Prince.
“How now, my Lord Audley,” said Edward. “What would you have?”
“Sir,” said the knight, still kneeling with bowed head before his
leader, “I have a boon to ask of you.”
“Nay, James, rise! Let me hear what I can do.”
The famous knight errant, pattern of chivalry for all time; rose and
turned his swarthy face and dark earnest eyes upon his master. “Sir,”
said he, “I have ever served most loyally my lord your father and
yourself, and shall continue so to do so long as I have life. Dear sir,
I must now acquaint you that formerly I made a vow if ever I should be
in any battle under your command that I would be foremost or die in the
attempt. I beg therefore that you will graciously permit me to
honorably quit my place among the others, that I may post myself in
such wise as to accomplish my vow.”
The Prince smiled, for it was very sure that vow or no vow, permission
or no permission, Lord James Audley would still be in the van. “Go,
James,” said he, shaking his hand, “and God grant that this day you may
shine in valor above all knights. But hark, John, what is that?”
Chandos cast up his fierce nose like the eagle which smells slaughter
afar. “Surely, sir, all is forming even as we had planned it.”
From far away there came a thunderous shout. Then another and yet
another.
“See, they are moving!” cried the Captal de Buch.
All morning they had watched the gleam of the armed squadrons who were
drawn up in front of the French camp. Now whilst a great blare of
trumpets was borne to their ears, the distant masses flickered and
twinkled in the sunlight.
“Yes, yes, they are moving!” cried the Prince.
“They are moving! They are moving!” Down the line the murmur ran. And
then with a sudden impulse the archers at the hedge sprang to their
feet and the knights behind them waved their weapons in the air, while
one tremendous shout of warlike joy carried their defiance to the
approaching enemy. Then there fell such a silence that the pawing of
the horses or the jingle of their harness struck loud upon the ear,
until amid the hush there rose a low deep roar like the sound of the
tide upon the beach, ever growing and deepening as the host of France
drew near.
XXVI.
HOW NIGEL FOUND HIS THIRD DEED
Four archers lay behind a clump of bushes ten yards in front of the
thick hedge which shielded their companions. Amid the long line of
bowmen those behind them were their own company, and in the main the
same who were with Knolles in Brittany. The four in front were their
leaders: old Wat of Carlisle, Ned Widdington the red-headed Dalesman,
the bald bowyer Bartholomew, and Samkin Alyward, newly rejoined after a
week’s absence. All four were munching bread and apples, for Aylward
had brought in a full haversack and divided them freely amongst his
starving comrades. The old Borderer and the Yorkshireman were gaunt and
hollow-eyed with privation, while the bowyer’s round face had fallen in
so that the skin hung in loose pouches under his eyes and beneath his
jaws.
Behind them lines of haggard, wolfish men glared through the underwood,
silent and watchful save that they burst into a fierce yelp of welcome
when Chandos and Nigel galloped up, sprang from their horses and took
their station beneath them. All along the green fringe of bowmen might
be seen the steel-clad figures of knights and squires who had pushed
their way into the front line to share the fortune of the archers.
“I call to mind that I once shot six ends with a Kentish woldsman at
Ashford—” began the Bowyer.
“Nay, nay, we have heard that story!” said old Wat impatiently. “Shut
thy clap, Bartholomew, for it is no time for redeless gossip! Walk down
the line, I pray you, and see if there be no frayed string, nor broken
nock nor loosened whipping to be mended.”
The stout bowyer passed down the fringe of bowmen, amidst a running
fire of rough wit. Here and there a bow was thrust out at him through
the hedge for his professional advice.
“Wax your heads!” he kept crying. “Pass down the wax-pot and wax your
heads. A waxed arrow will pass where a dry will be held. Tom Beverley,
you jack-fool! where is your bracer-guard? Your string will flay your
arm ere you reach your up-shot this day. And you, Watkin, draw not to
your mouth, as is your wont, but to your shoulder. You are so used to
the wine-pot that the string must needs follow it. Nay, stand loose,
and give space for your drawing arms, for they will be on us anon.”
He ran back and joined his comrades in the front, who had now risen to
their feet. Behind them a half-mile of archers stood behind the hedge,
each with his great warbow strung, half a dozen shafts loose behind
him, and eighteen more in the quiver slung across his front. With arrow
on string, their feet firm-planted, their fierce eager faces peering
through the branches, they awaited the coming storm.
The broad flood of steel, after oozing slowly forward, had stopped
about a mile from the English front. The greater part of the army had
then descended from their horses, while a crowd of varlets and hostlers
led them to the rear. The French formed themselves now into three great
divisions, which shimmered in the sun like silvery pools, reed-capped
with many a thousand of banners and pennons. A space of several hundred
yards divided each. At the same time two bodies of horsemen formed
themselves in front. The first consisted of three hundred men in one
thick column, the second of a thousand, riding in a more extended line.
The Prince had ridden up to the line of archers. He was in dark armor,
his visor open, and his handsome aquiline face all glowing with spirit
and martial fire. The bowmen yelled at him, and he waved his hands to
them as a huntsman cheers his hounds.
“Well, John, what think you now?” he asked. “What would my noble father
not give to be by our side this day? Have you seen that they have left
their horses?”
“Yes, my fair lord, they have learned their lesson,” said Chandos.
“Because we have had good fortune upon our feet at Crécy and elsewhere
they think that they have found the trick of it. But it is in my mind
that it is very different to stand when you are assailed, as we have
done, and to assail others when you must drag your harness for a mile
and come weary to the fray.”
“You speak wisely, John. But these horsemen who form in front and ride
slowly towards us, what make you of them?”
“Doubtless they hope to cut the strings of our bowmen and so clear a
way for the others. But they are indeed a chosen band, for mark you,
fair sir, are not those the colors of Clermont upon the left, and of
d’Andreghen upon the right, so that both marshals ride with the
vanguard?”
“By God’s soul, John!” cried the Prince, “it is very sure that you can
see more with one eye than any man in this army with two. But it is
even as you say. And this larger band behind?”
“They should be Germans, fair sir, by the fashion of their harness.”
The two bodies of horsemen had moved slowly over the plain, with a
space of nearly a quarter of a mile between them. Now, having come two
bowshots from the hostile line, they halted. All that they could see of
the English was the long hedge, with an occasional twinkle of steel
through its leafy branches, and behind that the spear-heads of the
men-at-arms rising from amidst the brushwood and the vines. A lovely
autumn countryside with changing many-tinted foliage lay stretched
before them, all bathed in peaceful sunshine, and nothing save those
flickering fitful gleams to tell of the silent and lurking enemy who
barred their way. But the bold spirit of the French cavaliers rose the
higher to the danger. The clamor of their war-cries filled the air, and
they tossed their pennoned spears over their heads in menace and
defiance. From the English line it was a noble sight, the gallant,
pawing, curveting horses, the many-colored twinkling riders, the swoop
and wave and toss of plume and banner.
Then a bugle rang forth. With a sudden yell every spur struck deep,
every lance was laid in rest, and the whole gallant squadron flew like
a glittering thunderbolt for the center of the English line.
A hundred yards they had crossed, and yet another hundred, but there
was no movement in front of them, and no sound save their own hoarse
battle-cries and the thunder of their horses. Ever swifter and swifter
they flew. From behind the hedge it was a vision of horses, white, bay
and black, their necks stretched, their nostrils distended, their
bellies to the ground, whilst of the rider one could but see a shield
with a plume-tufted visor above it, and a spear-head twinkling in
front.
Then of a sudden the Prince raised his hand and gave a cry. Chandos
echoed it, it swelled down the line, and with one mighty chorus of
twanging strings and hissing shafts the long-pent storm broke at last.
Alas for the noble steeds! Alas for the gallant men. When the lust of
battle is over who would not grieve to see that noble squadron break
into red ruin before the rain of arrows beating upon the faces and
breasts of the horses? The front rank crashed down, and the others
piled themselves upon the top of them, unable to check their speed, or
to swerve aside from the terrible wall of their shattered comrades
which had so suddenly sprung up before them. Fifteen feet high was that
blood-spurting mound of screaming, kicking horses and writhing,
struggling men. Here and there on the flanks a horseman cleared himself
and dashed for the hedge, only to have his steed slain under him and to
be hurled from his saddle. Of all the three hundred gallant riders, not
one ever reached that fatal hedge.
But now in a long rolling wave of steel the German battalion roared
swiftly onward. They opened in the center to pass that terrible mound
of death, and then spurred swiftly in upon the archers. They were brave
men, well led, and in their open lines they could avoid the clubbing
together which had been the ruin of the vanguard; yet they perished
singly even as the others had perished together. A few were slain by
the arrows. The greater number had their horses killed under them, and
were so shaken and shattered by the fall that they could not raise
their limbs, over-weighted with iron, from the spot where they lay.
Three men riding together broke through the bushes which sheltered the
leaders of the archers, cut down Widdington the Dalesman, spurred
onward through the hedge, dashed over the bowmen behind it, and made
for the Prince. One fell with an arrow through his head, a second was
beaten from his saddle by Chandos, and the third was slain by the
Prince’s own hand. A second band broke through near the river, but were
cut off by Lord Audley and his squires, so that all were slain. A
single horseman whose steed was mad with pain, an arrow in its eye and
a second in its nostril, sprang over the hedge and clattered through
the whole army, disappearing amid whoops and laughter into the woods
behind. But none others won as far as the hedge. The whole front of the
position was fringed with a litter of German wounded or dead, while one
great heap in the center marked the downfall of the gallant French
three hundred.
Whilst these two waves of the attack had broken in front of the English
position, leaving this blood-stained wreckage behind them, the main
divisions had halted and made their last preparations for their own
assault. They had not yet begun their advance, and the nearest was
still half a mile distant, when the few survivors from the forlorn
hope, their maddened horses bristling with arrows, flew past them on
either flank.
At the same moment the English archers and men-at-arms dashed through
the hedge, and dragged all who were living out of that tangled heap of
shattered horses and men. It was a mad wild rush, for in a few minutes
the fight must be renewed, and yet there was a rich harvest of wealth
for the lucky man who could pick a wealthy prisoner from amid the
crowd. The nobler spirits disdained to think of ransoms whilst the
fight was still unsettled; but a swarm of needy soldiers, Gascons and
English, dragged the wounded out by the leg or the arm, and with
daggers at their throats demanded their names, title and means. He who
had made a good prize hurried him to the rear where his own servants
could guard him, while he who was disappointed too often drove the
dagger home and then rushed once more into the tangle in the hope of
better luck. Clermont, with an arrow through the sky-blue Virgin on his
surcoat, lay dead within ten paces of the hedge; d’Andreghen was
dragged by a penniless squire from under a horse and became his
prisoner. The Earl of Salzburg and of Nassau were both found helpless
on the ground and taken to the rear. Aylward cast his thick arms round
Count Otto von Langenbeck, and laid him, helpless from a broken leg,
behind his bush. Black Simon had made prize of Bernard, Count of
Ventadour, and hurried him through the hedge. Everywhere there was
rushing and shouting, brawling and buffeting, while amidst it all a
swarm of archers were seeking their shafts, plucking them from the
dead, and sometimes even from the wounded. Then there was a sudden cry
of warning. In a moment every man was back in his place once more, and
the line of the hedge was clear.
It was high time; for already the first division of the French was
close upon them. If the charge of the horsemen had been terrible from
its rush and its fire, this steady advance of a huge phalanx of armored
footmen was even more fearsome to the spectator. They moved very
slowly, on account of the weight of their armor, but their progress was
the more regular and inexorable. With elbows touching—their shields
slung in front, their short five-foot spears carried in their right
hands, and their maces or swords ready at their belts, the deep column
of men-at-arms moved onward. Again the storm of arrows beat upon them
clinking and thudding on the armor. They crouched double behind their
shields as they met it. Many fell, but still the slow tide lapped
onward. Yelling, they surged up to the hedge, and lined it for half a
mile, struggling hard to pierce it.
For five minutes the long straining ranks faced each other with fierce
stab of spear on one side and heavy beat of ax or mace upon the other.
In many parts the hedge was pierced or leveled to the ground, and the
French men-at-arms were raging amongst the archers, hacking and hewing
among the lightly armed men. For a moment it seemed as if the battle
was on the turn.
But John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, cool, wise and crafty in war, saw and
seized his chance. On the right flank a marshy meadow skirted the
river. So soft was it that a heavily-armed man would sink to his knees.
At his order a spray of light bowmen was thrown out from the battle
line and forming upon the flank of the French poured their arrows into
them. At the same moment Chandos, with Audley, Nigel, Bartholomew
Burghersh, the Captal de Buch, and a score of other knights sprang upon
their horses, and charging down the narrow lane rode over the French
line in front of them. Once through it they spurred to left and right,
trampling down the dismounted men-at-arms.
A fearsome sight was Pommers that day, his red eyes rolling, his
nostrils gaping, his tawny mane tossing, and his savage teeth gnashing
in fury, as he tore and smashed and ground beneath his ramping hoofs
all that came before him. Fearsome too was the rider, ice-cool; alert,
concentrated of purpose, with, heart of fire and muscles of steel. A
very angel of battle he seemed as he drove his maddened horse through
the thickest of the press, but strive as he would: the tall figure of
his master upon his coal-black steed was ever half a length before him.
Already the moment of danger was passed. The French line had given
back. Those who had pierced the hedge had fallen like brave men amid
the ranks of their foemen. The division of Warwick had hurried up from
the vineyards to fill the gaps of Salisbury’s battle-line. Back rolled
the shining tide, slowly at first, even as it had advanced, but quicker
now as the bolder fell and the weaker shredded out and shuffled with
ungainly speed for a place of safety. Again there was a rush from
behind the hedge. Again there was a reaping of that strange crop of
bearded arrows which grew so thick upon the ground, and again the
wounded prisoners were seized and dragged in brutal haste to the rear.
Then the line was restored, and the English, weary, panting and shaken,
awaited the next attack.
But a great good fortune had come to them—so great that as they looked
down the valley they could scarce credit their own senses. Behind the
division of the Dauphin, which had pressed them so hard, stood a second
division hardly less numerous, led by the Duke of Orleans. The
fugitives from in front, blood-smeared and bedraggled, blinded with
sweat and with fear, rushed amidst its ranks in their flight, and in a
moment, without a blow being struck, had carried them off in their wild
rout. This vast array, so solid and so martial, thawed suddenly away
like a snow-wreath in the sun. It was gone, and in its place thousands
of shining dots scattered over the whole plain as each man made his own
way to the spot where he could find his horse and bear himself from the
field. For a moment it seemed that the battle was won, and a
thundershout of joy pealed up from the English line.
But as the curtain of the Duke’s division was drawn away it was only to
disclose stretching far behind it, and spanning the valley from side to
side, the magnificent array of the French King, solid, unshaken, and
preparing its ranks for the attack. Its numbers were as great as those
of the English army; it was unscathed by all that was past, and it had
a valiant monarch to lead it to the charge. With the slow deliberation
of the man who means to do or to die, its leader marshaled its ranks
for the supreme effort of the day.
Meanwhile during that brief moment of exultation when the battle
appeared to be won, a crowd of hot-headed young knights and squires
swarmed and clamored round the Prince, beseeching that he would allow
them to ride forth.
“See this insolent fellow who bears three martlets upon a field gales!”
cried Sir Maurice Berkeley. “He stands betwixt the two armies as though
he had no dread of us.”
“I pray you, sir, that I may ride out to him, since he seems ready to
attempt some small deed,” pleaded Nigel.
“Nay, fair sirs, it is an evil thing that we should break our line,
seeing that we still have much to do,” said the Prince. “See! he rides
away, and so the matter is settled.”
“Nay, fair prince,” said the young knight who had spoken first. “My
gray horse, Lebryte, could run him down ere he could reach shelter.
Never since I left Severn side have I seen steed so fleet as mine.
Shall I not show you?” In an instant he had spurred the charger and was
speeding across the plain.
The Frenchman, John de Helennes, a squire of Picardy, had waited with a
burning heart, his soul sick at the flight of the division in which he
had ridden. In the hope of doing some redeeming exploit, or of meeting
his own death, he had loitered betwixt the armies, but no movement had
come from the English lines. Now he had turned his horse’s head to join
the King’s array, when the low drumming of hoofs sounded behind him,
and he turned to find a horseman hard upon his heels. Each had drawn
his sword, and the two armies paused to view the fight. In the first
bout Sir Maurice Berkeley’s lance was struck from his hand, and as he
sprang down to recover it the Frenchman ran him through the thigh,
dismounted from his horse, and received his surrender. As the
unfortunate Englishman hobbled away at the side of his captor a roar of
laughter burst from both armies at the spectacle.
“By my ten finger-bones!” cried Aylward, chuckling behind the remains
of his bush, “he found more on his distaff that time than he knew how
to spin. Who was the knight?”
“By his arms,” said old Wat, “he should either be a Berkeley of the
West or a Popham of Kent.”
“I call to mind that I shot a match of six ends once with a Kentish
woldsman—” began the fat Bowyer.
“Nay, nay, stint thy talk, Bartholomew!” cried old Wat. “Here is poor
Ned with his head cloven, and it would be more fitting if you were
saying aves for his soul, instead of all this bobance and boasting.
Now, now, Tom of Beverley?”
“We have suffered sorely in this last bout, Wat. There are forty of our
men upon their backs, and the Dean Foresters on the right are in worse
case still.”
“Talking will not mend it, Tom, and if all but one were on their backs
he must still hold his ground.”
Whilst the archers were chatting, the leaders of the army were in
solemn conclave just behind them. Two divisions of the French had been
repulsed, and yet there was many an anxious face as the older knights
looked across the plain at the unbroken array of the French King moving
slowly toward them. The line of the archers was much thinned and
shredded. Many knights and squires had been disabled in the long and
fierce combat at the hedge. Others, exhausted by want of food, had no
strength left and were stretched panting upon the ground. Some were
engaged in carrying the wounded to the rear and laying them under the
shelter of the trees, whilst others were replacing their broken swords
or lances from the weapons of the slain. The Captal de Buch, brave and
experienced as he was, frowned darkly and whispered his misgivings to
Chandos.
But the Prince’s courage flamed the higher as the shadow fell, while
his dark eyes gleamed with a soldier’s pride as he glanced round him at
his weary comrades, and then at the dense masses of the King’s battle
which now, with a hundred trumpets blaring and a thousand pennons
waving, rolled slowly over the plain. “Come what may, John, this has
been a most noble meeting,” said he. “They will not be ashamed of us in
England. Take heart, my friends, for if we conquer we shall carry the
glory ever with us; but if we be slain then we die most worshipfully
and in high honor, as we have ever prayed that we might die, and we
leave behind us our brothers and kinsmen who will assuredly avenge us.
It is but one more effort, and all will be well. Warwick, Oxford,
Salisbury, Suffolk, every man to the front! My banner to the front
also! Your horses, fair sirs! The archers are spent, and our own good
lances must win the field this day. Advance, Walter, and may God and
Saint George be with England!”
Sir Walter Woodland, riding a high black horse, took station by the
Prince, with the royal banner resting in a socket by his saddle. From
all sides the knights and squires crowded in upon it, until they formed
a great squadron containing the survivors of the battalions of Warwick
and Salisbury as well as those of the Prince. Four hundred men-at-arms
who had been held in reserve were brought up and thickened the array,
but even so Chandos’ face was grave as he scanned it and then turned
his eyes upon the masses of the Frenchmen.
“I like it not, fair sir. The weight is overgreat,” he whispered to the
Prince.
“How would you order it, John? Speak what is in your mind.”
“We should attempt something upon their flank whilst we hold them in
front. How say you, Jean?” He turned to the Captal de Buch, whose dark,
resolute face reflected the same misgivings.
“Indeed, John, I think as you do,” said he. “The French King is a very
valiant man, and so are those who are about him, and I know not how we
may drive them back unless we can do as you advise. If you will give me
only a hundred men I will attempt it.”
“Surely the task is mine, fair sir, since the thought has come from
me,” said Chandos.
“Nay, John, I would keep you at my side. But you speak well, Jean, and
you shall do even as you have said. Go ask the Earl of Oxford for a
hundred men-at-arms and as many hobblers, that you may ride round the
mound yonder, and so fall upon them unseen. Let all that are left of
the archers gather on each side, shoot away their arrows, and then
fight as best they may. Wait till they are past yonder thorn-bush and
then, Walter, bear my banner straight against that of the King of
France. Fair sirs, may God and the thought of your ladies hold high
your hearts!”
The French monarch, seeing that his footmen had made no impression upon
the English, and also that the hedge had been well-nigh leveled to the
ground in the course of the combat, so that it no longer presented an
obstacle, had ordered his followers to remount their horses, and it was
as a solid mass of cavalry that the chivalry of France advanced to
their last supreme effort. The King was in the center of the front
line, Geoffrey de Chargny with the golden oriflamme upon his right, and
Eustace de Ribeaumont with the royal lilies upon the left. At his elbow
was the Duke of Athens, High Constable of France, and round him were
the nobles of the court, fiery and furious, yelling their warcries as
they waved their weapons over their heads. Six thousand gallant men of
the bravest race in Europe, men whose very names are like blasts of a
battle-trumpet—Beaujeus and Chatillons, Tancarvilles and
Ventadours—pressed hard behind the silver lilies.
Slowly they moved at first, walking their horses that they might be the
fresher for the shock. Then they broke into a trot which was quickening
into a gallop when the remains of the hedge in front of them was beaten
in an instant to the ground and the broad line of the steel-clad
chivalry of England swept grandly forth to the final shock. With loose
rein and busy spur the two lines of horsemen galloped at the top of
their speed straight and hard for each other. An instant later they met
with a thunder-crash which was heard by the burghers on the wall of
Poitiers, seven good miles away.
Under that frightful impact horses fell dead with broken necks, and
many a rider, held in his saddle by the high pommel, fractured his
thighs with the shock. Here and there a pair met breast to breast, the
horses rearing straight upward and falling back upon their masters. But
for the most part the line had opened in the gallop, and the cavaliers,
flying through the gaps, buried themselves in the enemy’s ranks. Then
the flanks shredded out, and the thick press in the center loosened
until there was space to swing a sword and to guide a steed. For ten
acres there was one wild tumultuous swirl of tossing heads, of gleaming
weapons which rose and fell, of upthrown hands, of tossing plumes and
of lifted shields, whilst the din of a thousand war-cries and the
clash-clash of metal upon metal rose and swelled like the roar and beat
of an ocean surge upon a rock-bound coast. Backward and forward swayed
the mighty throng, now down the valley and now up, as each side in turn
put forth its strength for a fresh rally. Locked in one long deadly
grapple, great England and gallant France with iron hearts and souls of
fire strove and strove for mastery.
Sir Walter Woodland, riding hard upon his high black horse, had plunged
into the swelter and headed for the blue and silver banner of King
John. Close at his heels in a solid wedge rode the Prince, Chandos,
Nigel, Lord Reginald Cobham, Audley with his four famous squires, and a
score of the flower of the English and Gascon knighthood. Holding
together and bearing down opposition by a shower of blows and by the
weight of their powerful horses, their progress was still very slow,
for ever fresh waves of French cavaliers surged up against them and
broke in front only to close in again upon their rear. Sometimes they
were swept backward by the rush, sometimes they gained a few paces,
sometimes they could but keep their foothold, and yet from minute to
minute that blue and silver flag which waved above the press grew ever
a little closer. A dozen furious hard-breathing French knights had
broken into their ranks, and clutched at Sir Walter Woodland’s banner,
but Chandos and Nigel guarded it on one side, Audley with his squires
on the other, so that no man laid his hand upon it and lived.
But now there was a distant crash and a roar of “Saint George for
Guienne!” from behind. The Captal de Buch had charged home. “Saint
George for England!” yelled the main attack, and ever the counter-cry
came back to them from afar. The ranks opened in front of them. The
French were giving way. A small knight with golden scroll-work upon his
armor threw himself upon the Prince and was struck dead by his mace. It
was the Duke of Athens, Constable of France, but none had time to note
it, and the fight rolled on over his body. Looser still were the French
ranks. Many were turning their horses, for that ominous roar from the
rear had shaken their resolution. The little English wedge poured
onward, the Prince, Chandos, Audley and Nigel ever in the van.
A huge warrior in black, bearing a golden banner, appeared suddenly in
a gap of the shredding ranks. He tossed his precious burden to a
squire, who bore it away. Like a pack of hounds on the very haunch of a
deer the English rushed yelling for the oriflamme. But the black
warrior flung himself across their path. “Chargny! Chargny _à la
recousse!_” he roared with a voice of thunder. Sir Reginald Cobham
dropped before his battle-ax, so did the Gascon de Clisson. Nigel was
beaten down on to the crupper of his horse by a sweeping blow; but at
the same instant Chandos’ quick blade passed through the Frenchman’s
camail and pierced his throat. So died Geoffrey de Chargny; but the
oriflamme was saved.
Dazed with the shock, Nigel still kept his saddle, and Pommers, his
yellow hide mottled with blood, bore him onward with the others. The
French horsemen were now in full flight; but one stern group of knights
stood firm, like a rock in a rushing torrent, beating off all, whether
friend or foe, who tried to break their ranks. The oriflamme had gone,
and so had the blue and silver banner, but here were desperate men
ready to fight to the death. In their ranks honor was to be reaped. The
Prince and his following hurled themselves upon them, while the rest of
the English horsemen swept onward to secure the fugitives and to win
their ransoms. But the nobler spirits—Audley, Chandos and the
others—would have thought it shame to gain money whilst there was work
to be done or honor to be won. Furious was the wild attack, desperate
the prolonged defense. Men fell from their saddles for very exhaustion.
Nigel, still at his place near Chandos’ elbow, was hotly attacked by a
short broad-shouldered warrior upon a stout white cob, but Pommers
reared with pawing fore feet and dashed the smaller horse to the
ground. The falling rider clutched Nigel’s arm and tore him from the
saddle, so that the two rolled upon the grass under the stamping hoofs,
the English squire on the top, and his shortened sword glimmered before
the visor of the gasping, breathless Frenchman.
“_Je me rends! je me rends!_” he panted.
For a moment a vision of rich ransoms passed through Nigel’s brain.
That noble palfrey, that gold-flecked armor, meant fortune to the
captor. Let others have it! There was work still to be done. How could
he desert the Prince and his noble master for the sake of a private
gain? Could he lead a prisoner to the rear when honor beckoned him to
the van? He staggered to his feet, seized Pommers by the mane, and
swung himself into the saddle.
An instant later he was by Chandos’ side once more and they were
bursting together through the last ranks of the gallant group who had
fought so bravely to the end. Behind them was one long swath of the
dead and the wounded. In front the whole wide plain was covered with
the flying French and their pursuers.
The Prince reined up his steed and opened his visor, whilst his
followers crowded round him with waving weapons and frenzied shouts of
victory. “What now, John!” cried the smiling Prince, wiping his
streaming face with his ungauntleted hand. “How fares it then?”
“I am little hurt, fair lord, save for a crushed hand and a spear-prick
in the shoulder. But you, sir? I trust you have no scathe?”
“In truth, John, with you at one elbow and Lord Audley at the other, I
know not how I could come to harm. But alas! I fear that Sir James is
sorely stricken.”
The gallant Lord Audley had dropped upon the ground and the blood oozed
from every crevice of his battered armor. His four brave Squires—Dutton
of Dutton, Delves of Doddington, Fowlhurst of Crewe and Hawkstone of
Wainhill—wounded and weary themselves, but with no thought save for
their master, unlaced his helmet and bathed his pallid blood-stained
face.
He looked up at the Prince with burning eyes. “I thank you, sir, for
deigning to consider so poor a knight as myself,” said he in a feeble
voice.
The Prince dismounted and bent over him. “I am bound to honor you very
much, James,” said he, “for by your valor this day you have won glory
and renown above us all, and your prowess has proved you to be the
bravest knight.”
“My Lord,” murmured the wounded man, “you have a right to say what you
please; but I wish it were as you say.”
“James,” said the Prince, “from this time onward I make you a knight of
my own household, and I settle upon you five hundred marks of yearly
income from my own estates in England.”
“Sir,” the knight answered, “God make me worthy of the good fortune you
bestow upon me. Your knight I will ever be, and the money I will divide
with your leave amongst these four squires who have brought me whatever
glory I have won this day.” So saying his head fell back, and he lay
white and silent upon the grass.
“Bring water!” said the Prince. “Let the royal leech see to him; for I
had rather lose many men than the good Sir James. Ha, Chandos, what
have we here?”
A knight lay across the path with his helmet beaten down upon his
shoulders. On his surcoat and shield were the arms of a red griffin.
“It is Robert de Duras the spy,” said Chandos.
“Well for him that he has met his end,” said the angry Prince. “Put him
on his shield, Hubert, and let four archers bear him to the monastery.
Lay him at the feet of the Cardinal and say that by this sign I greet
him. Place my flag on yonder high bush, Walter, and let my tent be
raised there, that my friends may know where to seek me.”
The flight and pursuit had thundered far away, and the field was
deserted save for the numerous groups of weary horsemen who were making
their way back, driving their prisoners before them. The archers were
scattered over the whole plain, rifling the saddle-bags and gathering
the armor of those who had fallen, or searching for their own scattered
arrows.
Suddenly, however, as the Prince was turning toward the bush which he
had chosen for his headquarters, there broke out from behind him an
extraordinary uproar and a group of knights and squires came pouring
toward him, all arguing, swearing and abusing each other in French and
English at the tops of their voices. In the midst of them limped a
stout little man in gold-spangled armor, who appeared to be the object
of the contention, for one would drag him one way and one another, as
though they would pull him limb from limb. “Nay, fair sirs, gently,
gently, I pray you!” he pleaded. “There is enough for all, and no need
to treat me so rudely.” But ever the hubbub broke out again, and swords
gleamed as the angry disputants glared furiously at each other. The
Prince’s eyes fell upon the small prisoner, and he staggered back with
a gasp of astonishment.
“King John!” he cried.
A shout of joy rose from the warriors around him. “The King of France!
The King of France a prisoner!” they cried in an ecstasy.
“Nay, nay, fair sirs, let him not hear that we rejoice! Let no word
bring pain to his soul!” Running forward the Prince clasped the French
King by the two hands.
“Most welcome, sire!” he cried. “Indeed it is good for us that so
gallant a knight should stay with us for some short time, since the
chance of war has so ordered it. Wine there! Bring wine for the King!”
But John was flushed and angry. His helmet had been roughly torn off,
and blood was smeared upon his cheek. His noisy captors stood around
him in a circle, eying him hungrily like dogs who have been beaten from
their quarry. There were Gascons and English, knights, squires and
archers, all pushing and straining.
“I pray you, fair Prince, to get rid of these rude fellows,” said King
John, “for indeed they have plagued me sorely. By Saint Denis! my arm
has been well-nigh pulled from its socket.”
“What wish you then?” asked the Prince, turning angrily upon the noisy
swarm of his followers.
“We took him, fair lord. He is ours!” cried a score of voices. They
closed in, all yelping together like a pack of wolves. “It was I, fair
lord!”—“Nay, it was I!”—“You lie, you rascal, it was I!” Again their
fierce eyes glared and their blood-stained hands sought the hilts of
their weapons.
“Nay, this must be settled here and now!” said the Prince. “I crave
your patience, fair and honored sir, for a few brief minutes, since
indeed much ill-will may spring from this if it be not set at rest. Who
is this tall knight who can scarce keep his hands from the King’s
shoulder?”
“It is Denis de Morbecque, my lord, a knight of St. Omer, who is in our
service, being an outlaw from France.”
“I call him to mind. How then, Sir Denis? What say you in this matter?”
“He gave himself to me, fair lord. He had fallen in the press, and I
came upon him and seized him. I told him that I was a knight from
Artois, and he gave me his glove. See here, I bear it in my hand.”
“It is true, fair lord! It is true!” cried a dozen French voices.
“Nay, sir, judge not too soon!” shouted an English squire, pushing his
way to the front. “It was I who had him at my mercy, and he is my
prisoner, for he spoke to this man only because he could tell by his
tongue that he was his own countryman. I took him, and here are a score
to prove it.”
“It is true, fair lord. We saw it and it was even so,” cried a chorus
of Englishmen.
At all times there was growling and snapping betwixt the English and
their allies of France. The Prince saw how easily this might set a
light to such a flame as could not readily be quenched. It must be
stamped out now ere it had time to mount.
“Fair and honored lord,” he said to the King, “again I pray you for a
moment of patience. It is your word and only yours which can tell us
what is just and right. To whom were you graciously pleased to commit
your royal person?”
King John looked up from the flagon which had been brought to him and
wiped his lips with the dawnings of a smile upon his ruddy face.
“It was not this Englishman,” he said, and a cheer burst from the
Gascons, “nor was it this bastard Frenchman,” he added. “To neither of
them did I surrender.”
There was a hush of surprise.
“To whom then, sir?” asked the Prince.
The King looked slowly round. “There was a devil of a yellow horse,”
said he. “My poor palfrey went over like a skittle-pin before a ball.
Of the rider I know nothing save that he bore red roses on a silver
shield. Ah! by Saint Denis, there is the man himself, and there his
thrice-accursed horse!”
His head swimming, and moving as if in a dream, Nigel found himself the
center of the circle of armed and angry men.
The Prince laid his hand upon his shoulder. “It is the little cock of
Tilford Bridge,” said he. “On my father’s soul, I have ever said that
you would win your way. Did you receive the King’s surrender?”
“Nay, fair lord, I did not receive it.”
“Did you hear him give it?”
“I heard, sir, but I did not know that it was the King. My master Lord
Chandos had gone on, and I followed after.”
“And left him lying. Then the surrender was not complete, and by the
laws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque, if his story be
true.”
“It is true,” said the King. “He was the second.”
“Then the ransom is yours, Denis. But for my part I swear by my
father’s soul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has gathered
than all the richest ransoms of France.”
At these words spoken before that circle of noble warriors Nigel’s
heart gave one great throb, and he dropped upon his knee before the
Prince. “Fair lord, how can I thank you?” he murmured. “These words at
least are more than any ransom.”
“Rise up!” said the smiling Prince, and he smote with his sword upon
his shoulder. “England has lost a brave Squire, and has gained a
gallant knight. Nay, linger not, I pray! Rise up, Sir Nigel!”
XXVII.
HOW THE THIRD MESSENGER CAME TO COSFORD
Two months have passed, and the long slopes of Hindhead are russet with
the faded ferns—the fuzzy brown pelt which wraps the chilling earth.
With whoop and scream the wild November wind sweeps over the great
rolling downs, tossing the branches of the Cosford beeches, and
rattling at the rude latticed windows. The stout old knight of Duplin,
grown even a little stouter, with whiter beard to fringe an ever redder
face, sits as of yore at the head of his own board. A well-heaped
platter flanked by a foaming tankard stands before him. At his right
sits the Lady Mary, her dark, plain, queenly face marked deep with
those years of weary waiting, but bearing the gentle grace and dignity
which only sorrow and restraint can give. On his left is Matthew, the
old priest. Long ago the golden-haired beauty had passed from Cosford
to Fernhurst, where the young and beautiful Lady Edith Brocas is the
belle of all Sussex, a sunbeam of smiles and merriment, save perhaps
when her thoughts for an instant fly back to that dread night when she
was plucked from under the very talons of the foul hawk of Shalford.
The old knight looked up as a fresh gust of wind with a dash of rain
beat against the window behind him. “By Saint Hubert, it is a wild
night!” said he. “I had hoped to-morrow to have a flight at a heron of
the pool or a mallard in the brook. How fares it with little Katherine
the peregrine, Mary?”
“I have joined the wing, father, and I have imped the feathers; but I
fear it will be Christmas ere she can fly again.”
“This is a hard saying,” said Sir John; “for indeed I have seen no
bolder better bird. Her wing was broken by a heron’s beak last Sabbath
sennight, holy father, and Mary has the mending of it.”
“I trust, my son, that you had heard mass ere you turned to worldly
pleasure upon God’s holy day,” Father Matthew answered.
“Tut, tut!” said the old knight, laughing. “Shall I make confession at
the head of my own table? I can worship the good God amongst his own
works, the woods and the fields, better than in yon pile of stone and
wood. But I call to mind a charm for a wounded hawk which was taught me
by the fowler of Gaston de Foix. How did it run? ‘The lion of the Tribe
of Judah, the root of David, has conquered.’ Yes, those were the words
to be said three times as you walk round the perch where the bird is
mewed.”
The old priest shook his head. “Nay, these charms are tricks of the
Devil,” said he. “Holy Church lends them no countenance, for they are
neither good nor fair. But how is it now with your tapestry, Lady Mary?
When last I was beneath this roof you had half done in five fair colors
the story of Theseus and Ariadne.”
“It is half done still, holy father.”
“How is this, my daughter? Have you then so many calls?”
“Nay, holy father, her thoughts are otherwhere,” Sir John answered.
“She will sit an hour at a time, the needle in her hand and her soul a
hundred leagues from Cosford House. Ever since the Prince’s battle—”
“Good father, I beg you—”
“Nay, Mary, none can hear me, save your own confessor, Father Matthew.
Ever since the Prince’s battle, I say, when we heard that young Nigel
had won such honor she is brain-wode, and sits ever—well, even as you
see her now.”
An intent look had come into Mary’s eyes; her gaze was fixed upon the
dark rain-splashed window. It was a face carved from ivory,
white-lipped and rigid, on which the old priest looked.
“What is it, my daughter? What do you see?”
“I see nothing, father.”
“What is it then that disturbs you?”
“I hear, father.”
“What do you hear?”
“There are horsemen on the road.”
The old knight laughed. “So it goes on, father. What day is there that
a hundred horsemen do not pass our gate, and yet every clink of hoofs
sets her poor heart a-trembling. So strong and steadfast she has ever
been, my Mary, and now no sound too slight to shake her to the soul!
Nay, daughter, nay, I pray you!”
She had half-risen from her chair, her hands clenched and her dark,
startled eyes still fixed upon the window. “I hear them, father! I hear
them amid the wind and the rain! Yes, yes, they are turning—they have
turned! My God, they are at our very door!”
“By Saint Hubert, the girl is right!” cried old Sir John, beating his
fist upon the board. “Ho, varlets, out with you to the yard! Set the
mulled wine on the blaze once more! There are travelers at the gate,
and it is no night to keep a dog waiting at our door. Hurry, Hannekin!
Hurry, I say, or I will haste you with my cudgel!”
Plainly to the ears of all men could be heard the stamping of the
horses. Mary had stood up, quivering in every limb. An eager step at
the threshold, the door was flung wide, and there in the opening stood
Nigel, the rain gleaming upon his smiling face, his cheeks flushed with
the beating of the wind, his blue eyes shining with tenderness and
love. Something held her by the throat, the light of the torches danced
up and down; but her strong spirit rose at the thought that others
should see that inner holy of holies of her soul. There is a heroism of
women to which no valor of man can attain. Her eyes only carried him
her message as she held out her hand.
“Welcome, Nigel!” said she.
He stooped and kissed it.
“Saint Catharine has brought me home,” said he.
A merry supper it was at Cosford Manor that night, with Nigel at the
head betwixt the jovial old knight and the Lady Mary, whilst at the
farther end Samkin Aylward, wedged between two servant maids, kept his
neighbors in alternate laughter and terror as he told his tales of the
French Wars. Nigel had to turn his doeskin heels and show his little
golden spurs. As he spoke of what was passed Sir John clapped him on
the shoulder, while Mary took his strong right hand in hers, and the
good old priest smiling blessed them both. Nigel had drawn a little
golden ring from his pocket, and it twinkled in the torchlight.
“Did you say that you must go on your way to-morrow, father?” he asked
the priest.
“Indeed, fair son, the matter presses.”
“But you may bide the morning?”
“It will suffice if I start at noon.”
“Much may be done in a morning.” He looked at Mary, who blushed and
smiled. “By Saint Paul! I have waited long enough.”
“Good, good!” chuckled the old knight, with wheezy laughter. “Even so I
wooed your mother, Mary. Wooers were brisk in the olden time. To-morrow
is Tuesday, and Tuesday is ever a lucky day. Alas! that the good Dame
Ermyntrude is no longer with us to see it done! The old hound must run
us down, Nigel, and I hear its bay upon my own heels; but my heart will
rejoice that before the end I may call you son. Give me your hand,
Mary, and yours, Nigel. Now, take an old man’s blessing, and may God
keep and guard you both, and give you your desert, for I believe on my
soul that in all this broad land there dwells no nobler man nor any
woman more fitted to be his mate!”
There let us leave them, their hearts full of gentle joy, the golden
future of hope and promise stretching out before their youthful eyes.
Alas for those green spring dreaming! How often do they fade and wither
until they fall and rot, a dreary sight, by the wayside of life! But
here, by God’s blessing, it was not so, for they burgeoned and they
grew, ever fairer and more noble, until the whole wide world might
marvel at the beauty of it.
It has been told elsewhere how as the years passed Nigel’s name rose
higher in honor; but still Mary’s would keep pace with it, each helping
and sustaining the other upon an ever higher path. In many lands did
Nigel carve his fame, and ever as he returned spent and weary from his
work he drank fresh strength and fire and craving for honor from her
who glorified his home. At Twynham Castle they dwelled for many years,
beloved and honored by all. Then in the fullness of time they came back
to the Tilford Manor-house and spent their happy, healthy age amid
those heather downs where Nigel had passed his first lusty youth, ere
ever he turned his face to the wars. Thither also came Aylward when he
had left the “Pied Merlin” where for many a year he sold ale to the men
of the forest.
But the years pass; the old wheel turns and ever the thread runs out.
The wise and the good, the noble and the brave, they come from the
darkness, and into the darkness they go, whence, whither and why, who
may say? Here is the slope of Hindhead. The fern still glows russet in
November, the heather still burns red in July; but where now is the
Manor of Cosford? Where is the old house of Tilford? Where, but for a
few scattered gray stones, is the mighty pile of Waverley? And yet even
gnawing Time has not eaten all things away. Walk with me toward
Guildford, reader, upon the busy highway. Here, where the high green
mound rises before us, mark yonder roofless shrine which still stands
foursquare to the winds. It is St. Catharine’s, where Nigel and Mary
plighted their faith. Below lies the winding river, and over yonder you
still see the dark Chantry woods which mount up to the bare summit, on
which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel of the Martyr where the
comrades beat off the archers of the crooked Lord of Shalford. Down
yonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills one traces the road by
which they made their journey to the wars. And now turn hither to the
north, down this sunken winding path! It is all unchanged since Nigel’s
day. Here is the Church of Compton. Pass under the aged and crumbling
arch. Before the steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed,
lies the dust of Nigel and of Mary. Near them is that of Maude their
daughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse she was; their children
and children’s children are lying by their side. Here too, near the old
yew in the churchyard, is the little mound which marks where Samkin
Aylward went back to that good soil from which he sprang.
So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish forever that
great old trunk of England, which still sheds forth another crop and
another, each as strong and as fair as the last. The body may lie in
moldering chancel, or in crumbling vault, but the rumor of noble lives,
the record of valor and truth, can never die, but lives on in the soul
of the people. Our own work lies ready to our hands; and yet our
strength may be the greater and our faith the firmer if we spare an
hour from present toils to look back upon the women who were gentle and
strong, or the men who loved honor more than life, on this green stage
of England where for a few short years we play our little part.