CHAPTER XVI

The Boldest Deed of All

But even had they seen what was passing so near them, the stout Englishmen would hardly have believed their own eyes.

While the pretended soldier was drawing off the attention of those who guarded the tower, two men, fully armed, had crept, one behind the other, along a deep trench that ran close to it, and worming their way beneath the huge fabric, had begun to saw in two the props that supported it!

If they were detected by the English (as was likely enough) it was, as both well knew, certain death; but this was the least of their perils, for should the tower give way one second sooner than they had calculated, they would be crushed to atoms by its fall. Bolder deed was never done by man, and small blame to the brave English yeomen if they had no suspicion of an attempt which, even in that age of rash and reckless valour, might well have seemed too daring to be possible.

Slowly and surely the perilous task was done, and the two heroes crawled back through the sheltering trench. But just as they issued from it, they came face to face with an English archer!

“Ha! what means this?” cried the man, starting back. “Who are ye, fellows? Speak or die!”

The sole reply was a blow from the foremost stranger that laid him dead. The other despatched a second man, and a third fell by the pretended man-at-arms with whom he had just been talking.

“Treason!” shouted the fourth. “Up with ye, lads! bows and bills!”

These were the poor fellow’s last words, for the next moment saw him laid beside his slain comrades, while the heroes of this daring venture leaped upon the horses which their confederate held in readiness, and dashed off at full gallop toward the town. But the alarm had been given, and the whole camp swarmed out like a hive of enraged bees.

“Foes! treason!” roared a hundred voices. “Down with ’em, comrades! no mercy to spies!”

But this was easier said than done. Well mounted, and fully armed, the three broke through their disordered assailants like a spider’s web, and more than one stout fellow who thrust himself in their way paid dearly for his rashness.

“Well done, Roland! for a Breton jester, thou hast played right deftly the part of an English man-at-arms!” said the shorter of the two knights—a square, thick-set, powerful man in black armour, with a hoarse laugh. “Lucky for us, in sooth, thou hast learned their tongue so well, when captive among the dogs in Picardy. Well, Huon, lad, our work is done, and we must ride for it, if we would see another sun rise!”

“I care not, since we have saved the town,” said his comrade—no other than Huon de St. Yvon, the youngest of Du Guesclin’s turbulent cousins, now a wiser and better man than when his fierce brothers fell by his side on Calais causeway, five years before. “Yon accursed tower will never harm any one more, save the English rogues who handle it.”

At that moment, as if to make good his words, came a deafening crash behind them, and a fearful cry. At the first push that urged the undermined tower toward the walls, it had come thundering down, dashing itself to pieces, and crushing more than a score of the English soldiers.

Taking advantage of the confusion caused by this unlooked-for disaster, the three bold men broke through or rode down all who barred their way, and were already near the gate, when down went Huon in a cloud of dust, horse and man. One of the countless arrows that whizzed around them had mortally wounded his gallant steed, which fell with its rider, bruising him sorely in the fall.

Quick as thought, the black knight sprang from his horse, dragged his fainting comrade up into the saddle, and bidding Roland ride by the hurt man and support him till he reached the town, turned like a hunted lion on the pursuing English, whirling his mighty axe over his head with both hands.

Thrice it flashed and fell, and each time fell a man, and the boldest of the English hung back for a moment from the terror of an arm that seemed to carry certain death. Thick and fast rattled the arrows on his armour, but it was the work of a cunning armourer of Milan, and even the cloth-yard shafts of Old England smote it in vain.

All at once a commanding voice was heard above the din of the fray—

“Leave him to me, lads; he is a good knight, and I would fain try his mettle myself, body to body.”

A tall, fine-looking man of middle age pressed his horse through the throng of English, who made way for him respectfully, for he was no other than the commander of the besieging army.

“Sir Knight,” said he to the black warrior, “it were shame to let so good a champion be overborne by odds. I will meet thee with equal arms, man to man, and if I overcome thee, thou shalt yield to my mercy, but if thou hast the better, thou shalt pass free, under the knightly pledge of Sir Nicholas Dagworth. Art thou agreed?”

In our day it would greatly amaze every one to see two generals fight a duel on their own account in the midst of a battle, while their men looked on; but in that age such a thing was an everyday matter.

“Most willingly do I agree, good Sir Nicholas,” said the unknown, courteously; “and if it be my hap to be overthrown, I grudge thee not what small fame may be won by vanquishing Bertrand du Guesclin.”

“Du Guesclin!” echoed Dagworth, as a murmur of mingled wonder and admiration buzzed along the English ranks. “Then am I more highly favoured than I weened. I pray you of your courtesy, fair sir, to let me touch that victorious hand in friendship ere we fall to.”

And the two men joined hands in a warm, brotherly clasp, as a fitting preface to doing their best to cut each other’s throats!

Just then the city gate (through which Huon and the warlike jester had just passed) poured forth a gallant band of horsemen, led by De Kerimel himself. But when the rescuers saw what was going on, they drew rein at once, and looked on in silence, for one of the strictest rules of that age was never to interfere with a fair fight.

“I presume not to ask thee to fight on foot, noble sir,” said Du Guesclin, hesitatingly, “but thou seest I have no horse, and——”

“Nay, if that be all, it is soon mended,” cried Sir Nicholas. “Ho there! bring hither quickly my brown destrier” (war-horse).

The steed was brought, Bertrand mounted, and the knights hurtled together like contending whirlwinds.

Both spears flew crashing in a thousand splinters, and both steeds were thrown back on their haunches; but the riders kept saddle and stirrup, though it seemed to the lookers-on as if Dagworth, good knight as he was, had been rudely shaken.

Sir Nicholas took a new lance from his esquire, and Du Guesclin cried to the nearest English man-at-arms—

“Lend me thy lance, good fellow. I promise thee I will not shame it.”

“Take it and welcome, good sir,” said the stout spearman, heartily; “and wert thou fighting any but an Englishman, I would wish thee good speed!”

Bertrand laughed good-humouredly, and, wheeling his horse, dashed at his foe once more.

This time the result was not in doubt for a moment. Du Guesclin reeled in his saddle, and his horse all but fell; but as the dust of the shock subsided, Sir Nicholas was seen lying motionless on the earth.

Down leaped Du Guesclin, and, taking the fallen man by the hand, said earnestly—

“How is it with you, noble sir? Woe worth the day, if my ill hap hath made me harm the best knight I ever faced!”

“Grieve not, fair sir,” said the brave Englishman, faintly. “I trow I shall live to fight another day, though I be sore shaken; but the victory is thine.”

“I pray you, then,” cried Bertrand, eagerly, as he raised him from the ground and signed to the nearest men to support him, “let me buy of you this good horse that I have ridden to-day, for better could no man wish at need.”

“Take him from me as a free gift, good Sir Bertrand,” said his gallant foe, “and may he ever bear thee as bravely as he hath done this day!”

An hour later Bertrand, having seen the English host sullenly preparing to break up the now hopeless siege, sat in a chamber of the gate-tower beside his cousin Huon, who was by this time recovering from his fall.

“Bertrand,” said the prostrate man, looking up at him, “thou hast not spared to risk thy life for mine; and yet, for I must needs tell it, I have envied thy renown, and would fain have done a deed this day that should match even thine!”

“Vex thyself about it no more, lad,” said the great soldier, with a blunt kindliness that became him well. “So mean a thing as envy hath no abiding place, I wot, in the heart of a good knight like thee; and so long as a good and knightly deed is done, what matter if it be done by thee or me, or some better man than either? Trust me, cousin, the true hero is not he whose name is most vaunted by men, but he who hath striven most to do his duty before God.”

“And such a hero art thou, Bertrand,” said the other, brokenly: “and God be my witness that I repent me, from my very heart, that I ever envied thee or bare thee ill-will!”