THE CHAPTER CALLED CHALUZ
When King Richard said, without any confirmatory oath, that he should
hang Adhémar of Limoges and the Count of Saint-Pol, all who heard him
believed it. The Abbot Milo believed it for one. Figuratively, you can
see his hands up as you read him. 'To hang two knights of such eminent
degree and parts,' he writes, 'were surely a great scandal in any
Christian king. Not that the punishment were undeserved or the
executioner insufficient, God knoweth! But very often true policy points
out the wisdom of the mean; and this is its deliberative, that to hang a
bad man when another vengeance is open--such as burning in his castle,
killing on his walls, or stabbing by apparent mistake for a common
person--to hang him, I say, suggests to the yet unhanged a way of
treating his betters. There are more ways of killing a dog than choking
him with butter; and so it is with lords and other rebels against kings.
In this particular case King Richard only thought to follow his great
father (whom at this time he much resembled): what in the end he did was
very different from any act of that monarch's that I ever heard tell of,
to remember which makes me weep tears of blood. But so he fully purposed
at that time, being in his hottest temper of Yea.'
He said Yea to the hanging of Saint-Pol and Limoges, and made ready a
host which must infallibly crush Chaluz were it twenty times prepared.
But he said Nay to the sacrifice of Jehane on Lebanon, and to that end
increased his arms to overawe all the kingdoms of the South which had
sanctioned it. Vanguard, battle and rear, he mustered fifteen thousand
men. Des Barres led the van, English bowmen, Norman knights. Battle was
his, all arms from Anjou, Poictou, and Touraine. Rearguard the Earl of
Leicester took, his viceroy in Aquitaine. When the garrison of Chaluz
saw the forested spears on the northern heights, the great engines piled
against the sky-line, the train of followers, pennons of the knights,
Dragon of England, Leopards of Anjou, the single Lion of Normandy, the
wise among them were for instant surrender.
'Here is an empery come out against us!' cried Adhémar. 'If I was not
right when I told you that I knew King Richard.'
'The filched empery of a thief,' said Saint-Pol. 'Honesty is ours. I
fight for my lady Berengère, the glory of two realms, my sovereign
mistress till I die.'
'Vastly well,' returned the other; 'but I do not fight for this lady,
but for a gold table with gold dolls sitting at it.' Such also was the
reflection of Achard, castellan of Chaluz, looking ruefully at his crazy
walls.
* * * * *
Two grassy hills rise, like breasts, out of a rolling plain of grass.
Each is crowned with a tower; between them are the church and village
of Chaluz, which form a straggling street. Wall and ditch pen in these
buildings and tie tower to tower: as Richard saw, it was the easiest
thing in the world to cut the line in the middle, isolate, then reduce
the towers at leisure. Adhémar saw that too, and got no comfort from it,
until it occurred to him that if he occupied one tower and left the
other to Saint-Pol, he would be free to act at his own discretion, that
is, not act at all against the massed power of England and Anjou.
Saint-Pol, you see, fought for the life of Richard, and Adhémar for a
gold table, which makes a great difference. He effected this separation
of garrisons; however, some show of resistance was made by manning the
walls and daring the day with banners.
King Richard went softly to work, as he always ways did when actually
hand in hand with war. Warfare was an art to him, neither a sport nor a
counter-irritant; he was never impetuous over it. For a week he
satisfied himself with a close investiture of the town on all sides. No
supplies could get in nor fugitives out. Then, when everything was
according to his liking, he advanced his engines, brought forward his
towers, set sappers to work, and delivered assault in due form and at
the weakest point. He succeeded exquisitely. There was no real defence.
The two hill-towers were stranded, Chaluz was his.
He put the garrison to the sword, and set the village on fire. At once
Viscount Adhémar and his men surrendered. Richard took the treasure--it
was found that the golden Cæesar had no head--and kept his word with the
finders, hanging the Viscount and castellan on one gibbet within sight
of the other tower. 'Oh, frozen villain,' swore Saint-Pol between his
teeth, 'so shalt thou never hang me.' But when he looked about him at
his dozen of thin-faced men he believed that if Richard was not to hang
him it might be necessary for him to hang himself. More, it came into
his mind that there was a hand or two under him which might be anxious
to save him the trouble. Being, however, a man of abundant spirit, he
laughed at the summons to surrender so long as there was a horse to eat,
man to shoot, or arrow for the shooting. As for fire, he believed
himself impregnable by that arm; and any day succour might come from the
South. Surely his Queen would not throw him to the dogs! Where was Count
John if not hastening to win a realm; where King Philip if not hopeful
to chastise a vassal? Daily King Richard, in no hurry, but desperately
reckless, rode close to the tower and met the hardy eyes of Saint-Pol
watching him from the top. Richard was a galliard fighter, as he had
always been.
'Come down, Saint-Pol,' he would say, 'and dance with Limoges.'
'When I come down, sire,' the answer would be, 'there will be no dancing
in your host.'
Richard took his time, and also intolerable liberties with his life.
Milo lost his hair with anxiety, not daring to speak; Gaston of Béarn
did dare, but was shaken off by his mad master. Des Barres, who loved
him, perhaps, as well as any, never left him for long together, and wore
his brain out devising shifts which might keep him away from the walls.
But Richard, for this present whim of his, chose out a companion devil
as heedless as himself, Mercadet namely, his brown Gascon captain, of
like proportions, like mettle, like foolhardiness; and with him made the
daily round, never omitting an exchange of grim banter with Saint-Pol.
It was terrible to see him, without helm on his head, or reason in it,
canter within range of the bow.
'Oh, Saint-Pol,' he said one day, 'if thou wert worth my pains, I would
have thee down and serve thee as I did thy brother Eudo. But no; thou
must be hanged, it seems.' And Saint-Pol, grinning cheerfully, answered,
'Have no fear, King, thou wilt never hang me.'
'By my soul,' said Richard back again, 'a little more of this bold gut
of thine, my man, and I let thee go free.'
'Sire,' said Saint-Pol soberly, 'that were the worst of all.'
'How so, boy?'
'Because, if you forgave me, I should be required by my knighthood to
forgive you; and that I will never do if I can help it. So I should live
and be damned.'
'Have it then as it must be,' said Richard laughing, and turned his
back. Saint-Pol could have shot him dead, but would not. 'Look, De
Gurdun,' he says, 'there goes the King unmailed. Wilt thou shoot him in
the back, and so end all?'
'By God, Eustace,' says Gilles, 'that I will not.'
'Why not, then?'
Gurdun said, 'Because I dare not. I am more afraid of him when he scorns
me thus than when his face is upon me. Let him lead an assault upon the
walls, and I will split his headpiece if I may; but I will never again
try him unarmed.'
'Pouf!' said Saint-Pol; but he was of the same mind.
* * * * *
Then came a day when Des Barres was out upon the neighbouring hills with
a company of knights, scouting. There had been rumours of hostile
movement from the South, from Provence and Roussillon; of a juncture of
Prince John, known to be in Gascony, with the Queen's brother of
Navarre. Nothing was known certainly, but Richard judged that John might
be tempted out. It was a bright cold day, cloudless, with a most bitter
north-east wind singing in the bents. Des Barres, sitting his horse on
the hill, blew upon his ungauntleted hand, then flacked it against his
side to drive the blood back. Surveying the field with a hunter's eye,
he saw King Richard ride out of the lines on his chestnut horse,
Mercadet with him, and (in a green cloak) Gaston of Béarn. Richard had a
red surcoat and a blown red plume in his cap. He carried no shield, and
by the ease with which he turned his body to look behind him, one hand
on the crupper, Des Barres was sure that he was not in mail.
'Folly of a fool!' he snorted to his neighbour, Savaric de Dreux: 'there
pricks our lord the King, as if to a party of hawks.'
'Wait,' said Savaric. 'Where away now?
'To bandy gibes with Saint-Pol, pardieu. Where else should he go at this
hour?'
'Saint-Pol will never do him a villainy,' said Savaric.
'No, no. But De Gurdun is there.'
'Wait now,' says Savaric again. 'Look, look! Who comes out of the
smoke?'
They could see the beleaguered tower perfectly, brown and warm-looking
in the sun; below it, still smoking, the village of Chaluz, a heap of
charred brickwork. They saw a man in clean white come creeping out of
the smoke, stooping at a run. He hid wherever he could behind the broken
wall, but always ran nearer, stooped and ran with bent body over his
bent knees. He worked his way thus, gradually nearer and nearer to the
tower; and Des Barres watched him anxiously.
'Some camp-thief making off--'
'Look, look!' cried Savaric. The white man had come out by the tower,
was now kneeling in the open; at the same moment a man slipped down a
rope from the tower-top. Before he had touched earth they saw the
kneeling man pull a bowstring to his ear and let fly. Next the fellow on
the rope, touching ground, ran fleetly forward and, springing on the
white-robed man, drove him to the earth. They saw the flash of a blade.
'That is strange warfare,' said Des Barres, greatly interested.
'There is warfare in heaven also,' said Savaric. 'See those two eagles.'
Two great birds were battling in the cold blue. Feathers fell idly, like
black snow-flakes; then one of the eagles heeled over, and down he
came.
But when they looked towards the tower again they saw a great commotion.
Men running, horses huddled together, one in red held up by one in
green. Then a riderless chestnut horse looked about him and neighed. Des
Barres gave a short cry. 'O God! They have shot King Richard between
them. Come, Savaric, we must go down.'
'Stop again,' said that other. 'Let us sweep up those assassins as we
go. There I see another thief in white.' Des Barres saw him too. 'Spur,
spur!' he called to his knights; 'follow me.' He got his line in motion,
they all galloped across the sunny slopes like a light cloud. But as
they drove forward the play was in progress; they saw it done, as it
were, in a scene. One white figure lay heaped upon the ground, another
was running by the wall towards him, furtively and bent, as the first
had come. The third actor, he of the tower, had not heard the runner,
but was still stooped over the man he had evidently killed, groping
probably for marks or papers upon him.
'Spur, spur!' cried Des Barres, and the line went rattling down. They
were not in time. The white runner was too quick for the killer of his
mate: he did, indeed, look round; but the other was upon him before he
could rise. There was a short tussle; the two rolled over and over. Then
the white-clad man got up, raised his fallen comrade, shouldered him,
and sped away into the smoke of Chaluz. When Des Barres and his friends
were within bowshot of the tower one man only was below it; and he lay
where he had been stabbed. The white-robed murderers, the living and
the dead, were lost in smoke. The King and his party were gone. Out of
the tower came Saint-Pol with his men, unarmed, bareheaded, and waited
silently in rank for Des Barres.
This one came up at a gallop. 'My prisoner, Count of Saint-Pol,' he
called out as he came; then halted his line by throwing up his hand.
'The King has been shot, Sir Guilhem,' Saint-Pol said gravely; 'not by
me. I am the King's prisoner. Take me to him, lest he die before I see
his eyes.'
'Who is that dead man of yours over there?' asked Des Barres.
'His name is Sieur Gilles de Gurdun, a knight of Normandy and enemy of
the King's, but dead (if dead he be) on the King's account. He killed
the assassin.'
'I know that very well,' says Des Barres, 'for I saw the deed, which was
a good one. I must hunt for those white-gowns. Who might they be?'
'I know nothing of them. They are no men of mine. Their robes were all
white, their faces all dark, and they ran like Turks. But what can Turks
do here?'
'They must be found,' said Des Barres, and sent out Savaric with half of
his men.
They picked up Gilles, quite dead of two wounds, one in the back of the
neck, another below the heart. Des Barres put him over his saddlebow;
then took his prisoners into camp.
King Richard had been carried to his pavilion and put to bed. His
physicians were with him, and the Abbot Milo, quite unmanned. Gaston of
Béarn was crying like a girl at the door. The Earl of Leicester had
ridden off for the Queen, Yvo Tibetot for the Count of Mortain. Des
Barres learned that they had pulled out the arrow, a common one of
Genoese make, but feared poison. King Richard had been shot in the right
lung.