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

than places intended for comfort. The walls were of unhewn stone, and, as well as the roof, thickly tapestried with cobwebs,—the narrow loophole which admitted light was unglazed,—and there was nothing in the whole chamber that could be called furniture, save the two rude pallets which served the Knight and Squire for beds, and a chest which had been forced open and rifled by the mutineers. They had carried off Eustace’s beloved books, to burn them in the court as instruments of sorcery, and a few garments it had likewise contained lay scattered about the room. Gaston hastened to the side of his beloved Knight, almost dreading, from his silence and stillness, to find him expiring. But he was only faint and exhausted, and when Gaston raised him, and began to examine his wounds, he looked up, saying, “Thanks, thanks, kind Gaston! but waste not your time here. The Castle! the Castle!”

“What care I for the Castle compared to your life!” said Gaston.

“For my honour and your own,” said Eustace, fixing his eyes on his Squire’s face. “Gaston, I fear you,” he added, stretching out his hand and grasping that of d’Aubricour; “if you survive, you will forget the duty you owe the King, for the purpose of avenging me upon Clarenham. If ever you have loved me, Gaston, give me your solemn promise that this shall not be.”

“It was the purpose for which I should have lived,” said Gaston.

“You resign it?” said Eustace, still retaining his hold of his hand. “You touch not one of my wounds till you have given me your oath.”

“I swear it, then,” said Gaston, “since you will ever have your own way, and I do it the rather that Messire Oliver de Clisson will probably save me the pain of keeping the pledge.”

“You have taken all measures for defence?”

“Yes. The men-at-arms, such as are left, may be trusted, and have all taken an oath to stand by us, which I do not think they will readily break. The rest either made off with the baggage-mules, or were slain when we broke in to your rescue, or are shut up with Le Borgne Basque in Montfort’s tower. I have sent the men to their posts, put them under Silverlock’s orders, and told him to come to me for directions.”

Eustace at last resigned himself into the Squire’s hands. A broken arm, a ghastly-looking cut on the head, and a deep thrust with a poniard in the breast, seemed the most serious of the injuries he had received; but there were numerous lesser gashes and stabs which had occasioned a great effusion of blood, and he had been considerably bruised by his fall.

Gaston could attempt nothing but applying some ointment, sold by a Jew at Bordeaux as an infallible cure for all wounds and bruises; and, having done all he could for the comfort of his patient, quitted him to attend to the defence of the Castle.

His first visit was to Montfort’s tower, one of the four flanking the main body of the Castle.

“Well, Master Thibault Sanchez, or, if you like it better, Le Borgne Basque,” cried he, “thank you for saving us some trouble. You have found yourself a convenient prison there, and I hope you are at your ease.”

“We shall see how you are at your ease, Master Gaston le Maure,” retorted Sanchez from the depths of the tower, “when another Borgne shall make his appearance, and string you up as a traitor to King Charles, your liege lord.”

“Le Borgne Basque talking of traitors and such gear!” returned Gaston; “but he will tell a different tale when the succours come from the Prince.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Thibault, “a little bird whispered in mine ear that you may look long for succour from Bordeaux.”

This was, in a great measure, Gaston’s own conviction; but he only replied the more vehemently that it could not fail, since neither Knights nor Castles were so lightly parted with, and that he trusted soon to have the satisfaction of seeing the inhabitants of the tower receive the reward of their treachery.

Thus they parted—Thibault, perfectly well satisfied to remain where he was, since he had little doubt that Oliver de Clisson’s speedy arrival would set him at liberty, and turn the tables upon Gaston; and Gaston, glad that, since he could not at present have the satisfaction of hanging him, he was in a place where he could do no mischief, and whence he could not escape.

Now the warder on the watch-tower blew a blast, and every eye was turned towards the eastern part of the country, where, in the direction of Carcassonne, was to be seen a thick cloud of dust, from which, in due time, were visible the flashes of armour, and the points of weapons. Gaston, having given his orders, and quickened the activity of each man in his small garrison, hurried down to bear the tidings to Sir Eustace, and to array himself in his own brightest helmet and gayest surcoat.

Ascending again to the battlements, he could see the enemy approaching, could distinguish the banner of Clisson, and count the long array of men-at-arms and crossbow-men as they pursued their way through the bright green landscape, now half hidden by a rising ground, now slowly winding from its summit.

At last they came to the foot of the slope. Gaston had already marked the start and pause, which showed when they first recognized the English standard; and there was another stop, while they ranged themselves in order, and, after a moment’s interval, a man-at-arms rode forward towards the postern door, looked earnestly at it, and called “Sanchez!”

“Shoot him dead!” said Gaston to an English crossbow-man who stood beside him; “it is the villain Tristan, on poor Ferragus.”

The arblast twanged, and Tristan fell, while poor Ferragus, after starting violently, trotted round to the well-known gate, and stood there neighing. “Poor fellow!” said Gaston, “art calling Brigliador? I would I knew he had sped well.”

The French, dismayed by the reception of their guide, held back; but presently a pursuivant came forward from their ranks, and, after his trumpet had been sounded, summoned, in the name of the good Knight, Messire Oliver de Clisson, the garrison of Chateau Norbelle to surrender it into his hands, as thereto commissioned by his grace, Charles, King of France.

The garrison replied by another trumpet, and Gaston, standing forth upon the battlements, over the gateway, demanded to speak with Sir Oliver de Clisson, and to have safe-conduct to and from the open space at the foot of the slope. This being granted, the drawbridge was lowered, and the portcullis raised. Ferragus entered, and went straight to his own stall; and Gaston d’Aubricour came forth in complete armour, and was conducted by the pursuivant to the leader of the troop. Sir Oliver de Clisson, as he sat on horseback with the visor of his helmet raised, had little or nothing of the appearance of the courteous Knight of the period. His features were not, perhaps, originally as harsh and ill-formed as those of his compeer, Bertrand du Guesclin, but there was a want of the frank open expression and courteous demeanour which so well suited the high chivalrous temper of the great Constable of France. They were dark and stern, and the loss of an eye, which had been put out by an arrow, rendered him still more hard-favoured. He was, in fact, a man soured by early injuries—his father had been treacherously put to death by King John of France, when Duke of Normandy, and his brother had been murdered by an Englishman—his native Brittany was torn by dissensions and divisions—and his youth had been passed in bloodshed and violence. He had now attained the deserved fame of being the second Knight in France, honourable and loyal as regarded his King, but harsh, rigid, cruel, of an unlovable temper, which made him in after years a mark for plots and conspiracies; and the vindictive temper of the Celtic race leading him to avenge the death of his brother upon every Englishman who fell into his hands.

“So, Sir Squire!” exclaimed he, in his harsh voice, “what excuse do you come to make for slaying my messenger ere he had time to deliver his charge?”

“I own him as no messenger,” returned Gaston. “He was a renegade traitor from our own Castle, seeking his accomplice in villainy!”

“Well, speak on,” said Oliver, to whom the death of a man-at-arms was a matter of slight importance. “Art thou come to deliver up the Castle to its rightful lord?”

“No, Messire Oliver,” replied Gaston. “I come to bring the reply of the Castellane, Sir Eustace Lynwood, that he will hold out the Castle to the last extremity against all and each of your attacks.”

“Sir Eustace Lynwood? What means this, Master Squire? Yonder knave declared he was dead!”

“Hear me, Sir Oliver de Clisson,” said Gaston. “Sir Eustace Lynwood hath a pair of mortal foes at the Prince’s court, who prevailed on a part of the garrison to yield him into your hands. In my absence, they in part succeeded. By the negligence of a drunken groom they were enabled to fall upon him in his sleep, and, as they deemed, had murdered him. I, returning with the rest of the garrison, was enabled to rescue him, and deliver the Castle, where he now lies—alive, indeed, but desperately wounded. Now, I call upon you, Sir Oliver, to judge, whether it be the part of a true and honourable Knight to become partner of such miscreants, and to take advantage of so foul a web of treachery?”

“This may be a fine tale for the ears of younger knights-errant, Sir Squire,” was the reply of Clisson. “For my part though I am no lover of treason, I may not let the King’s service be stayed by scruples. For yourself, Sir Squire, I make you a fair offer. You are, by your tongue and countenance, a Gascon—a liegeman born of King Charles of France. To you, and to every other man of French birth, I offer to enter his service, or to depart whither it may please you, with arms and baggage, so you will place the Castle in our hands—and leave us to work our will of the island dogs it contains!”

“Thanks, Sir Oliver, for such a boon as I would not vouchsafe to stoop to pick up, were it thrown at my feet!”

“Well and good, Sir Squire,” said Clisson, rather pleased at the bold reply. “We understand each other. Fare thee well.”

And Gaston walked back to the Castle, muttering to himself, “Had it been but the will of the Saints to have sent Du Guesclin hither, then would Sir Eustace have been as safe and free as in Lynwood Keep itself! But what matters it? If he dies of his wounds, what good would my life do me, save to avenge him—and from that he has debarred me. So, grim Oliver, do thy worst!—Ha!” as he entered the Castle—“down portcullis—up drawbridge! Archers, bend your bows! Martin, stones for the mangonel!”

Nor was the assault long delayed. Clisson’s men only waited to secure their horses and prepare their ladders, and the attack was made on every side.

It was well and manfully resisted. Bravely did the little garrison struggle with the numbers that poured against them on every side, and the day wore away in the desperate conflict.

Sir Eustace heard the loud cries of “Montjoie St. Denis! Clisson!” on the one side, and the “St. George for Merry England! A Lynwood!” with which his own party replied; he heard the thundering of heavy stones, the rush of combatants, the cries of victory or defeat. Sometimes his whole being seemed in the fight; he clenched his teeth, he shouted his war-cry, tried to raise himself and