He had cause to remember those words two years later, when, in the famous single combat still commemorated by the conqueror’s statue in Dinan market-place, he was beaten to the earth by Du Guesclin’s resistless arm, and owed to the Duke of Lancaster’s intercession a life justly forfeited by a wanton breach of truce, as dishonouring to his own fame as to that of England.
Just then up came a single rider at full speed, and, bowing low to the duke, gave him a sealed letter, which Lancaster read with visible emotion.
“This letter, Sir Bertrand, brings me word of a truce betwixt France and England, and of my royal father’s command to raise this siege,” said he, not sorry, perhaps, to have so good an excuse for giving up his now hopeless enterprise. “I can claim no merit for obeying, for thou hast already made all my labours vain. But herein lieth my difficulty. I have vowed, as English prince and belted knight, not to turn from these walls till I plant my banner on them; and rather than break my word, I would bide here as long as Messire Agamemnon and his knights before Troy.”
To Du Guesclin, as to every man of that age, such a vow was sacred, and, once made, must be carried out to the letter. For a moment he looked staggered by this new dilemma; but his ready wit soon found a remedy.
“If that be all, let it not trouble your highness. What hinders you to come into the town in friendly wise, plant your banner on the wall, and then take it down again and go your way in peace? So is your vow fulfilled, and your honour has no stain.”
The duke laughed at the clever device, and lost no time in carrying it out. He came up to the gate with a few of his knights, was courteously received there by De Penhoën, planted his banner on the wall, solemnly took it down again, and went back to his camp quite satisfied!
Then Bertrand, seeing that the besiegers were really breaking up their camp and preparing to depart, went back to his quarters, at the door of which his stout seneschal met him with a very gloomy face.
“I have heavy news for thee, messire. Thou art about to lose a staunch comrade.”
“Not Huon?” cried the hero, clenching his hands till the joints cracked.
“No, thank God; the Sire de St. Yvon is mending apace. But he whom they call the Black Wolf——”