الفصل الفصل 33 · HOW THE ARMY MADE THE PASSAGE OF RONCESVALLES.

. HOW THE ARMY MADE THE PASSAGE OF RONCESVALLES.

The whole vast plain of Gascony and of Languedoc is an arid and

profitless expanse in winter save where the swift-flowing Adour and her

snow-fed tributaries, the Louts, the Oloron and the Pau, run down to

the sea of Biscay. South of the Adour the jagged line of mountains which

fringe the sky-line send out long granite claws, running down into the

lowlands and dividing them into “gaves” or stretches of valley. Hillocks

grow into hills, and hills into mountains, each range overlying its

neighbor, until they soar up in the giant chain which raises its

spotless and untrodden peaks, white and dazzling, against the pale blue

wintry sky.

A quiet land is this--a land where the slow-moving Basque, with his flat

biretta-cap, his red sash and his hempen sandals, tills his scanty farm

or drives his lean flock to their hill-side pastures. It is the country

of the wolf and the isard, of the brown bear and the mountain-goat, a

land of bare rock and of rushing water. Yet here it was that the will of

a great prince had now assembled a gallant army; so that from the Adour

to the passes of Navarre the barren valleys and wind-swept wastes were

populous with soldiers and loud with the shouting of orders and the

neighing of horses. For the banners of war had been flung to the wind

once more, and over those glistening peaks was the highway along which

Honor pointed in an age when men had chosen her as their guide.

And now all was ready for the enterprise. From Dax to St. Jean

Pied-du-Port the country was mottled with the white tents of Gascons,

Aquitanians and English, all eager for the advance. From all sides the

free companions had trooped in, until not less than twelve thousand of

these veteran troops were cantoned along the frontiers of Navarre. From

England had arrived the prince's brother, the Duke of Lancaster, with

four hundred knights in his train and a strong company of archers. Above

all, an heir to the throne had been born in Bordeaux, and the prince

might leave his spouse with an easy mind, for all was well with mother

and with child.

The keys of the mountain passes still lay in the hands of the shifty and

ignoble Charles of Navarre, who had chaffered and bargained both with

the English and with the Spanish, taking money from the one side to hold

them open and from the other to keep them sealed. The mallet hand of

Edward, however, had shattered all the schemes and wiles of the plotter.

Neither entreaty nor courtly remonstrance came from the English prince;

but Sir Hugh Calverley passed silently over the border with his company,

and the blazing walls of the two cities of Miranda and Puenta de la

Reyna warned the unfaithful monarch that there were other metals besides

gold, and that he was dealing with a man to whom it was unsafe to lie.

His price was paid, his objections silenced, and the mountain gorges lay

open to the invaders. From the Feast of the Epiphany there was mustering

and massing, until, in the first week of February--three days after the

White Company joined the army--the word was given for a general advance

through the defile of Roncesvalles. At five in the cold winter's morning

the bugles were blowing in the hamlet of St. Jean Pied-du-Port, and by

six Sir Nigel's Company, three hundred strong, were on their way for the

defile, pushing swiftly in the dim light up the steep curving road; for

it was the prince's order that they should be the first to pass through,

and that they should remain on guard at the further end until the whole

army had emerged from the mountains. Day was already breaking in the

east, and the summits of the great peaks had turned rosy red, while the

valleys still lay in the shadow, when they found themselves with the

cliffs on either hand and the long, rugged pass stretching away before

them.

Sir Nigel rode his great black war-horse at the head of his archers,

dressed in full armor, with Black Simon bearing his banner behind him,

while Alleyne at his bridle-arm carried his blazoned shield and his

well-steeled ashen spear. A proud and happy man was the knight, and many

a time he turned in his saddle to look at the long column of bowmen who

swung swiftly along behind him.

“By Saint Paul! Alleyne,” said he, “this pass is a very perilous place,

and I would that the King of Navarre had held it against us, for it

would have been a very honorable venture had it fallen to us to win a

passage. I have heard the minstrels sing of one Sir Roland who was slain

by the infidels in these very parts.”

“If it please you, my fair lord,” said Black Simon, “I know something

of these parts, for I have twice served a term with the King of Navarre.

There is a hospice of monks yonder, where you may see the roof among the

trees, and there it was that Sir Roland was slain. The village upon the

left is Orbaiceta, and I know a house therein where the right wine of

Jurancon is to be bought, if it would please you to quaff a morning

cup.”

“There is smoke yonder upon the right.”

“That is a village named Les Aldudes, and I know a hostel there also

where the wine is of the best. It is said that the inn-keeper hath a

buried treasure, and I doubt not, my fair lord, that if you grant me

leave I could prevail upon him to tell us where he hath hid it.”

“Nay, nay, Simon,” said Sir Nigel curtly, “I pray you to forget these

free companion tricks. Ha! Edricson, I see that you stare about you, and

in good sooth these mountains must seem wondrous indeed to one who hath

but seen Butser or the Portsdown hill.”

The broken and rugged road had wound along the crests of low hills,

with wooded ridges on either side of it over which peeped the loftier

mountains, the distant Peak of the South and the vast Altabisca, which

towered high above them and cast its black shadow from left to right

across the valley. From where they now stood they could look forward

down a long vista of beech woods and jagged rock-strewn wilderness, all

white with snow, to where the pass opened out upon the uplands beyond.

Behind them they could still catch a glimpse of the gray plains of

Gascony, and could see her rivers gleaming like coils of silver in the

sunshine. As far as eye could see from among the rocky gorges and the

bristles of the pine woods there came the quick twinkle and glitter of

steel, while the wind brought with it sudden distant bursts of martial

music from the great host which rolled by every road and by-path towards

the narrow pass of Roncesvalles. On the cliffs on either side might also

be seen the flash of arms and the waving of pennons where the force of

Navarre looked down upon the army of strangers who passed through their

territories.

“By Saint Paul!” said Sir Nigel, blinking up at them, “I think that

we have much to hope for from these cavaliers, for they cluster very

thickly upon our flanks. Pass word to the men, Aylward, that they

unsling their bows, for I have no doubt that there are some very

worthy gentlemen yonder who may give us some opportunity for honorable

advancement.”

“I hear that the prince hath the King of Navarre as hostage,” said

Alleyne, “and it is said that he hath sworn to put him to death if there

be any attack upon us.”

“It was not so that war was made when good King Edward first turned his

hand to it,” said Sir Nigel sadly. “Ah! Alleyne, I fear that you will

never live to see such things, for the minds of men are more set upon

money and gain than of old. By Saint Paul! it was a noble sight when two

great armies would draw together upon a certain day, and all who had

a vow would ride forth to discharge themselves of it. What noble

spear-runnings have I not seen, and even in an humble way had a part in,

when cavaliers would run a course for the easing of their souls and for

the love of their ladies! Never a bad word have I for the French, for,

though I have ridden twenty times up to their array, I have never yet

failed to find some very gentle and worthy knight or squire who was

willing to do what he might to enable me to attempt some small feat of

arms. Then, when all cavaliers had been satisfied, the two armies would

come to hand-strokes, and fight right merrily until one or other had the

vantage. By Saint Paul! it was not our wont in those days to pay gold

for the opening of passes, nor would we hold a king as hostage lest

his people come to thrusts with us. In good sooth, if the war is to be

carried out in such a fashion, then it is grief to me that I ever came

away from Castle Twynham, for I would not have left my sweet lady had I

not thought that there were deeds of arms to be done.”

“But surely, my fair lord,” said Alleyne, “you have done some great

feats of arms since we left the Lady Loring.”

“I cannot call any to mind,” answered Sir Nigel.

“There was the taking of the sea-rovers, and the holding of the keep

against the Jacks.”

“Nay, nay,” said the knight, “these were not feats of arms, but mere

wayside ventures and the chances of travel. By Saint Paul! if it were

not that these hills are over-steep for Pommers, I would ride to these

cavaliers of Navarre and see if there were not some among them who would

help me to take this patch from mine eye. It is a sad sight to see this

very fine pass, which my own Company here could hold against an army,

and yet to ride through it with as little profit as though it were the

lane from my kennels to the Avon.”

All morning Sir Nigel rode in a very ill-humor, with his Company

tramping behind him. It was a toilsome march over broken ground and

through snow, which came often as high as the knee, yet ere the sun had

begun to sink they had reached the spot where the gorge opens out on to

the uplands of Navarre, and could see the towers of Pampeluna jutting

up against the southern sky-line. Here the Company were quartered in a

scattered mountain hamlet, and Alleyne spent the day looking down

upon the swarming army which poured with gleam of spears and flaunt of

standards through the narrow pass.

“Hola, mon gar.,” said Aylward, seating himself upon a boulder by his

side. “This is indeed a fine sight upon which it is good to look, and a

man might go far ere he would see so many brave men and fine horses.

By my hilt! our little lord is wroth because we have come peacefully

through the passes, but I will warrant him that we have fighting

enow ere we turn our faces northward again. It is said that there are

four-score thousand men behind the King of Spain, with Du Guesclin and

all the best lances of France, who have sworn to shed their heart's

blood ere this Pedro come again to the throne.”

“Yet our own army is a great one,” said Alleyne.

“Nay, there are but seven-and-twenty thousand men. Chandos hath

persuaded the prince to leave many behind, and indeed I think that he is

right, for there is little food and less water in these parts for which

we are bound. A man without his meat or a horse without his fodder is

like a wet bow-string, fit for little. But voila, mon petit, here comes

Chandos and his company, and there is many a pensil and banderole among

yonder squadrons which show that the best blood of England is riding

under his banners.”

Whilst Aylward had been speaking, a strong column of archers had defiled

through the pass beneath them. They were followed by a banner-bearer

who held high the scarlet wedge upon a silver field which proclaimed the

presence of the famous warrior. He rode himself within a spear's-length

of his standard, clad from neck to foot in steel, but draped in the long

linen gown or parement which was destined to be the cause of his death.

His plumed helmet was carried behind him by his body-squire, and his

head was covered by a small purple cap, from under which his snow-white

hair curled downwards to his shoulders. With his long beak-like nose and

his single gleaming eye, which shone brightly from under a thick tuft

of grizzled brow, he seemed to Alleyne to have something of the look

of some fierce old bird of prey. For a moment he smiled, as his eye lit

upon the banner of the five roses waving from the hamlet; but his course

lay for Pampeluna, and he rode on after the archers.

Close at his heels came sixteen squires, all chosen from the highest

families, and behind them rode twelve hundred English knights, with

gleam of steel and tossing of plumes, their harness jingling, their long

straight swords clanking against their stirrup-irons, and the beat of

their chargers' hoofs like the low deep roar of the sea upon the shore.

Behind them marched six hundred Cheshire and Lancashire archers, bearing

the badge of the Audleys, followed by the famous Lord Audley himself,

with the four valiant squires, Dutton of Dutton, Delves of Doddington,

Fowlehurst of Crewe, and Hawkestone of Wainehill, who had all won such

glory at Poictiers. Two hundred heavily-armed cavalry rode behind the

Audley standard, while close at their heels came the Duke of Lancaster

with a glittering train, heralds tabarded with the royal arms riding

three deep upon cream-colored chargers in front of him. On either side

of the young prince rode the two seneschals of Aquitaine, Sir Guiscard

d'Angle and Sir Stephen Cossington, the one bearing the banner of the

province and the other that of Saint George. Away behind him as far as

eye could reach rolled the far-stretching, unbroken river of steel--rank

after rank and column after column, with waving of plumes, glitter of

arms, tossing of guidons, and flash and flutter of countless armorial

devices. All day Alleyne looked down upon the changing scene, and all

day the old bowman stood by his elbow, pointing out the crests of famous

warriors and the arms of noble houses. Here were the gold mullets of the

Pakingtons, the sable and ermine of the Mackworths, the scarlet bars of

the Wakes, the gold and blue of the Grosvenors, the cinque-foils of

the Cliftons, the annulets of the Musgraves, the silver pinions of the

Beauchamps, the crosses of the Molineaux, the bloody chevron of the

Woodhouses, the red and silver of the Worsleys, the swords of the

Clarks, the boars'-heads of the Lucies, the crescents of the Boyntons,

and the wolf and dagger of the Lipscombs. So through the sunny winter

day the chivalry of England poured down through the dark pass of

Roncesvalles to the plains of Spain.

It was on a Monday that the Duke of Lancaster's division passed safely

through the Pyrenees. On the Tuesday there was a bitter frost, and the

ground rung like iron beneath the feet of the horses; yet ere evening

the prince himself, with the main battle of his army, had passed the

gorge and united with his vanguard at Pampeluna. With him rode the King

of Majorca, the hostage King of Navarre, and the fierce Don Pedro of

Spain, whose pale blue eyes gleamed with a sinister light as they rested

once more upon the distant peaks of the land which had disowned him.

Under the royal banners rode many a bold Gascon baron and many a

hot-blooded islander. Here were the high stewards of Aquitaine, of

Saintonge, of La Rochelle, of Quercy, of Limousin, of Agenois, of

Poitou, and of Bigorre, with the banners and musters of their provinces.

Here also were the valiant Earl of Angus, Sir Thomas Banaster with his

garter over his greave, Sir Nele Loring, second cousin to Sir Nigel,

and a long column of Welsh footmen who marched under the red banner

of Merlin. From dawn to sundown the long train wound through the pass,

their breath reeking up upon the frosty air like the steam from a

cauldron.

The weather was less keen upon the Wednesday, and the rear-guard

made good their passage, with the bombards and the wagon-train. Free

companions and Gascons made up this portion of the army to the number of

ten thousand men. The fierce Sir Hugh Calverley, with his yellow mane,

and the rugged Sir Robert Knolles, with their war-hardened and veteran

companies of English bowmen, headed the long column; while behind them

came the turbulent bands of the Bastard of Breteuil, Nandon de Bagerant,

one-eyed Camus, Black Ortingo, La Nuit and others whose very names seem

to smack of hard hands and ruthless deeds. With them also were the

pick of the Gascon chivalry--the old Duc d'Armagnac, his nephew Lord

d'Albret, brooding and scowling over his wrongs, the giant Oliver de

Clisson, the Captal de Buch, pink of knighthood, the sprightly Sir

Perducas d'Albret, the red-bearded Lord d'Esparre, and a long train of

needy and grasping border nobles, with long pedigrees and short purses,

who had come down from their hill-side strongholds, all hungering for

the spoils and the ransoms of Spain. By the Thursday morning the whole

army was encamped in the Vale of Pampeluna, and the prince had called

his council to meet him in the old palace of the ancient city of

Navarre.