บทที่ บทที่ 30 · HOW THE BRUSHWOOD MEN CAME TO THE CHATEAU OF VILLEFRANCHE.

. HOW THE BRUSHWOOD MEN CAME TO THE CHATEAU OF VILLEFRANCHE.

It was late ere Alleyne Edricson, having carried Sir Nigel the goblet

of spiced wine which it was his custom to drink after the curling of his

hair, was able at last to seek his chamber. It was a stone-flagged room

upon the second floor, with a bed in a recess for him, and two smaller

pallets on the other side, on which Aylward and Hordle John were already

snoring. Alleyne had knelt down to his evening orisons, when there came

a tap at his door, and Ford entered with a small lamp in his hand. His

face was deadly pale, and his hand shook until the shadows flickered up

and down the wall.

“What is it, Ford?” cried Alleyne, springing to his feet.

“I can scarce tell you,” said he, sitting down on the side of the couch,

and resting his chin upon his hand. “I know not what to say or what to

think.”

“Has aught befallen you, then?”

“Yes, or I have been slave to my own fancy. I tell you, lad, that I am

all undone, like a fretted bow-string. Hark hither, Alleyne! it

cannot be that you have forgotten little Tita, the daughter of the old

glass-stainer at Bordeaux?”

“I remember her well.”

“She and I, Alleyne, broke the lucky groat together ere we parted, and

she wears my ring upon her finger. 'Caro mio,' quoth she when last we

parted, 'I shall be near thee in the wars, and thy danger will be my

danger.' Alleyne, as God is my help, as I came up the stairs this night

I saw her stand before me, her face in tears, her hands out as though in

warning--I saw it, Alleyne, even as I see those two archers upon their

couches. Our very finger-tips seemed to meet, ere she thinned away like

a mist in the sunshine.”

“I would not give overmuch thought to it,” answered Alleyne. “Our minds

will play us strange pranks, and bethink you that these words of the

Lady Tiphaine Du Guesclin have wrought upon us and shaken us.”

Ford shook his head. “I saw little Tita as clearly as though I were back

at the Rue des Apotres at Bordeaux,” said he. “But the hour is late, and

I must go.”

“Where do you sleep, then?”

“In the chamber above you. May the saints be with us all!” He rose

from the couch and left the chamber, while Alleyne could hear his feet

sounding upon the winding stair. The young squire walked across to the

window and gazed out at the moonlit landscape, his mind absorbed by

the thought of the Lady Tiphaine, and of the strange words that she

had spoken as to what was going forward at Castle Twynham. Leaning his

elbows upon the stonework, he was deeply plunged in reverie, when in a

moment his thoughts were brought back to Villefranche and to the scene

before him.

The window at which he stood was in the second floor of that portion of

the castle which was nearest to the keep. In front lay the broad moat,

with the moon lying upon its surface, now clear and round, now drawn

lengthwise as the breeze stirred the waters. Beyond, the plain sloped

down to a thick wood, while further to the left a second wood shut

out the view. Between the two an open glade stretched, silvered in the

moonshine, with the river curving across the lower end of it.

As he gazed, he saw of a sudden a man steal forth from the wood into the

open clearing. He walked with his head sunk, his shoulders curved, and

his knees bent, as one who strives hard to remain unseen. Ten paces from

the fringe of trees he glanced around, and waving his hand he crouched

down, and was lost to sight among a belt of furze-bushes. After him

there came a second man, and after him a third, a fourth, and a fifth

stealing across the narrow open space and darting into the shelter of

the brushwood. Nine-and-seventy Alleyne counted of these dark figures

flitting across the line of the moonlight. Many bore huge burdens upon

their backs, though what it was that they carried he could not tell at

the distance. Out of the one wood and into the other they passed, all

with the same crouching, furtive gait, until the black bristle of trees

had swallowed up the last of them.

For a moment Alleyne stood in the window, still staring down at the

silent forest, uncertain as to what he should think of these midnight

walkers. Then he bethought him that there was one beside him who was

fitter to judge on such a matter. His fingers had scarce rested upon

Aylward's shoulder ere the bowman was on his feet, with his hand

outstretched to his sword.

“Qui va?” he cried. “Hola! mon petit. By my hilt! I thought there had

been a camisade. What then, mon gar.?”

“Come hither by the window, Aylward,” said Alleyne. “I have seen

four-score men pass from yonder shaw across the glade, and nigh every

man of them had a great burden on his back. What think you of it?”

“I think nothing of it, mon camarade! There are as many masterless folk

in this country as there are rabbits on Cowdray Down, and there are many

who show their faces by night but would dance in a hempen collar if

they stirred forth in the day. On all the French marches are droves

of outcasts, reivers, spoilers, and draw-latches, of whom I judge that

these are some, though I marvel that they should dare to come so nigh

to the castle of the seneschal. All seems very quiet now,” he added,

peering out of the window.

“They are in the further wood,” said Alleyne.

“And there they may bide. Back to rest, mon petit; for, by my hilt! each

day now will bring its own work. Yet it would be well to shoot the bolt

in yonder door when one is in strange quarters. So!” He threw himself

down upon his pallet and in an instant was fast asleep.

It might have been about three o'clock in the morning when Alleyne was

aroused from a troubled sleep by a low cry or exclamation. He listened,

but, as he heard no more, he set it down as the challenge of the guard

upon the walls, and dropped off to sleep once more. A few minutes later

he was disturbed by a gentle creaking of his own door, as though some

one were pushing cautiously against it, and immediately afterwards he

heard the soft thud of cautious footsteps upon the stair which led

to the room above, followed by a confused noise and a muffled groan.

Alleyne sat up on his couch with all his nerves in a tingle, uncertain

whether these sounds might come from a simple cause--some sick archer

and visiting leech perhaps--or whether they might have a more sinister

meaning. But what danger could threaten them here in this strong castle,

under the care of famous warriors, with high walls and a broad moat

around them? Who was there that could injure them? He had well-nigh

persuaded himself that his fears were a foolish fancy, when his eyes

fell upon that which sent the blood cold to his heart and left him

gasping, with hands clutching at the counterpane.

Right in front of him was the broad window of the chamber, with the moon

shining brightly through it. For an instant something had obscured the

light, and now a head was bobbing up and down outside, the face looking

in at him, and swinging slowly from one side of the window to the other.

Even in that dim light there could be no mistaking those features.

Drawn, distorted and blood-stained, they were still those of the young

fellow-squire who had sat so recently upon his own couch. With a cry of

horror Alleyne sprang from his bed and rushed to the casement, while the

two archers, aroused by the sound, seized their weapons and stared about

them in bewilderment. One glance was enough to show Edricson that his

fears were but too true. Foully murdered, with a score of wounds upon

him and a rope round his neck, his poor friend had been cast from

the upper window and swung slowly in the night wind, his body rasping

against the wall and his disfigured face upon a level with the casement.

“My God!” cried Alleyne, shaking in every limb. “What has come upon us?

What devil's deed is this?”

“Here is flint and steel,” said John stolidly. “The lamp, Aylward! This

moonshine softens a man's heart. Now we may use the eyes which God hath

given us.”

“By my hilt!” cried Aylward, as the yellow flame flickered up, “it is

indeed young master Ford, and I think that this seneschal is a black

villain, who dare not face us in the day but would murther us in our

sleep. By the twang of string! if I do not soak a goose's feather with

his heart's blood, it will be no fault of Samkin Aylward of the White

Company.”

“But, Aylward, think of the men whom I saw yesternight,” said Alleyne.

“It may not be the seneschal. It may be that others have come into the

castle. I must to Sir Nigel ere it be too late. Let me go, Aylward, for

my place is by his side.”

“One moment, mon gar. Put that steel head-piece on the end of my

yew-stave. So! I will put it first through the door; for it is ill to

come out when you can neither see nor guard yourself. Now, camarades,

out swords and stand ready! Hola, by my hilt! it is time that we were

stirring!”

As he spoke, a sudden shouting broke forth in the castle, with the

scream of a woman and the rush of many feet. Then came the sharp clink

of clashing steel, and a roar like that of an angry lion--“Notre Dame Du

Guesclin! St. Ives! St. Ives!” The bow-man pulled back the bolt of the

door, and thrust out the headpiece at the end of the bow. A clash, the

clatter of the steel-cap upon the ground, and, ere the man who struck

could heave up for another blow, the archer had passed his sword through

his body. “On, camarades, on!” he cried; and, breaking fiercely past two

men who threw themselves in his way, he sped down the broad corridor in

the direction of the shouting.

A sharp turning, and then a second one, brought them to the head of a

short stair, from which they looked straight down upon the scene of the

uproar. A square oak-floored hall lay beneath them, from which opened

the doors of the principal guest-chambers. This hall was as light as

day, for torches burned in numerous sconces upon the walls, throwing

strange shadows from the tusked or antlered heads which ornamented them.

At the very foot of the stair, close to the open door of their chamber,

lay the seneschal and his wife: she with her head shorn from her

shoulders, he thrust through with a sharpened stake, which still

protruded from either side of his body. Three servants of the castle lay

dead beside them, all torn and draggled, as though a pack of wolves had

been upon them. In front of the central guest-chamber stood Du Guesclin

and Sir Nigel, half-clad and unarmored, with the mad joy of battle

gleaming in their eyes. Their heads were thrown back, their lips

compressed, their blood-stained swords poised over their right

shoulders, and their left feet thrown out. Three dead men lay huddled

together in front of them: while a fourth, with the blood squirting

from a severed vessel, lay back with updrawn knees, breathing in

wheezy gasps. Further back--all panting together, like the wind in a

tree--there stood a group of fierce, wild creatures, bare-armed and

bare-legged, gaunt, unshaven, with deep-set murderous eyes and wild

beast faces. With their flashing teeth, their bristling hair, their mad

leapings and screamings, they seemed to Alleyne more like fiends from

the pit than men of flesh and blood. Even as he looked, they broke

into a hoarse yell and dashed once more upon the two knights, hurling

themselves madly upon their sword-points; clutching, scrambling, biting,

tearing, careless of wounds if they could but drag the two soldiers to

earth. Sir Nigel was thrown down by the sheer weight of them, and Sir

Bertrand with his thunderous war-cry was swinging round his heavy sword

to clear a space for him to rise, when the whistle of two long English

arrows, and the rush of the squire and the two English archers down the

stairs, turned the tide of the combat. The assailants gave back, the

knights rushed forward, and in a very few moments the hall was cleared,

and Hordle John had hurled the last of the wild men down the steep steps

which led from the end of it.

“Do not follow them,” cried Du Guesclin. “We are lost if we scatter. For

myself I care not a denier, though it is a poor thing to meet one's end

at the hands of such scum; but I have my dear lady here, who must by no

means be risked. We have breathing-space now, and I would ask you, Sir

Nigel, what it is that you would counsel?”

“By St. Paul!” answered Sir Nigel, “I can by no means understand what

hath befallen us, save that I have been woken up by your battle-cry,

and, rushing forth, found myself in the midst of this small bickering.

Harrow and alas for the lady and the seneschal! What dogs are they who

have done this bloody deed?”

“They are the Jacks, the men of the brushwood. They have the castle,

though I know not how it hath come to pass. Look from this window into

the bailey.”

“By heaven!” cried Sir Nigel, “it is as bright as day with the torches.

The gates stand open, and there are three thousand of them within the

walls. See how they rush and scream and wave! What is it that they

thrust out through the postern door? My God! it is a man-at-arms, and

they pluck him limb from limb like hounds on a wolf. Now another, and

yet another. They hold the whole castle, for I see their faces at the

windows. See, there are some with great bundles on their backs.”

“It is dried wood from the forest. They pile them against the walls and

set them in a blaze. Who is this who tries to check them? By St. Ives!

it is the good priest who spake for them in the hall. He kneels, he

prays, he implores! What! villains, would ye raise hands against those

who have befriended you? Ah, the butcher has struck him! He is down!

They stamp him under their feet! They tear off his gown and wave it in

the air! See now, how the flames lick up the walls! Are there none left

to rally round us? With a hundred men we might hold our own.”

“Oh, for my Company!” cried Sir Nigel. “But where is Ford, Alleyne?”

“He is foully murdered, my fair lord.”

“The saints receive him! May he rest in peace! But here come some at

last who may give us counsel, for amid these passages it is ill to stir

without a guide.”

As he spoke, a French squire and the Bohemian knight came rushing down

the steps, the latter bleeding from a slash across his forehead.

“All is lost!” he cried. “The castle is taken and on fire, the seneschal

is slain, and there is nought left for us.”

“On the contrary,” quoth Sir Nigel, “there is much left to us, for there

is a very honorable contention before us, and a fair lady for whom to

give our lives. There are many ways in which a man might die, but none

better than this.”

“You can tell us, Godfrey,” said Du Guesclin to the French squire: “how

came these men into the castle, and what succors can we count upon? By

St. Ives! if we come not quickly to some counsel we shall be burned like

young rooks in a nest.”

The squire, a dark, slender stripling, spoke firmly and quickly, as one

who was trained to swift action. “There is a passage under the earth

into the castle,” said he, “and through it some of the Jacks made their

way, casting open the gates for the others. They have had help from

within the walls, and the men-at-arms were heavy with wine: they must

have been slain in their beds, for these devils crept from room to room

with soft step and ready knife. Sir Amory the Hospitaller was struck

down with an axe as he rushed before us from his sleeping-chamber. Save

only ourselves, I do not think that there are any left alive.”

“What, then, would you counsel?”

“That we make for the keep. It is unused, save in time of war, and the

key hangs from my poor lord and master's belt.”

“There are two keys there.”

“It is the larger. Once there, we might hold the narrow stair; and at

least, as the walls are of a greater thickness, it would be longer ere

they could burn them. Could we but carry the lady across the bailey, all

might be well with us.”

“Nay; the lady hath seen something of the work of war,” said Tiphaine

coming forth, as white, as grave, and as unmoved as ever. “I would not

be a hamper to you, my dear spouse and gallant friend. Rest assured of

this, that if all else fail I have always a safeguard here”--drawing a

small silver-hilted poniard from her bosom--“which sets me beyond the

fear of these vile and blood-stained wretches.”

“Tiphaine,” cried Du Guesclin, “I have always loved you; and now, by Our

Lady of Rennes! I love you more than ever. Did I not know that your hand

will be as ready as your words I would myself turn my last blow upon

you, ere you should fall into their hands. Lead on, Godfrey! A new

golden pyx will shine in the minster of Dinan if we come safely through

with it.”

The attention of the insurgents had been drawn away from murder to

plunder, and all over the castle might be heard their cries and whoops

of delight as they dragged forth the rich tapestries, the silver

flagons, and the carved furniture. Down in the courtyard half-clad

wretches, their bare limbs all mottled with blood-stains, strutted

about with plumed helmets upon their heads, or with the Lady Rochefort's

silken gowns girt round their loins and trailing on the ground behind

them. Casks of choice wine had been rolled out from the cellars, and

starving peasants squatted, goblet in hand, draining off vintages which

De Rochefort had set aside for noble and royal guests. Others, with

slabs of bacon and joints of dried meat upon the ends of their pikes,

held them up to the blaze or tore at them ravenously with their teeth.

Yet all order had not been lost amongst them, for some hundreds of the

better armed stood together in a silent group, leaning upon their rude

weapons and looking up at the fire, which had spread so rapidly as to

involve one whole side of the castle. Already Alleyne could hear the

crackling and roaring of the flames, while the air was heavy with heat

and full of the pungent whiff of burning wood.