Chapter Chapter 23 · HOW ENGLAND HELD THE LISTS AT BORDEAUX. So used were the

. HOW ENGLAND HELD THE LISTS AT BORDEAUX. So used were the

good burghers of Bordeaux to martial display and knightly sport, that an

ordinary joust or tournament was an everyday matter with them. The fame

and brilliancy of the prince's court had drawn the knights-errant and

pursuivants-of-arms from every part of Europe. In the long lists by the

Garonne on the landward side of the northern gate there had been many a

strange combat, when the Teutonic knight, fresh from the conquest of the

Prussian heathen, ran a course against the knight of Calatrava, hardened

by continual struggle against the Moors, or cavaliers from Portugal

broke a lance with Scandinavian warriors from the further shore of the

great Northern Ocean. Here fluttered many an outland pennon, bearing

symbol and blazonry from the banks of the Danube, the wilds of Lithuania

and the mountain strongholds of Hungary; for chivalry was of no clime

and of no race, nor was any land so wild that the fame and name of the

prince had not sounded through it from border to border.

Great, however, was the excitement through town and district when it

was learned that on the third Wednesday in Advent there would be held

a passage-at-arms in which five knights of England would hold the lists

against all comers. The great concourse of noblemen and famous soldiers,

the national character of the contest, and the fact that this was a last

trial of arms before what promised to be an arduous and bloody war,

all united to make the event one of the most notable and brilliant that

Bordeaux had ever seen. On the eve of the contest the peasants flocked

in from the whole district of the Medoc, and the fields beyond the walls

were whitened with the tents of those who could find no warmer lodging.

From the distant camp of Dax, too, and from Blaye, Bourge, Libourne, St.

Emilion, Castillon, St. Macaire, Cardillac, Ryons, and all the cluster

of flourishing towns which look upon Bordeaux as their mother, there

thronged an unceasing stream of horsemen and of footmen, all converging

upon the great city. By the morning of the day on which the courses were

to be run, not less than eighty people had assembled round the lists

and along the low grassy ridge which looks down upon the scene of the

encounter.

It was, as may well be imagined, no easy matter among so many noted

cavaliers to choose out five on either side who should have precedence

over their fellows. A score of secondary combats had nearly arisen from

the rivalries and bad blood created by the selection, and it was only

the influence of the prince and the efforts of the older barons which

kept the peace among so many eager and fiery soldiers. Not till the day

before the courses were the shields finally hung out for the inspection

of the ladies and the heralds, so that all men might know the names

of the champions and have the opportunity to prefer any charge against

them, should there be stain upon them which should disqualify them from

taking part in so noble and honorable a ceremony.

Sir Hugh Calverley and Sir Robert Knolles had not yet returned from

their raid into the marches of the Navarre, so that the English party

were deprived of two of their most famous lances. Yet there remained so

many good names that Chandos and Felton, to whom the selection had been

referred, had many an earnest consultation, in which every feat of

arms and failure or success of each candidate was weighed and balanced

against the rival claims of his companions. Lord Audley of Cheshire,

the hero of Poictiers, and Loring of Hampshire, who was held to be the

second lance in the army, were easily fixed upon. Then, of the younger

men, Sir Thomas Percy of Northumberland, Sir Thomas Wake of Yorkshire,

and Sir William Beauchamp of Gloucestershire, were finally selected to

uphold the honor of England. On the other side were the veteran Captal

de Buch and the brawny Olivier de Clisson, with the free companion

Sir Perducas d'Albret, the valiant Lord of Mucident, and Sigismond von

Altenstadt, of the Teutonic Order. The older soldiers among the English

shook their heads as they looked upon the escutcheons of these famous

warriors, for they were all men who had spent their lives upon the

saddle, and bravery and strength can avail little against experience and

wisdom of war.

“By my faith! Sir John,” said the prince as he rode through the winding

streets on his way to the list, “I should have been glad to have

splintered a lance to-day. You have seen me hold a spear since I had

strength to lift one, and should know best whether I do not merit a

place among this honorable company.”

“There is no better seat and no truer lance, sire,” said Chandos; “but,

if I may say so without fear of offence, it were not fitting that you

should join in this debate.”

“And why, Sir John?”

“Because, sire, it is not for you to take part with Gascons against

English, or with English against Gascons, seeing that you are lord of

both. We are not too well loved by the Gascons now, and it is but the

golden link of your princely coronet which holds us together. If that be

snapped I know not what would follow.”

“Snapped, Sir John!” cried the prince, with an angry sparkle in his dark

eyes. “What manner of talk is this? You speak as though the allegiance

of our people were a thing which might be thrown off or on like a

falcon's jessel.”

“With a sorry hack one uses whip and spur, sire,” said Chandos; “but

with a horse of blood and spirit a good cavalier is gentle and soothing,

coaxing rather than forcing. These folk are strange people, and you must

hold their love, even as you have it now, for you will get from their

kindness what all the pennons in your army could not wring from them.”

“You are over-grave to-day, John,” the prince answered. “We may keep

such questions for our council-chamber. But how now, my brothers of

Spain, and of Majorca, what think you of this challenge?”

“I look to see some handsome joisting,” said Don Pedro, who rode with

the King of Majorca upon the right of the prince, while Chandos was on

the left. “By St. James of Compostella! but these burghers would bear

some taxing. See to the broadcloth and velvet that the rogues bear upon

their backs! By my troth! if they were my subjects they would be glad

enough to wear falding and leather ere I had done with them. But mayhap

it is best to let the wool grow long ere you clip it.”

“It is our pride,” the prince answered coldly, “that we rule over

freemen and not slaves.”

“Every man to his own humor,” said Pedro carelessly. “Carajo! there is a

sweet face at yonder window! Don Fernando, I pray you to mark the house,

and to have the maid brought to us at the abbey.”

“Nay, brother, nay!” cried the prince impatiently. “I have had occasion

to tell you more than once that things are not ordered in this way in

Aquitaine.”

“A thousand pardons, dear friend,” the Spaniard answered quickly, for a

flush of anger had sprung to the dark cheek of the English prince. “You

make my exile so like a home that I forget at times that I am not in

very truth back in Castile. Every land hath indeed its ways and manners;

but I promise you, Edward, that when you are my guest in Toledo or

Madrid you shall not yearn in vain for any commoner's daughter on whom

you may deign to cast your eye.”

“Your talk, sire,” said the prince still more coldly, “is not such as

I love to hear from your lips. I have no taste for such amours as you

speak of, and I have sworn that my name shall be coupled with that of no

woman save my ever dear wife.”

“Ever the mirror of true chivalry!” exclaimed Pedro, while James of

Majorca, frightened at the stern countenance of their all-powerful

protector, plucked hard at the mantle of his brother exile.

“Have a care, cousin,” he whispered; “for the sake of the Virgin have a

care, for you have angered him.”

“Pshaw! fear not,” the other answered in the same low tone. “If I miss

one stoop I will strike him on the next. Mark me else. Fair cousin,” he

continued, turning to the prince, “these be rare men-at-arms and lusty

bowmen. It would be hard indeed to match them.”

“They have journeyed far, sire, but they have never yet found their

match.”

“Nor ever will, I doubt not. I feel myself to be back upon my throne

when I look at them. But tell me, dear coz, what shall we do next,

when we have driven this bastard Henry from the kingdom which he hath

filched?”

“We shall then compel the King of Aragon to place our good friend and

brother James of Majorca upon the throne.”

“Noble and generous prince!” cried the little monarch.

“That done,” said King Pedro, glancing out of the corners of his eyes

at the young conqueror, “we shall unite the forces of England, of

Aquitaine, of Spain and of Majorca. It would be shame to us if we did

not do some great deed with such forces ready to our hand.”

“You say truly, brother,” cried the prince, his eyes kindling at the

thought. “Methinks that we could not do anything more pleasing to Our

Lady than to drive the heathen Moors out of the country.”

“I am with you, Edward, as true as hilt to blade. But, by St. James!

we shall not let these Moors make mock at us from over the sea. We must

take ship and thrust them from Africa.”

“By heaven, yes!” cried the prince. “And it is the dream of my heart

that our English pennons shall wave upon the Mount of Olives, and the

lions and lilies float over the holy city.”

“And why not, dear coz? Your bowmen have cleared a path to Paris, and

why not to Jerusalem? Once there, your arms might rest.”

“Nay, there is more to be done,” cried the prince, carried away by the

ambitious dream. “There is still the city of Constantine to be taken,

and war to be waged against the Soldan of Damascus. And beyond him again

there is tribute to be levied from the Cham of Tartary and from the

kingdom of Cathay. Ha! John, what say you? Can we not go as far eastward

as Richard of the Lion Heart?”

“Old John will bide at home, sire,” said the rugged soldier. “By my

soul! as long as I am seneschal of Aquitaine I will find enough to do

in guarding the marches which you have entrusted to me. It would be

a blithe day for the King of France when he heard that the seas lay

between him and us.”

“By my soul! John,” said the prince, “I have never known you turn

laggard before.”

“The babbling hound, sire, is not always the first at the mort,” the old

knight answered.

“Nay, my true-heart! I have tried you too often not to know. But, by my

soul! I have not seen so dense a throng since the day that we brought

King John down Cheapside.”

It was indeed an enormous crowd which covered the whole vast plain from

the line of vineyards to the river bank. From the northern gate the

prince and his companions looked down at a dark sea of heads, brightened

here and there by the colored hoods of the women, or by the sparkling

head-pieces of archers and men-at-arms. In the centre of this vast

assemblage the lists seemed but a narrow strip of green marked out with

banners and streamers, while a gleam of white with a flutter of pennons

at either end showed where the marquees were pitched which served as the

dressing-rooms of the combatants. A path had been staked off from the

city gate to the stands which had been erected for the court and the

nobility. Down this, amid the shouts of the enormous multitude, the

prince cantered with his two attendant kings, his high officers of

state, and his long train of lords and ladies, courtiers, counsellors,

and soldiers, with toss of plume and flash of jewel, sheen of silk and

glint of gold--as rich and gallant a show as heart could wish. The head

of the cavalcade had reached the lists ere the rear had come clear of

the city gate, for the fairest and the bravest had assembled from all

the broad lands which are watered by the Dordogne and the Garonne. Here

rode dark-browed cavaliers from the sunny south, fiery soldiers from

Gascony, graceful courtiers of Limousin or Saintonge, and gallant young

Englishmen from beyond the seas. Here too were the beautiful brunettes

of the Gironde, with eyes which out-flashed their jewels, while beside

them rode their blonde sisters of England, clear cut and aquiline,

swathed in swans'-down and in ermine, for the air was biting though

the sun was bright. Slowly the long and glittering train wound into the

lists, until every horse had been tethered by the varlets in waiting,

and every lord and lady seated in the long stands which stretched, rich

in tapestry and velvet and blazoned arms, on either side of the centre

of the arena.

The holders of the lists occupied the end which was nearest to the city

gate. There, in front of their respective pavilions, flew the martlets

of Audley, the roses of Loring, the scarlet bars of Wake, the lion of

the Percies and the silver wings of the Beauchamps, each supported by

a squire clad in hanging green stuff to represent so many Tritons, and

bearing a huge conch-shell in their left hands. Behind the tents the

great war-horses, armed at all points, champed and reared, while their

masters sat at the doors of their pavilions, with their helmets upon

their knees, chatting as to the order of the day's doings. The English

archers and men-at-arms had mustered at that end of the lists, but the

vast majority of the spectators were in favor of the attacking party,

for the English had declined in popularity ever since the bitter dispute

as to the disposal of the royal captive after the battle of Poictiers.

Hence the applause was by no means general when the herald-at-arms

proclaimed, after a flourish of trumpets, the names and styles of the

knights who were prepared, for the honor of their country and for the

love of their ladies, to hold the field against all who might do them

the favor to run a course with them. On the other hand, a deafening

burst of cheering greeted the rival herald, who, advancing from the

other end of the lists, rolled forth the well-known titles of the five

famous warriors who had accepted the defiance.

“Faith, John,” said the prince, “it sounds as though you were right.

Ha! my grace D'Armagnac, it seems that our friends on this side will not

grieve if our English champions lose the day.”

“It may be so, sire,” the Gascon nobleman answered. “I have little doubt

that in Smithfield or at Windsor an English crowd would favor their own

countrymen.”

“By my faith! that's easily seen,” said the prince, laughing, “for a few

score English archers at yonder end are bellowing as though they would

out-shout the mighty multitude. I fear that they will have little to

shout over this tourney, for my gold vase has small prospect of crossing

the water. What are the conditions, John?”

“They are to tilt singly not less than three courses, sire, and the

victory to rest with that party which shall have won the greater number

of courses, each pair continuing till one or other have the vantage. He

who carries himself best of the victors hath the prize, and he who is

judged best of the other party hath a jewelled clasp. Shall I order that

the nakirs sound, sire?”

The prince nodded, and the trumpets rang out, while the champions rode

forth one after the other, each meeting his opponent in the centre of

the lists. Sir William Beauchamp went down before the practiced lance

of the Captal de Buch. Sir Thomas Percy won the vantage over the Lord

of Mucident, and the Lord Audley struck Sir Perducas d'Albret from

the saddle. The burly De Clisson, however, restored the hopes of the

attackers by beating to the ground Sir Thomas Wake of Yorkshire. So far,

there was little to choose betwixt challengers and challenged.

“By Saint James of Santiago!” cried Don Pedro, with a tinge of color

upon his pale cheeks, “win who will, this has been a most notable

contest.”

“Who comes next for England, John?” asked the prince in a voice which

quivered with excitement.

“Sir Nigel Loring of Hampshire, sire.”

“Ha! he is a man of good courage, and skilled in the use of all

weapons.”

“He is indeed, sire. But his eyes, like my own, are the worse for wars.

Yet he can tilt or play his part at hand-strokes as merrily as ever. It

was he, sire, who won the golden crown which Queen Philippa, your royal

mother, gave to be jousted for by all the knights of England after

the harrying of Calais. I have heard that at Twynham Castle there is a

buffet which groans beneath the weight of his prizes.”

“I pray that my vase may join them,” said the prince. “But here is the

cavalier of Germany, and by my soul! he looks like a man of great valor

and hardiness. Let them run their full three courses, for the issue is

over-great to hang upon one.”

As the prince spoke, amid a loud flourish of trumpets and the shouting

of the Gascon party, the last of the assailants rode gallantly into the

lists. He was a man of great size, clad in black armor without blazonry

or ornament of any kind, for all worldly display was forbidden by the

rules of the military brotherhood to which he belonged. No plume or

nobloy fluttered from his plain tilting salade, and even his lance was

devoid of the customary banderole. A white mantle fluttered behind him,

upon the left side of which was marked the broad black cross picked

out with silver which was the well-known badge of the Teutonic Order.

Mounted upon a horse as large, as black, and as forbidding as himself,

he cantered slowly forward, with none of those prancings and gambades

with which a cavalier was accustomed to show his command over his

charger. Gravely and sternly he inclined his head to the prince, and

took his place at the further end of the arena.

He had scarce done so before Sir Nigel rode out from the holders'

enclosure, and galloping at full speed down the lists, drew his charger

up before the prince's stand with a jerk which threw it back upon

its haunches. With white armor, blazoned shield, and plume of

ostrich-feathers from his helmet, he carried himself in so jaunty and

joyous a fashion, with tossing pennon and curveting charger, that a

shout of applause ran the full circle of the arena. With the air of a

man who hastes to a joyous festival, he waved his lance in salute, and

reining the pawing horse round without permitting its fore-feet to touch

the ground, he hastened back to his station.

A great hush fell over the huge multitude as the two last champions

faced each other. A double issue seemed to rest upon their contest, for

their personal fame was at stake as well as their party's honor. Both

were famous warriors, but as their exploits had been performed in widely

sundered countries, they had never before been able to cross lances. A

course between such men would have been enough in itself to cause the

keenest interest, apart from its being the crisis which would decide who

should be the victors of the day. For a moment they waited--the German

sombre and collected, Sir Nigel quivering in every fibre with

eagerness and fiery resolution. Then, amid a long-drawn breath from

the spectators, the glove fell from the marshal's hand, and the two

steel-clad horsemen met like a thunderclap in front of the royal stand.

The German, though he reeled for an instant before the thrust of the

Englishman, struck his opponent so fairly upon the vizor that the laces

burst, the plumed helmet flew to pieces, and Sir Nigel galloped on down

the lists with his bald head shimmering in the sunshine. A thousand

waving scarves and tossing caps announced that the first bout had fallen

to the popular party.

The Hampshire knight was not a man to be disheartened by a reverse. He

spurred back to the pavilion, and was out in a few instants with another

helmet. The second course was so equal that the keenest judges could not

discern any vantage. Each struck fire from the other's shield, and each

endured the jarring shock as though welded to the horse beneath him. In

the final bout, however, Sir Nigel struck his opponent with so true an

aim that the point of the lance caught between the bars of his vizor and

tore the front of his helmet out, while the German, aiming somewhat

low, and half stunned by the shock, had the misfortune to strike his

adversary upon the thigh, a breach of the rules of the tilting-yard, by

which he not only sacrificed his chances of success, but would also

have forfeited his horse and his armor, had the English knight chosen

to claim them. A roar of applause from the English soldiers, with an

ominous silence from the vast crowd who pressed round the barriers,

announced that the balance of victory lay with the holders. Already the

ten champions had assembled in front of the prince to receive his award,

when a harsh bugle call from the further end of the lists drew all eyes

to a new and unexpected arrival.