Books: The Lances Of Lynwood
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Lances Of Lynwood
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When the permission was granted, they advanced with considerable
danger and difficulty. The rugged paths were covered with snow
and ice, which made them doubly perilous for the horses, and but
for Gaston's familiarity with his native hills, Sir Reginald
declared that he could never have brought his little troop
across them in safety.
At length they emerged through the celebrated Pass of Roncesvalles,
where Eustace in imagination listened to the echoes of the dying
blast of Roland. On the following evening he had the delight of
reading his history in the veritable pages of Archbishop Turpin,
which precious work he found in the possession of Brother Waleran,
a lay-friar, in the employment of Sir John Froissart the chronicler,
who had sent him with the army as a reporter of the events of the
campaign. This new acquaintance gave very little satisfaction to
Sir Reginald, who was almost ready to despair of Eustace's courage
and manhood when he found he had "gone back to his books," and
manifested, if not so much serious displeasure, yet even more
annoyance, on this occasion, than when, shortly after, he found
that Leonard Ashton spent every moment at his own disposal in the
company of _le Borgne Basque_. That worthy, meeting the young
gentleman, had easily persuaded him that Gaston's cautions only
proceeded from fears of stories that might with too much truth
be told against himself, and by skilful flatteries of the young
Englishman's self-importance, and sympathy with his impatience
of the strict rule of the Knight of Lynwood, succeeded in
establishing over him great influence.
So fared it with the two young Squires, whilst the army began
to enter the dominions of the King of Castile. Here a want of
provisions was severely felt, for such was the hatred borne to
Pedro the Cruel, that every inhabitant of the country fled at his
approach, carrying off, or destroying, all that could be used as
food. It was the intention of Bertrand du Guesclin, the ally of
Enrique of Trastamare, to remain quietly in his camp of Navaretta,
and allow hunger to do its work with the invading force, but this
prudent plan was prevented by the folly of Don Tello, brother of
Enrique, who, accusing Bertrand of cowardice, so stung his fiery
spirit that he resolved on instant combat, though knowing how
little dependence could be placed on his Spanish allies.
The challenge of the Prince of Wales was therefore accepted; and
never were tidings more welcome than these to the half-famished
army, encamped upon the banks of the Ebro, on the same ground on
which, in after years, English valour was once more to turn to
flight a usurping King of Spain.
CHAPTER IV
The moon was at her height, and shone full into the half-opened
tent of Sir Reginald Lynwood. At the further end, quite in
darkness, the Knight, bare-headed, and rosary in hand, knelt
before the dark-robed figure of a confessor, while at a short
distance lay, on a couch of deer-skins, the sleeping Leonard
Ashton. Before the looped-up curtain that formed the door was
Gaston d'Aubricour, on one knee, close to a huge torch of pine-
wood fixed in the earth, examining by its flaring smoky light
into the state of his master's armour, proving every joint with
a small hammer. Near him, Eustace, with the help of John Ingram,
the stalwart yeoman, was fastening his charge, the pennon, to a
mighty lance of the toughest ash-wood, and often looking forth on
the white tents on which the moonbeams shed their pale, tranquil
light. There was much to impress a mind like his, in the scene
before him: the unearthly moonlight, the few glimmering stars,
the sky--whose southern clearness and brightness were, to his
unaccustomed eye, doubly wonderful--the constant though subdued
sounds in the camp, the murmur of the river, and, far away in
the dark expanse of night, the sparkling of a multitude of lights,
which marked the encampment of the enemy. There was a strange
calm awe upon his spirit. He spoke in a low voice, and Gaston's
careless light-hearted tones fell on his ear as something
uncongenial; but his eye glanced brightly, his step was free
and bold, as he felt that this was the day that must silence
every irritating doubt of his possessing a warrior-spirit.
The first red streak of dawn was beginning to glow in the eastern
sky, when the note of a bugle rang out from the Prince's tent and
was responded to by hundreds of other horns. That instant the
quiet slumbering camp awoke, the space in front of every tent
was filled with busy men, arming themselves, or saddling their
horses. Gaston and Eustace, already fully equipped, assisted Sir
Reginald to arm; Leonard was roused, and began to fasten on his
armour; the men-at-arms came forth from their tent, and the horses
were saddled and bridled; "And now," called Sir Reginald, "bring
our last loaf, John Ingram. Keep none back. By this day's eve
we shall have abundance, or else no further need."
The hard dry barley-bread was shared in scanty, but equal measure,
and scarcely had it been devoured, before a second bugle blast,
pealing through the camp, caused each mail-clad warrior to close
his visor, and spring into the open plain, where, according to
previous orders, they arrayed themselves in two divisions, the
first commanded by the Duke of Lancaster and Sir John Chandos,
the second by Prince Edward and Don Pedro.
After a pause, employed in marshalling the different bands, the
host advanced at an even pace, the rising sun glancing on their
armour, and revealing the multitude of waving crests, and streamers
fluttering from the points of the lances, like the wings of
gorgeous insects. Presently a wall of glittering armour was seen
advancing to meet them, with the same brilliant display. It might
have seemed some mighty tournament that was there arrayed, as the
two armies stood confronting each other, rather than a stern battle
for the possession of a kingdom; and well might old Froissart
declare, "It was a pleasure to see such hosts."
But it would be presumptuous to attempt to embellish a tale after
Froissart has once touched it. To him, then, I leave it to tell
how the rank of banneret was conferred on the gallant old Chandos,
how the Prince prayed aloud for a blessing on his arms, how he
gave the signal for the advance, and how the boaster, Tello, fled
in the first encounter. The Lances of Lynwood, in the division of
the Duke of Lancaster, well and gallantly did their part in the
hard struggle with the brave band of French, whose resistance was
not overcome till the Black Prince himself brought his reserved
troops to the aid of his brother.
With the loss of only one man-at-arms, the Lances of Lynwood had
taken several prisoners. It was high noon, and the field was well-
nigh cleared of the enemy, when Sir Reginald drew his rein at the
top of a steep bank clothed with brushwood, sloping towards the
stream of the Zadorra, threw up his visor, wiped his heated brow,
and, patting his horse's neck, turned to his brother, saying, "You
have seen sharp work in this your first battle-day, Eustace."
"It is a glorious day!" said Eustace. "See how they hurry to the
water." And he pointed over the low shrubs to a level space on
the bank of the river, where several fugitives, on foot and
horseback, were crowding together, and pressing hastily forward.
"Ha!" cried Sir Reginald, "the golden circlet! Henry of Trastamare
himself!" and at the same instant he sprang to the ground. "You,"
said he, "speed round the bushes, meet me at the ford they are
making for." This was directed to Gaston, and ere the last words
were spoken, both Sir Reginald and Eustace were already beginning
to hurry down the bank. Gaston rose to his full height in his
stirrups, and, looking over the wood, exclaimed, "The Eagle crest!
I must be there. On, Ashton--Ingram, this way--speed, speed, speed!"
and with these words threw himself from his horse, and dashed after
the two brothers, as they went crashing, in their heavy armour,
downwards through the boughs. In less than a minute they were on
the level ground, and Sir Reginald rushed forward to intercept Don
Enrique, who was almost close to the river. "Yield, yield, Sir
King!" he shouted; but at the same moment another Knight on foot
threw himself between, raising a huge battle-axe, and crying, "Away,
away, Sir; leave me to deal with him!" Enrique turned, entered the
river, and safely swam his horse to the other side, whilst his
champion was engaged in desperate conflict.
The Knight of Lynwood caught the first blow on his shield, and
returned it, but without the slightest effect on his antagonist,
who, though short in stature, and clumsily made, seemed to
possess gigantic strength. A few moments more, and Reginald
had fallen at full length on the grass, while his enemy was
pressing on, to secure him as a prisoner, or to seize the pennon
which Eustace held. The two Squires stood with lifted swords
before their fallen master, but it cost only another of those
irresistible strokes to stretch Gaston beside Sir Reginald, and
Eustace was left alone to maintain the struggle. A few moments
more, and the Lances would come up--but how impossible to hold
out! The first blow cleft his shield in two, and though it did
not pierce his armour, the shock brought him to his knee, and
without the support of the staff of the pennon he would have
been on the ground. Still, however, he kept up his defence,
using sometimes his sword, and sometimes the staff, to parry the
strokes of his assailant; but the strife was too unequal, and
faint with violent exertion, as well as dizzied by a stroke which
the temper of his helmet had resisted, he felt that all would be
over with him in another second, when his sinking energies were
revived by the cry of "St. George," close at hand. His enemy
relaxing his attack, he sprang to his feet, and that instant found
himself enclosed, almost swept away, by a crowd of combatants
of inferior degree, as well as his own comrades as Free Lances,
all of whose weapons were turned upon his opponent. A sword
was lifted over the enemy's head from behind, and would the
next moment have descended, but that Eustace sprang up, dashed
it aside, cried "Shame!" and grasping the arm of the threatened
Knight, exclaimed, "Yield, yield! it is your only hope!"
"Yield? and to thee?" said the Knight; "yet it is well meant. The
sword of Arthur himself would be of no avail. Tiphaine was right!
It is the fated day. Thou art of gentle birth? I yield me then,
rescue or no rescue, the rather that I see thou art a gallant youth.
Hark you, fellows, I am a prisoner, so get off with you.
Your name, bold youth?"
"Eustace Lynwood, brother to this Knight," said Eustace, raising
his visor, and panting for breath.
"You need but a few years to nerve your arm. But rest a while, you
are almost spent," said the prisoner, in a kind tone of patronage,
as he looked at the youthful face of his captor, which in a second
had varied from deep crimson to deadly paleness.
"My brother! my brother!" was all Eustace's answer, as he threw
himself on the grass beside Gaston, who, though bleeding fast,
had raised his master's head, and freed him from his helmet; but
his eyes were still closed, and the wound ghastly, for such had
been the force of the blow, that the shoulder was well-nigh
severed from the collarbone. "Reginald! O brother, look up!"
cried Eustace. "O Gaston, does he live?"
"I have crossed swords with him before," said the prisoner. "I
grieve for the mishap." Then, as the soldiers crowded round, he
waved them off with a gesture of command, which they instinctively
obeyed. "Back, clowns, give him air. And here--one of you--bring
some water from the river. There, he shows signs of life."
As he spoke, the clattering of horses' feet was heard--all made
way, and there rode along the bank of the river a band of Spaniards,
headed by Pedro himself, his sword, from hilt to point, streaming
with blood, and his countenance ferocious as that of a tiger. "Where
is he?" was his cry; "where is the traitor Enrique? I will send him
to join the rest of the brood. Where has he hidden himself?"
The prisoner, who had been assisting to life the wounded man out of
the path of the trampling horses, turned round, and replied, with
marked emphasis, "King Henry of Castile is, thanks to our Lady, safe
on the other side of the Zadorra, to recover his throne another day."
"Du Guesclin himself! Ah, dog!" cried Pedro, his eyes glaring with
the malignity of a demon, and raising his bloody weapon to hew down
Bertrand du Guesclin, for no other was the prisoner, who stood with
folded arms, his dark eyes fixed in calm scorn on the King's face,
and his sword and axe lying at his feet.
Eustace was instantly at his side, calling out, "My Lord King, he
is my prisoner!"
"Thine!" said Pedro, with an incredulous look. "Leave him to my
vengeance, and thou shalt have gold--half my treasury--all thy
utmost wishes can reach--"
"I give him up to none but my Lord the Prince of Wales," returned
the young Squire, undauntedly.
"Fool and caitiff! out of my path! or learn what it is to oppose
the wrath of Kings!" cried Pedro.
Eustace grasped his sword. "Sir King, you must win your way to
him through my body."
At this moment one of the attendants whispered, "_El Principe,
Senor Rey_," and, in a few seconds more, the Black Prince, with
a few followers, rode towards the spot.
Hastily dismounting, Pedro threw himself on his knees to thank him
for the victory; but Edward, leaping from his horse, raised him,
saying, "It is not to me, but to the Giver of victories, that you
should return thanks;" and Eustace almost shuddered to see him
embrace the blood-thirsty monster, who, still intent on his prey,
began the next moment, "Here, Senor Prince, is the chief enemy--
here is the disturber of kingdoms--Du Guesclin himself--and there
stands a traitorous boy of your country, who resolutely refuses to
yield him to my just vengeance."
As Pedro spoke, the Prince exchanged with Sir Bertrand the courteous
salutation of honourable enemies, and then said, in a quiet, grave
tone, "It is not our English custom to take vengeance on prisoners
of war."
"My Lord," said Eustace, stepping forward, as the Prince looked
towards him, "I deliver the prisoner into your princely hands."
"You have our best thanks, Sir Squire," said the Prince. "You are
the young Lynwood, if I remember right. Where is your brother?"
"Alas! my Lord, here he lies, sorely hurt," said Eustace, only
anxious to be rid of prisoner and Prince, and to return to
Reginald, who by this time had, by the care of Gaston, been
recalled to consciousness.
"Is it so? I grieve to hear it!" said Edward, with a face of deep
concern, advancing to the wounded Knight, bending over him, and
taking his hand, "How fares it with you, my brave Reginald?"
"Poorly enough, my Lord," said the Knight, faintly; "I would I
could have taken King Henry--"
"Lament not for that," said the Prince, "but receive my thanks for
the prize of scarcely less worth, which I owe to your arms."
"What mean you, my Lord? Not Sir Bertrand du Guesclin; I got
nothing from him but my death-blow."
"How is this then?" said Edward; "it was from your young brother
that I received him."
"Speak, Eustace!" said Sir Reginald, eagerly, and half raising
himself; "Sir Bertrand your prisoner? Fairly and honourably?
Is it possible?"
"Fairly and honourably, to that I testify," said Du Guesclin. "He
knelt before you, and defended your pennon longer than I ever thought
to see one of his years resist that curtal-axe of mine. The _routier_
villains burst on us, and were closing upon me, when he turned back
the weapon that was over my head, and summoned me to yield, which I
did the more willingly that so gallant a youth should have such
honour as may be acquired by my capture."
"He has it, noble Bertrand," said Edward. "Kneel down, young Squire.
Thy name is Eustace? In the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George,
I dub thee Knight. Be faithful, brave and fortunate, as on this day. Arise, Sir Eustace Lynwood."
"Thanks, thanks, my gracious Prince," said Reginald, a light glancing
in his fading eyes. "I should die content to see my brother's spurs
so well earned."
"Die! Say not so, my faithful Reginald. Speed, Denis, and send
hither our own leech! I trust you will live to see your son win
his spurs as gallantly!"
"No, my good Lord, I am past the power of leech or surgeon; I feel
that this is my death-wound. I am glad it was in your cause. All
I desire is your protection for my wife--my boy--my brother--"
"Your brother has earned it already," said Edward. "Your child
shall be as my own. But, oh! can nought be done? Hasten the
surgeon hither! Cheer thee, Reginald!--look up! O! would that
Du Guesclin were free, the battle unfought, so that thou wert but
safe, mine own dear brother-in-arms!"
"Where is the Prince?" called a voice from behind. "My Lord, my
Lord, if you come not speedily, there will be foul slaughter made
among the prisoners by your Spanish butcher--King I would say."
"I come, I come, Chandos," answered Edward. "Fare thee well, my
brave Reginald; and you, my new-made Knight, send tidings to my
tent how it is with him."
He pressed Reginald's hand, and sighing deeply, mounted his horse,
and rode off with Sir John Chandos, leaving the wounded Knight to
the care of his own followers.
The stream of blood was flowing fast, life was ebbing away, and
Sir Reginald's breath was failing, as Eustace, relieving Gaston
from his weight, laid his head on his breast, and laved his brow
with water from the river. "You have done gallantly, my brave
brother; I did wrong to doubt your spirit. Thanks be to God that
I can die in peace, sure that Arthur has in you a true and loving
guardian. You are young, Eustace, but my trust in you is firm.
You will train him in all Christian and godly ways--"
"It shall be the most sacred charge of my life," said Eustace,
scarcely able to speak.
"I know it," said Reginald, and making an effort to raise his
voice, he continued, "Bear witness, all of you, that I leave my
son in the wardship of the King, and of my brother, Sir Eustace
Lynwood. And," added he, earnestly, "beware of Fulk Clarenham.
Commend me to my sweet Eleanor; tell her she is the last, as the
first in my thoughts." Then, after a pause, "Is Gaston here?"
"Yes, Sir Reginald," said Gaston, leaning over him, and pressing
the hand which he feebly raised.
"Gaston, farewell, and thanks to you for your true and loving
service. Eustace will find wherewith to recompense you in some
sort, in my chest at Bordeaux, and my brave Lances likewise. And,
Gaston, go not back to the courses and comrades whence I took you.
On the word of a dying man, it will be better for you when you are
in this case. Leonard, strive to be a true and brave man, though
I may not fulfil your father's trust. Eustace--my eyes grow dim--
is this you supporting my head--are these your tears? Weep not
for me, brother. Save for my poor Eleanor, I would not have it
otherwise. Mercy is sure! Hold up the blessed rood--the sign of
grace--you are half a clerk, repeat me some holy psalm or prayer."
Eustace raised the cross hilt of his sword, and with a broken voice,
commenced the _Miserere_. Sir Reginald at first followed it with
his lips, but soon they ceased to move, his head sank back, his
hand fell powerless, and with one long gasping breath his faithful
and noble spirit departed. For several moments Eustace silently
continued to hold the lifeless form in his arms, then raising the
face, he imprinted an earnest kiss on the pale lips, laid the head
reverently on the ground, hung over it for a short space, and at
last, with an effort, passed his hand over his face, and turned
away.
His first look was towards d'Aubricour, who sat resting his head
on his hand, his elbow supported on his knee, while with the other
hand he dashed away his tears. His countenance was deathly pale,
and drops of blood were fast falling from the deep gash in his side.
"O Gaston!" exclaimed Eustace, with a feeling of self-reproach at
having forgotten him, "I fear you are badly wounded!"
"You would think little of it, had you seen more stricken fields,
young Knight," said Gaston, attempting to smile; "I am only spent
with loss of blood. Bring me a draught of water, and I can ride
back to the tent. But look to your prisoner, Sir Eustace."
Eustace turned to see what had become of his illustrious captive,
and saw him at a little distance, speaking to a Knight on horseback.
"Sir Eustace," said Bertrand, stepping towards him, "here is Sir
William Beauchamp, sent by the Prince to inquire for your gallant
brother, and to summon me to his tent. I leave you the more
willingly that I think you have no mind for guests this evening.
Farewell. I hope to be better acquainted."
Eustace had little heart to answer, but he took up Du Guesclin's
sword, as if to return it to him. "Keep it, Sir Knight," said
Bertrand, "you know how to wield it. I am in some sort your
godfather in chivalry, and I owe you a gift. Let me have yours,
that my side may not be without its wonted companion. Farewell."
"And, Sir Eustace Lynwood," said Sir William Beauchamp, riding up,
"you will advance to Navaretta, where we take up our quarters in
the French camp. I grieve for the loss which has befallen us this
day; but I trust our chivalry has gained an equally worthy member."
Eustace bowed and, whilst Messire Bertrand mounted a horse that had
been brought for his use, turned back to his own melancholy duties.
The body of Sir Reginald was raised from the ground, and placed on
the levelled lances of four of his men, and Eustace then assisted
Gaston to rise. He tottered, leant heavily against the young Knight,
and was obliged to submit to be lifted to the saddle; but neither
pain, grief, nor faintness could check his flow of talk.
"Well, Eustace,--Sir Eustace, I would say,--you have seen somewhat
of the chances of war."
"The mischances you mean, Gaston."
"I tell you, many a man in this host would have given his whole
kindred for such luck as has befallen you. To cross swords with Du
Guesclin is honour enough. This cut will be a matter of boasting
to my dying day; but, to take him prisoner--"
"Nay, that was no merit of mine. Had not the rest come up, my wars
had soon been over, and I had been spared this grief."
"I know what most youths would have done in your place, and been
esteemed never the worse. Dropped the pennon at that first round
blow that brought you to your knee, and called for quarter. Poor
pennon, I deemed it gone, and would have come to your aid, but
before I could recover my feet, the fight was over, and I am glad
the glory is wholly yours. Knighted under a banner in a stricken
field! It is a chance which befalls not one man in five hundred,
and you in your first battle! But he heeds me not. He thinks only
of his brother! Look up, Sir Eustace, 'tis but the chance of war.
Better die under sword and shield, than like a bed-ridden old woman;
better die honoured and lamented, than worn out and forgotten.
Still he has not a word! Yea, and I could weep too for company,
for never lived better Knight, nor one whom Squire had better
cause to love!"
CHAPTER V
A battle in the days of chivalry was far less destructive than
those of modern times. The loss in both armies at Navaretta did
not amount to six hundred; and on Pedro's side but four Knights
had fallen, of whom Sir Reginald Lynwood was the only Englishman.
On the following day all the four were buried in solemn state, at
the church of the village of Navaretta, Sir Eustace following his
brother's bier, at the head of all the men-at-arms.
On returning to his tent, Eustace found Gaston sitting on his couch,
directing Guy, and old Poitevin, who had the blue crossletted pennon
spread on the ground before him. Eustace expressed his wonder.
"What," exclaimed Gaston, "would I see my Knight Banneret, the
youngest Knight in the army, with paltry pennon! A banneret are
you, dubbed in the open field, entitled to take precedence of all
Knight Bachelors. Here, Leonard, bring that pennon to me, that I
may see if it can be cut square."
"Poor Eleanor's pennon!" said Eustace, sadly.
"Nay, what greater honour can it have than in becoming a banner? I
only grieve that this bloodstain, the noblest mark a banner can bear,
is upon the swallow-tail. But what do I see? You, a belted Knight,
in your plain Esquire's helmet, and the blood-stained surcoat! Ay,
and not even the gilded spurs!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Would
that I had seen you depart! But it was Leonard's fault. Why, man,
knew you not your duty?"
"I am no Squire of Eustace Lynwood," said Ashton.
"Every Squire is bound to serve the Knight in whose company he finds
himself," said d'Aubricour. "Know you not thus much of the laws of
chivalry? Come, bestir yourself, that he may be better provided in
future. You must present yourself to the Prince to-morrow, Sir
Eustace."
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