HOW SIR OLIVER GAINED HIS FREEDOM
A roar of merriment, mingled with a few cries of shame and pity, greeted
the English knight's reappearance in the lists. Clad in an ill-fitting
suit of chain mail with breastplate and bascinet, the joints of which
were so rusty and stiff that considerable effort was necessary to move
them, Sir Oliver rode slowly into the lists, his lean and decrepit steed
barely able to carry its rider.
Yet, in spite of the obvious inferiority of his harness and the
feebleness of his horse, Sir Oliver Lysle bore himself with a knightly
demeanour that changed the roar of mirth into the silence of shame.
"Sir, this is beyond knightly forbearance," expostulated Sir Conyers de
Saye, one of the champions in the previous encounters. "I pray thee
grant this knight the use of his harness and a proper charger."
"Nay, Sir Conyers, he must abide by that which he hath," replied Sir
Yves angrily.
"I pray thee, Sir Oliver, to do me the favour of accepting the loan of
my plate armour," cried another knight.
"And my charger," added another.
"And I do perceive that thy lance is three spans shorter than that of
thine adversary," exclaimed a third.
"Fair sirs, I thank ye," replied Sir Oliver. "But concerning the harness
'tis not meet that I should place a true knight's suit of mail in
jeopardy. This mail will suffice, since already it is accustoming itself
to my limbs. Also the offer of a lance I beg to decline. Methinks an
English heart behind this lance will atone for its shortness when
opposed to a recreant knight who hath not the courage to openly declare
either for Burgundy or Orleans."
Sir Denis winced within his shell of proof mail. If the steel of the
English knight were as sharp as his tongue, his own task would not be
quite so easy as it had seemed. As for Sir Yves, he was grinding his
teeth with rage and discomfiture.
"Nevertheless," continued Sir Oliver, "I will deem it an honour to
accept the loan of a suitable charger from a true and gallant knight of
France."
"Nay, that shall not be," objected the Tyrant. "Either the charger
provided or none."
"Charger, forsooth!" exclaimed Sir Conyers de Saye scornfully. "Art
blind, Sir Yves, that thou canst not tell good horseflesh from bad, or
is it a case of _oculos habent et non videbunt_? Either Sir Oliver hath
leave to accept the loan of a serviceable charger or I'll shake off the
dust of this place."
"And I," "And I," shouted the other knightly guests, who, in order to
prove the sincerity of their intentions, began to call upon their
squires and pages to follow them from the castle.
"Let him have the horse, then," replied the Lord of Malevereux
ungraciously.
"I pray for thy success," whispered Sir Conyers encouragingly, as Sir
Oliver was assisted into the saddle of the borrowed charger.
A tucket sounded, and Sir Denis cantered to the other end of the lists,
while the English knight, after having given his steed a short run to
test its capabilities, drew up in anticipation of the signal for the
onset.
Unable to control his feelings during the inevitable pause, Geoffrey
started to his feet.
"St. George for England, father!" he cried out, oblivious to all else
besides the two combatants.
Men turned in astonishment to gaze at the daring youth. Sir Denis marked
the lad with a ferocious glare. Sir Yves, engaged in conversation, heard
but the first portion of the exclamation, while Sir Oliver caught
everything but the last word.
"Ay, young sir, St. George for England and God's benison on my task," he
replied.
The next instant the warder of the Lord of Malevereux clattered on the
floor of the daïs.
Both antagonists started at the signal. Sir Denis urged his charger down
the lists at its utmost speed, while with sharpened lance held firmly in
rest he sought to transfix his adversary, or at least to sweep him from
the saddle. On his part Sir Oliver rode more cautiously, keeping a
firmer hold upon the bridle than on his lance.
The spectators held their breath. Surely the ill-armed Englishman must
go down before the impetuous rush of the burly, powerful Frenchman? But
ere their lance-points crossed Sir Oliver pulled in his steed, dropped
swiftly forward across the animal's mane, and raised his shield
obliquely above his head, his lance falling from his grasp as he did so.
Ere Sir Denis could lower his lance-point the steel glided from the
oblique surface of his antagonist's shield. The next instant the
Englishman's sinewy arm was around the Frenchman's waist, and, throwing
all the power of his half-starved frame into one mighty heave, Sir
Oliver lifted his steel-clad opponent clean out of his tilting saddle.
With a dull clang the brother of the Tyrant fell upon the turf, helpless
and beaten by one whom he had regarded as an easy victim to his prowess.
Already some of the squires and pages of Sir Denis were running to their
master's aid, while others attempted to seize the bridle of his
riderless horse. But urging his steed into a gallop, Sir Oliver ranged
alongside the masterless animal, and before the astonished crowd could
realize his action he was in the saddle but recently occupied by Sir
Denis, while his borrowed charger was trotting back to its lawful owner.
"Seize me yon English knight," shouted Sir Yves with an oath. "What! Why
tarry? Dost think 'tis the Prince of Darkness?" For feelings either of
surprise or repugnance towards the man who had already shown his
intention of breaking his plighted promise restrained the servants of
the Lord of Malevereux. Not a hand was raised to apprehend the knight
who had held his own against such fearful odds.
Sir Yves' perjurous utterance was his death warrant. Goaded to fury by
this breach of faith, Sir Oliver spurred his horse up to the foot of the
daïs, and, mace in hand, dealt a crashing blow at the recreant knight.
Hemmed in by the high-backed chair, the Lord of Malevereux was unable to
avoid the stroke. With warder raised he strove to parry the ponderous
weapon, but death came to him far more mercifully than he had brought it
to others. Sir Yves de Valadour, of the high, of the middle, and the
low, lay a corpse in the midst of the assembly that had gathered to
witness his triumph over his captive.
Wheeling, Sir Oliver rode straight for the gateway of the castle. Not
one of the knights stirred a hand to hinder him, though several of the
garrison of Malevereux attempted to bar his way. Two men-at-arms went
down under his charger's hoofs, but before the portcullis could be
dropped or a cross-bowman had levelled his cumbersome weapon the English
knight was spurring across the drawbridge, well on his way to freedom.