“If thou canst so soil them, I give thee full leave,” retorted Hugo, with a cutting emphasis that drew a fresh laugh from the admiring crowd.
Without a word more on either side the two men grappled.
Gilbert was a strong and skilful wrestler; but he was no match for one who had overthrown the best wrestler in Morocco. Slight as he seemed beside the bulky esquire, Hugo’s sinews had been toughened by a thousand struggles and hardships, and his skill had never met its match.
In vain did Gilbert try every trip and fall he knew; in vain did he compress the light form in his strong arms, as if to crush it by main force; in vain did he swing Hugo off his feet again and again, and put forth his full strength to dash him to the earth. Do what he would, the knight stood firm as ever; and at last Gilbert paused, fairly spent with his own exertions.
Then the scores of watching eyes saw Hugo’s arms tighten suddenly, and his foe’s huge broad back bend slowly in. So quietly was it done, that few guessed what strength was put forth to do it; but all at once (no one could see how) the big man’s feet flew from under him, and down he went on his back with stunning force.
Then broke forth a cheer that shook the air; for, apart from John Bull’s natural pleasure at seeing a bully “taken down,” the chivalrous frankness with which the twin nobles had waived the privileges of their rank to meet such formidable foes was what the roughest peasant could appreciate.
The crestfallen boasters were glad to slink away, not without fears of further rough handling; and, in fact, had either of the Claremont brothers but held up his finger, the crowd would have broken the heads of both swaggerers on the spot, or even (for men did not stick at trifles in those days) pitched them neck-and-crop into the river. But sorrow and suffering had taught the two brave men a lesson of mercy, and the bullies were allowed to sneak off unharmed.
Hardly were they gone, when a trumpet-blast awoke all the echoes of the hills, and a single rider, in the rich livery of the king’s household, came dashing up to the spot, and, putting into Alured’s hand a big, important-looking letter, encircled with a silk thread and sealed with the royal seal, clattered away as quickly as he had come.
“Brother,” said Alured, “my mind misgives me that this means war, of which we have had enow already. God’s will be done!”
He guessed but too truly. It was a summons from “Edward, by the grace of God Prince of Wales and Aquitaine, to his trusty and well-beloved liegemen, Sir Alured and Sir Hugo de Claremont,” to meet him at Bordeaux before Christmas with as many men as they could muster, to join the army he was leading into Spain, to restore to the dethroned king, Pedro of Castile, the crown wrested from him by his half-brother, Henry of Transtamare.