BOOK I

YOUTH AND THE SILVER SWAN

I

IT had always been said in the Breton lands that Sieur Robert du Guesclin was a brave man, save in the presence of that noble lady, Jeanne de Malemains, his wife.

Now Dame Jeanne was a handsome, black-browed woman with a resolute mouth and a full, white chin. The Norman apple-trees had lost their bloom, so sang the romancers, when Gleaquim by the sea had stolen her as the sunlight from Duke Rollo’s lands. The Lady Jeanne had brought no great dowry to her husband, save only her smooth and confident beauty, and the perilous blessings of a splendid pride. She had borne Sieur Robert children, fed them at her own breast as babes, and whipped them with the stern sense of her responsibility heavy in her hand. It was well in those days for a wife to watch strong sons growing into manhood about her husband’s table. One fist the more, and the surer was the mother’s honor when enemies might speak with her good man at his gate.

Proud, lovely, and masterful, the Lady Jeanne had looked to see her majesty repeated in her children. It had been but the legitimate and expectant vanity of a mother to dower her first-born with all the grace and beauty of a Roland. Poor dame, the thing had seemed as ugly as sin when it first kicked and squalled in her embroidered apron; bristling hair, a pug of a nose, crooked limbs, skin like a pig’s! Every passing month had brought the brat into more obvious disfavor. Its temper appeared as ugly as its body. It would bite and yell with a verve and fierceness that made the nurse vow it was an elf’s child, a changeling, or some such monstrosity. The Lady Jeanne had grieved, prayed to the saints, and yet been at a loss to discover why her motherhood should have been shamed by such a child.

Years passed, and still mother and son were no better accorded. Jeanne, proud lady, had no joy or pleasure in her eldest child. His ugliness increased: he was wild as a passage hawk, rebellious, passionate, yet very sullen. The younger children went in terror of him; the servants felt his fists and teeth; he fought with the village lads, and came home bloody and most whole-heartedly unclean. Sieur Robert might break many a good ash stick over Master Bertrand’s body. His mother might storm, scold, clout, and zealously declaim; the ugly whelp defied her and her gentlewomen. He had no more respect for a lady than for Huon, the miller, whose apples he stole, and whose son he tumbled into the mill-pool.

Poor Jeanne du Guesclin! The fault was with her pride—and with no other virtue. She could not love the child, and nature, as though in just revenge, mocked with the clumsiness of the son the vanity of the mother. Young Bertrand was starved of all affection. His very viciousness was but a protest against the indifference of those who made him. Cuffed, chided, sneered at, he grew up like a dwarfed and misshapen oak that has been lopped unwisely by the forester’s bill. He was slighted and ignored for Olivier, the second son, whose prettiness atoned with Jeanne for her first-born’s snub nose and ugly body. It was Olivier whom the mother loved, the sleek and clean-faced Jacob ousting poor Esau into the cold. Often Bertrand rebelled. The good child would come snivelling to his mother with a wet nose and a swollen cheek.

“See what Bertrand has done to me!”

The sneak! And Bertrand—well, he would be cuffed into the dark cellar under the solar floor, and be left there with bread and water to meditate on the beauty of motherly affection. And yet within a week, perhaps, sweet Olivier would boast another bloody nose, and the whole process be repeated.

Such was Bertrand’s upbringing, with all the fierce instincts pampered in his heart, all the gentler impulses chilled and stunted for lack of love. Bertrand’s figure was a slur on the Du Guesclin shield. He had no manners and no graces, and loved to herd with the peasant lads, and wrestle with ploughmen rather than listen to the romances of chivalry at his mother’s knee. While Olivier had the adventures of Sir Ipomedon by heart, and knew the lays of Marie de France, his brother Bertrand robbed orchards and used his fists, growing into a brown-faced, crab-legged young rascal who looked more like a peasant’s child than the son of Jeanne the Proud of Normandy.

* * * * *

The May-trees were white about Motte Broon in the year of our Lord 1338, the meadows were covered with tissue of gold. Dame Jeanne walked in her garden, dressed in a gown of yellow sarcenet, her black hair bundled into a silver net. To the west of the little lawn stood a yew-hedge, over which the sun was sinking, to plunge into the mystery of the darkening woods. Several tall aspens glittered in the evening light. The smoke rose straight from the octagonal chimneys of the château.

Dame du Guesclin walked on the grass round the stone vivarium with its darting fish, Sieur Robert strolling beside her, stroking his amiable and brown-bearded chin, and listening to her as to an oracle as she talked. The Lady Jeanne was in one of her masterful moods; moreover, she was tired and out of temper, and in no mind to be reasoned with, even though the tongue of an angel had pleaded the cause of the ugly son.

“Robert, I tell you Bertrand must not go to Rennes. We can leave him with Father Isidore, and Olivier will do us honor. I have been stitching some gold stuff on the lad’s best côte-hardie, and sewing some of my own jewels into his cap. Olivier will make a show among the bachelors.”

Du Guesclin’s sleepy eyes wandered for a moment over his wife’s face.

“So you would not have us take Bertrand, wife?” he repeated.

The lady pouted out her lower lip.

“Think of it, Robert—think of Bertrand in such company! Good Heavens! Why, the lad is only fit to take his meals in an ale-house; the lout would disgrace us, and set the whole town laughing. Besides, he has no clothes; his best surcoat was slit down the back last Sunday by a Picard fellow whom he threw into the church ditch. I’ll not have the young fool shaming us before all the gentlemen of Brittany.”

“The lad may take it to heart,” said the husband, troubled with recollections of his own youth.

“Nonsense!” returned Dame Jeanne, “Bertrand has no pride; his tastes are low, and he is without ambition. Often I think that the boy is mad. Moreover, Robert, there is no horse. Olivier must have the gray, and there is only Yellow Thomas, with his broken knees and stumpy tail. He is good enough for Bertrand as things go, but imagine the oaf riding into Rennes beside you on Yellow Thomas, and his surcoat split all up the back!”

Du Guesclin could not forbear a chuckle at the picture painted by his wife.

“Then we will leave Bertrand to Dom Isidore,” he said.

“Ah, Robert, you are a man of sense! I do not want to be cruel to the lad, but he has no figure for gay routs, he is no courtier—only a clumsy fool. I have no wish to be shamed by one of my own children. Olivier is quick and debonair; that lad will do us credit.”

The Lady Jeanne had hardly emphasized this last piece of treachery to her first-born by laying her large white hand on her husband’s shoulder, when there was a fierce bustling among the yew-trees, as though some young ram had been caught by the horns and was struggling to break through. The green boughs were burst asunder. A pair of hands and a black pate came burrowing through the yew-hedge into the light.

“Bertrand!”

And an ugly vagabond the lad looked, with his huge hollow chest, arms long and powerful as an ape’s, bowed legs, and head sunk between his shoulders. His green eyes were glittering under their heavy brows, his mouth working in a way that was not calculated to make him seem more serene and beautiful.

“Bertrand!”

The Lady Jeanne’s voice was hard and imperious. It is never flattery to the inner self to be overheard plotting a mean act, and the coincidence was not soothing to the lady’s temper. She was not the woman, however, to be startled out of her judicial calm. In such a case it was better to brandish the whip than to hold out the hand.

“Bertrand, you have been eavesdropping!”

The lad had approached them over the grass, walking with that bow-legged but springy action peculiar to some men of great physical strength. His forehead was all knotted up in wrinkles, and he was breathing heavily, as though under the influence of strong emotion.

“Mother, I’ll kill Olivier! I’ll break his bones—”

“Bertrand, stand back! How dare you threaten?”

“Curse Olivier! I tell you I will go to Rennes.”

“Rennes!”

“Yes; why should I not go? I am your son, mother. By Heavens! when will you treat me as you treat Olivier?” He gulped down some great sob of feeling that was in his throat, and turned to his father with moist eyes. “Sire, say that I may go to Rennes.”

Du Guesclin winced, fidgeted, and glanced at his wife.

“What shall I say to the lad, Jeanne?” he asked.

“Leave him to me,” she said, quietly. “I will show the fool the honest truth.”

Sieur Robert surrendered to his wife’s discretion, and, retreating towards the château, settled himself on a bench under an almond-tree that was still in bloom. Jeanne stood watching her husband over her shoulder. Presently she turned again to Bertrand with that regal and half-contemptuous air he had known so well of old. Jeanne stared at the lad in silence for some moments, the angles of her mouth twitching, her eyes cold and without pity.

“Bertrand!”

Her tones were sharp, hard, and incisive. The lad nodded, slouching his shoulders, and looking surly and ill at ease.

“Bertrand, can you serve or carve at table?”

“No.”

“Can you sing or play the lute, dance, or make courtly speeches?”

“No.”

“Can you amuse a great lady?”

“No.”

“Where are your fine clothes, your armor, and your horse?”

“Mother, you know I have none.”

Dame Jeanne’s eyes were fixed with a malicious glitter upon his face. She knew how to crush the lad, to sting into him the realization of his unfitness for the polite pageantry of life.

“Listen to me, Bertrand: you will never make a gentleman.”

He winced, and looked at his mother sulkily under his heavy brows.

“How can such as you mix with the lords and ladies of France and Brittany—you, who herd with ploughboys and scuffle with scullions? Bah, you fool! they would only laugh at you at Rennes, and take you for a groom who had sneaked in from the stables! Go to Rennes, indeed—to Jeanne de Penthièvre’s wedding! Who ever heard such nonsense! Where are your manners, Messire Bertrand? Where are your fine clothes, your airs and graces? Where are you going to find a horse? No, no; the honor and fortune of the family must be remembered.”

Bertrand stood gnawing his finger nails in humiliation. He knew that he was ugly, rough, and violent, and he half suspected that his mother’s words were true. And yet what chance had she ever given him to show his mettle? He had been the spurned dog since he could remember.

“Well, Bertrand, what have you to say to me?”

“Nothing,” he growled, hanging his head and staring at the grass.

Suddenly, as though to end the lad’s torture, there came the cry of a trumpet from the road across the meadows. Dame Jeanne heard it, and turned her head. Sieur Robert had risen from the seat, and climbed the stairway leading from the garden to the solar. He looked out over the palisading above the moat towards the meadows, sheeted in the sunlight like cloth of gold.

“The banner of the De Bellières!” he cried, beckoning to his wife. “Come, Jeanne, leave the lad; we must be ready to make them welcome.”

II

BERTRAND did not follow his mother, but stood watching her as she crossed the garden, the evening sunlight shining on her gown of yellow sarcenet. He saw her halt for a moment, and glance up at the window of the solar that overlooked the garden. Olivier was leaning out over the sill, waving his cap, and watching the Vicomte de Bellière’s company as it wound along the road through the meadows. Bertrand knew that Dame Jeanne was smiling at Olivier—smiling at him in that fond, proud way that Bertrand had never known.

He slunk away behind the trees, for Olivier was calling to him from the window.

“Hi! Bertrand, old bandy-legs! What will you do for a new surcoat? Here are the De Bellières on their way to Rennes! You had better hide among the grooms when you come in to supper!”

The younger lad had a spiteful tongue, and the wit to realize that he held his brother at a disadvantage. Of old Bertrand would have broken out into one of his tempests, but he had learned the uselessness of avenging himself upon Olivier.

He retreated behind the yew-trees, and, going to a palisading that topped the moat, stood watching the Vicomte de Bellière’s company flashing towards the château. Poor Bertrand, he had set his heart on going to Rennes! Had not his old aunt Ursula, at Rennes, persuaded her husband to give the lad a spear and a coat of mail! By stealth Bertrand had built himself a rough quintain in a glade deep in the woods about the castle. Many a morning before the sun was up he had sneaked into the stable, harnessed his father’s horse, and ridden out with spear and shield to tilt at the quintain in the woods. Old Hoel, the gate-keeper, who was fond of the lad, had winked at the deception. And then as the sun came glittering over the woods, and the grass gleamed with the quivering dew, Bertrand would thunder to and fro on Sieur Robert’s horse, grinding his teeth, and setting the quintain beam flying round like a weather-cock in a squall.

Great bitterness overcame Bertrand’s heart that evening. He knew that he was of no great worth in the eyes of his father and Dame Jeanne, but he had never fully grasped the truth that they were ashamed of him because he was their son. Olivier was all that a vain mother might desire—pert, pretty, straight in the limbs, with a fleece of tawny hair shining about his handsome face. Bertrand supposed that it was an evil thing to be ugly, to be the possessor of a snub nose and a pair of bandy legs.

And yet he could have loved his mother had she been only just to him. What had driven him to herding and fighting with the peasant lads? The Lady Jeanne’s indifference,—nay her too candid displeasure—at his presence in the house. What had made him rough and sullen, shaggy and obstinate, violent in his moods and uncertain in his temper? His mother’s sneers, her haughty preference for Olivier—even the way she shamed him before the servants. Bertrand believed that they wished him dead—dead, that Olivier might sit as their first-born at their table.

All these bitter thoughts sped through Bertrand’s heart as he leaned against the palisading, and watched the line of horses nearing his father’s house across the meadows. There was the Vicomte’s banner—a blue chevron on a silver ground—flapping against the evening sky. Stephen de Bellière rode a great gray horse all trapped in azure with silver bosses on the harness. Beside him, like a slim pinnacle towered over by the copper-clad steeple, for the Vicomte’s armor and jupon were all of rusty gold, rode a little girl mounted on a black palfrey, her brown hair gathered into a silver caul. On the other side, a boy, young Robin Raguenel, cantered to and fro on a red jennet. Behind the Vicomte came two esquires carrying his spear and shield, and farther still some half a dozen armed servants, with a rough baggage-wagon lumbering behind two black horses. The little girl had a goshawk upon her wrist, and two dogs gambolled about her palfrey’s legs.

Bertrand watched them, leaning his black chin upon the wood-work, and waxing envious at heart over a pomp and glamour that he could not share. The Vicomte’s horse-boys were better clad than he. And as for Stephen Raguenel, he seemed to Bertrand, at a distance, a very tower of splendor. To boast such a horse, such arms, and such a banner! The Vicomte must be a happy man. So thought Bertrand, as he gnawed his fingers and beat his knee against the fencing.

Robert du Guesclin and the Lady Jeanne had come out from the gate-house, and were standing at the head of the bridge to welcome their guests. Dame du Guesclin had her arm over Olivier’s shoulder. They were laughing and talking together, and the sight of it made poor Bertrand wince. He turned away with an angry growl, and, sitting down on a bench under an apple-tree, leaned his head against the trunk, stared at the sky, and whistled.

Half an hour passed, and the Vicomte and his two children had been taken into the hall to sup. Bertrand could hear the grooms and servants chattering in the stable-yard as they rubbed down the horses. From the hall came the sound of some one playing on the cithern. Bertrand could see the window to the west of the dais from where he sat, alive with light as with the flare of many tapers. He heard Olivier’s shrill laugh thrill out above the cithern-playing and the rough voices in the yard. They were very merry over their supper; nor did they miss him. No. He was nothing in his father’s house.

Dusk was falling, though a rare afterglow crimsoned even the purple east. The yews and apple-trees in the garden were black as jet, and the bats darted athwart the golden west. The long grass was wet with dew. Bertrand shivered, stretched himself, sat up, and listened. He was hungry, but then he had no stomach for the great hall where no one wished for him, and where the very guests might take him for a servant. He would sneak round to the pantry and get some bread and a mug of ale from the butler’s hatch.

There was a sudden rustling of the grass under the tree, a low whimpering, and a wet nose thrust itself against Bertrand’s hand. Then a pair of paws hooked themselves upon his knee, and a cold snout made a loving dab at the lad’s mouth.

“Why, Jake—old dame!”

The dog whimpered and shot out her tongue towards Bertrand’s cheek.

“Jake, old lady, they have all forgotten me, save you.”

He fondled the dog, his great brown hands pulling her ears with a tenderness that seemed strange in one so strong and ugly. He laid his cheek against Jake’s head, and let her lick his neck and ear, for it was sweet to be remembered—even by a dog.

“Well, old lady, have you had your supper? What, not a bone! By St. Ives! we will go in, in spite of them, and sup together by the fire.”

He rose, and the dog sprang away as though welcoming the decision, and played round him, barking, as he crossed the garden towards the court.

When Bertrand entered the hall with Dame Jake at his heels the grooms and underlings were taking their places at the trestled tables. The walls were bare, save behind the dais, where crimson hangings hung like a mimic sunset under the deep shadows of the roof. The fire was not built on a hearth in the centre of the floor, but under a great hooded chimney in the wall midway between the high table and the screens. There was no napery on the lower boards, and the servant folk used thick slices of brown bread in place of platters.

Bertrand cast a quick and jealous glance at the high table, and then went and sat himself on a stool before the fire. The logs were burning brightly on the irons, licking a great black pot that hung from the jack. Neither Dame Jeanne nor her husband had seen Bertrand enter. They were very gay and merry on the dais, the Vicomte between Sieur Robert and his wife, Olivier feeding little Robin with comfits and sugar-plums, and Tiphaïne, the child, sitting silent beside Dame Jeanne, with her eyes wandering about the hall.

Bertrand felt some one nudge his shoulder. It was old Hoel, the gate-keeper, his red face shining in the firelight under a fringe of curly hair. He held a tankard in one hand and half a chicken and a hunch of bread on a hollywood platter in the other.

“You have not supped, messire,” he said.

Bertrand glanced at the old man over his shoulder.

“Good man, Hoel, I’ll take what you are carrying. Bring me a mutton-bone for Jake.”

Bertrand pulled out his knife, set the tankard down amid the rushes, and, ignoring the inquisitive glances of the Vicomte’s servants, fell to on the bread and chicken. There was much gossiping and gesturing at the servants’ table. A man-at-arms with a pointed black beard and a red scar across his forehead was asking Sieur Robert’s falconer who the ugly oaf on the stool might be. Bertrand caught the words and the insolent cocking of the soldier’s eye as he looked him over and then grimaced expressively.

“’Sh, friend, the devil’s in the lad.”

“True, friend, true,” quoth Bertrand, coolly throwing his platter at the soldier’s head.

It was the first incident that had called the attention of those at the high table to the lad seated by the fire. To Bertrand the richly dressed figures loomed big and scornful before the crimson hangings, all starred and slashed with gold. He saw the Vicomte stare at him and then turn to Sieur Robert with a courtly little gesture of the hand. Dame Jeanne was sitting stark and stiff as any Egyptian goddess. Bertrand saw her flush as the Vicomte questioned her husband, flush with shame that the lad on the stool should be discovered for her son. Bertrand blushed, too, but with more anger than contrition. He heard Olivier’s shrill, squealing laugh as he tossed Robin an apple and bade him throw it at “the lout upon the stool.” Every eye in the hall seemed fixed for the moment upon Bertrand. He knew that the “mean” folk were mocking at him, and that the great ones on the dais—even his own mother—regarded him with a feeling more insolent than pity.

Dame Jake, oblivious to the tableau, sat up upon her hind-legs and begged. She waved her fore-paws in the air, almost as though to recall Bertrand to the fact that he had one friend in his father’s hall. Bertrand took a piece of bread, rubbed it on a chicken-bone, and tossed it to her with a growl of approval. Jake swallowed the morsel and then sat with her muzzle on her master’s knee, her eyes fixed upon his face.

At the high table the child with the brown hair coiled up in a silken caul had laid her hand on the Lady Jeanne’s arm.

“Madame, who is that?”

Dame du Guesclin fidgeted with the kerchief pouch at her girdle and frowned.

“Who, child, and where?”

“The man on the stool, with the dog.”

“That is Bertrand, my sweeting.”

“And who is Bertrand?”

“Why, child, my son.”

Tiphaïne’s great eyes were turned full upon the elder woman’s face. Lady Jeanne was red despite her pride, and ill at ease under the child’s pestering.

“Why does he not sit with us on the dais?”

“Why? Well, little one”—and the Lady Jeanne laughed—“Bertrand is a strange lad. He is not like Olivier or your brother Robin.”

Tiphaïne had been scanning the handsome face above her, with its curling lips and its contracted brows. There was something that puzzled her about the Lady Jeanne. Why had she turned so red, why did her eyes look angry, and why did she tap with her foot upon the floor?

“Madame, may I ask Bertrand to come up hither?”

“No, child, no. See—here is the comfit-dish, or would you like a red apple? Olivier, Olivier, bring me the bowl of silver. Child, what are you at?”

For Tiphaïne had risen and had slipped round the table end before Jeanne du Guesclin could lay her hand upon her arm. She sprang down lightly from the dais and moved over the rush-strewn floor and under the beamed and shadowy roof to where Bertrand sat sullen and alone before the fire.

Bertrand was sitting staring at the flames and thinking of the sights that would be seen at Rennes, when he was startled by the gliding of the child’s figure into the half-circle of light. He looked up, frowning, to find Tiphaïne’s eyes fixed on his with a questioning steadfastness that was not embarrassing. For several seconds Bertrand and the child looked thus at each other, while Dame Jake lifted her head from her master’s knee and held up a paw to Tiphaïne as though welcoming a friend.

The dog’s quaintness proved irresistible. Tiphaïne was down on her knees amid the rushes, hugging Dame Jake and laughing up at Bertrand with her eyes aglow.

“Ah—Bertrand—the dear dog! What is its name?”

“Jake—Dame Jake.”

Bertrand was astonished, and his face betrayed the feeling. He was looking at Tiphaïne as though she were like to nothing he had seen on earth before. The child had one of those sleek brown skins, smooth as a lily petal, with the color shining through it like light shining through rose silk. Her great eyes were of a beautiful amber, her hair a fine bronze shot through with gold. There would have been the slightest suggestion of impudence about the long mouth and piquant chin had not the gentleness of the child’s eyes and forehead mastered the impression. She was clad in a côte-hardie of apple-green samite, shaded with gold and embroidered with gold-work on the sleeves. Her tunic was of sky blue, her shoes of green leather, her girdle of silver cords bound together with rings of divers-colored silks.

Bertrand looked at her as though he had not overcome the surprise with which her coming filled him. Perhaps she was cold and had left the high table to warm herself at the fire. In the village Bertrand had won for himself something of the character of an ogre, and the children would run from him and hide in the hovels.

Tiphaïne was still fondling the dog and looking at Bertrand. The lad jumped up suddenly and offered her his stool.

“Take it,” he said, gruffly, thrusting it towards her.

She shook her head, however, smiling at him, her hand playing with Dame Jake’s ears. Bertrand, flushing, sat down again and stared at her.

“As you will,” he said. “You like the dog, eh? Yes, I have had Jake since she was a puppy.”

There was a puzzled look in Tiphaïne’s eyes. She was wondering why the Lady Jeanne had said that Bertrand was not like Olivier or her brother Robin. He was ugly, and his clothes were shabby, and yet she discovered something in his face that pleased her. His very loneliness touched some sensitive note in the child’s soul, for she was one of those rare creatures who are not eaten up with selfishness at seven.

“Why did you not sup with us?” she asked, suddenly.

Bertrand stared at her, and felt that there was no evading those brown eyes.

“Because I was not wanted,” he answered.

This time it was Tiphaïne who gave a little frown.

“But you are Sieur Robert’s son!”

Bertrand winced, and then smiled with a twisting of the features that betrayed the truth.

“I am no use to them,” he said.

“No use?”

“Look at me. Did you ever see such an ugly wretch? I should frighten you all at the high table—I suppose. And they tell me I have no manners. No. They would rather see me hidden among the servants.”

Tiphaïne looked shocked. It was plain even to her childish wisdom that she had lighted on some passionate distress, the depth and fierceness of which were strange to one who had never lacked for love.

“Are you older than Olivier?” she asked.

Bertrand nodded.

“Then why does he take your place?”

“Because he has straight legs and a pretty face; because they love him; because I am such a clumsy beast,” and he shut his mouth with a rebellious growl.

Tiphaïne drew herself nearer to him amid the rushes. She was still fondling Dame Jake’s ears.

“I do not think that you are clumsy, Bertrand,” she said.

“Ah—!”

“You look so strong, too. I like you better than Olivier. You are stronger than he is, and then—I love Dame Jake.”

Bertrand glanced at her as though he thought for the moment that she might be mocking him, but the look in the child’s eyes spoke to him of her sincerity. At the same instant he saw Olivier standing on the dais, beckoning and calling to Tiphaïne as she sat at Bertrand’s feet amid the rushes, the glow from the fire shining on the gold-work in her dress.

“Tiphaïne, Tiphaïne, come away, or the ogre will eat you. Prosper is going to play to us on the cithern, and sing us the lay of Guingamor.”

The child pretended not to hear him. She had caught the hot flush that had rushed over Bertrand’s face; nor was she tricked by Olivier’s insolence. That pert youth, seeing that she did not stir, came running down the hall, winking at the servants as though to hint to them how much finer a fellow he was than his shabby brother. Bertrand sat stolidly on his stool, staring into the fire and snapping his fingers at Dame Jake.

“Tiphaïne, you must come back to the high table. Bertrand hates girls; they always laugh at his crooked legs.”

He shot a sneer at his brother and held out his hand to the child, who was still seated on the floor. Bertrand was grinding his teeth together, and striving to master the great yearning in him to swing his fist in the little fop’s face.

“I do not want you, Messire Olivier du Guesclin.”

“Ho, but you cannot sit among the grooms and servants. Bertrand does not matter.”

Tiphaïne rose up very quietly and looked Olivier straight in the face.

“I will come if Messire Bertrand will give me his hand.”

“Well, that is good!”

“And sit with me at the high table.”

She turned, and with a graciousness that was wonderful in one so young looked at Bertrand and held out her hand.

“Messire Bertrand, you will come with me. I do not wish to go with Olivier.”

Bertrand had risen, oversetting the stool in rising. He held his head high, a slight flush upon his face, his eyes shining, half with tenderness, half with the light of battle. Tiphaïne’s hand was clasped in his. He shouldered Olivier aside, and moved towards the dais, a rough dignity inspired in him by the child’s presence.

“Mother, I have come to take my place at the table.”

Jeanne smiled at him, the smile of cold and unpleased necessity.

“You were long in coming, Bertrand,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he answered. “I was waiting till some one made me welcome.”

And Bertrand and Tiphaïne sat down together and drank wine out of the same cup.

III

BERTRAND was astir early the following morning. He scrambled up from his truss of straw in one corner of the great hall, shook himself, and looked round at the Vicomte’s men who were still snoring on the rushes and dry bracken. The sunlight was streaming in through the eastern window, falling on the polished surface of the high table and the crimson tapestry threaded with gold. One of Olivier’s favorite hawks was bating on its perch under the window. Bertrand whistled softly to the bird, and glanced at the place by the fire where he had talked with Tiphaïne the night before. The three-legged stool was still lying where he had left it, but from the spot where Tiphaïne had throned herself amid the rushes the stertorous and gaping face of the Vicomte’s farrier saluted the rafters from a bundle of heather.

Bertrand’s eyes twinkled. He passed out of the hall into the court-yard, walking with the slightest suggestion of a swagger that seemed to betray unusual self-satisfaction. Tiphaïne’s comradeship had lifted him suddenly out of his sullen hopelessness, and Bertrand’s pride was ready to try its wings. In the yard one of Sieur Robert’s grooms was seated astride a bench polishing his master’s war harness. He grinned at Bertrand as though a mere showing of the teeth was sufficient salutation for the unfavored son.

Bertrand walked straight up to the man, and with one sweep of the hand knocked him backward off the bench.

“Hello, where are your manners?”

The fellow’s heels were still in the air, his astonished face visible to Bertrand between his legs.

“Get up, and make your bow, friend.”

Bertrand left the fellow to settle his impressions, and, opening the wicket that led into the garden, stood looking round him and whistling softly through his teeth. The sky was blue above the apple-trees, whose snowy canopies hid groins of spreading green. Bluebells were hanging in the long, rank grass of the orchard, and the boughs of the aspens glittered in the sunlight.

In the centre of the lawn lay the Lady Jeanne’s vivarium, a little pool, clear as rock crystal, ringed round with a low wall of stone. Three steps led down to the water, and under the lily leaves fish shimmered to and fro. Bertrand crossed the grass, leaned over the low wall, and looked at the reflection of his face in the water. Even the owner could not forbear a grimace at the ugliness thereof. It was no mirror of Venus as far as Bertrand was concerned, and the water would serve him better for a morning wash than for the recording of snub noses and a stubble of coarse black hair. Bertrand, kneeling on the steps, plunged his head into the pool and sluiced the water over his neck and arms. The fish went darting into the depths, unused to such desecration and to such troublings of the public peace.

Bertrand was shaking the water from his eyes and running his fingers through his hair when he heard a merry laugh coming from the direction of the house. The shutters of the bower-window had been pushed open, and a brown head was catching the morning sunlight above the trees. It was Tiphaïne herself, sleek and fresh as a ripe peach, her eyes sparkling with delight and mischief.

“Bertrand! Bertrand! is that you?”

Bertrand was mopping his face with a corner of his surcoat. He put his wet hair back from his forehead and went and stood under the window, laughing.

“I was frightening the fish with my face,” he said.

“Hist!”

The child gestured to him from above.

“Madame is still asleep. I crept out of the truckle-bed and dressed. Bertrand, do you think I could jump out of the window?”

The lad was blushing a little, and showing his teeth in a broad smile. He darted away amid the apple-trees, and came back carrying a rough ladder that was kept slung against the garden wall. Planting it, he climbed up till he was on a level with the window.

“What mischief, Bertrand!”

The lad smiled because Tiphaïne was smiling.

“Can you carry me down?”

“Try me,” he said, as though he would have carried Goliath into Gath.

In a moment she was on the sill, and holding out her hands to Bertrand with a confidence that thrilled even the rough lad’s heart. He took her in his arms, holding her very sacredly, and so carried her down the ladder. Tiphaïne’s face was turned to his, and she was smiling at him out of her wonderful eyes—eyes that seemed to make him live anew. He set her down upon the grass, though one long strand of her hair still lay upon his shoulder.

“How strong you are, Bertrand!”

“Am I?” And he blushed and chuckled sheepishly, flattered by this maid of seven.

“Yes, and you are gentle, too. How can they call you clumsy! What a lovely morning! See how the white clouds glisten! I should like a ride in the meadows, Bertrand.”

It was as though her word were law with the lad. He bade her sit down on a bench by the fish-pond, and, running into the stable, he saddled and bridled her palfrey with his own hands. Then, blundering into the kitchen quarters, he found the pantler polishing wooden platters in his den. The man glanced up as Bertrand darkened the doorway, and, paying no heed to him, went on with his work.

“Jehan, the key of the wardrobe. Quick!”

Jehan stared.

“What may you want?” he asked, indifferently, not troubling to be courteous.

“Want, you monkey! Comfits and fruit for the Lady Tiphaïne. Quick with you, or I’ll break one of your own platters over your head!”

The pantler still demurred, but, being a little man, he surrendered when Bertrand caught him by the girdle.

“Go your ways, Messire Bertrand,” he said. “Take the key, but your father shall hear of it. I am an honest servant, St. Padarn’s bones upon it.”

“St. Padarn be ducked!” quoth the thief, taking the key, and leaving the pantler to his platters.

In a few minutes he had flung the key into the kitchen, and was back in the garden pouring his spoil into Tiphaïne’s lap. Sweetmeats, comfits, sugared fruit, they made a brave show in the hollow of the child’s tunic.

“Oh, Bertrand!” And she began to store them deliberately in her kerchief pouch, yet giving him some for his own delectation.

“I have saddled the palfrey,” he said, thrusting a sugar-plum into his capacious mouth.

“Bertrand, I love sweetmeats.”

Bertrand chuckled.

“So does Jehan, the pantler,” he said, licking his lips.

Away they went across the bridge with the breath of the May morning sweeping over the meadows. Bertrand had lifted Tiphaïne into the saddle, and shouted to Dame Jake, who lay asleep in the court-yard with her nose on her paws. Bertrand ran with his hand on the bridle, looking up into the child’s face, laughing when she laughed, delighted with her delight. Youth was in the air, youth and the joy thereof. Bertrand forgot his ugliness and his shabby clothes as the palfrey cantered along the road with Dame Jake barking and bounding under her nose.

Away over the meadows with their dew-drenched green and gold stood a clump of old thorn-trees white as driven snow. Tiphaïne pointed to them with a thrill of innocent wonder.

“See, Bertrand, the great thorns! I should like a white bough to carry into Rennes.”

Bertrand turned the palfrey into the meadows, and they were soon racing over the wet grass for the thorns. The trees grew in a circle about a great stone cromlech that rose gray as death amid the revelry of spring. There were other stones lying half hidden in the grass, the fallen pillars that the black Iberians had heaved up of old. The gray cromlech seemed to cast a shadow across the face of the morning, as though grim Ankrou still lurked in the woods and wastes.

Tiphaïne’s face fell a little as the granite rose amid the green.

“Bertrand, there is a wizard’s table. I hate these old stones; they make me think of ghosts.”

Bertrand was not an imaginative lad, and somewhat of a sturdy sceptic with regard to many of the Breton superstitions.

“Our folk call it the Maid’s Gate,” he said, with a twinkle. “On midsummer night the wenches who want husbands run through it at midnight in their shifts. I was here last midsummer.”

“Oh, Bertrand!”

“I hid in one of the thorn-trees, and when the silly hussies came sneaking up I set up such a croaking and a growling that they took to their heels and ran like rabbits. Tiphaïne, how I laughed, till I nearly fell right out of the tree! Dom Isidore came up next day with his Mass Book—and a cup of holy-water—and drove the devil out of the stones.”

Tiphaïne laughed, but there was less joyousness in her laughter than before. The perfume of the thorns drifted on the air, their white knolls rising against the sky’s blue and deepening the green of the long grass. The child sprang down from the saddle, defying the dew, and patted Dame Jake, who came to rub her head against Tiphaïne’s hand.

Bertrand broke a bough from one of the trees. Tiphaïne had turned to the cromlech, and, seating herself on one of the fallen stones, she stared at it wistfully, as though it had some mystery for her she could not fathom. Bertrand watched her, wondering at the seriousness that so suddenly possessed the child.

“Bertrand.”

He stood beside her, holding the white bough in one hand, the palfrey’s bridle in the other.

“Bertrand, you are coming with us to Rennes?”

The lad’s face clouded on the instant, and he frowned thoughtfully at the great cromlech.

“Madame Jeanne does not wish it,” he said. “Olivier has my place.”

“Olivier!”

“Yes. You see—they are proud of him, Tiphaïne, but they are ashamed of me.”

He spoke out bluntly, yet with a bitterness that he could not hide.

“Bertrand, they are ashamed of you?”

“Well, I am not a pretty fellow; I have no manners; but, by Holy Samson, I swear that I can fight!”

Tiphaïne turned her face away, her right hand caressing Dame Jake’s head, her left fingering the moss and lichen on the stone.

“But you will come to Rennes,” she said, suddenly. “You are braver than Olivier. I don’t like Olivier; he is a conceited fellow.”

Bertrand stood twisting the bridle round his wrist.

“I am eighteen,” he said, “and there is no man here—nor in Rennes, for that matter—who can wrestle with me. But I have no armor and no clothes.”

“Are you ashamed, Bertrand?”

“Ashamed!” and he flushed. “I would fight any man who made a mock of me.”

Tiphaïne held out her hand to him, looking up steadily into his face.

“I like you, Bertrand,” she said; “you are strong, and you can tell the truth. I will speak to Madame Jeanne—no, I will go to Sieur Robert.”

Bertrand stared at her in blank astonishment.

“You, Tiphaïne!”

The child seemed perfectly sure of her own dignity, though there was no ostentation in her confidence.

“If I ask your father, he will give you a horse.”

“Yellow Thomas, perhaps.”

“Who is Yellow Thomas?”

“The old cart-horse,” quoth Bertrand, with a grin.

Mistress Tiphaïne was as good as her word, and the child’s serene lovableness made her a power even at the age of seven. When the trumpet blew for dinner that morning, and the Vicomte and Sieur Robert had washed their hands in the basin that young Olivier carried, Tiphaïne set herself before Du Guesclin at the high table, and held out her hands to him across the board.

“Messire, I—Tiphaïne Raguenel—would ask of you a boon.”

Du Guesclin’s sleepy but good-tempered face beamed with amusement as he looked into the child’s eyes.

“Well, Lady Tiphaïne, I grant it you without a bargain.”

Tiphaïne spoke out calmly, with a slight deepening of the color on her warm brown cheeks.

“Bertrand must come to Rennes with me.”

“Bertrand!”

“Yes, messire, for I have chosen him my bachelor.”

IV

THE bells pealed in Rennes, and the narrow streets were hung with banners and with tapestry, gay squares of color falling from the windows, making the old town blaze like some magic forest in autumnal splendor. The Mordelaise gate had been covered with May-boughs, and the streets strewn with rushes and with flowers. Duke John had ridden into the town with Charles of Blois—that lean and godly youth—beside him, and all the Breton nobles and seigneurs at his back. There were the Rohans, the Châteaubriants, the Beaumanoirs, and many score more, the bishops of the seven sees, the great abbots, and even Jean de Montfort from Laval. Jeanne de Penthièvre was lodged in the abbey of St. Melain within the town, and already her ladies were about her with the bridal silks and jewels, ready to braid her hair for the wedding mass in the cathedral of Notre Dame.

By ten the wedding mass was over, and the lords of Brittany had sworn fealty to Charles of Blois as heir to the duchy on Duke John’s death. By noon the feasting was over also, and the whole town went crushing and elbowing to the meadows without the walls, where the tournament was to be held in honor of Charles and of Jeanne de Penthièvre, his lady. Many pavilions were pitched in the meadows, and there was a brave clanging of clarions, and a fluttering of pennons and streamers in the wind. The green fields were swamped with color, a carpet of green and gold checkered with scarlet, azure, and white. Hither came the Sieur de Rohan and his company, yonder Olivier de Clisson, with his wife, Jane de Belleville, at his side. (Poor lady, she would remember Rennes when she avenged her husband’s death with blood, and saw Galois de la Heuse, with his eyes torn out, writhing in agony at her feet.) The Sieur de Beaumanoir was to be the Marshal of the Lists that day. He and the heralds were already at their posts, waiting for the gentry to take their places in the galleries. Duke John and Charles of Blois, with Jeanne de Penthièvre and her ladies, were seated on the dais that had been built under a canopy of purple cloth. Charles had the arms of Brittany embroidered upon his surcoat, the fatal minever, that was to bring him death at the battle of Auray.

The Raguenels and the Du Guesclins had held together in Rennes, dining together at the Duke’s house and riding in one company through the streets. And now the Vicomte, who was fat and too lazy to joust, had established himself with the Lady Jeanne at the southern end of the great gallery and near to the pavilion of the Sieur de Rohan. Robin Raguenel and Tiphaïne were beside their father, while Olivier lolled over the balustrade and grumbled at his mother because she had implored him not to join his father in the tilting, and he, noble fellow, had sacrificed his prowess to her fears. Messire Olivier was just sixteen. He looked a handsome slip of a lad in his embroidered surcoat and with his mother’s jewels in his cap. He had been striving to win Tiphaïne’s favor from his brother, chiefly because he was jealous that any creature should set Bertrand above himself. As for Tiphaïne, she had no patience with the fop, but sat very quiet beside her father, looking a little shy and sad.

And what of Bertrand? Bertrand was walking Yellow Thomas to and fro at a good distance from the crowd, gnawing at his finger nails, and cursing himself in that he had been fool enough to come to Rennes. It had been one long moral martyrdom for the lad, an ordeal that had tried his patience to the core. His kinsfolk were ashamed of him; he had known that from the first. Nor had it mended matters when some of the ribalds in the streets of Rennes had singled him out for their taunts and jeers, and belabored him with mockery till the lad had been ready to weep.

“Ho, for the lad on the primrose horse!”

“Did ye ever see a prettier face, messieurs?”

“Mother of Mercy! Why, he’ll frighten the old cathedral out of the town, and she’ll go and split herself in the meadows!”

Poor Bertrand. He had caught Olivier’s savage sneer when certain of the young grandees had seen fit to jest at dinner at the shabbiness of Bertrand’s clothes. Sieur Robert had looked as though his shoes pinched him; nor could Bertrand forget the gleam of resentment in his mother’s eyes. Even Tiphaïne’s companionship had galled the lad’s pride, for it was bitter for him to see her share his shame.

Thus Bertrand walked Yellow Thomas to and fro over the grass, keeping at a distance from the lists, and eating out his heart with wrath and humiliation. His ears still tingled with the jeers of the ribalds and the insolent persiflage of the smart bachelors and gaudy squires. What a blind fool he had been to come to Rennes! Yet if only he had a horse and harness he would show these butterflies that he could fight. And Tiphaïne? Surely Tiphaïne must be laughing at him with the rest. Perhaps she had been mocking him all the while, and yet—no—even in his anger he could not suspect the child of that.

Already the tilting had begun in the lists. Bertrand could hear the thunder of the horses, the crackling of the spears, the loud shouts of the crowd, the braying of the trumpets. He was alone in the deserted meadow, for even the grooms and horse-boys had crowded to see the play, and the press was thick about the barriers. Pride and a fierce eagerness to watch the spear-breaking warred together in Bertrand’s heart. He edged Yellow Thomas nearer to the lists, and, gaining boldness as no one heeded him, he drew towards the southern end of the gallery, where hung the Vicomte de Bellière’s shield.

The Lord of Clisson and Sir Hervè de Leon had just run a course, and were taking new spears from the squires who served them. Bertrand’s face kindled at the sight. He pushed his nag closer to the crowd, watching everything that passed with the alertness of a hawk. There was a rush of horses, a clangor of steel, and Sir Hervè had smitten the Lord of Clisson out of the saddle, whereat a great cheer went up from the barriers, for the Clissons were not popular with the citizens of Rennes. More brave work followed. Bertrand saw his own cousin, young Olivier de Manny, whom he recognized by the white hart upon his shield, run three courses without a fall, and then ride back towards the town to disarm at his hostelry. It was then that a lull came over the lists, the Sieur de Beaumanoir having stopped the tilting for a moment to speak with Godamar du Fay of France, who had been wounded by De Manny in the shoulder.

Bertrand, in his eagerness, had edged his horse closer and closer to the crowd. Just as the break came in the tilting Yellow Thomas set his fore foot on the heel of a butcher, who was leaning forward with his elbows on the shoulders of two friends. The man gave a yelp, clapped his hand to his foot, and turned a furious red face on Bertrand, cursing him with butcher-like and whole-hearted gusto.

“The devil strike you dead, boy! Keep your ugly beast off honest men’s heels!”

Bertrand was every whit as ready to quarrel as was the butcher.

“_Boy!_ Keep your tongue civil to a gentleman, you sticker of pigs. If my horse trod on your toe it was because he could not abide the villainous reek of your blouse.”

There was an immediate stir among the crowd. All the gossips were agog, and a pavement of grinning faces seemed turned to Bertrand on his sorry nag. He became the centre of interest for the moment. The butcher had a dozen friends about him, and they were soon wagging their tongues, much to Bertrand’s discomfort.

“Why, look ye, John, the lad’s stolen his master’s old surcoat. I’ll warrant his hose are patched. How much did you give for that noble horse, boy?”

“Tell you, neighbor, he’s stolen the miller’s nag.”

“And pulled off its tail—for a disguise!”

“The skin is rather a tight fit, Stephen. D’ye feed him on saffron, most noble baron?”

“Baron forsooth,” said a fat woman with a red kerchief tied over her black hair. “Why, it is one of the Sieur de Rohan’s grooms. Look at his legs, sirs; they are as round as though they taught him to straddle a cask when he was a baby.”

Bertrand, white with fury, glared from one to another as they laughed and jeered at him. He could not fight the whole crowd, much less the women, who were more malicious than the men. Ridicule is not an easy yoke to be borne by the shoulders of youth, and more so when the victim has learned to hate his own grotesqueness with the sensitive fierceness of a proud nature. Bertrand ground his teeth, and fumbled with the dagger that hung at his girdle, tempted to let blood in answer to their insolence.

The whole squabble had been overheard by the gentry in the gallery above. Olivier, who had taken a peep over the balustrading, turned with a grin to his mother, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Bertrand—of course,” he said.

Dame du Guesclin bit her lip.

“Why did the fool come with us? I knew how it would be.”

She glanced round towards where Tiphaïne had been seated, but the child had slipped away from her father’s side, and was on the top step of the stairway leading to the grassland at the back of the lists.

“Olivier, the child! Stop her! She is mad!”

Olivier sprang towards Tiphaïne, but her flashing eyes sobered him. She went slowly down the stairs, keeping her face towards him, her toy poniard naked in her hand, a sting that Olivier did not relish. He laughed, and turned back to the Vicomte and Dame Jeanne.

“The lady will have her way,” he said, setting his cap a little more jauntily on his head, and affecting surprise when Stephen de Bellière frowned at him.

“Leave the child alone, lad,” said her father, quietly, “she has more wit than most wenches of twenty.”

Bertrand, ready to weep with wrath and vexation, was backing Yellow Thomas out of the crowd, when he felt a hand laid upon his bridle. Glancing down, he saw Tiphaïne standing beside him, looking up with deep color on her brown-skinned face, her eyes shining under their dark lashes.

“Tiphaïne!”

She held out her hands to him.

“Take me up upon your saddle.”

In a moment Bertrand had lifted her with his long arms, and had seated her before him. The townsfolk had fallen back in silence. The child had her father’s arms emblazoned upon her dress, and it was easy to see that she was of gentle birth.

“Messire Bertrand du Guesclin, why do you quarrel with these wretches?”

She looked down upon the rough townsfolk with a scorn that was marvellous in its vividness on the face of one so young. No one mocked at her. Even the women held their tongues when her shrill voice carried over the heads of the people.

“Tiphaïne,” said the lad, “I was a great fool to come to Rennes.”

She put her small hand over his mouth.

“You are unkind,” she said; “was it not I who brought you hither?”

Bertrand had drawn Yellow Thomas free of the crowd. The trumpets were sounding again, and the fickle faces of the people were turned once more towards the lists. In a moment Tiphaïne, Bertrand, and his yellow horse were forgotten.

“Tiphaïne.” He colored to the stubble of his coarse, black hair.

“Yes, Bertrand.”

“You have saved me from cutting a butcher’s throat. You must go back, child, and see the tilting.”

She looked at him steadily, and her eyes were within a cubit’s breadth of his.

“What will you do?” she asked.

He was sitting round-shouldered in the saddle, staring sullenly towards the lists. Suddenly his eyes brightened. He gave a short cry. Tiphaïne felt his right arm tighten about her.

“I have it; I have it.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“Well?”

“Wait, and you shall see.”

He put her gently from him, and, swinging her to one side, let her drop lightly on the grass.

“Go back, child,” he said, looking older and more sure of himself of a sudden. “I have a plan. Go back, and God bless you.”

He smote his heels into Yellow Thomas’s ribs, and, waving his hand to Tiphaïne, went cantering over the meadows towards the town. The child watched him till he had almost reached the walls, and then, turning, she went back slowly up the stairway, and creeping close to her father, clasped her hands about his arm.

“Well, what of Bertrand?”

“Wait and see,” quoth Tiphaïne, with an air of mystery, gazing defiantly at Dame Jeanne.

Bertrand rode into the nearest gate, and, meeting two esquires with fresh horses for Sir Ives de Cadoudal and Sir Geoffrey de Spinefort, hailed them and inquired whether they knew where Olivier de Manny lodged. Bertrand’s rough exterior seemed to amuse the young gentlemen not a little. They gave him the news he needed, however, and disappeared under the arch of the gate, laughing together at “the black brigand on the yellow horse.”

Olivier de Manny’s hostel stood in a narrow street branching from the cathedral close. Bertrand recognized the sign the two esquires had described to him, a large gilt buckle on the end of a beam. Dismounting and hitching Yellow Thomas’s bridle over a hook in the door-post, he plunged into the guest-room on the ground floor, and found his cousin sitting in a carved chair with a cup of Muscadel beside him on the table. Olivier de Manny was using the empty guest-room as his robing-chamber. His heavy tilting bassinet and vambraces lay on the table, and a servant was kneeling and unbuckling the greaves from off his master’s legs.

“Olivier, lend me your armor and a horse.”

De Manny looked up in astonishment, and recognized in the half-threatening and dogged-faced pleader his cousin from Motte Broon.

“Bertrand, what brings you to Rennes?”

“Ask me no questions, but lend me your armor and a horse.”

“St. Ives, my dear coz, why should I grant you so great a favor?”

Bertrand ground his teeth and tore at his surcoat with his hands, so fierce and passionate was his desire.

“I must have them, Olivier.”

“Gently, sir, gently.”

“See here—I’ll fight you for them—here in the guest-room. Come, get up, or I’ll call you a coward.”

Olivier de Manny lay back in his chair and laughed. His honest blue eyes twinkled as he studied Bertrand’s black and impatient face. He had always liked Bertrand, despite his ugliness, for there was a fierce sturdiness about the lad that pleased such a virile smiter as Olivier de Manny. Moreover, Olivier had ridden well that day, and had unhorsed one of the Sieur de Rohan’s knights, a rival of his in a certain love affair, and therefore Olivier was in the best of tempers.

“Gently, dear lad, gently,” he said, pulling his feet into a pair of embroidered shoes. “Don’t glare at me as though I were your worst enemy. My armor’s my own, I suppose, and no man ever saw my back. Do you want to tilt?—is that the passion?”

Bertrand nodded.

“What of Sieur Robert?”

“My father thinks I am a fool. They have all been laughing at me. By God, Olivier, I will show them that I can ride with the best!”

He stamped up and down the room, gesticulating and casting fierce and covetous looks at the armor upon the table. De Manny was watching him with secret sympathy and approbation. The lad had the true spirit in him, and the strength and fury of an angry bear.

“Bertrand.”

“Well, are you going to fight?”

“No, but I’ll lend you my armor and my horse.”

“Olivier!”

“You must do me justice, lad.”

“Olivier, I’ll love thee forever out of the bottom of my heart.”

He ran forward, threw himself upon his cousin, embraced him, and almost wept upon his neck. De Manny, who hated any display of emotion, and yet was touched by the lad’s passionate outburst of gratitude, put Bertrand aside and smote him softly on the cheek.

“I’ve conquered you by love, lad,” he said, laughing. “Come, be quick. I’ll help you to fasten on the steel. Guy, pull off my hauberk; unstrap these demi-brassarts. That’s the way. Bertrand, you can wear your surcoat inside out and tie a cover over the shield. St. Ives for the unknown knight! By the lips of my lady, I will come down and see you break a spear!”

He bustled about like the manly and good-hearted gentleman that he was. Bertrand, his eyes gleaming with delight, pulled on his cousin’s hauberk, and suffered Olivier and the servant to buckle on the arm and leg pieces and to lace the visored bassinet. He was tremulous for the moment with the fever of his joy. De Manny patted him on the shoulder and looked searchingly into his face.

“Can you handle a spear, lad?” he asked.

“I can.”

“Aim for the shield; it is surer. On my oath—I love thee for a lad of spirit.”

“Give me your hand, Olivier. I shall not forget this nobleness.”

“There, lad; take care of my fingers.”

Olivier bustled away to get the horse out of the stable and tighten up the harness with his own hands. He led Yellow Thomas into the yard, grimacing as he looked at the poor beast’s knees and at the way his bones elbowed through the skin.

“Poor lad!” he thought; “they are devilish mean with him, and yet I will swear he is a better man than his father.”

In a few minutes they had shortened the stirrups, and Bertrand was in the saddle, with Olivier’s shield about his neck and a spear in his right hand. He flourished it as though it had been a willow wand, beamed at his cousin, and then clapped to his visor.

“God bless thee, Olivier!” he shouted, as he trotted off briskly down the street. “Now they shall see whether I am a fool or not.”

V

IT so happened that when Bertrand rode down to the lists on his cousin’s horse a certain Sir Girard de Rochefort held the field, having emptied saddle after saddle, and astonished the crowd with his powerful tilting. Lord after lord had gone down before him, till the elder men grew jealous of their dignity, and left him to be flown at by the ambitious hawks among the squires. Sir Girard had made short work of the adventurous youngsters, and it seemed that he would have the prize and the place of honor, and the wreath from the hands of Jeanne de Blois. Already he boasted no less than ten falls to his spear, and had unhorsed such riders as the Lord Peter Portebœuf and Sir Hervè de Leon.

Bertrand rode down into the lists, the cheerful audacity of youth afire in him, ready to fight any mortal or immortal creature, man or devil. What was the splendor of Sir Girard’s past to him? What did it signify that De Rochefort had hardened his sinews fighting for three years under the banner of the Teutonic Knights, and that he had carried off the prize at a great tourney at Cologne? Bertrand was as strong in his ignorance as he was heavy in the shoulders. He came fresh and raw from the country, contemptuous of all odds, and untroubled by any self-conscious magnifying of the prowess of his opponents. He was there to fight, to break his neck, if needs be, and to prove to his kinsfolk that the ugly dog could bite.

The Sieur de Beaumanoir, who saw him enter, sent one of the heralds to him to ask his name. The spectators were eying him indifferently, yet noticing that his shield was covered and his surcoat turned so as to hide the blazonings. They supposed that he would follow the fate of those before him, for Sir Girard had just taken a fresh horse, and the dames in the galleries had already voted him invincible in their hearts.

“The Marshal would know your name, messire.”

“Tell him I am called ‘The Turncoat,’” roared Bertrand through the bars of his visor.

“But your name, messire?”

“Curse your meddling; you shall have it anon. I am a Breton man, and my father carries arms upon his shield.”

The herald, repulsed by Bertrand’s roughness, returned to the Sieur de Beaumanoir, and told him how the knight with the covered shield desired to conceal his name. The Marshal, who was a shrewd gentleman, smiled at the title Bertrand had chosen to inflict upon himself, and gave the heralds word to prepare for another course.

Bertrand was sitting motionless on Olivier de Manny’s horse, his eyes fixed on the towering figure of Sir Girard de Rochefort across the rent and hoof-torn turf. The man bulked big and ominous, and his red shield, with its golden “bend,” seemed to blaze tauntingly before Bertrand’s eyes. The lad was breathing hard and grinding his teeth, a species of mad impatience gathering in him as he gripped his spear and waited for the trumpet-cry that should launch him against De Rochefort’s shield. Once only had he swept his eyes towards the gallery and looked for Tiphaïne in her green gown embroidered with the blue and silver of her father’s arms. He saw her sitting beside the Vicomte, her eyes fixed on him with a dreamy and half-questioning look, as though she waited for some mystery to reveal itself. From that moment Bertrand forgot the ladies in cloth of silver and of gold, the great seigneurs, the crowd about the barriers, even Duke John himself. He was like some savage and high-spirited hound straining to be let loose upon the quarry.

Down sank the Sieur de Beaumanoir’s marshal’s staff; the trumpets blew, a dull roar rose from the people crowding about the barriers. Bertrand heard it, like the sound of an angry sea or the crying of wolves through the forest on a winter’s night. His blood tingled; all the fierceness of a wild beast seemed to wake in him at the cry. Dashing his heels into De Manny’s horse, he brought the animal into a gallop that made the dust fly from the dry grass like smoke. Girard de Rochefort’s scarlet shield was rocking towards him, with the bright bassinet flashing in the sunlight above the rim. Bertrand crouched low, drove his knees into the saddle, and gathered all his massive strength behind the long shaft of his feutred spear.

In a flash they were into each other like a couple of beaked galleys driven by a hundred lashing oars. There was a whirl of dust, the splintering of a spear, the dull ring of smitten steel. Bertrand, dazed, felt the girths creak under him, his horse staggering like a rammed ship. For a moment he thought himself down in the dust under the weight of De Rochefort’s spear. Then the tumult seemed to melt away, and he found himself staring at an empty saddle and at Sir Girard rolling on the turf, his mailed hands clawing at the air.

A great shout went up from the barriers.

“Sir Girard is down! Look, his horse has the staggers still.”

“Who is the other fellow? He charges like a mad bull.”

“Sir Turncoat—the heralds called him. I would wager it is De Montfort playing one of his brave tricks.”

Bertrand, his ears ringing, and the breath driven out of him for the moment, stood up in the stirrups and brandished his spear. A fierce joy leaped in him, driven up like fire by the gusty cheering of the crowd. The rough quintain in the woods had taught him well, and he—Bertrand the despised—was crossing spears with the Breton chivalry. He looked towards the place where Tiphaïne was seated. Yes, her eyes were fixed on him, and she was waving her hand. Bertrand wondered whether she guessed who it was who fought with his surcoat turned and his shield covered, and had given the fall to De Rochefort, the rose-crowned champion of Cologne.

Bertrand felt a hand touch his bridle. It was the Sieur de Beaumanoir, in his red jupon, covered with the blazonings of Brittany, his eyes fixed curiously upon the closed and gridded bassinet.

“Bravely ridden, sir. Will it please you to uncover to me, that the heralds may shout your name?”

Bertrand bent forward in the saddle and whispered to the Marshal through the bars of his visor:

“Your patience, sire. I have borrowed my cousin’s arms to prove to my father that I am no magpie.”

Beaumanoir nodded.

“On my honor—you can trust me,” he said.

“I am Bertrand du Guesclin, no man’s man.”

“What, the lad on—”

“Yes, sire, the lad on the yellow horse. All Rennes has been mocking me, God curse them, as if a man is of no worth without brave clothes and a handsome face.”

The Marshal patted Bertrand’s knee with his gloved hand.

“Well done, Messire Bertrand du Guesclin!” he said. “I should like to have the knighting of you. And is your heart still hungry?”

“Hungry, sire! I am ready to fight any man with any weapons he may choose.”

And fight Bertrand did that day with a fierceness and a devil’s luck that seemed never to desert him. Though it was his virgin tournament, he showed no rawness in the handling of a spear, and saw many a man’s heels kicking towards the blue. The crowd took to idolizing him as time after time he thundered down the lists to hurl some rival out of the saddle. Nothing came amiss to him, hardly a stroke went wide. He was the popular hero for the moment, the cock of the chivalric barn-yard, and a mysterious stranger, so far as the great ones were concerned. Who was he? Some said an Englishman; others, a Fleming. The truth stood that the clumsily-built fellow in the turned surcoat held the field against all comers, and that the ugly lad from Motte Broon found himself lifted high on the wave of martial splendor.

Bertrand had run his twelfth course, and was waiting for yet another rival to appear. He was sweating furiously under his harness, and his face glowed like a winter sun. The shield-cover was rent to tatters, and his cousin’s blazonings exposed. Yet all the gentry knew that Olivier de Manny stood in the gallery making love to Yolande of Vitré. He alone knew the secret of the borrowed arms, and would confess nothing, even to Yolande when she smiled at him.

Bertrand had broken two spears. His heart was beating like a bell, and he was drunk with delight, yet very grim for all his glory. Again the trumpets were screaming and another falcon ready to fly in the face of the young eagle of the Breton moors. Bertrand wheeled his horse into position, put forward his battered shield, set his teeth, and feutred his spear. One more burst for the glory of Tiphaïne—the child of seven!

There was a shout from the crowd. Bertrand had swerved, when at full gallop, and drawn aside with his spear raised. Suddenly, on the approaching shield, he had seen the red eagle of the Du Guesclin’s, his father’s arms, and had wheeled aside in time to escape the spear. Sieur Robert drew his horse up heavily upon its haunches, astonished and not a little angry at the way that Bertrand had faltered and refused to tilt with him.

Mocking shouts came from the barriers. The common people were fickleness itself, and were ready to jeer at their late hero as though he had tricked them into praising him beyond his due.

“He is afraid! Sir Turncoat is afraid!”

“Shame, shame, to shirk a gentleman!”

“The fellow’s cowed; he’ll not face the Eagle.”

Bertrand whipped his horse round and rode close up to the barriers, brandishing his spear.

“Who says I am afraid?” he roared.

No one answered him.

“Come out, any of you—rich or poor. Let any man call me coward—and I’ll fight him with axe—or club—with bare fists. Let him only choose.”

This time the crowd cheered him. It was the touch of temper that swayed them back towards applause.

Bertrand, his eyes flashing, turned his horse, and, riding past his father, saluting him as he passed, approached De Beaumanoir, who understood the meaning of what had happened. The Marshal came to meet Bertrand, and stood close to him, so that they could speak without being overheard.

“Sire, I cannot tilt against my father.”

“Well said, lad.”

“Carry Sieur Robert du Guesclin my courtesies, and tell him I have a vow upon me not to ride against his family.”

The Marshal nodded.

“And, sire, of your kindness send me another man to smite that I may show these scullions that I am not tired.”

Beaumanoir gave Bertrand his hand, and went to speak with Robert du Guesclin, who was sitting his horse in the centre of the field, not a little incensed against the man who had shirked his challenge. He broke forth into angry accusations as De Beaumanoir approached him, and pointed scornfully at Bertrand with his spear.

“Peace, man!” said the Marshal; “listen to me—”

“The fellow has tricked me.”

“Messire, it is your son.”

Du Guesclin nearly dropped his spear.

“What! Who?”

“Your son Bertrand, messire. The lad had the courage to dare the crowd’s taunts rather than tilt against his father.”

Sieur Robert bore himself like a man bewildered, as much so as if De Beaumanoir had offered him a hundred gold pieces for that “priceless destrier”—Yellow Thomas.

There was a slight tinge of scorn in the Marshal’s voice. He guessed how matters stood between Du Guesclin and his son.

“The lad has behaved with honor.”

The knight of the Eagle acknowledged the contention.

“Messire de Beaumanoir, he has conquered his own father with courtesy.”

Therewith Du Guesclin put spurs to his horse, and, cantering up to Bertrand, held out his hand to him.

“Lad,” he said, “forgive me; I will keep your secret.”

And they shook hands and saluted each other in the eyes of all.

Bertrand was not kept tarrying for further rivalry. A Norman knight, Sir Guy of Lisieux, came cantering into the field, having sworn to discover the name of the man who had sent so many gentlemen hurrying out of their saddles. Bertrand took ground against him, and they were soon galloping over the smoking grass. The Norman aimed for Bertrand’s bassinet, Bertrand for Sir Guy’s shield. The spear-head struck the Breton lad full and firmly on the visor. He staggered for an instant, recovered himself, and found the cool wind playing upon his face, and his bassinet, with the laces broken, rolling behind him on the grass. As for the knight of Lisieux, he had shared the fate of his predecessors, and was lying on his back, half stunned, while his horse galloped riderless towards the barriers.

The people were shouting and pointing to Bertrand, the ladies leaning from the galleries. All eyes were fixed upon him as he sat his horse in the middle of the field, looking round him a little sheepishly, his face aglow, his eyes turned towards the Raguenels’ benches.

Every one was asking the same question of his neighbor.

“Who is he?”

“God knows! A boy.”

“And an ugly one—to boot.”

For a moment Bertrand appeared dazed by the thousand faces that were turned on him, the fluttering kerchiefs, the shouts and counter-shouts of the crowd. It was all strange to him, he who had been scowled into a corner and treated with contempt by his own kinsfolk. The glare of triumph puzzled him. Then, as by instinct, he picked up the bassinet on the point of his spear and rode slowly towards the place where Tiphaïne sat beside her father.

“Bertrand!—see, it is Bertrand!”

She sprang up, clapping her hands, her face glorious, her eyes sparkling with delight. Dame Jeanne sat like one smitten dumb, staring at Bertrand as he drew near on his cousin’s horse. No illusion flattered the good lady’s malice. It was Bertrand without doubt, Bertrand the unbeautiful, Bertrand whom she had mocked and ridiculed. Jeanne du Guesclin’s pride seemed to return with a clatter upon her head. She flushed a hot crimson as she caught Stephen Raguenel’s eye. The Vicomte was twinkling, palpably tickled at the way madame had overreached herself.

“Bertrand!” she said, mouthing the words with hardly a sound.

She glanced at Olivier. The sweet fellow had a scowl upon his pretty face.

“Who would have dreamed of it?” he muttered. “Bertrand must have been praying to the devil.”

Tiphaïne was leaning over the balustrading, clapping her hands and smiling till her eyes seemed filled with light. Bertrand had ridden close to the gallery. His face was transfigured as he lifted the bassinet to her on the point of his spear. The child took it between her hands, kissed it, and stood smiling at Bertrand, her hair turned into tawny gold by the sun.

“Was I not right, Bertrand?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered her, “we have earned our triumph, Tiphaïne, you and I.”

And catching sight of Olivier’s sulky face, Bertrand burst out laughing. Tiphaïne turned and saw the reason of his mirth. Her eyes sparkled, her mouth curled with childish triumph.

“Never look so sour, little Olivier,” she said; “some day your brother shall teach you how to play the man.”

And thus it was that the buffoon and the beggar overset the prejudices of the mighty, and that the rough and unpolished pebble changed under Dame Fortune’s wand into a precious stone of splendor and of worth. Bertrand was crowned Lord of the Lists that day. He sat beside Jeanne de Penthièvre at supper, with Tiphaïne laughing and sharing the red wine in his cup. Before them on the board stood the swan of silver, with rubies for eyes, that Bertrand had won at the tourney. He had given it to Tiphaïne, even because she had found his soul for him, and had stood by him when others mocked.