CHAPTER XXIII

THE ADVENTURE AT THE RUINED MILL

IN his tent, in terrible suspense, the young knight, Raymond Revyngton, lay helpless, wondering how went the fight. In due course, through the opening of his tent, he saw a stream of wounded men returning, singly or in small parties, some with rough bandages round their limbs or their heads.

At length came one whom he knew--an archer of the Portchester company.

"Stephen! Stephen!" called Raymond, as loudly as he could.

In obedience to the knight's cry, the man entered the tent, nursing the maimed fingers of his right hand with his left, while the blood poured freely from the stumps and trickled in a crimson stream down his arm, soaking his sleeve.

Deftly and quickly, notwithstanding his weakness, Raymond bound the wounded hand, and poured out a cup of wine for the almost fainting archer. The draught revived him, and the colour began to steal back into his ashy-grey face.

"How goes the battle?" asked Raymond anxiously.

"'Tis not a battle, Sir Raymond, but a slight passage of arms, though I perceive that as a bowman my work is done. The French King hath tried to relieve the town, but my Lord Chandos and seven thousand of our men have withstood him amid the sand-hills and marshes. Save for a few hand-to-hand blows, the French never made a stand, and already they are in full flight."

"Dost feel well enough to walk?" the young knight asked, after a long pause.

"Yea, Sir Raymond."

"Then get thee outside the camp, and bring me fresh tidings."

The man obeyed, but ere long he returned, exclaiming: "'Tis all over. The enemy are nowhere in sight and our men are even now returning."

"Then do not tarry longer, but go to thine own tent, for thou needest better care for thy hurts than I can give thee. This flask of wine I give thee, for, by St. Thomas, thou hast need of it. Nay, do not thank me, but away!"

Once more the camp was alive with men, for the threatened attack of the huge army that Philip had gathered together for the relief of Calais had been ignominiously repelled, and it was known that the fate of the town was sealed. Raymond gathered a fairly true account of the fight from the conversation and joyous exclamations of the elated soldiery, and presently Sir John Hacket, covered with dust and showing signs of the conflict, entered the tent.

"Art feeling better, Raymond?"

"Ay, Sir John. But how goes it with us?"

"Passably well but ever I seem to be a messenger of momentous tidings to thee, whether of good or evil."

"Then there is something amiss?" questioned the young man eagerly, instinctively surmising that the news was unfavourable.

"Yea, Raymond. My speech was ever blunt, and methinks the sooner I unburden myself of a message of ill-tidings the easier 'tis for both of us. Briefly, Sir Maurice hath fallen like the true and gallant knight he was, and thou art the last of the Revyngtons of Churston."

"Alack-a-me that it should be so! For though I knew but little of him, I esteemed him a gallant, gentle, and honourable knight even before I wot he was my kinsman. And Sir Reginald Scarsdale--what of him?"

"His heart is stronger than his body. In the first impact he was swept from his saddle by a mere stripling."

"And he is killed, wounded, or taken?"

"Neither, save that he is shaken by the fall, and the King vows that since he cannot hold his own against a youth he will send him home, seeing that his fighting days are over."

"And does Sir Reginald know of this?"

"Ay, and if the King will not relent--and he is hard to turn from his purpose--'twill be the first Scarsdale since the Conquest whose feet on his altar-tomb rest not upon a lion."

"Alas! the King's decision will hit him hard! Do you, Sir John, convey my expressions of regret to the gentle knight, and say that it will give me great pleasure should he deign to visit me."

For several days more Raymond lay weak and ill in his tent, but as April drew on and the weather became warmer his strength began slowly to return. At length, pale and wan, the young knight was able to walk slowly about the camp, supported by two of his archers.

Still the siege continued, a long-drawn, tedious task, with little chance of knightly deeds of daring to earn advancement. The close-drawn lines of the besiegers still kept tenacious grip upon the town, and, though famine and disease wrought havoc amongst its gallant defenders, the end seemed as far off as ever.

The return of summer found Sir Raymond Revyngton completely restored in health, though still chafing with impatience at the life of inactivity, for the younger knights looked with disfavour upon the King's methods of conducting the siege, and would rather have had the opportunity of leading their men to the assault than sit down before the town waiting for famine to do its fell work.

Friendly tilting-matches, hawking, and sports of a similar nature were indulged in, and Raymond, with an exuberance of energy, took a leading part in the pastimes. Many a pleasant afternoon was spent in the open country around the English lines, hunting or making sport with hounds and falcons, for not an armed Frenchman was to be seen within twenty leagues of Calais, save the starving wretches within its gates.

One afternoon in July Raymond and a score of young knights rode south-eastwards along the sand-dunes, each knight accompanied by a mounted serving-man and a number of hounds. The country was not of a nature to yield much sport, yet, eager to while away the time, the little cavalcade rode carelessly on over the low sandhills.

On their right spread the blue waters of the English Channel, in front towered the chalky heights of Gris-nez, while behind lay the red-tiled houses and grey walls of Calais, with the semicircle of tents that marked the English lines.

At length they reached the summit of a low hill, and here they reined in their steeds.

"No sign of a living creature," remarked one of the party, "though the land away on our left seemeth well wooded. How call you yonder forest, Armand?" he inquired, addressing one of the attendants, a Gascon who had spent the greater part of his life in the neighbourhood of Calais.

"'Tis the forest of Ambleteuse, sir," replied the man; "there the wild boar is to be found."

"Ah There is good sport, fair sirs Let us ride forward."

Half-an-hour's sharp canter brought them to the edge of the wood, and in a long, straggling line the gay-hearted Englishmen, with loud shouts and many a blast upon their horns, plunged into the gloom of the forest glades.

For a while no signs of animal life appeared, then suddenly there came from one of the rearmost horsemen shouts of "A boar!"

Instantly the party turned, and crashing through the underwood, made towards the sound. Raymond, who had been in the van, now found himself in the rear, and, spurring his steed and calling to his attendant to follow, he strove to overtake his companions, while the loud grunts of the hunted boar could be distinctly heard amid the snapping of the brushwood.

At length the glade descended towards a babbling brook, and here the press of horsemen became so thick that many were riding hip to hip. Suddenly Raymond's horse trod in a rabbit-hole, and before he could realise what had happened he found himself hurtling through the air and striking the soft earth with a heavy thud. Fortunately, the young knight was lightly clad, and fell without injury, but on leaping to his feet he saw his body-servant lying, senseless on the ground, while the two steeds, entangled in their fall, were madly kicking each other with their iron-shod hoofs.

In the excitement of the chase the rest of the cavalcade had rushed onwards, heedless of their companions' misfortunes, and the sound of feet was already dying away.

With a bound Raymond sprang to the side of his attendant and dragged him out of the reach of the perilous hoofs. Then he sought for his horn to summon assistance, but the instrument was crushed and rendered useless by the fall. Baffled in his purpose, he applied his energies to the task of restoring the unconscious man, bathing his forehead with water obtained from the brook.

His efforts at length were rewarded, for the servant sat up and gazed around in a dazed way.

"Art hurt, Thompson?" asked Raymond anxiously.

"Can scarcely tell, Sir Raymond, save that my head is swimming round like a roasting joint, and my shoulder-blades seem growing out of my neck."

"'Tis of small moment. But stand up if thou canst." Thompson staggered to his feet, and to the knight's satisfaction he found that none of the man's limbs were broken.

"'Tis a sorry pass, for we must needs find our way back afoot. Pull thyself together, man, for 'tis a goodly step betwixt us and the camp."

Drawing his hunting-knife, Raymond put the two struggling horses--each of whom had a leg broken--out of their misery, then the twain set out on their homeward way. By the time they emerged from the forest their shadows fell far athwart the path, for the sun was sinking in the west; but Thompson was rapidly recovering, and their pace was well maintained.

"There is the hill from whence we first saw the wood," remarked the knight. "But methinks we can leave that well on our left, for the camp lies yonder."

"I deem thee to be right, fair sir. But, mark ye! Look at yonder clouds."

Raymond looked in the direction indicated, and saw that a storm was rapidly driving towards them.

"Night cometh on apace, and with it a tempest," quoth he. "Hasten, or we shall be benighted in this dreary plain."

Hardly had they traversed a distance of three arrow-flights than the wind, hitherto a faint westerly breeze, sprang up with terrific violence. The sand rose in thick clouds, shutting out everything except in their immediate vicinity, and the sun, in a mist of pale yellow sky, sank beneath the indigo-coloured clouds.

Onward they steadily plodded through the heavy yielding sand, the swiftly-falling darkness bringing with it a heavy storm of rain and hail. Wondering whether his comrades were faring as badly, the young knight stumbled and plunged resolutely onwards, his serving-man following closely at his heels, the whistling of the wind making conversation impossible.

For over two hours the twain pursued their uncomfortable walk, till at length a dark object blocked their path. It was a ruined windmill. Making their way round its massive base, the weary travellers found some slight shelter from the force of the wind, and, panting from their exertions, they leaned against the stonework to recover their breath.

"Dost know where we are?" shouted Raymond, his voice almost inaudible in the howling wind.

"No, sir," replied the man.

"But a short distance from where we left the wood, I marked this tower on our left, and, certes, we have been walking round and round for half the night."

"Then we must needs set out once more?"

"Nay. This will suffice for the present, and here we'll rest till daylight comes and the storm spends itself. The door is not barred, I hope."

Walking slowly round the mill, the knight felt for the opening, till he stumbled over a low stone step. Cautiously ascending, he found at the fourth step a flat ledge, protected by a broken rail, and here was the door hanging by a solitary rusted hinge.

Yielding to the pressure of his shoulder, the door flew open, and the knight and his companion carefully groped their way in, closing the door after them. Here, in absolute blackness, they found shelter, the storm howling wildly outside, yet scarcely to be heard within the massive stone walls. They had no means of procuring a light, but by continuing their investigations they felt a pile of broken hurdles and the lower-most rungs of a ladder.

Raymond was about to ascend, when his servant laid a detaining hand upon his arm. "Hist!" he exclaimed. "Some one moves in the room above."

"Nay, thou dreamest!... Ay, thou art right! Hide here, quickly. Art armed?"

"Nought but a knife."

"'Twill suffice. Now, hold thyself in readiness, but act not till I give the word."

Crouching behind the pile of hurdles, knight and servant waited in breathless silence. There was the sound of a heavy trap-door being raised, and a voice exclaimed in French: "Is it thou, Jehan?"

Receiving no reply, the questioner slowly descended a few steps of the ladder, and drawing a horn lantern from underneath a cloak, swung it around him, peering about the room.

Then, perceiving no one, he muttered: "Mon Dieu! It is but fancy, yet why doth he tarry?" And again concealing the light, he ascended to the upper story and dropped the trap-hatch with a resounding thud.

"There's fell treachery afoot," whispered Raymond. "Dost know who it is?"

"'Tis René de Caux, of the following of the Captal de Buche, our King's trusted favourite. Wait patiently, for ere long no little advancement will be gained."

Silently the Englishmen waited, every fiercer blast of the storm causing them to imagine that the expected visitor had arrived. At last they heard the door pushed open, and a dark form made its way into the room with a confidence gained by long practice. A low whistle, like the cry of a night-bird, and the trapdoor was again removed.

"Ah, Jehan! 'Tis thou at last! Close the door ere I show a light."

"A thousand pests take the weather. This storm hath all but been my undoing."

The light of the lantern shone upon the face of the new arrival. He was a tall, slender man, with light hair and refined features, and on removing his sodden cloak a garment of slashed velvet was revealed, betokening that the wearer was a gentleman of quality. Armour he wore none, but a light sword hung from his belt, balanced by a large leather bag.

"And how fares Sir John de Vienne?"

"Strong in courage when last I saw him."

"And that was----?"

"But yesternight."

"And he agreed to allow you to poison the wells?"

"Nay, by Our Lady, he would not."

"Well spoken, like a brave and gallant knight, for, by St. Denis, the plan is not to my liking even though these insolent islanders deserve all that is evil. But, see here! This letter must be given to the Governor of the town by to-morrow, though, alas! it is cold comfort to Sir John. Canst arrange to deliver it?"

"They will admit me by the postern of the Boulogne Gate at midnight. 'Twill be done."

"Then take thy reward. Hold the light closer while I count, for I know a Gascon of old! See to it: all bright crowns, of good weight."

The Frenchman addressed as Jehan handed a sealed document to the Gascon, who placed it in his doublet; then, setting the lantern on the ground and extending his hand, the latter counted the coins as Jehan took them from his wallet.

Loosening his poignard and motioning to Thompson to draw his knife, Raymond prepared to spring from his hiding-place.

Ere the two conspirators could recover from their astonishment the young knight had leapt upon them, and with one thrust of his weapon laid the traitorous Gascon dead at his feet. Instinctively the Frenchman sprang backwards and whipped out his sword.

"Yield thee!" thundered Raymond.

"To no man!"

In an instant their blades met, the dull light of the lantern flashing on the glittering steel. Though Jehan had the longer weapon, he possessed neither the strength nor the skill of his antagonist, and in less than half a minute's swordplay the Frenchman's blade caught in the notch that the hilt of most poignards possess, and with a quick, powerful turn of the wrist Raymond snapped the sword off close to the guard.

"Now wilt yield?"

"If thou art a gentleman I will; if not, pass the dagger through me rather than let me disgrace myself."

"I am Sir Raymond Revyngton, knight."

"Then, Sir Raymond, I yield myself to thee; though I pray thee, certify my master that I fought well ere I yielded."

"And thy name and quality?"

"I am Jehan de Sous-Cahors, seneschal de Vimereux, and of the household of King Philip."

"Then I have had great honour in taking thee!" said Raymond with due courtesy. "And now have I thy promise that there shall be no attempt at escape? Otherwise, though it grieve me to mishandle a knight, thou must be brought bound into the camp."

"I swear, by St. Denis."

The grey dawn was beginning to break, and the storm was dying away. Raymond looked out of the door, and saw with great satisfaction the knight's horse stabled in a small adjoining hut that had been invisible on the previous night. There in the distance the smoke of the English camp-fires showed distinctly in the now clear air, while less than a bowshot from the mill lay the wood that had been the cause of their misfortune.

Suddenly the young knight heard the sound of scuffling and Thompson's voice shouting "Help, master, help!"

Darting back to the room, he found his servant engaged in a desperate struggle with the captive, who was endeavouring to destroy the letter he had entrusted to the double-dealing Gascon, a portion of which he had attempted to swallow.

With no gentle hand Raymond aided his man to throw the prisoner on his back and wrench the missive from him.

"Thy parole, Sir Knight!" he exclaimed.

"----has been kept," gasped the captive, "but I trow thou wilt admit that no farther compact was made. I am foiled in this matter, but I pray thee, of thy courtesy, give me leave to finish my work and destroy this missive."

"That I cannot do. This letter, which I doubt not is of great moment, I will take charge of, and hand over to my Lord Chandos. 'Tis now daylight, and we must needs return to the camp. I am loth to let thee walk, but as there is but one horse between two knights, 'tis better that neither ride."

Walking side by side, and followed by Thompson leading the captive's horse, Raymond and the French knight arrived at the camp without further incident, and, after handing his prisoner over to the camp-martial, the young knight repaired with all despatch to find Sir John Hacket.

On hearing Raymond's story the Constable accompanied him to the tent of Sir John Chandos, whose banner floated close to the royal pavilion.

Lord Chandos opened the letter which Raymond had gained possession of, and found that its contents were practically undamaged in the struggle.

"Canst read?" he asked of the Constable. "For this crabbed fist doth sorely try my one eye."

"Nay," replied Sir John Hacket with a grim smile. "Only enough for mine own use, for from my seventh year the sword ever proved a more pleasing companion than a scrawling, musty parchment."

"And canst thou, Sir Raymond?"

"I will try my best, fair sir."

Raymond took the missive and began to read the superscription, written in French: "To the very puissant knight, Sir John de Vienne, seneschal of our town of Calais, greeting."

The body of the letter began by thanking the Governor for his brave resistance, and expressing hopes of being able to speedily succour the besieged. It then confirmed the arrangements, previously made through the Gascon traitor, for a sally, in conjunction with an attempt on the part of the French forces to break the English lines from without. Should the French be unable to carry out their part and attack the English camp, three white lights were to be shown from the ruins of an old mill near Sangatte, and the besieged would then be at liberty to make the best terms they could for the surrender of Calais. The epistle was signed by no less a personage than King Philip of France.

"By St. George, we have them," exclaimed Chandos, striking his fist heavily upon an oaken chest. "Though I would rather that René de Caux were swinging from a gallows in view of the town than lying dead at thy hands in the ruined mill. No matter; this letter must reach the Governor of Calais. Five hundred lances and two thousand archers will suffice to keep the Frenchmen from advancing upon us; and to-morrow night will see three white lights from the old mill at Sangatte."

At nightfall a squire of the Captal de Buche crept cautiously to the postern of the Boulogne Gate, and, representing himself as an emissary of the false René de Caux, handed the fatal letter to the Governor, Sir John de Vienne. The presence of a strong force of Englishmen beyond the dunes of Sangatte prevented the expected French army from occupying the mill and signalling to their friends in the beleaguered city, and the following night three white lights flashed their message of despair to the hitherto undaunted garrison.

Thus the fall of Calais was hastened, but Raymond saw nothing of the final act in the drama, when the heroic Eustace de St. Pierre and his five companions were nearly sacrificed to appease the anger of the English King (Queen Philippa's intercession alone saved their lives), for the young knight was with the five hundred lances that guarded the approach from Boulogne; and on the 6th of August, two days after Edward had taken possession of the town, the Hampshire companies, with whom was Sir Reginald Scarsdale, embarked for the shores of England.