by David Ker
CHAPTER VIII
Lance to Lance
It was a bright, warm, cloudless morning in the summer of 1337, andalong the dusty high-roads of Brittany crowds of people were pouringtoward Rennes from every side; for a great tournament was about to beheld near the town, and at that period such displays aroused the sameuniversal excitement, and drew together the same multitudes as arace-meeting of our own day.
The spot chosen for the scene of action was a wide sweep of grassy turftwo or three miles from the town; and the motley crowds which throngedthither were quite as picturesque, in their way, as the pageant thatthey were hurrying to behold. Knights in full armour, all on fire toreach the spot where they hoped to win renown; richly dressed ladies,caracoling on costly Spanish jennets; local dignitaries in furredmantles, with gold chains round their necks; plainly garbed traders,looking quite homely amid the plumes and embroidery around them--forthe laws of that age strictly forbade any man who was not of knightlyrank to copy the finery of the nobles; brisk, merry-eyed 'prentice-ladsfrom the town, delighted with all this noise and bustle; and sturdy,shaggy-haired, hard-faced Breton peasants, in the broad slouched hatand knickerbocker-like "bragous," or knee-breeches, which have comedown unchanged to our own time in that primitive region. And ever andanon came cleaving through the press, like a three-decker through aswarm of fishing-boats, the train of some great noble, whosemen-at-arms kept shouting their master's name, and making way for himby thrusting aside the crowd with their horses, and letting fall theirspear-shafts pretty smartly on the shoulders of such as were slow togive place.
Conspicuous among the gentlemen present was old Sir Yvon du Guesclin,who received many a courteous greeting as he passed; for though somemen affected to look down upon him on account of his poverty, he washighly esteemed by others for his ancient descent and former renown inarms. In truth, the old knight's erect and commanding air, and thechallenging glances of the three stalwart nephews who rode beside him,were an ample warning, even to such as liked him least, that to slighthim to his face would be no safe undertaking.
Poor Bertrand had been left at home as usual, his uncompromising fatherdeclaring, with more truth than politeness, that he would be noornament to a knightly circle. But, strangely enough, this openaffront, so far from angering the high-spirited youth, seemed rather toamuse him. He watched his father's train ride forth with such a smileof mischievous glee as might be worn by a schoolboy when planning somedaring practical joke; and hardly had the last man-at-arms vanishedamong the trees, when our hero ordered out an old war-horse of hisfather's, and set off not to the scene of the tournament, but towardthe castle of his friend the Sire de Tinteniac.
The wooden galleries erected for the spectators of rank filled apace,and ere long the whole circle was one great flower-bed of rich dresses,comely faces, and fluttering ribbons and plumes, while the plainer garbof the burghers and peasants below bordered like a dark hedge this fairgarden of beauty and splendour; and the glitter of so many polishedhelmets and bright lance-points in the cloudless sunshine, togetherwith the scores of gallant steeds that were prancing and snortingbeneath their mailed riders, made a goodly show.
High in the front of the chief gallery, with his banner waving overhim, sat the Duke of Brittany himself, John III., with his duchessbeside him. His fine face looked bright and animated by the enjoymentof this martial pageant; but a keen observer might already have notedthere the growing weakness that was to end in his death four yearslater, and to kindle between the rival claimants of the disputedsuccession one of the bloodiest wars of that stormy age.
All was now ready for the sports, the arrangement being that thetilters should encounter each other in pairs till all had run onecourse apiece, and that the winners should then dispute the prize amongthem till only one was left unconquered, to whom the honours of the dayshould be awarded. Duke John gave the signal, and instantly the firstpair of combatants rushed upon one another.
Tramp, tramp, crash! and down went the first man, rolling over and overamid a cloud of dust. Tramp, tramp, crash, again; and down rolled thewinner in turn, horse and man falling together. Thus course aftercourse was run, while the loud applause of the spectators mingled withthe crash of breaking lance-shafts, the clang of steel, and the fiercesnorting and neighing of the war-horses.
Peasants below and ladies above alike watched the combat with thekeenest enjoyment, which derived much of its zest from the fact thatthe tilters, instead of using what were called "arms of courtesy"(pointless or blunted lances) met each other with the sharp spears usedin actual war. When three or four of the overthrown champions werefound to be so badly hurt that they had to be carried from the lists,the general delight naturally rose to a height, as was usual at a timewhen a tournament, in which four knights were killed outright andthirty more so desperately wounded that many of them never recovered,was always spoken of as "a gentle and joyous passage of arms"!
Sir Yvon du Guesclin himself, being out of health just then, had beenpersuaded by his lady to refrain, for once, from the bone-breakingpastime that he loved so well; but his place was well filled by histhree athletic nephews, who, young as they were, were already famed formiles round as among the best lances of Brittany. All three hadgallantly done their part in the conflict, overthrowing all who facedthem; and the third opponent of Alain, the eldest (though a knight ofproved skill and prowess), was hurled to the earth with such force thathis shoulder was dislocated by the shock.
Having achieved this crowning feat, the young Hercules rode twice roundthe lists with all his wonted arrogance, saluting the duke and duchessand other titled spectators with the air of one who thought himself asgood as any of them.
Well might he be so proudly exultant, for only four knights were nowleft in the lists to encounter him and his two brothers, and the prizeseemed already within his grasp.
But few wiser sayings have ever been uttered than the good old proverbwhich warns men against counting their chickens before they arehatched; and an obstacle of which he little dreamed lay between theyoung swaggerer and the distinction that he so boastfully accounted hisown. Just as he turned to ride back to the end of the lists for what heexpected to be his final course, the day's programme was suddenlydisturbed by a startling and unlooked-for interruption.
From the far end of the wide meadow in which the lists had been setcame clearly through the still air the sound of a trumpet, waking allthe echoes with a ringing blast of defiance.
All eyes were instantly turned with eager curiosity in the direction ofa sound betokening the coming of some new champion to take part in thecontest, and in another moment a horseman in full armour, with thevisor of his helmet closed, was seen making his way slowly through thecrowd, which opened, as if by word of command, to give him passage.
The new-comer was alone, save for the single attendant who had soundedthe trumpet; and he, in direct contradiction of established usage, woreno blazonry or distinguishing badge of any kind, being simply clad in along grey mantle, with an overlapping hood that hid his face.
But, strange as was the appearance of the servant, that of the masterwas stranger still.
He was short of stature, but his massive build and vastshoulder-breadth gave a promise of surpassing strength, amply borne outby the unusual weight of the shield and lance that he carried. Theshield itself was wholly blank, having neither device nor motto. Thestranger's armour was black as night from head to heel, as was also thehorse that he rode; and, with his barred visor and sombre panoply,there was in his whole aspect something so gloomy, grim, and almostunearthly, that a thrill of superstitious awe pulsed through the gazingcrowd, and reached even the more exalted spectators around the duke'sthrone.
The unknown warrior never uttered a word, and this ominous silenceadded to the chilling effect of his sudden and gloomy apparition. Buthis attendant blew a second blast, and proclaimed aloud that his masterhad made a vow to St. Yves of Brittany to keep the lists that dayagain
st all comers, and craved permission of the most high and mightyDuke John to discharge his vow.
Such vows, and others more irrational still, were too common in thatage of chivalrous extravagance to surprise any one, and the duke atonce assented, though secretly convinced that this bold stranger hadlittle chance of holding his own against seven of the best knights inBrittany.
But not so thought the most experienced judges present. Apart from thestranger's show of vast bodily strength, the skill with which hehandled lance and horse argued no ordinary power of managing both, anda dead hush of expectation sank over the whole multitude as the unknownwas seen to take his place in the lists.
He was instantly confronted by one of the four knights who were aboutto encounter the St. Yvon brothers, and the two hurtled together in themidst of the open space with the rush of two conflicting whirlwinds.
The unknown staggered slightly, and his steed was thrown back on itshaunches; but his opponent was hurled from his seat like a stone from asling, with a crash that echoed all round the lists.
A second and a third knight rode out to meet this terrible jouster,only to share the same fate; but the fourth was a more formidablechampion--no other than Olivier de Clisson, whose name in after-yearswon a dreadful pre-eminence in the wars of that grim period as oneequally without fear, without faith, and without mercy.
De Clisson was already famed as one of the most redoubtable jousters ofBrittany, and when he was seen to ride forth against the namelesscavalier, every one expected to see the latter go down like a ninepin.
The crash of their meeting was like the rending of an oak, and for amoment it seemed as if both had fallen, for each man bent backward tillhe all but touched the flanks of his horse; but both instantlyrecovered themselves, and, wheeling their steeds, rode back to theirplaces, and took fresh lances for a second course.
The burst of applause with which the spectators hailed thiswell-contested encounter was plainly given more to the unknown than toClisson; for, having fully expected to see the former fall beforeOlivier's charge, their admiration was all the greater for the strengthand skill with which he had foiled it.
De Clisson, already chafed by this unexpected check from a namelessopponent, was so enraged at the clamorous applause which greeted it,that he lost all his coolness just when it was most needed, and gavethe stranger an advantage which the latter was not slow to use. A quickmovement of his shield dexterously turned aside the terrific shock ofthe Breton's lance, while his own, striking Olivier full on the breast,bore him fairly backward to the ground.
This time the lookers-on were too much amazed to utter their wontedshout; but Clisson's men-at-arms were heard to mutter hoarsely to eachother--
"This champion must be the Evil One himself; for since he first couchedlance, our young lord hath never been overthrown by mortal man."
Only the three St. Yvon brothers were now left to dispute the prizewith this unknown warrior; and they might have been expected toconsider that a jouster who had overthrown De Clisson himself would bea match for the best of them. But their defiant bearing showed thateven this formidable proof of the stranger's prowess had not shakentheir swaggering self-confidence; and, as if in sheer bravado, thefirst who came forth to meet the Black Champion was Huon, the youngestand least powerful of the three.
The unknown himself evidently felt this slight, for his gauntleted handclenched itself as if it would crush the strong metal to powder, andthe way in which he settled in his saddle told that he meant to makehimself felt in earnest.
Both lances flew crashing into a thousand splinters; but through thewhirling dust of the charge Huon's helmet was seen to fly from his headhigh into the air, and he himself, after swaying dizzily to and fro foran instant, sank helplessly from his saddle to the earth.
Raoul growled a curse through his barred helmet, and pressed forward toavenge his fallen brother; but the terrible challenger (who seemed togather fresh strength from every new course) met him with so fierce ashock that it smote down horse and man.
Alain, the eldest, was now left alone, and between him and the BlackChampion lay the honour of the day.
As the unknown took his place for this final combat it was noticed thathe bent his head forward, and seemed to look keenly at his opponentthrough the bars of his visor, like an eagle fixing its eye on the preyon which it is about to swoop; and all who saw the gesture judged thatit boded no good to the swaggering Alain.
Nor were they mistaken. The two closed with the shock of a thunderbolt,and when the dust rolled away Alain was seen stretched on the earth,groaning feebly--as he well might, for the fall had broken hiscollar-bone and two of his ribs!
THE BLACK CHAMPION CONQUERS]
The general shout which greeted his overthrow told that, in thejudgment of the spectators, the young braggart had got no more than hisdue. But as the applause died away, from one of the galleries came adeep, strong voice, that of Sir Yvon du Guesclin--
"Ho, there! bring forth my war-horse quickly. I will try the mettle ofthis gay spark who hath overthrown my nephews."
Despite the entreaties of his lady, the hardy old knight was already onhis feet to make good his words, when the unknown warrior (who stillsat erect in his saddle, waiting to see if any new foe would confronthim) lowered his lance to him in courteous salute.
"Honoured sir," said he, speaking for the first time, "for all others Ihave the lance of a warrior; for thee I have but the reverence of ason!"
And, opening his visor, he revealed to the thunder-struck father theharsh features of his despised son, Bertrand du Guesclin!
To paint the feelings of the beaten Raoul and Huon at this disclosure(Alain being luckily insensible) would be a hopeless task; for the onething needed to make the shame of this public defeat unbearable was thediscovery that it had been inflicted by their scorned cousin, "UglyBertrand."
But the lookers-on, whose enthusiasm had been wrought up to the highestpoint by the various turns of this strange scene, greeted its dramaticclose with cheers that made the air ring, and brought a flush of joy toBertrand's swarthy cheek. It was the first recognition of his realvalue that he had ever had--the first homage paid by the world to aname which was hereafter to fill all Europe with its renown, and tolive as long as history itself.
Meanwhile Sir Yvon, having greeted his conquering son with a joyful hugthat made every rivet of his armour crackle, led him up to theprincipal gallery, and, kneeling on one knee, presented him to the Dukeand Duchess of Brittany.
"I give thee joy of him," said the childless sovereign, with a faintsigh. "I would I had such a son to succeed me. Thine is the prize,valiant youth; and my lady shall bind her own favour on thy crest, intoken that thou art a true son of our native Brittany."
"Nay, I claim no prize from your highness," said Bertrand, with hisusual bluntness. "What I did was for honour alone; and all I ask isyour highness's pardon for having presumed to joust at sharp spearswith knights, being as yet no knight myself."
"Nay, if that be all that is amiss, 'tis soon mended," said Duke John,kindly. "Kneel, brave youth, and take the stroke of knighthood from myhand."
"From a more honourable hand I could never take it, noble duke," saidthe young hero, bowing low; "but, I pray you, let not Bertrand duGuesclin be called a knight of the tilt-yard for accepting, withouthaving seen a stricken field, an honour that most men win with hardblows and much peril."
"Well spoken!" cried the duke, pleased with a chivalrous scruple sofully in the spirit of the age. "Take my sword at least, young sir. Iwarrant it will not be long idle in hands like thine!"
John III. spoke more truly than he could himself foresee. Even while hewas speaking, King Edward's messengers were bearing over the sea theirmaster's defiance to Philip of France, and the "Hundred Years' War" hadbegun.
"Thou art indeed my true son and heir," said the exultant Sire duGuesclin, again embracing his victorious son; "and now can I wellbelieve yon prophecy that thou should'st be the glory of our house andof the whole r
ealm of France, and that thy name should live in storywhile one stone of our castle stands on another."[1]
The term thus specified was fated to be much shorter than good SirYvon's feudal pride would have thought possible. The traveller who nowflies in one day from Paris to the heart of Brittany on the wings of asmoke-breathing dragon, of which the fourteenth century never dreamed,sees near the railway-station of Broons no vestige of the birthplace ofBrittany's greatest champion; and, but for the monument with whichBreton patriotism has marked the spot, might let it pass unnoticed andunknown.
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Footnote 1:
The resemblance between this authentic exploit of our hero and the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe" (which it may perhaps have suggested) is too obvious to need pointing out.