AN ILLUMINATED NIGHT ATTACK ON THURON.
On the following morning there were no signs of activity in the camp, as
the sentries on the castle walls gazed about them in the early dawn.
Heinrich thought that after a defeat so overwhelming the Archbishops
would strike tent and hie themselves back to their respective cities,
there to resume the religious duties which had been interrupted by the
martial bugle blast, but Rodolph laboured under no such delusion. He
said the defeat made a prolonged siege inevitable; that the feudal lords
could not afford to turn their backs upon a vassal who had thus repulsed
them, or their prestige in the land would be gone forever. And it was
soon evident that, although there was no activity in the camp, neither
was there any sign of departure. It was learned from those who came to
make further search for the missing, that Count Bertrich lay grievously
ill of his wound, and if he recovered there would be another scar on his
already unattractive face, but hope was held that he might live, as he
was being tenderly cared for in his own tent next to that of the
Archbishop of Treves himself. Rodolph acquainted the archer with the
condition of his high-born foe, and Surrey received the news with
subdued dejection.
"I had no fair chance," he said, sadly. "A man on a prancing horse is
ever a difficult mark, but when he is encased in armour with only his
face showing, and then unexpectedly turns his head just as arrow leaves
string, death, however merited, can hardly be looked for."
The archer spent most of his time on the tower top, industriously
making arrows, and attended assiduously by his menial, who had conceived
a strong attachment to him, chiefly through the medium of vigorous kicks
and blows which John somewhat lavishly bestowed, hoping thus, as he
said, to make a man of him.
"You may have another opportunity of giving Count Bertrich a taste of
your skill," said Rodolph, "for I doubt if the siege is yet near its
conclusion. Indeed that we still hold the castle is due most of all to
you."
"We hold the castle through the mercy of Providence alone," said the
archer, gloomily, uninfluenced by his master's praise.
"Through that of course," remarked Rodolph, "but also in a measure
through our own hard blows and your accurate marksmanship."
"I am saying nothing against the valour of the garrison, my Lord. What I
mean is, that if Providence had led my friend Roger Kent into the camp
of the enemy, as I supposed was probable, there would have been little
use of our longer holding out, for he could have stood in Alken or even
further away and picked us off one by one as pleased him. No man would
dare show face above parapet. I would rather undertake to conquer Thuron
with Roger Kent alone than with all the army of the Archbishops."
"Let us be thankful therefore that he is elsewhere. You think then he is
not with the Archbishop?"
"He has probably forgotten all about my going to Treves," replied the
archer, sorrowfully. "Roger is an absent-minded man, and a dreamer. He
is likely sitting on the bank of some stream, poetry making and watching
the drying of the papyrus he fabricates, for unless hunger overcame him
he would never think of accepting service with any, or of drawing bow.
It was his hope that some good peasant would take charge of him, and
feed him, allowing him to exchange poetry for what provender and lodging
he had, but he has never found such, for he wants a hut in a
picturesque spot, by a lake or near a waterfall, with hills or
mountains round about, where he may make papyrus and poetry."
"What is the nature of this papyrus he manufactures, and what is its
purpose?" asked the Emperor.
"He says the Egyptians produced it in ancient times. He macerates
certain reeds and grasses together between two stones, in flowing water,
and when he has compounded a substance like porridge, he spreads it
thinly on a flat stone which lies in the sun. It dries very white, and
is of light texture, like cloth, only more easily torn, and will last
you a long time if kept dry, but in water it dissolves again. He has
thus lost much good poetry, through lying in trenches during heavy
rains, the which causes him to dislike campaigns where the tents are
few. On his papyrus he indites with a sharp stylus his poems, and for
safe keeping places the sheets under his doublet when he sleeps; but he
rises, after a rainy night, encased in pulp, which he takes from various
parts of his apparel with tender care, attempting to dry the same again
in the sun. He tells me that even when successful in drying the
substance, the poetry is gone. Thus does he yearn for a warm hut of his
own, or any one's for that matter, who will let him use it. But there is
small chance of a peasant taking him up; few of them care for poetry,
and he never can save the money he earns; he was always a fool in that
respect, differing greatly from me; he gives away his money to the first
beggar that comes with a pitiful story."
"I like your friend Roger from what you tell me of him, and if I ever
come near to him, God granting he has not bow in hand, I shall be
pleased to furnish him the hut he craves, if we can find one with stream
and waterfall in conjunction."
"What! and thus rob Germany of the finest archer that ever bent yew
wood? Indeed, it is my hope that he shall find no such patron, but that
we may both take service under one commander, fighting side by side in
future battles, or perhaps instructing others in the use of the long
bow, and thus raising a company that will be of use in German warfare!"
As day by day passed without motion in the camp, it came to be believed
in the castle that no further attack was contemplated until Bertrich had
so far recovered as to lead it. He alone knew the conformation of the
fortress, as he alone had been inside Thuron, so it was probable that
his knowledge was regarded by the Archbishop as necessary to an
attacking force.
The nights were now moonless, and although watch was strictly kept, the
first intimation the garrison had of renewed hostilities was the
resounding crash of the battering ram against the closed gate. The Black
Count was instantly on the rampart above the gate with his stone
heavers, launching out huge boulders into the darkness, and calling in
his stentorian voice for torches, which seemed slow in coming. These
lighted brands were flung down on the besiegers, to be trampled out by
them at once, while the stone throwers, taking advantage of the
momentary gleams of light, thundered down granite on the heads of the
enemy. The gate did not yield as speedily as the assaulters expected,
and they, not knowing it was barricaded behind by tons of grain in
sacks, redoubled their efforts to gain quick entrance, for they were
unarmoured, and knew their existence depended on a sudden forcing of the
portal.
Rodolph, leaving the defence of the gate entirely to the Black Count,
summoned his men to the long west battlement, fearing an attack there
with the ladders, for he could not conceal from himself the fact that
had the day attack been more intelligently conducted, with a
concentration of forces at any one point along the lengthy wall, it
would have come perilously near to success. He ordered a lavish supply
of unlit torches, which he placed in position along the outer edge of
the parapet, for their only hope lay in having plenty of light to deal
successfully with an onslaught. To light the torches prematurely would
be to lay the defenders open to a flight of bolts from crossbows, were
a brigade of bowmen in attendance, as was extremely probable.
Shortly after the first sounds of battering at the gate aroused the
citadel, the attack on the west front began. The besiegers apparently
had not come up the hill as before, but swarmed round the corner of the
castle from the level ground opposite the entrance, and at first Rodolph
thought the assault on the gate had been abandoned and the attacking
party had come to try their fortunes against the comparatively low wall,
which it was his duty to protect, but the blows of oak on oak still
resounded, and now he saw he was face to face with a general attack
similar to the one they had formerly repulsed in daylight, the enemy
doubtless hoping to profit by the darkness, and perhaps thinking to take
the garrison by surprise.
In spite of his eagerness and anxiety, the Emperor could not help
pausing for a moment to note the unexpected transformation which took
place in the valley and on all the hillsides round about. As soon as the
cheers from Thuron gave evidence that the attack was known and had been
met, a line of fire seemed to encircle the castle far below and up the
hills. Thousands of torches were lit, and the cheers of their holders
caused Rodolph to expect an instant onslaught by the entire strength of
the Archbishops. This, however, was not the intention, for those bearing
the torches marched and counter-marched in apparently aimless fashion,
weaving a thousand threads of fire into a glowing web that dazzled the
eyes of the onlookers, while cheer after cheer rent the air, as if to
encourage the actual besiegers.
The amazing illumination had at first the effect intended. It bewildered
those who had to face it, while the assailants, with their backs to the
scintillating brilliancy, were helped rather than disturbed by the
universal glow, which faintly illumined the grey walls before them.
Rodolph had his torches lighted as rapidly as possible, for he knew that
light was absolutely necessary to a successful defence, and the long
train of flaming, smoking torches, which were here and there beaten down
by the ends of ladders, suggested an expedient to him. He had ample
help, for the whole force of the castle was now aroused, so he ordered
up his reserves to carry wood and build two bonfires, one at each end of
the stone terrace. With these roaring to the sky, the two great towers
of Thuron stood out in crimson relief, seeming to hang in the air,
resting on nothing, for their bases were hid in the darkness below.
Before the fires blazed out, however, several of the enemy had obtained
footing on the terrace, and fierce hand to hand fights were going on,
the climbers for the most part getting the worst of it, for even when a
man secures his footing on solid stone instead of ladder-round, he is
scarcely on equality with his foe who has had to expend no exertion,
merely waiting there until a head appears.
When the two fires shot up to the sky the desultory cheering in the
valley gave place to one mighty simultaneous shout of triumph, while
torches were enthusiastically flung in the air. They were quite palpably
under the delusion that the castle had been carried and was already
burning. The fierce yell which came from Thuron was an answer they had
not expected, and now, as being of no further use, the torches below
were extinguished as rapidly as they had been lighted. The great castle
was self-illumined and must have presented a spectacle well worth
viewing from the plain below, as it stood out against the dark sky like
a glowing fortress of molten stone. With the sudden access of light, the
attack on the gate had proved no more practicable than on the two
previous occasions. The archer on the tower again cut down the
unprotected men, and again the attacking party fled panic stricken to
the forest or round to the west front, where matters were going little
better for their comrades.
The besiegers, with a lively remembrance of their former repulse along
the same wall, became disheartened when they found themselves fighting
in a light as strong as that of day. They knew if they did not scale
the walls before the garrison became fully alive to what was taking
place, they would have no further chance after they were discovered.
Again they saw their ladders pulled up when those who climbed them had
been crushed by stones, shattered with battle-axe, or flung backwards by
a lighted torch being thrust in their faces, and now they saw the
ladders thrown on the fires to blaze up and illumine their discomfiture.
Yet the fight while it lasted had been fiercer than during the previous
attack, and three of Count Heinrich's men had been slain.
In spite of the victory, which wrought up the Black Count to a pitch of
frenzy, during which he paraded the long terrace between the two fires,
shaking a battle-axe above his head, and roaring defiance to the enemy,
Rodolph saw that if these attacks were continued the castle must
inevitably fall, for the Archbishops had more than a hundred men to
Heinrich's one, and the loss of two or three of the garrison on each
occasion would soon leave the castle without defenders. For the greater
part of the night the Emperor paced the walls, keeping watch with the
regular guard. The fires burned out, and as dawn approached he still
walked up and down with his cloak drawn round him, pondering on the
extraordinary situation, and wondering how it would end. He felt that he
was the Emperor in name only, as indeed many of his predecessors had
been without complaining, so long as they had money to spend and good
wine to drink. Here was war of the most sanguinary nature raging in the
centre of his dominion, his subjects not arrayed against a foreign foe,
but mercilessly slaughtering each other, and if the Emperor cried
"Stop," not even the most humble of the men-at-arms would heed the
command. How to remedy this amazing state of affairs he had not the
least idea. If he proclaimed himself to Heinrich that noble would, as
like as not, clap him into the deepest dungeon of Castle Thuron, and
look about to see what profit might be made of his notable prisoner.
Should he approach the Archbishops, a similar fate would probably await
him. He would have given much for an hour's conversation with Baron von
Brunfels, or even for the opportunity of letting his friend know where
he was, but either chance was alike impossible, girt round as he was by
hostile troops. The hill tops were lightening with coming dawn when
Rodolph sought his room in the south tower, and lay down wrapped in his
cloak to a troubled rest, his great problem still unsolved by his
night's vigil.