CHAPTER XXXII

News of an Old Friend

Years rolled by, and brought many startling changes.

The Black Prince slept his last sleep in a stately tomb beneath the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral. His terrible father, Edward III., had followed him to the grave, leaving all his mighty schemes of conquest to come to nought. Sir John Chandos had died in battle, as he had always hoped to do; and many another great captain was missing from the ranks of English chivalry. Meanwhile Archbishop William de Wykeham, best and kindliest of scholars and Churchmen, was leaving a more enduring monument than all their blood-won honours, by planting at Winchester the germ of one of England’s noblest schools.

The English crown had passed to the weak and worthless Richard II., in whose early years the whole land was shaken by the terrible convulsion of “Wat Tyler’s Rising.” Of this despairing effort of the downtrodden people to obtain the right to be treated as human beings, the greatest historian of the age coolly wrote: “There happened in England great commotion among the lower ranks of the people, by which England was near ruined without resource, and all through the too great comfort of the commonalty”! What that “too great comfort” was any man who can bear to read “The Vision of Piers Plowman” (written by one who had himself seen all the horrors he described) may judge for himself.

Meanwhile Du Guesclin had found his right place at last. The poor Breton knight who had been the scoff of his own kindred now held the sword of “Constable” (commander-in-chief) of all the armies of France, and was the chosen friend and adviser of a king worthy of him, Charles the Wise.

But only the faint echoes of these great events reached Alured and Hugo de Claremont in their quiet Hampshire home, where they were busied with the welfare of their vassals instead of seeking renown for themselves. Every day the brothers held open court in their hall, and any of their tenants who had a complaint to make, however slight, was sure of a patient hearing and a just award, in the true spirit of the grand old text carved over the door by which the suppliants entered—

“He shall deliver the needy when he crieth, the poor also, and him that hath no helper.”

In fact, the bitter suffering they had themselves endured had taught the two brave men to feel for others, and all their vassals had learned to look up to them, not with awe, but with trustful affection. Was there a family in distress, their eyes turned at once to the castle. Did two neighbours have a dispute which they could not settle, their first thought was to appeal to the decision of their lords. Did strife arise between two hot-headed lads, Alured or Hugo was sure to hear of it, and to blow it away with some hearty jest that set both quarrellers laughing at their own folly. Was a school to be founded, a church built, a poverty-stricken hamlet relieved, a house of refuge established for worn-out labourers or disabled soldiers, who so forward as the “good lords of Claremont”?

So year after year glided by, and the slim youths were now two stately men of middle age.

It was the morning of Christmas Day, 1379, and the lords of Claremont, having attended prayers as usual in the quiet old village church (the chancel of which held the sculptured tombs of their father and his ancestors), were feasting in their castle-hall on boar’s head, venison pasty, roast goose, and other dainties of the season, a goodly portion of which had been sent to every house in the village.

The mirth was at its height, when a trumpet-blast rang from the outer gate, and a serving-man came to report that a knight of Brittany craved lodging for himself and his train, whose name was Sir Olivier de Clisson.

“De Clisson!” echoed Hugo. “Hearest thou, Alured? He was our comrade in many a fray ere he turned to the French party on some displeasure done him by old John of Chandos.”

“Ay, truly; and mayhap he can give us tidings of Du Guesclin, for they be countrymen and friends. Admit him forthwith; he is right welcome.”

A heavy step came clanging up the stair, and in the doorway stood the towering form of the best knight in Brittany after Du Guesclin himself.

His iron face bore no sign of age, though years had passed since they last beheld it, but a few scars were added to those that had seamed it before, and its grimness was deepened by the empty socket of the eye that he had lost at Auray, when still fighting in the ranks of England.

His change to the French side, however, made no difference in the welcome given him by his old friends; for in that age the knights of Brittany, Guienne, and Gascony changed sides so often that neither they nor those whose side they deserted thought anything about it.

“Welcome, brave De Clisson!” cried Alured, coming forward with extended hands. “What happy chance brings thee just in time to share our Christmas cheer?”

“I had an errand to your king from my liege lord the King of France” (the famous Breton seemed quite to forget how lately he had been fighting against his “liege lord” with all his might), “and, being once over the narrow seas, I was loth to repass them without visiting what few of my old brothers-in-arms war and time have left me in this land.”

“Be assured, not one of them is more pleased at thy coming than we, good Sir Olivier,” said Hugo, heartily. “Our seneschal shall marshal thee forthwith to thy chamber, and the feast shall wait thy coming again.”

De Clisson did not make it wait long, being hungry after his ride, and, in any case, the rough soldier was not one to waste much time in personal adornment. He was soon seated at the board, and in a full tide of gossip on the stirring events he had lately witnessed, in which Du Guesclin’s name came up again and again.

No one, in fact, could better speak on this point than he, having borne a leading part in the marvellous victories by which Bertrand, as Constable of France, had won back from the English the provinces of Saintonge and Poitou, and most of Brittany as well; and Clisson had fought side by side with his great countryman as stoutly as he had fought against him a few years before.

“Our Bertrand’s name is now on the lips of every man in France,” said he with a heartiness which showed that envy, at least, was not among his many vices; “and the minstrels have made a romaunt concerning him and his lady, which men call ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ that tells how a fair damsel consented to wed a monster that dwelt all alone in an enchanted castle, and thereby she brake the spell that bound him, and he was changed to as goodly a prince as lady’s eye could rest on. Marry, ’twere beyond the power of magic,” added he, with a hoarse laugh, “to do as much for our Bertrand!”

“Might such a thing be, the Lady Tiphaine were the very dame to do it,” cried Alured. “I trust the noble lady lives and thrives?”

“Alas, no!” said Clisson, with a passing cloud on his rugged face. “She died some years agone, and it well-nigh brake Bertrand’s heart; but men say that at the last she foretold to him that he should follow her ere long, and that comforted him somewhat.”

Once launched on this favourite topic, Olivier poured forth all his enthusiasm for his chosen hero.

“It seems but yester-eve that our Bertrand was in prison at Bordeaux after the fight of Navaretta; and when there was question of his ransom, the Black Prince sent me and Sir Eustace d’Ambreticourt to bring Bertrand to his presence, for to speak with him thereon. And when we came to the prison, lo! there sat Bertrand amid the gaoler’s children, with a chubby boy on each knee, and on his shoulder a little lass of three years old, plucking at his black beard with a hand no bigger than an oak-leaf, and chirruping to him like any bird! Then laughed Sir Eustace (he was ever a merry man) and thus he spake: ‘So help me St. Michael, men call Sir Bertrand the terror of the English, but methinks here be some English who fear him not a whit!’”

“It was ever his wont,” said Alured, “to be debonair to children and ladies, though no man may abide his stroke. Men say that when he was ransomed yon time thou speak’st of, he got back to his home like a beggar, having given all he had to certain poor folk that he met wandering on the highway in distress.”

“And they say truth; our Bertrand had ever an open hand and kind heart, and therefore is he loved of the poor. Marry, ’twas a sight to see how all Paris was moved when he rode into it on the day when the king made him Constable of France!”

“Thou sawest it thyself, then?” cried both brothers at once.

“That did I, and I would not have missed the sight for a thousand crowns. Into the town rode Bertrand, plainly habited as a simple burgher, with but one follower at his back. But, even in such guise, the people knew him—in truth, his face is not to be lightly forgotten—and out into the streets they swarmed by hundreds and by thousands, shouting till the air rang, ‘Long live our Bertrand! To Bertrand the Constable’s sword! None else is so worthy of it!’”

“There they spake but truth,” said Alured, with sparkling eyes.

“But not so thought Bertrand himself; for on the morrow, when the king proffered him the Constable’s sword before the whole court, he drew back abashed, and said, ‘Dear lord and noble king, it fits me not to gainsay your pleasure; but this is too much honour for a poor knight like me, since there be many in your realm far more worthy of it. Moreover, in the hosts of France fight many of your kin, yea, and your own brothers. How should I, a simple Breton knight, lay my commands on them as on my soldiers? I pray you, my good lord, give so great a charge to some better man.’

“Then the king’s face lighted up so as ’twas a pleasure to see; and he said right heartily, ‘Thou art as modest as valiant, Sir Bertrand, but in this matter I may not yield to thee. Better man could I find none, were I to search all Christendom; and as for these my brothers and kinsmen of whom thou speak’st, let any man of them dare to dispute thy commands, and I will so deal with him that he shall never offend in such wise again. Take thine office, then, and defend this realm as God hath sent thee to do.’ Thus was Bertrand in some sort enforced to take the office, whether he would or no; and small need have I to tell ye if he hath shown himself worthy of it.”

“I have ever heard,” said Hugo, “that he is in high favour with the king; and it speaketh well for King Charles that he can so bestow his favour.”

“Nathless there have been rubs between them,” said Olivier, with a broad grin. “I was myself in presence, when, but a few months later, Bertrand spake to him, before all his court, such words as a king’s ears have seldom heard.”

“Ay, how chanced that?”

“Marry, thus. When winter came, and the war was stayed a while, certain ill counsellors persuaded King Charles (who was too wise to have done such folly himself) that it behoved him to hold fast what money he had, and give nothing out; so, when Bertrand sent to ask the pay due to his soldiers, he gat no answer but this, that it was not convenient to send it at that time.

“Men say who saw it, that his face was like a flaming fire; and he rent the letter in pieces, and stamped on them; and then he shouted for his horse, and away he flew to Paris, and burst into the king’s presence as if entering a stormed castle. When the king saw him come he changed countenance somewhat, and went hastily to meet him, saying smoothly, ‘Welcome, my trusty Sir Bertrand; thou knowest how highly I prize thee.’

“‘Thou say’st it, lord king, but I see not the proof thereof,’ quoth Bertrand, grimly. ‘Where is the pay promised to my soldiers, who have fought thy battles all this year?’

“Then the king cast down his eyes; for Bertrand’s look was such as no man would have cared to meet—no, not I myself.

“‘Be not moved, I pray, good Bertrand; thou knowest my coffers are well-nigh drained, and I cannot fill them again without laying heavy taxes on my people, which I am loth to do; but if thou wilt have patience——’

“‘Patience?’ cried Bertrand, in a voice like the thunder of heaven. ‘What patience, when the men who have fought by my side are hungry and cold, and look in vain to me for their due? If they cannot be paid without laying on of taxes, lay them not on thy poor people, but on thy fat abbots and sleek bishops, and these soft courtiers who flaunt in silk and velvet while the men who defend them go starving and in rags! Paid shall my men be from the rents of mine own lands and castles, since their king grudgeth them what he oweth; and, for my office, let him take it who will, for I will bear it no longer!’

“And he flung his sword of state at the king’s feet, with a clang that made all men start.”

“Well done, well done!” cried Alured, clapping his hands in glee.

“And what said the king?” asked Hugo, who had listened with equal delight.

“What he said I know not, for he went hastily forth of the chamber; this I know, that Bertrand’s men were paid to the last franc ere the month ended, and that he beareth the Constable’s sword still.”

“And how fares he now?” asked Alured, eagerly.

“Ill enow,” said Clisson, shaking his head. “This past year he was taken with a sore sickness, which left him exceeding weak; and the physicians say that if he take not the better care, he must ere long give up his office to another.”

The brothers exchanged a meaning glance.

“Thou art right, Hugo,” said Alured, answering his brother’s look as if he had spoken; “we must see him once more.”

And the end of that winter found them crossing the sea to do so.