第 二十八 章 · HOW THE COMRADES CAME OVER THE MARCHES OF FRANCE

. HOW THE COMRADES CAME OVER THE MARCHES OF FRANCE

After passing Cahors, the party branched away from the main road, and

leaving the river to the north of them, followed a smaller track which

wound over a vast and desolate plain. This path led them amid marshes

and woods, until it brought them out into a glade with a broad stream

swirling swiftly down the centre of it. Through this the horses splashed

their way, and on the farther shore Sir Nigel announced to them that

they were now within the borders of the land of France. For some miles

they still followed the same lonely track, which led them through

a dense wood, and then widening out, curved down to an open rolling

country, such as they had traversed between Aiguillon and Cahors.

If it were grim and desolate upon the English border, however, what

can describe the hideous barrenness of this ten times harried tract

of France? The whole face of the country was scarred and disfigured,

mottled over with the black blotches of burned farm-steadings, and

the gray, gaunt gable-ends of what had been chateaux. Broken fences,

crumbling walls, vineyards littered with stones, the shattered arches of

bridges--look where you might, the signs of ruin and rapine met the eye.

Here and there only, on the farthest sky-line, the gnarled turrets of a

castle, or the graceful pinnacles of church or of monastery showed where

the forces of the sword or of the spirit had preserved some small islet

of security in this universal flood of misery. Moodily and in silence

the little party rode along the narrow and irregular track, their hearts

weighed down by this far-stretching land of despair. It was indeed

a stricken and a blighted country, and a man might have ridden from

Auvergne in the north to the marches of Foix, nor ever seen a smiling

village or a thriving homestead.

From time to time as they advanced they saw strange lean figures

scraping and scratching amid the weeds and thistles, who, on sight

of the band of horsemen, threw up their arms and dived in among the

brushwood, as shy and as swift as wild animals. More than once, however,

they came on families by the wayside, who were too weak from hunger and

disease to fly, so that they could but sit like hares on a tussock, with

panting chests and terror in their eyes. So gaunt were these poor folk,

so worn and spent--with bent and knotted frames, and sullen, hopeless,

mutinous faces--that it made the young Englishman heart-sick to look

upon them. Indeed, it seemed as though all hope and light had gone so

far from them that it was not to be brought back; for when Sir Nigel

threw down a handful of silver among them there came no softening of

their lined faces, but they clutched greedily at the coins, peering

questioningly at him, and champing with their animal jaws. Here and

there amid the brushwood the travellers saw the rude bundle of

sticks which served them as a home--more like a fowl's nest than the

dwelling-place of man. Yet why should they build and strive, when the

first adventurer who passed would set torch to their thatch, and when

their own feudal lord would wring from them with blows and curses the

last fruits of their toil? They sat at the lowest depth of human misery,

and hugged a bitter comfort to their souls as they realized that they

could go no lower. Yet they had still the human gift of speech, and

would take council among themselves in their brushwood hovels, glaring

with bleared eyes and pointing with thin fingers at the great widespread

chateaux which ate like a cancer into the life of the country-side. When

such men, who are beyond hope and fear, begin in their dim minds to see

the source of their woes, it may be an evil time for those who have wronged

them. The weak man becomes strong when he has nothing, for then only can

he feel the wild, mad thrill of despair. High and strong the chateaux,

lowly and weak the brushwood hut; but God help the seigneur and his lady

when the men of the brushwood set their hands to the work of revenge!

Through such country did the party ride for eight or it might be nine

miles, until the sun began to slope down in the west and their shadows

to stream down the road in front of them. Wary and careful they must

be, with watchful eyes to the right and the left, for this was no man's

land, and their only passports were those which hung from their belts.

Frenchmen and Englishmen, Gascon and Provencal, Brabanter, Tardvenu,

Scorcher, Flayer, and Free Companion, wandered and struggled over the

whole of this accursed district. So bare and cheerless was the outlook,

and so few and poor the dwellings, that Sir Nigel began to have fears as

to whether he might find food and quarters for his little troop. It was

a relief to him, therefore, when their narrow track opened out upon a

larger road, and they saw some little way down it a square white house

with a great bunch of holly hung out at the end of a stick from one of

the upper windows.

“By St. Paul!” said he, “I am right glad; for I had feared that we might

have neither provant nor herbergage. Ride on, Alleyne, and tell this

inn-keeper that an English knight with his party will lodge with him

this night.”

Alleyne set spurs to his horse and reached the inn door a long bow-shot

before his companions. Neither varlet nor ostler could be seen, so he

pushed open the door and called loudly for the landlord. Three times he

shouted, but, receiving no reply, he opened an inner door and advanced

into the chief guest-room of the hostel.

A very cheerful wood-fire was sputtering and cracking in an open grate

at the further end of the apartment. At one side of this fire, in a

high-backed oak chair, sat a lady, her face turned towards the door.

The firelight played over her features, and Alleyne thought that he had

never seen such queenly power, such dignity and strength, upon a woman's

face. She might have been five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline

nose, firm yet sensitive mouth, dark curving brows, and deep-set eyes

which shone and sparkled with a shifting brilliancy. Beautiful as she

was, it was not her beauty which impressed itself upon the beholder;

it was her strength, her power, the sense of wisdom which hung over

the broad white brow, the decision which lay in the square jaw and

delicately moulded chin. A chaplet of pearls sparkled amid her black

hair, with a gauze of silver network flowing back from it over her

shoulders; a black mantle was swathed round her, and she leaned back in

her chair as one who is fresh from a journey.

In the opposite corner there sat a very burly and broad-shouldered man,

clad in a black jerkin trimmed with sable, with a black velvet cap with

curling white feather cocked upon the side of his head. A flask of red

wine stood at his elbow, and he seemed to be very much at his ease, for

his feet were stuck up on a stool, and between his thighs he held a dish

full of nuts. These he cracked between his strong white teeth and chewed

in a leisurely way, casting the shells into the blaze. As Alleyne gazed

in at him he turned his face half round and cocked an eye at him over

his shoulder. It seemed to the young Englishman that he had never seen

so hideous a face, for the eyes were of the lightest green, the nose was

broken and driven inwards, while the whole countenance was seared and

puckered with wounds. The voice, too, when he spoke, was as deep and as

fierce as the growl of a beast of prey.

“Young man,” said he, “I know not who you may be, and I am not much

inclined to bestir myself, but if it were not that I am bent upon taking

my ease, I swear, by the sword of Joshua! that I would lay my dog-whip

across your shoulders for daring to fill the air with these discordant

bellowings.”

Taken aback at this ungentle speech, and scarce knowing how to answer it

fitly in the presence of the lady, Alleyne stood with his hand upon the

handle of the door, while Sir Nigel and his companions dismounted. At

the sound of these fresh voices, and of the tongue in which they spoke,

the stranger crashed his dish of nuts down upon the floor, and began

himself to call for the landlord until the whole house re-echoed with

his roarings. With an ashen face the white-aproned host came running

at his call, his hands shaking and his very hair bristling with

apprehension. “For the sake of God, sirs,” he whispered as he passed,

“speak him fair and do not rouse him! For the love of the Virgin, be

mild with him!”

“Who is this, then?” asked Sir Nigel.

Alleyne was about to explain, when a fresh roar from the stranger

interrupted him.

“Thou villain inn-keeper,” he shouted, “did I not ask you when I brought

my lady here whether your inn was clean?”

“You did, sire.”

“Did I not very particularly ask you whether there were any vermin in

it?”

“You did, sire.”

“And you answered me?”

“That there were not, sire.”

“And yet ere I have been here an hour I find Englishmen crawling about

within it. Where are we to be free from this pestilent race? Can a

Frenchman upon French land not sit down in a French auberge without

having his ears pained by the clack of their hideous talk? Send them

packing, inn-keeper, or it may be the worse for them and for you.”

“I will, sire, I will!” cried the frightened host, and bustled from

the room, while the soft, soothing voice of the woman was heard

remonstrating with her furious companion.

“Indeed, gentlemen, you had best go,” said mine host. “It is but six

miles to Villefranche, where there are very good quarters at the sign of

the 'Lion Rouge.'”

“Nay,” answered Sir Nigel, “I cannot go until I have seen more of this

person, for he appears to be a man from whom much is to be hoped. What

is his name and title?”

“It is not for my lips to name it unless by his desire. But I beg and

pray you, gentlemen, that you will go from my house, for I know not what

may come of it if his rage should gain the mastery of him.”

“By Saint Paul!” lisped Sir Nigel, “this is certainly a man whom it

is worth journeying far to know. Go tell him that a humble knight of

England would make his further honorable acquaintance, not from any

presumption, pride, or ill-will, but for the advancement of chivalry and

the glory of our ladies. Give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring, and

say that the glove which I bear in my cap belongs to the most peerless

and lovely of her sex, whom I am now ready to uphold against any lady

whose claim he might be desirous of advancing.”

The landlord was hesitating whether to carry this message or no, when

the door of the inner room was flung open, and the stranger bounded out

like a panther from its den, his hair bristling and his deformed face

convulsed with anger.

“Still here!” he snarled. “Dogs of England, must ye be lashed hence?

Tiphaine, my sword!” He turned to seize his weapon, but as he did so his

gaze fell upon the blazonry of sir Nigel's shield, and he stood staring,

while the fire in his strange green eyes softened into a sly and

humorous twinkle.

“Mort Dieu!” cried he, “it is my little swordsman of Bordeaux. I should

remember that coat-armor, seeing that it is but three days since I

looked upon it in the lists by Garonne. Ah! Sir Nigel, Sir Nigel! you

owe me a return for this,” and he touched his right arm, which was girt

round just under the shoulder with a silken kerchief.

But the surprise of the stranger at the sight of Sir Nigel was as

nothing compared with the astonishment and the delight which shone upon

the face of the knight of Hampshire as he looked upon the strange face

of the Frenchman. Twice he opened his mouth and twice he peered again,

as though to assure himself that his eyes had not played him a trick.

“Bertrand!” he gasped at last. “Bertrand du Guesclin!”

“By Saint Ives!” shouted the French soldier, with a hoarse roar of

laughter, “it is well that I should ride with my vizor down, for he that

has once seen my face does not need to be told my name. It is indeed I,

Sir Nigel, and here is my hand! I give you my word that there are but

three Englishmen in this world whom I would touch save with the sharp

edge of the sword: the prince is one, Chandos the second, and you the

third; for I have heard much that is good of you.”

“I am growing aged, and am somewhat spent in the wars,” quoth Sir Nigel;

“but I can lay by my sword now with an easy mind, for I can say that

I have crossed swords with him who hath the bravest heart and the

strongest arm of all this great kingdom of France. I have longed for it,

I have dreamed of it, and now I can scarce bring my mind to understand

that this great honor hath indeed been mine.”

“By the Virgin of Rennes! you have given me cause to be very certain of

it,” said Du Guesclin, with a gleam of his broad white teeth.

“And perhaps, most honored sir, it would please you to continue the

debate. Perhaps you would condescend to go farther into the matter.

God He knows that I am unworthy of such honor, yet I can show my

four-and-sixty quarterings, and I have been present at some bickerings

and scufflings during these twenty years.”

“Your fame is very well known to me, and I shall ask my lady to enter

your name upon my tablets,” said Sir Bertrand. “There are many who wish

to advance themselves, and who bide their turn, for I refuse no man who

comes on such an errand. At present it may not be, for mine arm is stiff

from this small touch, and I would fain do you full honor when we cross

swords again. Come in with me, and let your squires come also, that my

sweet spouse, the Lady Tiphaine, may say that she hath seen so famed and

gentle a knight.”

Into the chamber they went in all peace and concord, where the Lady

Tiphaine sat like queen on throne for each in turn to be presented to

her. Sooth to say, the stout heart of Sir Nigel, which cared little for

the wrath of her lion-like spouse, was somewhat shaken by the calm, cold

face of this stately dame, for twenty years of camp-life had left him

more at ease in the lists than in a lady's boudoir. He bethought him,

too, as he looked at her set lips and deep-set questioning eyes, that he

had heard strange tales of this same Lady Tiphaine du Guesclin. Was

it not she who was said to lay hands upon the sick and raise them from

their couches when the leeches had spent their last nostrums? Had she

not forecast the future, and were there not times when in the loneliness

of her chamber she was heard to hold converse with some being upon whom

mortal eye never rested--some dark familiar who passed where doors were

barred and windows high? Sir Nigel sunk his eye and marked a cross on

the side of his leg as he greeted this dangerous dame, and yet ere

five minutes had passed he was hers, and not he only but his two young

squires as well. The mind had gone out of them, and they could but look

at this woman and listen to the words which fell from her lips--words

which thrilled through their nerves and stirred their souls like the

battle-call of a bugle.

Often in peaceful after-days was Alleyne to think of that scene of the

wayside inn of Auvergne. The shadows of evening had fallen, and the

corners of the long, low, wood-panelled room were draped in darkness.

The sputtering wood fire threw out a circle of red flickering light

which played over the little group of wayfarers, and showed up every

line and shadow upon their faces. Sir Nigel sat with elbows upon knees,

and chin upon hands, his patch still covering one eye, but his other

shining like a star, while the ruddy light gleamed upon his smooth white

head. Ford was seated at his left, his lips parted, his eyes staring,

and a fleck of deep color on either cheek, his limbs all rigid as one

who fears to move. On the other side the famous French captain leaned

back in his chair, a litter of nut-shells upon his lap, his huge head

half buried in a cushion, while his eyes wandered with an amused gleam

from his dame to the staring, enraptured Englishmen. Then, last of

all, that pale clear-cut face, that sweet clear voice, with its high

thrilling talk of the deathlessness of glory, of the worthlessness of

life, of the pain of ignoble joys, and of the joy which lies in all

pains which lead to a noble end. Still, as the shadows deepened, she

spoke of valor and virtue, of loyalty, honor, and fame, and still they

sat drinking in her words while the fire burned down and the red ash

turned to gray.

“By the sainted Ives!” cried Du Guesclin at last, “it is time that we

spoke of what we are to do this night, for I cannot think that in this

wayside auberge there are fit quarters for an honorable company.”

Sir Nigel gave a long sigh as he came back from the dreams of chivalry

and hardihood into which this strange woman's words had wafted him. “I

care not where I sleep,” said he; “but these are indeed somewhat rude

lodgings for this fair lady.”

“What contents my lord contents me,” quoth she. “I perceive, Sir Nigel,

that you are under vow,” she added, glancing at his covered eye.

“It is my purpose to attempt some small deed,” he answered.

“And the glove--is it your lady's?”

“It is indeed my sweet wife's.”

“Who is doubtless proud of you.”

“Say rather I of her,” quoth he quickly. “God He knows that I am not

worthy to be her humble servant. It is easy, lady, for a man to ride

forth in the light of day, and do his devoir when all men have eyes for

him. But in a woman's heart there is a strength and truth which asks no

praise, and can but be known to him whose treasure it is.”

The Lady Tiphaine smiled across at her husband. “You have often told

me, Bertrand, that there were very gentle knights amongst the English,”

quoth she.

“Aye, aye,” said he moodily. “But to horse, Sir Nigel, you and yours

and we shall seek the chateau of Sir Tristram de Rochefort, which is

two miles on this side of Villefranche. He is Seneschal of Auvergne, and

mine old war companion.”

“Certes, he would have a welcome for you,” quoth Sir Nigel; “but indeed

he might look askance at one who comes without permit over the marches.”

“By the Virgin! when he learns that you have come to draw away these

rascals he will be very blithe to look upon your face. Inn-keeper, here

are ten gold pieces. What is over and above your reckoning you may take

off from your charges to the next needy knight who comes this way. Come

then, for it grows late and the horses are stamping in the roadway.”

The Lady Tiphaine and her spouse sprang upon their steeds without

setting feet to stirrup, and away they jingled down the white moonlit

highway, with Sir Nigel at the lady's bridle-arm, and Ford a spear's

length behind them. Alleyne had lingered for an instant in the passage,

and as he did so there came a wild outcry from a chamber upon the

left, and out there ran Aylward and John, laughing together like two

schoolboys who are bent upon a prank. At sight of Alleyne they slunk

past him with somewhat of a shame-faced air, and springing upon their

horses galloped after their party. The hubbub within the chamber did not

cease, however, but rather increased, with yells of: “A moi, mes amis! A

moi, camarades! A moi, l'honorable champion de l'Eveque de Montaubon! A

la recousse de l'eglise sainte!” So shrill was the outcry that both the

inn-keeper and Alleyne, with every varlet within hearing, rushed wildly

to the scene of the uproar.

It was indeed a singular scene which met their eyes. The room was a long

and lofty one, stone floored and bare, with a fire at the further end

upon which a great pot was boiling. A deal table ran down the centre,

with a wooden wine-pitcher upon it and two horn cups. Some way from it

was a smaller table with a single beaker and a broken wine-bottle. From

the heavy wooden rafters which formed the roof there hung rows of hooks

which held up sides of bacon, joints of smoked beef, and strings of

onions for winter use. In the very centre of all these, upon the

largest hook of all, there hung a fat little red-faced man with enormous

whiskers, kicking madly in the air and clawing at rafters, hams, and

all else that was within hand-grasp. The huge steel hook had been passed

through the collar of his leather jerkin, and there he hung like a fish

on a line, writhing, twisting, and screaming, but utterly unable to free

himself from his extraordinary position. It was not until Alleyne and

the landlord had mounted on the table that they were able to lift him

down, when he sank gasping with rage into a seat, and rolled his eyes

round in every direction.

“Has he gone?” quoth he.

“Gone? Who?”

“He, the man with the red head, the giant man.”

“Yes,” said Alleyne, “he hath gone.”

“And comes not back?”

“No.”

“The better for him!” cried the little man, with a long sigh of relief.

“Mon Dieu! What! am I not the champion of the Bishop of Montaubon? Ah,

could I have descended, could I have come down, ere he fled! Then you

would have seen. You would have beheld a spectacle then. There would

have been one rascal the less upon earth. Ma foi, yes!”

“Good master Pelligny,” said the landlord, “these gentlemen have not

gone very fast, and I have a horse in the stable at your disposal, for

I would rather have such bloody doings as you threaten outside the four

walls of mine auberge.”

“I hurt my leg and cannot ride,” quoth the bishop's champion. “I

strained a sinew on the day that I slew the three men at Castelnau.”

“God save you, master Pelligny!” cried the landlord. “It must be an

awesome thing to have so much blood upon one's soul. And yet I do not

wish to see so valiant a man mishandled, and so I will, for friendship's

sake, ride after this Englishman and bring him back to you.”

“You shall not stir,” cried the champion, seizing the inn-keeper in a

convulsive grasp. “I have a love for you, Gaston, and I would not

bring your house into ill repute, nor do such scath to these walls and

chattels as must befall if two such men as this Englishman and I fall to

work here.”

“Nay, think not of me!” cried the inn-keeper. “What are my walls when

set against the honor of Francois Poursuivant d'Amour Pelligny, champion

of the Bishop of Montaubon. My horse, Andre!”

“By the saints, no! Gaston, I will not have it! You have said truly that

it is an awesome thing to have such rough work upon one's soul. I am

but a rude soldier, yet I have a mind. Mon Dieu! I reflect, I weigh, I

balance. Shall I not meet this man again? Shall I not bear him in mind?

Shall I not know him by his great paws and his red head? Ma foi, yes!”

“And may I ask, sir,” said Alleyne, “why it is that you call yourself

champion of the Bishop of Montaubon?”

“You may ask aught which it is becoming to me to answer. The bishop hath

need of a champion, because, if any cause be set to test of combat, it

would scarce become his office to go down into the lists with leather

and shield and cudgel to exchange blows with any varlet. He looks around

him then for some tried fighting man, some honest smiter who can give a

blow or take one. It is not for me to say how far he hath succeeded, but

it is sooth that he who thinks that he hath but to do with the Bishop of

Montaubon, finds himself face to face with Francois Poursuivant d'Amour

Pelligny.”

At this moment there was a clatter of hoofs upon the road, and a varlet

by the door cried out that one of the Englishmen was coming back.

The champion looked wildly about for some corner of safety, and was

clambering up towards the window, when Ford's voice sounded from

without, calling upon Alleyne to hasten, or he might scarce find his

way. Bidding adieu to landlord and to champion, therefore, he set off at

a gallop, and soon overtook the two archers.

“A pretty thing this, John,” said he. “Thou wilt have holy Church upon

you if you hang her champions upon iron hooks in an inn kitchen.”

“It was done without thinking,” he answered apologetically, while

Aylward burst into a shout of laughter.

“By my hilt! mon petit,” said he, “you would have laughed also could

you have seen it. For this man was so swollen with pride that he would

neither drink with us, nor sit at the same table with us, nor as much as

answer a question, but must needs talk to the varlet all the time that

it was well there was peace, and that he had slain more Englishmen than

there were tags to his doublet. Our good old John could scarce lay his

tongue to French enough to answer him, so he must needs reach out his

great hand to him and place him very gently where you saw him. But we

must on, for I can scarce hear their hoofs upon the road.”

“I think that I can see them yet,” said Ford, peering down the moonlit

road.

“Pardieu! yes. Now they ride forth from the shadow. And yonder dark

clump is the Castle of Villefranche. En avant camarades! or Sir Nigel

may reach the gates before us. But hark, mes amis, what sound is that?”

As he spoke the hoarse blast of a horn was heard from some woods upon

the right. An answering call rung forth upon their left, and hard upon

it two others from behind them.

“They are the horns of swine-herds,” quoth Aylward. “Though why they

blow them so late I cannot tell.”

“Let us on, then,” said Ford, and the whole party, setting their spurs

to their horses, soon found themselves at the Castle of Villefranche,

where the drawbridge had already been lowered and the portcullis raised

in response to the summons of Du Guesclin.