TELLETH OF THE ONFALL AT BRAND
By wild and lonely ways Ulf led them, through mazy thicket, o'er
murmurous rill, through fragrant bracken that, sweeping to their
saddle-girths, whispered as they passed; now rode they by darkling
wood, now crossed they open heath; all unerring rode Ulf the Strong,
now wheeling sharp and sudden to skirt treacherous marsh or swamp, now
plunging into the gloom of desolate woods, on and on past lonely pools
where doleful curlews piped, nor faltered he nor stayed until, as the
sun grew low, they climbed a sloping upland crowned by mighty trees and
thick with underbrush; here Ulf checked his horse and lifted long arm
in warning, whereon the company halted, hard-breathing, yet very
orderly and silent.
Forthwith down lighted Beltane with Sir Benedict and Ulf who pointed
before them with his finger.
"Lords," said he, "beyond yon trees is a valley and in the valley the
tower of Brand, the which you may see from the brush yonder--aha! and
hear also, methinks!"
And indeed the air was full of a strange droning sound that rose and
fell unceasing, a drowsy, ominous hum.
"Ah, Benedict," said Beltane, frowning a little, "I like not that
sound! Summon we our wisest heads, for here is matter for thought and
sudden action methinks!"
Hereupon Sir Benedict beckoned to his five chiefest knights and they
together followed Ulf's broad back up the slope until they were come
within the little wood; and ever as they advanced the strange hum grew
louder, hoarser--a distant roar, pierced, ever and anon, by sharper
sound, a confused din that was the voice of desperate conflict.
Presently Ulf brought them to the edge of the little wood and, parting
twig and leaf, they looked forth and down. And what they saw was this:
A little valley, wondrous green but very desolate-seeming, for here and
there stood ruined walls and charred timbers that once had been fair
dwellings; and in the midst of this small and ruined hamlet, a mighty
tower uprose, hoary and weather-beaten, yet stark and grim against the
sunset. All about this tower a great camp lay, set well out of bow-shot,
and 'twixt camp and tower were many men whose armour flashed,
rank on rank, and archers who, kneeling behind mantlets, shot amain at
battlement and loophole. Against the tower were two great ladders,
roughly fashioned and a-swarm with men; but ever as they strove to
reach the battlement a mighty axe whirled and swung and a long sword
flashed, and ever as they fell, so fell one of the besiegers.
"There stand Walkyn and Tall Orson!" quoth Ulf, biting his nails. "Ha!--
they be dour fighters--would I stood with them!"
"We come in due season, methinks!" said Sir Benedict, stroking his
square chin, "what is your counsel, my lords?"
Quoth young Sir John of Griswold:
"Let us to horse and sally out on them, the hill is with us and we
shall--"
"Slay and be slain!" quoth Sir Benedict.
"Verily!" nodded grim Sir Bertrand, "dost speak like a very youth,
John!"
"Here, methinks," said Sir Benedict, "is work for pike and bow-string.
First break we their charge, then down on them in flank with shock and
might of all our lances."
"Ha! 'tis well be-thought, Benedict!" growled old Hubert of Erdington,
"so let me march with the pikes."
"Art silent, lord Beltane," quoth Sir Hacon, "dost agree?"
"Aye, truly," answered Beltane, rising, "but let our pikes march in V
formation, our mightiest men at the point of the V, and with archers
behind. Then, ere the foe do engage, let the V become an L, so shall we
oppose them two faces. Now, when Sir Pertolepe's chivalry charge, let
Sir Benedict with two hundred knights and men-at-arms spur in upon
their flank, driving them confused upon their main battle, what time I,
yet hid within the green, will sound my rallying note that Walkyn
knoweth of old, whereat he shall sally out upon their further flank.
Then will I, with my hundred horse, charge down upon their rear, so
should we have them, methinks? How say you, my lords?"
"Truly," quoth Sir Bertrand, closing his vizor, "thy father liveth
again in thee, methinks!"
Forthwith, pikemen and archers fell into array with Cnut at their head,
while behind the spreading ranks of pikes Prat and his archers were
ranged, bows strung and quivers slung before; and presently, at
Beltane's word, they swung forth of the sheltering green, fierce-eyed,
grim-lipped, bascinet and pike-head a-twinkle. Away they swung down the
slope, a stalwart company swift-treading and light, and in their midst
old Hubert of Erdington in his heavy armour, whose long sword flashed
as he flourished his farewell.
With rhythmic step and swing of broad mailed shoulders they marched
until they were come down into the valley. And now, as they advanced
swift and steady, rose shouts from besieged and besiegers; Sir
Pertolepe's trumpets brayed defiance and alarm, and of a sudden, forth
of his camp mailed horsemen rode rank upon rank, pennons a-flutter and
armour flashing in the sunset glare. But, as they mustered to the
charge, as shields flashed and lances sank, Sir Benedict's pikemen
wheeled, their ranks swung wide, and lo! the V was become an L. Now
from this L bows twanged and arrows flew amain above the kneeling
pikemen, what time Sir Pertolepe's trumpets blared the charge, and down
upon those slender ranks his heavy-armed chivalry thundered; horses
reared and fell, screaming, beneath the whistling arrow-shower, but on
swept the charge; those thin ranks bent and swayed 'neath the shock as
lance crossed pike, but these pike-butts rested on firm ground and upon
their deadly points, horses, smitten low, reared transfixed, and above
these rocking pikes steel flashed and flickered where the stout archers
plied their heavy broadswords, while, loud above the din, Sir Hubert's
voice boomed hoarse encouragement what time he thrust and smote above
the kneeling pikemen.
Now out from the green Sir Benedict paced astride his great black
charger, and behind him his two hundred steel-girt knights and
men-at-arms, their vizors closed, their shields slung before, the
points of their long and ponderous lances agleam high in air. Then
turned Sir Benedict and looked on their grimly ranks, glad-eyed:
"O sirs," quoth he, "who would not be a man to fight in such just
cause!"
So saying, he smiled his wry and twisted smile and closed his vizor:
then, with shield addressed and feet thrust far within the stirrups he
lightly feutred his deadly lance; and behold! down swept every lance
behind him as, leaning low behind his shield, he shouted right
joyously:
"Come ye, messires--lay on this day for Pentavalon!"
Forward bounded the great horses a-down the slope--away, away,
gathering speed with every stride--away, away, across the level with
flying rein and busy spur; and now a loud shouting and dire amaze among
Sir Pertolepe's battle with desperate wheeling of ranks and spurring of
rearing horses, while Sir Benedict's riders swept down on them, grim
and voiceless, fast and faster. Came a roaring crash beneath whose dire
shock Sir Pertolepe's ranks were riven and rent asunder, and over and
through their red confusion Sir Benedict rode in thunderous, resistless
might, straight for where, above their mid-most, close-set ranks,
fluttered and flew Sir Pertolepe's Raven banner. Now, in hot haste, Sir
Pertolepe launched another charge to check that furious onset, what
time he reformed and strengthened his main battle; but, with speed
unchecked, Sir Benedict's mighty ranks met them in full career--broke
them, flung them reeling back on Sir Pertolepe's staggering van and all
was wild disorder, above which roaring tumult the Raven banner reeled
and swayed and the fray waxed ever fiercer.
Now ran Beltane where stood Roger to hold his horse, with Ulf who
leaned upon a goodly axe and young Sir John of Griswold, who clenched
and wrung his mailed hands and bit upon his boyish lip and stamped in
his impatience.
"My lord," he cried, "my lord, suffer us to charge--ah! see--our good
Sir Benedict will be surrounded--cut off--"
"Nay, methinks he is too wise in war, he fighteth ever with calm head,
Sir John."
"But, messire, do but see--his charge is checked--see--see, he
yieldeth ground--he giveth back!"
"Aye, verily!" quoth Beltane, springing to saddle, "but behold how he
orders his line! O lovely knight! O wise Benedict! See you not his
wisdom now, Sir John? In his retreat he draweth Sir Pertolepe's main
battle athwart our line of charge, their flank exposed and open--to
horse, Sir John, to horse! Yet stir not until I give the word."
Forthwith sprang Sir John to saddle and Roger and Ulf also, what time
Beltane sat, his gaze upon the conflict, his bugle-horn in his hand; of
a sudden he clapped it to lip and sounded the old fierce rallying note.
High and shrill and loud it rang above the roar of battle, and lo!
distant and far, like an answer to the call, from the grim and battered
tower of Brand a mighty shout went up--"Arise! Arise!--Pentavalon!"
"Oho!" cried Roger, sitting close on Beltane's left, "list ye to that,
now! And see--ha! there cometh our long-legged Walkyn, first of them
all! See how they order their pikes--O master, they be sweet and
doughty fellows! See how Jenkyn's archers shoot--each man to the ear!"
Awhile sat Beltane watching, wide-eyed, while Sir Benedict, fighting
sword in hand, fell back and back before the furious onset of Sir
Pertolepe's main battle until he had drawn the fight mid-way. Then,
quick-breathing, my Beltane closed his vizor.
"Now!" cried he, "now, good comrades all, God willing, we have them.
Let each man choose his foe and smite this day for Liberty and
Justice!"
So saying, he levelled his lance, and a hundred lances sank behind him.
Spurs struck deep, horses reared, plunged, and sped away. Before their
galloping line rode Sir John of Griswold with Roger and Ulf: and before
these, Beltane.
He felt the wind a-whistle through the eye-vents of his casque, heard
the muffled thunder of the galloping hoofs behind mingled with the
growing din of battle; heard a shout--a roar of anger and dismay, saw a
confusion of rearing horses as Sir Pertolepe swung about to meet this
new attack, steadied his aim, and with his hundred lances thundering
close behind, drove in upon those bristling ranks to meet them shield
to shield with desperate shock of onset--felt his tough lance go home
with jarring crash--saw horses that reared high and were gone, lost
beneath the trampling fray, and found his lance shivered to the very
grip. Out flashed his sword, for all about him was a staggering press
of horses that neighed and screamed, and men who smote, shouting, and
were smitten; unseen blows battered him while he thrust and hewed, and
wondered to see his long blade so dimmed and bloody. And ever as he
fought, through the narrow vent of his casque he caught small and
sudden visions of this close-locked, desperate fray; of Ulf standing in
his stirrups to ply his whirling axe whose mighty, crashing blows no
armour might withstand; of grim Roger, scowling and fierce, wielding
ponderous broad-sword; of young Sir John of Griswold, reeling in his
saddle, his helpless arms wide-flung.
So cut they bloody path through Pertolepe's deep array, on and forward
with darting point and deep-biting edge, unheeding wounds or shock of
blows, until Beltane beheld the press yield, thin out, and melt away,
thereupon shouted he hoarse and loud, rode down a knight who sought to
bar his way, unhorsed a second, and wheeling his snorting charger,
wondered at the seeming quiet; then lifting his vizor, looked about
him. And lo! wheresoever his glance fell were men that crawled
groaning, or lay very mute and still amid a huddle of fallen horses,
and, beyond these again, were other men, a-horse and a-foot, that
galloped and ran amain for the shelter of the green. Sir Pertolepe's
array was scattered up and down the valley--the battle was lost and
won.
Now while he yet sat thus, dazed by the shock of blows and breathing
deep of the sweet, cool air, he beheld one rise up from where the
battle-wrack lay thickest, an awful figure that limped towards him,
holding aloft the broken shaft of an axe.
"Aha, lord Beltane!" cried Ulf, wiping sweat and blood from him, "there
be no more--left to smite, see you. The which--is well, for weapon--
have I none. This axe was the third this day--broken, see you! Alas!
there is no weapon I may use. Saw you Roger, lord, that is my comrade?"
"Nay, good Ulf--ha, what of him?"
"His horse was slain, lord. So fought he afoot, since when I saw him
not."
"And where is Sir Benedict and Walkyn--O see you not Sir Benedict? mine
eyes are dazzled with the sun."
But now Ulf uttered a joyful cry and pointed with his axe-shaft.
"Yonder cometh Roger, lord, and with him the little archer, but whom
bring they?"
Very slowly they came, Roger and Prat the archer, up-bearing betwixt
them good Sir Hubert of Erdington, his harness hacked and broken, his
battered helm a-swing upon its thongs, his eyes a-swoon in the pallor
of his face.
Down sprang Beltane and ran to greet him and to catch his nerveless
hands:
"Lord Beltane," quoth he, faintly, "full oft have I shed my blood for--
Pentavalon--to-day I die, messire. But, as thou didst say--'tis well to
die--in cause so noble! My lord, farewell to thee!"
And with the word, even as he stood 'twixt Roger and the archer, the
stout old knight was dead. So they laid Hubert of Erdington very
reverently upon that trampled field he had maintained so well.
"A right noble knight, my lord," quoth Prat, shaking gloomy head, "but
for him, methinks our pikemen would have broke to their third onset!"
"There is no man of you hath not fought like ten men this day!" said
Beltane, leaning on his sword and with head a-droop. "Have we lost
many, know ye?"
"A fair good number, master, as was to be expected," quoth Roger,
cleansing his sword on a tuft of grass, "Sir John of Griswold fell
beside me deep-smitten through the helm."
"And what of Sir Benedict?"
"See yonder--yonder he rides, my lord!" cried Prat, "though methinks
you scarce shall know him." And he pointed where, on spent and weary
charger, one rode, a drooping, languid figure, his bright armour
bespattered and dim, his dinted casque smitten awry; slowly he rode
before his weary company until of a sudden espying Beltane, he uttered
a great and glad cry, his drooping shoulders straightened, and he rode
forward with mailed arms outstretched.
"Beltane!" he cried, "praise be to God! One told me thou wert down--art
well, sweet lad, and all unharmed? God is merciful!" And he patted
Beltane's mailed shoulder, what time blood oozed from his steel
gauntlet and his sobbing charger hung weary head and snorted purple
foam. "O lad," quoth he, smiling his wry smile, "here was an hour worth
living for--though Sir Bertrand is sore hurt and many do lie dead of my
company."
"And here," sighed Beltane, "brave Hubert of Erdington--behold!"
"A gallant knight, Beltane! May I so valiantly die when that my time be
come. Truly 'twas a sharp debate what time it lasted, there be many
that will ride with us no more."
"And thou, my lord?" cried Beltane suddenly, "thy cheek so pale--
thou'rt hurt, Benedict!"
"Nought to matter, lad, save that it is my sword-arm: nay indeed, my
Beltane, 'twas but an axe bit through my vanbrace, 'twill heal within
the week. But take now my horn and summon ye our scattered company, for
I do lack the wind."
Knight and man-at-arms, limping and afoot, on horses weary and blown,
they came at the summons--archer and pike-man they came, a blood
be-spattered company; many were they that staggered, faint with wounds,
and many that sank upon the trampled grass a-swoon with weariness, but
in the eyes of each and every was the look of men that triumph.
Cnut was there, his bascinet gone, his fiery hair betousled: Tall Orson
was there, leaning on a bent and battered pike, and there his comrade,
Jenkyn o' the Ford, with many others that Beltane well remembered and
others whose faces he knew not. So formed they their battle-scarred
array what time Beltane viewed them with glowing eye and heart swelling
within him.
"Master!" cried Tall Orson of a sudden, "O master, us do be clean men
and goodly fighters as us did promise thee time 'gone i' the Hollow,
master, ye'll mind us as did promise so to be--I and Jenkyn as be my
comrade?"
"Aye, master!" cried Jenkyn o' the Ford, "aye, look'ee, we ha' kept our
word to thee as we did promise, look'ee master! So now, speak word to
us master, look'ee!"
"Ye men!" quoth Beltane, hoarse-voiced, "O my good comrades all, your
deeds this day shall speak when we are dust, methinks! Your foes this
day did muster three thousand strong, and ye do number scarce a
thousand--yet have ye scattered them, for that your cause is just--'tis
thus ye shall lift Pentavalon from shame and give to her peace at
last!"
Then Tall Orson shook aloft his battered pike and shouted amain, and on
the instant, others took up the cry--a hoarse roar that rolled from
rank to rank; lance and sword, axe and pike were flourished high in
air, and from these men who had marched so grimly silent all the day a
great and mighty shout went up:
"Arise, Pentavalon! Ha! Beltane--Pentavalon!" Now even as they shouted,
upon this thunderous roar there stole another sound, high and clear and
very sweet, that rose and swelled upon the air like the voices of
quiring angels; and of a sudden the shouting was hushed, as, forth of
the tower's gloomy portal the lady Abbess came, tall and fair and
saintly in her white habit, her nuns behind her, two and two, their
hands clasped, their eyes upraised to heaven, chanting to God a hymn of
praise and thanksgiving. Slow paced they thus, the stately Abbess with
head low-bended and slim hands clasped upon her silver crucifix until,
the chant being ended, she raised her head and beheld straightway Sir
Benedict unhelmed and yet astride his great charger. The silver
crucifix fell, the slim hands clasped themselves upon her bosom and the
eyes of the tall, white Abbess grew suddenly wide and dark: and even as
she gazed on him, so gazed Sir Benedict on her.
"Yolande!" said he, hoarse-voiced and low.
"Benedict!" she murmured.
Slowly Sir Benedict bowed his head, and turning, laid his hand on
Beltane's mailed shoulder.
"Lady," said he, "behold here Beltane--that is son to Beltane
heretofore Duke and Lord of Pentavalon!"
"Ah!" she whispered, "Beltane!" and of a sudden stretched out her arms
in passionate yearning gesture, then, covering her face, sank upon her
knees, "God pity me!" she sighed, "God pity me!" Thereafter she rose to
her stately height and looked on Beltane, gentle and calm-eyed.
"My lord Beltane," said she, "I have heard tell thou art a noble
knight, strong yet gentle--so should thy father be greatly blessed in
thee--and thy--mother also. God have thee ever in His keeping--
Beltane!"
Now as she spake the name her soft voice brake, and turning, she stood
with head bowed upon her hands, and standing thus, spake again,
deep-voiced and soft:
"Sir Benedict, we are come to minister to the hurt, all is prepared
within the tower, let them be brought to us I pray, and--my lord,
forget not the sacred oath thou didst swear me--long years agone!"