"The tide has fallen a good bit. The rock is quite dry under her bows."
With the rapidity with which the sea had come in it now rushed out
again, swirling round the rock and bubbling under the stern. In a very
short time the boat was left high and dry, and Ralph got out to climb
down the rocks. The mist had by this time lifted, and he was astonished
to see how close they were to the shore. He could not yet make out
where they were, but he thought he saw a light.
Reaching the firm sand, he walked towards the light, and on his way
stumbled over what he took to be a rock. Looking down, however, he
found it was a helmet, and a little further on was a breastplate. It was
clear it was the armour of the men who were caught by the tide, and who
had taken it off to enable them to escape by swimming.
On reaching the beach he lost sight of the light, and began to think he
must have been deceived, when a gruff voice called out,--"Qui va la?"
Ralph, utterly taken aback, did not know for the moment what to do. He
stood quite still looking about him. The Frenchman repeated his demand,
and by the sleepy accents of other voices, combined with the clank of
metal, the esquire knew there were several men encamped there, and that
it was the sentry who had challenged him.
He did not dare to retrace his steps, lest he should draw the pursuit to
the boat. He longed for the mist to grow thick again, and stooping down
as low as he could, he set off running towards a dark mass of rocks on
his right.
The twang of a bowstring, and the whizz of a bolt past his left ear,
told him what to expect. He ran at full speed along the shore, and
reached the rocks in safety. He paused to take breath, and looked round
to see how he could best get back to the others without being seen.
The moon had now come out, and, to his chagrin Ralph could easily
distinguish the mast and black hull of the boat perched on the rocks not
far away.
A shout from the men, who were all aroused now, told him that they also
had seen the boat, and that all hope of escape was at an end.
In a few minutes more he saw a party of men-at-arms, their weapons
gleaming in the moonlight, ride across the sand in the direction of the
boat. They halted when they came to the armour lying in the sand, and
Ralph could hear one say,--
"Tiens! c'est le harnois de l'Anglais!"
They then rode on to the rock, and three or four dismounting, climbed
over the slippery stone. In another minute Ralph saw Sir George Lisle
and Magdalen climbing down the rocks amid their captors.
"It is all over," sighed the young esquire. "I may as well give myself
up too."
However, he stood still a little longer, and watched the party returning
over the sand. He saw the slight form of Magdalen held in front of a
man-at-arms, who was joking loudly to another trooper beside him.
Sir George Lisle was disarmed, and walked between two other steel-clad
figures. The whole cavalcade was chatting loudly and laughing merrily.
It appeared that all had escaped from the rising tide, excepting one
man-at-arms, and that one was the Englishman. No one seemed to pity him,
and Ralph felt the justice of the retribution which had so swiftly cut
off Bowerman in the midst of his traitorous attempt to capture his own
Countrymen--a victim to his own malignant hate. Ralph was as yet
undecided whether to give himself up, or keep free as long as he could,
in order to avail himself of any chance of helping the others.
He decided he would wait a little longer. He watched the Frenchmen,
with their prisoners, join the main body, and then placing another
sentry over their captives, they lay down to sleep out the rest of the
night.
*CHAPTER XXIX.*
*HOW THERE'S NO CLOUD WITHOUT ITS SILVER LINING.*
As soon as Ralph saw all was quiet, he made up his mind he would return
to the boat to put on the rest of his armour and get some food.
The moon was shining brightly, and away in the north-east the faint pale
light above the horizon told of the coming dawn. It was an exquisite
summer night. The sea mist had gone inland to refresh the orchards and
meadows of the rich valleys and uplands of fair Normandy and rocky
Brittany. The long, quaint shadows of the grim boulders, and weird
piles of granite, stretched across the white sand of the vast bay.
Their rugged clefts and fantastic fissures, in black distinctness
against the gleaming light which bathed their southern slope, lifting
their hoary, weather-worn summits to the full brilliancy of the moon,
and in turn throwing their twice borrowed light across the beach and
prostrate forms of the sleeping men-at-arms. Away on the far edge of the
bay the leaping flash of tumbling water told of the sea, whose tranquil
depths seemed as far removed from that sleeping shore, and those
towering piles of crumbling rock, as the fullness of summer from the
barrenness of winter.
The only living thing seemed to be the solitary man-at-arms as he rested
on his long spear, his shadow stretching behind him in grotesque
distortion--the man a pair of compasses, the lance a scaffolding pole.
The distant crow of a cock, and the faint moan of the ceaseless sea
grinding on the rocks far out in the bay were the only sounds that broke
on the perfect stillness of that exquisite harmony in silver and grey.
But Ralph gave scarce a thought to the poetry of the scene, he quietly
clambered down on the shady side of the rocks, and stealthily creeping
over the sand under shelter of the long shadows of the pile he had left,
he was able to reach the farther side of the mass of rocks which had
proved fatal to their escape, without the sentry seeing him.
Pausing a moment to look round before he climbed up the steep and
slippery boulders, on the apex of which the old boat was perched, some
thirty feet or more above his head like a miniature Noah's ark on the
sunken top of another Ararat. Ralph's attention was attracted by a
white patch some ten or twelve yards away to his right. He looked at it
attentively, and with a growing sense of dread. Drawn irresistibly
towards it by a horrible fascination, Ralph found it was the face of
Bowerman, ghastly and contorted, his body being wedged in between two
huge rocks, where the sweep of the tide had washed it. Hastily leaving
the place, the boy climbed up to the boat, and managed to get out the
things he wanted without being observed. Armed with his sword and
dagger, and protected by his helmet and body armour, he descended the
rocks, edging carefully away from the livid face, which gazed out from
the dark mass, and reached his former post of observation without
incident.
The day had now begun to break, and objects were becoming visible.
There was no stir as yet among the detachment on the beach, who were
still sound asleep, their horses tethered and browsing on the scanty
growth of herbage which cropped up here and there amid the sand and dry
seaweed.
The pile of rocks where Ralph was ensconced was higher than any others
near, and from its summit the boy obtained a fine view over the country
round.
The sun had not yet risen, and a mist still hung over the land.
Not far off, however, Ralph saw a horse feeding, fully equipped, but
without a rider. "It must be one broken away from the rest," he
thought, and the idea came into his head that he would catch the animal
and make use of him.
He was just going to climb down to carry out his plan when his attention
was arrested by some moving object away to his right. He had now turned
round, and was looking in the direction of St Malo. He could not
mistake the objects. They were spear points, and the little pennants
were fluttering in the light morning air.
"'Tis lucky I saw them before I moved. They must be the lances of
another body of French men-at-arms."
So thinking, Ralph lay still, not overmuch liking his position, for he
was now almost certain to be descried as this new troop came near.
The sun was just rising, and its first rays were glinting on each rock
and tree and distant church spire, which stood out above the mist.
Ralph watched the approaching spear points. He could not yet see the
riders.
He turned round to look at the little encampment There was already a
stir. Men were up and grooming their horses; others were stretching
themselves; all was noise and life. Ralph could see Magdalen sitting
disconsolately by her father, and glancing round from time to time to
examine their captors.
The breeze blew straight from the camp to the advancing body of men, and
the bustle and stir was carried down the wind.
"They have halted," thought Ralph, seeing the spears did not advance any
nearer. "But here comes some one. How warily he comes. Why! No!
Yes! Can it be? They must have put on the surcoats of some of our poor
fellows. They've got red crosses!"
And Ralph, with renewed interest, watched the movements of the
man-at-arms or mounted archer, who was riding out of the mist with great
caution, putting every bush and rock between himself and the place
whence the sounds came.
"Why, there's another away to the left, and here's another. They are
masters in their work, anyway," muttered Ralph, as he watched the
picturesque figures, fully accoutred, and well mounted, pushing their
small horses over the coarse grass. The boy was so intent on the
motions of these men that he did not give sufficient care to cover
himself, and he was suddenly startled by the nearest horseman reining in
his horse and dropping the reins, while he took deliberate aim at him
with the crossbow he held ready at his hip, calling at the same time,--
"Come down, thou French jackanapes thou, or I'll--"
Ralph needed no second bidding.
"They are English; they are English," he almost screamed with delight,
as he scrambled over the boulders, and at length stood by the side of
the archer.
It took but few words to tell the scout who he was, and what was going
on, and in another minute Ralph found himself amid a group of splendid
knights and men-at-arms, with a strong force of archers on foot and
horseback behind them.
"What!" said a cheery voice. "Whom have we here? As I live, 'tis my
young hero of the lists at Carisbrooke. Marry, and I am right glad."
Ralph had turned to the speaker, and was rejoiced to find it was no
other than Sir Richard Cornwall. After the greetings were over, he
explained briefly how urgent the need was for pressing on at once, and
cutting off the retreat of the Frenchmen with their prisoners, and in a
few minutes more the young esquire had the delight of being mounted on a
stout horse, armed with a lance, and riding in the front rank of the
men-at-arms between Sir Richard Cornwall and Lord Broke, who were
listening to his account of the battle of St Aubin du Cormier, and all
that had happened since, and learnt in his turn of how it came about
that the English troops were there.
It seemed that the news of the disaster which had occurred in Brittany
was at first disbelieved in the Isle of Wight. The catastrophe was too
awful for any one to believe. At last, as more certain news arrived,
and there was no longer any room to doubt, the distress was terrible.
Depopulated as the island had been previously, and just as it was now
recovering its prosperity under the able rule of Sir Edward Woodville,
assisted by the favourable treaties of peace with France and the Low
Countries, this sudden calamity plunged the whole island into despair.
There was scarcely a family, rich or poor, who had not lost some
relative; and the total absence of any particulars made it all the more
distressing. No one knew whether their relations were dead or not. At
first it was reported that every man was killed, but a later account
said that it was believed some few were alive, desperately wounded, and
like to die, but as no names were mentioned, the anxiety and doubt were
only rendered all the more acute.
As soon as Henry VII. heard of the disaster, he despatched at once
Robert Lord Broke, Sir John Cheney, Sir Richard Cornwall, and many more
"lusty and courageous captaynes," with eight thousand men-at-arms. But,
like many other recent English expeditions, the force arrived too late,
and although the troops were of the best quality, there was not enough
of them.
It was a detachment of these troops that Ralph fell in with. Lord Broke
having only arrived two days before at St Malo, and having taken the
earliest opportunity of making a reconnaissance in force.
The knowledge of the arrival of these reinforcements had spurred
Bowerman on to greater activity, for he knew if he did not discover the
whereabouts of the fugitives before the English arrived, he would not be
able to do so afterwards.
Acting on the knowledge of the country, and position of the French
troops, which Ralph possessed from his survey that morning, Lord Broke
kept his men out of sight of the French, and sent a detachment round in
order to cut off all retreat.
Ralph having dismounted, had approached cautiously, and looking round a
rock, saw the enemy happily engaged in preparing their breakfast. So
utterly unconscious were they of any foe near, that many of them had not
put on their heavier armour.
"Marry, they are not worth lance thrust," said Sir Richard Cornwall in
contempt. "'Twill be but an idle slaughter. 'Tis a pity we cannot give
them warning."
The knight and the esquire having made their report, Lord Broke gave
orders to advance upon the enemy. The movement was executed with such
precision and rapidity, that no resistance was offered by the astonished
French men-at-arms. Ralph had galloped straight for Sir George Lisle
and Magdalen, and stood by them until all chance of harm was over, and
as soon as the prisoners were disarmed, and the column reformed, he led
them to Lord Broke.
This nobleman had known Sir George Lisle in former days, and was well
acquainted with his history. He would much rather not have fallen in
with him, for his safety was probably greater in the French army than as
a Yorkist prisoner in the hands of one of Henry the Seventh's captains.
But having heard from Ralph how he had tried to save the life of the
Captain of the Wight at the imminent risk of his own, Lord Broke hoped
he might be able to plead this service with Henry.
He received Sir George Lisle therefore very courteously, but intimated
that he must still consider himself a prisoner.
Mistress Lisle was treated with every courtesy, and the rescued English
were sent under a guard to St Malo.
As Ralph Lisle was, so far as was known, the only survivor of the
luckless expedition under Sir Edward Woodville, he was ordered by Lord
Broke to return at once to England; and Sir George Lisle and his
daughter were also sent back in the same ship.
Lord Broke forwarded very favourable reports of the young esquire, and
also strong recommendations to mercy on behalf of Sir George Lisle, who,
seeing how hopeless were the aims of the Yorkist party, and conscious of
the treachery that was going on within their ranks,--weary of the world,
and sick at heart of his conduct towards his wife, as well as of his
unjust suspicions of the Captain of the Wight, determined, if his life
were spared, to become a monk, like an ancestor of his who had founded,
and himself became the first arch-priest of, the little Oratory of
Barton. Lord Broke, knowing this resolve, mentioned it as a further
inducement to obtaining the royal pardon. However, on the arrival of the
ship at Southampton, Sir George Lisle was taken at once to Winchester
Castle, and kept there a close prisoner of state until the royal
pleasure was known.
Magdalen Lisle was not allowed to be with her father. Ralph promised he
would take her to her grandfather at Briddlesford; and the same day that
Sir George Lisle was carried off under a strong guard to Winchester, he
and his cousin sailed for Wootton Creek.
The news of the arrival of the only survivors of the expedition caused
much stir, and Ralph found himself a greater hero than he had any wish
to be.
Fortunately for him it was expected he would come to Newport, and so he
was enabled to reach Briddlesford unmolested.
He dreaded the meeting with his relatives, as indeed he would have
avoided, had it been possible, coming to the island at all. So many
painful memories would be stirred by the sight of the sorrow-stricken
people; but he had his duty to perform, and must go through with it.
His meeting with old Sir William was easily got over. The old knight
welcomed him heartily, and was evidently prepared to take to his
grandchild Magdalen. Ralph was rejoiced to see this, for he had rather
feared a stern reception for the poor desolate child, who had seen so
much hardship in her young life, and had had so little of the pleasures
of youth. However, events had occurred of which Ralph knew nothing.
After the greetings were over, and Magdalen felt a little less strange,
the old man said,--
"Now, my son, thou must see Yolande; she is awaiting thee in the parlour
yonder."
Ralph passed across the hall, and paused at the door of the little room.
He tapped timidly. A low voice answered "Come in," and Ralph entered.
He found his cousin sitting in a deep window-seat, the last glow of the
setting sun streaming in through the narrow quarries of ill-made glass.
The autumn tints were already blending with the still deep green of the
thick oak woods. Along the valley the evening mist was rising, and the
knell of the Abbey bell came deep sounding over the hills and water
between.
"Ralph, my brave cousin, welcome back home," said the low sweet voice of
Yolande.
Ralph could not speak for a moment or two. He crossed the room, and
taking the hand of his cousin, which she held out to him, he bent down
and pressed it to his lips. The action recalled that happiest moment of
his life, when in the hall of Carisbrooke he had received the prize of
the tourney amid the congratulations of that gay assembly, of which
scarce a man was left alive.
The recollection was too much.
They neither of them spoke for some minutes.
When Ralph had mastered his emotion, he began to talk to his cousin, he
hardly knew what; but he felt confused, excited. Her very appearance
shocked him. So much had Yolande altered since last she bid good-bye to
that gallant band who had so joyously gone forth to seek name and fame
and fortune in the sunny land of France.
Her lovely complexion was still there. Her eyes were larger and more
meltingly blue, but her cheeks were thinner, and her youthful bloom and
freshness were gone. Her lips had lost their fullness, and her figure
its bewitching softness. Suffering and grief were in her face and in
her deep black dress.
As the young moon rose over the russet oaks, and the still landscape
made its subtle beauty felt, Yolande, who had hitherto said nothing, but
let Ralph babble on, whispered quietly, "Tell me."
Ralph knew well what she meant. He told her all, even the words he
heard the Captain of the Wight say as he lay dying on the battlefield.
Yolande listened. She made no sound. When he had finished, she simply
said, "Where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but we
are as the angels of God in heaven. Yea, I knew it could never be. How
nobly he died--" and then she remained silent for a while.