Part 13

There was another roar of enthusiastic applause, and the men broke ranks and crowded eagerly about the newcomers. Seeing that something seemed to be expected of him, Edgar sprang upon the back of his horse and held up his hand. The spirit of the priest and his men and their just cause had so stirred him that he forgot for the moment that he was a simple esquire with little experience of warfare and small claims to ability to lead an attack upon a powerful castle. He only knew that he was ready to do whatever was asked of him--to lead or to follow, he cared not which, so that he might aid a plucky people struggling to be free.

In a few words, simple and slow, from his imperfect knowledge of the local dialect, he told them that victory could never be theirs unless all were ready to give prompt obedience to their leaders, to work hard, to fight to the death, and to think, not of plunder, but only of victory and justice. The speech was well received, and Edgar dropped back to the ground with the feeling that, though he and his men might be beaten, it would be from lack of skill rather than from lack of courage and determination.

"Shall we move to the attack at once?" cried the priest, his eyes flashing with eagerness. "Our numbers are almost complete--one hundred and fifty all told."

"Nay, good Father, let us hold council of war. Nothing will be lost by waiting an hour or so."

"Come, then, let us to the cave and hold council forthwith. Our men are full of eagerness now, and I would that thou couldst see thy way to an attack at once."

Moving to the entrance of the cave the priest, Edgar, and Peter took counsel together.

"What food have ye collected to feed this great host of thy people, Father Armand?" asked Edgar quietly. He could see that the priest was over-excited, and wished to bring him back to cooler thoughts as well as to find out exactly how matters lay with his new command.

"But little, I fear," replied the priest. "We are so poor that food and money can only be gathered in the smallest quantities. Any man that hath more than his starving fellows is soon relieved of his surplus by the arch-robbers of the castle."

"Men cannot fight well with half-starved bodies," responded Edgar, shaking his head. "Nevertheless we must do the best we can with the means at our disposal. How are the enemy off for food? How often do they receive fresh supplies? I should dearly love to begin the campaign by capturing the wagons bringing to them their ill-gotten stores."

"I know not when the next falls due, but always of late they have sent mounted men-at-arms to escort the wagons to the castle. Several armed guards, too, accompany their cattle when they are driven forth and back to pasture every morning."

"Ha! Where pasture they the cattle?"

"At a field a short way along the road in the opposite direction to the village."

"Those cattle must be captured, Father. 'Twill be a blow to the enemy, and at the same time provide us with food for our starving levies."

Many more questions Edgar asked, until he had a full grasp of the situation and could help to plan for the great attack. Presently from their discussions a plan emerged and took shape, and when the council of war broke up a definite course of action, which seemed to give the priest, at any rate, full satisfaction, had been decided upon.

The drilling was resumed, this time under Edgar's direction, and arms were again inspected under the experienced eye of the armourer's assistant. It soon became generally understood that the morrow was to witness the opening of the attack, and the men went about their tasks with a zest and eagerness that had been absent an hour or two before. With scarce a moment's intermission the preparations continued till night came and a semblance of peace fell upon the warlike scene.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*The Opening of the Attack*

"Let every man understand that silence is of far more importance than speed," said Edgar to the priest the following morning, as the latter put himself at the head of a body of forty men carrying spades in addition to their weapons. "If you do your work thoroughly and silently Peter and I will see that you are not disturbed."

"The work shall be done, and done well," responded the priest cheerfully. "See thou, Sir Squire, to thy part. To thee the conflict--and let it be victory, for defeat at the outset will be hard indeed to bear."

"Father," responded Edgar quietly, "I have told thee why I have come again and why I must enter yon castle. With such responsibility resting on my shoulders, am I likely to submit to failure while there is a chance of victory? Can I return to my master alive and unsuccessful?"

The priest grasped Edgar by the hand and wrung it warmly. "For thee as well as for me it is victory or the grave," he said simply. Then he gave the word to his men and the band marched steadily away.

Peter's band followed next. It numbered only about thirty strong, but was composed of the younger and more alert-looking men. Lastly came the largest body, commanded by Edgar. This was clearly composed of the toughest fighting material among the peasantry, and appeared to be intended to bear the brunt of any fighting that might ensue.

While the men were on the move, spies came and reported that the cattle belonging to the castle had, as usual, been driven to their pasture, escorted by a body of ten mounted men-at-arms.

"The guard waxes stronger every day," said the priest meaningly. "They must, I fear, have an inkling of what is afoot."

Edgar nodded. "It may only be an inkling," he said.

The three bodies of men presently arrived at the road which led from the castle gates through the thick woods for about four hundred yards before it branched in two, the one track leading to the village and the other to the fields in which the castle cattle grazed. A few paces from the point where the roads separated a halt was made, and the priest's contingent flung down their weapons and grasped their spades. A section of the roadway was pointed out to them, and, using the utmost caution, that no sound might penetrate to the castle, the men began to dig with a suppressed energy which told how much their hearts were in their work.

Satisfied that they understood the need for silence and could be relied upon, Edgar dispatched Peter and his band along the road for a hundred yards or so in the direction of the castle. Their office was to intercept and capture all who came that way, and, at all costs, to prevent their return to the castle with news of what was proceeding.

Edgar then gave the word to his own men and marched them off upon the road taken by the cattle and their escort. A few hundred yards from the field in which the animals were pastured he called a halt, and posted the men in the woods on either side of the track, ready to ambush the men-at-arms on their return to the castle.

Free for the moment, he made his way to the edge of the woods overlooking the field, and stood for some time watching the escort of men-at-arms. In the ordinary way one of their number would have been set to watch while the others flung themselves down to rest or to dice away their time. Instead of that, however, they had gathered together in a group, and appeared to be eagerly discussing some matter of absorbing interest. It seemed only too clear that by some means the castle had gained an inkling of what was going on, and equally clear that the difficulties and dangers of the peasants' task had been increased fourfold.

The morning wore on until the time for the return of the cattle arrived. They were collected and, preceded by two men, were driven back along the road by which they had come, the rest of the guard following behind.

Suddenly and without warning a shrill whistle sounded. A rush of men from the undergrowth on each side of the road instantly followed. The men-at-arms forming the escort were not unready, but they were spread out two deep, and the attackers were among them before they could gather thickly in defence. A wild and confused struggle ensued. Edgar's own dash forward brought him into contact with two soldiers, the farther one of whom instantly snatched a horn from his belt and placed it to his lips. Guessing that the man was about to signal for assistance, Edgar charged impetuously, cut down the man nearest to him, and sprang upon the one sounding the alarm.

The action, swift as it was, came too late, and for some moments the note of the horn resounded unchecked high above the din of the conflict. Without pausing in his attack Edgar listened eagerly for a reply, and in a few seconds caught the answering note of a horn wound long and full. The sound came from the direction of the castle, and, as it ceased, in its place he seemed to hear the deeper note of a loud cheer of encouragement.

The encouragement came too late, however, for by that time all resistance was at an end. Seven of the men-at-arms had been cut down, and the remainder overwhelmed and forced to surrender.

"Re-form into rank, men--onward!" cried Edgar, and without waiting to count the cost of the victory, the band was rapidly marched back the way it had come, six men being left behind to guard the prisoners and to take charge of the captured cattle.

"Hark!" suddenly cried one of the men, raising his hand in the air.

The harsh, unmistakable rattle of the chains of the castle drawbridge could plainly be heard, followed in a few seconds by the hollow, distant beat of horses' hoofs upon the planking, as though a troop of horsemen was spurring vigorously across.

"Follow me," cried Edgar, breaking into a run, and at top speed the men sped down the track towards the place where a few hours before they had left the band commanded by the priest hard at work.

Rounding a bend they came in full sight of the spot, but before them the roadway stretched, to all appearances, as firm and unbroken as ever. Could their comrades have failed them? Not a soul was in sight until, in the distance, a strong body of men-at-arms, headed by two knights clad in full armour, appeared galloping rapidly towards them. At the sight of the loose body of armed peasantry in front of them the knights and their following sent up a savage cheer of exultation, and, setting spurs to their horses, thundered furiously down upon the others.

At the grim, heart-shaking spectacle, Edgar felt his men involuntarily check their speed.

"Rally, men, and charge the tyrants!" he cried loudly, and, echoing his words, his men recovered their nerve and pressed along after him.

Rapidly the two forces closed in upon one another until but a few yards of the roadway separated them. Sir Eustace, who, with De Maupas, headed the castle garrison, had even levelled his lance full at Edgar's breast, when all of a sudden the very ground seemed to open beneath his feet! There was a rending crash as a framework of branches, covered with straw and earth, concealing a pit dug in the roadway, gave beneath his weight and sent him crashing headlong into the chasm. De Maupas and many of the men-at-arms behind, unable to stop their furious advance, fell headlong after him until the yawning pit was choked with a mass of struggling men and horses.

"Charge home!" cried Edgar, and with a wild cheer he and his men sprang upon the struggling mass and towards the files spurring to their aid. Another and more desperate combat began. From both sides and the rear sprang the men of the priest's and Peter's bands, as they issued forth from their leafy screens and attacked the astounded garrison.

Edgar's first object was to keep the men-at-arms still in the saddle from rescuing the two knights struggling in the pit. Desperately he fought, but the men-at-arms as desperately charged forward, and with all their weight and impetus swept him and his men violently back. The two knights, clad in full armour, were little hurt by their heavy fall, and in a few minutes they were successfully extricated from the struggling mass and helped upon spare horses. Then with loud cries of encouragement to one another, the men-at-arms re-formed in a solid body and began to forge their way slowly and irresistibly back to the castle.

Time after time Edgar flung himself into their ranks, attended by such of his men as dared to follow, and strove to break up their formation and keep them from winning their way back to shelter. But though his vastly superior swordplay enabled him easily to vanquish individuals, a surge forward of several men each time flung him roughly backwards, and at last the survivors of the garrison reached the edge of the wood, and were able to gallop unchecked across the sward to the castle drawbridge. The bridge was still down, and the battered remnant filed sullenly and silently back into the castle courtyard. The gates crashed to behind them, and with many jolts and jars the drawbridge was drawn up, interposing the still waters of the moat between them and their exulting foes.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*The Plight of Beatrice*

It was known that the garrison of the castle numbered some fifty men all told, exclusive of the two knights. In the attack on the cattle guard ten men had been accounted for, and in the battle about the pit seventeen had been killed outright or had fallen into the hands of their enemies. The garrison was thus reduced to less than half its former strength. Confident that there was now no likelihood of a sally of a body of mounted men which might prove disastrous on the open ground about the castle, Edgar re-formed his men and led them in a solid body out of the woods towards the castle gates. After so decisive a victory it seemed well to try to overawe the garrison by a demonstration of strength, in the hope that some of their number might sue for terms.

Horns were blown, and, after a few minutes' interval, two figures appeared on the outer walls above the gates. They were Sir Eustace de Brin and Sir Gervaise de Maupas.

Sir Eustace appeared almost beside himself with rage and humiliation. Shaking his mailed fist at the men ranged in rank upon the green sward below, he shouted furiously:

"Brood of vipers--who commands?"

Edgar looked at the priest, who motioned him to reply.

"Father Armand and I, Edgar Wintour, esquire of Wolsingham, command."

"And bitterly shall ye rue the day ye lifted hand against Eustace de Brin. Think ye to overcome me? Think ye I have no friends who will send hosts of men-at-arms to trample you into the mud whence ye came?"

"Sir Eustace de Brin," replied Edgar calmly, "think well over thy situation. No word will we allow to reach the outer world from this castle, and the men-at-arms of which thou speakest will never come to thine aid."

"Ha! Thy cleverness, Sir Squire, is already outmatched. Hours ago a messenger left this castle to seek aid."

"He is our prisoner, Sir Eustace."

"Dog!" cried the knight violently, "I tell thee that my friends will soon miss my visits and send to enquire the reason. Withdraw from before this castle, and I will then see how lenient I can be even to braggart rebels such as ye."

"The Earl of Derby is advancing into the lands of the King of France, and all the men-at-arms that can be spared will be sorely needed to rally to his standard. None of thy friends will think of aught but the enemy of France in this time of trouble. Thine is a sad plight, Sir Eustace, and thou wouldst do well to recognize it."

Gulping down his rage with an effort, the knight replied in a calmer tone:

"What meanest thou? What wantest thou? Speak!"

"We want thy surrender----"

"What! Darest thou suggest that Eustace de Brin surrender his castle of Ruthenes to a rabble of rebel vassals? Base and renegade esquire--one who warrest against those of his own station on behalf of dogs of rebels--I tell thee thou knowest not our strength nor how far the arm of chivalry can reach. Withdraw from the ranks of these peasants, or it will most surely reach thee."

"Chivalry will ne'er support thee when it knows of thy black crimes, Eustace de Brin," replied Edgar, altogether unmoved. "It is I who represent chivalry this day, for, as thou shouldst know, it is the proud boast of chivalry to take the part of the weak and oppressed. But it is not of this that I wished to speak. We demand thy surrender and that of the ladies so basely torn from their friends by the false knight who stands by thy side. Surrender is the only course that can save the lives of the soldiers of the garrison, and the only course that will give thee a chance to plead thy case before thy countrymen. Sir Gervaise de Maupas, too, will have at least an opportunity of answering a charge of treachery before the English earl. Persist in thy refusal and thou art lost, for once the blood of this people thou hast oppressed is inflamed against thee, neither Father Armand nor I may be able to restrain them."

"Bah! These walls laugh thee and thy rabble to scorn. Do thy worst, Master Squire. Here is our first greeting."

As he spoke, the knight raised his arm as a signal, and a number of men, who had evidently been secretly preparing all the time the parley had been proceeding, crowded to the walls. In their hands they bore stones and rocks, which they instantly began to rain violently down upon the men on the ground beneath.

"Back--out of range," cried Edgar, immediately he saw the men-at-arms appear, and amid the hurtling missiles the men rushed to the shelter of the edge of the woods. A reply to the fusillade was not at once possible, as, like the garrison, scarcely any of the peasants were able to use the bow with any degree of success. To return the fire with stones would be wellnigh useless, as the height of the walls would rob the missiles of all their power and momentum.

"We cannot assault the castle yet?" said the priest to Edgar enquiringly. "There must be preparations?"

"Yes; we can do nothing until we have filled in a portion of the moat. Didst not tell me once that the moat is a stream dammed back below the castle?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Then I would that a few men be sent to break down the dam at once. That will aid us famously in our onslaught upon the moat. A half-empty moat will be a good step forward."

"It will indeed. I will see to it, Sir Squire."

"Are any of thy folk skilled in carpentry or woodfelling? If so, let them get to work cutting down trees and preparing timber without delay, for I like not that our men should be unable to reply to the showers of missiles from the walls."

"What wouldst do then?"

"I would build mangonels. I saw many in the camp outside Bordeaux, and had a fancy to see how they were put together. I think we can construct them with success. They will hurl rocks that will blister the walls even of yon fortress, and if they fall into the courtyard may do dire execution."

"The men shall be found," cried the priest exultingly. "Our cause advances. I believe that Heaven will give us the victory."

* * * * *

So well arranged and so swift had been the capture of Beatrice d'Alencon that her defenders had been stricken down and all was over before she had fully grasped that they were attacked. It was not indeed until she had ridden for some distance with one of her captors on either side that she realized that she and her maid were prisoners in the hands of unknown men, who seemed, from the purposeful way in which they rode, to have a definite and well-planned object in view. To escape was her first impulse, but a grip of iron fell upon the bridle the instant she attempted to turn her horse's head.

"What meaneth this?" she cried out at last in indignation and distress. "Where are you taking me, and with what purpose?"

A stolid silence, broken only by the trampling of the steeds, met her cry.

More alarmed still, if possible, by the silence of her captors, Beatrice dragged desperately at her bridle and made her horse plunge violently.

With a savage word one of the men (it was Baulch) tore the bridle roughly from her grasp. "Be still!" he cried. "Play me that trick again and thou shalt ride in front of my saddle. Ha, ha! Perchance that will suit thee better, maiden?" he added with a leer.

"Ruffian," cried Beatrice with a shudder of disgust, "ruffian, what meaneth this shameful assault upon my retainers, and why drag ye me thus away from all my friends? Answer me."

"Remain still or not a word wilt thou get," growled the man who had before spoken. "We are taking thee to a friend of thy guardian. Ha, ha!--a friend who hath watched over his welfare right carefully of late, and one, too, who knoweth thee well, and who desireth to know thee better. Ha, ha, ha!"

So hateful to Beatrice was the man's coarse laugh and evil look that she preferred to remain silent rather than provoke another sally. Without further resistance or attempt to find out whither she was going, she allowed herself to be led across country for mile after mile. Her maid, weeping hysterically, rode behind in charge of another of the ruffians, and even the consolation of closer intercourse was for some time denied them.

To Beatrice's surprise, and even more to her utter consternation, the strange journey went on, not for hours but for days, and it was not until some five days after her capture that the party reached what she guessed to be their destination. This was a castle of so grim and gloomy an appearance that the sight of it made her heart sink with terror and apprehension. What fate might not be in store for her in a place so remote and in a prison looking so strong and ruthless?

"Is this, then, the vile prison-house to which thou hast been leading me?" she cried to Baulch, as she drew rein in front of the drawbridge and looked wildly about her for some possible way of escape from her captors.

"It is, lady. Lead on," responded Baulch grimly, as he forced her horse on to the drawbridge and led it across into the castle courtyard. "This is thy new home. My advice to thee is to make the best of it."

Dismounting, Beatrice and her maid were led to the door of the central donjon and up the stone staircase to a chamber almost on a level with the outer walls. The door was flung open, and they were roughly bidden to enter. They did so, feeling that it was useless to resist, and feeling, too, that at any rate matters would now soon come to a head and end their pitiable state of uncertainty and suspense. Immediately the door was clanged to and bolted behind them.

The room in which they found themselves was small and sparsely furnished, but was not uninviting. The number of rich rugs which plentifully bestrewed the floors seemed to indicate that at least an attempt had been made to give an air of something approaching comfort to a room otherwise plain and bare. This fact might have reassured them somewhat had it not indicated the far more terrifying fact that they had been expected. Who he might be, and what his purpose, that had stretched out so long and powerful an arm as to drag them to this remote and lonely spot, Beatrice could not even hazard a guess. Nevertheless, in spite of the mystery and terrifying uncertainty in which she found herself, she strove to keep a brave heart, as much for the sake of her maid--to whom she was much attached--as for her own.

About an hour after their arrival, footsteps were heard approaching the chamber. They came to a stop at the door, and a moment later a man entered.

It was Sir Gervaise de Maupas.

At the sight of this man, whom she both knew and dreaded, Beatrice involuntarily sprang up from the couch on which she had been reclining.

"Thou!" she cried, in a voice in which anger, scorn, and fear all had a place.