The Lances of Lynwood - Charlotte Mary Yonge (i want to read a book .TXT) 📗
- Author: Charlotte Mary Yonge
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He sat upright, gazed eagerly forwards, and beheld a tall dark tower rising by the bank of a stream at some distance. “Chateau Norbelle?” he asked.
“Oh, ho! my little page,” said Chandos. “You are alive again, are you? Ay, Chateau Norbelle it is—and we are in time it seems! But let us have you on your own steed again. And let us see—if Oliver be there himself, we shall have sharp work. Ay, keep you by the side of the old master leech there—he will be sure to keep out of peril. Now—close in—lances in rest—bows bent. Forward banner!”
Arthur, by no means approving of the companionship assigned him, contrived to wedge in his pony a little in the rear of Sir John’s two Squires, as the whole squadron rode down the slope of the hill, and up the ascent on which the Castle stood. Loud cries and shrieks from within began to strike their ears—the clash of arms—all the tumult of attack and defence raging fearfully high and wild.
“Ho, ho! friend Oliver!—we have you in a trap!” said old Chandos, in high glee, as he drew up close without the walls. “Neville, guard the gates!”
He signed to about half his band to remain without, and cut off the retreat of the enemy. The Jew doctor chose his post in their rear, close to the Castle moat—but not so Arthur. Unnoticed and forgotten, he still kept close behind the Squire, who rode alongside of Sir John Chandos, as he crossed the drawbridge. The Castle gate was open, and showed a wild confused mass of struggling men and flashing arms. It was the last, most furious onset, when Clisson, enraged by the long resistance of so weak a garrison, was concentrating his strength in one effort, and, in the excitement of the assault, he had failed to remark that his sentinels had transgressed his orders, and mingled with the crowd, who were striving, by force of numbers, to overwhelm the small troop of defenders of the bartizan.
In rushed Chandos, shouting his war-cry!—In dashed his stout warriors, and loud and fierce pealed forth “St. George! St George!” drowning the now feebler note of “Montjoie, St. Denis!” and fearful were the shrieks of horror and of pain that rose mingled with it. Hemmed in, attacked in front and rear, their retreat cut off, the French looked in vain for escape; some went down beneath the tremendous charge of the English, some cried for mercy, and surrendered as prisoners. Oliver de Clisson himself, seeing that all was lost, swinging round his head his heavy battle-axe, opened for himself a way, and, with a few followers, broke through the men whom Chandos had left outside, and, cutting down a groom who was holding it, captured one of his led horses, on which he rode off at his leisure, confident in his own gigantic strength.
So little resistance had been offered, that Arthur’s bold advance had involved him in little danger; he was borne onwards, and only was conscious of a frightful tumult, where all seemed to be striking and crushing together. At last, there was something of a lull; the cries of mercy, and offers to surrender, alone were heard. Arthur found his pony standing still, and himself pressed hither and thither by the crowd, from which he knew not how to escape.
Above these various sounds he heard an opening door—there was a press forward, which carried him with it. The heavy doors, shivered here and there by Clisson’s axe, had been thrown wide open; but the crowd closed in—he saw no more. He threw himself from his pony, struggled forwards, and at last, emerging between the arms of two tall men, he beheld Sir John Chandos dismounting from his war-horse, which was held by a grim, bloody, dusty figure in broken armour, whose length of limb, and the crisp, black, curled hair that showed through the shattered helmet, proved that it could be no other than Gaston d’Aubricour.
Arthur darted forwards, his heart upon his lips; but neither Knight nor Squire had eye or ear for him; they were hastily exchanging queries about—he knew not what—they were not of his uncle; and, borne on by his impatience, he hurried past them up the narrow stone stair. More than one corpse—a ghastly sight—lay on the steps, but he hastened on; half a dozen men were standing on the stones at the top, all, like Gaston, dusty and gory, and leaning on their weapons, or on the wall, as if exhausted. They were looking intently at the court, and gave no heed to the boy, as he ran on into the hall. Two men lay there groaning before the fire. Arthur stood and looked round, hesitating whether to ask them for his uncle; but, perceiving the spiral stairs, quickly ascended. Far and far up he wound, till he came to a low-browed arch; he paused, and saw a large vaulted room, through the loophole window of which shone a yellow stream of golden sunshine. There was a low bed in one corner, and on it lay a motionless form. On tiptoe, and with a throbbing heart, the boy approached; he saw the face—it was ghastly pale. He stood transfixed—could it be?—yes, it must still be, his own Uncle Eustace.
It was still very early, and the narrow line of sky seen from the turret window was gilded by the bright pale-green light of morning, when Sir Eustace awoke. All around was perfectly still, and he could have believed himself waking merely from a dream of tumult and disturbance, but for his feelings of pain and weakness. At some little distance lay, on a softly-dressed sheepskin, the oriental figure of the Jewish mediciner, and, at the foot of his own bed, the unexpected form of little Arthur reclined, half sitting, half lying, with his head resting on his crossed arms, and his long curls floating over them. All was a riddle to his misty remembrance, clouded by weakness; and, in vague uncertain recollections and conjectures, the time rolled away, till the sounds of awakening and calls of the warders within the Castle betokened that it was occupied by no small number of persons. Still Arthur slept on, and Eustace abstained from the slightest movement that could disturb him, till a step stole quietly to the door, and Gaston’s head was seen cautiously and anxiously looking in. Eustace, raising his hand, beckoned him, and made a sign of silence.
“How is with you, Sir Eustace? It must needs be better. I see a light in your eye once more.”
“I am another man since yesterday, Gaston; but be careful—see there.”
“Little fear of breaking such sleep as that,” said Gaston. “‘Tis a noble-hearted little fellow, and if matters go better with us henceforth, it will be his work.”
“What is become of Clisson?”
“He was riding off headlong when Master Henry Neville last beheld him, gaining thereby a sound rating from old Chandos.”
“Sir John Chandos here?”
“Fast asleep in your own carved chair, with his feet on the oaken settle.”
“Sir John Chandos!” again exclaimed Eustace.
“Even so. All thanks to the brave young damoiseau who—”
Here Gaston’s ardour had the effect of awakening the doctor, who immediately began to grumble at his patient’s admitting visitors without permission. By the time he had examined Eustace’s wounds and pronounced him to be progressing favourably, the whole Castle was up and awake, and Arthur, against his will, was sent down to attend on Sir John Chandos at breakfast, when scarce satisfied that his uncle could speak to him.
In process of time he came up to announce a visit from Chandos himself, and close on his steps followed the stalwart old warrior. Pausing at the door, he looked around him, struck with the aspect of the dungeon-like apartment, still more rugged in the morning light than in the evening gloom—the bare rough walls, an arrow sticking between the stones immediately above the Knight’s head, the want of furniture, the Knight’s own mantle and that of Gaston both called into requisition to protect him from the damp chill night air, their bright hues and rich embroidery contrasting with the squalid appearance of all around, as, indeed, did the noble though pale features of the wounded man himself, and the graceful attire and shining hair of the fair young boy who stood over him. But Sir John beheld all with no dissatisfaction.
“Well, my brave young Sir,” said he, advancing, “how is it with you this morning? You look cheerily; I trust we shall soon have you on horseback again.”
“Thanks to the blessed Saints and to you, Sir John,” replied Eustace. “I fear you fared ill last night for,”—and he looked round with a smile—“you see, I occupy the state bed-chamber.”
“The better, Sir Eustace,” said Chandos. “It does my heart good to see such a chamber as this—none of the tapestry and hangings which our young Knights nowadays fence themselves with, as if they kept out the foe—this is what it is meant for—a stronghold, and not a bower. I’ll have my dainty young Master Neville up here, to see how a good Knight should be lodged.”
“I fear he would scarce consider it as an example,” said Eustace, smiling, “since all our simplicity would not have availed to protect us, but for your coming. We little dreamt to see this morning’s light.”
“True, but where should I look for a garrison to make such a defence as you and your Squire have done? When I saw the spot, and looked at the numbers, and heard how long you had held out, methought I was returned once more to the good old days of Calais. And here this youth of mine, not yet with his spurs, though I dare say full five years older than you, must needs look sour upon it, because he has to sleep on a settle for one night—and that, too, when he has let Oliver de Clisson slip through his fingers, without so much as a scratch taken or given on either side! It grieves my very soul to think on it! But all has gone to rack and ruin since the Prince has been unable to set the example.”
“Is the Prince better in health?”
“Yes—so they say—but his looks tell another tale, and I never expect to see him on horseback again,” said the old warrior, with a deep sigh. “But I have to do his bidding here, and have much to ask of you, Sir Eustace; and I do it the more willingly, that I rejoice to see a brave man righted.”
“Has the Prince, then, commanded an inquiry into my conduct?” exclaimed Eustace, joyfully. “It is what I have ever most warmly desired.”
“And know you whom you have to thank?” said Sire John. “That youngster who stands at your feet—‘twas he that, with little Prince Edward, burst into the council, and let not another word be said till he had told your need, given Fulk Clarenham the lie direct, and challenged him to prove his words. Pray when is the defiance to be fought out, Sir Page?”
Arthur coloured crimson, and looked down; then raising his glowing face, said firmly, “To-morrow, if need were, Sir—for God would defend the right!”
“Roundly spoken, Master Page! But let not your early years be all talk, nothing worth.”
“The same warning that you gave to me, Sir John,” said Eustace.
“When you thought I looked coldly and churlishly on your new-won honours,” said Sir John. “I own I thought the Prince was bestowing knighthood over lightly—and so do I say still, Sir Eustace. But I saw, afterwards, that you
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