by David Ker
CHAPTER VI
Mighty to Strike
"Now, beshrew these darksome woods, with ne'er a path through them! Ihad rather (so help me good St. George of England!) be set to find myway through yon Maze of Woodstock, of which the ballad-makers tell."
"Right, comrade. And methinks these thickets, where twenty men mightlie in ambush unseen within a spear's length of us, are a choice chapelfor the clerks of St. Nicholas" (_i.e._ robbers).
"Nay, if that were all, I care not, for even a passing brush withforest-thieves or outlaws were better than no fight at all; and I trowthe lasses in merry Hampshire will hold us cheap when they hear that wehave come oversea without one fight to rub the rust off our weapons.But, if all tales be true" (the speaker sank his voice to anawe-stricken whisper), "there be worse things than thieves in thesewoods."
"Not a word of that, lad, an' thou lov'st me. There is a time and aplace for all things, as good Father Gregory was wont to say; and this"(casting a nervous glance over his shoulder into the deepening gloomaround) "is neither the time nor the place, I trow, for tales ofsprites and hobgoblins."
Thus muttered Sir Simon Harcourt's men-at-arms as they struggledwearily through the wood that had witnessed Bertrand du Guesclin'swolf-fight, on the third evening after their departure from Dinan. Butin exercising so freely an Englishman's natural privilege of grumbling,the stout Hampshire yeomen were by no means without excuse.
They had been forcing their way for more than an hour through thetangled thickets of a gloomy and almost pathless wood, without evercoming any nearer, so far as they could see, either to getting clear ofthat dismal maze or reaching the town of Rennes, where they meant tospend the night. Then, darkness was coming on fast, menacing them withthe far from agreeable prospect of wandering in the woods all nightlong; and last, but certainly not least, the huge black storm-cloudthat was blotting out the red and angry sunset betokened the approachof such a tempest as even the hardy English would not willingly havefaced unsheltered.
"'Tis not for myself I care," said one of them; "shame on the man whomakes moan like a child over a wet jerkin or an empty stomach. But myyoung lords are not ripe yet for hungry days and wet nights, and I everdeemed that his worship, Sir Simon, did not well to bring them hither."
He glanced pityingly as he spoke at the slim forms of the two boy-pages.
"Why say'st thou so, Dickon?" cried another man. "Surely 'tis well fora bold lad to see the world a bit, in place of being mewed up at homelike a caged singing-bird!"
"Ay, but how if the bold lad fall sick and die, through being not yetstrong enow for such rough work?"
"Dickon is right," chimed in an older man. "My young lords (God blessthem both!) are full young yet for open field and hard fare; andmethinks," he added in a cautious undertone, "their loving uncle yonderwould not be too sorely grieved, were it to befall them as Dickon hathsaid!"
"What say'st thou?" asked three or four voices at once, in tones ofdismay.
"Know ye not he is the next heir after their death?" said the veteran,with grim significance. "Didst ever hear yon ballad of the 'Babes inthe Wood'?"
"Why, comrade, thou canst not mean, surely----"
"Nay, I mean nought. A man may speak of a good ballad, and no harmdone."
But the old soldier's gloomy hints had left their mark, and thenceforthhe and his comrades rode on in sombre silence.
Meanwhile the two knights who headed the train were in no blither mood.
"St. Edward! 'tis as if we were in one of the enchanted woods whereofromances tell, in which a man may wander for ever, and ne'er get onefoot from his starting-place!" cried the younger man, impatiently. "Mymind misgives me, Sir Simon, that we have gone much astray."
"In sooth, I fear we have; yet methinks we did our best to follow suchdirections as we got in yon village, if indeed we rightly understoodthem, for this peasant-jargon is right hard to interpret."
"I would I could meet one of these same peasants now, be his jargonwhat it might; for how shall we ask our way, if there be no man here ofwhom to ask it?"
"Nay, methinks I espy a man now, in the shadow of yon trees. Let ushail him. What ho, friend! are we yet nigh to Rennes?"
"To Rennes?" echoed the stranger, in a tone of amazement. "Alack, noblesirs, ye be much astray. Ye have been making straight away from thetown, and were ye to turn your steeds this moment, two long leagues,and more, must ye ride to reach it."
The younger knight growled something that did not sound like ablessing, and the rough English yeomen relieved their overwroughtfeelings with a burst of hearty English maledictions on Brittany, itswoods, its people, and all belonging to it.
"Two leagues!" repeated Sir Simon; "the storm would be on us ere wewere halfway. Hark ye, fellow, is there no dwelling near, where we mayfind shelter for the night?"
"Surely, noble sir; not a quarter of a league hence lieth the castle ofMessire Yvon du Guesclin, who will make your worships right welcome."
"That is good hearing," said the younger knight, more cheerily. "Guideus thither, good fellow, and thou shalt have a silver mark for thypains."
"Gramercy for thy kindness, good Sir Knight; that will I do blithely,"said the man, eager to seize the chance of earning more money in halfan hour than he had often made in a month. "Be pleased to follow me."
Piloted by their new guide, the travellers soon got clear of theseperplexing woods, and ere long saw before them, looming dimly throughthe fast-falling darkness of night, the shadowy outline of a hightower, from which, as they advanced, came faintly to their ears aclamour of loud and angry voices, a trampling of feet, the clatter ofblows, and the ring of steel.
"We are in luck!" cried the younger knight, joyfully. "They arefighting within, and we are just in time, the saints be praised, forour share of the sport!"
Knights, squires, and pages loosened their swords in the sheath with abusiness-like and cheerful air; for, to any man of those rough times,the mere fact that a fight was going on anywhere within reach was agood reason for joining in, without caring a straw what was the causeof quarrel, or on which side lay the right.
But, to explain this tumult, we must go back a little.
Four or five of the Du Guesclin men-at-arms were lounging about thecastle-yard of Motte-Brun, on their return from escorting their lady onanother visit to the convent, when there came gliding among them, witha half-tripping, half-sliding step, a pale, meagre, flighty-lookingman, whose fantastic dress, and parti-coloured cap adorned with smallbells, showed him to be one of those nondescript personages, half idiotand half jester, who led, in the households of the gentry of that age,the life of a spaniel in a lion's cage--now taking liberties with theirmasters of which no one else would have dared to dream, and now beingscourged till the blood ran down, when one of those liberties happenedto be ill received.
"Ha! why wentest not thou forth with us, Messire Roland?" cried one ofthe soldiers to the jester, whom his master had named in joke after thefamous legendary champion of Charlemagne. "Had we been beset bythieves, we had sorely missed the aid of thy puissant arm."
"Not so," said Roland; "had ye been bare-headed, ye were safe enowwithout aid of mine, for never was blade forged in Brittany that couldhew through skulls as thick as yours!"
A hoarse laugh applauded the retort, such as it was.
"Well, better a thick skull than an empty one, methinks," chuckledanother of the band, with a meaning leer at the jester.
"Mock me not, slave!" cried Roland, majestically, "or I will hold theeso fast that thou shalt gladly pay ransom to get free again."
"Thou?" said the brawny, red-bearded giant whom he addressed, eyeinghis challenger's puny frame with a look of scorn.
"Even I," replied the buffoon, solemnly. "Think'st thou that because Iam weak in body, I cannot be strong in magic? I promise thee, on thefaith of a madman, I will pin thee as fast as yon Paynim baron of oldtime, Seigneur Theseus, who was set so fast in the stocks in purg
atory,that when the good knight, Sir Hercules, tore him away by main force,his legs were left behind. Sit thee down here, and mark what shall cometo pass."
The big man sat down, as bidden, on a low stone bench by the wall, andfolded his huge arms with an air of defiance.
"Abracadabra!" shouted the jester, flourishing his hands within an inchof the soldier's nose. "The spell is spoken: rise if thou canst!"
The giant, with a scornful laugh, attempted to do so; but just behindhim projected from the wall a strong iron hook, which (as the craftyjester had foreseen) caught the upper edge of his steel backplate as hetried to rise, and held him down as firmly as if he were nailed to thespot!
Scared out of his wits by this strange and sudden bewitchment, theunlucky man roared like a bull, making the air ring with howls forhelp, fragments of half-forgotten prayers, broad Breton oaths, and vowsto every saint whose name he could recollect. Meanwhile the other men(who saw at once the real cause of his strange paralysis) danced roundhim in ecstasy, and gave vent to roar after roar of such boisterouslaughter as seemed to shake the very tower above them.
"Art thou convinced now, unhappy boaster?" said the buffoon, in a toneof condescending pity, calculated to drive the big spearman stark mad."What ransom wilt thou pay to be freed?"
"I have but three silver groats," gasped the victim; "take them, andfree me."
"So be it!" said Roland, with the air of a king pardoning a peasant;and, pocketing the money, he laid his hands on the giant's shoulders,bent him down till he was freed from the hook, and said impressively,"Rise!"
The spell-bound man sprang up like a captive bursting from his dungeon,and turning hastily round, caught sight of the hook.
One glance at it, coupled with a fresh roar of laughter from hiscomrades, told him the whole story. With a howl like a speared wolf, heflew at the jester's throat; but Roland, fully prepared, vanishedghost-like into the dark archway of the nearest door.
Poor Roland's escape, however, was a case of "out of the frying-paninto the fire;" for, as he darted into the doorway, he came like abattering-ram against Alain de St. Yvon himself (the eldest ofBertrand's three overbearing cousins, who was just coming out to learnthe cause of all this uproar), driving his head into the young noble'schest with such force as to hurl him back against the wall.
"Base-born dog!" roared the enraged Alain, in the courteous style usualwith gentlemen to their inferiors in that "chivalrous" age, "I willteach thee to thrust thy vile carcass in my way! Ho there, fellows!seize this cur, and scourge him till his hide be as tattered as hiswits!"
The men-at-arms (with whom the poor jester was a prime favourite) wereunwillingly advancing to obey, when a voice broke in from behind, deepand menacing as the roll of distant thunder--
"Who dare talk of scourging my father's servant in his own castle,without leave given or asked? Let any man lift a hand on him, and heshall have to do with me!"
There, in the midst of them, stood Bertrand du Guesclin, with hisswarthy face all aglow, and his small, deep-set eyes flaming like livecoals.
For a moment Alain himself stood aghast, for never till now had hisdespised cousin asserted himself like this; and his two brothers, Raouland Huon (who had just come upon the scene), were equally astounded.There was a brief pause of indecision, and then the young bully'snative insolence broke forth anew.
"Who bade thee interfere, thou mis-shapen cub?" cried he, fiercely."Thou shalt see thy brother-fool get his deserts forthwith, and all themore because thou pleadest for him. Ho, Charlot! give yon whining cur ataste of thy whip."
The man he addressed (a thickset, savage-looking groom that he hadbrought with him to the castle) stepped forward with a grin of cruelglee on his coarse, low-browed face; but as he neared his victim, youngDu Guesclin threw himself between, and grimly motioned him back.
"An thou lov'st thy life, forbear!" said he, in the low, stern tone ofone who fully meant what he said; "I will not warn thee twice."
Had the fellow been in his right senses, one glance at Bertrand's facewould have been warning enough. But he was rarely sober at that time ofday, and all his natural insolence was aroused by this challenge fromone whom he had always looked upon as a mere cipher in the household.
"Big words break no bones!" said he jeeringly, as he stretched his handto seize the cowering jester.
Not a word said Bertrand in reply; but he caught up a stout pole thatlay near, and brought it down like a thunderbolt full on the ruffian'shead. But that his cap was a thick one, and the skull beneath itthicker still, the cowardly rascal would never have struck a helplessman again; even as it was, he fell like a log, and lay senseless on thepavement, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nose.
Alain, now fairly beside himself with fury, sputtered out a curse toofrightful to be written down, and flew at his cousin, sword in hand.
Down came the pole once more, breaking off the sword-blade close to thehilt, and snapping like a reed with the force of the blow. In anothermoment, Bertrand found himself in the grasp of all three brothers atonce.
And then began such a struggle as the oldest soldier there had neverseen. Roused to the utmost by his cousin's insolent cruelty, and bythat noble impulse to protect the helpless which was the mainspring ofhis whole life, Bertrand dragged the three stalwart youths hither andthither like children, and more than once well-nigh mastered all threetogether. Huon's arm was crushed against a sharp corner, and bruisedfrom wrist to elbow; Raoul got a black eye from a projecting spout; andAlain himself, with his gay clothes almost torn from his back, and histhroat purple from the clutch of Bertrand's iron fingers, had goodcause to repent of his bullying. At last all four came down in aconfused heap, young Du Guesclin undermost.
The three young men scrambled slowly to their feet again, torn,bruised, and aching from top to toe; but their ill-starred cousinremained lying where he had fallen, with the blood streaming over hisface.
"What means this?" roared a tremendous voice amid the terrified silencethat followed. "Is my castle a village tavern, that men should brawl init?"
The turbulent youths shrank from the eye of their enraged uncle, whowas bending over his prostrate son, with a look of such anxiety as herarely showed for him, when a trumpet-blast was heard outside the gate.
"Here be guests," said the old knight, rising hastily. "Look forthquickly, Petit-Jean, and see who they be. Some of ye bear this boy tohis chamber, and let his hurt be well looked to. And as for you, yemalapert lads, go make ye fit to be seen in the hall, for, by St. Yves,ye seem in your present guise more like drunken beggars at a villagefair!"
The abashed brawlers slunk away, glad to escape so easily; and theporter, having reconnoitred from the window of the gate-tower those whostood without, and exchanged a few words with them, announced to hismaster that two English knights, on their way to visit the Duke ofBrittany, craved lodging for themselves and their train.
"Admit them forthwith," said the castellan, as much pleased as anyother country gentleman of his time at the coming of a guest who couldgive him all the news of the day, and whose gossip was to that age whata daily paper is to our own.
The guests were heartily welcomed, and, the evening meal being alreadyprepared, it was placed on the board as soon as the visitors wereready, much to the satisfaction of the latter, who had been in thesaddle since morning.
When Alain and his brothers made their appearance, they still borevisible marks of the recent fray; but in that bone-breaking age it wasquite the correct thing for a young man of rank to wear a face like abeaten prize-fighter; and Sir Simon Harcourt mentally decided thatthese were "exceeding gentle and good young men."
"I give thee joy, my noble host," said he, bowing courteously to thethree tall youths as they entered; "thou hast a goodly muster of sonsto carry on thy name."
"Gramercy for thy courtesy, fair sir," said the old castellan,reddening slightly, "but these lads are no sons of mine; they are butmy dead sister's orphan children. But one son have I, and he may notquit his
chamber, being somewhat ill at ease with a hurt he hathgotten."
How his son had got that hurt, the good knight did not think fit to say.
Sir Yvon listened eagerly to all his visitors' news, being speciallydelighted to hear that a new war was expected between France andEngland. Filling his silver goblet to the brim, he uttered the toast,"May we soon meet again on the battlefield!" as heartily as if he werewishing his guests every kind of prosperity.
The latter echoed the pledge with a heartiness natural to an age whenmen were feasting together at one moment and fighting together thenext; and Harcourt said, with a quick glance at his boy-nephews--
"Here be two lads, fair sir, who will blithely say Amen to that goodwish of thine, for they have never seen a stricken field; and, intruth, Alured and Hugo de Claremont are the heads of our house, thoughthey now serve me as pages."
"The better for them!" cried the old knight, looking approvingly at thetwo handsome, high-bred faces, and secretly rejoicing at the accidentthat had kept his own ugly son from being contrasted with them. "Thereis nought like discipline for young blood, and he who has not learnedto obey as a page will never be fit to command as a knight. I drink toyou, Master Alured, and to you, Master Hugo; and soon may ye both winyour spurs on some well-fought field!"
And then, at a sign from his master, the household minstrel (for everybaron of that age "kept a poet," like the London firm in the old story)struck up a very appropriate song--
"The Merchant he sitteth 'mid bags of coin With a grave and wrinkled brow; He loveth to hold the good red gold, But he likes not the steel, I trow! His wares sell high to all who can buy, And of two he can well make three; But he knows not to wield the blade and shield-- What profit, what profit is he?
"The Scholar he spelleth out learned lore From his parchment's musty fold; He is skilled to look in many a book Writ by hands that have long been cold. But his thin white hand never grasped a brand, Nor ever made lance-shaft flee, And pale is his cheek, and his arm is weak-- What profit, what profit is he?
"The Minstrel he roams from land to land In his flaunting robe so gay, And light o'er the strings his soft hand he flings As he pours the melting lay. They feed him high, and they lodge him well, And rich is his golden fee; But his hand ne'er did feel the gauntlet of steel-- What profit, what profit is he?
"But the softest pillow the Warrior hath Is the boss of his battered shield, Where the firebrand's light, thro' the murky night, Glares red on the foughten field. The wares _he_ loves are of good hard steel, _His_ music, the sword-clang free; And when foemen stand 'gainst his native land, Good profit, good profit is he!"
At daybreak on the morrow the knights and their train left the castleon their way to Rennes. As the twin pages rode after their uncle,Alured de Claremont turned for a last look at the grim old tower, andBertrand du Guesclin (who, having begun to get over the effects of hisbroken head, had dragged himself to his window to witness thedeparture) looked down in wondering admiration, not wholly untingedwith envy, on the English boy's bright, comely face, little guessingunder what terribly changed conditions he was one day to see that faceagain.
"Had I but a face like yon lad!" said the Breton boy, with a deep sigh."Why should he be the delight of every eye, and I a loathing to allthat look upon me?"
But then came back to him the pilgrim-monk's warning to "curb his ownrebellious spirit," and with it came the memory of the strange dream inwhich he had seen himself crowned with laurels as the champion ofFrance. His face brightened at the recollection, and he knelt down witha lighter heart to say his morning prayer.