CHAPTER VIII

Lance to Lance

It was a bright, warm, cloudless morning in the summer of 1337, and along the dusty high-roads of Brittany crowds of people were pouring toward Rennes from every side; for a great tournament was about to be held near the town, and at that period such displays aroused the same universal excitement, and drew together the same multitudes as a race-meeting of our own day.

The spot chosen for the scene of action was a wide sweep of grassy turf two or three miles from the town; and the motley crowds which thronged thither were quite as picturesque, in their way, as the pageant that they were hurrying to behold. Knights in full armour, all on fire to reach the spot where they hoped to win renown; richly dressed ladies, caracoling on costly Spanish jennets; local dignitaries in furred mantles, with gold chains round their necks; plainly garbed traders, looking quite homely amid the plumes and embroidery around them—for the laws of that age strictly forbade any man who was not of knightly rank to copy the finery of the nobles; brisk, merry-eyed ’prentice-lads from the town, delighted with all this noise and bustle; and sturdy, shaggy-haired, hard-faced Breton peasants, in the broad slouched hat and knickerbocker-like “bragous,” or knee-breeches, which have come down unchanged to our own time in that primitive region. And ever and anon came cleaving through the press, like a three-decker through a swarm of fishing-boats, the train of some great noble, whose men-at-arms kept shouting their master’s name, and making way for him by thrusting aside the crowd with their horses, and letting fall their spear-shafts pretty smartly on the shoulders of such as were slow to give place.

Conspicuous among the gentlemen present was old Sir Yvon du Guesclin, who received many a courteous greeting as he passed; for though some men affected to look down upon him on account of his poverty, he was highly esteemed by others for his ancient descent and former renown in arms. In truth, the old knight’s erect and commanding air, and the challenging glances of the three stalwart nephews who rode beside him, were an ample warning, even to such as liked him least, that to slight him to his face would be no safe undertaking.

Poor Bertrand had been left at home as usual, his uncompromising father declaring, with more truth than politeness, that he would be no ornament to a knightly circle. But, strangely enough, this open affront, so far from angering the high-spirited youth, seemed rather to amuse him. He watched his father’s train ride forth with such a smile of mischievous glee as might be worn by a schoolboy when planning some daring practical joke; and hardly had the last man-at-arms vanished among the trees, when our hero ordered out an old war-horse of his father’s, and set off not to the scene of the tournament, but toward the castle of his friend the Sire de Tinteniac.

The wooden galleries erected for the spectators of rank filled apace, and ere long the whole circle was one great flower-bed of rich dresses, comely faces, and fluttering ribbons and plumes, while the plainer garb of the burghers and peasants below bordered like a dark hedge this fair garden of beauty and splendour; and the glitter of so many polished helmets and bright lance-points in the cloudless sunshine, together with the scores of gallant steeds that were prancing and snorting beneath their mailed riders, made a goodly show.

High in the front of the chief gallery, with his banner waving over him, sat the Duke of Brittany himself, John III., with his duchess beside him. His fine face looked bright and animated by the enjoyment of this martial pageant; but a keen observer might already have noted there the growing weakness that was to end in his death four years later, and to kindle between the rival claimants of the disputed succession one of the bloodiest wars of that stormy age.

All was now ready for the sports, the arrangement being that the tilters should encounter each other in pairs till all had run one course apiece, and that the winners should then dispute the prize among them till only one was left unconquered, to whom the honours of the day should be awarded. Duke John gave the signal, and instantly the first pair of combatants rushed upon one another.

Tramp, tramp, crash! and down went the first man, rolling over and over amid a cloud of dust. Tramp, tramp, crash, again; and down rolled the winner in turn, horse and man falling together. Thus course after course was run, while the loud applause of the spectators mingled with the crash of breaking lance-shafts, the clang of steel, and the fierce snorting and neighing of the war-horses.

Peasants below and ladies above alike watched the combat with the keenest enjoyment, which derived much of its zest from the fact that the tilters, instead of using what were called “arms of courtesy” (pointless or blunted lances) met each other with the sharp spears used in actual war. When three or four of the overthrown champions were found to be so badly hurt that they had to be carried from the lists, the general delight naturally rose to a height, as was usual at a time when a tournament, in which four knights were killed outright and thirty more so desperately wounded that many of them never recovered, was always spoken of as “a gentle and joyous passage of arms”!

Sir Yvon du Guesclin himself, being out of health just then, had been persuaded by his lady to refrain, for once, from the bone-breaking pastime that he loved so well; but his place was well filled by his three athletic nephews, who, young as they were, were already famed for miles round as among the best lances of Brittany. All three had gallantly done their part in the conflict, overthrowing all who faced them; and the third opponent of Alain, the eldest (though a knight of proved skill and prowess), was hurled to the earth with such force that his shoulder was dislocated by the shock.

Having achieved this crowning feat, the young Hercules rode twice round the lists with all his wonted arrogance, saluting the duke and duchess and other titled spectators with the air of one who thought himself as good as any of them.

Well might he be so proudly exultant, for only four knights were now left in the lists to encounter him and his two brothers, and the prize seemed already within his grasp.

But few wiser sayings have ever been uttered than the good old proverb which warns men against counting their chickens before they are hatched; and an obstacle of which he little dreamed lay between the young swaggerer and the distinction that he so boastfully accounted his own. Just as he turned to ride back to the end of the lists for what he expected to be his final course, the day’s programme was suddenly disturbed by a startling and unlooked-for interruption.

From the far end of the wide meadow in which the lists had been set came clearly through the still air the sound of a trumpet, waking all the echoes with a ringing blast of defiance.

All eyes were instantly turned with eager curiosity in the direction of a sound betokening the coming of some new champion to take part in the contest, and in another moment a horseman in full armour, with the visor of his helmet closed, was seen making his way slowly through the crowd, which opened, as if by word of command, to give him passage.

The new-comer was alone, save for the single attendant who had sounded the trumpet; and he, in direct contradiction of established usage, wore no blazonry or distinguishing badge of any kind, being simply clad in a long grey mantle, with an overlapping hood that hid his face.

But, strange as was the appearance of the servant, that of the master was stranger still.

He was short of stature, but his massive build and vast shoulder-breadth gave a promise of surpassing strength, amply borne out by the unusual weight of the shield and lance that he carried. The shield itself was wholly blank, having neither device nor motto. The stranger’s armour was black as night from head to heel, as was also the horse that he rode; and, with his barred visor and sombre panoply, there was in his whole aspect something so gloomy, grim, and almost unearthly, that a thrill of superstitious awe pulsed through the gazing crowd, and reached even the more exalted spectators around the duke’s throne.

The unknown warrior never uttered a word, and this ominous silence added to the chilling effect of his sudden and gloomy apparition. But his attendant blew a second blast, and proclaimed aloud that his master had made a vow to St. Yves of Brittany to keep the lists that day against all comers, and craved permission of the most high and mighty Duke John to discharge his vow.

Such vows, and others more irrational still, were too common in that age of chivalrous extravagance to surprise any one, and the duke at once assented, though secretly convinced that this bold stranger had little chance of holding his own against seven of the best knights in Brittany.

But not so thought the most experienced judges present. Apart from the stranger’s show of vast bodily strength, the skill with which he handled lance and horse argued no ordinary power of managing both, and a dead hush of expectation sank over the whole multitude as the unknown was seen to take his place in the lists.

He was instantly confronted by one of the four knights who were about to encounter the St. Yvon brothers, and the two hurtled together in the midst of the open space with the rush of two conflicting whirlwinds.

The unknown staggered slightly, and his steed was thrown back on its haunches; but his opponent was hurled from his seat like a stone from a sling, with a crash that echoed all round the lists.

A second and a third knight rode out to meet this terrible jouster, only to share the same fate; but the fourth was a more formidable champion—no other than Olivier de Clisson, whose name in after-years won a dreadful pre-eminence in the wars of that grim period as one equally without fear, without faith, and without mercy.

De Clisson was already famed as one of the most redoubtable jousters of Brittany, and when he was seen to ride forth against the nameless cavalier, every one expected to see the latter go down like a ninepin.

The crash of their meeting was like the rending of an oak, and for a moment it seemed as if both had fallen, for each man bent backward till he all but touched the flanks of his horse; but both instantly recovered themselves, and, wheeling their steeds, rode back to their places, and took fresh lances for a second course.

The burst of applause with which the spectators hailed this well-contested encounter was plainly given more to the unknown than to Clisson; for, having fully expected to see the former fall before Olivier’s charge, their admiration was all the greater for the strength and skill with which he had foiled it.

De Clisson, already chafed by this unexpected check from a nameless opponent, was so enraged at the clamorous applause which greeted it, that he lost all his coolness just when it was most needed, and gave the stranger an advantage which the latter was not slow to use. A quick movement of his shield dexterously turned aside the terrific shock of the Breton’s lance, while his own, striking Olivier full on the breast, bore him fairly backward to the ground.

This time the lookers-on were too much amazed to utter their wonted shout; but Clisson’s men-at-arms were heard to mutter hoarsely to each other—

“This champion must be the Evil One himself; for since he first couched lance, our young lord hath never been overthrown by mortal man.”

Only the three St. Yvon brothers were now left to dispute the prize with this unknown warrior; and they might have been expected to consider that a jouster who had overthrown De Clisson himself would be a match for the best of them. But their defiant bearing showed that even this formidable proof of the stranger’s prowess had not shaken their swaggering self-confidence; and, as if in sheer bravado, the first who came forth to meet the Black Champion was Huon, the youngest and least powerful of the three.

The unknown himself evidently felt this slight, for his gauntleted hand clenched itself as if it would crush the strong metal to powder, and the way in which he settled in his saddle told that he meant to make himself felt in earnest.

Both lances flew crashing into a thousand splinters; but through the whirling dust of the charge Huon’s helmet was seen to fly from his head high into the air, and he himself, after swaying dizzily to and fro for an instant, sank helplessly from his saddle to the earth.

Raoul growled a curse through his barred helmet, and pressed forward to avenge his fallen brother; but the terrible challenger (who seemed to gather fresh strength from every new course) met him with so fierce a shock that it smote down horse and man.

Alain, the eldest, was now left alone, and between him and the Black Champion lay the honour of the day.

As the unknown took his place for this final combat it was noticed that he bent his head forward, and seemed to look keenly at his opponent through the bars of his visor, like an eagle fixing its eye on the prey on which it is about to swoop; and all who saw the gesture judged that it boded no good to the swaggering Alain.

Nor were they mistaken. The two closed with the shock of a thunderbolt, and when the dust rolled away Alain was seen stretched on the earth, groaning feebly—as he well might, for the fall had broken his collar-bone and two of his ribs!

The general shout which greeted his overthrow told that, in the judgment of the spectators, the young braggart had got no more than his due. But as the applause died away, from one of the galleries came a deep, strong voice, that of Sir Yvon du Guesclin—

“Ho, there! bring forth my war-horse quickly. I will try the mettle of this gay spark who hath overthrown my nephews.”

Despite the entreaties of his lady, the hardy old knight was already on his feet to make good his words, when the unknown warrior (who still sat erect in his saddle, waiting to see if any new foe would confront him) lowered his lance to him in courteous salute.

“Honoured sir,” said he, speaking for the first time, “for all others I have the lance of a warrior; for thee I have but the reverence of a son!”

And, opening his visor, he revealed to the thunder-struck father the harsh features of his despised son, Bertrand du Guesclin!

To paint the feelings of the beaten Raoul and Huon at this disclosure (Alain being luckily insensible) would be a hopeless task; for the one thing needed to make the shame of this public defeat unbearable was the discovery that it had been inflicted by their scorned cousin, “Ugly Bertrand.”

But the lookers-on, whose enthusiasm had been wrought up to the highest point by the various turns of this strange scene, greeted its dramatic close with cheers that made the air ring, and brought a flush of joy to Bertrand’s swarthy cheek. It was the first recognition of his real value that he had ever had—the first homage paid by the world to a name which was hereafter to fill all Europe with its renown, and to live as long as history itself.

Meanwhile Sir Yvon, having greeted his conquering son with a joyful hug that made every rivet of his armour crackle, led him up to the principal gallery, and, kneeling on one knee, presented him to the Duke and Duchess of Brittany.

“I give thee joy of him,” said the childless sovereign, with a faint sigh. “I would I had such a son to succeed me. Thine is the prize, valiant youth; and my lady shall bind her own favour on thy crest, in token that thou art a true son of our native Brittany.”

“Nay, I claim no prize from your highness,” said Bertrand, with his usual bluntness. “What I did was for honour alone; and all I ask is your highness’s pardon for having presumed to joust at sharp spears with knights, being as yet no knight myself.”

“Nay, if that be all that is amiss, ’tis soon mended,” said Duke John, kindly. “Kneel, brave youth, and take the stroke of knighthood from my hand.”

“From a more honourable hand I could never take it, noble duke,” said the young hero, bowing low; “but, I pray you, let not Bertrand du Guesclin be called a knight of the tilt-yard for accepting, without having seen a stricken field, an honour that most men win with hard blows and much peril.”

“Well spoken!” cried the duke, pleased with a chivalrous scruple so fully in the spirit of the age. “Take my sword at least, young sir. I warrant it will not be long idle in hands like thine!”

John III. spoke more truly than he could himself foresee. Even while he was speaking, King Edward’s messengers were bearing over the sea their master’s defiance to Philip of France, and the “Hundred Years’ War” had begun.

“Thou art indeed my true son and heir,” said the exultant Sire du Guesclin, again embracing his victorious son; “and now can I well believe yon prophecy that thou should’st be the glory of our house and of the whole realm of France, and that thy name should live in story while one stone of our castle stands on another.”[1]

The term thus specified was fated to be much shorter than good Sir Yvon’s feudal pride would have thought possible. The traveller who now flies in one day from Paris to the heart of Brittany on the wings of a smoke-breathing dragon, of which the fourteenth century never dreamed, sees near the railway-station of Broons no vestige of the birthplace of Brittany’s greatest champion; and, but for the monument with which Breton patriotism has marked the spot, might let it pass unnoticed and unknown.

Footnote 1:

The resemblance between this authentic exploit of our hero and the famous tournament scene in “Ivanhoe” (which it may perhaps have suggested) is too obvious to need pointing out.