The White Company
clad in a black jerkin trimmed with sable, with a black velvet cap with
curling white feather cocked upon the side of his head. A flask of red
wine stood at his elbow, and he seemed to be very much at his ease, for
his feet were stuck up on a stool, and between his thighs he held a dish
full of nuts. These he cracked between his strong white teeth and chewed
in a leisurely way, casting the shells into the blaze. As Alleyne gazed
in at him he turned his face half round and cocked an eye at him over
his shoulder. It seemed to the young Englishman that he had never seen
so hideous a face, for the eyes were of the lightest green, the nose was
broken and driven inwards, while the whole countenance was seared and
puckered with wounds. The voice, too, when he spoke, was as deep and as
fierce as the growl of a beast of prey.
“Young man,” said he, “I know not who you may be, and I am not much
inclined to bestir myself, but if it were not that I am bent upon taking
my ease, I swear, by the sword of Joshua! that I would lay my dog-whip
across your shoulders for daring to fill the air with these discordant
bellowings.”
Taken aback at this ungentle speech, and scarce knowing how to answer it
fitly in the presence of the lady, Alleyne stood with his hand upon the
handle of the door, while Sir Nigel and his companions dismounted. At
the sound of these fresh voices, and of the tongue in which they spoke,
the stranger crashed his dish of nuts down upon the floor, and began
himself to call for the landlord until the whole house re-echoed with
his roarings. With an ashen face the white-aproned host came running
at his call, his hands shaking and his very hair bristling with
apprehension. “For the sake of God, sirs,” he whispered as he passed,
“speak him fair and do not rouse him! For the love of the Virgin, be
mild with him!”
“Who is this, then?” asked Sir Nigel.
Alleyne was about to explain, when a fresh roar from the stranger
interrupted him.
“Thou villain inn-keeper,” he shouted, “did I not ask you when I brought
my lady here whether your inn was clean?”
“You did, sire.”
“Did I not very particularly ask you whether there were any vermin in
it?”
“You did, sire.”
“And you answered me?”
“That there were not, sire.”
“And yet ere I have been here an hour I find Englishmen crawling about
within it. Where are we to be free from this pestilent race? Can a
Frenchman upon French land not sit down in a French auberge without
having his ears pained by the clack of their hideous talk? Send them
packing, inn-keeper, or it may be the worse for them and for you.”
“I will, sire, I will!” cried the frightened host, and bustled from
the room, while the soft, soothing voice of the woman was heard
remonstrating with her furious companion.
“Indeed, gentlemen, you had best go,” said mine host. “It is but six
miles to Villefranche, where there are very good quarters at the sign of
the 'Lion Rouge.'”
“Nay,” answered Sir Nigel, “I cannot go until I have seen more of this
person, for he appears to be a man from whom much is to be hoped. What
is his name and title?”
“It is not for my lips to name it unless by his desire. But I beg and
pray you, gentlemen, that you will go from my house, for I know not what
may come of it if his rage should gain the mastery of him.”
“By Saint Paul!” lisped Sir Nigel, “this is certainly a man whom it
is worth journeying far to know. Go tell him that a humble knight of
England would make his further honorable acquaintance, not from any
presumption, pride, or ill-will, but for the advancement of chivalry and
the glory of our ladies. Give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring, and
say that the glove which I bear in my cap belongs to the most peerless
and lovely of her sex, whom I am now ready to uphold against any lady
whose claim he might be desirous of advancing.”
The landlord was hesitating whether to carry this message or no, when
the door of the inner room was flung open, and the stranger bounded out
like a panther from its den, his hair bristling and his deformed face
convulsed with anger.
“Still here!” he snarled. “Dogs of England, must ye be lashed hence?
Tiphaine, my sword!” He turned to seize his weapon, but as he did so his
gaze fell upon the blazonry of sir Nigel's shield, and he stood staring,
while the fire in his strange green eyes softened into a sly and
humorous twinkle.
“Mort Dieu!” cried he, “it is my little swordsman of Bordeaux. I should
remember that coat-armor, seeing that it is but three days since I
looked upon it in the lists by Garonne. Ah! Sir Nigel, Sir Nigel! you
owe me a return for this,” and he touched his right arm, which was girt
round just under the shoulder with a silken kerchief.
But the surprise of the stranger at the sight of Sir Nigel was as
nothing compared with the astonishment and the delight which shone upon
the face of the knight of Hampshire as he looked upon the strange face
of the Frenchman. Twice he opened his mouth and twice he peered again,
as though to assure himself that his eyes had not played him a trick.
“Bertrand!” he gasped at last. “Bertrand du Guesclin!”
“By Saint Ives!” shouted the French soldier, with a hoarse roar of
laughter, “it is well that I should ride with my vizor down, for he that
has once seen my face does not need to be told my name. It is indeed I,
Sir Nigel, and here is my hand! I give you my word that there are but
three Englishmen in this world whom I would touch save with the sharp
edge of the sword: the prince is one, Chandos the second, and you the
third; for I have heard much that is good of you.”
“I am growing aged, and am somewhat spent in the wars,” quoth Sir Nigel;
“but I can lay by my sword now with an easy mind, for I can say that
I have crossed swords with him who hath the bravest heart and the
strongest arm of all this great kingdom of France. I have longed for it,
I have dreamed of it, and now I can scarce bring my mind to understand
that this great honor hath indeed been mine.”
“By the Virgin of Rennes! you have given me cause to be very certain of
it,” said Du Guesclin, with a gleam of his broad white teeth.
“And perhaps, most honored sir, it would please you to continue the
debate. Perhaps you would condescend to go farther into the matter.
God He knows that I am unworthy of such honor, yet I can show my
four-and-sixty quarterings, and I have been present at some bickerings
and scufflings during these twenty years.”
“Your fame is very well known to me, and I shall ask my lady to enter
your name upon my tablets,” said Sir Bertrand. “There are many who wish
to advance themselves, and who bide their turn, for I refuse no man who
comes on such an errand. At present it may not be, for mine arm is stiff
from this small touch, and I would fain do you full honor when we cross
swords again. Come in with me, and let your squires come also, that my
sweet spouse, the Lady Tiphaine, may say that she hath seen so famed and
gentle a knight.”
Into the chamber they went in all peace and concord, where the Lady
Tiphaine sat like queen on throne for each in turn to be presented to
her. Sooth to say, the stout heart of Sir Nigel, which cared little for
the wrath of her lion-like spouse, was somewhat shaken by the calm, cold
face of this stately dame, for twenty years of camp-life had left him
more at ease in the lists than in a lady's boudoir. He bethought him,
too, as he looked at her set lips and deep-set questioning eyes, that he
had heard strange tales of this same Lady Tiphaine du Guesclin. Was
it not she who was said to lay hands upon the sick and raise them from
their couches when the leeches had spent their last nostrums? Had she
not forecast the future, and were there not times when in the loneliness
of her chamber she was heard to hold converse with some being upon whom
mortal eye never rested--some dark familiar who passed where doors were
barred and windows high? Sir Nigel sunk his eye and marked a cross on
the side of his leg as he greeted this dangerous dame, and yet ere
five minutes had passed he was hers, and not he only but his two young
squires as well. The mind had gone out of them, and they could but look
at this woman and listen to the words which fell from her lips--words
which thrilled through their nerves and stirred their souls like the
battle-call of a bugle.
Often in peaceful after-days was Alleyne to think of that scene of the
wayside inn of Auvergne. The shadows of evening had fallen, and the
corners of the long, low, wood-panelled room were draped in darkness.
The sputtering wood fire threw out a circle of red flickering light
which played over the little group of wayfarers, and showed up every
line and shadow upon their faces. Sir Nigel sat with elbows upon knees,
and chin upon hands, his patch still covering one eye, but his other
shining like a star, while the ruddy light gleamed upon his smooth white
head. Ford was seated at his left, his lips parted, his eyes staring,
and a fleck of deep color on either cheek, his limbs all rigid as one
who fears to move. On the other side the famous French captain leaned
back in his chair, a litter of nut-shells upon his lap, his huge head
half buried in a cushion, while his eyes wandered with an amused gleam
from his dame to the staring, enraptured Englishmen. Then, last of
all, that pale clear-cut face, that sweet clear voice, with its high
thrilling talk of the deathlessness of glory, of the worthlessness of
life, of the pain of ignoble joys, and of the joy which lies in all
pains which lead to a noble end. Still, as the shadows deepened, she
spoke of valor and virtue, of loyalty, honor, and fame, and still they
sat drinking in her words while the fire burned down and the red ash
turned to gray.
“By the sainted Ives!” cried Du Guesclin at last, “it is time that we
spoke of what we are to do this night, for I cannot think that in this
wayside auberge there are fit quarters for an honorable company.”
Sir Nigel gave a long sigh as he came back from the dreams of chivalry
and hardihood into which this strange woman's words had wafted him. “I
care not where I sleep,” said he; “but these are indeed somewhat rude
lodgings for this fair lady.”
“What contents my lord contents me,” quoth she. “I perceive, Sir Nigel,
that you are under vow,” she added, glancing at his covered eye.
“It is my purpose to attempt some small deed,” he answered.
“And the glove--is it your lady's?”
“It is indeed my sweet wife's.”
“Who is doubtless proud of you.”
“Say rather I of her,” quoth he quickly. “God He knows that I am not
worthy to be her humble servant. It is easy, lady, for a man to ride
forth in the light of day, and do his devoir when all men have eyes for
him. But in a woman's heart there is a strength and truth which asks no
praise, and can but be known to him whose treasure it is.”
The Lady Tiphaine smiled across at her husband. “You have often told
me, Bertrand, that there were very gentle knights amongst the English,”
quoth she.
“Aye, aye,” said he moodily. “But to horse, Sir Nigel, you and yours
and we shall seek the chateau of Sir Tristram de Rochefort, which is
two miles on this side of Villefranche. He is Seneschal of Auvergne, and
mine old war companion.”
“Certes, he would have a welcome for you,” quoth Sir Nigel; “but indeed
he might look askance at one who comes without permit over the marches.”
“By the Virgin! when he learns that you have come to draw away these
rascals he will be very blithe to look upon your face. Inn-keeper, here
are ten gold pieces. What is over and above your reckoning you may take
off from your charges to the next needy knight who comes this way. Come
then, for it grows late and the horses are stamping in the roadway.”