The spot chosen for the scene of action was a wide sweep of grassy turf two or three miles from the town; and the motley crowds which thronged thither were quite as picturesque, in their way, as the pageant that they were hurrying to behold. Knights in full armour, all on fire to reach the spot where they hoped to win renown; richly dressed ladies, caracoling on costly Spanish jennets; local dignitaries in furred mantles, with gold chains round their necks; plainly garbed traders, looking quite homely amid the plumes and embroidery around them—for the laws of that age strictly forbade any man who was not of knightly rank to copy the finery of the nobles; brisk, merry-eyed ’prentice-lads from the town, delighted with all this noise and bustle; and sturdy, shaggy-haired, hard-faced Breton peasants, in the broad slouched hat and knickerbocker-like “bragous,” or knee-breeches, which have come down unchanged to our own time in that primitive region. And ever and anon came cleaving through the press, like a three-decker through a swarm of fishing-boats, the train of some great noble, whose men-at-arms kept shouting their master’s name, and making way for him by thrusting aside the crowd with their horses, and letting fall their spear-shafts pretty smartly on the shoulders of such as were slow to give place.
Conspicuous among the gentlemen present was old Sir Yvon du Guesclin, who received many a courteous greeting as he passed; for though some men affected to look down upon him on account of his poverty, he was highly esteemed by others for his ancient descent and former renown in arms. In truth, the old knight’s erect and commanding air, and the challenging glances of the three stalwart nephews who rode beside him, were an ample warning, even to such as liked him least, that to slight him to his face would be no safe undertaking.
Poor Bertrand had been left at home as usual, his uncompromising father declaring, with more truth than politeness, that he would be no ornament to a knightly circle. But, strangely enough, this open affront, so far from angering the high-spirited youth, seemed rather to amuse him. He watched his father’s train ride forth with such a smile of mischievous glee as might be worn by a schoolboy when planning some daring practical joke; and hardly had the last man-at-arms vanished among the trees, when our hero ordered out an old war-horse of his father’s, and set off not to the scene of the tournament, but toward the castle of his friend the Sire de Tinteniac.
The wooden galleries erected for the spectators of rank filled apace, and ere long the whole circle was one great flower-bed of rich dresses, comely faces, and fluttering ribbons and plumes, while the plainer garb of the burghers and peasants below bordered like a dark hedge this fair garden of beauty and splendour; and the glitter of so many polished helmets and bright lance-points in the cloudless sunshine, together with the scores of gallant steeds that were prancing and snorting beneath their mailed riders, made a goodly show.
High in the front of the chief gallery, with his banner waving over him, sat the Duke of Brittany himself, John III., with his duchess beside him. His fine face looked bright and animated by the enjoyment of this martial pageant; but a keen observer might already have noted there the growing weakness that was to end in his death four years later, and to kindle between the rival claimants of the disputed succession one of the bloodiest wars of that stormy age.
All was now ready for the sports, the arrangement being that the tilters should encounter each other in pairs till all had run one course apiece, and that the winners should then dispute the prize among them till only one was left unconquered, to whom the honours of the day should be awarded. Duke John gave the signal, and instantly the first pair of combatants rushed upon one another.
Tramp, tramp, crash! and down went the first man, rolling over and over amid a cloud of dust. Tramp, tramp, crash, again; and down rolled the winner in turn, horse and man falling together. Thus course after course was run, while the loud applause of the spectators mingled with the crash of breaking lance-shafts, the clang of steel, and the fierce snorting and neighing of the war-horses.
Peasants below and ladies above alike watched the combat with the keenest enjoyment, which derived much of its zest from the fact that the tilters, instead of using what were called “arms of courtesy” (pointless or blunted lances) met each other with the sharp spears used in actual war. When three or four of the overthrown champions were found to be so badly hurt that they had to be carried from the lists, the general delight naturally rose to a height, as was usual at a time when a tournament, in which four knights were killed outright and thirty more so desperately wounded that many of them never recovered, was always spoken of as “a gentle and joyous passage of arms”!
Sir Yvon du Guesclin himself, being out of health just then, had been persuaded by his lady to refrain, for once, from the bone-breaking pastime that he loved so well; but his place was well filled by his three athletic nephews, who, young as they were, were already famed for miles round as among the best lances of Brittany. All three had gallantly done their part in the conflict, overthrowing all who faced them; and the third opponent of Alain, the eldest (though a knight of proved skill and prowess), was hurled to the earth with such force that his shoulder was dislocated by the shock.
Having achieved this crowning feat, the young Hercules rode twice round the lists with all his wonted arrogance, saluting the duke and duchess and other titled spectators with the air of one who thought himself as good as any of them.