CHAPTER XXIV

Through the Darkness

Fiercely did Lancaster chafe at the mishap by which his cherished plan, so far from bringing about the fall of the town, had re-victualled it so amply that the besiegers seemed in more peril of famine than the besieged. He had sworn never to turn his back on the town till he had planted his banner on its walls; and now he seemed farther from it than ever.

As he sat gloomily in his tent that afternoon, trying vainly to devise a fresh plan, he was told that a man wished to speak with him, and two soldiers brought in the Black Wolf.

“Ha! thou here still, fellow? They told me thou hadst fled to the French.”

“Say rather I have fled _from_ them, your highness,” said the iron-nerved bandit, meeting the stern duke’s searching look without a sign of fear. “My comrade and I were carried captive into the town last night by a scouting party of the rogues, and he (worse luck) is still in their hands; but I brake prison and escaped, having learned somewhat that may aid your highness to take vengeance on yon scurvy old commandant, who threatened to hang me like a dog.”

“Say’st thou so?” cried the duke, his spirits rising as suddenly as they had fallen. “Let us hear quickly, then, what thou hast learned.”

The Wolf, carrying out with all the cunning that his wild and hunted life had taught him the subtle scheme devised by Du Guesclin’s ready brain, told, with a blunt frankness which might have deceived the shrewdest man alive, that the “rogue of a commandant” had been nerved to his stubborn defence by the hope of relief from an army which Du Guesclin and other Breton barons were raising; that this army was now on its way, hoping to take the English by surprise; and that he was ready to guide the duke and a chosen body of his troops to surprise it in turn.

This was quite enough for the energetic general, who never thought of doubting so plausible a story, and had no suspicion that this seemingly zealous ally was sent on purpose to mislead him. Ere night fell, Lancaster himself and the bulk of his army, guided by the Wolf, were on their march to intercept the relieving force, little thinking, in their joyful confidence of victory, that they were doing just what their enemies wished.

Just before midnight they reached the narrow, wooded defile through which, as their guide said, the French army must approach their camp. Here they halted, and, not daring to betray their presence by kindling fires, officers and men shivered through two long, cold, weary hours of vain expectation.

The night wore on, and still there was no sign of a foe; and the half-frozen English began to glance impatiently at the spot where, dimly visible in the faint moonlight, loomed the long grey mantle in which their guide had wrapped himself as he lay down. Could the French have taken another road and escaped them? Could their guide be mistaken? or was he betraying them?

The same growing suspicion disturbed their leaders, and even the duke himself, who suddenly called out—

“Bring hither yon caitiff guide; if he hath played false, he shall feed the crows on the highest tree of the forest.”

One of his attendant knights, with two or three stout soldiers, flew to the sleeping guide, and, bending over him, shouted—

“Up, fellow! His highness would speak with thee.”

But the slumbering form never moved.

Driven beyond patience, the knight clutched at his shoulder. But, to his utter horror, the assailant’s hand found nothing to grasp; the cloak sank in at his touch, and, as it fell aside, they could all see that there was no one beneath it.

In that superstitious age, there could be but one explanation of such a prodigy. The hardy soldiers grew pale as death, and the knight, crossing himself tremulously, said in a voice that he vainly tried to steady—

“The Evil One himself hath been among us; let us pray God to protect us.”

Just then broke into the ring the stern duke himself, furious at the delay in obeying his orders. But his face changed as he heard the tale, and the veteran, whom no peril could shake, stood mute and motionless beneath the spell of a terror that was not of this world.

But that spell was suddenly and terribly broken. Through the dead silence of the gloomy winter night came faintly a dull, far-off roar, coming from the camp that they had left; and a fierce red glare, waxing broader and brighter every moment, broke through the gloom in the same direction.

“We are betrayed! our camp is attacked!” roared the duke, stamping and waving his clenched hands like a madman. “Back to it for your lives.”

But with all their haste, they came too late; the mischief was done.

In spite of the darkness, the Wolf (having slipped away from his English companions, and left his cloak and a heap of dead leaves to represent him) had gone straight to the spot where he was to meet Du Guesclin, who heard with stern joy the success of his plan for drawing away half the English army to repel an imaginary attack, and lost no time in setting off to fall on the other half by surprise.

It was past midnight, and the English left to guard the camp were nearly all asleep in careless confidence, and dreaming of stormed towns and rich booty, when a drowsy sentry, leaning on his spear, heard a rustle in the thicket beside him, and ere he could utter his challenge, a crushing blow smote him down, while a swarm of dark figures, bursting from the shadowy wood, dashed down into the unprepared camp like a cataract.

So complete was the surprise, that many of the English were slain or taken ere they were fully awake; and few had time either to spring up or seize their weapons. Instantly all was confusion. Tents were overthrown, horses cut loose, waggon-wheels broken, military engines disabled; and at last the conquerors, with a mighty shout of “Notre Dame, Du Guesclin!” swept away the few who still resisted, and set the camp on fire.

It was the blaze of this fire that had startled Lancaster and his men, and sent them hurrying back. But the same blaze had called to the ramparts the defenders of Rennes, to whom it was a token of deliverance; and the shrewd old commandant, guessing what had happened, at once got five hundred of his best men under arms, charging their leader, Huon de St. Yvon, to watch the fit moment for a sally on the English rear, while Du Guesclin pressed them in front.

But only by the slackening of the English war-cry, and the swell of the answering French shout, could the anxious watchers on the walls guess how the fight was going; for of its actual progress little or nothing could be seen. Only at times did they catch a dim and doubtful glimpse of shadowy masses of men surging up against each other, clashing, parting, meeting once more, while a keen glitter of steel ran through the gloom like a shower of flying sparks. Ever and anon, a whirl of struggling forms came rushing athwart the line of light cast by the rising flames, clearly visible for one instant, and then swallowed by the blackness once more.

But as the flames rose higher, the issue of the fray was no longer doubtful.

Bertrand and his men had won their way through the English force between them and the town, and the final battle was now raging round a number of store-waggons just brought in by the English from the surrounding country, with supplies which would be a priceless gift to the starving town. The English, on the other hand, knew that if that food reached the town all their toil would be thrown away; and they fought like tigers to beat the assailants back.

“Lads!” roared Du Guesclin, “within yon walls are women weeping over their starving children, and here is the food that can save them!”

Fired by this appeal, the Bretons rushed on again, and the English put forth all their might to bar the way. The fight was at its hottest, when Huon saw his chance, and, flinging open the gate, came like a thunderbolt on the English ranks with a shout of “St. Yves for Bretagne!”

Thus attacked on both sides at once, the stubborn besiegers began to give way. The Bretons pressed on—the English fell back—the precious supplies drew nearer and nearer to the town. Already all seemed won, when from the gloom broke a hoarse roar of thousands of voices, “Lancaster! Lancaster! St. George for England!” and the duke and his men, just returned from their fruitless quest, came charging to the rescue.

And now the fight grew fierce and terrible; for all knew that on this last struggle hung the fate of the besieged town, and every man fought as if the might of the whole host were in his single arm. Had not Lancaster’s men been spent with long marching and want of sleep, it would have gone hard with Du Guesclin’s handful of heroes; and even as it was, all their valour barely sufficed to bear up against the threefold odds that beset them. The Wolf and his band (Bertrand’s lifeguard all through that fearful night) stood like an iron wall between the tide of assault and the precious waggons; but, man on man, the devoted band fell before their swarming assailants, and as their ranks thinned, Du Guesclin’s men began to give way in turn, while the English pressed on with shouts of victory.

Driven to desperation, Bertrand plunged headlong into the living sea of fierce faces and tossing weapons, dealing death at every blow. But, in that maddening hurly-burly, few saw the movement, and fewer still followed it; and in a moment he was hemmed in on every side, and not one of his own men near but Huon and the Wolf.

Suddenly Bertrand’s quick ear caught, amid all that infernal din, a dull groan behind him, and he turned just in time to see the Wolf drop his axe and fall to the earth!

Quick as thought, Du Guesclin clutched the fainting man, and dragged him up by main force on to his own steed; and then he turned so fiercely on his foes that for an instant his single arm checked the whole tide of battle.

“Huon!” he shouted, “stand by me, as thou art true knight and Christian man.”

Huon answered nobly to the call, striking right and left with the force of a giant, and never once in vain. But the English closed sternly round them, and all seemed over with the gallant pair, when the fortune of this strange fight turned once more.

Till then old De Penhoën had warily kept the rest of his men well in hand; but now he flung caution to the winds, and, hastily mustering every soldier within the walls, burst forth like a whirlwind on the disordered English just as they thought the victory won!

In a moment the ring of savage faces and cruel spears that shut in Du Guesclin and Huon melted away like a dream, and a gruff voice said behind them—

“Cheer up, good Sir Bertrand; thou hast stood at bay like a stag of ten, and yon English wolves shall not have thee!”

In fact, this sudden charge of fresh men on wearied ones decided the battle. Confounded by so many successive attacks, the English thought themselves assailed by a new army, and gave way once more; and ere they could rally again, the work was done.

Already the precious store-waggons (in one of which Bertrand had gently laid the helpless Wolf) were close to the open gate—and now the foremost was actually within it—and now, amid the whiz of crossbow-bolts from the walls and the hiss of arrows from the plain, the triumphant cheers of the garrison and the savage cries of the baffled pursuers, the heroes of this marvellous feat struggled wearily into the sheltering town, and the gate clanged behind them.

“Spare our lives, noble sir! We have lost all else that we had in the world!” cried one of the peasant waggon-drivers, as he and the others threw themselves at Du Guesclin’s feet.

“Why, how now, lads?” cried Bertrand, with that blunt, hearty frankness that always made him popular with the common people. “Ye are Bretons, like me, and why should I be wroth with my own folk? If, as ye say, ye have lost all, it fits me better to aid than to punish you. What have ye done amiss?”

“We drove these waggons to the English camp; but what could we do? The spear was at our throats! Leave us our lives, noble knight; we have nought else to lose!”

“As God hears me, who hath delivered me this night,” said the hero, solemnly, “not a hair of your heads shall be touched, and all ye have lost shall be made good, if it cost me my last crown. While Bertrand du Guesclin hath a coin in his purse, any man that is poor and needy is welcome to share it!”

The poor peasants kissed his hands with broken thanks, and the rough soldiers around set up a cheer that made the air ring.

When day dawned on that wild scene, it revealed a sight at which the oldest English veteran stood aghast. Half the camp lay in ashes, blotting the clear sky with its smoke. The military engines, constructed with so much labour and cost, were shattered and useless. Hundreds of the duke’s best men had fallen, and so many horses were carried off or disabled that half his knights were dismounted; and, worse than all, of the supplies brought in at such cost of toil and blood, not a morsel was left.

But, furious as the great general was to see the labours of months destroyed in a night, and all his hopes of winning the town blasted in the very moment of success, the uppermost feeling in his brave English heart was an honest, manly admiration of the gallant foe whose skill and courage had triumphed over his utmost efforts; and that admiration rose higher still when some English soldiers, who had been shut into the town with the Bretons on the previous night, and dismissed unharmed at dawn by Bertrand himself, came back with the news of his kindness to the peasants.

“So help me St. George!” cried the duke, “since lance was first lifted in this land, there hath been no such gentle and perfect knight as this same Du Guesclin, and gladly would I tell him so myself. Ho there! let my herald presently go up to the town with trumpet-sound and banner displayed, and say to Messire Bertrand du Guesclin that John of Gaunt prays him to grace our board with his presence this day as a right welcome and honoured guest.”