The White Company
never seen your company, it would be a fool's act to blame you for their
doings.”
“My liege,” said Sir Nigel, “it is a very small matter that I should be
hanged, albeit the manner of death is somewhat more ignoble than I had
hoped for. On the other hand, it would be a very grievous thing that
you, the Prince of England and the flower of knighthood, should make a
vow, whether in ignorance or no, and fail to bring it to fulfilment.”
“Vex not your mind on that,” the prince answered, smiling. “We have had
a citizen from Montauban here this very day, who told us such a tale of
sack and murder and pillage that it moved our blood; but our wrath was
turned upon the man who was in authority over them.”
“My dear and honored master,” cried Nigel, in great anxiety, “I fear me
much that in your gentleness of heart you are straining this vow which
you have taken. If there be so much as a shadow of a doubt as to the
form of it, it were a thousand times best----”
“Peace! peace!” cried the prince impatiently. “I am very well able to
look to my own vows and their performance. We hope to see you both
in the banquet-hall anon. Meanwhile you will attend upon us with our
train.” He bowed, and Chandos, plucking Sir Oliver by the sleeve, led
them both away to the back of the press of courtiers.
“Why, little coz,” he whispered, “you are very eager to have your neck
in a noose. By my soul! had you asked as much from our new ally Don
Pedro, he had not baulked you. Between friends, there is overmuch of
the hangman in him, and too little of the prince. But indeed this
White Company is a rough band, and may take some handling ere you find
yourself safe in your captaincy.”
“I doubt not, with the help of St. Paul, that I shall bring them to some
order,” Sir Nigel answered. “But there are many faces here which are new
to me, though others have been before me since first I waited upon my
dear master, Sir Walter. I pray you to tell me, Sir John, who are these
priests upon the dais?”
“The one is the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Nigel, and the other the Bishop
of Agen.”
“And the dark knight with gray-streaked beard? By my troth, he seems to
be a man of much wisdom and valor.”
“He is Sir William Felton, who, with my unworthy self, is the chief
counsellor of the prince, he being high steward and I the seneschal of
Aquitaine.”
“And the knights upon the right, beside Don Pedro?”
“They are cavaliers of Spain who have followed him in his exile. The one
at his elbow is Fernando de Castro, who is as brave and true a man as
heart could wish. In front to the right are the Gascon lords. You may
well tell them by their clouded brows, for there hath been some ill-will
of late betwixt the prince and them. The tall and burly man is the
Captal de Buch, whom I doubt not that you know, for a braver knight
never laid lance in rest. That heavy-faced cavalier who plucks his
skirts and whispers in his ear is Lord Oliver de Clisson, known also as
the butcher. He it is who stirs up strife, and forever blows the dying
embers into flame. The man with the mole upon his cheek is the Lord
Pommers, and his two brothers stand behind him, with the Lord Lesparre,
Lord de Rosem, Lord de Mucident, Sir Perducas d'Albret, the Souldich de
la Trane, and others. Further back are knights from Quercy, Limousin,
Saintonge, Poitou, and Aquitaine, with the valiant Sir Guiscard d'Angle.
That is he in the rose-colored doublet with the ermine.”
“And the knights upon this side?”
“They are all Englishmen, some of the household and others who like
yourself, are captains of companies. There is Lord Neville, Sir Stephen
Cossington, and Sir Matthew Gourney, with Sir Walter Huet, Sir Thomas
Banaster, and Sir Thomas Felton, who is the brother of the high steward.
Mark well the man with the high nose and flaxen beard who hath placed
his hand upon the shoulder of the dark hard-faced cavalier in the
rust-stained jupon.”
“Aye, by St. Paul!” observed Sir Nigel, “they both bear the print of
their armor upon their cotes-hardies. Methinks they are men who breathe
freer in a camp than a court.”
“There are many of us who do that, Nigel,” said Chandos, “and the head
of the court is, I dare warrant, among them. But of these two men the
one is Sir Hugh Calverley, and the other is Sir Robert Knolles.”
Sir Nigel and Sir Oliver craned their necks to have the clearer view of
these famous warriors, the one a chosen leader of free companies, the
other a man who by his fierce valor and energy had raised himself from
the lowest ranks until he was second only to Chandos himself in the
esteem of the army.
“He hath no light hand in war, hath Sir Robert,” said Chandos. “If he
passes through a country you may tell it for some years to come. I have
heard that in the north it is still the use to call a house which hath
but the two gable ends left, without walls or roof, a Knolles' mitre.”
“I have often heard of him,” said Nigel, “and I have hoped to be so far
honored as to run a course with him. But hark, Sir John, what is amiss
with the prince?”
Whilst Chandos had been conversing with the two knights a continuous
stream of suitors had been ushered in, adventurers seeking to sell their
swords and merchants clamoring over some grievance, a ship detained
for the carriage of troops, or a tun of sweet wine which had the bottom
knocked out by a troop of thirsty archers. A few words from the prince
disposed of each case, and, if the applicant liked not the judgment, a
quick glance from the prince's dark eyes sent him to the door with the
grievance all gone out of him. The younger ruler had sat listlessly upon
his stool with the two puppet monarchs enthroned behind him, but of a
sudden a dark shadow passed over his face, and he sprang to his feet in
one of those gusts of passion which were the single blot upon his noble
and generous character.
“How now, Don Martin de la Carra?” he cried. “How now, sirrah? What
message do you bring to us from our brother of Navarre?”
The new-comer to whom this abrupt query had been addressed was a tall
and exceedingly handsome cavalier who had just been ushered into the
apartment. His swarthy cheek and raven black hair spoke of the fiery
south, and he wore his long black cloak swathed across his chest and
over his shoulders in a graceful sweeping fashion, which was neither
English nor French. With stately steps and many profound bows, he
advanced to the foot of the dais before replying to the prince's
question.
“My powerful and illustrious master,” he began, “Charles, King of
Navarre, Earl of Evreux, Count of Champagne, who also writeth himself
Overlord of Bearn, hereby sends his love and greetings to his dear
cousin Edward, the Prince of Wales, Governor of Aquitaine, Grand
Commander of----”
“Tush! tush! Don Martin!” interrupted the prince, who had been beating
the ground with his foot impatiently during this stately preamble. “We
already know our cousin's titles and style, and, certes, we know our
own. To the point, man, and at once. Are the passes open to us, or does
your master go back from his word pledged to me at Libourne no later
than last Michaelmas?”
“It would ill become my gracious master, sire, to go back from
promise given. He does but ask some delay and certain conditions and
hostages----”
“Conditions! Hostages! Is he speaking to the Prince of England, or is it
to the bourgeois provost of some half-captured town! Conditions, quotha?
He may find much to mend in his own condition ere long. The passes are,
then, closed to us?”
“Nay, sire----”
“They are open, then?”
“Nay, sire, if you would but----”
“Enough, enough, Don Martin,” cried the prince. “It is a sorry sight to
see so true a knight pleading in so false a cause. We know the doings of
our cousin Charles. We know that while with the right hand he takes our
fifty thousand crowns for the holding of the passes open, he hath his
left outstretched to Henry of Trastamare, or to the King of France, all
ready to take as many more for the keeping them closed. I know our good
Charles, and, by my blessed name-saint the Confessor, he shall learn
that I know him. He sets his kingdom up to the best bidder, like some
scullion farrier selling a glandered horse. He is----”
“My lord,” cried Don Martin, “I cannot stand there to hear such words
of my master. Did they come from other lips, I should know better how to
answer them.”
Don Pedro frowned and curled his lip, but the prince smiled and nodded
his approbation.
“Your bearing and your words, Don Martin, are such I should have looked
for in you,” he remarked. “You will tell the king, your master, that he
hath been paid his price and that if he holds to his promise he hath my
word for it that no scath shall come to his people, nor to their houses
or gear. If, however, we have not his leave, I shall come close at the
heels of this message without his leave, and bearing a key with me
which shall open all that he may close.” He stooped and whispered to Sir
Robert Knolles and Sir Huge Calverley, who smiled as men well pleased,
and hastened from the room.
“Our cousin Charles has had experience of our friendship,” the prince
continued, “and now, by the Saints! he shall feel a touch of our
displeasure. I send now a message to our cousin Charles which his whole
kingdom may read. Let him take heed lest worse befall him. Where is my
Lord Chandos? Ha, Sir John, I commend this worthy knight to your care.
You will see that he hath refection, and such a purse of gold as may
defray his charges, for indeed it is great honor to any court to have
within it so noble and gentle a cavalier. How say you, sire?” he
asked, turning to the Spanish refugee, while the herald of Navarre was
conducted from the chamber by the old warrior.
“It is not our custom in Spain to reward pertness in a messenger,” Don
Pedro answered, patting the head of his greyhound. “Yet we have all
heard the lengths to which your royal generosity runs.”
“In sooth, yes,” cried the King of Majorca.
“Who should know it better than we?” said Don Pedro bitterly, “since we
have had to fly to you in our trouble as to the natural protector of all
who are weak.”
“Nay, nay, as brothers to a brother,” cried the prince, with sparkling
eyes. “We doubt not, with the help of God, to see you very soon restored
to those thrones from which you have been so traitorously thrust.”
“When that happy day comes,” said Pedro, “then Spain shall be to you as
Aquitaine, and, be your project what it may, you may ever count on every
troop and every ship over which flies the banner of Castile.”
“And,” added the other, “upon every aid which the wealth and power of
Majorca can bestow.”
“Touching the hundred thousand crowns in which I stand your debtor,”
continued Pedro carelessly, “it can no doubt----”
“Not a word, sire, not a word!” cried the prince. “It is not now when
you are in grief that I would vex your mind with such base and sordid
matters. I have said once and forever that I am yours with every
bow-string of my army and every florin in my coffers.”
“Ah! here is indeed a mirror of chivalry,” said Don Pedro. “I think,
Sir Fernando, since the prince's bounty is stretched so far, that we
may make further use of his gracious goodness to the extent of fifty
thousand crowns. Good Sir William Felton, here, will doubtless settle
the matter with you.”
The stout old English counsellor looked somewhat blank at this prompt
acceptance of his master's bounty.
“If it please you, sire,” he said, “the public funds are at their
lowest, seeing that I have paid twelve thousand men of the companies,
and the new taxes--the hearth-tax and the wine-tax--not yet come in. If
you could wait until the promised help from England comes----”