The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (free books to read .txt) 📕

Yours.'

He Found Him After Some Days' Perilous Prowling Of The Norman March.

Gilles Had Received The Summons Of His Duke To Be _Vi Et Armis_ At

Rouen; A Little Later Gaston Might Have Met Him In The Field Of Broad

Battle, But Such Delay Was Not To His Mind. He Met Him Instead In A

Woodland Glade Near Gisors, Alone (By A Great Chance), Sword On Thigh.

'Beef, Thou Diest,' Said The Béarnais, Peaking His Beard. Gilles Made No

Reply That Can Be Written, For What Letters Can Shape A Norman Grunt?

Perhaps 'Wauch!' Comes Nearest. They Fought On Horseback, With Swords,

From Noon To Sunset, And Having Hacked One Another Out Of The Similitude

Of Men, There Was Nothing Left Them To Do But Swoon Side By Side On The

Sodden Leaves. In The Morning Gaston, Unclogging One Eye, Perceived That

His Enemy Had Gone. 'No Matter,' Said The Spent Hero To Himself. 'I Will

Wait Till He Comes Back, And Have At Him Again.'

He Waited An Unconscionable Time, A Month In Fact, During Which He

Delighted To Watch The Shy Oncoming Of A Northern Spring, So Different

From The Sudden Flooding Of The South. He Found The Wood-Sorrel, He

Measured The Crosiers Of The Brake, And Saw The Blue Mist Of The

Hyacinth Carpet The Glades. All This Charmed Him Quite, Until He

Learned, By Hazard, That The Sieur De Gurdun Was To Be Married To Dame

Jehane Saint-Pol On Palm Sunday In The Church Of Saint Sulpice Of

Gisors. 'God Ha' Mercy!' He Thought, With A Stab At The Heart; 'There Is

Merely Time.' He Rode South On The Wind's Wings.

Long Before The Pink Flush On The Almond Announced The Earth A Bride, On

All Gaulish Roads Had Been Heard The Tramp Of Armed Men, The Ring Of

Steel On Steel. This New War Splintered Gaul. Aquitaine Held For

Richard, Who, Though He Had Quelled And Afterwards Governed That Great

Duchy With An Iron Whip, Had Made Himself Respected There. So The Count

Of Provence Sent Him A Company, The Count Of Toulouse And Dauphin Of

Auvergne Each Brought A Company; From Périgord, From Bertram Count Of

Roussillon, From Béarn, And (For Reasons) From The Wise King Of Navarre,

Came Pikemen And Slingers, And Long-Bowmen, And Knights With Their

Esquires And Banner-Bearers. The Duke Of Burgundy And Count Of Champagne

Came From The East To Fill The Battles Of King Philip; In The West The

Countess Of Brittany Sent About The War-Torch. All The Extremes Of Gaul

Were In Arms Against The Red Old Angevin Who Sat At Her Heart, Who Was

Now Still Snarling In England, And Sending Message After Secret Message

To His Son John. That Same John, Alone In Paris, Headed No Spears,

Partly Because He Had None Of His Own, Partly Because He Dared Not

Declare Himself Openly. He Had Taken A Side, Driven By His Vehement

Brother; For The First Time In His Life He Had Put Pen To Parchment.

God Knew (He Thought) That Was Committal Enough. So He Stayed In Paris,

Shifting His Body About To Get Comfort As The Winds Veered. Nobody

Inquired Of Him, Least Of All His Brother Richard, Who, Beyond Requiring

His Signature, Cared Little What He Did With His Person. This Was

Characteristic Of Richard. He Would Drive A Man Into A High Place And

Then Forget Him. Reminded Of His Neglect, He Would Shrug And Say, 'Yes.

But He Is A Fool.' Insufficient Answer: He Did Not See Or Did Not Choose

To See That There Are Two Sorts Of Fools. Stranded On His Peak, One Man

Might Be Fool Enough To Stop There, Another To Try A Descent. Prince

John (No Fool Either) Was Of This Second Quality. How He Tried To Get

Down, And Where Else He Tried To Go, Will Be Made Clear In Time. You And

I Must Go To The War In The West.

War Showed Count Richard Entered Into His Birthright. As A Strategist He

Was Superb, The Best Of His Time. What His Eye Took In His Mind Snapped

Up--Like A Steel Gin. And His Eye Was The True Soldier's Eye,

Comprehending By Signs, Investing With Life What Was Tongueless Else.

Over Great Stretches Of Barren Country--That Limitless Land Of

France--He Could See Massed Men On The Move; Creeping Forward In Snaky

Columns, Spread Fanwise From Clump To Woody Clump; Here Camping Snugly

Under The Hill, There Lining The River Bluffs With Winged Death; Checked

Here, Helped There By A Moraine--As Well As You Or I May Foresee The

Conduct Of A Chess-Board. He Omitted Nothing, Judged Times And Seasons,

Reckoned Defences At Their Worth, Knew All The Fordable Places By The

Lie Of The Land, Timed Cavalry And Infantry To Rendezvous, Forestalled

Communications, Provided Not Only For His Own Base, But Against The

Enemy's. All This, Of Course, Without Maps, And Very Much Against The

Systems Of His Neighbours. It Was Thus He Had Outwitted The Heady Barons

Of Aquitaine When Little More Than A Lad, And Had Turned The Hill Forts

Into Death-Traps Against Their Tenants. He Had The Secret Of Swift

Marching By Night, Of Delivering Assault Upon Assault, So That While You

Staggered Under One Blow You Received Another Full. He Could Be As

Patient As Death, That Inchmeal Stalker Of His Prey; He Could Be As

Ruthless As The Sea, And Incredibly Generous Upon Occasion. To The Men

He Led He Was A Father, Known And Beloved As Such; It Was As A Ruler

They Found Him Too Lonely To Be Loved. In War He Was The Very Footboy's

Friend. Personally, When The Battles Joined, He Was Rash To A Fault; But

So Blithe, So Ready, And So Gracefully Strong, That To Think Of Wounds

Upon So Bright A Surface Was An Impiety. No One Did Think Of Them: He

Seemed To Play With Danger As A Cat With Whirling Leaves. 'I Have Seen

Him,' Milo Writes Somewhere, 'Ride Into A Serry Of Knights, Singing,

Throwing Up And Catching Again His Great Sword Gaynpayn; Then, All Of A

Sudden, Stiffen As With A Gush Of Sap In His Veins, Dart His Head

Forward, Gather His Horse Together Under Him, And Fling Into The Midst

Of Them Like A Tiger Into A Herd Of Bulls. One Saw Nothing But Tossing

Steel; Yet Richard Ever Emerged, Red But Scatheless, On The Further

Side.

Upon This Man The Brunt Of War Fell Naturally: Having Begun, He Did Not

Hold His Hand. By The Beginning Of February He Had Laid His Plans, By

The End Of It He Had Taken Saumur, Cut Angers Off From Tours, And Turned

All The Valley Of The Loire Into A Scorched Cinder-Bed. In The Early

Days Of March He Sat Down Before Tours With His Siege-Engines,

Petraries, Mangonels, And Towers, And Daily Battered At The Walls, With

Intent To Reduce It Before The War Was Really Afloat. The City Of Saint

Martin Was Doomed; No Help From Anjou Could Save It, For None Could Come

That Way. Meantime The King His Father Had Landed At Honfleur, Assembled

His Normans At Rouen, And Was Working His Way Warily Down Through The

Duchy, Feeling For The French On His Left, And For The Bretons On His

Right. He Never Found The French; They Were Far South Of Him, Pushing

Through Orleans To Join Richard At Le Mans. But The Countess Of

Brittany's Men, Under Hugh Of Dinan, Were Sacking Avranches When Old

Henry Heard The Bad News From Touraine. That Country And Maine Were As

The Apple Of His Eye; Yet He Dared Not Leave Avranches Fated Behind Him.

All He Could Do Was To Send William The Marshal With A Small Force Into

Anjou, While He Himself Spread Out Westward To Give Hugh Of Dinan Battle

And Save Avranches, If That Might Be. So It Was That King Philip Slipped

In Between Him And Le Mans. By This Time Richard Was Master Of Tours,

And Himself On The Way To Le Mans, Nosing The Air For William The

Marshal. This Was In The Beginning Of April. Then On One And The Same

Day He Risked All He Had Won For The Sake Of A Girl's Proud Face, And

Nearly Lost His Life Into The Bargain.

He Had To Cross The River Aune Above La Flèche. That River, A Sluggish

But Deep Little Stream, Moves Placidly Among Osiers On Its Way To Swell

The Loire. On Either Side The Water-Meadows Stretch For Three-Quarters

Of A Mile; Low Chalk-Hills, Fringed At The Top, Are Ramparts To The

Sleepy Valley. Creeping Along The Eastern Spurs At Dawn, Richard Came In

Touch With His Enemy, William The Marshal And His Force Of Normans And

English. These Had Crossed The Bridge At La Flèche, And Came Pricking

Now Up The Valley To Save Le Mans. Heading Them Boldly, Richard Threw

Out His Archers Like A Waterspray Over The Flats, And While These

Checked The Advance And Had The Van In Confusion, Thundered Down The

Slopes With His Knights, Caught The Marshal On The Flank, Smote Him Hip

And Thigh, And Swept The Core Of His Army Into The River. The Marshal's

Battle Was Thus Destroyed; But The Wedge Had Made Too Clean A Cleft.

Front And Rear Joined Up And Held; So Richard Found Himself In Danger.

The Viscount Of Béziers, Who Led The Rearguard, Engaged The Enemy, And

Pushed Them Slowly Back Towards The Aune; Richard Wheeled His Men And

Charged, To Take Them In The Rear. His Horse, Stumbling On The Rotten

Ground, Fell Badly And Threw Him: There Were Cries, 'Holà! Count Richard

Is Down!' And Some Stayed To Rescue And Some Pushed On. William The

Marshal, On A White Horse, Came Suddenly Upon Him As He Lay. 'Mort De

Dieu!' Shrilled This Good Soldier, And Threw Up His Spear Arm. 'God's

Feet, Marshal, Kill One Or Other Of Us!' Said Richard Lightly: He Was

Pinned Down By His Struggling Beast. 'I Leave You To The Devil, My Lord

Richard,' Said The Marshal, And Drove His Spear Into The Horse's Chest.

The Beast's Death-Plunge Freed His Master. Richard Jumped Up: