The White Company
The Lady Tiphaine and her spouse sprang upon their steeds without
setting feet to stirrup, and away they jingled down the white moonlit
highway, with Sir Nigel at the lady's bridle-arm, and Ford a spear's
length behind them. Alleyne had lingered for an instant in the passage,
and as he did so there came a wild outcry from a chamber upon the
left, and out there ran Aylward and John, laughing together like two
schoolboys who are bent upon a prank. At sight of Alleyne they slunk
past him with somewhat of a shame-faced air, and springing upon their
horses galloped after their party. The hubbub within the chamber did not
cease, however, but rather increased, with yells of: “A moi, mes amis! A
moi, camarades! A moi, l'honorable champion de l'Eveque de Montaubon! A
la recousse de l'eglise sainte!” So shrill was the outcry that both the
inn-keeper and Alleyne, with every varlet within hearing, rushed wildly
to the scene of the uproar.
It was indeed a singular scene which met their eyes. The room was a long
and lofty one, stone floored and bare, with a fire at the further end
upon which a great pot was boiling. A deal table ran down the centre,
with a wooden wine-pitcher upon it and two horn cups. Some way from it
was a smaller table with a single beaker and a broken wine-bottle. From
the heavy wooden rafters which formed the roof there hung rows of hooks
which held up sides of bacon, joints of smoked beef, and strings of
onions for winter use. In the very centre of all these, upon the
largest hook of all, there hung a fat little red-faced man with enormous
whiskers, kicking madly in the air and clawing at rafters, hams, and
all else that was within hand-grasp. The huge steel hook had been passed
through the collar of his leather jerkin, and there he hung like a fish
on a line, writhing, twisting, and screaming, but utterly unable to free
himself from his extraordinary position. It was not until Alleyne and
the landlord had mounted on the table that they were able to lift him
down, when he sank gasping with rage into a seat, and rolled his eyes
round in every direction.
“Has he gone?” quoth he.
“Gone? Who?”
“He, the man with the red head, the giant man.”
“Yes,” said Alleyne, “he hath gone.”
“And comes not back?”
“No.”
“The better for him!” cried the little man, with a long sigh of relief.
“Mon Dieu! What! am I not the champion of the Bishop of Montaubon? Ah,
could I have descended, could I have come down, ere he fled! Then you
would have seen. You would have beheld a spectacle then. There would
have been one rascal the less upon earth. Ma foi, yes!”
“Good master Pelligny,” said the landlord, “these gentlemen have not
gone very fast, and I have a horse in the stable at your disposal, for
I would rather have such bloody doings as you threaten outside the four
walls of mine auberge.”
“I hurt my leg and cannot ride,” quoth the bishop's champion. “I
strained a sinew on the day that I slew the three men at Castelnau.”
“God save you, master Pelligny!” cried the landlord. “It must be an
awesome thing to have so much blood upon one's soul. And yet I do not
wish to see so valiant a man mishandled, and so I will, for friendship's
sake, ride after this Englishman and bring him back to you.”
“You shall not stir,” cried the champion, seizing the inn-keeper in a
convulsive grasp. “I have a love for you, Gaston, and I would not
bring your house into ill repute, nor do such scath to these walls and
chattels as must befall if two such men as this Englishman and I fall to
work here.”
“Nay, think not of me!” cried the inn-keeper. “What are my walls when
set against the honor of Francois Poursuivant d'Amour Pelligny, champion
of the Bishop of Montaubon. My horse, Andre!”
“By the saints, no! Gaston, I will not have it! You have said truly that
it is an awesome thing to have such rough work upon one's soul. I am
but a rude soldier, yet I have a mind. Mon Dieu! I reflect, I weigh, I
balance. Shall I not meet this man again? Shall I not bear him in mind?
Shall I not know him by his great paws and his red head? Ma foi, yes!”
“And may I ask, sir,” said Alleyne, “why it is that you call yourself
champion of the Bishop of Montaubon?”
“You may ask aught which it is becoming to me to answer. The bishop hath
need of a champion, because, if any cause be set to test of combat, it
would scarce become his office to go down into the lists with leather
and shield and cudgel to exchange blows with any varlet. He looks around
him then for some tried fighting man, some honest smiter who can give a
blow or take one. It is not for me to say how far he hath succeeded, but
it is sooth that he who thinks that he hath but to do with the Bishop of
Montaubon, finds himself face to face with Francois Poursuivant d'Amour
Pelligny.”
At this moment there was a clatter of hoofs upon the road, and a varlet
by the door cried out that one of the Englishmen was coming back.
The champion looked wildly about for some corner of safety, and was
clambering up towards the window, when Ford's voice sounded from
without, calling upon Alleyne to hasten, or he might scarce find his
way. Bidding adieu to landlord and to champion, therefore, he set off at
a gallop, and soon overtook the two archers.
“A pretty thing this, John,” said he. “Thou wilt have holy Church upon
you if you hang her champions upon iron hooks in an inn kitchen.”
“It was done without thinking,” he answered apologetically, while
Aylward burst into a shout of laughter.
“By my hilt! mon petit,” said he, “you would have laughed also could
you have seen it. For this man was so swollen with pride that he would
neither drink with us, nor sit at the same table with us, nor as much as
answer a question, but must needs talk to the varlet all the time that
it was well there was peace, and that he had slain more Englishmen than
there were tags to his doublet. Our good old John could scarce lay his
tongue to French enough to answer him, so he must needs reach out his
great hand to him and place him very gently where you saw him. But we
must on, for I can scarce hear their hoofs upon the road.”
“I think that I can see them yet,” said Ford, peering down the moonlit
road.
“Pardieu! yes. Now they ride forth from the shadow. And yonder dark
clump is the Castle of Villefranche. En avant camarades! or Sir Nigel
may reach the gates before us. But hark, mes amis, what sound is that?”
As he spoke the hoarse blast of a horn was heard from some woods upon
the right. An answering call rung forth upon their left, and hard upon
it two others from behind them.
“They are the horns of swine-herds,” quoth Aylward. “Though why they
blow them so late I cannot tell.”
“Let us on, then,” said Ford, and the whole party, setting their spurs
to their horses, soon found themselves at the Castle of Villefranche,
where the drawbridge had already been lowered and the portcullis raised
in response to the summons of Du Guesclin.
CHAPTER XXIX. HOW THE BLESSED HOUR OF SIGHT CAME TO THE LADY TIPHAINE.
Sir Tristram de Rochefort, Seneschal of Auvergne and Lord of
Villefranche, was a fierce and renowned soldier who had grown gray in
the English wars. As lord of the marches and guardian of an exposed
country-side, there was little rest for him even in times of so-called
peace, and his whole life was spent in raids and outfalls upon the
Brabanters, late-comers, flayers, free companions, and roving archers
who wandered over his province. At times he would come back in triumph,
and a dozen corpses swinging from the summit of his keep would warn
evil-doers that there was still a law in the land. At others his
ventures were not so happy, and he and his troop would spur it over
the drawbridge with clatter of hoofs hard at their heels and whistle of
arrows about their ears. Hard he was of hand and harder of heart, hated
by his foes, and yet not loved by those whom he protected, for twice he
had been taken prisoner, and twice his ransom had been wrung by dint
of blows and tortures out of the starving peasants and ruined farmers.
Wolves or watch-dogs, it was hard to say from which the sheep had most
to fear.
The Castle of Villefranche was harsh and stern as its master. A broad
moat, a high outer wall turreted at the corners, with a great black keep
towering above all--so it lay before them in the moonlight. By the light
of two flambeaux, protruded through the narrow slit-shaped openings at
either side of the ponderous gate, they caught a glimpse of the glitter
of fierce eyes and of the gleam of the weapons of the guard. The sight
of the two-headed eagle of Du Guesclin, however, was a passport into
any fortalice in France, and ere they had passed the gate the old border
knight came running forwards with hands out-thrown to greet his famous
countryman. Nor was he less glad to see Sir Nigel, when the Englishman's
errand was explained to him, for these archers had been a sore thorn in
his side and had routed two expeditions which he had sent against them.
A happy day it would be for the Seneschal of Auvergne when they should
learn that the last yew bow was over the marches.
The material for a feast was ever at hand in days when, if there was
grim want in the cottage, there was at least rude plenty in the castle.
Within an hour the guests were seated around a board which creaked under
the great pasties and joints of meat, varied by those more dainty
dishes in which the French excelled, the spiced ortolan and the truffled
beccaficoes. The Lady Rochefort, a bright and laughter-loving dame, sat
upon the left of her warlike spouse, with Lady Tiphaine upon the right.
Beneath sat Du Guesclin and Sir Nigel, with Sir Amory Monticourt, of the
order of the Hospitallers, and Sir Otto Harnit, a wandering knight
from the kingdom of Bohemia. These with Alleyne and Ford, four French
squires, and the castle chaplain, made the company who sat together that
night and made good cheer in the Castle of Villefranche. The great fire
crackled in the grate, the hooded hawks slept upon their perches, the
rough deer-hounds with expectant eyes crouched upon the tiled floor;
close at the elbows of the guests stood the dapper little lilac-coated
pages; the laugh and jest circled round and all was harmony and comfort.
Little they recked of the brushwood men who crouched in their rags along
the fringe of the forest and looked with wild and haggard eyes at the
rich, warm glow which shot a golden bar of light from the high arched
windows of the castle.
Supper over, the tables dormant were cleared away as by magic and
trestles and bancals arranged around the blazing fire, for there was a
bitter nip in the air. The Lady Tiphaine had sunk back in her cushioned
chair, and her long dark lashes drooped low over her sparkling eyes.
Alleyne, glancing at her, noted that her breath came quick and short,
and that her cheeks had blanched to a lily white. Du Guesclin eyed her
keenly from time to time, and passed his broad brown fingers through his
crisp, curly black hair with the air of a man who is perplexed in his
mind.
“These folk here,” said the knight of Bohemia, “they do not seem too
well fed.”
“Ah, canaille!” cried the Lord of Villefranche. “You would scarce credit
it, and yet it is sooth that when I was taken at Poictiers it was all
that my wife and foster-brother could do to raise the money from them
for my ransom. The sulky dogs would rather have three twists of a rack,
or the thumbikins for an hour, than pay out a denier for their own
feudal father and liege lord. Yet there is not one of them but hath an
old stocking full of gold pieces hid away in a snug corner.”
“Why do they not buy food then?” asked Sir Nigel. “By St. Paul! it
seemed to me their bones were breaking through their skin.”