In the Days of Chivalry: A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince

Raymond's face took a new look, one of shrinking and pain.

"I like not that treasure, Gaston," he said. "It is like the price of blood. I would that the King had taken it for his own. It seemeth as though it could never bring a blessing with it."

"Methinks it could in thy hands and Joan's," answered Gaston, with a fond, proud glance at his brother's beautiful face; "and as the Prince truly said, since this scourge has swept through the land, claiming a full half of its inhabitants, it would be a hopeless task to try to discover the real owners; and moreover a part may be the Sanghurst store, which men have always said is no small thing, and which in very truth is now thine. But thou canst speak to Father Paul of all that. The Church will give thee holy counsel. Methinks that gold in thy hands would ever be used so as to bring with it a blessing and not a curse.

"But come now with me to the Prince. He greatly desires to see thee again. He has not forgot thee, brother mine, nor that exploit of thine at the surrender of Calais."

Father Paul was not at that time within the Monastery walls, his duties calling him hither and thither, sometimes in one land and sometimes in another. Raymond had enjoyed a peaceful time of rest and mental refreshment with the good monks, but he was more than ready to go forth into the world again. Quiet and study were congenial to him, but the life of a monk was not to his taste. He saw clearly the evils to which such a calling was exposed, and how easy it was to forget the high ideal, and fall into self indulgence, idleness, and sloth.

Not that the abuses which in the end caused the monastic system to fall into such contempt were at that time greatly developed; but the germs of the evil were there, and it needed a nature such as that of Father Paul and men of his stamp to show how noble the life of devotion could be made. Ordinary men fell into a routine existence, and were in danger of letting their duties and even their devotions become purely mechanical.

Raymond said adieu to his hospitable entertainers with some natural regrets, yet with a sense that there was a wider work for him to do in the world than any he should ever find between Monastery walls. Even apart from all thoughts of love and marriage, there was attraction for him in the world of chivalry and warfare. His ambition took a different form from that of the average youth of the day, but none the less for that did it act upon him like a spur, driving him forth where strife and conflict were being waged, and where hard blows were to be struck.

Gaston's brother was warmly welcomed in the camp of the Prince. Many there were who remembered the dreamy-faced lad, who had seemed like a young Saint Michael amongst them, and still bore about with him something of that air of remoteness which was never without its effect even upon the rudest of his companions. Indeed the ordeal through which he had passed had left an indelible stamp upon him. If the face looked older than of yore, it was not that the depth and spirituality of the expression had in any wise diminished.

The two brothers standing together formed a perfect picture in contrasted types – the bronzed, stalwart soldier in his coat of mail, looking every inch the brave knight he was; and the slim, pale-faced Raymond, with the haunting eyes and wonderful smile, which irradiated his face like a gleam of light from another world, bearing about with him that which seemed to stamp him as somewhat different from his fellows, and yet which always commanded from them not only admiration, but affection and respect.

The Prince's greeting was warm and hearty. He felt towards Raymond all that goodwill which naturally follows an act of generous interference on behalf of an injured person. He made him sit beside him in his tent at supper time, and tell him all his history; and the promise made to Gaston with reference to the tyrant Lord of Saut was ratified anew as the wine circulated at table. The chosen comrades of the Prince, who had most of them known the twin brothers for many years, vowed themselves to the enterprise with hearty goodwill; and had the Lord of Navailles been there to hear, he might well have trembled for his safety, despite the strong walls and deep moat that environed Saut.

"Let his walls be never so strong, I trow we can starve or smoke the old fox out!" quoth young Edward, laughing. "There be many strong citadels, many a fortified town, that will ere long open their gates at the summons of England's Prince. How say ye, my gallant comrades? Shall the old Tower of Saut defy English arms? Shall we own ourselves beaten by any Sieur de Navailles?"

The shout with which these words were answered was answer sufficient. The English and Gascon lords, assembled together under the banner of the Prince, were bent on a career of glory and plunder. The inaction of the long truce, with its perpetual sources of irritation and friction, had been exasperating in the extreme. It was an immense relief to them to feel that war had at last been declared, and that they could unfurl their banners and march forth against their old enemy, and enrich themselves for life at his expense.

With the march of the Prince through south France we have little concern in this history. It was one long triumphal progress, not over and above glorious from a military standpoint; for there were no real battles, and the accumulation of plunder and the infliction of grievous damage upon the French King's possessions seemed the chief object of the expedition. Had there been any concerted resistance to the Prince's march, doubtless he might have shown something of his great military talents in directing his forces in battle; but as it was, the country appeared paralyzed at his approach: place after place fell before him, or bought him off by a heavy price; and though there were several citadels in the vanquished towns which held out for France, the Prince seldom stayed to subdue them, but contented himself with plundering and burning the town. Not a very glorious style of warfare for those days of vaunted chivalry, yet one, nevertheless, characteristic enough of the times. Every undertaking, however small, gave scope for deeds of individual gallantry and the exercise of individual acts of courtliness and chivalry; and even the battles were often little more than a countless number of hand-to-hand conflicts carried on by the individual members of the opposing armies. The Prince and his chosen comrades, always on the watch for opportunities of showing their prowess and of exercising their knightly chivalry towards any miserable person falling in their own way, were doubtless somewhat blinded to the ignoble side of such a campaign.

However that may be, Raymond often felt a sinking at heart as he saw their path marked out by blazing villages and wasted fields; and almost all his own energies were concentrated in striving to do what one man could achieve to mitigate the horrors of war for some of its helpless victims.

Narbonne, on the Gulf of Lions, was the last place attacked and taken by the Prince, who then decided to return with his spoil to Bordeaux, and pass the remainder of the winter in the capture of certain places that would be useful to the English.

Nothing had all this time been spoken as to Saut, which lay out of the line of their march in the heart of friendly Gascony. But the project had by no means been abandoned, and the Prince was but waiting a favourable opportunity to carry it into effect.

The Sieur de Navailles had not attempted to join the Prince's standard, as so many of the Gascon nobles had done, but had held sullenly aloof, probably watching and waiting to see the result of this expedition, but by no means prepared to adventure his person into the hands of a feudal lord against whom his own sword had more than once been drawn. He was well aware, no doubt, that there were pages in his past history with regard to his relations with France that would not bear inspection by English eyes, and perhaps he trusted to the remoteness and obscurity of his two castles to save him from the notice of the Prince.

The terror inspired by the English arms in France is a thing that must always excite the wonder and curiosity of the readers of history. It was displayed on and after the Battle of Crecy, when Edward's army, if numbers counted for anything, ought to have been simply annihilated by the vast musters of the French, who were in their own land surrounded by friends, whilst the English were a small band in the midst of a hostile and infuriated population. This same thing was seen again in the march of the Prince of Wales, soon to be called the Black Prince, when city after city bought him off, hopeless of resisting his progress; and when the army mustered by the Count of Armagnac to oppose the retreat of the English to Bordeaux with their spoil was seized with a panic after the merest skirmish, and fled, leaving the Prince to pursue his way unmolested.

If the conduct of the English army was somewhat inglorious, certainly the behaviour of their foes was still more so. The English were always ready to fight if they could find an enemy to meet them. Possibly the doubtful character of the Prince's first campaign was less his fault than that of his pusillanimous enemies.

Bordeaux reached, however, and the Gascon soldiers dismissed to their homes for the winter months, the Prince promising to lead them next year upon a more glorious campaign, in which fresh spoil was to be won and more victories achieved, there was time for the consideration of objects of minor importance, and a breathing space wherein private interests could be considered.

Gaston had repressed all impatience during the march of the Prince. He had not looked that his own affairs should take the foremost place in the Prince's scheme. Moreover, he saw well that it would give a false colour to the expedition if the first march of the Prince had been into Gascony; nor was the capture of so obscure a fortress as the Castle of Saut a matter to engross the energies of the whole of the allied army.

But now that the army was partially disbanded, whilst the English contingent was either in winter quarters in Bordeaux or engaged here and there in the capture of such cities and fortresses as the Prince decided worth the taking, the moment appeared to be favourable for that long-wished-for capture of Saut; and Gaston, taking his brother aside one day, eagerly opened to him his mind.

"Raymond, I have spoken to the Prince. He is ready and willing to give me men at any time I ask him. Perchance he will even come himself, if duty calls him not elsewhere. The thing is now in mine own hands. Brother, when shall the attempt be made?"

Raymond smiled at the eager question.

"Sir Knight, thou art more the warrior than I. Thou best knowest the day and the hour for such a matter."

Gaston passed his hand through his hair, and a softer light shone in his eyes. His brother knew of whom he was thinking, and he was not surprised at the next words.

"Raymond, methinks before I do aught else I must see her once more. My heart is hungry for her. I think of her by day and dream of her by night. Perchance there might be some more peaceful way of winning entrance to Saut than by battering down the walls, and doing by hap some hurt to the precious treasure within. Brother, wilt thou wander forth with me once again – thou and I, and a few picked men, in case of peril by the way, to visit Saut by stealth? We would go by the way of Father Anselm's and our old home. I have a fancy to see the dear old faces once again. Thou hast, doubtless, seen them all this year that has passed by, but I not for many an one."

"I saw Father Anselm in Bordeaux," answered Raymond; "and good Jean, when he heard I was there, came all the way to visit me. But I adventured not myself so near the den of Navailles. The Brothers would not permit it. They feared lest I might fall again into his power. Gladly, indeed, would I come and see them once again. I have pictured many times how, when thou art Lord of Saut, I will bring my Joan to visit thee, and show her to good Jean and Margot and saintly Father Anselm. I would fain talk to them of that day. They ever feel towards us as though we were their children in very truth."

There was no difficulty in obtaining the Prince's sanction to this absence from Bordeaux. He gave the brothers free leave to carry out their plan by any means they chose, promising if they sent him word at any time that they were ready for the assault, he would either come himself or send a picked band of veterans to their aid; and saying that Gaston was to look upon himself as Lord of Saut, by mandate from the English King, who would enforce his right by his royal power if any usurping noble dared to dispute it with him.

Thus fortified by royal warrant, and with a heart beating high with hope and love, Gaston set out with some two score soldiers as a bodyguard to reconnoitre the land; and upon the evening of the second day, the brothers saw, in the fast-fading light of the winter's day, the red roofs of the old mill lying peacefully in the gathering shadows of the early night.

Their men had been dismissed to find quarters in the village for themselves, and Roger was their only attendant, as they drew rein before the door of the mill, and saw the miller coming quickly round the angle of the house to inquire what these strangers wanted there at such an hour.

"Jean!" cried Gaston, in his loud and hearty tones, the language of his home springing easily to his lips, though the English tongue was now the one in which his thoughts framed themselves. "Good Jean, dost thou not know us?"

The beaming welcome on the miller's face was answer enough in itself; and, indeed, he had time to give no other, for scarce had the words passed Gaston's lips before there darted out from the open door of the house a light and fairy-like form, and a silvery cry of rapture broke from the lips of the winsome maiden, whilst Gaston leaped from his horse with a smothered exclamation, and in another moment the light fairy form seemed actually swallowed up in the embrace of those strong arms.

"Constanza my life – my love!"

"O Gaston, Gaston! can it in very truth be thou?"

Raymond looked on in mute amaze, turning his eyes from the lovers towards the miller, who was watching the encounter with a beaming face.

"What means it all?" asked the youth breathlessly.

"Marry, it means that the maiden has found her true knight," answered Jean, all aglow with delight; but then, understanding better the drift of Raymond's question, he turned his eyes upon him again, and said:

"You would ask how she came hither? Well, that is soon told. It was one night nigh upon six months agone, and we had long been abed, when we heard a wailing sound beneath our windows, and Margot declared there was a maiden sobbing in the garden below. She went down to see, and then the maid told her a strange, wild tale. She was of the kindred of the Sieur de Navailles, she said, and was the betrothed wife of Gaston de Brocas; and as we knew somewhat of her tale through Father Anselm, who had heard of your captivity and rescue, we knew that she spoke the truth. She said that since the escape, which had so perplexed the wicked lord, he had become more fierce and cruel than before, and that he seemed in some sort to suspect her, though of what she scarce knew. She told us that his mind seemed to be deserting him, that she feared he was growing lunatic. He was so fierce and wild at times that she feared for her own life. She bore it as long as her maid, the faithful Annette, lived; but in the summer she fell sick of a fever, and died – the lady knew not if it were not poison that had carried her off – and a great terror seized her. Not two days later, she fled from her gloomy home, and not knowing where else to hide her head, she fled hither, trusting that her lover would shortly come to free her from her uncle's tyranny, as he had sworn, and believing that the home which had sheltered the infancy of the De Brocas brothers would give her shelter till that day came."

"And you took her in and guarded her, and kept her safe from harm," cried Raymond, grasping the hand of the honest peasant and wringing it hard. "It was like you to do it, kind, good souls! My brother will thank you, in his own fashion, for such service. But I must thank you, too. And where is Margot? for I trow she has been as a mother to the maid. I would see her and thank her, for Gaston has no eyes nor ears for any one but his fair lady."

Gaston, indeed, was like one in a dream. He could scarce believe the evidence of his senses; and it was a pretty sight to see how the winsome Constanza clung to him, and how it seemed as though she could not bear to let her eyes wander for a moment from his face.

Only at night, when the brothers stood together in the room they had occupied of yore, and clasped each other by the hand in warm congratulation, did Raymond really know how this meeting affected the object of their journey; then Gaston, looking grave and thoughtful, spoke a few words of his purpose.

"The Sieur de Navailles is a raging madman. That I can well divine from what Constanza says. Tomorrow we will to Saut, to see what we may discover there on the spot. It may be we may have no bloody warfare to wage; it may be that Saut may be won without the struggle we have thought. His own people are terrified before him. Constanza thinks that I have but to declare myself and show the King's warrant to be proclaimed by all as Lord and Master of Saut."

CHAPTER XXXI. THE SURRENDER OF SAUT

"In the King's name!"

The old seneschal at the drawbridge eyed with glances of awed suspicion the gallant young knight who had ridden so boldly up to the walls of Saut and had bidden him lower the bridge. A few paces behind the leader was a compact little body of horsemen, all well mounted and well armed, though it was little their bright weapons could do against the solid walls of the grim old fortress, girdled as it was with its wide and deep moat. The pale sunshine of a winter's day shone upon the trappings of the little band, and lighted up the stone walls with something of unwonted brightness. It revealed to those upon the farther side of the moat the perplexed countenance of the old seneschal, who did not meet Gaston's bold demand for admittance with defiance or refusal, but stood staring at the apparition, as if not knowing what to make of it; and when the demand had been repeated somewhat more peremptorily, he still stood doubtful and hesitating, saying over and over to himself the same words:

"In the King's name! in the King's name!"

"Ay, fellow, in the King's name," repeated Gaston sternly. "Wilt thou see his warrant? I have it here. Thou hadst best have a care how thou settest at defiance the King's seal and signet. Knowest thou not that his royal son is within a few leagues of this very spot?"

The old man only shook his head, as if scarce comprehending the drift of these words, and presently he looked up to ask:

"Of which King speak you, good Sir Knight?"

"Of the English King, fellow, the only King I acknowledge! Whose servant doth thy master call himself? Thou hadst better go and tell him that King Edward of England has sent a message to him."

"Tell my master!" repeated the seneschal, with a strange gesture, as he lifted his hand and touched his head. "To what good would that be? My master understands no word that is said to him. He raves up and down the hall day by day, taking note of naught about him. Thou hadst best have a care how thou beardest him, Sir Knight. We go in terror of our very lives through him."

"Ye need go no longer in that fear," cried Gaston, with a kindling of the eyes, as he bared his noble head and looked forth at the old man with his fearless glance, "for in me ye will find a master whom none need fear who do their duty by him and by the King. Seneschal, I stand here the lawful Lord of Saut – lord by hereditary right, and by the mandate of England's King, the Roy Outremer, as you call him. I am Gaston de Brocas, of the old race who owned these lands long before the false Navailles had set foot therein. I have come back armed with the King's warrant to claim mine own.

"Say, men, will ye have me for your lord? or will ye continue to serve yon raging madman till England's King sends an army to raze Saut to the ground, and slay the rebellious horde within these ancient walls?"

Gaston had raised his voice as he had gone on speaking, for he saw that the dialogue with the old seneschal had attracted the attention of a number of men-at-arms, who had gradually mustered about the gate to hear what was passing.

Gaston spoke his native dialect like one of themselves. The name of De Brocas was known far and wide in that land, and was everywhere spoken with affection and respect. The fierce rapacity of the Navailles was equally feared and hated. Even the stout soldiers who had followed his fortunes so long regarded him with fear and distrust. No man in those days felt certain of his life. If he chanced to offend the madman, a savage blow from that strong arm might fell him to the earth; whilst some amongst their companions had from time to time mysteriously disappeared, and their fate had never been disclosed.

A sense of fearfulness and uncertainty had long reigned at Saut. The mad master had his own myrmidons in the Tower, who would do his bidding whatever that bidding might be; and that there were dark secrets hidden away in those underground dungeons and secret chambers everybody in the Castle well knew. Hardly one of the men now gathered on the opposite side of the moat but had awakened at some time or other from a horrid dream, believing himself to have been spirited down into those gloomy subterranean places, there to expiate some trifling offence, according as their savage lord should give order. Many of these men had assisted at scenes which seemed frightful to them when they pictured themselves the victims of the cruelty of the fierce man they had long served, but whom now they had grown to fear and distrust.

A sense of horror had long been hanging over Saut, and since the disappearance of the maiden who once had brightened the grim place by her presence, this horror had perceptibly deepened. Not one of all the men-at-arms dared even to his fellow to propose the remedy. Each feared that if he breathed what was in his own mind, the very walls would whisper it in the ears of their lord, and that the offender would be doomed to some horrible death, to act as a warning to others like-minded with himself. Since the loss of his niece, almost as mysterious to him as the escape of Raymond de Brocas from the prison, the clouds of doubt and suspicion had closed more and more darkly round the miserable man, who had let himself become the slave of his passions until these had increased to absolute madness. His unbridled fury and fits of maniac rage had estranged from him even the most attached of his old retainers, and in proportion as he felt this with the instinct of cunning and madness, the more did he exact from those about him protestations of zeal and faithfulness, the more did he watch the words and actions of his servants, and mark the smallest attempt on their part to restrain or thwart him.

Small wonder was it, then, when Gaston de Brocas stood forth in the sunshine, the King's warrant in his hand, words of good augury upon his lips, and a compact little body of armed men at his back, proclaiming himself the Lord of Saut, and inviting to his service the men who were now trembling before the caprices and cruel cunning of a madman, that they exchanged wondering glances, and spoke in eager whispers together, fearful lest the Navailles should approach from behind ere they were aware of it, and feeling that there was here such a chance of escape from miserable bondage as might never occur again.

And whilst they still hesitated – for the fear of treachery was never absent from the minds of those bred up in habits and thoughts of treachery – another wonder happened. Out from the little knot a few paces behind the young knight two more figures pressed forward, and the men-at-arms rubbed their eyes and looked on in silent wonder: for one of the pair was none other than the fairy maiden who had lived so long amongst them, and had endeared herself even to these rude spirits by her grace and sweetness and undefinable charm; the other, that youth with the wonderful eyes and saint-like face who had been captured and borne away to Saut after the battle before St. Jean d'Angely, and whose body they all believed had long ago been lying beneath the sullen waters of the moat, where so many victims of their lord's hatred had found their last resting place.