CHAPTER XIII
A Red Stain
The king’s banquet was over, and night had fallen upon Calais; and the Black Prince, having himself made the rounds to see that all was safe in the fortress which had so narrowly escaped capture, was on the way to his own quarters, when a sudden burst of clamorous cries from the gate he had just left (the one facing the sea) made him stop short to listen, with a stern frown at such a breach of discipline.
“Go quickly, Simonson,” said he to one of his attendants, “and see what means this unseemly clamour at a post guarded by English soldiers.”
The man was absent but a minute or two, and the report he brought back was given in a few words; but as Prince Edward heard them, he changed colour as he had never done amid the crashing spears of Crecy.
“It cannot be!” he cried, with an excitement very rare in him. “Thou art distraught, man, or the fellow hath lied. It cannot be!”
“Not so, an it like your highness,” said the other firmly. “All they who kept the gate are in one tale of what he had said; and, for the man himself, he was in no case to lie, for he had fallen down in a swoon!”
“How, then, told he his tale so deftly?” asked the Prince of Wales, still doubting.
“He had but strength to gasp out those few words—being sore spent with the haste he had made to come hither and the fright he had had—and then down he fell as he lies now.”
“Go see him cared for,” said the prince, hastily; “and, hark ye! as soon as he is able to speak, bring him to me straightway, and let no man know it. I will look into this matter myself; and if it be as thou say’st, then must the Evil One himself be abroad upon the earth.”
An hour later, back came Simonson with the man he was sent to bring—a stout Hampshire archer of the Claremont train, whose bravery had been conspicuous in the recent fight. But now the daring man seemed wholly mastered by terror. Thick beads of moisture hung on his tanned brow, his bold brown face was pale as death, and his lips quivered as if in a fit.