CHAPTER XXXIII.
The battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light.--Shakspere.
Thine is th' adventure, thine the victory;
Well has thy fortune turned the die for thee.--Dryden.
Sir Osborne immediately turned into the forest, and, rousing his companions, called them to horse; but, however, though confessedly the hero of our story, we must leave him for a little time and follow the traveller we have just left upon the road.
For a considerable way he rode on musing, and if one might judge from his countenance, his meditations were somewhat bitter; such as might become the bosom of a king on finding the treachery of the world, the hollowness of friendship, the impossibility of securing affection, or any other of the cold lessons which the world will sometimes teach the children of prosperity. At length he paused, and, looking to the declining sun, saw the necessity of hastening his progress; whereupon, setting spurs to his horse, he galloped along the road without much heeding in what direction it led him, till, coming to one of those openings called carrefours by the French, where a great many roads met, he stopped to consider his farther route. In the midst, it is true, stood a tall post, which doubtless in days of yore pointed out to the inquisitive eye the exact destination to which each of the several paths tended; but old Time, who will be fingering everything that is nice and good, from the loveliest feature of living beauty to the grandest monument of ancient art, had not spared even so contemptible a thing as the finger-post, but, like a great mischievous baby, had scratched out the letters with his pocketknife, leaving no trace of their purport visible.
The traveller rode round it in vain, then paused and listened, as if to catch the sound of the distant hunt; but all was now silent. As a last resource, he raised his hunting-horn to his lips, and blew a long and repeated call; but all was hushed and still: even babbling Echo, in pure despite, answered not a word. He blew again, and had the same success. There was an ominous sort of quietness in the air, which, joined with the sultriness of the evening, the expecting taciturnity of the birds, and some dark heavy clouds that were beginning to roll in lurid masses over the trees, gave notice of an approaching storm.
Some road he must choose, and, calculating as nearly as he could by the position of the sun, he made his election, and spurred along it with all speed. A dropping sound amongst the green leaves, however, soon showed that the storm was begun, and once having commenced, it was not slow in following up its first attack: the rain came down in torrents, so as to render the whole scene misty, and the lightning, followed by its instant peal of thunder, flickered on every side with flash after flash, dazzling the traveller's sight, and scaring his horse by gleaming across his path, while the inky clouds overhead almost deprived them of other light. In vain he every now and then sought some place of shelter, where the trees seemed thickest; the verdant canopy of the leaves, though impervious to the summer sun, and a good defence against a passing shower, were incapable of resisting a storm like that, and wherever he turned the rain poured through in torrents, and wet him to the skin. Galloping on, then, in despair of finding any sufficient covering, he proceeded for nearly half-an-hour along the forest road, before it opened into the country; and where it did so, instead of finding any nice village to give him rest, and shelter, and food, and fire, the horseman could distinguish nothing but a wide, bare expanse of country, looking dismal and desolate in the midst of the gray deluge that was falling from the sky. About seven or eight miles farther on, he could, indeed, see faintly through the rain the spire of some little church, giving the only sign of human habitation; except where, to the left, in the midst of the heath that there bordered the forest, he perceived the miserable little hut of a charcoal-burner, with a multitude of black hillocks before the door, and a large shed for piling up what was already prepared.
To this, then, as the nearest place of shelter, the stranger took his way, very different in appearance from what he had been in the morning; his rich dress soaked and soiled, his velvet hat out of all shape or form, his high plume draggled and thin, with all the feather adhering closely to the pen; and, in short, though still bearing the inalienable look of gentleman, yet in as complete disarray of apparel as the very worst wetting can produce. Without ceremony he rode up to the door, sprang off his horse, and entered the cabin, wherein appeared a good woman of about forty, busily piling up with fresh fuel a fire of dry boughs, over which hung a large pot of soup for the evening meal. The traveller's tale was soon told, and the dame readily promised him shelter and food, in the name of her husband, who was absent, carrying charcoal to the distant village; and seeing that the storm was likely to last all night, he tied his horse under the shed, placed himself by the side of the fire, aided the good woman to raise it into a blaze, and frankly prepared to make himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Well pleased with his easy good-humour, the good dame soon grew familiar, gave him a spoon to skim the pot, while she fetched more wood, and bade him make himself at home. In a short time the husband himself returned, as dripping as the traveller had been, and willingly confirmed all that his wife had promised. Only casting himself, without ceremony, into the chair where the stranger had been sitting--and which, by-the-way, was the only chair in the place, all the rest of the seats being joint-stools--he addressed him familiarly, saying, "I take this place by the fire, my good gentleman, because it is the place where I always sit, and this chair, because it is mine; and you know the old proverb--
"By right and by reason, whatever betide,
A man should be master by his own fireside."[[17]]
"Faith, you are in the right," cried the traveller, laughing; "so I will content myself with this settle. But let us have something for supper; for, on the word of a--knight, my ride has taught me hunger."
"Give us the soup, dame," cried the charcoal-burner. "Well I wot, sir traveller, that you might be treated like a prince, here on the edge of the wood, did not those vile forest laws prevent a poor man from spearing a boar as well as a rich one. In truth, the king is to blame to let such laws last."
"Faith, and that is true," cried the traveller; "and heartily to blame, too, if his laws stand between me and a good supper. Now would I give a link of this gold chain for a good steak of wild boar pork upon those clear ashes."
The cottager looked at his wife, and the cottager's wife looked at her husband, very like two people undecided what to do. "Fie, now!" cried the stranger; "fie, good dame! I will wager a gold piece against a cup of cold water, that if I look in that coffer, I shall find wherewithal to mend our supper."
"Hal ha! ha!" roared the charcoal-burner; "thou hast hit it. Faith, thou hast hit it! There it is, my buck, sure enough! Bring it forth, dame, and give us some steaks. But, mind," he continued, laying his finger on his lip, with a significant wink; "mind, mum's the word! never fare well and cry roast beef."
"Oh! I'm as close as a mouse," replied the stranger in the same strain; "never fear me: many a stout stag have I overthrown in the king's forests, without asking with your leave or by your leave of any man."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried the cottager; "thou'rt a brave one! Come, let us be merry while the thunder rolls without. It will strike the king's palace sooner than my cottage, though we are eating wild boar therein."
In such sort of wit passed the evening till nightfall; and the storm still continuing in its full glory, the traveller was fain to content himself with such lodging as the cottage afforded for the night. Though his dress bespoke a rank far higher than their own, neither the cottager nor his wife seemed at all awe-struck or abashed, but quietly examined the gold lacing of his clothes, declared it was very fine, and seemed to look upon him more as a child does upon a gilded toy than in any other light. When night was come, the good dame strewed out one corner of the hut with a little straw, piled it high with dry leaves, and the stranger, rolling up his cloak for a pillow, laid it under his head, stretched himself on the rude bed thus prepared, and soon fell into a profound sleep.
Taking advantage of his nap, we will now return to Sir Osborne, who with all speed roused his companions from their slumbers, and bade them mount and follow. With military alacrity, Longpole was on his horse in a moment, and ready to set out; but for his part, the young Hainaulter yawned and stretched, and, somewhat bewildered, looked as if he would fain have asked whither the knight was going to lead him. A word, however, from Longpole hurried his motions, and both were soon upon the track of Sir Osborne, who was already some way on the little bridle-path by which they had arrived at the grassy mound where they had been sleeping. When he reached the road they had formerly left, he paused, and waited their coming up.
"Now, Longpole," cried he, "give me your judgment: does this road lead to any crossing or not? Quick! for we must not waste a moment."
"Most certainly it does, my lord," replied the shield-bearer: "most probably to the spot where they all meet in the heart of the wood."
"Perhaps he may tell us with more certainty," said the knight; and changing his language to French, for the ear of the young Hainaulter, he asked the same question.
"Oh, yes, certainly," replied Frederick: "it leads to the great carrefour; I have hunted here a hundred times."
"Then, are we on French ground or Flemish?" demanded the knight.
"The French claim it," replied the youth; "but we used to hunt here in their despite."
"Quick, then! let us on!" cried Sir Osborne; "and keep all your eyes on the road before, to see if any one crosses it."
"He has something in his head, I'll warrant," said Longpole to their new companion, as they galloped after Sir Osborne. "Oh! our lord knows the trade of war, and will snuff you out an enemy, without ever seeing him, better than a beagle dog with bandy legs and a yellow spot over his eyes."
"Halt!" cried the knight, suddenly reining in his horse as they came within sight of the carrefour we have already mentioned. "Longpole, keep close under that tree! Frederick, here by my side; back him into the wood, my good youth; that will do. Let every one keep his eyes upon the crossing, and when you see a horseman pass, mark which road he takes. How dark the sky is growing! Hark! is not that a horse's feet?"
They had not remained many minutes when the cavalier we have spoken of appeared at the carrefour, examined in vain the finger-post, sounded his horn once or twice, as we have described, and then again took his way to the left.
"Whither does that road lead?" demanded the knight, addressing the young Hainaulter.
"It opens out on the great heath between the forest and Lillers, my lord," answered Frederick.
"Is there any village, or castle, or house near?" asked Sir Osborne quickly.
"None, none!" replied Frederick; "it is as bare as my hand: perhaps a charbonier's cottage or so," he added, correcting himself.
"Let us on, then," replied the knight. "We are going to have a storm, but we must not mind that;" and putting his horse into a quick pace, he led his followers upon the track of the traveller, taking care never to lose sight of him entirely, and yet contriving to conceal himself, whenever any turn of the road might have exposed him to the view of the person he pursued. The rain poured upon his head, the lightning flashed upon his path; but still the knight followed on without a moment's pause, till he had seen the traveller take refuge in the cottage of the charcoal-burner. Then, and not until then, he paused, spurred his horse through some thick bushes on the edge of the wood, and obtained as much shelter as the high beeches of the forest could afford; nor did he pause at the first or the thickest trees he came to, but took particular pains to select a spot where, though concealed by a high screen of underwood, they could yet distinguish clearly the door of the hut through the various breaks in the branches. Here, having dismounted with his followers, he stationed Frederick at a small opening, to watch the cottage, while he and Longpole carefully provided for the security and refreshment of their horses, as far as circumstances would admit, although the long forest-grass was the only food that could be procured for them, and the storm still continued pouring through the very thickest parts of the wood. To obviate this, the knight and his shield-bearer plied the underwood behind them with their swords, and soon obtained a sufficient supply of leafy branches to interweave with the lower boughs of the trees overhead, and thus to secure themselves against the rain.
While thus employed, Frederick gave notice, as he had been commanded, that some one approached the cottage, which proved to be the charbonier himself, returning with his mule; and after his arrival, their watch remained undisturbed by the coming of any visitor till nightfall.
As soon as it was dark, Sir Osborne allotted to his followers and to himself the portion of the night that each was to watch, taking for his own period the first four hours; after which Longpole's turn succeeded; and lastly, towards morning, came the young Hainaulter's.
With his eye fixed upon the light in the cottage, and his ear eager for every sound, Sir Osborne passed the time till the flame gradually died away, and, flashing more and more faintly, at last sank entirely. However, the dark outline of the hut was still to be seen, and the ear had now more power; for the storm had gradually passed away, and the only sounds that it had left were the thunder rolling faintly round the far limits of the horizon, and the dropping of the water from the leaves and branches of the forest. Towards midnight, Sir Osborne roused Longpole, and recommending him to watch carefully, he threw himself down by the young Hainaulter and was soon asleep.
Somewhat tired with the fatigues of the day, the knight slept soundly, and did not wake till Frederick, who had replaced Longpole on the watch, shook him by the arm; and starting up, he found that it was day.
"Hist, hist! my lord," cried the youth; "here are Shoenvelt and his party."
Sir Osborne looked through the branches in the direction the young man pointed, and clearly distinguished a party of seven spearmen, slowly moving along the side of the forest, at about five hundred yards' distance from the spot where they lay. "It is Shoenvelt's height and form," said the knight, measuring the leader with his eye, "and that looks like Wilsten by his side; but how are you sure?"
"Because I know the arms of both," replied Frederick, "See! they are going to hide in the wood, close by the high road from Lillers to Aire."
As he spoke, the body of horsemen stopped, and one after another disappeared in the wood, convincing Sir Osborne that the young Hainaulter was right.
"Then, nerve your arm and grasp your lance, Frederick," said the knight with a smile; "for if you do well, even this very day you may win your golden spurs. Wake Longpole there; we must be all prepared."
The youth's eyes gleamed with delight, and snatching up his casque, he shook Longpole roughly, and ran to tighten his horse's girths, while Sir Osborne explained to the yeoman that they were upon the eve of an encounter.
'"Odslife!" cried Longpole, "I'm glad to hear it, my lord. I find it vastly cold sleeping in a steel jacket, and shall be glad of a few back-strokes to warm me. You say there are seven of them. It's an awkward number to divide; but you will take three, my lord; I will do my best for two and a-half, and then there will be one and a-half for Master Frederick here. We could not leave the poor youth less, in honesty; for I dare say he is as ready for such a breakfast as we are."
The bustle of preparation now succeeded for a moment or two; and when all was ready, and the whole party once more on horseback, the knight led the way to a gap, from whence he could issue out upon the plain without running the risk of entangling his horse in the underwood. Here stationing himself behind the bushes to the left, he gave orders to Longpole and Frederick not to stir an inch, whatever they saw, till he set the example; and then grasping his lance, he sat like marble, with his eyes fixed upon the cottage.
In about a quarter of an hour the door of the hut opened, and the cottager, running to the shed, brought up the traveller's horse. By this time, he seemed to have discovered that his guest was of higher rank than he imagined; for when the stranger came forth, he cast himself upon his knees, holding the bridle, and remained in that situation till the other had sprung into the saddle.
Dropping some pieces of gold into his host's hand, the traveller now shook his rein; and, putting his horse into an easy pace, took his way over the plain, at about three hundred yards' distance from the forest, proceeding quietly along, totally unconscious of danger. A moment, however, put an end to his security; for he had not passed above a hundred yards beyond the spot where the knight was concealed, when a galloping of horse was heard, and Shoenvelt's party, with levelled lances and horses in charge, rushed forth from the wood upon him.
In an instant Sir Osborne's vizor was down, his spear was in the rest, and his horse in full gallop. "Darnley! Darnley!" shouted he, with a voice that made the welkin ring. "Darnley to the rescue! Traitor of Shoenvelt, turn to your death!"
"Darnley! Darnley!" shouted Longpole, following his lord. "St. George for Darnley! down with the traitors!"
The shout was not lost upon either Shoenvelt or the traveller. The one instantly turned, with several of his men, to attack the knight; the other, seeing unexpected aid at hand, fell back towards Darnley, and with admirable skill and courage defended himself, with nothing but his sword, against the lances of the marauders, who--their object being more to take him living than to kill him--lost the advantage which they would have otherwise had by his want of armour.
Like a wild beast, raging with hate and fury, Shoenvelt charged towards the knight, his lance quivering in his hand with the angry force of his grasp. On, on bore Sir Osborne at full speed towards him, his bridle in his left hand, his shield upon his breast, his lance firmly fixed in the rest, and levelled in such a manner as to avoid its breaking. In a moment they met. Shoenvelt's spear struck Sir Osborne's shield, and, aimed firmly and well, partially traversed the iron; but the knight, throwing back his left arm with vast force, snapped the head of the lance in twain. In the mean while, his own spear, charged at the marauder's throat with unerring exactness, passed clean through the gorget-piece and the upper rim of the corslet, and came bloody out at the back. You might have heard the iron plates and bones cranch as the lance rent its way through. Down went Shoenvelt, horse and man, borne over by the force of the knight's course.
"Darnley! Darnley!" shouted Sir Osborne, casting from him the spear, which he could not disengage from the marauder's neck, and drawing his sword. "Darnley! Darnley to the rescue! Now, Wilsten! now!" and turning, galloped up to where the traveller, with Longpole and Frederick by his side, firmly maintained his ground against the adventurers.
Wilsten's lance had been shivered by Longpole; and now, with his sword drawn, on the other side of the mêlée, he was aiming a desperate blow at the unarmed head of the traveller, who defended himself from a spearman in front; but at that moment the knight charged the adventurer through the midst, overturning all that came in his way, and shouting loud his battle-cry, to call his adversary's attention, and divert him from the fatal blow which he was about to strike. The plan succeeded. Wilsten heard the sound; and seeing Shoenvelt dead upon the plain, turned furiously on Darnley. Urging their horses between all the others, they met in the midst, and thus seemed to separate the rest of the combatants, who, for a moment or two, looked on inactive; while the swords of the two champions played about each other's heads, and sought out the weaker parts of their harness. Both were strong, and active, and skilful; and though Sir Osborne was decidedly superior, it was long before the combat appeared to turn in his favour. At length, by a quick movement of his horse, the knight brought himself close to the adventurer's side, and gaining a fair blow, plunged the point of his sword through his corslet into his bosom.
At that moment, the combat having been renewed by the rest, one of the marauders struck the knight from behind so violently on the head, that it shook him in the saddle, and breaking the fastenings of his helmet, the casque came off and rolled upon the plain. But the blow was too late to save Wilsten, who now lay dead under his horse's feet; and Sir Osborne well repaid it by a single back-stroke at this new opponent's thigh.
By this time only two of the marauders remained on horseback, so well had Longpole, the traveller, and Frederick, done their devoir; and these two were not long in putting spurs to their steeds and flying with all speed, leaving the knight and his companions masters of the field. Looking round, however, Sir Osborne missed the gallant young Hainaulter, while he saw his horse flying masterless over the plain.
"Where is Frederick?" cried the knight, springing to the ground. "By my knighthood! if he be dead, we have bought our victory dear!"
"Not dead, monseigneur, but hurt," said a faint voice near; and turning, he beheld the poor youth fallen to the earth, and leaning on one arm, while with the other he was striving to take off his casque, from the bars of which the blood dripped out fast upon the greensward. Darnley hastened to his aid; and having disencumbered him of his helmet, discovered a bad wound in his throat, which, however, did not appear to him to be mortal; and Longpole, with the stranger, having dismounted and come to his aid, they contrived to stanch the bleeding, which was draining away his life.
When this was done, the noble traveller turned towards Darnley.
"Sir knight," said he, with the calm, dignified tone of one seldom used to address an equal, "how you came here, or why, I cannot tell; but it seems as if heaven had sent you on purpose to save my life. However that may be, I will say of you, that never did a more famous knight wield sword; and, therefore, as the best soldiers in Europe may be proud of such a companion, let me beg you to take this collar, till I can thank you better;" and he cast over the knight's neck the golden chain of the order of St. Michael, with which he was decorated.
"As for you, good squire," he continued, addressing Longpole, "you are worthy of your lord; therefore kneel down."
"Faith, your worship," answered the yeoman, "I never knelt to any man in my life, and never will to any but a king, while I'm in this world!"
"Fie, fie! Heartley!" cried Sir Osborne; "bend your knee. It is the king, man! Do you not understand? It is King Francis!"
"Oh! that changes the case," cried Longpole; "I crave your highness's pardon. I did not know your grace;" and he bent his knee to the king.
Francis drew his sword, and laid it on the yeoman's shoulder; then striking him three light blows, he said, "In the name of God, our Lady, and St. Denis, I dub thee knight. Avance, bon chevalier! Noble or not noble, from this moment I make you such."
Longpole rose, and the king turned to the young Hainaulter, who, sitting near, and supporting himself by his sword, had looked on with longing eyes. "No one of my gallant defenders must be forgotten," said Francis. "Knighthood, my good youth, will hardly pay your wound."
"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Frederick, eagerly; "indeed it will, your highness, more than repay it."
"Then be it so," replied the king, knighting him. "However, remember, fair knights, that Francis of France stints not here his gratitude, or you may think him niggard of his thanks. We will have you all go with us, and we will find better means to repay your timely aid. I know not, sir," he continued, turning to Sir Osborne, and resuming the more familiar first person singular, "whether I heard your battle-cry aright, and whether I now see the famous Lord Darnley, the knight of Burgundy, who, in wars now happily ended, often turned the tide of battle in favour of the emperor." Sir Osborne bowed his head. "Then, sir," continued Francis, "I will say, that never did monarch receive so much injury or so much benefit from the hand of one noble adversary."