CHAPTER VII

A Strange Tale

“Raise thy lance-point a thought higher, lad; ay, so. Now put thy steed to his full career, but see thou keep him well in hand. Now wheel him—so, deftly done! Yet a few months’ training, and, though thou hast but sixteen years, and needest no barber, I trow thy gay cousins will find thee their match, boast as they may.”

The speaker was Sir Godefroi de Tinteniac, a near neighbour of the Sire du Guesclin; and the lad whom he was training to manage horse and lance on a wide sweep of greensward a few miles from Rennes, was Bertrand du Guesclin himself.

“Think you, then, noble sir,” said Bertrand, with sparkling eyes, “that, with the aid of your kind teaching, I may yet make some figure in the ranks of chivalry?”

“That thou wilt, and no mean figure either, if I know aught of men,” said the old knight, heartily. “I ever said thy kinsfolk did ill to leave thee thus untaught, and to gloom upon thee because thou hast not the smooth face of my lady’s page, nor the dainty shape of a court-minion. Marry, if it were sin to be hard-favoured, what of me?”

Bertrand could not repress a smile as he glanced at the veteran warrior’s grim visage (which, thanks to the countless scars that seamed it, was almost as ugly as his own), and Sir Godefroi smiled good-humouredly in his turn.

“Thou seest they lie not who call me ‘The Grim Knight,’” said the old gentleman, with a hoarse chuckle. “Hark ye, my son; how if I appoint myself thy godfather, and dub thee the Grim Knight after myself? A good knight may be grim, thou know’st, in the eyes of foes as well as friends; and I warrant thou wilt not shame the title.”

“Gramercy for your courtesy, kind sir,” said Du Guesclin, with characteristic modesty, “but ’tis overmuch for one who hath never done any deed of arms. Wait but till I have proved my manhood, and then will I be prouder to be your godson, than if men should crown me King of France!”

“So be it; and methinks I shall not wait long. But who comes here in such hot haste?”

Two men were seen galloping toward them, the foremost of whom, as he came nearer, proved to be one of Tinteniac’s own followers, seemingly acting as guide to a tall, soldier-like man-at-arms, in a steel cap and leathern “jack,” quilted with lozenge-shaped scales of iron, on a strong black horse.

“Here is one with a letter and token, an’t please your worship,” said the retainer, “which he is charged to give into no hand but your own.”

The letter was mere Greek to Sir Godefroi, who, like most gentlemen of his time, could neither read nor write, and was vastly proud of the fact. But the token (a small ruby ring) seemed to have a special importance of its own, for hardly had he looked at it, when he said hastily to Bertrand—

“Think me not uncourteous, I pray, if I leave thee somewhat suddenly, for this matter must be dealt with straightway. Follow me to the castle, good fellow,” added he to the messenger, “and when thou hast had food and rest, thou shalt bear back mine answer.”

Away he dashed, attended by his own follower, while Du Guesclin and the messenger came after them at an easier pace.

“Thou art well mounted, friend,” said Bertrand, eyeing the man’s splendid horse admiringly. “Hast ridden him far to-day?”

“From Chateau Raguenel, my lord, since I broke my fast; and he hath borne me well, too, for, having charge to make speed, I let not grass grow under his hoofs, I trow.”

“Chateau Raguenel!” cried the boy. “A good ride, in sooth! and, as thou say’st, he hath borne thee well, for few steeds would have carried a man of thy inches so far, and shown as smooth a coat when ’twas over.”

He patted the gallant beast’s smooth, shining neck; and it pricked its ears at the caress, and rubbed its velvety muzzle against his shoulder.

“Now I bethink me,” resumed Bertrand, “is not the Sire de Raguenel he who hath a daughter that is a fairy?”

“Say rather a saint,” cried the man-at-arms warmly; “for, were the Lady Epiphanie to be taken up to heaven this very day, like the blessed St. Eloi (Elijah) of old, the angels would find little to mend in her, to fit her for their company!”

“I meant no slur on the lady—Heaven forbid!” said Du Guesclin, quickly. “But methinks I have heard men call her ‘Tiphaine la Fée’.”

“It may not be denied that she has strange power, though she has ever used it for good,” replied the spearman, sinking his voice to an impressive whisper. “Without doubt she can read the future as I would the face of the sky; and there is such might in her lightest word that none may say her nay. In truth, had she not had power to make me break a vow that I had made (and that, too, when she was but a child) by this time my body had been feeding the ravens on a gallows-tree, and my soul in a worse place still.”

“Say’st thou so?” cried Bertrand, eyeing him keenly. “Tell me the tale, then, for it must needs be worth hearing.”

The soldier, visibly pleased at finding so attentive a listener to a story that he was evidently burning to tell, began as follows—

“I am of Normandy, noble sir, and it fared with me as with other peasants of those parts; all alike were crushed and trampled down by the oppression of our master. Count me not, I pray, as one who loves to speak ill of dignities, for well I wot that men cannot live without seigneurs and nobles, and that a land which lacked them would be as a body without bones; but in our case the old saying was made good, that the shepherd may be worse than the wolf. This man had his cottage burnt down, and that man had his daughter carried off, and the other had his only son hanged for killing a hare in his lord’s woods, to save his old father from dying of hunger; and——”

“Say no more of that, good fellow,” said the young noble, wincing as if in sudden pain. “I know but too well that many of us nobles have sinned grievously against God in such wise as thou sayest; and, for mine own part, I have made a solemn vow that if ever I rule in my father’s stead (long may it be ere that day come!), every vassal of mine shall have as fair play as if he were the Duke of Brittany himself!”

“Now, may God bless you for that word, noble sir!” cried the other, fervently, “and would to Heaven every noble in the land would make the same vow, and keep it. But to my tale. Heavier and heavier waxed our burden, till at last we could bear no more; and we said in our hearts that it was better to die at once and all together, biting and tearing to the last, as dies a wolf at bay, than be destroyed one by one, as a butcher slays sheep. So we forsook our homes, banded ourselves together, and went forth to the wild wood, to live by point of arrow and edge of knife!”

“Thou hast been an outlaw of the forest, then?” said Bertrand, with an interest unalloyed by any tinge of scorn or aversion; for, at a time when every petty baron was himself a robber on a grand scale, the disgrace in such cases lay not in having robbed, but in not having robbed enough.

“Ay, and a captain of outlaws, for I was the leader of our band; and they and I sware a solemn oath never to spare knight or noble who might fall into our hands; and, should we do so, the Evil One should that moment snatch us away.”

“And how fared ye after that?” asked young Du Guesclin, eagerly.

“The ballads and romaunts would have us believe that outlaws live right merrily,” said the ex-bandit, with a bitter smile; “but trust them not. Vengeance we had, indeed, in full measure; but vengeance is as when one eateth snow to slake one’s thirst—it is good for a time, but then is the torment greater than before. And then for pleasure—such pleasure as we had was as when one in mortal pain drowneth his agony for a brief space in strong wine. While we were fighting and plundering and slaying, or rioting and revelling over our booty, we could hold at bay the thoughts which hunted us like bloodhounds day and night; but when the drink had died out of us, and we lay awake beneath the black, whispering trees through the long dark hours of night, beside our dying fire, then was the time when the Wicked One dug his claws into our hearts! And then, with the thought of all that lay behind us, and still more with the thought of all that lay before, ’twas marvel we went not clean distraught!”

Here he paused a moment, as if overcome with the terror of these gloomy recollections, while Bertrand eyed him with a look of heartfelt pity which the rough soldier seemed fully to understand and appreciate.

“One night,” he resumed at length, “we were at the height of our mad revels, shouting and brawling over our liquor, singing ribald songs, and defying Heaven itself with mockery and blasphemy, when all at once there stood in the midst of us, full in the light of the fire—no man could tell whence or how—a little child clothed in white, with long, fair hair, and a face like that of the Holy Child in the great minster-church of Rouen.

“Then we all shrank back affrighted, thinking no less than that this must be our Lord Himself, appearing to us in the same form in which He first came on earth; and all the black deeds we had done rose up at once in our memory, blacker than ever.

“The child came forward as boldly as if it had no fear of our grim faces and bare blades, and, holding out her little hands to us, said pleadingly—

“‘Oh, please come quick to help my father; he is sore hurt!’

“Then I plucked up heart somewhat, seeing that it was but a little maid of mortal mould; and I made shift to ask—

“‘Who is thy father, fair child?’

“‘The Sire Robert de Raguenel,’ she replied.”

“Raguenel!” echoed Du Guesclin. “Then this child was the Demoiselle Tiphaine herself!”

“Even she, and no other. Then she caught my wrist with both her tiny hands, as if to drag me with her by main force, and cried impatiently—

“‘Quick—quick to my father! I have not strength to drag the horse off him myself!’

“We thought of our compact that the Evil One should carry us away if we ever spared knight or noble. We looked at each other, and at the child’s pleading face, and then—we were all hurrying to her father’s aid, one faster than another.”

“Well done! well done!” shouted the boy-noble, excitedly. “And what befell next?”

“We found there an armed knight entangled beneath his steed, and all alone; for, as we learned later, he had outridden his train, and, losing his way in the darkness with but two followers, had got deeper into the wood instead of out. Then his horse, taking fright at the fire-glow and the din of our wild ado, had fallen with him and kept him down, while his two retainers, thinking themselves assailed by the forest-demons, had left their lord and taken flight, like chicken-hearted dastards as they were.”

“So, then,” cried Bertrand, with sparkling eyes, “this child came alone into the midst of a band of armed robbers to seek help for her father! In good truth, ’twas as bold a deed as ever was done!”

“You say sooth, my lord. Braver deed hath no man done—no, not Roland himself! In a trice we got the knight clear of his steed and bore him away, for he was too sore hurt to walk. But there was well-nigh a fight among us who was to carry the child, for every one would be the man to do it. Howbeit, it was at last accorded to me as captain; and when I lifted her in my arms, and felt her tiny hand cling trustfully to my neck, I bethought me how St. Christopher bare the Holy Child in like manner across the flooded river, and, for the first time for many a weary month, I dared to pray.”

Du Guesclin, more moved than he would have cared to own, held out his hand to the ex-robber, who grasped it warmly.

“By good hap the knight had no bones broken, though he was sore bruised; and, there being no doctor within a league, he mended apace, being a strong and likely man, and having the free air of the greenwood to aid him. As for the little demoiselle, she made friends with us straightway, sitting on our knees and taking food from our hands as if she had known us all her life; and ere she had abode three days with us, there was not a man but would gladly have perilled his life to please her; and from brawls and blasphemy and mis-seeming words we refrained as heedfully as had we been before our holy father the pope.

“Now, when the good knight was once more able to sit saddle-fast, he called me unto him, and thus he said—

“‘Good fellow, thou and thy comrades have done me right masterful service, and it is not the wont of Robert de Raguenel to show himself ungrateful. What men ye are I know not, nor care; but if ye be disbanded soldiers in quest of fresh employ’ (and there was a twinkle in his eye as he spake, which showed he knew right well how the case really stood), ‘ye might do worse than take service with me. How say ye?’

“You may think we were not minded to haggle over such an offer; but that all might be done fairly and honestly, I told him of our impious vow, which devoted our lives and souls to the Evil One. But he made light of it, saying that such vows were better broken than kept, and that as Satan had not claimed the forfeit, it was plain that he had no power to do it; and we should all be absolved from our rash oath as soon as we got into Brittany.

“‘Then,’ quoth I, ‘ere we pledge ourselves to be thy men, let yon fair child of thine pray for us to God; for methinks her pure soul is nearer to Him than the holiest monk in Christendom.’

“As I said, so it was done; and when I saw her tiny hands folded, and heard her clear, sweet voice praying for me—for _me_! it was as if a heavy stone were rolled from off my heart.”

He ceased, and both were silent for a while.

“And since that time,” asked Bertrand at last, “thou hast followed De Raguenel’s banner?”

“That have I,” said the Norman, “and follow it I will while I can put foot in stirrup, or take lance in hand.”

“Long may’st thou be able to do both, brave man,” said Du Guesclin, heartily. “But tell me, I pray thee—this Lady Tiphaine, who readeth the future as a pilot reads the stars, hath she ever told aught of thy destiny?”

“She hath, in good sooth, for my lord her father craved it of her; but all she told us thereof was that my life must end on that day when she should meet for the first time the man who was appointed to save her from her greatest peril, and aid France in its sorest need.”

Du Guesclin started visibly, for the words brought back to his mind, suddenly and startlingly as a flash of lightning, his mysterious dream, and the strange prophecies that had preceded it; and for some moments he was silent and thoughtful.

“Said she who the destined man was to be?” he inquired at length. “Some mighty champion, belike?”

“Nay, of that she said nought,” replied the man-at-arms. “She did but tell us that the day of his coming should be the day of my death. And, for mine own part, I am well content with such a bode; for in this I am of the mind of an old hunting-hound—when my teeth fail, and others can do better service to my master and mistress than I can, then ’tis full time that my life should end.”