Part 35 (1/2)
”Then there he dwells, and G.o.d guard you if ever you pa.s.s under yonder portal, for no prisoner has ever come forth alive! Since these wars began he hath been a king to himself, and the plunder of eleven years lies in yonder cellars. How can justice come to him, when no man knows who owns the land? But when we have packed you all back to your island, by the Blessed Mother of G.o.d, we have a heavy debt to pay to the man who dwells in yonder pile!”
But even as they watched, the trumpet-call burst forth once more. It came not from the castle but from the farther end of the valley. It was answered by a second call from the walls. Then in a long, straggling line there came a wild troop of marauders streaming homeward from some foray. In the van, at the head of a body of spearmen, rode a tall and burly man, clad in brazen armor, so that he shone like a golden image in the slanting rays of the sun. His helmet had been loosened from his gorget and was held before him on his horse's neck. A great tangled beard flowed over his breastplate, and his hair hung down as far behind.
A squire at his elbow bore high the banner of the bleeding head. Behind the spearmen were a line of heavily laden mules, and on either side of them a drove of poor country folk, who were being herded into the castle. Lastly came a second strong troop of mounted spearmen, who conducted a score or more of prisoners who marched together in a solid body.
Nigel stared at them and then, springing on his horse, he urged it along the shelter of the ridge so as to reach unseen a spot which was close to the castle gate. He had scarce taken up his new position when the cavalcade reached the drawbridge, and amid yells of welcome from those upon the wall, filed in a thin line across it. Nigel stared hard once more at the prisoners in the rear, and so absorbed was he by the sight that he had pa.s.sed the rocks and was standing sheer upon the summit.
”By Saint Paul!” he cried, ”it must indeed be so. I see their russet jackets. They are English archers!”
As he spoke, the hindmost one, a strongly built, broad-shouldered man, looked round and saw the gleaming figure above him upon the hill, with open helmet, and the five roses glowing upon his breast. With a sweep of his hands he had thrust his guardians aside and for a moment was clear of the throng.
”Squire Loring! Squire Loring!” he cried. ”It is I, Aylward the archer!
It is I, Samkin Aylward!” The next minute a dozen hands had seized him, his cries were m.u.f.fled with a gag, and he was hurled, the last of the band, through the black and threatening archway of the gate. Then with a clang the two iron wings came together, the portcullis swung upward, and captives and captors, robbers and booty, were all swallowed up within the grim and silent fortress.
XX. HOW THE ENGLISH ATTEMPTED THE CASTLE OF LA BROHINIERE
For some minutes Nigel remained motionless upon the crest of the hill, his heart, like lead within him, and his eyes fixed upon the huge gray walls which contained his unhappy henchman. He was roused by a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder and the voice of his young prisoner in his ear.
”Peste!” said he. ”They have some of your birds in their cage, have they not? What then, my friend? Keep your heart high! Is it not the chance of war, to-day to them, to-morrow to thee, and death at last for us all?
And yet I had rather they were in any hands than those of Oliver the Butcher.”
”By Saint Paul, we cannot suffer it!” cried Nigel distractedly. ”This man has come with me from my own home. He has stood between me and death before now. It goes to my very heart that he should call upon me in vain. I pray you, Raoul, to use your wits, for mine are all curdled in my head. Tell me what I should do and how I may bring him help.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ”As easy to get a lamb unscathed out of a wolves' lair as a prisoner safe from La Brohiniere. Nay, Nigel, whither do you go? Have you indeed taken leave of your wits?”
The Squire had spurred his horse down the hillside and never halted until he was within a bowshot of the gate. The French prisoner followed hard behind him, with a buzz of reproaches and expostulations.
”You are mad, Nigel!” he cried. ”What do you hope to do then? Would you carry the castle with your own hands? Halt, man, halt, in the name of the Virgin!”
But Nigel had no plan in his head and only obeyed the fevered impulse to do something to ease his thoughts. He paced his horse up and down, waving his spear, and shouting insults and challenges to the garrison.
Over the high wall a hundred jeering faces looked down upon him. So rash and wild was his action that it seemed to those within to mean some trap, so the drawbridge was still held high and none ventured forth to seize him. A few long-range arrows pattered on the rocks, and then with a deep booming sound a huge stone, hurled from a mangonel, sang over the head of the two Squires and crushed into splinters amongst the boulders behind them. The Frenchman seized Nigel's bridle and forced him farther from the gateway.
”By the dear Virgin!” he cried, ”I care not to have those pebbles about my ears, yet I cannot go back alone, so it is very clear, my crazy comrade, that you must come also. Now we are beyond their reach! But see, my friend Nigel, who are those who crown the height?”
The sun had sunk behind the western ridge, but the glowing sky was fringed at its lower edge by a score of ruddy twinkling points. A body of hors.e.m.e.n showed hard and black upon the bare hill. Then they dipped down the slope into the valley, whilst a band of footmen followed behind.
”They are my people,” cried Nigel joyously. ”Come, my friend, hasten, that we may take counsel what we shall do.”
Sir Robert Knolles rode a bowshot in front of his men, and his brow was as black as night. Beside him, with crestfallen face, his horse bleeding, his armor dinted and soiled, was the hot-headed knight, Sir James Astley. A fierce discussion raged between them.
”I have done my devoir as best I might,” said Astley. ”Alone I had ten of them at my sword-point. I know not how I have lived to tell it.”
”What is your devoir to me? Where are my thirty bowmen?” cried Knolles in bitter wrath. ”Ten lie dead upon the ground and twenty are worse than dead in yonder castle. And all because you must needs show all men how bold you are, and ride into a bushment such as a child could see. Alas for my own folly that ever I should have trusted such a one as you with the handling of men!”
”By G.o.d, Sir Robert, you shall answer to me for those words!” cried Astley with a choking voice. ”Never has a man dared to speak to me as you have done this day.”
”As long as I hold the King's order I shall be master, and by the Lord I will hang you, James, on a near tree if I have further cause of offense!