THE EVE OF ST. SILVESTER
Across the vast plain that surrounded the gloomy Castle of Malevereux
streamed a long straggling line of people, all making towards the open
gateway of Sir Yves' feudal pile.
There were merchants from Rouen, soberly attired and wearing long
straight swords as a protection against the perils of the roads;
peasants of both sexes, striving to overcome the deep-rooted sense of
fear in spite of the assured immunity of goods and person for one day in
the whole year; men-at-arms and archers, unarmed save for the short
knives that hung from their belts; and a sprinkling of knights, monks,
palmers, jongleurs, and minstrels.
Amongst Sir Yves' thus generally invited guests limped a lad, footsore
and weary, meanly dressed in coarse gaberdine, doublet, and points. It
was Geoffrey, son of Oliver, Lord of Warblington.
Bound tightly to the inner side of the lad's left arm were two files,
while in addition to the short dagger that hung in his belt a sharp
knife was concealed in one of his undressed leather buskins. Geoffrey's
fair curls had been ruthlessly clipped in order to better his disguise,
but his clear-cut features belied his rôle of peasant.
Crossing the drawbridge, Geoffrey found himself within the portals of
the fortress, where the Tyrant held his father captive, and with a
quivering sensation in his throat the lad paused beneath the deep
vaulted archway, through which the bases of the triple portcullis shone
dully like the fangs of a savage beast.
On either side of the inner gateway stood a strong guard of archers and
men-at-arms. Each arrival was closely scrutinized, and ere allowed to
pass was compelled to temporarily surrender his weapons. Only in the
case of knights and gentlemen of quality was the restriction relaxed,
since they were to take part in the grand joust in honour of Sir Yves'
patron saint.
Without being challenged Geoffrey gave up his dagger, though one of the
soldiers glanced askance at the lad's refined face. Deeply
self-conscious, he bowed his head and hastened his footsteps till he
gained the outer bailey.
Here the rectangular grassy space was surrounded by wooden stands
covered with gay-coloured cloth, rising in tiers towards the encircling
walls. In the centre of the platform facing the gateway was a daïs
provided with a canopy. This was for the use of Sir Yves de Valadour and
his principal guests.
As yet the stands were deserted, the assembled company being entertained
in the grass-grown courtyard, where a profusion of broached casks and
trestled tables groaning with food showed that on this and similar
occasions Sir Yves disbursed his liberality with an unsparing hand.
Scorning to partake of his enemy's food, Geoffrey stole softly betwixt
the crowd of gesticulating and chattering guests and made his way
towards the frowning walls of the keep, that reared themselves skywards
at the junction of the battlements of the outer and inner walls.
He vaguely wondered whether those long slit-like apertures in the base
of the keep were the windows of the dungeons, till the sound of revelry
proceeding from them told that the lower storeys of the keep were
appropriated to the garrison. The dungeons, therefore, he reasoned, were
beneath the ground-level, yet there was nothing to indicate their
position.
Continuing his tour of investigation, Geoffrey came to a lofty doorway
communicating with the inner bailey. Here numbers of gaily-clad guests
were streaming out, laughing and exchanging coarse jokes with each
other.
For a space the lad stood without, then glanced wistfully in the
direction of the inner ward. Then, summoning up courage, he made his way
towards this gateway.
"Ho! stand there!" shouted a hoarse voice. "Who art thou—some masterless
rascal, I'll declare."
Barring his progress stood a huge man-at-arms, resting his gauntleted
hands upon a massive battle-axe.
"Methought the castle was free to all this day," replied the lad.
"This part only to the principal guests of the Lord of Malevereux,"
announced the soldier. "Now, rascal, what would'st thou?"
"My foster-brother Pierre told me that within I could see the dungeons."
"If thou wilt see the dungeons, take heed lest the dungeons keep thee,
_vaurien_," replied the man, laughing. "Now, hence, ere I lay this stick
about thy back."
Discomfited, Geoffrey rejoined the crowd of revellers. He felt that his
plan was doomed to failure, since the prison quarters were evidently in
a remote and strictly-guarded portion of the castle.
Just then his quick ear caught a fragment of the conversation between
two of the guests.
"... and after the joust what happens, gossip?"
"I know not of a certainty, but 'tis said that Sir Yves hath promised to
set the English knight in the lists."
"What English knight?"
"I know not. 'Tis reported that he hath been a prisoner here for some
time past. But in any case we shall see what a half-starved Englishman
can do 'gainst a gallant Frenchman."
"Who is to oppose this English knight?"
"Rumour hath it that Sir Denis himself will sweep the rogue from his
horse. _Ma foi_, 'twill be a merry business. But——"
A loud blast upon a horn caused the conversation to terminate abruptly;
the guests made a hurried scramble towards the platforms, while a crowd
of lacqueys and serving-men ran hither and thither, removing the
depleted tables and wine-casks.
In a few minutes all signs of the feast had vanished. Soldiers began to
erect the barrier for the spear-running, while the opposing knights with
their squires and pages took up their position at one end of the lists.
Precisely at high noon a fanfare of trumpets announced the entry of Sir
Yves de Valadour, Lord of Malevereux, and his chosen company.
Sir Yves was a man of about fifty years of age, dark features,
black-bearded, and with beetling brows that, in spite of the festive
season, seemed to wear a perpetual scowl. He was slightly over middle
height, bull-necked and inclined to obesity, while as he walked his legs
seemed too weak to support his ponderous body. He was richly apparelled
in silk trimmed with fur, though men would have it that underneath his
slashed doublet he wore a suit of light sword-proof mail. With the
exception of a short dagger he was unarmed, while in his hand he carried
a warder with which the signal for the commencement or termination of an
encounter was to be given.
Amidst the plaudits of the majority of the spectators, who louted with
the utmost servility as he passed, Sir Yves ascended the daïs, which was
raised about five feet from the ground, and took his seat in a
high-backed oak chair. On his right sat Sir Denis, his brother, his face
still inflamed from the glowing charcoal that Gripwell had hurled at him
on the occasion of the raid upon the village of Taillemartel.
At his left hand sat Arnaud de Convers, a knight of almost as bad a
reputation as his host. With them were about two score ladies and their
husbands or lovers, their bright garments adding to the picturesqueness
of the assembly.
For a space Sir Yves regarded the crowds of spectators with a curious
sneering expression, then turning towards Arnaud de Convers he whispered
something that brought a grim smile to their faces.
Raising his warder, the Tyrant gave the signal for the tourney to
commence, and amid a prolonged fanfare of trumpets the contesting
knights, twelve in number, rode slowly down the lists. With closed
visors, shields on their left arms and lances raised, the steel-clad
warriors made a brave show, taking no apparent heed of the outburst of
vociferous cheering and the shouts of acclamation as their respective
partisans recognized the devices of their favourite knights.
Opposite the daïs each knight reined in his steed and saluted the Lord
of Malevereux by lowering the point of his lance, while one of the
marshals of the list read out the name and style of the respective
champions.
While this ceremony was in progress Geoffrey, seated on a crowded bench
within three spears' length of the daïs, was taking careful stock of his
surroundings, while at the same time his mind was actively dwelling on
the conversation between the two men that related to one who could be
none other than his father, Sir Oliver. There could be no possible doubt
that the Tyrant meant to cause the death of the English knight, since a
man ill-fed and weakened by close confinement could hardly be expected
to do otherwise than fall an easy victim to the powerful and well-armed
Sir Denis.
Geoffrey's reverie was interrupted by a stirring trumpet-call, and, in
spite of his fears and anxieties, his martial instinct was aroused by
the sight that met his gaze.
From end to end of the lists the field was empty, save for the presence
of two knights armed cap-à-pied, who, motionless as statues, sat upon
their steeds. To the right of each horseman was the stout oaken barrier
that ran athwart the field, so that at the moment of impact it would
prevent the chargers from coming into actual contact.
At the terminations of the barrier fences were erected enclosing spaces
reserved for the other champions and their attendants, while booths had
been set up for the armourers and shoeing-smiths; also, with a great
significance, for the accommodation of those who sustained injuries in
the tourney, priests and chirurgeons being in attendance.
A tense silence fell upon the multitude, broken by the hoarse shout of
"_Laissez aller!_" by Sir Yves.
Instantly the steel-clad statues were transformed into the
personification of warlike activity. The merest touch of the sharp
rowelled spurs sufficed to set their horses into a furious gallop, while
with bodies crouched, shields pointed, and lances in rest, the rival
knights prepared to meet the shock.
With the turf flying in pellets from the horses' hoofs, the sharp points
of their lances scarce swerving a hair's breadth with the motion of
their chargers, the champions closed. For a brief instant both seemed to
sway in the saddle, then recovering themselves they passed each other
and reined up at their respective ends of the lists ere the fragments of
their shattered weapons fell to earth.
An outburst of shouts and acclamations greeted this feat of arms, but
without pausing to recover breath the two champions wheeled and, sword
in hand, rode to continue the encounter.
Sparks flashed as steel met steel. It was mainly cut and parry, though
now and again a lightning-like thrust was given and smartly caught upon
the shield of the opponent.
At length, from sheer exhaustion, both knights began to relax their
efforts, while the crowds, unmindful of the presence of the Lord of
Malevereux in their excitement, shouted encouragement and applause.
Several of the spectators on the daïs begged Sir Yves to throw down his
warder and declare the combat a drawn one, but grimly the Tyrant
refused.
"They have a private quarrel, methinks; therefore _à l'outrance_, let it
be."
But Sir Yves was to be disappointed. With their shields riven asunder
the knights continued the fight, till the sword of one was broken close
to the hilt. Instantly he grasped his mace, and, with all his energy
thrown into the stroke, dashed his opponent's weapon from his grasp.
The latter instantly seized his mace, but on urging their steeds up to
the barrier to renew the encounter neither warrior could put forward
sufficient strength to raise his ponderous weapon. There they sat, their
eyes flashing behind their visors in speechless rage, till at a signal
from Sir Yves their squires ran in and led them back to their respective
tents.
The next bout was betwixt two knights armed with blunted lances. In the
encounter their weapons proved more dangerous than the naked steel; one
of the combatants caught his opponent fairly on the gorget, while the
latter's weapon glanced harmlessly from the former's shield. Wedged in
betwixt the high-peaked tilting saddle, the knight of the slippery lance
was bent backwards till he fell sideways from the saddle, crippled for
life.
Then two champions armed with battle-axes took their places, the
intervening barrier in this instance being removed. Both were short,
broad-shouldered men of immense strength, and each was actuated by a
desire to advance the claims of his lady, since a saffron-coloured glove
adorned their casques. In this encounter it seemed as if the result
would be similar to the first, for neither gained any great advantage,
although they fought vigorously for a considerable time.
At length one of the two champions tripped and fell, his opponent
immediately standing over him with his miserecorde at the bars of his
visor. Once more Sir Yves' warder descended, and the vanquished knight
was assisted to his feet by his lacqueys and taken off the field, while
the victor, proud of his achievement, and in the knowledge that he was
the richer by a suit of brazen armour—for by the rules of the tournament
the harness of the conquered became the property of the
conqueror—stalked slowly round the field with open visor that all might
see and acclaim him.
For the space of over three hours the tourney continued, not without
much shedding of blood, till there remained only one who had not as yet
engaged in the contest.
Even from a distance Geoffrey felt sure that he recognized the
steel-clad figure and the device on his shield, and a glance at the
vacant seat on Sir Yves' right hand strengthened his conviction—'twas
Sir Denis de Valadour, brother of the Tyrant of Malevereux.
Then arose a fanfare of trumpets, and, escorted by a body of
men-at-arms, a tall, gaunt, erect figure entered the arena. In spite of
his pale features—for weeks of confinement had banished the bronzed hue
of health—Geoffrey could make no mistake. The new-comer was his father,
Sir Oliver Lysle.