The Lances of Lynwood by Charlotte Mary Yonge (i read book TXT) 📕

the Castle, and vowing the most desperate vengeance against Clarenham and his accomplices, he lifted his master from the ground, and, as he did so, he fancied he felt a slight movement of the chest, and a faint moan fell upon his ear.

What recked Gaston that the Castle was but half taken, that enemies were around on every side? He saw only, heard only, thought only, of Sir Eustace! What was life or death, prosperity or adversity, save as shared with him! He lifted the Knight in his arms, and, hurrying up the stone steps, placed him on his couch.

“Bring water! bring wine!” he shouted as he crossed the hall. A horse-boy followed with a pitcher of water, and Gaston, unfastening the collar of his doublet, raised his head, held his face towards the air, and deluged it with water, entreating him to look up and speak.

A few long painful gasps, and the eyes were half unclosed, while a scarce audible voice said, “Gaston! is it thou? I deemed it was over!” and then the eyes closed again. Gaston’s heart was lightened at having heard that voice once more, even had that word been his last—and answering, “Ay, truly, Sir Knight, all is well so you will but look up,” he succeed in pouring a little water into his mouth.

He was interrupted by several of the men-at-arms, who came trooping up to the door, looking anxiously at the wounded Knight, while the foremost said, “Master Gaston, here is gear which must be looked to. Thibault Sanchez and half a dozen more have drawn together in Montfort’s tower, and swear they will not come forth till we have promised their lives.”

“Give them no such pledge!—Hang without mercy!” cried another voice from behind. “Did not I myself hear the traitorous villains send off Tristan de la Fleche to bear the news to Carcassonne? We shall have the butcher of Bretagne at our throats before another hour is over.”

“Cowardly traitor!” cried Gaston. “Wherefore didst thou not cut the throat of the caitiff, and make in to the rescue of the Knight?”

“Why, Master d’Aubricour, the deed was done ere I was well awake, and when it was done, and could not be undone, and we were but four men to a dozen, what could a poor groom do? But you had better look to yourself; for it is true as the legends of the saints, that Tristan is gone to Carcassonne, riding full speed on the Knight’s own black charger!”

The news seemed to have greater effect in restoring Eustace than any of Gaston’s attentions. He again opened his eyes, and made an effort to raise his head, as he said, almost instinctively, “Secure the gates! Warders, to your posts!”

The men stood amazed; and Eustace, rallying, looked around him, and perceived the state of the case. “Said you they had sent to summon the enemy?” said he.

“Martin said so,” replied Gaston, “and I fear it is but too true.”

“Not a moment to be lost!” said Eustace. “Give me some wine!” and he spoke in a stronger voice, “How many of you are true to King Edward and to the Prince? All who will not fight to the death in their cause have free leave to quit this Castle; but, first, a message must be sent to Bordeaux.”

“True, Sir Eustace, but on whom can we rely?” asked Gaston.

“Alas! I fear my faithful Ingram must be slain,” said the Knight, “else this could never have been. Know you aught of him?” he added, looking anxiously at the men.

The answer was a call from one of the men: “Here, John, don’t stand there grunting like a hog; the Knight is asking for you, don’t you hear?”

A slight scuffle was heard, and in a few seconds the broad figure of Ingram shouldered through the midst of the men-at-arms. He came, almost like a man in a dream, to the middle of the room, and there, suddenly dropping upon his knees, he clasped his hands, exclaiming, “I, John Ingram, hereby solemnly vow to our blessed Lady of Taunton, and St. Joseph of Glastonbury, that never more will I drink sack, or wine or any other sort or kind, spiced or unspiced, on holiday or common day, by day or night. So help me, our blessed Lady and St. Joseph.”

“Stand up, John, and let us know if you are in your senses,” said Gaston, angrily; “we have no time for fooleries. Let us know whether you have been knave, traitor, or fool; for one or other you must have been, to be standing here sound and safe.”

“You are right, Sir Squire,” said Ingram, covering his face with his hands. “I would I were ten feet underground ere I had seen this day;” and he groaned aloud.

“You have been deceived by their arts,” said Eustace. “That I can well believe; but that you should be a traitor, never, my trusty John!”

“Blessings on you for the word, Sir Eustace!” cried the yeoman, while tears fell down his rough cheeks. “Oh! all the wine in the world may be burnt to the very dregs ere I again let a drop cross my lips! but it was drugged, Sir Eustace, it was drugged—that will I aver to my dying day.”

“I believe it,” said Eustace; “but we must not wait to hear your tale, John. You must take horse and ride with all speed to Bordeaux. One of you go and prepare a horse—”

“Take Brigliador!” said Gaston; “he is the swiftest. Poor fellow! well that I spared him from our journey amid the mountain passes.”

“Then,” proceeded Eustace, “bear the news of our case—that we have been betrayed—that Clisson will be on us immediately—that we will do all that man can do to hold out till succour can come, which I pray the Prince to send us.”

“Take care to whom he addresses himself,” said Gaston. “To some our strait will be welcome news.”

“True,” said Eustace. “Do thy best to see Sir John Chandos, or, if he be not at the court, prefer thy suit to the Prince himself—to any save the Earl of Pembroke. Or if thou couldst see little Arthur, it might be best of all. Dost understand my orders, John?”

“Ay, Sir,” said Ingram, shaking his great head, while the tears still flowed down his cheeks; “but to see you in this case!”

“Think not of that, kind John,” said Eustace; “death must come sooner or later, and a sword-cut is the end for a Knight.”

“You will not, shall not die, Sir Eustace!” cried Gaston. “Your wounds—”

“I know not, Gaston; but the point is now, not of saving my life, but the Castle. Speed, speed, Ingram! Tell the Prince, if this Castle be taken, it opens the way to Bordeaux itself. Tell him how many brave men it contains, and say to him that I pray him not to deem that Eustace Lynwood hath disgraced his knighthood. Tell Arthur, too, to bear me sometimes in mind, and never forget the line he comes of. Fare thee well, good John!”

“Let me but hear that I have your forgiveness, Sir Knight.”

“You have it, as freely as I hope for mercy. One thing more: should you see Leonard Ashton, let him know that I bear him no ill-will, and pray him not to leave the fair fame of his old comrade foully stained. Farewell: here is my hand—do not take it as scorn that it is my left —my right I cannot move—”

The yeoman still stood in a sort of trance, gazing at him, as if unable to tear himself away.

“See him off, Gaston,” said the Knight; “then have the walls properly manned—all is in your hands.”

Gaston obeyed, hurrying him to the gate, and giving him more hope of Sir Eustace’s recovery than he felt; for he knew that nothing but the prospect of saving him was likely to inspire the yeoman with either speed or pertinacity enough to be of use. He fondly patted Brigliador, who turned his neck in amaze at finding it was not his master who mounted him, and having watched them for a moment, he turned to look round the court, which was empty, save for the bodies of those whom he had slain in his furious onset. He next repaired to the hall, where he found the greater part of the men loitering about and exchanging different reports of strange events which had taken place:—“He can’t be a wizard, for certain,” said one, “or he never would be in this case, unless his bargain was up.”

“It were shame not to stand by him now in the face of the enemy,” said another. “How bold he spoke, weak and wounded as he was!”

“He is of the old English stock,” said a third,—“a brave, stout-hearted young Knight.”

“Well spoken, old Simon Silverlocks,” said Gaston, entering. “I doubt where you would find another such within the wide realm of France.”

“He is brave enough, that no man doubts,” answered Simon, “but somewhat of the strictest, especially considering his years. Sir Reginald was nothing to him.”

“Was it not time to be strict when there was such a nest of treachery within the Castle?” said Gaston. “We knew that murderous miscreant of a Basque, and had we not kept well on our guard against him, you, Master Simon, would long since have been hanging as high from Montfort’s tower as I trust soon to see him.”

“But how knew you him, Master d’Aubricour? that is the question,” said old Simon with a very solemn face of awe.

“How? why by means of somewhat sharper eyes than you seem to possess. I have no time to bandy words—all I come to ask is, will you do the duty of honest men or not? If not, away with you, and I and the Knight will abide here till it pleases Messire Oliver, the butcher, to practice his trade on us. I remember, if some of the Lances of Lynwood do not, a certain camp at Valladolid, when some of us might have been ill off had he not stood by our beds of sickness; nor will I easily desert that pennon which was so gallantly made a banner.”

These were remembrances to stir the hearts of the ancient Lances of Lynwood, and there was a cry among them of, “We will never turn our backs on it! Lynwood for ever!”

“Right, mine old comrades. Our walls are strong; our hearts are stronger; three days, and aid must come from Bordeaux. The traitors are captives, and we know to whom to trust; for ye, of English birth, and ye, my countrymen, who made in so boldly to the rescue, ye will not fail at this pinch, and see a brave and noble Knight yielded to a pack of cowardly murderers.”

“Never! never! We will stand by him to the last drop of our blood,” they replied; for the sight of the brave wounded Knight, as well as the example of Gaston’s earnestness and devotion, had had a powerful effect, and they unanimously joined the Squire in a solemn pledge to defend both Castle and Knight to the last extremity.

“Then up with the good old banner!” said Gaston, “and let us give Messire Oliver such a reception as he will be little prepared for.” He then gave some hasty directions, appointed old Silverlocks, a skilled and tried warrior, to take the place of Seneschal for the time, and to superintend the arrangements; and sending two men to guard the entrance of Montfort’s tower, where Sanchez and his accomplices had shut themselves up, he returned to the Castellane’s chamber.

Never was there an apartment more desolate. Chateau Norbelle was built more to be defended than to be inhabited, and the rooms were rather so much inclosed space