XXVI. HOW NIGEL FOUND HIS THIRD DEED
Four archers lay behind a clump of bushes ten yards in front of thethick hedge which shielded their companions. Amid the long line ofbowmen those behind them were their own company, and in the main thesame who were with Knolles in Brittany. The four in front were theirleaders: old Wat of Carlisle, Ned Widdington the red-headed Dalesman,the bald bowyer Bartholomew, and Samkin Alyward, newly rejoined after aweek's absence. All four were munching bread and apples, for Aylward hadbrought in a full haversack and divided them freely amongst hisstarving comrades. The old Borderer and the Yorkshireman were gaunt andhollow-eyed with privation, while the bowyer's round face had fallen inso that the skin hung in loose pouches under his eyes and beneath hisjaws.
Behind them lines of haggard, wolfish men glared through the underwood,silent and watchful save that they burst into a fierce yelp of welcomewhen Chandos and Nigel galloped up, sprang from their horses and tooktheir station beneath them. All along the green fringe of bowmen mightbe seen the steel-clad figures of knights and squires who had pushedtheir way into the front line to share the fortune of the archers.
"I call to mind that I once shot six ends with a Kentish woldsman atAshford--" began the Bowyer.
"Nay, nay, we have heard that story!" said old Wat impatiently. "Shutthy clap, Bartholomew, for it is no time for redeless gossip! Walk downthe line, I pray you, and see if there be no frayed string, nor brokennock nor loosened whipping to be mended."
The stout bowyer passed down the fringe of bowmen, amidst a running fireof rough wit. Here and there a bow was thrust out at him through thehedge for his professional advice.
"Wax your heads!" he kept crying. "Pass down the wax-pot and wax yourheads. A waxed arrow will pass where a dry will be held. Tom Beverley,you jack-fool! where is your bracer-guard? Your string will flay yourarm ere you reach your up-shot this day. And you, Watkin, draw not toyour mouth, as is your wont, but to your shoulder. You are so used tothe wine-pot that the string must needs follow it. Nay, stand loose, andgive space for your drawing arms, for they will be on us anon."
He ran back and joined his comrades in the front, who had now risen totheir feet. Behind them a half-mile of archers stood behind the hedge,each with his great warbow strung, half a dozen shafts loose behind him,and eighteen more in the quiver slung across his front. With arrowon string, their feet firm-planted, their fierce eager faces peeringthrough the branches, they awaited the coming storm.
The broad flood of steel, after oozing slowly forward, had stopped abouta mile from the English front. The greater part of the army had thendescended from their horses, while a crowd of varlets and hostlers ledthem to the rear. The French formed themselves now into three greatdivisions, which shimmered in the sun like silvery pools, reed-cappedwith many a thousand of banners and pennons. A space of several hundredyards divided each. At the same time two bodies of horsemen formedthemselves in front. The first consisted of three hundred men in onethick column, the second of a thousand, riding in a more extended line.
The Prince had ridden up to the line of archers. He was in dark armor,his visor open, and his handsome aquiline face all glowing with spiritand martial fire. The bowmen yelled at him, and he waved his hands tothem as a huntsman cheers his hounds.
"Well, John, what think you now?" he asked. "What would my noble fathernot give to be by our side this day? Have you seen that they have lefttheir horses?"
"Yes, my fair lord, they have learned their lesson," said Chandos."Because we have had good fortune upon our feet at Crecy and elsewherethey think that they have found the trick of it. But it is in my mindthat it is very different to stand when you are assailed, as we havedone, and to assail others when you must drag your harness for a mileand come weary to the fray."
"You speak wisely, John. But these horsemen who form in front and rideslowly towards us, what make you of them?"
"Doubtless they hope to cut the strings of our bowmen and so clear a wayfor the others. But they are indeed a chosen band, for mark you,fair sir, are not those the colors of Clermont upon the left, andof d'Andreghen upon the right, so that both marshals ride with thevanguard?"
"By God's soul, John!" cried the Prince, "it is very sure that you cansee more with one eye than any man in this army with two. But it is evenas you say. And this larger band behind?"
"They should be Germans, fair sir, by the fashion of their harness."
The two bodies of horsemen had moved slowly over the plain, with aspace of nearly a quarter of a mile between them. Now, having come twobowshots from the hostile line, they halted. All that they could seeof the English was the long hedge, with an occasional twinkle of steelthrough its leafy branches, and behind that the spear-heads of themen-at-arms rising from amidst the brushwood and the vines. A lovelyautumn countryside with changing many-tinted foliage lay stretchedbefore them, all bathed in peaceful sunshine, and nothing save thoseflickering fitful gleams to tell of the silent and lurking enemy whobarred their way. But the bold spirit of the French cavaliers rose thehigher to the danger. The clamor of their war-cries filled the air,and they tossed their pennoned spears over their heads in menace anddefiance. From the English line it was a noble sight, the gallant,pawing, curveting horses, the many-colored twinkling riders, the swoopand wave and toss of plume and banner.
Then a bugle rang forth. With a sudden yell every spur struck deep,every lance was laid in rest, and the whole gallant squadron flew like aglittering thunderbolt for the center of the English line.
A hundred yards they had crossed, and yet another hundred, but therewas no movement in front of them, and no sound save their own hoarsebattle-cries and the thunder of their horses. Ever swifter and swifterthey flew. From behind the hedge it was a vision of horses, white,bay and black, their necks stretched, their nostrils distended, theirbellies to the ground, whilst of the rider one could but see a shieldwith a plume-tufted visor above it, and a spear-head twinkling in front.
Then of a sudden the Prince raised his hand and gave a cry. Chandosechoed it, it swelled down the line, and with one mighty chorus oftwanging strings and hissing shafts the long-pent storm broke at last.
Alas for the noble steeds! Alas for the gallant men. When the lust ofbattle is over who would not grieve to see that noble squadron breakinto red ruin before the rain of arrows beating upon the faces andbreasts of the horses? The front rank crashed down, and the others piledthemselves upon the top of them, unable to check their speed, or toswerve aside from the terrible wall of their shattered comrades whichhad so suddenly sprung up before them. Fifteen feet high was thatblood-spurting mound of screaming, kicking horses and writhing,struggling men. Here and there on the flanks a horseman cleared himselfand dashed for the hedge, only to have his steed slain under him and tobe hurled from his saddle. Of all the three hundred gallant riders, notone ever reached that fatal hedge.
But now in a long rolling wave of steel the German battalion roaredswiftly onward. They opened in the center to pass that terrible moundof death, and then spurred swiftly in upon the archers. They were bravemen, well led, and in their open lines they could avoid the clubbingtogether which had been the ruin of the vanguard; yet they perishedsingly even as the others had perished together. A few were slain by thearrows. The greater number had their horses killed under them, and wereso shaken and shattered by the fall that they could not raise theirlimbs, over-weighted with iron, from the spot where they lay.
Three men riding together broke through the bushes which sheltered theleaders of the archers, cut down Widdington the Dalesman, spurred onwardthrough the hedge, dashed over the bowmen behind it, and made for thePrince. One fell with an arrow through his head, a second was beatenfrom his saddle by Chandos, and the third was slain by the Prince's ownhand. A second band broke through near the river, but were cut off byLord Audley and his squires, so that all were slain. A single horsemanwhose steed was mad with pain, an arrow in its eye and a second in itsnostril, sprang over the hedge and clattered through the whole army,
disappearing amid whoops and laughter into the woods behind. But noneothers won as far as the hedge. The whole front of the position wasfringed with a litter of German wounded or dead, while one great heap inthe center marked the downfall of the gallant French three hundred.
Whilst these two waves of the attack had broken in front of the Englishposition, leaving this blood-stained wreckage behind them, the maindivisions had halted and made their last preparations for their ownassault. They had not yet begun their advance, and the nearest was stillhalf a mile distant, when the few survivors from the forlorn hope, theirmaddened horses bristling with arrows, flew past them on either flank.
At the same moment the English archers and men-at-arms dashed throughthe hedge, and dragged all who were living out of that tangled heap ofshattered horses and men. It was a mad wild rush, for in a few minutesthe fight must be renewed, and yet there was a rich harvest of wealthfor the lucky man who could pick a wealthy prisoner from amid the crowd.The nobler spirits disdained to think of ransoms whilst the fight wasstill unsettled; but a swarm of needy soldiers, Gascons and English,dragged the wounded out by the leg or the arm, and with daggers at theirthroats demanded their names, title and means. He who had made a goodprize hurried him to the rear where his own servants could guard him,while he who was disappointed too often drove the dagger home and thenrushed once more into the tangle in the hope of better luck. Clermont,with an arrow through the sky-blue Virgin on his surcoat, lay deadwithin ten paces of the hedge; d'Andreghen was dragged by a pennilesssquire from under a horse and became his prisoner. The Earl of Salzburgand of Nassau were both found helpless on the ground and taken to therear. Aylward cast his thick arms round Count Otto von Langenbeck, andlaid him, helpless from a broken leg, behind his bush. Black Simon hadmade prize of Bernard, Count of Ventadour, and hurried him throughthe hedge. Everywhere there was rushing and shouting, brawling andbuffeting, while amidst it all a swarm of archers were seeking theirshafts, plucking them from the dead, and sometimes even from thewounded. Then there was a sudden cry of warning. In a moment every manwas back in his place once more, and the line of the hedge was clear.
It was high time; for already the first division of the French was closeupon them. If the charge of the horsemen had been terrible from its rushand its fire, this steady advance of a huge phalanx of armored footmenwas even more fearsome to the spectator. They moved very slowly, onaccount of the weight of their armor, but their progress was the moreregular and inexorable. With elbows touching--their shields slung infront, their short five-foot spears carried in their right hands,and their maces or swords ready at their belts, the deep column ofmen-at-arms moved onward. Again the storm of arrows beat upon themclinking and thudding on the armor. They crouched double behind theirshields as they met it. Many fell, but still the slow tide lappedonward. Yelling, they surged up to the hedge, and lined it for half amile, struggling hard to pierce it.
For five minutes the long straining ranks faced each other with fiercestab of spear on one side and heavy beat of ax or mace upon the other.In many parts the hedge was pierced or leveled to the ground, and theFrench men-at-arms were raging amongst the archers, hacking and hewingamong the lightly armed men. For a moment it seemed as if the battle wason the turn.
But John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, cool, wise and crafty in war, saw andseized his chance. On the right flank a marshy meadow skirted the river.So soft was it that a heavily-armed man would sink to his knees. At hisorder a spray of light bowmen was thrown out from the battle line andforming upon the flank of the French poured their arrows into them. Atthe same moment Chandos, with Audley, Nigel, Bartholomew Burghersh, theCaptal de Buch, and a score of other knights sprang upon their horses,and charging down the narrow lane rode over the French line in front ofthem. Once through it they spurred to left and right, trampling down thedismounted men-at-arms.
A fearsome sight was Pommers that day, his red eyes rolling, hisnostrils gaping, his tawny mane tossing, and his savage teeth gnashingin fury, as he tore and smashed and ground beneath his ramping hoofsall that came before him. Fearsome too was the rider, ice-cool; alert,concentrated of purpose, with, heart of fire and muscles of steel. Avery angel of battle he seemed as he drove his maddened horse throughthe thickest of the press, but strive as he would: the tall figure ofhis master upon his coal-black steed was ever half a length before him.
Already the moment of danger was passed. The French line had given back.Those who had pierced the hedge had fallen like brave men amid theranks of their foemen. The division of Warwick had hurried up from thevineyards to fill the gaps of Salisbury's battle-line. Back rolled theshining tide, slowly at first, even as it had advanced, but quickernow as the bolder fell and the weaker shredded out and shuffled withungainly speed for a place of safety. Again there was a rush from behindthe hedge. Again there was a reaping of that strange crop of beardedarrows which grew so thick upon the ground, and again the woundedprisoners were seized and dragged in brutal haste to the rear. Then theline was restored, and the English, weary, panting and shaken, awaitedthe next attack.
But a great good fortune had come to them--so great that as they lookeddown the valley they could scarce credit their own senses. Behind thedivision of the Dauphin, which had pressed them so hard, stood a seconddivision hardly less numerous, led by the Duke of Orleans. The fugitivesfrom in front, blood-smeared and bedraggled, blinded with sweat and withfear, rushed amidst its ranks in their flight, and in a moment, withouta blow being struck, had carried them off in their wild rout. This vastarray, so solid and so martial, thawed suddenly away like a snow-wreathin the sun. It was gone, and in its place thousands of shining dotsscattered over the whole plain as each man made his own way to the spotwhere he could find his horse and bear himself from the field. For amoment it seemed that the battle was won, and a thundershout of joypealed up from the English line.
But as the curtain of the Duke's division was drawn away it was only todisclose stretching far behind it, and spanning the valley from sideto side, the magnificent array of the French King, solid, unshaken, andpreparing its ranks for the attack. Its numbers were as great as thoseof the English army; it was unscathed by all that was past, and it had avaliant monarch to lead it to the charge. With the slow deliberation ofthe man who means to do or to die, its leader marshaled its ranks forthe supreme effort of the day.
Meanwhile during that brief moment of exultation when the battleappeared to be won, a crowd of hot-headed young knights and squiresswarmed and clamored round the Prince, beseeching that he would allowthem to ride forth.
"See this insolent fellow who bears three martlets upon a field gales!"cried Sir Maurice Berkeley. "He stands betwixt the two armies as thoughhe had no dread of us."
"I pray you, sir, that I may ride out to him, since he seems ready toattempt some small deed," pleaded Nigel.
"Nay, fair sirs, it is an evil thing that we should break our line,seeing that we still have much to do," said the Prince. "See! he ridesaway, and so the matter is settled."
"Nay, fair prince," said the young knight who had spoken first. "My grayhorse, Lebryte, could run him down ere he could reach shelter. Neversince I left Severn side have I seen steed so fleet as mine. Shall Inot show you?" In an instant he had spurred the charger and was speedingacross the plain.
The Frenchman, John de Helennes, a squire of Picardy, had waited with aburning heart, his soul sick at the flight of the division in which hehad ridden. In the hope of doing some redeeming exploit, or of meetinghis own death, he had loitered betwixt the armies, but no movement hadcome from the English lines. Now he had turned his horse's head to jointhe King's array, when the low drumming of hoofs sounded behind him,and he turned to find a horseman hard upon his heels. Each had drawn hissword, and the two armies paused to view the fight. In the first boutSir Maurice Berkeley's lance was struck from his hand, and as he sprangdown to recover it the Frenchman ran him through the thigh, dismountedfrom his horse, and received his surrender. As the unfortunateEnglishman hobbled away at th
e side of his captor a roar of laughterburst from both armies at the spectacle.
"By my ten finger-bones!" cried Aylward, chuckling behind the remainsof his bush, "he found more on his distaff that time than he knew how tospin. Who was the knight?"
"By his arms," said old Wat, "he should either be a Berkeley of the Westor a Popham of Kent."
"I call to mind that I shot a match of six ends once with a Kentishwoldsman--" began the fat Bowyer.
"Nay, nay, stint thy talk, Bartholomew!" cried old Wat. "Here is poorNed with his head cloven, and it would be more fitting if you weresaying aves for his soul, instead of all this bobance and boasting. Now,now, Tom of Beverley?"
"We have suffered sorely in this last bout, Wat. There are forty of ourmen upon their backs, and the Dean Foresters on the right are in worsecase still."
"Talking will not mend it, Tom, and if all but one were on their backshe must still hold his ground."
Whilst the archers were chatting, the leaders of the army were insolemn conclave just behind them. Two divisions of the French had beenrepulsed, and yet there was many an anxious face as the older knightslooked across the plain at the unbroken array of the French Kingmoving slowly toward them. The line of the archers was much thinned andshredded. Many knights and squires had been disabled in the long andfierce combat at the hedge. Others, exhausted by want of food, had nostrength left and were stretched panting upon the ground. Some wereengaged in carrying the wounded to the rear and laying them under theshelter of the trees, whilst others were replacing their broken swordsor lances from the weapons of the slain. The Captal de Buch, brave andexperienced as he was, frowned darkly and whispered his misgivings toChandos.
But the Prince's courage flamed the higher as the shadow fell, while hisdark eyes gleamed with a soldier's pride as he glanced round him at hisweary comrades, and then at the dense masses of the King's battle whichnow, with a hundred trumpets blaring and a thousand pennons waving,rolled slowly over the plain. "Come what may, John, this has been a mostnoble meeting," said he. "They will not be ashamed of us in England.Take heart, my friends, for if we conquer we shall carry the glory everwith us; but if we be slain then we die most worshipfully and in highhonor, as we have ever prayed that we might die, and we leave behindus our brothers and kinsmen who will assuredly avenge us. It is but onemore effort, and all will be well. Warwick, Oxford, Salisbury, Suffolk,every man to the front! My banner to the front also! Your horses, fairsirs! The archers are spent, and our own good lances must win thefield this day. Advance, Walter, and may God and Saint George be withEngland!"
Sir Walter Woodland, riding a high black horse, took station by thePrince, with the royal banner resting in a socket by his saddle. Fromall sides the knights and squires crowded in upon it, until they formeda great squadron containing the survivors of the battalions of Warwickand Salisbury as well as those of the Prince. Four hundred men-at-armswho had been held in reserve were brought up and thickened the array,but even so Chandos' face was grave as he scanned it and then turned hiseyes upon the masses of the Frenchmen.
"I like it not, fair sir. The weight is overgreat," he whispered to thePrince.
"How would you order it, John? Speak what is in your mind."
"We should attempt something upon their flank whilst we hold them infront. How say you, Jean?" He turned to the Captal de Buch, whose dark,resolute face reflected the same misgivings.
"Indeed, John, I think as you do," said he. "The French King is a veryvaliant man, and so are those who are about him, and I know not how wemay drive them back unless we can do as you advise. If you will give meonly a hundred men I will attempt it."
"Surely the task is mine, fair sir, since the thought has come from me,"said Chandos.
"Nay, John, I would keep you at my side. But you speak well, Jean, andyou shall do even as you have said. Go ask the Earl of Oxford for ahundred men-at-arms and as many hobblers, that you may ride round themound yonder, and so fall upon them unseen. Let all that are left of thearchers gather on each side, shoot away their arrows, and then fightas best they may. Wait till they are past yonder thorn-bush and then,Walter, bear my banner straight against that of the King of France. Fairsirs, may God and the thought of your ladies hold high your hearts!"
The French monarch, seeing that his footmen had made no impression uponthe English, and also that the hedge had been well-nigh leveled to theground in the course of the combat, so that it no longer presented anobstacle, had ordered his followers to remount their horses, and it wasas a solid mass of cavalry that the chivalry of France advanced totheir last supreme effort. The King was in the center of the frontline, Geoffrey de Chargny with the golden oriflamme upon his right, andEustace de Ribeaumont with the royal lilies upon the left. At his elbowwas the Duke of Athens, High Constable of France, and round him were thenobles of the court, fiery and furious, yelling their warcries as theywaved their weapons over their heads. Six thousand gallant men ofthe bravest race in Europe, men whose very names are like blasts ofa battle-trumpet--Beaujeus and Chatillons, Tancarvilles andVentadours--pressed hard behind the silver lilies.
Slowly they moved at first, walking their horses that they might be thefresher for the shock. Then they broke into a trot which was quickeninginto a gallop when the remains of the hedge in front of them wasbeaten in an instant to the ground and the broad line of the steel-cladchivalry of England swept grandly forth to the final shock. With looserein and busy spur the two lines of horsemen galloped at the top oftheir speed straight and hard for each other. An instant later theymet with a thunder-crash which was heard by the burghers on the wall ofPoitiers, seven good miles away.
Under that frightful impact horses fell dead with broken necks, and manya rider, held in his saddle by the high pommel, fractured his thighswith the shock. Here and there a pair met breast to breast, the horsesrearing straight upward and falling back upon their masters. But for themost part the line had opened in the gallop, and the cavaliers, flyingthrough the gaps, buried themselves in the enemy's ranks. Then theflanks shredded out, and the thick press in the center loosened untilthere was space to swing a sword and to guide a steed. For ten acresthere was one wild tumultuous swirl of tossing heads, of gleamingweapons which rose and fell, of upthrown hands, of tossing plumes andof lifted shields, whilst the din of a thousand war-cries and theclash-clash of metal upon metal rose and swelled like the roar and beatof an ocean surge upon a rock-bound coast. Backward and forward swayedthe mighty throng, now down the valley and now up, as each side in turnput forth its strength for a fresh rally. Locked in one long deadlygrapple, great England and gallant France with iron hearts and souls offire strove and strove for mastery.
Sir Walter Woodland, riding hard upon his high black horse, had plungedinto the swelter and headed for the blue and silver banner of King John.Close at his heels in a solid wedge rode the Prince, Chandos, Nigel,Lord Reginald Cobham, Audley with his four famous squires, and a scoreof the flower of the English and Gascon knighthood. Holding together andbearing down opposition by a shower of blows and by the weight of theirpowerful horses, their progress was still very slow, for ever freshwaves of French cavaliers surged up against them and broke in front onlyto close in again upon their rear. Sometimes they were swept backwardby the rush, sometimes they gained a few paces, sometimes they could butkeep their foothold, and yet from minute to minute that blue and silverflag which waved above the press grew ever a little closer. A dozenfurious hard-breathing French knights had broken into their ranks, andclutched at Sir Walter Woodland's banner, but Chandos and Nigel guardedit on one side, Audley with his squires on the other, so that no manlaid his hand upon it and lived.
But now there was a distant crash and a roar of "Saint George forGuienne!" from behind. The Captal de Buch had charged home. "SaintGeorge for England!" yelled the main attack, and ever the counter-crycame back to them from afar. The ranks opened in front of them. TheFrench were giving way. A small knight with golden scroll-work upon hisarmor threw himself upon the Prince and was stru
ck dead by his mace. Itwas the Duke of Athens, Constable of France, but none had time to noteit, and the fight rolled on over his body. Looser still were the Frenchranks. Many were turning their horses, for that ominous roar fromthe rear had shaken their resolution. The little English wedge pouredonward, the Prince, Chandos, Audley and Nigel ever in the van.
A huge warrior in black, bearing a golden banner, appeared suddenly ina gap of the shredding ranks. He tossed his precious burden to a squire,who bore it away. Like a pack of hounds on the very haunch of a deer theEnglish rushed yelling for the oriflamme. But the black warrior flunghimself across their path. "Chargny! Chargny a la recousse!" heroared with a voice of thunder. Sir Reginald Cobham dropped before hisbattle-ax, so did the Gascon de Clisson. Nigel was beaten down on tothe crupper of his horse by a sweeping blow; but at the same instantChandos' quick blade passed through the Frenchman's camail and piercedhis throat. So died Geoffrey de Chargny; but the oriflamme was saved.
Dazed with the shock, Nigel still kept his saddle, and Pommers, hisyellow hide mottled with blood, bore him onward with the others. TheFrench horsemen were now in full flight; but one stern group of knightsstood firm, like a rock in a rushing torrent, beating off all, whetherfriend or foe, who tried to break their ranks. The oriflamme had gone,and so had the blue and silver banner, but here were desperate men readyto fight to the death. In their ranks honor was to be reaped. The Princeand his following hurled themselves upon them, while the rest of theEnglish horsemen swept onward to secure the fugitives and to win theirransoms. But the nobler spirits--Audley, Chandos and the others--wouldhave thought it shame to gain money whilst there was work to be done orhonor to be won. Furious was the wild attack, desperate the prolongeddefense. Men fell from their saddles for very exhaustion.
Nigel, still at his place near Chandos' elbow, was hotly attacked bya short broad-shouldered warrior upon a stout white cob, but Pommersreared with pawing fore feet and dashed the smaller horse to the ground.The falling rider clutched Nigel's arm and tore him from the saddle, sothat the two rolled upon the grass under the stamping hoofs, the Englishsquire on the top, and his shortened sword glimmered before the visor ofthe gasping, breathless Frenchman.
"Je me rends! je axe rends!" he panted.
For a moment a vision of rich ransoms passed through Nigel's brain. Thatnoble palfrey, that gold-flecked armor, meant fortune to the captor. Letothers have it! There was work still to be done. How could he desertthe Prince and his noble master for the sake of a private gain? Couldhe lead a prisoner to the rear when honor beckoned him to the van? Hestaggered to his feet, seized Pommers by the mane, and swung himselfinto the saddle.
An instant later he was by Chandos' side once more and they werebursting together through the last ranks of the gallant group who hadfought so bravely to the end. Behind them was one long swath of thedead and the wounded. In front the whole wide plain was covered with theflying French and their pursuers.
The Prince reined up his steed and opened his visor, whilst hisfollowers crowded round him with waving weapons and frenzied shoutsof victory. "What now, John!" cried the smiling Prince, wiping hisstreaming face with his ungauntleted hand. "How fares it then?"
"I am little hurt, fair lord, save for a crushed hand and a spear-prickin the shoulder. But you, sir? I trust you have no scathe?"
"In truth, John, with you at one elbow and Lord Audley at the other, Iknow not how I could come to harm. But alas! I fear that Sir James issorely stricken."
The gallant Lord Audley had dropped upon the ground and the blood oozedfrom every crevice of his battered armor. His four brave Squires--Duttonof Dutton, Delves of Doddington, Fowlhurst of Crewe and Hawkstone ofWainhill--wounded and weary themselves, but with no thought save fortheir master, unlaced his helmet and bathed his pallid blood-stainedface.
He looked up at the Prince with burning eyes. "I thank you, sir, fordeigning to consider so poor a knight as myself," said he in a feeblevoice.
The Prince dismounted and bent over him. "I am bound to honor you verymuch, James," said he, "for by your valor this day you have won gloryand renown above us all, and your prowess has proved you to be thebravest knight."
"My Lord," murmured the wounded man, "you have a right to say what youplease; but I wish it were as you say."
"James," said the Prince, "from this time onward I make you a knightof my own household, and I settle upon you five hundred marks of yearlyincome from my own estates in England."
"Sir," the knight answered, "God make me worthy of the good fortune youbestow upon me. Your knight I will ever be, and the money I will dividewith your leave amongst these four squires who have brought me whateverglory I have won this day." So saying his head fell back, and he laywhite and silent upon the grass.
"Bring water!" said the Prince. "Let the royal leech see to him; for Ihad rather lose many men than the good Sir James. Ha, Chandos, what havewe here?"
A knight lay across the path with his helmet beaten down upon hisshoulders. On his surcoat and shield were the arms of a red griffin.
"It is Robert de Duras the spy," said Chandos.
"Well for him that he has met his end," said the angry Prince. "Put himon his shield, Hubert, and let four archers bear him to the monastery.Lay him at the feet of the Cardinal and say that by this sign I greethim. Place my flag on yonder high bush, Walter, and let my tent beraised there, that my friends may know where to seek me."
The flight and pursuit had thundered far away, and the field wasdeserted save for the numerous groups of weary horsemen who were makingtheir way back, driving their prisoners before them. The archers werescattered over the whole plain, rifling the saddle-bags and gatheringthe armor of those who had fallen, or searching for their own scatteredarrows.
Suddenly, however, as the Prince was turning toward the bush which hehad chosen for his headquarters, there broke out from behind him anextraordinary uproar and a group of knights and squires came pouringtoward him, all arguing, swearing and abusing each other in French andEnglish at the tops of their voices. In the midst of them limped a stoutlittle man in gold-spangled armor, who appeared to be the object of thecontention, for one would drag him one way and one another, as thoughthey would pull him limb from limb. "Nay, fair sirs, gently, gently, Ipray you!" he pleaded. "There is enough for all, and no need to treat meso rudely." But ever the hubbub broke out again, and swords gleamed asthe angry disputants glared furiously at each other. The Prince's eyesfell upon the small prisoner, and he staggered back with a gasp ofastonishment.
"King John!" he cried.
A shout of joy rose from the warriors around him. "The King of France!The King of France a prisoner!" they cried in an ecstasy.
"Nay, nay, fair sirs, let him not hear that we rejoice! Let no wordbring pain to his soul!" Running forward the Prince clasped the FrenchKing by the two hands.
"Most welcome, sire!" he cried. "Indeed it is good for us that sogallant a knight should stay with us for some short time, since thechance of war has so ordered it. Wine there! Bring wine for the King!"
But John was flushed and angry. His helmet had been roughly torn off,and blood was smeared upon his cheek. His noisy captors stood aroundhim in a circle, eying him hungrily like dogs who have been beatenfrom their quarry. There were Gascons and English, knights, squires andarchers, all pushing and straining.
"I pray you, fair Prince, to get rid of these rude fellows," said KingJohn, "for indeed they have plagued me sorely. By Saint Denis! my armhas been well-nigh pulled from its socket."
"What wish you then?" asked the Prince, turning angrily upon the noisyswarm of his followers.
"We took him, fair lord. He is ours!" cried a score of voices. Theyclosed in, all yelping together like a pack of wolves. "It was I, fairlord!"--"Nay, it was I!"--"You lie, you rascal, it was I!" Again theirfierce eyes glared and their blood-stained hands sought the hilts oftheir weapons.
"Nay, this must be settled here and now!" said the Prince. "I crave yourpatience, fair and honored sir, for a few
brief minutes, since indeedmuch ill-will may spring from this if it be not set at rest. Who is thistall knight who can scarce keep his hands from the King's shoulder?"
"It is Denis de Morbecque, my lord, a knight of St. Omer, who is in ourservice, being an outlaw from France."
"I call him to mind. How then, Sir Denis? What say you in this matter?"
"He gave himself to me, fair lord. He had fallen in the press, andI came upon him and seized him. I told him that I was a knight fromArtois, and he gave me his glove. See here, I bear it in my hand."
"It is true, fair lord! It is true!" cried a dozen French voices.
"Nay, sir, judge not too soon!" shouted an English squire, pushinghis way to the front. "It was I who had him at my mercy, and he is myprisoner, for he spoke to this man only because he could tell by histongue that he was his own countryman. I took him, and here are a scoreto prove it."
"It is true, fair lord. We saw it and it was even so," cried a chorus ofEnglishmen.
At all times there was growling and snapping betwixt the English andtheir allies of France. The Prince saw how easily this might set a lightto such a flame as could not readily be quenched. It must be stamped outnow ere it had time to mount.
"Fair and honored lord," he said to the King, "again I pray you for amoment of patience. It is your word and only yours which can tell uswhat is just and right. To whom were you graciously pleased to commityour royal person?"
King John looked up from the flagon which had been brought to him andwiped his lips with the dawnings of a smile upon his ruddy face.
"It was not this Englishman," he said, and a cheer burst from theGascons, "nor was it this bastard Frenchman," he added. "To neither ofthem did I surrender."
There was a hush of surprise.
"To whom then, sir?" asked the Prince.
The King looked slowly round. "There was a devil of a yellow horse,"said he. "My poor palfrey went over like a skittle-pin before a ball. Ofthe rider I know nothing save that he bore red roses on a silvershield. Ah! by Saint Denis, there is the man himself, and there histhrice-accursed horse!"
His head swimming, and moving as if in a dream, Nigel found himself thecenter of the circle of armed and angry men.
The Prince laid his hand upon his shoulder. "It is the little cock ofTilford Bridge," said he. "On my father's soul, I have ever said thatyou would win your way. Did you receive the King's surrender?"
"Nay, fair lord, I did not receive it."
"Did you hear him give it?"
"I heard, sir, but I did not know that it was the King. My master LordChandos had gone on, and I followed after."
"And left him lying. Then the surrender was not complete, and by thelaws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque, if his story betrue."
"It is true," said the King. "He was the second."
"Then the ransom is yours, Denis. But for my part I swear by my father'ssoul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has gathered than allthe richest ransoms of France."
At these words spoken before that circle of noble warriors Nigel's heartgave one great throb, and he dropped upon his knee before the Prince."Fair lord, how can I thank you?" he murmured. "These words at least aremore than any ransom."
"Rise up!" said the smiling Prince, and he smote with his sword uponhis shoulder. "England has lost a brave Squire, and has gained a gallantknight. Nay, linger not, I pray! Rise up, Sir Nigel!"