第 三十五 章 · HOW SIR NIGEL HAWKED AT AN EAGLE.

. HOW SIR NIGEL HAWKED AT AN EAGLE.

To the south of Pampeluna in the kingdom of Navarre there stretched

a high table-land, rising into bare, sterile hills, brown or gray in

color, and strewn with huge boulders of granite. On the Gascon side of

the great mountains there had been running streams, meadows, forests,

and little nestling villages. Here, on the contrary, were nothing but

naked rocks, poor pasture, and savage, stone-strewn wastes. Gloomy

defiles or barrancas intersected this wild country with mountain

torrents dashing and foaming between their rugged sides. The clatter

of waters, the scream of the eagle, and the howling of wolves the only

sounds which broke upon the silence in that dreary and inhospitable

region.

Through this wild country it was that Sir Nigel and his Company pushed

their way, riding at times through vast defiles where the brown, gnarled

cliffs shot up on either side of them, and the sky was but a long

winding blue slit between the clustering lines of box which fringed the

lips of the precipices; or, again leading their horses along the narrow

and rocky paths worn by the muleteers upon the edges of the chasm, where

under their very elbows they could see the white streak which marked

the _gave_ which foamed a thousand feet below them. So for two days they

pushed their way through the wild places of Navarre, past Fuente,

over the rapid Ega, through Estella, until upon a winter's evening the

mountains fell away from in front of them, and they saw the broad blue

Ebro curving betwixt its double line of homesteads and of villages. The

fishers of Viana were aroused that night by rough voices speaking in a

strange tongue, and ere morning Sir Nigel and his men had ferried the

river and were safe upon the land of Spain.

All the next day they lay in a pine wood near to the town of Logrono,

resting their horses and taking counsel as to what they should do. Sir

Nigel had with him Sir William Felton, Sir Oliver Buttesthorn, stout old

Sir Simon Burley, the Scotch knight-errant, the Earl of Angus, and Sir

Richard Causton, all accounted among the bravest knights in the army,

together with sixty veteran men-at-arms, and three hundred and twenty

archers. Spies had been sent out in the morning, and returned after

nightfall to say that the King of Spain was encamped some fourteen miles

off in the direction of Burgos, having with him twenty thousand horse

and forty-five thousand foot.

A dry-wood fire had been lit, and round this the leaders crouched, the

glare beating upon their rugged faces, while the hardy archers lounged

and chatted amid the tethered horses, while they munched their scanty

provisions.

“For my part,” said Sir Simon Burley, “I am of opinion that we have

already done that which we have come for. For do we not now know where

the king is, and how great a following he hath, which was the end of our

journey.”

“True,” answered Sir William Felton, “but I have come on this venture

because it is a long time since I have broken a spear in war, and,

certes, I shall not go back until I have run a course with some cavalier

of Spain. Let those go back who will, but I must see more of these

Spaniards ere I turn.”

“I will not leave you, Sir William,” returned Sir Simon Burley; “and

yet, as an old soldier and one who hath seen much of war, I cannot but

think that it is an ill thing for four hundred men to find themselves

between an army of sixty thousand on the one side and a broad river on

the other.”

“Yet,” said Sir Richard Causton, “we cannot for the honor of England go

back without a blow struck.”

“Nor for the honor of Scotland either,” cried the Earl of Angus. “By

Saint Andrew! I wish that I may never set eyes upon the water of

Leith again, if I pluck my horse's bridle ere I have seen this camp of

theirs.”

“By Saint Paul! you have spoken very well,” said Sir Nigel, “and I have

always heard that there were very worthy gentlemen among the Scots, and

fine skirmishing to be had upon their border. Bethink you, Sir Simon,

that we have this news from the lips of common spies, who can scarce

tell us as much of the enemy and of his forces as the prince would wish

to hear.”

“You are the leader in this venture, Sir Nigel,” the other answered,

“and I do but ride under your banner.”

“Yet I would fain have your rede and counsel, Sir Simon. But, touching

what you say of the river, we can take heed that we shall not have it

at the back of us, for the prince hath now advanced to Salvatierra, and

thence to Vittoria, so that if we come upon their camp from the further

side we can make good our retreat.”

“What then would you propose?” asked Sir Simon, shaking his grizzled

head as one who is but half convinced.

“That we ride forward ere the news reach them that we have crossed the

river. In this way we may have sight of their army, and perchance even

find occasion for some small deed against them.”

“So be it, then,” said Sir Simon Burley; and the rest of the council

having approved, a scanty meal was hurriedly snatched, and the advance

resumed under the cover of the darkness. All night they led their

horses, stumbling and groping through wild defiles and rugged valleys,

following the guidance of a frightened peasant who was strapped by the

wrist to Black Simon's stirrup-leather. With the early dawn they found

themselves in a black ravine, with others sloping away from it on either

side, and the bare brown crags rising in long bleak terraces all round

them.

“If it please you, fair lord,” said Black Simon, “this man hath misled

us, and since there is no tree upon which we may hang him, it might be

well to hurl him over yonder cliff.”

The peasant, reading the soldier's meaning in his fierce eyes and harsh

accents dropped upon his knees, screaming loudly for mercy.

“How comes it, dog?” asked Sir William Felton in Spanish. “Where is this

camp to which you swore that you would lead us?”

“By the sweet Virgin! By the blessed Mother of God!” cried the trembling

peasant, “I swear to you that in the darkness I have myself lost the

path.”

“Over the cliff with him!” shouted half a dozen voices; but ere the

archers could drag him from the rocks to which he clung Sir Nigel had

ridden up and called upon them to stop.

“How is this, sirs?” said he. “As long as the prince doth me the honor

to entrust this venture to me, it is for me only to give orders; and,

by Saint Paul! I shall be right blithe to go very deeply into the

matter with any one to whom my words may give offence. How say you, Sir

William? Or you, my Lord of Angus? Or you, Sir Richard?”

“Nay, nay, Nigel!” cried Sir William. “This base peasant is too small

a matter for old comrades to quarrel over. But he hath betrayed us, and

certes he hath merited a dog's death.”

“Hark ye, fellow,” said Sir Nigel. “We give you one more chance to

find the path. We are about to gain much honor, Sir William, in this

enterprise, and it would be a sorry thing if the first blood shed were

that of an unworthy boor. Let us say our morning orisons, and it may

chance that ere we finish he may strike upon the track.”

With bowed heads and steel caps in hand, the archers stood at their

horse's heads, while Sir Simon Burley repeated the Pater, the Ave, and

the Credo. Long did Alleyne bear the scene in mind--the knot of knights

in their dull leaden-hued armor, the ruddy visage of Sir Oliver, the

craggy features of the Scottish earl, the shining scalp of Sir Nigel,

with the dense ring of hard, bearded faces and the long brown heads of

the horses, all topped and circled by the beetling cliffs. Scarce had

the last deep “amen” broken from the Company, when, in an instant, there

rose the scream of a hundred bugles, with the deep rolling of drums and

the clashing of cymbals, all sounding together in one deafening uproar.

Knights and archers sprang to arms, convinced that some great host was

upon them; but the guide dropped upon his knees and thanked Heaven for

its mercies.

“We have found them, caballeros!” he cried. “This is their morning call.

If ye will but deign to follow me, I will set them before you ere a man

might tell his beads.”

As he spoke he scrambled down one of the narrow ravines, and, climbing

over a low ridge at the further end, he led them into a short valley

with a stream purling down the centre of it and a very thick growth of

elder and of box upon either side. Pushing their way through the dense

brushwood, they looked out upon a scene which made their hearts beat

harder and their breath come faster.

In front of them there lay a broad plain, watered by two winding streams

and covered with grass, stretching away to where, in the furthest

distance, the towers of Burgos bristled up against the light blue

morning sky. Over all this vast meadow there lay a great city of

tents--thousands upon thousands of them, laid out in streets and in

squares like a well-ordered town. High silken pavilions or colored

marquees, shooting up from among the crowd of meaner dwellings, marked

where the great lords and barons of Leon and Castile displayed their

standards, while over the white roofs, as far as eye could reach, the

waving of ancients, pavons, pensils, and banderoles, with flash of gold

and glow of colors, proclaimed that all the chivalry of Iberia were

mustered in the plain beneath them. Far off, in the centre of the camp,

a huge palace of red and white silk, with the royal arms of Castile

waiving from the summit, announced that the gallant Henry lay there in

the midst of his warriors.

As the English adventurers, peeping out from behind their brushwood

screen, looked down upon this wondrous sight they could see that the

vast army in front of them was already afoot. The first pink light of

the rising sun glittered upon the steel caps and breastplates of dense

masses of slingers and of crossbowmen, who drilled and marched in the

spaces which had been left for their exercise. A thousand columns of

smoke reeked up into the pure morning air where the faggots were piled

and the camp-kettles already simmering. In the open plain clouds of

light horse galloped and swooped with swaying bodies and waving

javelins, after the fashion which the Spanish had adopted from their

Moorish enemies. All along by the sedgy banks of the rivers long lines

of pages led their masters' chargers down to water, while the knights

themselves lounged in gayly-dressed groups about the doors of their

pavilions, or rode out, with their falcons upon their wrists and their

greyhounds behind them, in quest of quail or of leveret.

“By my hilt! mon gar.!” whispered Aylward to Alleyne, as the young

squire stood with parted lips and wondering eyes, gazing down at the

novel scene before him, “we have been seeking them all night, but now

that we have found them I know not what we are to do with them.”

“You say sooth, Samkin,” quoth old Johnston. “I would that we were upon

the far side of Ebro again, for there is neither honor nor profit to be

gained here. What say you, Simon?”

“By the rood!” cried the fierce man-at-arms, “I will see the color of

their blood ere I turn my mare's head for the mountains. Am I a child,

that I should ride for three days and nought but words at the end of

it?”

“Well said, my sweet honeysuckle!” cried Hordle John. “I am with you,

like hilt to blade. Could I but lay hands upon one of those gay prancers

yonder, I doubt not that I should have ransom enough from him to buy my

mother a new cow.”

“A cow!” said Aylward. “Say rather ten acres and a homestead on the

banks of Avon.”

“Say you so? Then, by our Lady! here is for yonder one in the red

jerkin!”

He was about to push recklessly forward into the open, when Sir Nigel

himself darted in front of him, with his hand upon his breast.

“Back!” said he. “Our time is not yet come, and we must lie here until

evening. Throw off your jacks and headpieces, least their eyes catch the

shine, and tether the horses among the rocks.”

The order was swiftly obeyed, and in ten minutes the archers were

stretched along by the side of the brook, munching the bread and the

bacon which they had brought in their bags, and craning their necks to

watch the ever-changing scene beneath them. Very quiet and still they

lay, save for a muttered jest or whispered order, for twice during the

long morning they heard bugle-calls from amid the hills on either side

of them, which showed that they had thrust themselves in between the

outposts of the enemy. The leaders sat amongst the box-wood, and took

counsel together as to what they should do; while from below there

surged up the buzz of voices, the shouting, the neighing of horses, and

all the uproar of a great camp.

“What boots it to wait?” said Sir William Felton. “Let us ride down upon

their camp ere they discover us.”

“And so say I,” cried the Scottish earl; “for they do not know that

there is any enemy within thirty long leagues of them.”

“For my part,” said Sir Simon Burley, “I think that it is madness, for

you cannot hope to rout this great army; and where are you to go and

what are you to do when they have turned upon you? How say you, Sir

Oliver Buttesthorn?”

“By the apple of Eve!” cried the fat knight, “it appears to me that

this wind brings a very savory smell of garlic and of onions from their

cooking-kettles. I am in favor of riding down upon them at once, if my

old friend and comrade here is of the same mind.”

“Nay,” said Sir Nigel, “I have a plan by which we may attempt some small

deed upon them, and yet, by the help of God, may be able to draw off

again; which, as Sir Simon Burley hath said, would be scarce possible in

any other way.”

“How then, Sir Nigel?” asked several voices.

“We shall lie here all day; for amid this brushwood it is ill for them

to see us. Then when evening comes we shall sally out upon them and see

if we may not gain some honorable advancement from them.”

“But why then rather than now?”

“Because we shall have nightfall to cover us when we draw off, so that

we may make our way back through the mountains. I would station a score

of archers here in the pass, with all our pennons jutting forth from the

rocks, and as many nakirs and drums and bugles as we have with us, so

that those who follow us in the fading light may think that the whole

army of the prince is upon them, and fear to go further. What think you

of my plan, Sir Simon?”

“By my troth! I think very well of it,” cried the prudent old commander.

“If four hundred men must needs run a tilt against sixty thousand, I

cannot see how they can do it better or more safely.”

“And so say I,” cried Felton, heartily. “But I wish the day were over,

for it will be an ill thing for us if they chance to light upon us.”

The words were scarce out of his mouth when there came a clatter of

loose stones, the sharp clink of trotting hoofs, and a dark-faced

cavalier, mounted upon a white horse, burst through the bushes and rode

swiftly down the valley from the end which was farthest from the Spanish

camp. Lightly armed, with his vizor open and a hawk perched upon his

left wrist, he looked about him with the careless air of a man who is

bent wholly upon pleasure, and unconscious of the possibility of danger.

Suddenly, however, his eyes lit upon the fierce faces which glared out

at him from the brushwood. With a cry of terror, he thrust his spurs

into his horse's sides and dashed for the narrow opening of the gorge.

For a moment it seemed as though he would have reached it, for he had

trampled over or dashed aside the archers who threw themselves in his

way; but Hordle John seized him by the foot in his grasp of iron and

dragged him from the saddle, while two others caught the frightened

horse.

“Ho, ho!” roared the great archer. “How many cows wilt buy my mother, if

I set thee free?”

“Hush that bull's bellowing!” cried Sir Nigel impatiently. “Bring the

man here. By St. Paul! it is not the first time that we have met; for,

if I mistake not, it is Don Diego Alvarez, who was once at the prince's

court.”

“It is indeed I,” said the Spanish knight, speaking in the French

tongue, “and I pray you to pass your sword through my heart, for how can

I live--I, a caballero of Castile--after being dragged from my horse by

the base hands of a common archer?”

“Fret not for that,” answered Sir Nigel. “For, in sooth, had he not

pulled you down, a dozen cloth-yard shafts had crossed each other in

your body.”

“By St. James! it were better so than to be polluted by his touch,”

answered the Spaniard, with his black eyes sparkling with rage and

hatred. “I trust that I am now the prisoner of some honorable knight or

gentleman.”

“You are the prisoner of the man who took you, Sir Diego,” answered Sir

Nigel. “And I may tell you that better men than either you or I have

found themselves before now prisoners in the hands of archers of

England.”

“What ransom, then, does he demand?” asked the Spaniard.

Big John scratched his red head and grinned in high delight when the

question was propounded to him. “Tell him,” said he, “that I shall have

ten cows and a bull too, if it be but a little one. Also a dress of

blue sendall for mother and a red one for Joan; with five acres of

pasture-land, two scythes, and a fine new grindstone. Likewise a small

house, with stalls for the cows, and thirty-six gallons of beer for the

thirsty weather.”

“Tut, tut!” cried Sir Nigel, laughing. “All these things may be had for

money; and I think, Don Diego, that five thousand crowns is not too much

for so renowned a knight.”

“It shall be duly paid him.”

“For some days we must keep you with us; and I must crave leave also to

use your shield, your armor, and your horse.”

“My harness is yours by the law of arms,” said the Spaniard, gloomily.

“I do but ask the loan of it. I have need of it this day, but it shall

be duly returned to you. Set guards, Aylward, with arrow on string, at

either end of the pass; for it may happen that some other cavaliers may

visit us ere the time be come.” All day the little band of Englishmen

lay in the sheltered gorge, looking down upon the vast host of their

unconscious enemies. Shortly after mid-day, a great uproar of shouting

and cheering broke out in the camp, with mustering of men and calling of

bugles. Clambering up among the rocks, the companions saw a long rolling

cloud of dust along the whole eastern sky-line, with the glint of spears

and the flutter of pennons, which announced the approach of a large body

of cavalry. For a moment a wild hope came upon them that perhaps the

prince had moved more swiftly than had been planned, that he had crossed

the Ebro, and that this was his vanguard sweeping to the attack.

“Surely I see the red pile of Chandos at the head of yonder squadron!”

cried Sir Richard Causton, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Not so,” answered Sir Simon Burley, who had watched the approaching

host with a darkening face. “It is even as I feared. That is the double

eagle of Du Guesclin.”

“You say very truly,” cried the Earl of Angus. “These are the levies of

France, for I can see the ensigns of the Marshal d'Andreghen, with

that of the Lord of Antoing and of Briseuil, and of many another from

Brittany and Anjou.”

“By St. Paul! I am very glad of it,” said Sir Nigel. “Of these Spaniards

I know nothing; but the French are very worthy gentlemen, and will do

what they can for our advancement.”

“There are at the least four thousand of them, and all men-at-arms,”

cried Sir William Felton. “See, there is Bertrand himself, beside his

banner, and there is King Henry, who rides to welcome him. Now they all

turn and come into the camp together.”

As he spoke, the vast throng of Spaniards and of Frenchmen trooped

across the plain, with brandished arms and tossing banners. All day long

the sound of revelry and of rejoicing from the crowded camp swelled up

to the ears of the Englishmen, and they could see the soldiers of the

two nations throwing themselves into each other's arms and dancing

hand-in-hand round the blazing fires. The sun had sunk behind a

cloud-bank in the west before Sir Nigel at last gave word that the men

should resume their arms and have their horses ready. He had himself

thrown off his armor, and had dressed himself from head to foot in the

harness of the captured Spaniard.

“Sir William,” said he, “it is my intention to attempt a small deed, and

I ask you therefore that you will lead this outfall upon the camp. For

me, I will ride into their camp with my squire and two archers. I pray

you to watch me, and to ride forth when I am come among the tents. You

will leave twenty men behind here, as we planned this morning, and you

will ride back here after you have ventured as far as seems good to

you.”

“I will do as you order, Nigel; but what is it that you propose to do?”

“You will see anon, and indeed it is but a trifling matter. Alleyne, you

will come with me, and lead a spare horse by the bridle. I will have the

two archers who rode with us through France, for they are trusty men and

of stout heart. Let them ride behind us, and let them leave their bows

here among the bushes for it is not my wish that they should know that

we are Englishmen. Say no word to any whom we may meet, and, if any

speak to you, pass on as though you heard them not. Are you ready?”

“I am ready, my fair lord,” said Alleyne.

“And I,” “And I,” cried Aylward and John.

“Then the rest I leave to your wisdom, Sir William; and if God sends us

fortune we shall meet you again in this gorge ere it be dark.”

So saying, Sir Nigel mounted the white horse of the Spanish cavalier,

and rode quietly forth from his concealment with his three companions

behind him, Alleyne leading his master's own steed by the bridle. So

many small parties of French and Spanish horse were sweeping hither and

thither that the small band attracted little notice, and making its way

at a gentle trot across the plain, they came as far as the camp without

challenge or hindrance. On and on they pushed past the endless lines of

tents, amid the dense swarms of horsemen and of footmen, until the huge

royal pavilion stretched in front of them. They were close upon it when

of a sudden there broke out a wild hubbub from a distant portion of the

camp, with screams and war-cries and all the wild tumult of battle. At

the sound soldiers came rushing from their tents, knights shouted loudly

for their squires, and there was mad turmoil on every hand of bewildered

men and plunging horses. At the royal tent a crowd of gorgeously dressed

servants ran hither and thither in helpless panic for the guard

of soldiers who were stationed there had already ridden off in the

direction of the alarm. A man-at-arms on either side of the doorway were

the sole protectors of the royal dwelling.

“I have come for the king,” whispered Sir Nigel; “and, by Saint Paul! he

must back with us or I must bide here.”

Alleyne and Aylward sprang from their horses, and flew at the two

sentries, who were disarmed and beaten down in an instant by so furious

and unexpected an attack. Sir Nigel dashed into the royal tent, and was

followed by Hordle John as soon as the horses had been secured. From

within came wild screamings and the clash of steel, and then the two

emerged once more, their swords and forearms reddened with blood,

while John bore over his shoulder the senseless body of a man whose gay

surcoat, adorned with the lions and towers of Castile, proclaimed him

to belong to the royal house. A crowd of white-faced sewers and pages

swarmed at their heels, those behind pushing forwards, while the

foremost shrank back from the fierce faces and reeking weapons of the

adventurers. The senseless body was thrown across the spare horse, the

four sprang to their saddles, and away they thundered with loose reins

and busy spurs through the swarming camp.

But confusion and disorder still reigned among the Spaniards for Sir

William Felton and his men had swept through half their camp, leaving

a long litter of the dead and the dying to mark their course. Uncertain

who were their attackers, and unable to tell their English enemies

from their newly-arrived Breton allies, the Spanish knights rode wildly

hither and thither in aimless fury. The mad turmoil, the mixture of

races, and the fading light, were all in favor of the four who alone

knew their own purpose among the vast uncertain multitude. Twice ere

they reached open ground they had to break their way through small

bodies of horses, and once there came a whistle of arrows and singing of

stones about their ears; but, still dashing onwards, they shot out

from among the tents and found their own comrades retreating for the

mountains at no very great distance from them. Another five minutes of

wild galloping over the plain, and they were all back in their gorge,

while their pursuers fell back before the rolling of drums and blare of

trumpets, which seemed to proclaim that the whole army of the prince was

about to emerge from the mountain passes.

“By my soul! Nigel,” cried Sir Oliver, waving a great boiled ham over

his head, “I have come by something which I may eat with my truffles! I

had a hard fight for it, for there were three of them with their mouths

open and the knives in their hands, all sitting agape round the table,

when I rushed in upon them. How say you, Sir William, will you not try

the smack of the famed Spanish swine, though we have but the brook water

to wash it down?”

“Later, Sir Oliver,” answered the old soldier, wiping his grimed face.

“We must further into the mountains ere we be in safety. But what have

we here, Nigel?”

“It is a prisoner whom I have taken, and in sooth, as he came from the

royal tent and wears the royal arms upon his jupon, I trust that he is

the King of Spain.”

“The King of Spain!” cried the companions, crowding round in amazement.

“Nay, Sir Nigel,” said Felton, peering at the prisoner through the

uncertain light, “I have twice seen Henry of Transtamare, and certes

this man in no way resembles him.”

“Then, by the light of heaven! I will ride back for him,” cried Sir

Nigel.

“Nay, nay, the camp is in arms, and it would be rank madness. Who are

you, fellow?” he added in Spanish, “and how is it that you dare to wear

the arms of Castile?”

The prisoner was bent recovering the consciousness which had been

squeezed from him by the grip of Hordle John. “If it please you,” he

answered, “I and nine others are the body-squires of the king, and must

ever wear his arms, so as to shield him from even such perils as have

threatened him this night. The king is at the tent of the brave Du

Guesclin, where he will sup to night. But I am a caballero of Aragon,

Don Sancho Penelosa, and, though I be no king, I am yet ready to pay a

fitting price for my ransom.”

“By Saint Paul! I will not touch your gold,” cried Sir Nigel. “Go back

to your master and give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring of Twynham

Castle, telling him that I had hoped to make his better acquaintance

this night, and that, if I have disordered his tent, it was but in my

eagerness to know so famed and courteous a knight. Spur on, comrades!

for we must cover many a league ere we can venture to light fire or to

loosen girth. I had hoped to ride without this patch to-night, but it

seems that I must carry it yet a little longer.”