Sir Nigel

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  XIX. HOW A SQUIRE OF ENGLAND MET A SQUIRE OF FRANCE

  Sir Robert Knolles with his little fleet had sighted the Breton coastnear Cancale; they had rounded the Point du Grouin, and finally hadsailed past the port of St. Malo and down the long narrow estuary of theRance until they were close to the old walled city of Dinan, which washeld by that Montfort faction whose cause the English had espoused. Herethe horses had been disembarked, the stores were unloaded, and the wholeforce encamped outside the city, whilst the leaders waited for news asto the present state of affairs, and where there was most hope of honorand profit.

  The whole of France was feeling the effects of that war with Englandwhich had already lasted some ten years, but no Province was in sodreadful a condition as this unhappy land of Brittany. In Normandy orPicardy the inroads of the English were periodical with intervals ofrest between; but Brittany was torn asunder by constant civil war apartfrom the grapple of the two great combatants, so that there was nosurcease of her sufferings. The struggle had begun in 1341 through therival claims of Montfort and of Blois to the vacant dukedom. England hadtaken the part of Montfort, France that of Blois. Neither faction wasstrong enough to destroy the other, and so after ten years of continualfighting, history recorded a long ineffectual list of surprises andambushes, of raids and skirmishes, of towns taken and retaken, ofalternate victory and defeat, in which neither party could claima supremacy. It mattered nothing that Montfort and Blois had bothdisappeared from the scene, the one dead and the other taken by theEnglish. Their wives caught up the swords which had dropped from thehands of their lords, and the long struggle went on even more savagelythan before.

  In the south and east the Blois faction held the country, and Nantesthe capital was garrisoned and occupied by a strong French army. In thenorth and west the Montfort party prevailed, for the island kingdom wasat their back and always fresh sails broke the northern sky-line bearingadventurers from over the channel.

  Between these two there lay a broad zone comprising all the centerof the country which was a land of blood and violence, where no lawprevailed save that of the sword. From end to end it was dotted withcastles, some held for one side, some for the other, and many mererobber strongholds, the scenes of gross and monstrous deeds, whose bruteowners, knowing that they could never be called to account, made warupon all mankind, and wrung with rack and with flame the last shillingfrom all who fell into their savage hands. The fields had long beenuntilled. Commerce was dead. From Rennes in the east to Hennebon in thewest, and from Dinan in the north to Nantes in the south, there was nospot where a man's life or a woman's honor was safe. Such was the land,full of darkness and blood, the saddest, blackest spot in Christendom,into which Knolles and his men were now advancing.

  But there was no sadness in the young heart of Nigel, as he rode by theside of Knolles at the head of a clump of spears, nor did it seem to himthat Fate had led him into an unduly arduous path. On the contrary,he blessed the good fortune which had sent him into so delightful acountry, and it seemed to him as he listened to dreadful stories ofrobber barons, and looked round at the black scars of war which laybranded upon the fair faces of the hills, that no hero of romances ortrouveur had ever journeyed through such a land of promise, with so faira chance of knightly venture and honorable advancement.

  The Red Ferret was one deed toward his vow. Surely a second, and perhapsa better, was to be found somewhere upon this glorious countryside.He had borne himself as the others had in the sea-fight, and couldnot count it to his credit where he had done no more than mere duty.Something beyond this was needed for such a deed as could be laid at thefeet of the Lady Mary. But surely it was to be found here in fermentingwar-distracted Brittany. Then with two done it would be strange if hecould not find occasion for that third one, which would complete hisservice and set him free to look her in the face once more. With thegreat yellow horse curveting beneath him, his Guildford armor gleamingin the sun, his sword clanking against his stirrup-iron, and hisfather's tough ash-spear in his hand, he rode with a light heart and asmiling face, looking eagerly to right and to left for any chance whichhis good Fate might send.

  The road from Dinan to Caulnes, along which the small army was moving,rose and dipped over undulating ground, with a bare marshy plain uponthe left where the river Rance ran down to the sea, while upon the rightlay a wooded country with a few wretched villages, so poor and sordidthat they had nothing with which to tempt the spoiler. The peasants hadleft them at the first twinkle of a steel cap, and lurked at the edgesof the woods, ready in an instant to dive into those secret recessesknown only to themselves. These creatures suffered sorely at the handsof both parties, but when the chance came they revenged their wrongs oneither in a savage way which brought fresh brutalities upon their heads.

  The new-comers soon had a chance of seeing to what lengths they wouldgo, for in the roadway near to Caulnes they came upon an Englishman-at-arms who had been waylaid and slain by them. How they hadovercome him could not be told, but how they had slain him within hisarmor was horribly apparent, for they had carried such a rock as eightmen could lift, and had dropped it upon him as he lay, so that he wasspread out in his shattered case like a crab beneath a stone. Many afist was shaken at the distant woods and many a curse hurled at thosewho haunted them, as the column of scowling soldiers passed the murderedman, whose badge of the Molene cross showed him to have been a followerof that House of Bentley, whose head, Sir Walter, was at that timeleader of the British forces in the country.

  Sir Robert Knolles had served in Brittany before, and he marshaled hismen on the march with the skill and caution of the veteran soldier, theman who leaves as little as possible to chance, having too steadfast amind to heed the fool who may think him overcautious. He had recruited anumber of bowmen and men-at-arms at Dinan; so that his following wasnow close upon five hundred men. In front under his own leadership werefifty mounted lancers, fully armed and ready for any sudden attack.Behind them on foot came the archers, and a second body of mounted menclosed up the rear. Out upon either flank moved small bodies of cavalry,and a dozen scouts, spread fanwise, probed every gorge and dingle infront of the column. So for three days he moved slowly down the SouthernRoad.

  Sir Thomas Percy and Sir James Astley had ridden to the head of thecolumn, and Knolles conferred with them as they marched concerning theplan of their campaign. Percy and Astley were young and hot-headed withwild visions of dashing deeds and knight errantry, but Knolles withcold, clear brain and purpose of iron held ever his object in view.

  "By the holy Dunstan and all the saints of Lindisfarne!" cried thefiery Borderer, "it goes to my heart to ride forward when there are suchhonorable chances on either side of us. Have I not heard that the Frenchare at Evran beyond the river, and is it not sooth that yonder castle,the towers of which I see above the woods, is in the hands of a traitor,who is false to his liege lord of Montford? There is little profit to begained upon this road, for the folk seem to have no heart for war.Had we ventured as far over the marches of Scotland as we now are inBrittany, we should not have lacked some honorable venture or chance ofwinning worship."

  "You say truth, Thomas," cried Astley, a red-faced and choleric youngman. "It is well certain that the French will not come to us, and surelyit is the more needful that we go to them. In sooth, any soldier whosees us would smile that we should creep for three days along this roadas though a thousand dangers lay before us, when we have but poor brokenpeasants to deal with."

  But Robert Knolles shook his head. "We know not what are in these woods,or behind these hills," said he, "and when I know nothing it is my wontto prepare for the worst which may befall. It is but prudence so to do."

  "Your enemies might find some harsher name for it," said Astley witha sneer. "Nay, you need not think to scare me by glaring at me, SirRobert, nor will your ill-pleasure change my thoughts. I have facedfiercer eyes than thine, and I have not feared."

  "Your speech, Sir James, is neither courteous nor good," said Knol
les,"and if I were a free man I would cram your words down your throat withthe point of my dagger. But I am here to lead these men in profit andhonor, not to quarrel with every fool who has not the wit to understandhow soldiers should be led. Can you not see that if I make attempts hereand there, as you would have me do, I shall have weakened my strengthbefore I come to that part where it can best be spent?"

  "And where is that?" asked Percy. "'Fore God, Astley, it is in my mindthat we ride with one who knows more of war than you or I, and that wewould be wise to be guided by his rede. Tell us then what is in yourmind."

  "Thirty miles from here," said Knolles, "there is, as I am told, afortalice named Ploermel, and within it is one Bambro', an Englishman,with a good garrison. No great distance from him is the Castle ofJosselin where dwells Robert of Beaumanoir with a great following ofBretons. It is my intention that we should join Bambro', and so be insuch strength that we may throw ourselves upon Josselin, and by takingit become the masters of all mid-Brittany, and able to make head againstthe Frenchmen in the south."

  "Indeed I think that you can do no better," said Percy heartily, "andI swear to you on jeopardy of my soul that I will stand by you in thematter! I doubt not that when we come deep into their land they willdraw together and do what they may to make head against us; but up tonow I swear by all the saints of Lindisfarne that I should have seenmore war in a summer's day in Liddesdale or at the Forest of Jedburghthan any that Brittany has shown us. But see, yonder horsemen are ridingin. They are our own hobblers, are they not? And who are these who arelashed to their stirrups?"

  A small troop of mounted bowmen had ridden out of an oak grove upon theleft of the road. They trotted up to where the three knights had halted.Two wretched peasants whose wrists had been tied to their leatherscame leaping and straining beside the horses in their effort not to bedragged off their feet. One was a tall, gaunt, yellow-haired man, theother short and swarthy, but both so crusted with dirt, so matted andtangled and ragged, that they were more like beasts of the wood thanhuman beings.

  "What is this?" asked Knolles. "Have I not ordered you to leave thecountryfolk at peace?"

  The leader of the archers, old Wat of Carlisle, held up a sword, agirdle and a dagger. "If it please you, fair sir," said he, "I saw theglint of these, and I thought them no fit tools for hands which weremade for the spade and the plow. But when we had ridden them down andtaken them, there was the Bentley cross upon each, and we knew that theyhad belonged to yonder dead Englishman upon the road. Surely then, theseare two of the villains who have slain him, and it is right that we dojustice upon them."

  Sure enough, upon sword, girdle and dagger shone the silver Molene crosswhich had gleamed on the dead man's armor. Knolles looked at them andthen at the prisoners with a face of stone. At the sight of thosefell eyes they had dropped with inarticulate howls upon their knees,screaming out their protests in a tongue which none could understand.

  "We must have the roads safe for wandering Englishmen," said Knolles."These men must surely die. Hang them to yonder tree."

  He pointed to a live-oak by the roadside, and rode onward upon his wayin converse with his fellow-knights. But the old bowman had ridden afterhim.

  "If it please you, Sir Robert, the bowmen would fain put these men todeath in their own fashion," said he.

  "So that they die, I care not how," Knolles answered carelessly, andlooked back no more.

  Human life was cheap in those stern days when the footmen of a strickenarmy or the crew of a captured ship were slain without any question orthought of mercy by the victors. War was a rude game with death for thestake, and the forfeit was always claimed on the one side and paid onthe other without doubt or hesitation. Only the knight might be spared,since his ransom made him worth more alive than dead. To men trained insuch a school, with death forever hanging over their own heads, it maybe well believed that the slaying of two peasant murderers was a smallmatter.

  And yet there was special reason why upon this occasion the bowmenwished to keep the deed in their own hands. Ever since their disputeaboard the Basilisk, there had been ill-feeling betwixt Bartholomew theold bald-headed bowyer, and long Ned Widdington the Dalesman, which hadended in a conflict at Dinan, in which not only they, but a dozen oftheir friends had been laid upon the cobble-stones. The dispute ragedround their respective knowledge and skill with the bow, and now somequick wit amongst the soldiers had suggested a grim fashion in whichit should be put to the proof, once for all, which could draw the surershaft.

  A thick wood lay two hundred paces from the road upon which the archersstood. A stretch of smooth grassy sward lay between. The two peasantswere led out fifty yards from the road, with their faces toward thewood. There they stood, held on a leash, and casting many a wonderingfrightened glance over their shoulders at the preparations which werebeing made behind them.

  Old Bartholomew and the big Yorkshireman had stepped out of the ranksand stood side by side each with his strung bow in his left hand and asingle arrow in his right. With care they had drawn on and greased theirshooting-gloves and fastened their bracers. They plucked and cast up afew blades of grass to measure the wind, examined every small point oftheir tackle, turned their sides to the mark, and widened their feetin a firmer stance. From all sides came chaff and counsel from theircomrades.

  "A three-quarter wind, bowyer!" cried one. "Aim a body's breadth to theright!"

  "But not thy body's breadth, bowyer," laughed another. "Else may you beoverwide."

  "Nay, this wind will scarce turn a well-drawn shaft," said a third."Shoot dead upon him and you will be clap in the clout."

  "Steady, Ned, for the good name of the Dales," cried a Yorkshireman."Loose easy and pluck not, or I am five crowns the poorer man."

  "A week's pay on Bartholomew!" shouted another. "Now, old fat-pate, failme not!"

  "Enough, enough! Stint your talk!" cried the old bowman, Wat ofCarlisle. "Were your shafts as quick as your tongues there would be nofacing you. Do you shoot upon the little one, Bartholomew, and you, Ned,upon the other. Give them law until I cry the word, then loose in yourown fashion and at your own time. Are you ready! Hola, there, Hayward,Beddington, let them run!"

  The leashes were torn away, and the two men, stooping their heads, ranmadly for the shelter of the wood amid such a howl from the archers asbeaters may give when the hare starts from its form. The two bowmen,each with his arrow drawn to the pile, stood like russet statues,menacing, motionless, their eager eyes fixed upon the fugitives, theirbow-staves rising slowly as the distance between them lengthened. TheBretons were half-way to the wood, and still Old Wat was silent. It mayhave been mercy or it may have been mischief, but at least the chaseshould have a fair chance of life. At six score paces he turned hisgrizzled head at last.

  "Loose!" he cried.

  At the word the Yorkshireman's bow-string twanged. It was not fornothing that he had earned the name of being one of the deadliestarchers of the North and had twice borne away the silver arrow of Selby.Swift and true flew the fatal shaft and buried itself to the feather inthe curved back of the long yellow-haired peasant. Without a sound hefell upon his face and lay stone-dead upon the grass, the one shortwhite plume between his dark shoulders to mark where Death had smotehim.

  The Yorkshireman threw his bowstave into the air and danced in triumph,whilst his comrades roared their fierce delight in a shout of applause,which changed suddenly into a tempest of hooting and of laughter.

  The smaller peasant, more cunning, than his comrade, had run moreslowly, but with many a backward glance. He had marked his companion'sfate and had waited with keen eyes until he saw the bowyer loose hisstring. At the moment he had thrown himself flat upon the grass andhad heard the arrow scream above him,--and seen it quiver in the turfbeyond. Instantly he had sprung to his feet again and amid wild whoopsand halloos from the bowmen had made for the shelter of the wood. Now hehad reached it, and ten score good paces separated him from the nearestof his persecutors. Surely they could not rea
ch him here. With thetangled brushwood behind him he was as safe as a rabbit at the mouth ofhis burrow. In the joy of his heart he must needs dance in derision andsnap his fingers at the foolish men who had let him slip. He threw backhis head, howling at them like a dog, and at the instant an arrow struckhim full in the throat and laid him dead among the bracken. There was ahush of surprised silence and then a loud cheer burst from the archers.

  "By the rood of Beverley!" cried old Wat, "I have not seen a finerroving shaft this many a year. In my own best day I could not havebettered it. Which of you loosed it?"

  "It was Aylward of Tilford--Samkin Aylward," cried a score of voices,and the bowman, flushed at his own fame, was pushed to the front.

  "Indeed I would that it had been at a nobler mark," said he. "He mighthave gone free for me, but I could not keep my fingers from the stringwhen he turned to jeer at us."

  "I see well that you are indeed a master-bowman," said old Wat, "and itis comfort to my soul to think that if I fall I leave such a man behindme to hold high the credit of our craft. Now gather your shafts and on,for Sir Robert awaits us on the brow of the hill."

  All day Knolles and his men marched through the same wild and desertedcountry, inhabited only by these furtive creatures, hares to the strongand wolves to the weak, who hovered in the shadows of the wood. Ever andanon upon the tops of the hills they caught a glimpse of horsemen whowatched them from a distance and vanished when approached. Sometimesbells rang an alarm from villages amongst the hills, and twice theypassed castles which drew up their drawbridges at their approach andlined their walls with hooting soldiers as they passed. The Englishmengathered a few oxen and sheep from the pastures of each, but Knolles hadno mind to break his strength upon stone walls, and so he went upon hisway.

  Once at St. Meen they passed a great nunnery, girt with a high graylichened wall, an oasis of peace in this desert of war, the black-robednuns basking in the sun or working in the gardens, with the stronggentle hand of Holy Church shielding them ever from evil. The archersdoffed caps to them as they passed, for the boldest and roughest darednot cross that line guarded by the dire ban and blight which was the oneonly force in the whole steel-ridden earth which could stand betwixt theweakling and the spoiler.

  The little army halted at St. Meen and cooked its midday meal. It hadgathered into its ranks again and was about to start, when Knolles drewNigel to one side.

  "Nigel," said he, "it seems to me that I have seldom set eyes upon ahorse which hath more power and promise of speed than this great beastof thine."

  "It is indeed a noble steed, fair sir," said Nigel. Betwixt him and hisyoung leader there had sprung up great affection and respect since theday that they set foot in the Basilisk.

  "It will be the better if you stretch his limbs, for he growsoverheavy," said the knight. "Now mark me, Nigel! Yonder betwixt theash-tree and the red rock what do you see on the side of the far hill?"

  "There is a white dot upon it. Surely it is a horse."

  "I have marked it all morning, Nigel. This horseman has kept ever uponour flank, spying upon us or waiting to make some attempt upon us. NowI should be right glad to have a prisoner, for it is my wish to knowsomething of this country-side, and these peasants can speak neitherFrench nor English. I would have you linger here in hiding when we goforward. This man will still follow us. When he does so, yonder woodwill lie betwixt you and him. Do you ride round it and come upon himfrom behind. There is broad plain upon his left, and we will cut himoff upon the right. If your horse be indeed the swifter, then you cannotfail to take him."

  Nigel had already sprung down and was tightening Pommers' girth.

  "Nay, there is no need of haste, for you cannot start until we aretwo miles upon our way. And above all I pray you, Nigel, none of yourknight-errant ways. It is this roan that I want, him and the news thathe can bring me. Think little of your own advancement and much of theneeds of the army. When you get him, ride westwards upon the sun, andyou cannot fail to find the road."

  Nigel waited with Pommers under the shadow of the nunnery wall, horseand man chafing with impatience, whilst above them six round-eyedinnocent nun-faces looked down on this strange and disturbing visionfrom the outer world. At last the long column wound itself out of sightround a curve of the road, and the white dot was gone from the baregreen flank of the hill. Nigel bowed his steel head to the nuns, gavehis bridle a shake, and bounded off upon his welcome mission. Theround-eyed sisters saw yellow horse and twinkling man sweep round theskirt of the wood, caught a last glimmer of him through the tree-trunks,and paced slowly back to their pruning and their planting, their mindsfilled with the beauty and the terror of that outer world beyond thehigh gray lichen-mottled wall.

  Everything fell out even as Knolles had planned. As Nigel rounded theoak forest, there upon the farther side of it, with only good greenswardbetween, was the rider upon the white horse. Already he was so near thatNigel could see him clearly, a young cavalier, proud in his bearing,clad in purple silk tunic with a red curling feather in his low blackcap. He wore no armor, but his sword gleamed at his side. He rode easilyand carelessly, as one who cares for no man, and his eyes were foreverfixed upon the English soldiers on the road. So intent was he upon themthat he gave no thought to his own safety, and it was only when the lowthunder of the great horse's hoofs broke upon his ears that he turned inhis saddle, looked very coolly and steadily at Nigel, then gave his ownbridle a shake and darted off, swift as a hawk, toward the hills uponthe left.

  Pommers had met his match that day. The white horse, two parts Arab,bore the lighter weight, since Nigel was clad in full armor. For fivemiles over the open neither gained a hundred yards upon the other.They had topped the hill and flew down the farther side, the strangercontinually turning in his saddle to have a look at his pursuer. Therewas no panic in his flight, but rather the amused rivalry with whicha good horseman who is proud of his mount contends with one who haschallenged him. Below the hill was a marshy plain, studded with greatDruidic stones, some prostrate, some erect, some bearing others acrosstheir tops like the huge doors of some vanished building. A path ranthrough the marsh with green rushes as a danger signal on either side ofit. Across this path many of the huge stones were lying, but the whitehorse cleared them in its stride and Pommers followed close upon hisheels. Then came a mile of soft ground where the lighter weight againdrew to the front, but it ended in a dry upland and once again Nigelgained. A sunken road crossed it, but the white cleared it with a mightyspring, and again the yellow followed. Two small hills lay before themwith a narrow gorge of deep bushes between. Nigel saw the white horsebounding chest-deep amid the underwood.

  Next instant its hind legs were high in the air, and the rider had beenshot from its back. A howl of triumph rose from amidst the bushes, anda dozen wild figures armed with club and with spear, rushed upon theprostrate man.

  "A moi, Anglais, a moi!" cried a voice, and Nigel saw the young riderstagger to his feet, strike round him with his sword, and then fall oncemore before the rush of his assailants.

  There was a comradeship among men of gentle blood and bearing whichbanded them together against all ruffianly or unchivalrous attack. Theserude fellows were no soldiers. Their dress and arms, their uncouth criesand wild assault, marked them as banditti--such men as had slain theEnglishman upon the road. Waiting in narrow gorges with a hidden ropeacross the path, they watched for the lonely horseman as a fowler waitsby his bird-trap, trusting that they could overthrow the steed and thenslay the rider ere he had recovered from his fall.

  Such would have been the fate of the stranger, as of so many cavaliersbefore him, had Nigel not chanced to be close upon his heels. In aninstant Pommers had burst through the group who struck at the prostrateman, and in another two of the robbers had fallen before Nigel's sword.A spear rang on his breastplate, but one blow shore off its head, anda second that of him who held it. In vain they thrust at the steel-girtman. His sword played round them like lightning, and the fierce horseramped and sw
ooped above them with pawing iron-shod hoofs and eyes offire. With cries and shrieks they flew off to right and left amidstthe bushes, springing over boulders and darting under branches whereno horseman could follow them. The foul crew had gone as swiftly andsuddenly as it had come, and save for four ragged figures litteredamongst the trampled bushes, no sign remaining of their passing.

  Nigel tethered Pommers to a thorn-bush and then turned his attentionto the injured man. The white horse had regained his feet and stoodwhinnying gently as he looked down on his prostrate master. A heavyblow, half broken by his sword, had beaten him down and left a great rawbruise upon his forehead. But a stream gurgled through the gorge, anda capful of water dashed over his face brought the senses back to theinjured man. He was a mere stripling, with the delicate features of awoman, and a pair of great violet-blue eyes which looked up presentlywith a puzzled stare into Nigel's face.

  "Who are you?" he asked. "Ah yes! I call you to mind. You are the youngEnglishman who chased me on the great yellow horse. By our Lady ofRocamadour whose vernicle is round my neck! I could not have believedthat any horse could have kept at the heels of Charlemagne so long. ButI will wager you a hundred crowns, Englishman, that I lead you over afive-mile course."

  "Nay," said Nigel, "we will wait till you can back a horse ere we talkof racing it. I am Nigel of Tilford, of the family of Loring, a squireby rank and the son of a knight. How are you called, young sir?"

  "I also am a squire by rank and the son of a knight. I am Raoul de laRoche Pierre de Bras, whose father writes himself Lord of Grosbois, afree vavasor of the noble Count of Toulouse, with the right of fossaand of furca, the high justice, the middle and the low." He sat up andrubbed his eyes. "Englishman, you have saved my life as I would havesaved yours, had I seen such yelping dogs set upon a man of blood and ofcoat-armor. But now I am yours, and what is your sweet will?"

  "When you are fit to ride, you will come back with me to my people."

  "Alas! I feared that you would say so. Had I taken you, Nigel--that isyour name, is it not?--had I taken you, I would not have acted thus."

  "How then would you have ordered things?" asked Nigel, much taken withthe frank and debonair manner of his captive.

  "I would not have taken advantage of such a mischance as has befallen mewhich has put me in your power. I would give you a sword and beat youin fair fight, so that I might send you to give greeting to my dear ladyand show her the deeds which I do for her fair sake."

  "Indeed, your words are both good and fair," said Nigel. "By SaintPaul! I cannot call to mind that I have ever met a man who bore himselfbetter. But since I am in my armor and you without, I see not how we candebate the matter."

  "Surely, gentle Nigel, you could doff your armor."

  "Then have I only my underclothes."

  "Nay, there shall be no unfairness there, for I also will very gladlystrip to my underclothes."

  Nigel looked wistfully at the Frenchman; but he shook his head. "Alas!it may not be," said he. "The last words that Sir Robert said to me werethat I was to bring you to his side, for he would have speech with you.Would that I could do what you ask, for I also have a fair lady towhom I would fain send you. What use are you to me, Raoul, since I havegained no honor in the taking of you? How is it with you now?"

  The young Frenchman had risen to his feet. "Do not take my sword," hesaid. "I am yours, rescue or no rescue. I think now that I could mountmy horse, though indeed my head still rings like a cracked bell."

  Nigel had lost all traces of his comrades; but he remembered SirRobert's words that he should ride upon the sun with the certainty thatsooner or later he would strike upon the road. As they jogged slowlyalong over undulating hills, the Frenchman shook off his hurt and thetwo chatted merrily together.

  "I had but just come from France," said he, "and I had hoped to winhonor in this country, for I have ever heard that the English are veryhardy men and excellent people to fight with. My mules and my baggageare at Evran; but I rode forth to see what I could see, and I chancedupon your army moving down the road, so I coasted it in the hopes ofsome profit or adventure. Then you came after me and I would have givenall the gold goblets upon my father's table if I had my harness so thatI could have turned upon you. I have promised the Countess Beatrice thatI will send her an Englishman or two to kiss her hands."

  "One might perchance have a worse fate," said Nigel. "Is this fair dameyour betrothed?"

  "She is my love," answered the Frenchman. "We are but waiting for theCount to be slain in the wars, and then we mean to marry. And this ladyof thine, Nigel? I would that I could see her."

  "Perchance you shall, fair sir," said Nigel, "for all that I have seenof you fills me with desire to go further with you. It is in my mindthat we might turn this thing to profit and to honor, for when SirRobert has spoken with you, I am free to do with you as I will."

  "And what will you do, Nigel?"

  "We shall surely try some small deed upon each other, so that either Ishall see the Lady Beatrice, or you the Lady Mary. Nay, thank me not,for like yourself, I have come to this country in search of honor, and Iknow not where I may better find it than at the end of your sword-point.My good lord and master, Sir John Chandos, has told me many times thatnever yet did he meet French knight nor squire that he did not findgreat pleasure and profit from their company, and now I very clearly seethat he has spoken the truth."

  For an hour these two friends rode together, the Frenchman pouring forththe praises of his lady, whose glove he produced from one pocket, hergarter from his vest, and her shoe from his saddle-bag. She was blond,and when he heard that Mary was dark, he would fain stop then and thereto fight the question of color. He talked too of his great chateau atLauta, by the head waters of the pleasant Garonne; of the hundred horsesin the stables, the seventy hounds in the kennels, the fifty hawks inthe mews. His English friend should come there when the wars wereover, and what golden days would be theirs! Nigel too, with his Englishcoldness thawing before this young sunbeam of the South, found himselftalking of the heather slopes of Surrey, of the forest of Woolmer, evenof the sacred chambers of Cosford.

  But as they rode onward towards the sinking sun, their thoughts far awayin their distant homes, their horses striding together, there came thatwhich brought their minds back in an instant to the perilous hillsidesof Brittany.

  It was the long blast of a trumpet blown from somewhere on the fartherside of a ridge toward which they were riding. A second long-drawn notefrom a distance answered it.

  "It is your camp," said the Frenchman.

  "Nay," said Nigel; "we have pipes with us and a naker or two, but I haveheard no trumpet-call from our ranks. It behooves us to take heed, forwe know not what may be before us. Ride this way, I pray you, that wemay look over and yet be ourselves unseen."

  Some scattered boulders crowned the height, and from behind them the twoyoung Squires could see the long rocky valley beyond. Upon a knoll was asmall square building with a battlement round it. Some distance from ittowered a great dark castle, as massive as the rocks on which it stood,with one strong keep at the corner, and four long lines of machicolatedwalls. Above, a great banner flew proudly in the wind, with some devicewhich glowed red in the setting sun. Nigel shaded his eyes and staredwith wrinkled brow.

  "It is not the arms of England, nor yet the lilies of France, nor is itthe ermine of Brittany," said he. "He who holds this castle fights forhis own hand, since his own device flies above it. Surely it is a headgules on an argent field."

  "The bloody head on a silver tray!" cried the Frenchman. "Was I notwarned against him? This is not a man, friend Nigel. It is a monster whowars upon English, French and all Christendom. Have you not heard of theButcher of La Brohiniere?"

  "Nay, I have not heard of him."

  "His name is accursed in France. Have I not been told also that heput to death this very year Gilles de St. Pol, a friend of the EnglishKing?"

  "Yes, in very truth it comes back to my mind now that I heard som
ethingof this matter in Calais before we started."

  "Then there he dwells, and God guard you if ever you pass under yonderportal, for no prisoner has ever come forth alive! Since these warsbegan he hath been a king to himself, and the plunder of eleven yearslies in yonder cellars. How can justice come to him, when no man knowswho owns the land? But when we have packed you all back to your island,by the Blessed Mother of God, we have a heavy debt to pay to the man whodwells in yonder pile!"

  But even as they watched, the trumpet-call burst forth once more. Itcame not from the castle but from the farther end of the valley. It wasanswered by a second call from the walls. Then in a long, stragglingline there came a wild troop of marauders streaming homeward from someforay. In the van, at the head of a body of spearmen, rode a tall andburly man, clad in brazen armor, so that he shone like a golden imagein the slanting rays of the sun. His helmet had been loosened from hisgorget and was held before him on his horse's neck. A great tangledbeard flowed over his breastplate, and his hair hung down as far behind.A squire at his elbow bore high the banner of the bleeding head. Behindthe spearmen were a line of heavily laden mules, and on either sideof them a drove of poor country folk, who were being herded into thecastle. Lastly came a second strong troop of mounted spearmen, whoconducted a score or more of prisoners who marched together in a solidbody.

  Nigel stared at them and then, springing on his horse, he urged it alongthe shelter of the ridge so as to reach unseen a spot which was closeto the castle gate. He had scarce taken up his new position when thecavalcade reached the drawbridge, and amid yells of welcome from thoseupon the wall, filed in a thin line across it. Nigel stared hard oncemore at the prisoners in the rear, and so absorbed was he by the sightthat he had passed the rocks and was standing sheer upon the summit.

  "By Saint Paul!" he cried, "it must indeed be so. I see their russetjackets. They are English archers!"

  As he spoke, the hindmost one, a strongly built, broad-shouldered man,looked round and saw the gleaming figure above him upon the hill, withopen helmet, and the five roses glowing upon his breast. With a sweep ofhis hands he had thrust his guardians aside and for a moment was clearof the throng.

  "Squire Loring! Squire Loring!" he cried. "It is I, Aylward the archer!It is I, Samkin Aylward!" The next minute a dozen hands had seized him,his cries were muffled with a gag, and he was hurled, the last of theband, through the black and threatening archway of the gate. Then with aclang the two iron wings came together, the portcullis swung upward, andcaptives and captors, robbers and booty, were all swallowed up withinthe grim and silent fortress.