The White Company
to their taste, while John modestly retired into a quart pot, which he
drained in four giant gulps. “I sang that ditty in Hordle ale-house ere
I ever thought to be an archer myself,” quoth he.
“Fill up your stoups!” cried Black Simon, thrusting his own goblet into
the open hogshead in front of him. “Here is a last cup to the White
Company, and every brave boy who walks behind the roses of Loring!”
“To the wood, the flax, and the gander's wing!” said an old gray-headed
archer on the right.
“To a gentle loose, and the King of Spain for a mark at fourteen score!”
cried another.
“To a bloody war!” shouted a fourth. “Many to go and few to come!”
“With the most gold to the best steel!” added a fifth.
“And a last cup to the maids of our heart!” cried Aylward. “A steady
hand and a true eye, boys; so let two quarts be a bowman's portion.”
With shout and jest and snatch of song they streamed from the room, and
all was peaceful once more in the “Rose de Guienne.”
CHAPTER XXIII. HOW ENGLAND HELD THE LISTS AT BORDEAUX. So used were the
good burghers of Bordeaux to martial display and knightly sport, that an
ordinary joust or tournament was an everyday matter with them. The fame
and brilliancy of the prince's court had drawn the knights-errant and
pursuivants-of-arms from every part of Europe. In the long lists by the
Garonne on the landward side of the northern gate there had been many a
strange combat, when the Teutonic knight, fresh from the conquest of the
Prussian heathen, ran a course against the knight of Calatrava, hardened
by continual struggle against the Moors, or cavaliers from Portugal
broke a lance with Scandinavian warriors from the further shore of the
great Northern Ocean. Here fluttered many an outland pennon, bearing
symbol and blazonry from the banks of the Danube, the wilds of Lithuania
and the mountain strongholds of Hungary; for chivalry was of no clime
and of no race, nor was any land so wild that the fame and name of the
prince had not sounded through it from border to border.
Great, however, was the excitement through town and district when it
was learned that on the third Wednesday in Advent there would be held
a passage-at-arms in which five knights of England would hold the lists
against all comers. The great concourse of noblemen and famous soldiers,
the national character of the contest, and the fact that this was a last
trial of arms before what promised to be an arduous and bloody war,
all united to make the event one of the most notable and brilliant that
Bordeaux had ever seen. On the eve of the contest the peasants flocked
in from the whole district of the Medoc, and the fields beyond the walls
were whitened with the tents of those who could find no warmer lodging.
From the distant camp of Dax, too, and from Blaye, Bourge, Libourne, St.
Emilion, Castillon, St. Macaire, Cardillac, Ryons, and all the cluster
of flourishing towns which look upon Bordeaux as their mother, there
thronged an unceasing stream of horsemen and of footmen, all converging
upon the great city. By the morning of the day on which the courses were
to be run, not less than eighty people had assembled round the lists
and along the low grassy ridge which looks down upon the scene of the
encounter.
It was, as may well be imagined, no easy matter among so many noted
cavaliers to choose out five on either side who should have precedence
over their fellows. A score of secondary combats had nearly arisen from
the rivalries and bad blood created by the selection, and it was only
the influence of the prince and the efforts of the older barons which
kept the peace among so many eager and fiery soldiers. Not till the day
before the courses were the shields finally hung out for the inspection
of the ladies and the heralds, so that all men might know the names
of the champions and have the opportunity to prefer any charge against
them, should there be stain upon them which should disqualify them from
taking part in so noble and honorable a ceremony.
Sir Hugh Calverley and Sir Robert Knolles had not yet returned from
their raid into the marches of the Navarre, so that the English party
were deprived of two of their most famous lances. Yet there remained so
many good names that Chandos and Felton, to whom the selection had been
referred, had many an earnest consultation, in which every feat of
arms and failure or success of each candidate was weighed and balanced
against the rival claims of his companions. Lord Audley of Cheshire,
the hero of Poictiers, and Loring of Hampshire, who was held to be the
second lance in the army, were easily fixed upon. Then, of the younger
men, Sir Thomas Percy of Northumberland, Sir Thomas Wake of Yorkshire,
and Sir William Beauchamp of Gloucestershire, were finally selected to
uphold the honor of England. On the other side were the veteran Captal
de Buch and the brawny Olivier de Clisson, with the free companion
Sir Perducas d'Albret, the valiant Lord of Mucident, and Sigismond von
Altenstadt, of the Teutonic Order. The older soldiers among the English
shook their heads as they looked upon the escutcheons of these famous
warriors, for they were all men who had spent their lives upon the
saddle, and bravery and strength can avail little against experience and
wisdom of war.
“By my faith! Sir John,” said the prince as he rode through the winding
streets on his way to the list, “I should have been glad to have
splintered a lance to-day. You have seen me hold a spear since I had
strength to lift one, and should know best whether I do not merit a
place among this honorable company.”
“There is no better seat and no truer lance, sire,” said Chandos; “but,
if I may say so without fear of offence, it were not fitting that you
should join in this debate.”
“And why, Sir John?”
“Because, sire, it is not for you to take part with Gascons against
English, or with English against Gascons, seeing that you are lord of
both. We are not too well loved by the Gascons now, and it is but the
golden link of your princely coronet which holds us together. If that be
snapped I know not what would follow.”
“Snapped, Sir John!” cried the prince, with an angry sparkle in his dark
eyes. “What manner of talk is this? You speak as though the allegiance
of our people were a thing which might be thrown off or on like a
falcon's jessel.”
“With a sorry hack one uses whip and spur, sire,” said Chandos; “but
with a horse of blood and spirit a good cavalier is gentle and soothing,
coaxing rather than forcing. These folk are strange people, and you must
hold their love, even as you have it now, for you will get from their
kindness what all the pennons in your army could not wring from them.”
“You are over-grave to-day, John,” the prince answered. “We may keep
such questions for our council-chamber. But how now, my brothers of
Spain, and of Majorca, what think you of this challenge?”
“I look to see some handsome joisting,” said Don Pedro, who rode with
the King of Majorca upon the right of the prince, while Chandos was on
the left. “By St. James of Compostella! but these burghers would bear
some taxing. See to the broadcloth and velvet that the rogues bear upon
their backs! By my troth! if they were my subjects they would be glad
enough to wear falding and leather ere I had done with them. But mayhap
it is best to let the wool grow long ere you clip it.”
“It is our pride,” the prince answered coldly, “that we rule over
freemen and not slaves.”
“Every man to his own humor,” said Pedro carelessly. “Carajo! there is a
sweet face at yonder window! Don Fernando, I pray you to mark the house,
and to have the maid brought to us at the abbey.”
“Nay, brother, nay!” cried the prince impatiently. “I have had occasion
to tell you more than once that things are not ordered in this way in
Aquitaine.”
“A thousand pardons, dear friend,” the Spaniard answered quickly, for a
flush of anger had sprung to the dark cheek of the English prince. “You
make my exile so like a home that I forget at times that I am not in
very truth back in Castile. Every land hath indeed its ways and manners;
but I promise you, Edward, that when you are my guest in Toledo or
Madrid you shall not yearn in vain for any commoner's daughter on whom
you may deign to cast your eye.”
“Your talk, sire,” said the prince still more coldly, “is not such as
I love to hear from your lips. I have no taste for such amours as you
speak of, and I have sworn that my name shall be coupled with that of no
woman save my ever dear wife.”
“Ever the mirror of true chivalry!” exclaimed Pedro, while James of
Majorca, frightened at the stern countenance of their all-powerful
protector, plucked hard at the mantle of his brother exile.
“Have a care, cousin,” he whispered; “for the sake of the Virgin have a
care, for you have angered him.”
“Pshaw! fear not,” the other answered in the same low tone. “If I miss
one stoop I will strike him on the next. Mark me else. Fair cousin,” he
continued, turning to the prince, “these be rare men-at-arms and lusty
bowmen. It would be hard indeed to match them.”
“They have journeyed far, sire, but they have never yet found their
match.”
“Nor ever will, I doubt not. I feel myself to be back upon my throne
when I look at them. But tell me, dear coz, what shall we do next,
when we have driven this bastard Henry from the kingdom which he hath
filched?”
“We shall then compel the King of Aragon to place our good friend and
brother James of Majorca upon the throne.”
“Noble and generous prince!” cried the little monarch.
“That done,” said King Pedro, glancing out of the corners of his eyes
at the young conqueror, “we shall unite the forces of England, of
Aquitaine, of Spain and of Majorca. It would be shame to us if we did
not do some great deed with such forces ready to our hand.”
“You say truly, brother,” cried the prince, his eyes kindling at the
thought. “Methinks that we could not do anything more pleasing to Our
Lady than to drive the heathen Moors out of the country.”
“I am with you, Edward, as true as hilt to blade. But, by St. James!
we shall not let these Moors make mock at us from over the sea. We must
take ship and thrust them from Africa.”
“By heaven, yes!” cried the prince. “And it is the dream of my heart
that our English pennons shall wave upon the Mount of Olives, and the
lions and lilies float over the holy city.”
“And why not, dear coz? Your bowmen have cleared a path to Paris, and
why not to Jerusalem? Once there, your arms might rest.”
“Nay, there is more to be done,” cried the prince, carried away by the
ambitious dream. “There is still the city of Constantine to be taken,
and war to be waged against the Soldan of Damascus. And beyond him again
there is tribute to be levied from the Cham of Tartary and from the
kingdom of Cathay. Ha! John, what say you? Can we not go as far eastward
as Richard of the Lion Heart?”
“Old John will bide at home, sire,” said the rugged soldier. “By my
soul! as long as I am seneschal of Aquitaine I will find enough to do
in guarding the marches which you have entrusted to me. It would be
a blithe day for the King of France when he heard that the seas lay
between him and us.”
“By my soul! John,” said the prince, “I have never known you turn
laggard before.”
“The babbling hound, sire, is not always the first at the mort,” the old
knight answered.
“Nay, my true-heart! I have tried you too often not to know. But, by my
soul! I have not seen so dense a throng since the day that we brought
King John down Cheapside.”
It was indeed an enormous crowd which covered the whole vast plain from
the line of vineyards to the river bank. From the northern gate the
prince and his companions looked down at a dark sea of heads, brightened