In the Days of Chivalry
by
Evelyn Everett-Green
Part 3 out of 8
it was of Basildene she spoke?"
"Ay, verily I do!" cried the other quickly, a light coming into his
face. "Why had I not thought of it before? I remember well she spoke of
dark water which lay upon the outside of the house hard by the entrance
to the underground way. Rememberest thou not the boat moored in the lake
to carry the fugitive across to the other side, and the oars so muffled
that none might hear? And did not Mistress Joan say that the secret way
into Basildene was hard by the fish ponds on the west side of the house?
It can be nothing else but this. Let us go seek them at once. Methinks
we have in our hands the clue by which we may obtain entrance into
Basildene."
Cautiously, as though their foes were at hand, the brothers slipped
round the crumbling walls of the house, marking well as they did so that
despite the half-ruinous aspect of much of the building, there was no
ready or easy method of access. Every gap in the masonry was carefully
filled up, every window that was wide enough to admit the passage of a
human form was guarded by iron bars, and the doors were solid enough to
defy for a long time the assault of battering rams.
"It is not in ghostly terrors he mainly trusts to guard his house,"
whispered Raymond, as they skirted round into the dim darkness of the
dense woodland that lay behind the house. "Methinks if he had in very
truth a guard of evil spirits, he would not be so careful of his bolts
and bars."
Gaston was willing enough to believe this; for though he feared no human
foe, he was by no means free from the superstitious terrors of the age,
and it needed all his coolness of head, as well as all his confidence in
the righteousness of his cause, to keep his heart from fluttering with
fear as they stepped along beneath the gloom of the trees, which even
when not in leaf cast dense shadows around them. It was in truth a weird
spot: owls hooted dismally about them, bats flitted here and there in
their erratic flight, and sometimes almost brushed the faces of the boys
with their clammy wings. The strange noises always to be heard in a wood
at night assailed their ears, and mingled with the quick beating of
their own hearts; whilst from time to time a long unearthly wail, which
seemed to proceed from the interior of the house itself, filled them
with an unreasoning sense of terror that they would not confess even to
themselves.
"It is like the wail of a lost spirit," whispered Raymond at the third
repetition of the cry. "Brother, let us say a prayer, and go forward in
the power of the Blessed Virgin and her Holy Son."
For a moment the brothers knelt in prayer, as the priest had bidden them
if heart or spirit quailed.
Then rising, strengthened and supported, they looked carefully about
them, and Gaston, grasping his brother by the arm, pointed through the
trees and said:
"The water, the water! sure I see a gleam of moonlight upon it! We have
reached the fish ponds, I verily believe! Now for the secret way to the
house!"
It was true enough. A few steps brought them to the margin of a large
piece of water, which was something between a lake and a series of fish
ponds, such as are so often seen by old houses. Once the lake had
plainly been larger, but had partially drained away, and was now
confined to various levels by means of a rude dam and a sort of gate
like that of a modern lock. Still the boys could trace a likeness to the
lake of their mother's oft-told tale, and by instinct they both turned
to the right as they reached the margin of the water, and threaded their
way through the coarse and tangled sedges, decaying in the winter's
cold, till they reached a spot where brushwood grew down to the very
edge of the water, and the bank rose steep and high above their heads.
Gaston was a step in advance, Raymond following at his heels, both
keenly eager over the quest. An exclamation from the leader soon showed
that something had been discovered, and the next minute he had drawn
aside the sweeping branches of a great willow, and revealed a dark
opening in the bank, around which the giant roots seemed to form a
protecting arch.
"This is the place," he said, in a muffled whisper. "Raymond, hast thou
the wherewithal to kindle the torch?"
The boys had not come unprovided with such things as were likely to
prove needful for their search, and though it was a matter of some time
to obtain a light, they were skilful and well used to the process, and
soon their torch was kindled and they were treading with cautious steps
the intricacies of the long and tortuous passage which plainly led
straight to the house.
"We never should have found it but for our mother's story," said Gaston,
with exultation in his voice. "Raymond, methinks that this is the first
step in our career of vengeance. We have the key to Basildene in our
hands. It may be that upon another occasion we may use it with a
different purpose."
It seemed to the brothers that they had walked a great distance, when
their steps were arrested by what appeared in the first instance to be a
solid wall of stone. Had they not had some sort of clue in their heads,
they would certainly have believed that this natural tunnel ended here,
and that further progress was impossible. But as it was, they were
firmly convinced that this was but the door of masonry of which their
mother had told them in years gone by. Neither could recollect the story
save in fragments; but the numbers had clung to Gaston's tenacious
memory, and now he stood before the door saying again and again --
"Seven from the top, three from the bottom" -- scanning the wall in
front of him with the keenest glances all the while.
"Ha!" he exclaimed at length; "bring the torch nearer, Raymond. See
here. This is not one block of stone, as seems at first, but a mass of
masonry so cunningly joined together as to look like one solid piece.
See, here are the joints; I can feel them with my fingernail, though I
can scarce see them with my eyes. Let us count the number of the stones
used. Yes; there are nine in all from top to bottom, each of the same
width. Therefore the seventh from the top is the third counting from the
bottom. This is the stone which is the key."
So saying, Gaston set his knee against it and pressed with all his
might. Almost to his own surprise he felt it give as he did so, and
Raymond uttered a short cry of astonishment: for the whole of what had
looked like a solid wall revolved slowly inwards, revealing a
continuation of the passage which they had been traversing so long, only
that now the passage was plainly one in the interior of the house; for
the walls were of masonry, and the dimensions were far more regular.
"This is the secret door," said Gaston exultingly. "It is in truth a
cunning contrivance. Let me have the light here a moment, Brother. I
will see what the trick of the door upon this side is."
This point was quickly settled by an inspection of the ingenious
contrivance, which was one purely of balance, and not dependent either
upon springs or bolts. Probably it dated back from days when these
latter things were hardly known, and was so satisfactory in the working
that it had never been improved upon.
"The way to Basildene is always open to us," murmured Raymond, with a
quick thrill of exultation, as the brothers passed through the doorway
and let it close behind them; and then they forgot all else in the
excitement of the search after the woodman's miserable son.
What strange places they came upon in this underground region below the
ill-famed house! Plainly these cells had been built once for prisoners;
for there were fragments of rusty chains still fastened to the stone
floors, and in one spot a grinning skull lying broken in a corner sent
thrills of horror through the brothers' hearts. From time to time the
sound of that unearthly wailing reached their ears, though it was almost
impossible to divine from what direction it proceeded; and it had a far
less human sound now that the boys were within the precincts of the
house than had been the case when they were still outside.
Whether this was more alarming or less they hardly knew. Everything was
so strange and dreamlike that they could not tell whether or not all
were real. They pressed on eager to accomplish the object of their
search, resolved to do that at all cost, and anxious to keep themselves
from thinking or feeling too much until that object should be accomplished.
They had mounted some stairs, and had reached a different level from the
underground passages, when they found their further progress barred by a
strong door. This door was bolted, but from the outside, and they had no
difficulty in withdrawing the heavy bolts from their sockets. When this
had been done the door opened of itself, and they found themselves in a
large vaulted room utterly unlike any place they had ever seen before.
They grasped each other by the hand and gazed about in wonder.
"It is the magician's laboratory!" whispered Raymond, whose recent
readings with John had taught him many things.
He recognized the many crucibles and the strange implements lying on the
table as the things employed by dabblers in magic lore, whilst the great
sullen wood and charcoal fire, which illumined the place with a dull red
glow, was all in keeping with the nature of the occupations carried on
there, as was the strange pungent smell that filled the air.
Rows of jars and bottles upon shelves, strange-looking mirrors and
crystals, some fixed and some lying upon the tables, books and
parchments full of cabalistic signs propped open beside the crucibles or
hung against the wall, all gave evidence of the nature of the pursuits
carried on in that unhallowed spot. The brothers, burning with curiosity
as well as filled with awe, approached the tables and looked into the
many vessels lying upon them, shuddering as the crimson contents made
them think of blood.
Gaston put forth his hand cautiously and touched an ebony rod tipped
with crystal that lay beside the largest crucible. As he did so a heavy
groan seemed to arise from the very ground at his feet, and he dropped
the implement with a smothered exclamation of terror. Raymond at the
same moment looking hastily round the dim place, grasped his brother's
arm, and pointed to a dark corner not many paces from them.
"Brother, see there! see there!" he whispered. "Sure there is the boy we
have come to save!"
Gaston looked and made a quick step forward. Sure enough, there upon the
floor, bound hand and foot with leather thongs that had been pulled
cruelly tight, lay the emaciated figure of what had once been a handsome
and healthy boy, but was now little more than a living skeleton. His
face still retained its beauty of outline, though these outlines were
terribly pinched and sharpened, but the expression of abject terror in
the great blue eyes was pitiful to behold, and as Gaston and Raymond
bent over the boy, a shrill cry, as of agony or terror, broke from his
pale lips.
"Who are you?" he gasped. "How have you come? Oh, do not touch me -- do
not hurt me! Go -- go quickly from this evil place, or perchance those
devils will return and capture you as they have captured me, that they
may torture you to death as they are torturing me. Oh, how did you come?
I know the doors are locked and bolted. Are you devils in human guise,
or hapless prisoners like myself? Oh, if you are still free, go -- go
ere they can return! They know that they cannot keep me much longer;
they are thirsting for another victim. Let them not return to find you
here; and plunge your own dagger into your heart sooner than be made a
slave as I have been!"
These words were not all spoken at once, but were gasped out bit by bit
whilst the twin brothers, with wrath and fury in their hearts, cut the
tough thongs that bound the wrists and ankles of the boy, and raised his
head as they poured down his throat the strong cordial that had been
given to them by John, and which was a marvellous restorer of exhausted
nature.
They had food, too, in a wallet, and they made the boy eat before they
told him aught of their mission; and after the first gasping words of
warning and wonder, it seemed as though he obeyed their behests
mechanically, most likely taking it all for part and parcel of some
strange vision.
But as the sorely-needed nourishment and the powerful restorative did
its work upon the boy, he began to understand that this was no vision,
and that something utterly inexplicable had befallen him, whether for
weal or woe his confused senses would not tell him. He heard as in a
dream the hurried explanations of the boys, drawing his brows together
in the effort to understand. But when they spoke of flight he shook his
head, and pointed to the door leading into the house.
"No man may pass out of that," he said, in low despairing tones. "How
you came in I cannot even guess. It is guarded by a fierce hound, who
will tear in pieces any who approaches save his master. There is no way
of escape for me. If you are blessed spirits from the world above, fly
hence the way you came. For me, I must ever remain the slave of him who,
if not the devil himself, is his sworn servant."
"We will go, and that quickly," answered Raymond; "but thou shalt go
with us. We are no spirits, but let us be such to thee for the nonce.
Fear nothing; only trust us and obey us. If thou wilt do both these
things, thou shalt this very night escape for ever from the tyranny of
him whom thou hast served so long in such cruel bondage."
The boy looked at the face bending over him, instinct with courage and a
deep sympathy and brotherly love, and a strange calm and security seemed
to fall upon him. He rose to his feet, though with some difficulty, and
laid his hand in Raymond's.
"I will go with thee to the world's end. Be my master, and break the
hated yoke of that monster of wickedness, and I will serve thee for
ever. Thou art a ministering spirit sent from Heaven. I verily believe
that thou canst free me from this slavery."
"Kneel then and lift thy heart in prayer to the Great God of Heaven and
earth," answered Raymond, a strange sense of power and responsibility
falling upon him at this moment, together with a clearer, purer
perception of divine things than had ever been vouchsafed him before --
"ay, here in this very place, polluted though it may be; for God's
presence is everywhere, and it may be He will give thee, even in this
fearful chamber of abominations, that release of soul which is the right
of each of His human creatures. Kneel, and lift thy heart in prayer. I
too will pray with thee and for thee. He will hear us, for He loves us.
Be not afraid; pray with boldness, pray with love in thine heart. God
alone can loose the bands of the thraldom which binds thee; and He wilt
do it if thou canst trust in Him."
First making the sign of the cross over the kneeling boy, and then
kneeling by his side, Raymond directed his crushed spirit to rise in an
act of devotion and supplication; and the child, believing that most
assuredly a divine messenger had come to deliver him from the hand of
his persecutor, was able to utter his prayer in a spirit of trust and
hope that brought its own immediate answer in a strange calm and confidence.
"Come," said Gaston cautiously; "we must not longer delay. We have a
long night's ride before us, and John will be wondering what detains us
this long while."
Together they supported the feeble steps of the boy, who was passive and
quiet in their hands. He was scarce amazed by the opening of the
mysterious inner door within a vaulted arch, through which he saw from
time to time his captors disappear, but which was ever firmly bolted and
barred upon the outer side. He did not even hang back through dread of
what might befall him if he were again recalled, as on a former
occasion, by the diabolic arts of his master. He was so firmly persuaded
of the supernatural character of these visitors, that he had faith and
strength to let them do with him what they would without comment,
question, or remonstrance.
When they reached the outer air, after having successfully passed the
secret door again, he gave one great gasp of surprise and reeled as if
almost intoxicated by the sweet freshness of the spring night; but the
strong arms of his protectors supported him, and hurrying along through
the woodland tracks already traversed earlier in the evening, they
quickly approached the appointed place just on the outskirts of the
Basildene lands, where John, attended by three trusty serving men,
together with the old woodman, were impatiently awaiting the return of
the twins.
"We have him safe!" cried Gaston, as he bounded on a few paces in
advance; and as the words were spoken there broke from the lips of the
old woodman a strange inarticulate cry.
He sprang forward with a swiftness and agility that seemed impossible in
one so bent and bowed, and the next minute he had clasped his son in his
arms, and was weeping those terrible tears of manhood over the emaciated
form clasped to his breast.
Leaving the father and son for a few moments together, the brothers in
rapid words told their tale to John, who heard it with great
satisfaction. But time was passing, and there was no longer any need for
delay. The journey before them was somewhat rough and tedious, and all
were anxious to put many miles of forest road between themselves and
Basildene ere the dawn should break.
John did not greatly fear pursuit. He did not believe that the old man's
occult powers would enable him to track the fugitive; but he was not
certain of this, and the rest were all of opinion that he both could and
would follow, and that remorselessly, the moment he discovered the loss
of his captive.
Certainly it could do no harm to put all possible distance betwixt the
boy and his master, and the party got to horse with the smallest
possible delay. Once let the boy be placed within the precincts of the
Sanctuary for which he was bound, in the keeping of the holy man of God
whose power was known to be so great, and none feared for the result.
But if the boy should be seized upon the road with one of his fits of
frenzy, no one could tell what the result might be, and so there was no
dissentient voice raised when a quick start and a rapid pace was
suggested by Gaston.
The woodman took his boy in front of him upon the strong animal he
bestrode. Roger was plainly unfit to sit a horse unsupported by a strong
arm, and as they rode through the chill night air a dull lethargy seemed
to fall upon him, and he slept in an uneasy, troubled fashion. Every
moment his father feared to hear him answer an unheard call, feared to
feel him struggle wildly in his encircling arm; but neither of these
things happened. Mile after mile was traversed; the moonlight enabled
the party to push rapidly onward. Mile after mile slipped away; and just
as the first dim rays of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, John, who was
himself by this time looking white and jaded, pointed eagerly towards a
spire rising up against the saffron of the sky to the south.
"That is the spire of St. Michael's church," he cried. "The abode of the
holy men of whom Father Paul is one is nigh at hand. Ride on, good
Gaston, and bid the holy man come forth in the name of the love of the
Blessed Saviour. If we may once put the child in his keeping, the powers
of hell will not prevail to snatch him thence."
Gaston, who was the freshest of the little band, eagerly pressed onward
with his message. His tired horse, seeing signs of habitation, pricked
up his ears, and broke into an eager gallop. The youth quickly
disappeared from the eyes of his companions along the road; but when
they reached the monastery gate they saw that his errand had been
accomplished. A tall monk, holding in his hand a crucifix, advanced to
meet them, with a word of blessing which bared all heads; and advancing
to the side of the woodman's horse, he took the apparently inanimate
form of the boy in his arms, and looking into the wan face, said:
"Peace be with thee, my son. Into the care of Holy Church I receive
thee. Let him who can prevail against the Church of God pluck thee from
that keeping!"
CHAPTER XI. A QUIET RETREAT.
Little did Raymond de Brocas think, as he stepped across the threshold
of that quiet monastic home, that the two next years of his own life
were to be spent beneath that friendly and hospitable roof. And yet so
it was, and to the training and teaching he received during his
residence there he attributed much of the strength of mind and force of
character that distinguished him in days to come.
The small community to which they had brought the persecuted victim of
the sorcerer's evil practices belonged to the order of the Cistercians,
who have been described as the Quakers of their day. At a time when many
of the older orders of monks were falling from their first rigid
simplicity -- falling into those habits of extravagance which in days to
come caused their fall and ultimate suppression -- the Cistercians still
held to their early regime of austere simplicity and plainness of life;
and though no longer absolutely secluding themselves from the sight or
sound of their fellow men, or living in complete solitude, they were
still men of austere life and self-denying habits, and retained the
reputation for sanctity of life that was being lost in other orders,
though men had hardly begun to recognize this fact as yet.
From the first moment that Raymond's eyes fell upon the wonderful face
of Father Paul, his heart was touched by one of those strange
attractions for which it is difficult to account, yet which often form a
turning point in the history of a human life. It was not the venerable
appearance of the holy man alone; it was an indescribable something that
defied analysis, yet drew out all that was best and highest in the
spirit of the youth. But after the first glance at the monk, as he came
forward and received the inanimate form of the woodman's son in his
strong arms, Raymond's attention was differently occupied; for on
looking round at his companions, he saw that John's face was as white as
death, and that he swayed in his saddle as though he would fall.
It then occurred to the boy for the first time that this long and tiring
night's ride was an undertaking for which John was little fit. He had
but recently recovered from a bout of sickness that had left him weak
and fit for little fatigue, and yet the whole night through he had been
riding hard, and had only yielded to exhaustion when the object for
which the journey had been taken had been accomplished.
The kindly monks came out and bore him into their house, and presently
he and the woodman's son lay side by side in the room especially set
apart for the sick, watched over by Father Paul, and assiduously tended
by Raymond, to whom John was by this time greatly attached.
As for Gaston, after a rest extending over two nights and days, he was
despatched to Windsor with the escort who had accompanied them on their
ride hither, to tell John's father what had befallen the travellers, and
how, John's wound having broken out afresh, he purposed to remain for
some time the guest of the holy Fathers.
Thus, for the first time in their lives, were the brothers separated;
for though Gaston had no thought but of speedy return when he set out on
his journey, they saw him no more in that quiet cloistered home, and for
two long years the brothers did not meet again. Truth to tell, the quiet
of a religious retreat had no charm for Gaston, as it had for his
brother, and the stirring doings in the great world held him altogether
in thrall. The King of England was even then engaged in active
preparations for the war with France that did not commence in real
earnest till two years later. But all men believed that the invasion of
the enemy's land was very near. Proclamations of the most warlike nature
were being issued alike by King and Parliament. Edward was again putting
forward his inconsistent and illogical claim to the crown of France.
Men's hearts were aflame for the glory and the stress of war, and Gaston
found himself drawn into the vortex, and could only send an urgent
message to his brother, bidding him quickly come to him at Windsor. He
had been taken amongst the number of the Prince's attendants. He longed
for Raymond to come and share his good fortune.
But Raymond, when that message reached him, had other things to think of
than the clash of arms and the struggle with a foreign foe; and he could
only send back a message to his brother that for the time at least their
paths in life must lie in different worlds. Doubtless the day would come
when they should meet again; but for the present his own work lay here
in this quiet place, and Gaston must win his spurs without his brother
beside him. So Gaston threw himself into the new life with all the zest
of his ardent nature, following sometimes the Prince and sometimes the
King, according as it was demanded of him, making one of those who
followed Edward into Flanders the following year, only to be thwarted of
their object through the most unexpected tragedy of the murder of Van
Artevelde.
Of wars, adventures, and battles we shall have enough in the pages to
follow; so without farther concerning ourselves with the fortunes of
Gaston through these two years of excitement and preparation, we will
rather remain with Raymond, and describe in brief the events which
followed upon his admission within the walls of the Cistercian monks' home.
Of those first weeks within its walls Raymond always retained a vivid
remembrance, and they left upon him a mark that was never afterwards
effaced. He became aware of a new power stirring within him which he had
never hitherto dreamed of possessing.
As has before been said, Roger the woodman's son was carried into the
bare but spotlessly clean room upon the upper floor of the building
which was used for any of the sick of the community, and John was laid
in another of the narrow pallet beds, of which there were four in that
place. All this while Roger lay as if dead, in a trance that might be
one simply of exhaustion, or might be that strange sleep into which the
old sorcerer had for years been accustomed to throw him at will. Leaving
him thus passive and apparently lifeless (save that the heart's action
was distinctly perceptible), Father Paul busied himself over poor John,
who was found to be in pitiable plight; for his wound had opened with
the exertion of the long ride, and he had lost much blood before any one
knew the state he was in. For some short time his case was somewhat
critical, as the bleeding proved obstinate, and was checked with
difficulty; and but for Father Paul's accurate knowledge of surgery
(accurate for the times he lived in, at any rate), he would likely
enough have bled to death even as he lay.
Then whilst the kindly monks were bending over him, and Father Paul's
entire time and attention were given up to the case before him, so that
he dared not leave John's bedside for an instant, Roger suddenly uttered
a wild cry and sprang up in his bed, his lips parted, his eyes wide open
and fixed in a dreadful stare.
"I come! I come!" he cried, in a strange, muffled voice; and with a
rapidity and energy of which no one would have believed him capable who
had seen him lifted from the horse an hour before, he rose and strove to
push aside his father's detaining hand.
The old man uttered a bitter cry, and flung his arms about the boy.
"It has come! it has come! I knew it would. There is no hope, none! He
is theirs, body and soul. He will go back to them, and they will --"
The words were drowned in a wild cry, as the boy struggled so fiercely
that it was plain even the old man's frenzied strength would not suffice
to detain him long. Father Paul and the monk who was assisting him with
John could not move without allowing the bleeding to recommence. But
Raymond was standing by disengaged, and the keen eyes of the Father
fixed themselves upon his face. He had heard a brief sketch of the
rescue of Roger as the boy had been undressed and laid in the bed, and
now he said, in accents of quiet command,
"Take the crucifix that hangs at my girdle, and lay it upon his brow.
Bid him lie down once again -- adjure him in the name of the Holy Jesus.
It is not earthly force that will prevail here. We may save him but by
the Name that is above every name. Go!"
Again over Raymond's senses there stole that sense of mystic unreality,
or to speak more truly, the sense of the reality of the unseen over the
seen things about and around us that men call mysticism, but which may
be something widely different; and with it came that quickening of the
faculties that he had experienced before as he had knelt in the
sorcerer's unhallowed hall, the same sense of fearlessness and power. He
took the crucifix without a word, and went straight to the frenzied boy,
struggling wildly against the detaining clasp of his father's arms.
"Let him go," he said briefly; and there was that in the tone that
caused the astonished old man to loose his hold, and stand gazing in awe
and amaze at the youthful face, kindling with its strange look of
resolve and authoritative power.
It seemed as though the possessed boy felt the power himself; for though
his open eyes took in no answering impression from the scenes around
him, his arms fell suddenly to his side. The struggles ceased, he made
no attempt to move; whilst Raymond laid the crucifix against his brow,
and said in a low voice:
"In the Name of the Holy Son of God, in the Name of the Blessed Jesus, I
forbid you to go. Awake from that unhallowed sleep! Call upon the Name
of all names. He will hear you -- He will save you."
His eyes were fixed upon the trembling boy; his face was shining with
the light of his own implicit faith; his strong will braced itself to
the fulfilment of the task set him to do. Confident that what the Father
bid him accomplish, that he could and must fulfil, Raymond did indeed
resemble some pictured saint on painted window, engaged in conflict with
the Evil One; and when with a sudden start and cry the boy woke suddenly
to the sense of passing things, perhaps it was small wonder that he sank
at Raymond's feet, clasping him round the knees and sobbing wildly his
broken and incoherent words:
"O blessed Saint George -- blessed and glorious victor! thou hast come
to me a second time to strengthen and to save. Ah, leave me not! To thee
I give myself; help, O help me to escape out of this snare, which is
more cruel than that of death itself! I will serve thee ever, blessed
saint. I will be thine in life and death! Only fight my battle with the
devil and his host, and take me for thine own for ever and ever."
Raymond kindly lifted him up, and laid him upon the bed again.
"I am no saint," he said, a little shamefacedly; "I am but a youth like
thyself. Thou must not pray to me. But I will help thee all I may, and
perchance some day, when this yoke be broken from off thy neck, we will
ride forth into the world together, and do some service there for those
who are yet oppressed and in darkness."
"I will follow thee to the world's end, be thou who thou mayest!"
exclaimed the boy ecstatically, clasping his thin hands together, whilst
a look of infinite peace came into his weary eyes. "If thou wouldest
watch beside my bed, then might I sleep in peace. He will not dare to
come nigh me; his messengers must stand afar off, fearing to approach
when they see by whom I am guarded."
It was plainly useless to try to disabuse Roger of the impression that
his visitor was other than a supernatural one, and Raymond saw that with
the boy's mind so enfeebled and unhinged he had better let him think
what he would. He simply held the crucifix over him once again, and
said, with a calm authority that surprised even himself:
"Trust not in me, nor in any Saint however holy. In the Name of the
Blessed Jesus alone put thy faith. Speak the prayer His lips have
taught, and then sleep, and fear nothing."
With hands locked together, and a wonderful look of rest upon his face,
Roger repeated after Raymond the long-unused Paternoster which he had
never dared to speak beneath the unhallowed roof of his master at
Basildene. With the old sense of restful confidence in prayer came at
once the old untroubled sleep of the little child; and when Raymond at
last looked up from his own devotions at the bedside, it was to see that
Roger had fallen into the tranquil slumber that is the truest restorer
of health, and that Father Paul was standing on the opposite side of the
bed, regarding him with a very gentle yet a very penetrating and
authoritative gaze. He bent his head once more as if to demand a
blessing, and the Father laid a hand upon his head, and said, in grave,
full tones:
"Peace be with thee, my son."
That was all. There was no comment upon what had passed; and after
partaking of a simple meal, Raymond was advised to retire to rest
himself after his long night's ride, and glad enough was he of the sleep
that speedily came to him.
All the next day he was occupied with Gaston, who had many charges to
undertake for John; and only when his brother had gone was he free to
take up his place at John's bedside, and be once again his nurse,
companion, and fellow student.
Roger still occupied the bed in the same room where he had first been
laid. A low fever of a nature little understood had fastened upon him,
and he still fell frequently into those strange unnatural trances which
were looked upon by the brothers of the order as due to purely satanic
agency. What Father Paul thought about them none ever knew, and none
dared to ask.
Father Paul was a man who had lived in the world till past the meridian
of life. He was reported to have travelled much, to have seen many lands
and many things, and to have been in his youth a reckless and evil
liver. Some even believed him to have committed some great crime; but
none rightly knew his history, and his present sanctity and power and
holiness were never doubted. A single look into that stern, worn,
powerful face, with the coal-black eyes gleaming in their deep sockets,
was enough to convince the onlooker that the man was intensely, even
terribly in earnest. His was the leading spirit in that small and
austere community, and he began at once to exercise a strong influence
upon each of the three youths so unexpectedly thrown across his path.
This influence was the greatest at first over Raymond, in whom he
appeared to take an almost paternal interest; and the strange warfare
that they waged together over the mental malady of the unhappy Roger
drew them still closer together.
Certainly for many long weeks it seemed as though the boy were labouring
under some demoniacal possession, and Raymond fully believed that such
was indeed the case. Often it seemed as though no power could restrain
him from at least the attempt to return to the tyrant whom he believed
to be summoning him back. Possibly much of the strange malady from which
he was suffering might be due to physical causes -- overstrained nerves,
and even an unconscious and morbid craving after that very hypnotic
condition (as it would now be termed) which had really reduced him to
his present pitiable state; but to Raymond it appeared to proceed
entirely from some spiritual possession, and in helping the unhappy boy
to resist and conquer the voice of the tempter, his own faith and
strength of spirit were marvellously strengthened; whilst Roger
continued to regard him in the light of a guardian angel, and followed
him about like a veritable shadow.
Father Paul watched the two youths with a keen and observant interest.
It was by his command that Raymond was always summoned or roused from
sleep whenever the access of nervous terror fell upon Roger and he
strove to obey the summoning voice. He would watch with quiet intensity
the struggle between the wills of the two lads, and mark, with a faint
smile upon his thin lips, the triumph invariably attained by Raymond,
and his growing and increasing faith in the power of the Name he invoked
in his aid. Seldom indeed had he himself to come to the aid of the boy.
He never did so unless Roger's paroxysm lasted long enough to try
Raymond's strength to the verge of exhaustion, and this was very seldom.
The calm smile in the Father's eyes, and his quiet words of
commendation, "Well done, my son!" were reward sufficient for Raymond
even when his strength had been most severely tasked; and as little by
little he and his charge came to know the monk better, and to receive
from him from time to time words of teaching, admonition, or
encouragement, they found themselves growing more and more dominated by
his strong will and personality, more eager day by day to please him,
more anxious to win the rare smile that occasionally flashed across the
austere face and illuminated it like a gleam of sunshine.
John felt almost the same sense of fascination as Raymond, and was by no
means impatient of the tardy convalescence that kept him so long a
prisoner beneath the walls of the small religious house. He would indeed
have fain tarried longer yet, but that his father sent a retinue of
servants at length to bring him home again.
But Raymond did not go with him. His work for Roger was not yet done,
and warmly attached as he was to John, his heart was still more centred
upon Father Paul. Besides, no mention was made of him in the letter that
accompanied the summons home. His brother was he knew not where, and his
duty lay with Roger, who looked to him as to a saviour and protector.
There was no thought of Roger's leaving the retreat he had found in his
hour of need. He scarce dared put foot outside the quiet cloistered
quadrangle behind whose gates and walls he alone felt safe. Besides, his
father lay slowly dying in the hospital hard by. It seemed as though the
very joy of having his son restored to him had been too much for his
enfeebled frame after the long strain of grief that had gone before. The
process of decay might be slow, but it was sure, and all knew that the
old man would ere long die. He had no desire for life, if only his boy
were safe; and to Raymond he presented a pathetic petition that he would
guard and cherish him, and save him from that terrible possession which
had well-nigh been his ruin body and soul.
To Raymond it seemed indeed as if this soul had been given him, and he
passed his word with a solemnity that brought great comfort to the dying
man.
An incident which had occurred shortly before had added to Raymond's
sense of responsibility with regard to Roger, and had shown him likewise
that a new peril menaced his own path in life, though of personal danger
the courageous boy thought little.
One day, some six weeks after his admission to the Monastery, and
shortly before John's departure thence, Roger had been strangely uneasy
and depressed for many hours. It was no return of the trance-like state
in which he was not master of his own words and actions. Those attacks
had almost ceased, and he had been rapidly gaining in strength in
consequence. This depression and restless uneasiness was something new
and strange. Raymond did not know what it might forebode, but he tried
to dissipate it by cheerful talk, and Roger did his best to fight
against it, though without much success.
"Some evil presence is near!" he exclaimed suddenly; "I know it -- I
feel it! I ever felt this sick shuddering when those wicked men
approached me. Methinks that one of them must even now be nigh at hand.
Can they take me hence? Do I indeed belong to them? O save me -- help
me! Give me not up to their power!"
His agitation became so violent, that it was a relief to Raymond that
Father Paul at this moment appeared; and as this phase in Roger's state
was something new, and did not partake of the nature of any spiritual
possession, he dismissed Raymond with a smile, bidding him go out for
one of the brief wanderings in the woods that were at once pleasant and
necessary for him, whilst he himself remained beside Roger, soothing his
nameless terrors and assuring him that no power in the land, not even
that of the King himself, would be strong enough to force from the
keeping of the Church any person who had sought Sanctuary beneath her
shadow.
Meantime Raymond went forth, as he was wont to do, into the beech wood
that lay behind the home of the monks. It was a very beautiful place at
all times; never more so than when the first tender green of coming
summer was clothing the giant trees, and the primroses and wood sorrel
were carpeting the ground, which was yet brown with the fallen leaves of
the past autumn. The slanting sunbeams were quivering through the
gnarled tree trunks, and the birds were singing rapturously overhead, as
Raymond bent his steps along the trodden path which led to the nearest
village; but he suddenly stopped short with a start of surprise on
encountering the intent gaze of a pair of fierce black eyes, and finding
himself face to face with a stranger he had never seen in his life before.
Never seen? No; and yet he knew the man perfectly, and felt that he
changed colour as he stood gazing upon the handsome malevolent face that
was singularly repulsive despite its regular features and bold beauty.
In a moment he recollected where he had seen those very lineaments
portrayed with vivid accuracy, even to the sinister smile and the gleam
in the coal-black eyes.
Roger possessed a gift of face drawing that would in these days make the
fortune of any portrait painter. He had many times drawn with a piece of
rough charcoal pictures of the monks as he saw them in the refectory,
the refined and hollow face of John, and the keen and powerful
countenance of Father Paul. So had he also portrayed for Raymond the
features of the two Sanghursts, father and son. The youth knew perfectly
the faces of both; and as he stopped short, gazing at this stranger with
wide-open eyes, he knew in a moment that Roger's malevolent foe was nigh
at hand, and that the sensitive and morbidly acute faculties of the boy
had warned him of the fact, when he could by no possibility have known
it by any other means.
Sanghurst stood looking intently at this bright-faced boy, a smile on
his lips, a frown in his eyes.
"Methinks thou comest from the Monastery hard by?" he questioned
smoothly. "Canst tell me if there be shelter there for a weary traveller
this night?"
"For a poor and weary traveller perchance there might be," answered the
boy, with a gleam in his eye not lost upon his interlocutor; "but it is
no house of entertainment for the rich and prosperous. Those are sent
onwards to the Benedictine Brothers, some two miles south from this.
Father Paul opens not his gates save to the sick, the sorrowful, the
needy. Shall I put you in the way of the other house, Sir? Methinks it
would suit you better than any place which calls Father Paul its head."
The gaze bent upon the boy was searching and distinctly hostile. As the
dialogue proceeded, the look of malevolence gradually deepened upon the
face of the stranger, till it might have made a timid heart quail.
"How then came John de Brocas to tarry there so long? For aught I know
he may be there yet. By what right is he a guest beneath this so
hospitable roof?"
"He was sick nigh to the death when he craved admittance," answered
Raymond briefly. "He --"
"He had aided and abetted the flight from his true masters of a servant
boy bound over to them lawfully and fast. If he thinks to deceive Peter
Sanghurst or if you do either, boy that you are, though with the
hardihood of a man and the recklessness of a fool -- you little know
with whom you have to deal. It was you -- you who broke into our house
-- I know not how, but some day I shall know -- and stole away with one
you fondly hope to hold against my power. Boy, I warn you fairly: none
ever makes of Peter Sanghurst an enemy but he bitterly, bitterly rues
the day. I give you one chance of averting the doom which else will fall
upon you. Give back the boy. Lure him out hither some day when I am
waiting to seize him. Place him once again in my hands, and your rash
act shall be forgiven. You have the power to do this. Be advised, and
accept my terms. The Sanghursts never forgive. Refuse, and the day will
come when you will so long to have done my bidding now, that you would
even sell your soul to undo the deed which has brought my enmity upon
you. Now choose. Will you deliver up the boy, or --"
"Never!" answered Raymond, with flashing eyes, not even waiting to hear
the alternative. "I fear you not. I know you, and I defy you. I will
this moment to Father Paul, to warn him of your approach. The gates will
be closed, and you will be denied all entrance. You may strive as you
will, but your victim has taken Sanctuary, and not all the powers of the
world or the devil you serve can prevail against the walls of that haven
of refuge. Go back whence you came, or stay and do your worst. We fear
you not. The Holy Saints and the Blessed Jesus are our protectors and
defenders. You have tried in vain your foul spells. You have seen what
their power is against that which is from above. Go, and repent your
evil ways ere it be too late. You threaten me with your vengeance; have
you ever thought of that vengeance of God which awaits those who defy
His laws and invoke the powers of darkness? My trust is in Him;
wherefore I fear you not. Do then your worst. Magnify yourself as you
will. Your fate will be like that of the blaspheming giant of Gath who
defied the power of the living God and fell before the sling and the
stone of the shepherd boy."
And without waiting to hear the answer which was hurled at him with all
the fury of an execration, Raymond turned and sped back to the
Monastery, not in any physical fear of the present vengeance of his foe,
but anxious to warn the keeper of the gate of the close proximity of one
who was so deadly a foe to Father Paul's protege.
Not a word of this adventure ever reached Roger's ears, and indeed
Raymond thought little of it after the next few weeks had passed without
farther molestation from the foe. The old woodman died. Roger, though
sincerely mourning his father, was too happy in returning health and
strength to be over-much cast down. His mind and body were alike growing
stronger. He was never permitted to speak of the past, nor of the
abominations of his prison house. Father Paul had from the first bidden
the boy to forget, or at least to strive to forget, all that had passed
there, and never let his thoughts or his words dwell upon it. Raymond,
despite an occasional access of boyish curiosity, ever kept this warning
in mind, and never sought to discover what Roger had done or had
suffered beneath the roof of Basildene. And so soon as the boy had
recovered some measure of health, both he and Raymond were regularly
instructed by Father Paul in such branches of learning as were likely to
be of most service to them in days to come.
Whether or not he hoped that they would embrace the religious life they
never knew. He never dropped a hint as to his desires on that point, and
they never asked him. They were happy in their quiet home. All the
brothers were kind to them, and the Father was an object of loving
veneration which bordered on adoration.
Two years slipped thus away so fast that it seemed scarce possible to
believe how time had fled by. Save that they had grown much both in body
and mind, the boys would have thought it had been months, not years,
they had spent in that peaceful retreat.
The break to that quiet life came with a mission which was entrusted by
His Holiness himself to Father Paul, and which involved a journey to
Rome. With the thought of travel there came to Raymond's mind a longing
after his own home and the familiar faces of his childhood. The Father
was going to take the route across the sea to Bordeaux, for he had a
mission to fulfil there first. Why might not he go with him and see his
foster-mother and Father Anselm again? He spoke his wish timidly, but it
was kindly and favourably heard; and before the spring green had begun
to clothe the trees, Father Paul, together with Raymond and his shadow
Roger, had set foot once more upon the soil of France.
CHAPTER XII. ON THE WAR PATH
"Raymond! Is it -- can it be thou?"
"Gaston! I should scarce have known thee!"
The twin brothers stood facing one another within the walls of Caen,
grasping each other warmly by the hand, their eyes shining with delight
as they looked each other well over from head to foot, a vivid happiness
beaming over each handsome face. It was more than two years since they
had parted -- parted in the quiet cloister of the Cistercian
Brotherhood; now they met again amid scenes of plunder and rapine: for
the English King had just discovered, within the archives of the city
his sword had taken, a treaty drawn up many years before, agreeing that
its inhabitants should join with the King of France for the invasion of
England; and in his rage at the discovery, he had given over the town to
plunder, and would even have had the inhabitants massacred in cold
blood, had not Geoffrey of Harcourt restrained his fury by wise and
merciful counsel. But the order for universal pillage was not recalled,
and the soldiers were freebooting to their hearts' content all over the
ill-fated city.
Raymond had seen sights and had heard sounds as he had pressed through
those streets that day in search of his brother that had wrung his soul
with indignation and wonder. Where was the vaunted chivalry of its
greatest champion, if such scenes could be enacted almost under his very
eyes? Were they not true, those lessons Father Paul had slowly and
quietly instilled into his mind, that not chivalry, but a true and
living Christianity, could alone withhold the natural man from deeds of
cruelty and rapacity when the hot blood was stirred by the fierce
exultation of battle and victory, and the lust of conquest had gained
the mastery over his spirit?
The hot July sun was beating down upon the great square where were
situated those buildings of which the King and the Prince and their
immediate followers had taken temporary possession. The brothers stood
together beneath the shadow of a lofty wall. Cries and shouts from the
surrounding streets told tales of the work being done there; but that
work had carried off almost all the soldiers, and the twins were
virtually alone in the place, save for the tall and slight youth who
stood a few paces off, and was plainly acting in the capacity of
Raymond's servant.
"I thought I should find thee here, Gaston," said his brother, with fond
affection in his tones. "I knew that thou wouldst be with the King at
such a time; and when I entered within the walls of this city, I said in
my heart that my Gaston would have no hand in such scenes as those I was
forced to witness as I passed along."
Gaston's brow darkened slightly, but he strove to laugh it off.
"Nay, thou must not fall foul of our great and mighty King for what thou
hast seen today. In truth I like it not myself; but what would you? The
men were furious when they heard of yon treaty; and the King's fierce
anger was greatly kindled. The order went forth, and when pillage once
begins no man may tell where it will end. War is a glorious pastime, but
there must ever be drawbacks. Sure thine own philosophy has taught thee
that much since thou hast turned to a man of letters. But tell me of
thyself, Raymond. I am hungry for news. For myself, thou mayest guess
what has been my life, an thou knowest how these past two years have
been spent -- wars and rumours of wars, fruitless negotiations, and
journeys and marches for little gain. I am glad enough that we have
shaken hands with peace and bid her adieu for a while. She can be a
false and treacherous friend, and well pleased am I that the bloody
banner of true warfare is unfurled at last. England is athirst for some
great victory, for some gallant feat of arms which shall reward her for
the burdens she has to pay to support our good soldiers. For his
people's sake, as well as for his own honour, the King must strike some
great blow ere he returns home and we who follow the Prince have sworn
to follow him to the death and win our spurs at his side.
"Brother, say that thou wilt join our ranks. Thou hast not forgotten our
old dreams? Thou hast not turned monk or friar?"
"Nay, or I should not now be here," answered Raymond. "No, Gaston, I
have forgotten naught of the old dream; and I too have seen fighting in
the south, where the King of France has mustered his greatest strength.
For we believed the Roy Outremer would land at Bordeaux and march to the
help of my Lord Derby, who is waging war against the Count of Lille
Jourdaine and the Duke of Bourbon in and around Gascony. And, Gaston,
the Sieur de Navailles has joined the French side, and is fighting in
the van of the foe. He has long played a double game, watching and
waiting till victory seems secure for either one King or the other. Now,
having seen the huge force mustered by the King of France in the south,
he seems to have resolved that the victory must remain with him, and has
cast in his lot against the English cause. So, Brother, if the great
Edward wins his battles, and drives from his own fair territories the
invading hosts of France, it may be that the Sieur do Navailles may be
deprived of his ill-gotten lands and castles; and then, if thou hast won
thy spurs --"
Raymond paused, and Gaston's eyes flashed at the thought. But he had
learned, even in these two years, something of the lesson of patience,
and was now less confident of winning fame and fortune at one stroke
than he had been when he had made his first step along the path that he
believed would lead him by leaps and bounds to the desired haven.
"Then thou hast been there? Hast thou seen the old places -- the old
faces? Truly I have longed to visit Sauveterre once more; but all our
plans are changed, and now men speak of naught but pressing on for
Calais. Where hast thou come from?"
"From the old home, Gaston, where for three months I and Roger have
been. What! dost thou not know Roger again? In truth, he looks vastly
different from what he did when thou sawest him last. We are brothers in
arms now, albeit he likes to call himself my servant. We have never been
parted since the day we snatched him from that evil place within the
walls of Basildene. We have been in safe shelter at the mill. Honest
Jean and Margot had the warmest welcome for us, and Father Anselm gave
us holy words of welcome. Everything there is as when we left. Scarce
could I believe that nigh upon three years will soon have fled since we
quitted its safe shelter. But I could not stay without thee, Brother. I
have greatly longed to look upon thy face again. I knew that thou wert
with the King, and I looked that this meeting should have been at
Bordeaux. But when news was brought that the English ships had changed
their course and were to land their soldiers in the north, I could tarry
no longer, and we have ridden hard through the land northward to find
thee here. Tell me, why this sudden change of plan? Surely the King will
not let his fair province of Gascony be wrested from his hand without
striking a blow in its defence in person?"
Gaston laughed a proud, confident laugh.
"Thou needst scarce ask such a question, Raymond; little canst thou know
the temper of our King an thou thinkest for a moment such a thing as
that. But methinks we may strike a harder blow here in the north against
the treacherous French monarch than ever we could in the south, where
his preparations are made to receive us. Here no man is ready. We march
unopposed on a victorious career. The army is far away in the south; the
King has but a small force with him in Paris. Brave Geoffrey of
Harcourt, by whose advice we have turned our course and landed here at
La Hague, has counselled us to march upon Calais and gain possession of
that pirate city. With the very key of France in our hands, what may not
England accomplish? Wherefore our march is to be upon Calais, and
methinks there will be glory and honour to be won ore this campaign closes!"
And, indeed, for a brief space it did seem as though King Edward's
progress was to be one of unchecked victory; for he had already routed
the French King's Constable, sent to try to save Caen; had taken and
pillaged that city, and had marched unopposed through Carbon, Lisieux,
and Louviers to Rouen, leaving terrible devastation behind, as the
soldiers seized upon everything in the way of food from the hapless
inhabitants, though not repeating the scenes which had disgraced the
English colours at Caen.
But at Rouen came the first of those checks which in time became so
vexatious and even perilous to the English army. The French, in great
alarm, had realized that something must be done to check Edward's
victorious career; and as it was plain that if he turned his steps
northward there would be no chance of opposing him, their aim and object
was to pen him as far in the south as possible, so that the army in
Gascony, perhaps, or failing that the new one mustering rapidly round
the King in Paris, might close in upon the alien army and cut them to
pieces by sheer force of numbers, before they could reach the coast and
their ships. So Philip, recovering from his first panic, sent orders
that all the bridges between Rouen and Paris should be broken down; and
when Edward reached the former city, intending to cross there to the
north side of the Seine, he found only the broken piers and arches of
the bridge left standing, and the wide, turbid waters of the great river
barring his further progress.
Irritated and annoyed, but not really alarmed as yet, the English King
turned his steps eastward toward Paris, still resolved to cross by the
first bridge found standing. But each in turn had been broken down; and
the only retaliation he could inflict upon the people who were thwarting
and striving to entangle him in a net, was to burn the towns through
which he passed; Pont de l'Arche, Vernon, and Verneuil, until he arrived
at last at Poissy, only a few miles from Paris, to find the bridge there
likewise broken down, whilst messengers kept arriving from all sides
warning him that a far mightier host was gathering around Philip than he
had with him, and advising instant retreat along the course by which he
had come.
But Edward well knew that retreat was impossible. He had so exhausted
the country and exasperated its inhabitants by his recent march and its
attendant ravages, that it would be impossible to find food for his
soldiers there again, even if the people did not rise up in arms against
them. Rather would he face the French foe, however superior to his own
force, in open fight, than turn his back upon them in so cowardly a fashion.
Meantime, as Philip did not move, he set to work with his soldiers to
repair the bridge, sending out detachments of his army to harass and
alarm the inhabitants of Paris, ravaging the country up and down, and
burning St. Germain, St. Cloud, and Montjoie.
These expeditions, so perilous and so singularly successful, were just
of the kind to delight the eager spirits of the camp, and keep
enthusiasm up to a high pitch. Why Philip suffered these ravages, when
his army already far outnumbered that of the English, and why the French
permitted their foes to repair and cross the bridge at Poissy without
stirring a finger to hinder them, are questions more easily asked than
answered. Possibly the knowledge that the Somme still lay between their
enemies and the sea, and that the same difficulties with regard to the
bridges was to be found there, kept the French army secure still of
final victory. Possibly they thought that, hemmed in between the two
great rivers, the army of Edward would be so well caught in a trap that
they need not bestir themselves to consummate the final scene of the
drama. At any rate, Philip remained inactive, save that his army was
rapidly augmenting from all sides; whilst the English finished their
bridge and marched northward, only opposed by a large body of troops
sent out from Amiens to meet them, over which they obtained an easy victory.
Nevertheless the position of the English was becoming exceedingly
critical, and their march certainly partook something of the nature of a
retreat, little as they themselves appeared to be aware of the fact.
Philip with his host was advancing from behind, the great river Somme
lay before them, all its bridges either broken down or so well fortified
as to be practically impassable; and though their allies in Flanders had
raised the siege of Bovines in order to march to the assistance of the
English King, there appeared small chance of their effecting a junction
in time to be of any use.
At Airaines a pause was made in order to try to discover some bridge or
ford by which the river might be passed. But Philip's work had been so
well done that not a whole bridge could anywhere be found; and the
French army was pressing so hard upon the English that in the end they
had to break up their camp in the greatest haste, leaving their cooked
provisions and tables ready spread for their foes to benefit by. They
themselves hastened on to Abbeville, keeping slightly to the west of the
town so as to avoid provoking attack, and be nearer to the coast, though
as no English ships could be looked for in the river's mouth, the
seacoast was of small service to them.
Such is the brief outline of the facts of Edward's well-known march in
this campaign, destined to become so famous. The individual action of
our Gascon twins must now be told in greater detail.
Their reunion after so long a separation had been a source of keen
delight to both the brothers. Each had developed in a different
direction, and instead of being shadows the one of the other as in old
days, they were now drawn together by the force of contrast. Gaston was
above all else a soldier, with a soldier's high spirit, love of
adventure, and almost reckless courage. He fairly worshipped the King
and the Prince, and was high in favour with the youthful Edward, whose
first campaign this was. Raymond, whilst imbued with the same high
courage, though of a loftier kind, in that it was as much spiritual as
physical, and with much of the chivalrous love of adventure so common to
the gallant youths of that age, was far more thoughtful, well
instructed, and far-seeing than his brother. He looked to the larger
issues of life. He was not carried away by wild enthusiasm. He could
love, and yet see faults. He could throw in his lot with a cause, and
ardently strive for the victory, and yet know all the while that there
were flaws in that same cause, and admit with sorrow, yet firm
truthfulness, that in this world no cause is ever altogether pure,
altogether just. He was not of the stuff of which hot partisans are
made. He had a spirit in advance of his times, and the chances were that
he would never rise to the same measure of success as his brother. For
those who try to keep a stainless name in times of strife, bloodshed,
and hostile jealousy, seldom escape without making bitter enemies, and
suffer the penalty that will ever attend upon those who strive after a
higher ideal than is accepted by the world at large.
But if growing apart in character, the bond of warm love was but drawn
closer by the sense that each possessed gifts denied to the other.
Raymond found in Gaston the most charming and enlivening comrade and
friend. Gaston began unconsciously to look up to his brother, and to
feel that in him was a power possessed by few of those by whom he was
surrounded, and to which he could turn for counsel and help if ever the
time should come when he felt the need of either.
In Raymond's presence others as well as Gaston began to curb some of
that bold freedom of speech which has always characterized the stormy
career of the soldier. Those who so curbed themselves scarce knew why
they did so. It was seldom that Raymond spoke any word of rebuke or
admonition, and if he did it was only to some youth younger than
himself. But there was something in the direct grave look of his eyes,
and in the pure steadfastness of his expression, which gave to his
aspect a touch of saintliness quickly felt by those about him. For in
those days men, in spite of many and great faults, were not ashamed of
their religion. Much superstition might be mingled with their beliefs,
corruption and impurity were creeping within the fold of the Church,
darkness and ignorance prevailed to an extent which it is hard in these
times to realize; yet with all this against them, men were deeply and
truly loyal to their faith. It had not entered into their minds that a
deep and firm faith in God was a thing of which to be ashamed; that to
trust in special providence was childish folly; to receive absolution
upon the eve of some great and perilous undertaking a mere empty form,
or a device of cunning priestcraft. It has been the work of a more
"enlightened" age to discover all this. In olden times -- those despised
days of worn-out superstition -- men yet believed fully and faithfully
in their God, and in His beneficent care of His children. Raymond, then,
with his saint-like face and his reputation of piety, together with the
story of his residence beneath the care of Father Paul, quickly obtained
a certain reputation of his own that made him something of a power; and
Gaston felt proud to go about with his brother at his side, and hear the
comments passed upon that brother by the comrades he had made in the
past years.
During the exciting march through the hostile country Gaston and Raymond
had known much more of the feeling of the people than their comrades.
The French tongue was familiar to them, and though they did not speak it
as readily as English or their Gascon dialect, they had always known it
from childhood, and never had any difficulty in making themselves
understood. Despite their English sympathies and their loyalty to
England's King, they felt much natural compassion for the harried and
distracted victims of Edward's hostile march; and many little acts of
protective kindness had been shown by both the brothers (generally at
Raymond's instigation) towards some feeble or miserable person who might
otherwise have been left in absolute destitution. These small acts of
kindness won them goodwill wherever they went, and also assisted them to
understand the words and ways of the people as they would scarcely have
done without.
Then, as in all countries and all times the old proverb holds good that
one good turn deserves another, they picked up here and there several
valuable hints, and none more valuable than the knowledge that somewhere
below Abbeville, between that town and the sea, was a tidal ford that
could be crossed twice in the twelve hours by those who knew where to
seek it. Thus whilst the King's Marshals were riding up and down the
river banks, vainly seeking some bridge over which the hard-pressed army
could pass, the twin brothers carefully pursued their way down the
stream, looking everywhere for the white stone bottom which they had
been told marked the spot where the water was fordable.
But the tide was rolling in deep and strong, and they could see nothing.
Still cautiously pursuing their way -- cautiously because upon the
opposite bank of the river they saw a large gathering of archers and
footmen all belonging to the enemy -- they lighted presently upon a
peasant varlet cutting willow wands not far from the river's brink. The
boys entered into talk with him, and Raymond's kindly questioning soon
elicited the information that the man's name was Gobin Agace, that he
was a poor man with little hope of being anything else all his days, and
that he knew the river as well as any man in the realm.
"Then," said Raymond, "thou needest be poor no longer; for if thou wilt
come with us to the camp of the English King a short league away, and
lead him and his army to the ford of the Blanche Tache which lies not
far from here, he will make thee rich for life, and thou wilt be
prosperous all thy days."
"If the King of France do not follow and cut off my head," said the man
doubtfully, though his eyes glistened at the prospect of such easily-won
wealth.
"By holy St. Anthony, thou needst not fear that!" cried Gaston. "Our
great King can protect thee and keep thee from all harm. See here, good
knave: it will be far better for thee to win this great reward than for
us, who have no such dire need of the King's gold. If thou wilt not aid
us, we must e'en find the place ourselves; but as time presses we will
gladly lead thee to the King, and let him reward thee for thy good
service. So answer speedily yea or nay, for we may not linger longer
whilst thou debatest the matter in that slow mind of thine."
"Then I will e'en go with you, fair sirs," answered the fellow, who was
in no mind to let the reward slip through his fingers; and within an
hour Gaston and Raymond led before the King the peasant varlet who held
the key of the position in his hands.
Every hour was bringing fresh messages of warning. The French King was
in pursuit of his flying foe (as he chose to consider him), and though
he felt so certain of having him in a trap that he did not hasten as he
might have done, there was no knowing when the van of the French army
would be upon them; and the moment that the King heard of this ford, and
was assured by the peasant that at certain states of the tide twelve men
abreast could ford it, the water reaching only to the knee, he broke up
his camp at an hour's notice, and with Gobin Agace at his side proceeded
in person to the water's edge, the flower of his army crowding to the
spot beside him, whilst the mass of his troops formed in rank behind,
ready to press forward the moment the water should be fordable.
Night had fallen before the trumpets had sounded, warning the soldiers
of the breaking up of the camp. All night long they had been working,
and then marching to the fordable spot: but now the tide was rolling in
again; and worse than that, the English saw upon the opposite shore a
compact band of twelve hundred men -- Genoese archers and picked cavalry
-- posted there by the now vigilant Philip, ready to oppose their
passage if they should chance upon the ford.
"Knights and gentlemen," said the King, as he sat his fine charger and
looked round upon the gallant muster around him, "shall we be daunted by
the opposing foe? They are but a handful, and we know the coward temper
of yon Italian crossbowmen. Who will be the first to lead the charge,
and ride on to victory?"
A hundred eager voices shouted a reply. The enthusiasm spread from rank
to rank. Foremost of those beside the water's edge stood Oliver and
Bernard de Brocas; and when at last the ebb came, and the word was given
to advance, they were amongst the first who dashed into the shallow
water, whilst Gaston and his brother, though unable to press into the
foremost rank, were not far behind.
Thick and fast fell round them the bolts of the crossbows; but far
thicker and more deadly were the long shafts of the English archers,
which discomfited the foreign banners and sent them flying hither and
thither. In vain did their brave leader, Godemar de Fay, strive to rally
them and dispute the passage of the main body of the army, even when the
horsemen had passed across. Edward's splendid cavalry rode hither and
thither, charging again and again into the wavering band. Quickly the
Genoese hirelings flung away their bows and ran for their lives; whilst
the English army, with shouts of triumph, steadily advanced across the
ford in the first quivering light of the dawning day, and looked back to
see the banners of Philip of France advancing upon them, whilst a few
stragglers and some horses were actually seized by the soldiers of that
monarch.
"Now God and St. George be praised!" cried Edward, as he watched the
approach of the foe, who had so nearly trapped him upon ground which
would have given every advantage to the French and none to his own army.
"Methinks had our good brother but pressed on a day's march faster, it
would have gone hard with us to save the honour of England. Now I stand
on mine own ground. Now will I fight at my ease. There is bread for my
soldiers. They shall rest ere they be called upon to fight. Let Philip
do his worst! We will be ready with an English welcome when he comes.
Let his host outnumber ours by three to one, as men say it does, shall
we be afraid to meet him in fair field, and show him what English
chivalry may accomplish?"
A tumultuous cheer was answer enough. The whole of the English army now
stood upon the north bank of the Somme, watching, with shouts of triumph
and gestures of defiance, the futile efforts of the French to plunge
over the ford. The tide was again flowing. The water was deep and rapid.
In a moment they knew themselves to be too late, and a few well-aimed
shafts from English longbows showed them how futile was now any effort
in pursuit of the foe who had eluded them.
Sullenly and with many menacing gestures, that were replied to by shouts
of derisive laughter from the English soldiers, the French army turned
hack towards Abbeville, where they could cross the river at their
leisure by the bridge which had been strongly fortified against Edward.
Careless confidence had lost Philip the advantage he might have gained
through clever generalship; he was now to see what he could do by force
of arms when he and Edward should stand face to face in their opposing
hosts in the open field of battle.
CHAPTER XIII. WINNING HIS SPURS.
"Tomorrow, good comrades in arms, we will show yon laggard King of what
stuff English chivalry is made!" cried the young Prince of Wales, as he
rose to his feet and held a bumper of wine high above his head. "We have
our spurs to win, and tomorrow shall be our chance. Here is to the
victory of the English arms! May the mighty St. George fight upon our
side, and bring us with glory and honour through the day!"
Every guest at the Prince's table had leaped to his feet. Swords were
unsheathed and waved in wild enthusiasm, and a shout went up that was
like one of triumph, as with one voice the guests around the Prince's
table drained their cups to the victory of the English cause, shouting
with one voice, as if formulating a battle cry:
"St. George and the Prince! St. George and the Prince!"
In the English camp that night there were elation and revelry; not the
wild carousing that too often in those days preceded a battle and left
the soldiers unfit for duty, but a cheerful partaking of good and
sufficient food before the night's rest and ease which the King had
resolved upon for his whole army, in preparation for the battle that
could scarce be delayed longer than the morrow.
It was early on Thursday morning, the twenty-fourth day of August, that
the ford of the Blanche Tache had been crossed. Thursday and Friday had
been spent by the English in skirmishing about in search of provisions,
of which great abundance had been found, and in deciding upon the
disposition of their troops in a favourable position for meeting the
advance of the French.
The King had selected some wooded and rising ground in the vicinity of
the then obscure little village of Crecy. Then having made all his
arrangements with skill and foresight, and having ordered that his men
should be provided with ample cheer, and should rest quietly during the
night, he himself gave a grand banquet to the leaders of his army; and
the young Prince of Wales followed his father's example by inviting to
his own quarters some score of bold and congenial spirits amongst the
youthful gentlemen who followed his father's banner, to pass the time
with them in joyous feasting, and to lay plans for the glory of the
coming day.
It is difficult in these modern days to realize how young were some
amongst those who took part in the great battles of the past. The Black
Prince, as he was afterwards called from the sombre hue of the armour he
wore, was not yet fifteen when the Battle of Crecy was fought; and when
the King had summoned his bold subjects to follow him to the war, he had
called upon all knights and gentlemen between the ages of sixteen and
twenty to join themselves to him for this campaign in France. Lads who
would now be reckoned as mere schoolboys were then doughty warriors
winning their spurs in battle; and some of the most brilliant charges of
those chivalrous days were led and carried through mainly by striplings
scarce twenty years old. Inured from infancy to hardy sports, and
trained to arms to the exclusion almost of all other training, these
bold sons of England certainly proved equal to the demands made upon
them. True, they were often skilfully generalled by older men, but the
young ones held their own in prowess in the field; and child as the
Prince of Wales would now be considered, the right flank of the army was
to be led by him upon the morrow; and though the Earls of Warwick and
Hereford and other trusty veterans were with him, his was the command,
and to him were they to look.
No wonder then that the comrades who had marched with him through these
last hazardous days, and who had been with and about him for many months
-- some of them for years -- should rally round him now with the keenest
enthusiasm. The De Brocas brothers were there -- Oliver and Bernard
(John had not left England to follow the fortunes of the war) -- as well
as Gaston and his brother, whose return had been warmly welcomed by the
Prince. He had heard about the rescue of the woodman's son, and had been
greatly interested and taken by Raymond and his story. Student though he
might be by nature, Raymond was as eager as any for the fight that was
to come. He had caught the spirit of the warlike King's camp, and his
blood was on fire to strike a blow at the foe who had so long harassed
and thwarted them.
And it was not all rioting and feasting in the camp that night. The
soldiers supped well and settled to rest; but the King, when his guests
had departed, went to his oratory and spent the night upon his knees,
his prayer being less for himself than for his gallant boy; less for
victory than that England's honour might be upheld, and that whatever
was the issue of the day, this might be preserved stainless in the sight
of God and man.
Then very early in the morning, whilst almost all the camp slept, the
King was joined by his son, the Prince being followed by Raymond, who
had also kept vigil upon his knees that night, and they, with some half
score of devout spirits, heard mass and received the Sacrament; whilst a
little later on the monks and priests were busy hearing the confessions
of the greater part of the soldiers, who after receiving the priestly
absolution went into battle with a loftier courage than before.
When this had been done and still the French army appeared not, the King
gave orders that the men should be served with something to eat and
drink, after which they might sit down at their ease to wait till their
adversaries appeared.
Meantime the French were having anything but a comfortable time of it.
They had remained inactive in Abbeville for the whole of Friday as well
as the preceding Thursday, after they had retreated thither from the
ford where the English had given them the slip; and on Saturday they
were marched off none too well fed, to meet their English foes.
Philip was so confident that his immense superiority in numbers was
certain to give him the victory, that he thought little of the comfort
of his men, the consequence being that they grew jaded and weary with
the long hot march taken in an ill-fed state; and his own marshals at
last very earnestly entreated their lord to call a halt for rest and
refreshment before the troops engaged in battle, or else the men would
fight at a terrible disadvantage.
Philip consented to this, and a halt was called, which was obeyed by the
ranks in front; but those behind, eager to fall upon the English, and
confident of easy victory, declined to wait, and went steadily forward,
shouting "Kill! kill!" as they went, till all the alleys became filled
up and choked. The press from behind urged forward the men in front, and
the army moved on perforce once again, though now no longer in order,
but in a confused and unmanageable mass.
Just as they came in sight of the English line of battle a heavy tempest
of thunder and rain came upon them. The clouds seemed to discharge
themselves upon the French host, and those birds of evil omen, the
ravens, flew screaming overhead, throwing many men into paroxysms of
terror who would never have blenched before the drawn blade of an armed foe.
Worse than this, the rain wet and slackened the strings of the Genoese
crossbowmen, who marched in the foremost rank; and hungry and weary as
they were, this last misfortune seemed to put the finishing touch to
their discomfiture. Hireling soldiers, whose hearts are not in the
cause, have been the curse of many a battlefield; and though these
Genoese advanced with a great shouting against the foe, as though hoping
to affright them by their noise, they did little enough except shout,
till their cries were changed to those of agony and terror as their
ineffectual shower of bolts was answered by a perfect hail of shafts
from the English archers' dreaded longbows, whilst the sun shining full
into their dazzled eyes rendered ineffectual any farther attempt on
their part to shoot straight at the foe. The hired archers turned and
fled, and throwing into confusion the horsemen behind who were eager to
charge and break the ranks of the English archers, the luckless men were
mown down ruthlessly by their infuriated allies, whose wrath was burning
against them now that they had proved not only useless but a serious
hindrance.
This was by no means a promising beginning for the French; but still,
with their overwhelming superiority of numbers, they had plenty of
confidence left; and the English, though greatly encouraged by the
breaking and havoc in the ranks of the foe, were by no means recklessly
confident that the day was theirs.
Presumably the English King, who with the reserves was posted upon the
highest ground at some distance behind the two wings, had the best view
of the battle. The left wing, commanded by the Earls of Northampton and
Arundel, occupied the stronger position, being protected on their left
by the little river Maye. The young Prince was in the position of the
greatest danger; and as he and his companions stood in their ranks,
watching the onset of the battle with parted lips, and breath that came
and went with excitement, they began to see that upon them and their men
the brunt of the day would fall.
It had been the King's command that the battle should be fought on foot
by the English, probably owing to the wooded and uncertain nature of the
ground, else his far-famed cavalry would hardly have been dismounted.
The Prince then stood still in his place, gazing with kindling eyes at
the confusion in the ranks of the foe, till the glint of a blood-red
banner in their ranks caught his eye, and he cried aloud to his men,
"The oriflamme! the oriflamme, good comrades! See ye that, and know ye
what it means when the King of France unfurls it? It is a signal that no
lives will be spared, no quarter granted to the foe. If we go not on to
victory, we march every man to his death!"
A shout that was like a cheer was the response of the gallant little
band who stood shoulder to shoulder with the Prince, and the word being
passed from mouth to mouth was received everywhere with like courageous
enthusiasm, so that the cheer went ringing down from line to line, and
hearts beat high and hand grasped sword ever harder and faster as the
tide of battle rolled onward, until the word was given and the trumpets
sounded the advance.
"Keep by my side and the Prince's, Raymond," breathed Gaston, as slowly
and steadily they pressed down the hill towards the spot where the
French horse under the Count of Alencon were charging splendidly into
the ranks of the archers and splitting the harrow into which they had
been formed by Edward's order into two divisions. The Count of Flanders
likewise, knowing that the King's son was in this half of the battle,
called on his men to follow him, and with a fine company of Germans and
Savoyards made for the spot where the young Prince was gallantly
fighting, and cheering on his men to stand firm for the honour of England.
Shoulder to shoulder, fearless and dauntless, stood the little band of
gallant knights and gentlemen who formed the bodyguard of the Prince.
Again and again had the horsemen charged them; but the soldiers threw
themselves beneath the horses of the foe and stabbed them through the
body, so that hundreds of gallant French knights were overthrown and
slain ere they well knew what had befallen them. But in the press and
the heat of battle it was hard to say how the tide would turn. The
commanders of the left wing of the English, the Earls of Northampton and
Arundel, were forcing their way inch by inch to reach the Prince's side
and divert from his immediate neighbourhood the whole stress of the
opposing force now concentred there. They could see that the Prince was
still unharmed, fighting with the gallantry of his soldier race. But the
odds for the moment were heavily against him; and they despatched a
messenger to the King, who remained with the reserves, begging him to go
to the assistance of the Prince. Ere the messenger returned, they had
fought their own way into the melee, and had joined issue with the
gallant youth, who, fearless and full of spirit, was encouraging his men
alike by the boldness of his demeanour and by his shouts of
encouragement and praise, though his breath was coming thick and fast,
and the drops of exhaustion stood upon his brow.
"Fear not, sweet Prince," cried Arundel, raising his voice so that all
who were near could hear: "we have sent word to your Royal Sire of the
stress of the battle round you, and he will soon be here himself with
the help that shall enable us to rout this rebel host;" and he turned
his eyes somewhat anxiously towards the height where the King and his
company still remained motionless.
But a messenger was spurring back through the open ground which lay
between the reserves and the right wing where such hot work was going
on. He made straight for the spot where the Prince was fighting, and
both the Earls turned eagerly towards him.
"What said the King?" they asked quickly. "When will he be with us?"
"He asked," replied the messenger, "whether the Prince were killed or
wounded; and when I told him nay, but in a hard passage of arms wherein
he needed his Sire's help, the King folded his arms and turned away,
saying, 'Let the boy win his spurs; for I will that the glory of this
day be his, and not mine.'"
As those words were spoken it seemed as if new life were infused into
the young Prince himself and all those who surrounded him. A ringing
cheer rose from all their throats. They formed once again under their
young leader, and charged the enemy with a fury that nothing was able to
resist. The horsemen were forced hack the way they had come. The Counts
who had led them boldly and well were unhorsed and slain. Dismay and
terror fell upon the breaking ranks of the French, and they turned and
fled; whilst the excited and triumphant young Prince pursued them with
shouts of exultation and triumph, till he found himself with his few
most faithful followers in the midst of the flying but hostile ranks
some little distance away from the English army.
"Sweet Prince, beware! have a care how you adventure your life thus in
the enemy's ranks," whispered Raymond in his ear, he alone keeping a
cool head in the midst of so much that was exciting. "See, here come
some score of horsemen who know thee and would fain cut off thy retreat.
Let us here make a stand and receive the charge, else shall we all be
overthrown together."
This cautious counsel came only just in time. Young Edward looked round
to see that his reckless bravery had placed him for the moment in
imminent peril; but he had all the courage of his race, and his heart
quailed not for an instant. Giving the word to his comrades to form a
compact square, he placed himself where the onset was like to be the
fiercest; nor was there time for his companions to interfere to place
him in a position of greater safety.
With a great shout of rage and triumph the band of horsemen, who had
recognized the person of the Prince, now rushed upon him, resolved
either to carry him off a prisoner or leave him lying dead upon the
field, so that the English might have little joy in their victory. So
fierce was the attack that the Prince was borne to the ground; and the
Battle of Crecy might have been a dark instead of a bright page in
England's history, but for the gallantry of a little band of Welshmen
headed by Richard de Beaumont, the bearer of the banner portraying the
great red dragon of Merlin, which had floated all day over the bold
Welsh contingent.
Flinging this banner over the prostrate form of the Prince, the brave
soldier called on his men to charge the horses and cut them down. This
they did in the way before mentioned -- throwing themselves underneath
and stabbing them through the heart. So their riders, finding even this
last effort futile, joined in the headlong flight of their compatriots;
and the Prince's faithful attendants crowded round him to raise him up
again, greatly rejoicing to find that though breathless and confused by
the shock of his fall, he was none the worse for his overthrow, and was
quickly able to thank the brave Welshmen who had so opportunely come to
the rescue of him and his comrades.
"Now, we will back to the ranks and find my father," said the Prince,
when he had spoken his courteous thanks and looked round about to see if
his comrades had suffered more than himself.
One or two had received slight wounds, and Raymond was leaning upon
Gaston's shoulder looking white and shaken; but he quickly recovered,
and declared himself only bruised and breathless, and still holding fast
to Gaston's arm, followed the Prince up the hill amongst the heaps of
dying and dead.
Gaston was flushed with his exertions, and in his heart was room for
nothing but pride and joy in the glorious victory just achieved. But
whilst Raymond looked around him as he slowly moved, suffering more
bodily pain than he wished his brother to know, his heart felt bruised
and crushed like his body, and a sudden sense of the vanity of human
life and ambition came suddenly upon him, so much so that he scarce knew
whether he was in the flesh or in the spirit as he moved slowly and
quietly onwards.
Everywhere he saw before him the bodies of men who but a few short hours
ago had been full of strong vitality, instinct with the same passions of
hatred and loyalty as had animated their own ranks that day. How strange
it seemed to look into those dead faces now, and wonder what those freed
spirits thought of those same passions that had been raging within them
but a few short hours before! Did it seem to them, as it almost seemed
to him, that in all the world around there was nothing of moment enough
to arouse such tumult of passion and strife; that only the things
eternal the things that pass not away were worthy to be greatly sought
after and longed for?
But his reverie was quickly interrupted by an exclamation from Gaston.
"See, Brother, the King! the King He is coming to meet his son, and his
nobles with him!"
It was a sight not soon to be forgotten, that meeting between the
warlike Edward and his bold young son, after the splendid triumph just
achieved by the gallant boy. The King embraced the Prince with tears of
joyful pride in his eyes, whilst the nobles standing round the King
shouted aloud at the sight, and the soldiers made the welkin ring with
their lusty English cheers.
Young Edward had received knighthood at his father's hand upon landing
on the shores of France, though truly it was this day's fighting which
had won him his spurs. But as the King was resolved to mark the occasion
by some rewards to those who had stood by his gallant boy in the thick
of the press, he quickly picked out from the cluster of noble youths who
stood behind their young leader some six of gentle blood and known
bravery, and thereupon dubbed them knights upon the bloody battlefield.
Amongst those thus singled out for such honourable notice were the two
sons of the King's Master of the Horse, Oliver and Bernard de Brocas,
the latter of whom was destined to be the Prince's chosen and trusted
comrade through many another warlike campaign.
Gladly and proudly did the royal boy stand by and see the reward of
valour thus bestowed upon his chosen comrades of the day; but he seemed
scarce satisfied by all that was done. His eye wandered quickly over the
little knot grouped upon the knoll around the King, and then his glance
travelling yet farther to the remoter outskirts, he suddenly detached
himself from the centre group, and ran quickly down the hillside till he
reached the spot where the twin brothers were standing watching the
scene with vivid interest, Raymond still leaning rather heavily upon his
brother's arm.
"Nay now, why tarry ye here?" eagerly questioned the Prince. "Sure ye
were amongst the most steadfast and fearless in the fight today.
"Good Raymond, but for thy quick eye and timely word of warning, we had
been fallen upon and scattered unawares, and perhaps had been cut to
pieces, ere we knew that we were vanquished rather than victors. My
father is even now bestowing upon my gallant comrades the reward their
good swords have won for them. Come, and let me present you twain to
him; for sure in all the gallant band that fought by my side none were
more worthy of knighthood than you. Come, and that quickly!"
A quick flush crossed Gaston's cheek as the guerdon so dear to the heart
of the soldier was thus thrust upon him; but a whisper in his ear held
him back.
"Gaston, we have no name; we cannot receive knighthood without revealing
all. Has the time yet come to speak? Of that thou shalt be the judge. I
will follow thy wishes in this as in all else."
For a moment Gaston stood debating with himself. Then the counsel of
prudence prevailed over that of youthful ambition. How were he and his
brother worthily to support the offered rank? Even did they make known
their true parentage, that would not put money in their purses; and to
be poor dependents upon the bounty of relatives who had rejected their
mother and driven forth their father to seek his fortune as he could,
was as repugnant to Gaston's pride now as it had been two years before.
"Sweet Prince," he answered, after this brief pause for thought, "we
have but done our duty today, and knighthood is far too great a reward
for our poor merits. Sure it has been honour and glory enough to fight
by your side, and win this gallant day. We are but poor youths, without
home or friends. How could we receive a reward which we could not
worthily wear? A penniless knight without servant or esquire would cut
but a sorry figure. Nay then, sweet Prince, let it be enough for us this
day to have won these gracious words at your lips. It may be when fair
fortune has smiled upon us, and we are no longer poor and nameless, that
we will come to you to crave the boon you have graciously offered this
day. We will remain for the nonce in our present state, but will ever
look forward to the day when some other glorious victory may be won, and
when we may come to our Prince for that reward which today we may not
receive at his hands."
"So be it," answered the Prince, his face, which had clouded over with
regret a few moments earlier, lighting up again at these latter words.
"Be assured I will not forget you, nor the services ye have done me this
day. I too in days to come shall have knighthood to bestow upon those
who have earned the right to wear it. Fear not that Edward ever will
forget. Whenever the day comes that shall bring you thus to me for the
reward so nobly earned today, that reward shall be yours. The King's son
has promised it."
CHAPTER XIV. WINTER DAYS.
"Nephew John, I have brought thee a companion to share thy winter's
solitude."
John de Brocas, who was in his old and favourite retreat -- his
Rector-uncle's great library -- rose to his feet with a start at hearing
the familiar voice of Master Bernard (whom he believed to be far away in
France), and found himself face to face not with his cheery uncle alone,
but with a tall, white, hollow-eyed youth, upon whose weary face a smile
of delighted recognition was shining, whilst a thin hand was eagerly
advanced in welcome.
"Raymond!" exclaimed John, with a look that spoke volumes of welcome.
"Good mine uncle, welcome at all times, thou art doubly welcome in such
company as this. But I had not looked to see you in merry England again
for long. Men say that Calais is closely besieged by the King, and
methought he had need of thee and my father likewise whilst the campaign
across the water lasted."
"True, lad, the King has need of those he graciously dubs his trusty
counsellors; and I have but come hither for a short while. The King is
full of anxiety about this outbreak of the hardy Scots, which has been
so gallantly frustrated at Neville's Cross by our gracious Queen, worthy
to be the mate of the world's greatest warrior. I am come hither charged
with much business in this matter, and so soon as all is accomplished I
am desired to bring the Queen to join her royal spouse before the walls
of Calais. It is not long that I may linger here. I have but a few short
hours to set mine own affairs in order. But thinking I should be like to
find thee here, Nephew John, as the autumn weather in low-lying Windsor
generally drives thee forth from thence, I hastened hither to bring to
thee a companion for thy winter's loneliness. Methinks thou hast known
and loved him before. Treat him as a cousin and a friend. He will tell
thee all his story at his leisure."
The slight stress laid upon the word "cousin" by the prelate caused John
to glance quickly and curiously at Raymond, who answered by a slight
smile. Just at that moment there was no time for explanations. Master
Bernard engrossed the whole of John's time and attention, being eager to
learn from that young man every detail of the campaign in the north
which had reached his ears. And John, who took a wide and intelligent
interest in all the passing affairs of the day, and from his position
was able to learn much of what went on in the world, sat beside his
uncle at the hastily-spread board, and told all the leading facts of the
brief and triumphant campaign in terse and soldier-like fashion.
Meantime Raymond sat at ease in the corner of a deep settle beside the
fire, leaning back against the soft fur rug which draped it, unable to
eat through very weariness, but eagerly interested in all the news his
uncle was hearing from John.
Master Bernard had to push on to London that night. He and his companion
had landed at Southampton the previous day, and had taken Guildford upon
their way to the capital. There Raymond was to remain under the kindly
care of John; and as soon as the Rector had set off with fresh horses
and his own retinue of servants, his nephew turned eagerly back to the
hall, where his cousin was still resting, and taking him warmly by the
hands, gazed into his face with a glance of the most friendly and
affectionate solicitude.
"Good my cousin, I have scarce had time to bid thee welcome yet, but I
do so now with all my heart. It is as a cousin I am to receive and treat
thee? What meant my good uncle by that? Hast thou told him what I myself
know? Methought he spoke like one with a purpose."
"Yes, it is true that he knows," answered Raymond; "but he counsels us
to keep our secret awhile longer. He thinks, as does Gaston, that we
were wiser first to win our way to greater fame and fortune than mere
boys can hope to do, and then to stand revealed as those sprung from a
noble line. How came he to know? That I will tell thee when I am
something rested. But I am so weary with our journey that I scarce know
how to frame my thoughts in fitting words. Yet I am glad to see thy face
again, good John. I have been wearying long for a sight of thee."
"Thou art indeed sadly changed thyself, my cousin," said John. "In
truth, men who go to these wars go with their lives in their hands. Was
it on the glorious field of Crecy that thou receivedst some hurt? Sure
thou hast been sore wounded. But thou shalt tell me all thy tale anon,
when thou art something rested and refreshed."
The tale was told that same evening, when, after Raymond had slept for a
few hours and had been able then to partake of some food, he felt, in
part at least, recovered from the fatigues of the long ride from the
coast, and could recline at ease beside the glowing fire, and talk to
John of all that had befallen him since they had parted two and a half
years before.
The account of the victory at Crecy was eagerly listened to, and also
that of the subsequent march upon Calais, when the King of France,
choosing to consider the campaign at an end, had disbanded both his
armies, leaving the victorious King of England to build unmolested a new
town about Calais, in which his soldiers could live through the winter
in ease and plenty, and complete the blockade both by sea and land
undisturbed by hostile demonstrations.
"It seems to me," said Raymond, "that did our great Edward wish to make
good his claim on the crown of France, he has only to march straight
upon Paris and demand coronation there. When after the victory at Crecy
and the subsequent triumphs I have told you of, over band after band of
troops all going to the support of Philip, we could have marched
unopposed through the length and breadth of the land, none daring to
oppose us, the soldiers all thought that Paris, not Calais, would be the
next halting place.
"What thinkest thou, good John? Thou knowest much of the true mind of
the King. Why, after so glorious a victory, does he not make himself
master of all France?"
John smiled his thoughtful smile.
"Verily because our King is statesman as well as soldier; and though he
boldly advances a claim on the crown of France, to give the better
colour to his feats of arms against its King, he knows that he could not
rule so vast an empire as that of France and England together would be,
and that his trusty subjects at home would soon grow jealous and
discontented were they to find themselves relegated to the second place,
whilst their mighty Edward took up his abode in his larger and more
turbulent kingdom of France. England rejoices in snatching portions of
territory from the French monarch, in holding off his grasping hand from
those portions of France that lawfully belong to our great King. She
will support him joyfully through a series of victories that bring spoil
and glory to her soldiers; but jealousy would soon arise did she think
that her King was like to regard France as his home rather than England,
that England was to be drained of her gold and her best men to keep
under control the unwieldy possession she had won but could never
peacefully hold. Methinks the King and his best counsellors know this
well, and content themselves with their glorious feats of arms which
stir the blood and gratify the pride of all loyal subjects.
"But now, I pray thee, tell me of thyself; for thou hast sadly altered
since we parted last. What has befallen thee in these wars? and where is
thy brother Gaston, whom thou wentest forth to seek? and where the
faithful Roger, whose name thou hast spoken many times before?"
"I have left them together in the camp before Calais," answered Raymond.
"Roger would fain have come with me, but I thought it not well that he
should place himself so near his ancient foes and masters, even though I
trow the spell has been snapped once and for ever. He loves Gaston only
second to me, and was persuaded at length to stay with him. I, too,
would have stayed likewise, but they said the winter's cold would kill
me, and I could no longer bear arms or serve in the ranks. So I was fain
to leave them and come to England with our uncle. And the thought of
spending the winter months with thee and with the books made amends for
all I left behind beneath the walls of Calais."
"What ails thee then, Raymond? Is it some unhealed wound?"
The youth shook his head.
"Nay, I have no wound. It was some hurt I got in that last melee on the
field of Crecy, when the Prince nearly lost his life just as the day was
won. I was hurled to the ground and trampled upon. Methought for many
long minutes that I should never rise again. But for days afterwards I
knew not that the hurt was aught to think about or care for. It pained
me to move or breathe, but I thought the pain would pass, and heeded it
but little. We rode gaily enough to the walls of Calais, and we set
about building a second city without its walls (when the governor
refused to surrender it into our hands), which the King has been pleased
to call Newtown the Bold. I strove to work with the rest, thinking that
the pain I suffered would abate by active toil, and liking not to speak
of it when many who had received grievous wounds were to be seen lending
willing service in the task set us. But there came a day when I could no
more. I could scarce creep to the tent which Gaston, Roger, and I shared
together; and then I can remember naught but the agony of a terrible
pain that never left me night or day, and I only longed that I might die
and so find rest."
"Ah, poor lad, I too have known that wish," said John. "Doubtless it was
some grave inflammation of the hidden tissues of the body from the which
you so grievously suffered. And how came it that our uncle found you
out? He is a notable leech, as many men have found ere now. Was it as
such that he then came to thee?"
"Yes, truly; and our generous and kindly Prince sent him. He heard
through Gaston of the strait I was in, and forthwith begged our uncle to
come and visit me. John, dost thou know that Gaston and I each wear
about our neck the halves of a charm our mother hung there in our
infancy? It is a ring of gold, each complete in itself, yet which may be
so joined together as to form one circlet with the two halves of the
medallion joined in one;" and Raymond pulled forth from within his
doublet a small circlet of gold curiously chased, with a half medallion
bearing certain characters inscribed upon it.
John examined it curiously, and said it was of Eastern workmanship.
"I know not how that may be. I know not its history," answered Raymond;
"but Gaston tells me that when our uncle saw the ring about my neck he
seemed greatly moved, and asked quickly how it came there. Gaston told
him it was hung there by our mother, and showed his own half, and how
they fitted together. At that our uncle seemed yet more moved; and after
he had done what he could to ease my pain, he left me with Roger, and
bid Gaston follow him to his own tent. There he told him the history of
that ring, and how for many generations it had been in the De Brocas
family, its last owner having been the Arnald de Brocas who had
quarrelled with his kindred, and had died ere the dispute had been
righted. Seeing that it was useless to hide the matter longer, Gaston
told our uncle all; and he listened kindly and with sympathy to the
tale. At the first he seemed as if he would have told your father all
the story likewise, and have had us owned before the world. But either
Gaston's reluctance to proclaim ourselves before we had won our way to
fortune, or else his own uncertainty as to how your father would take
the news, held him silent; and he said we were perchance right and wise
to keep our secret. He added that to reveal ourselves, though it might
gain us friends, would also raise up many bitter and powerful enemies.
The Sieur de Navailles in the south, who by joining the French King's
standard had already made himself a mark for Edward's just displeasure
when the time should come for revenging himself upon those treacherous
subjects in Gascony, would be certain to hold in especial abhorrence any
De Brocas who would be like to cast longing eyes upon the domain he had
so long ruled over; whilst in England the fierce and revengeful
Sanghursts would have small scruple in seeking the destruction of any
persons who would rise to dispute their hold on Basildene. The King's
time and thought were too much engrossed in great matters of the state
to give him leisure to concern himself with private affairs. Let the
youths then remain as they were for the present, serving under his
banner, high in favour with the youthful Prince, and like to win fame
and honour and wealth through the victorious war about to be waged in
France. When that war had triumphantly ended, and the King was rewarding
those whose faithful service had gained him the day, then might the time
come for the brothers of Basildene to make themselves known, and plead
for their own again."
"I trow he is in the right," said John, "and I am glad that he knows all
himself. So would he take the more interest in you, good Raymond; and
thus it was, I take it, that he brought you to England himself when he
came hither."
"Ay, truly his kindness was great; and after he knew all, I was moved to
better quarters, and a prince could not have been better treated. But it
was long before I could stand upon my own feet, and save for the hope of
seeing you once again, I would gladly have been spared the journey to
England. But the sea passage was favourable, and gave me strength,
though the wind from the east blew so strong that we could not make the
harbour of Dover, and were forced to beat westward along the coast till
we reached the friendly port of Southampton. Then we took horse and rode
hither, and glad am I to be at the journey's end. But our uncle tells me
that in a few short weeks I shall be sound and whole again, and before
the winter ends I may hope to join my brother beneath the King's banner."
"I hope it will be so," answered John; "and if rest is what thou needest
for thy recovery, it will not be lacking to thee here. It is well that
the sword is not the only weapon thou lovest, but that the quill and the
lore of the wise of the earth have attractions for thee likewise."
It quickly seemed to Raymond as if the incidents of that stirring
campaign had been but part and parcel of a fevered dream. He was
disposed to believe that he had never quitted the retreat of his uncle's
roof, and took up his old studies with John with the greatest zest. John
found him marvellously advanced since the days they had studied together
before. His two years with Father Paul in the Brotherhood had
wonderfully enlarged his mind and extended his field of vision. It was a
delight to both cousins to exchange ideas, and learn from one another;
and the time fled by only too fast, each day marked by a steady though
imperceptible improvement in Raymond's state of health, as his fine
constitution triumphed over the serious nature of the injury received.
Although he often thought of Basildene, he made no attempt to see the
place. The winter cold had set in with severity; John had little
disposition to face it, and quiet and rest were far more congenial to
him than any form of activity or amusement. John believed that the
Sanghursts were still there, engaged in their mysterious experiments
that savoured so strongly of magic. But after hearing of Raymond's bold
defiance of the implacable Peter in the forest near to the Brotherhood,
John was by no means desirous that the fact of Raymond's residence at
the Rectory of St. Nicholas should become known at Basildene. Without
sharing to the full the fears of the country people with regard to the
occult powers of the father and son in that lonely house, John believed
them to be as cruel and unscrupulous a pair as ever lived, even in those
half-civilized times. He therefore charged his servants to say nothing
of Raymond's visit, and hoped that it would not reach the ears of the
Sanghursts.
But there was another person towards whom Raymond's fancy had sometime
strayed during the years of his absence from Guildford, and this person
he was unaccountably shy of naming even to John, though he would have
been quite unable to allege a reason for his reticence.
But fortune favoured him in this as in other matters, for on entering
the library one day after a short stroll around the Rector's garden, he
found himself face to face with a radiant young creature dressed in the
picturesque riding gear of the day, who turned to him with a beaming
smile as she cried:
"Ah! I have been hearing of thee and of thy prowess, my fair young sir.
My good brother Alexander, who has followed the King's banner, would
gladly have been in thy place on the day of Crecy. Thou and thy brother
were amongst that gallant little band who fought around the Prince and
bore him off the field unhurt. Did not I say of thee that thou wouldst
quickly win thy knighthood's spurs? And thou mightest already have been
a belted knight if thy prudence and thy modesty had not been greater
than thine ambition. Is it not so?"
Raymond's face glowed like a child's beneath the praises of Mistress
Joan Vavasour, and the light of her bright eyes seemed fairly to dazzle
him. John came to the rescue by telling Raymond's own version of the
story; and then he eagerly asked Joan of herself and what had become of
her these past years, for he had seldom seen her, and knew not where she
was living nor what she was doing -- knew not even if she were wedded,
nor if Peter Sanghurst's suit were at an end or had been crowned by success.
At the sound of that name the girl's face darkened quickly, and a spark
of fire gleamed in her eyes.
"Talk not of him," she said; "I would that he were dead! Have I not said
that I would never wed him, that I would die first? Fair fortune hath
befriended me in this thing. Thou knowest perchance that my father and
brother have been following the King's banner of late, first in Flanders
and then in France. My mother and I meantime have not been residing at
Woodcrych, but in London, whither all news of the war is first known,
and where travellers from the spot are like to come. We are here but for
a short space, to spend the merry Yuletide season with my mother's
brother, who lives, as thou knowest, within the town of Guildford. After
that we return once more to London, there to await the return of my
father and brother. Alexander, in truth, has once visited us, but has
returned to the siege of Calais, hoping to be amongst those who will
reap plenteous spoil when the city is given over to plunder, as Caen was
given. Of the Sanghursts, I thank my kindly saints, I have heard naught
all this while. My mother loved them not, albeit she was always
entreating me in nowise to thwart or gainsay my father. I cannot but
hope that these long months of absence will have gone far to break the
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