The Lances of Lynwood by Charlotte Mary Yonge (i read book TXT) 📕
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- Author: Charlotte Mary Yonge
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So passed the day—and twilight was fast deepening into night, when the cries, a short time since more furious than ever, and nearer and more exulting on the part of the French, at length subsided, and finally died away; the trampling steps of the men-at-arms could be heard in the hall below, and Gaston himself came up with hasty step, undid his helmet, and, wiping his brow, threw himself on the ground with his back against the chest, saying, “Well, we have done our devoir, at any rate! Poor Brigliador! I am glad he has a kind master in Ingram!”
“Have they won the court?” asked Eustace. “I thought I heard their shouts within it.”
“Ay! Even so. How could we guard such an extent of wall with barely five and twenty men? Old Silverlocks and Jaques de l’Eure are slain Martin badly wounded, and we all forced back into the inner court, after doing all it was in a man to do.”
“I heard your voice, bold and cheerful as ever, above the tumult,” said Eustace. “But the inner court is fit for a long defence—that staircase parapet, where so few can attack at once.”
“Ay,” said Gaston, “it was that and the darkness that stopped them. There I can detain them long enough to give the chance of the succours, so those knaves below do not fail in spirit—and they know well enough what chance they have from yon grim-visaged Breton! But as to those succours, I no more expect them than I do to see the Prince at their head! A hundred to one that he never hears of our need, or, if he should, that Pembroke and Clarenham do not delay the troops till too late.”
“And there will be the loss of the most important castle, and the most faithful and kindest heart!” said Eustace. “But go, Gaston— food and rest you must need after this long day’s fight—and the defences must be looked to, and the men cheered!”
“Yes,” said Gaston, slowly rising, and bending over the Knight; “but is there nought I can do for you, Sir Eustace?”
“Nought, save to replenish my cup of water. It is well for me that the enemy have not cut us off from the Castle well.”
Gaston’s supper did not occupy him long. He was soon again in Eustace’s room, talking over his plan of defence for the next day; but with little, if any, hope that it would be other than his last struggle. At last, wearied out with the exertions of that day and the preceding, he listened to Eustace’s persuasions, and, removing the more cumbrous portions of his armour, threw himself on his bed, and, in a moment, his regular breathings announced that he was sound asleep.
It was in the pale early light of dawn that he awoke, and, starting up while still half asleep, exclaimed, “Sir Eustace, are you there? I should have relieved guard long since!” Then, as he recalled his situation, “I had forgot! How is it with you, Sir Eustace? Have you slept?”
“No,” said Eustace. “I have not lost an hour of this last night I shall ever see. It will soon be over now—the sun is already reddening the sky; and so, Gaston, ends our long true-hearted affection. Little did I think it would bring thee to thy death in the prime of they strength and manhood!” and he looked mournfully on the lofty stature and vigorous form of the Squire, as he stood over him.
“For that, Sir Eustace, there is little cause to grieve. I have been a wanderer, friendless and homeless, throughout my life; and save for yourself, and, perhaps, poor little Arthur’s kind heart, where is one who would cast a second thought on me, beyond, perhaps, saying, ‘He was a brave and faithful Squire!’ But little, little did I think, when I saw your spurs so nobly won, that this was to be the end of it—that you were to die, defamed and reviled, in an obscure den, and by the foul treachery of—”
“Speak not of that, Gaston,” said Eustace. “I have dwelt on it in the long hours of the night, and I have schooled my mind to bear it. Those with whom we shall soon be, know that if I have sinned in many points, yet I am guiltless in that whereof they accuse me— and, for the rest, there are, at least, two who will think no shame of Eustace Lynwood. And now, if there is yet time, Gaston, since no Priest is at hand, I would pray thee to do me the last favour of hearing the confession of my sins.”
And Gaston kneeling down, the Knight and Squire, according to the custom of warriors in extremity, confessed to each other, with the crucifix raised between them. Eustace then, with his weak and failing voice, repeated several prayers and psalms appropriate to the occasion, in which Gaston joined with hearty devotion. By this time, a slight stir was heard within the Castle; and Gaston, rising from his knees, went to the loophole, which commanded a view of the court, where the French had taken up their quarters for the night in some of the outbuildings—and the lion rampant of Clisson was waving in triumph on the gateway tower.
“All silent there,” said he; “but I must go to rouse our knaves in time to meet the first onset.” And, as he clasped on his armour, he continued, “All that is in the power of man will we do! Rest assured, Sir Eustace, they reach you not save through my body; and let your prayers be with me. One embrace, Sir Eustace, and we meet no more—”
“In this world.” Eustace concluded the sentence, as Gaston hung over him, and his tears dropped on his face. “Farewell, most faithful and most true-hearted! Go, I command thee! Think not on me—think on thy duty—and good angels will be around us both. Farewell, farewell.”
Gaston, for the first time in his life, felt himself unable to speak. He crossed the room with slow and lingering step; then, with a great effort, dashed out at the door, closing his visor as he did so, and, after a short interval, during which he seemed to have stopped on the stairs, Eustace could hear his gay bold tones, calling, “Up! up! my merry men, all! Let not the French dogs find the wolf asleep in his den. They will find our inner bartizan a hard stone for their teeth— and it will be our own fault, if they crack it before the coming of our brave comrades from Bordeaux!”
The open space beyond the walls of Bordeaux presented a bright and lively scene. It was here that the pages of the Black Prince were wont to exercise those sports and pastimes for which the court of the palace scarce offered sufficient space, or which were too noisy for the neighbourhood of the ladies, and of the invalid Prince.
Of noble and often of princely birth were all who entered that school of chivalry, and, for the most part, the fine open countenances, noble bearing, and well-made figures of the boys, testified their high descent, as completely as the armorial bearings embroidered on the back and front of their short kirtles. Many different provinces had sent their noblest to be there trained in the service of the bravest Knights and Princes. There, besides the brown-haired, fair-skinned English boy, was the quick fiery Welsh child, who owned an especial allegiance to the Prince; the broad blue-eyed Fleming, whose parents rejoiced in the fame of the son of Philippa of Hainault; the pert, lively Gascon, and the swarthy Navarrese mountaineer—all brought together in close and ever-changing contrast of countenance, habits, and character.
Of all the merry groups scattered through that wide green space, the most interesting was one formed by three boys, who stood beneath a tree, a little from the rest. The two eldest might be from ten to eleven years old, the third two or three years younger, and his delicate features, fair pale complexion, and slender limbs, made him appear too weak and childish for such active sports as the rest were engaged in, but that the lordly glance of his clear blue eye, his firm tread, and the noble carriage of his shapely head, had in them something of command, which attracted notice even before the exceeding beauty of his perfectly moulded face, and long waving curls of golden hair.
So like him, that they might have passed for brothers, was one of the elder boys, who stood near—there was the same high white brow, proud lip, regular features, and bright eye; but the complexion, though naturally fair, was tanned to a healthy brown where exposed to the sun; the frame was far stronger and more robust; and the glance of the eye had more in it of pride and impatience, than of calm command so remarkable in the little one. The three boys were standing in consultation over an arrow which they had just discovered, stuck deep in the ground.
“‘Tis my arrow, that I shot over the mark on Monday,” said the elder.
“Nay, Harry,” said the younger boy, “that cannot be; for remember Thomas Holland said your arrow would frighten the good nuns of St. Ursula in their garden.”
“It must be mine,” persisted Harry—“for none of you all can shoot as far.”
“Yes, English Arthur can,” said the little boy. “He shot a whole cloth-yard beyond you the day—”
“Well, never mind, Edward,” said Harry, sharply—“who cares for arrows?—weapons for clowns, and not for Princes!”
“Nay, not so, Lord Harry,” interrupted the third boy: “I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that England’s archery is half her strength —and how it was our archers at the battle of Crecy—”
“I know all that—how the men of Genoa had wet bow-strings, and ours dry ones,” said Henry; “but they were peasants, after all!”
“Ay; but a King of England should know how to praise and value his good yeomen.”
Henry turned on his heel, and, saying, “Well, let the arrow be whose it will, I care not for it,” walked off.
“Do you know why Harry of Lancaster goes, Arthur?” said Edward, smiling.
“No, my Lord,” replied Arthur.
“He cannot bear to hear aught of King of England,” was the answer. “If you love me, good Arthur, vex him not with speaking of it.”
“Father Cyril would say, he ought to learn content with the rank where he was born,” said Arthur.
“Father Cyril, again!” said Prince Edward. “You cannot live a day without speaking of him, and of your uncle.”
“I do not speak of them so much now,” said Arthur, colouring, “It is only you, Lord Edward, who never make game of me for doing so— though, I trow, I have taught Pierre de Greilly to let my uncle’s name alone.”
“Truly, you did so,” said Edward, laughing, “and he has scarce yet lost his black eye. But I love to hear your tales, Arthur, of that quiet Castle, and the old Blanc Etoile, and your uncle, who taught you to ride. Sit down here on the grass, and tell me more. But what are you staring at so fixedly? At the poor jaded horse, that yonder man-at-arms is urging on so painfully?”
“‘Tis—No, it is
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