The Lances of Lynwood by Charlotte Mary Yonge (i read book TXT) 📕
- Author: Charlotte Mary Yonge
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“Ha! What is all this? Whom have we here?” exclaimed the old Baron. “Sir Eustace Lynwood! By my life, a fair commencement for your dainty young knighthood!”
“On my word, my Lord Chandos,” said Eustace, colouring deeply, “I am no loiterer here; I came but to seek my Squire, Leonard Ashton, and found myself entangled in the crowd.”
“Ay, ay! I understand,” said Chandos, without listening to him; “I see how it will be. Off to your troop instantly, Master Knight. I suppose they are all seeking Squires in the wine-shops!”
“You do me wrong, my Lord,” said Eustace; “but you shall be obeyed.”
The bugles had already sounded before he reached his own quarters, where he found that, thanks to Gaston, all was right. The tent had been taken down and packed on the baggage mules, the men were mounted, and drawn up in full array, with his banner floating above their heads; and Gaston himself was only waiting his appearance to mount a stout mule, which Martin, the horse-boy, was leading up and down.
“This is well. Thanks, good Gaston,” said Eustace, with a sigh of relief, as he took off his heavy helmet, which had become much heated during his hasty ride in the hot sun.
“No news of the truant?” asked Gaston. “Who but you would have thought of going after him? Well did I know you would never prosper without me at your elbow.”
Eustace smiled, but he was too much heated and vexed to give a very cheerful assent. He had only time to load Ferragus with his armour, and mount a small pony, before the signal for the march was given, and all set forth. Early in the year as it was, the sun already possessed great force, and the dry rocky soil of Castile reflected his beams, so that, long before noon, it seemed to Eustace almost as if their march lay through an oven. Nor were his perplexities by any means at an end; the thirst, occasioned by the heat, was excessive, and at every venta, in the villages through which they passed, the men called loudly for liquor; but the hot, fiery Spanish wine was, as Eustace had already been cautioned by Father Waleran, only fit to increase the evil, by inflaming their blood. It was the Holy Week, which was to him a sufficient reason for refraining entirely, contenting himself with a drink of water, when it could be procured, which, however, was but rarely. He would willingly have persuaded his men to do the same, but remonstrance was almost without effect, and his dry lips refused to utter a prohibition, which would have been esteemed at once cruel and unreasonable. In his persuasions to Gaston he was, however, more in earnest, representing to him that he was increasing the fever of his wound; but the Squire was perfectly impracticable. At first, he answered in his usual gay, careless manner, that the scratch was nothing, and that, be what it might, he had as soon die of a wound as of thirst; but as the day wore on, it seemed as if the whole nature of the man were becoming changed. Sometimes he was boisterously loud in his merriment, sometimes sullen and silent; and when Eustace, unwearied, reiterated his arguments, he replied to him, not only with complete want of the deference he was usually so scrupulous in paying to his dignity, but with rude and scurril taunts and jests on his youth, his clerkly education, and his inexperience. Eustace’s patience would scarcely have held out, but that he perceived that d’Aubricour was by no means master of himself, and he saw in his flushed brow, and blood-shot eye, reason to fear for the future effect of the present excess. There was suppressed laughter among the men at some of his sallies. Without being positively in disorder, the troop did not display the well-arrayed aspect which had always hitherto distinguished the Lances of Lynwood; and poor Eustace, wearied and worn out, his right-hand man failing him, dispirited by Chandos’s reproach, and feeling all the cares of the world on his shoulders, had serious thoughts of going to the Prince, and resigning the command for which he was unfit.
At last he beheld the Cathedral of Burgos rising in the midst of the Moorish fortifications of the town, and, halting his men under the shade of a few trees, he rode on in search of the marshals of the camp, and as soon as the open space for his tents had been assigned, he returned to see them raised. Gaston, who had of late become more silent, was lifted from his mule, and assisted into the tent, where he was laid on his couch, and soon after, Eustace was relieved from his anxiety on Leonard Ashton’s account, by his appearance. He came stumbling in without one word of apology, only declaring himself as weary as a dog, and, throwing himself down on a deer-skin on his own side of the tent, was fast asleep in another minute.
Leonard Ashton was awakened the next morning by the light of the rising sun streaming in where the curtain of the tent had been raised to admit the fresh dewy morning air. The sunbeams fell on the hair and face of Eustace as he leant over Gaston, who lay stretched on the couch, and faintly spoke: “I tell you it is more. Such fever as this would not be caused by this trifling cut. There is sickness abroad in the camp, and why should it not be my turn as well as another man’s. Take care of yourself, Sir Eustace.”
No sooner did Leonard understand the sense of these words, than he sprang up, rushed out of the tent, and never rested till he thought himself at a safe distance, when he shouted to Eustace to come to him.
“Has he got this fever on him?” exclaimed he, as Eustace approached.
“He is very ill at ease,” replied Eustace, “but to my mind it is caused by yesterday’s fatigue and heat, added to the wine which he would drink.”
“It is the fever, I say,” replied Ashton; “I am sure it is. Come away, Eustace, or we shall all be infected.”
“I cannot leave him,” said Eustace.
“What? You do not mean to peril yourself by going near him?” said Ashton.
“I think not that there is peril in so doing, answered Eustace; “and even if there were, I could not leave him in sickness, after all his kindness to me and patience with my inexperience.”
“He is no brother nor cousin to us,” said Leonard. “I see not why we should endanger our lives for a stranger. I will not, for my own part; and, as your old friend and comrade, I would entreat you not.”
These were kinder words than Eustace had heard from Ashton since the beginning of his jealousy, and he answered, as he thought they were meant, in a friendly tone, “Thanks, Leonard, but I cannot look on Gaston d’Aubricour as a stranger; and had I fewer causes for attachment to him, I could not leave my post.”
“Only you do not expect me to do the same,” said Leonard; “my father sent me here to gain honour and wealth, not to be poisoned with the breath of a man in a fever.”
“Assuredly not,” said Eustace. “I will arrange matters so that you shall no longer sleep in our tent. But let me ask of you, Leonard, what was the meaning of your conduct of yesterday?”
“You may ask yourself,” said Leonard, sullenly; “it is plain enough, methinks.”
“Have a care, Leonard. Remember that my brother’s authority is given to me.”
“Much good may it do you,” said Leonard; “but that is nothing to me. I am no vassal of yours, to come at your call. I have my own friends, and am not going to stay in this infected part of the camp with men who keep a fever among them. Give me but my sword and mantle from the tent, and I will trouble you no more.”
“Wait, Leonard, I will take all measures for your safety; but remember that I am answerable to the Prince for my brother’s followers.”
“Answer for your own serfs,” retorted Leonard, who had nearly succeeded in working himself into a passion. “My father might be willing to grace Sir Reginald by letting me follow him, but by his death I am my own man, and not to move at your beck and call, because the Prince laid his sword on your shoulder. Knave Jasper,” he called to one of the men-at-arms, “bring my sword and cloak from the tent; I enter it no more.”
“I know not how far you may be bound to me,” said Eustace, “and must inquire from some elder Knight, but I fear that your breaking from me may be attended with evil effects to your name and fame.”
Leonard had put on his dogged expression, and would not listen. He had already set his mind on joining le Borgne Basque, and leaving the service which his own envious service rendered galling; and the panic excited in his mind by Gaston’s illness determined him to depart without loss of time, or listening to the representations which he could not answer. He turned his back on Eustace, and busied himself with the fastenings of his sword, which had by this time been brought to him. Even yet Eustace was not rebuffed. “One more hint, Leonard. From what I am told, there is more peril to thy health in revelry than in the neighbourhood of poor Gaston. If you will quit one who wishes you well, take heed to your ways.”
Still the discourteous Squire made no reply, and walked off in all the dignity of ill-humour. The young Knight, who really had a warm feeling of affection for him, stood looking after him with a sigh, and then returned to his patient, whom he found in an uneasy sleep. After a few moments’ consideration, he summoned old Guy to take the part of nurse, and walked to the tent of Sir Richard Ferrars, to ask his counsel.
The old Knight, who was standing at the door of his tent, examining into some hurt which his steed had received the day before, kindly and cordially greeted Eustace on his approach. “I am glad you are not above taking advice,” he said, “as many a youth might be after such fresh honours.”
“I feel but too glad to find some one who will bestow advice on me,” said Eustace; and he proceeded to explain his difficulties with regard to Leonard Ashton.
“Let him go! and a good riddance,” said Sir Richard; “half your cares go with him.”
“Yet I am unwilling not to attempt to hinder my old comrade from running to ruin.”
“You have quite enough on your own hands already,” said the old Knight; “he would do far more harm in your troop than out of it, and try your patience every hour.”
“He is my old playfellow,” said Eustace, still dissatisfied.
“More shame for him,” said Sir Richard; “waste not another thought on so cross-grained a slip, who, as I have already feared, might prove a stumbling-block to you, so young in command as you are. Let him get sick of his chosen associates, and no better hap can befall him. And for yourself, what shall you do with this sick Squire?”
“What can I do, save to give the best attendance
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