One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre

by G. P. R. James

St. Real hesitated for a moment as to whether he should overwhelm them, as he felt he could, by a single charge of his powerful squadron; and duty struggled for a moment with the kindlier feelings of his heart: but turning his head, a glance towards the king's division saved him from farther hesitation, by showing him the reitters of the League pouring down upon the monarch, in support of the force under Mayenne; and he immediately wheeled his troops, and met, in full charge, the superior body thus offered. Although the heavier horses and armour of his own men-at-arms enabled them to break the first rush of the German horse, the superior numbers of the latter for a time prevailed, and the squadron of St. Real was borne back upon that of the king. The ranks, however, on all parts, were by this time broken; and, perhaps, never was a more complete exemplification of the word mêlée than the centre of the field of Ivry at that moment. Man to man, and hand to hand, the fight was now continued. The lance had fallen quite into disuse amongst the royal forces before this period; the sword, the pistol, and the mace decided all; and so mingled and perplexed were friends and foes, that more than one man-at-arms was struck down by others fighting on the same part. The sounds of the cannon still pealed from other parts of the plain; and, together with the shouts, the pistol shots, the discharges of musketry, and the clash of steel, rendered the words of the loudest voices unintelligible, even when vociferating words of command to any handfuls of men that still held together; while from time to time a cloud of smoke rolled in amongst the combatants, hiding everything else from their eyes, except the little group of horsemen fighting around them. In the midst of the enemy's troopers, and only accompanied by two or three of his most devoted followers, St. Real's personal strength, skill, and valour, wrought over again the deeds of chivalrous times. The reitters fell back before the sweep of his tremendous sword; and plunging his strong battle-horse in amongst them, he dealt death and terror around; while his own soldiers began once more to gather and to form by twos and threes behind him. At the moment when about a third of his squadron had rallied, through the rolling smoke, he caught a glimpse of the white plume dancing still in the midst of a dark group of horsemen, while a hundred weapons, waving around it, seemed aimed at that life on which hung the destinies of France.

Without pausing even to think, St. Real spurred towards the king: the reitters closed in behind him; and the next moment his path was crossed by the man of all others whom he least desired to encounter--his cousin.

"Out of the way, Philip d'Aubin!" he cried, heated with the strife of the moment; "out of the way! By the soul of my father, you will urge me too far!"

D'Aubin probably heard not what he said; at least his reply was too indistinct to convey any definite meaning to the ear of St. Real, though the furious gesture by which it was accompanied spoke for itself. The Count spurred on upon his cousin; and St. Real, with his beaver up, paused to see whether one in whose veins flowed the same blood as in his own, would really raise the hand against his life. He himself, however, was, as we have said, heated with the combat; and when he saw D'Aubin gallop on, with the point of his heavy sword aimed directly at his face, he lost patience, and spurred forward to meet him. Dropping his sword, however, by the thong that attached it to his wrist, he seized the mace, which, according to the old customs cherished by his family, he carried at his saddle bow; and, parrying the weapon of his kindred adversary wherever it attempted to strike him, he made the mass of iron play round his head like a willow wand--without, however, returning one blow of all the many that were aimed against him.

"Leave me, D'Aubin!" he exclaimed at length, as they wheeled their horses close together, and he perceived that his cousin was bleeding from several wounds he had previously received: "leave me, I say; you are wounded, and no match for me.--Leave me, or you will provoke me too far!"

D'Aubin felt, however, that his cousin used not either his strength or his skill against him; and his pride was more hurt to be spared than it would have been to be vanquished. He replied nothing but "Traitor!" and snatching a pistol from his saddle, levelled it at St. Real's head. But the Marquis had marked the movement of his hand towards the holster; and exclaiming, "Take that then, to cure your folly!" he struck him full on the casque a blow that he intended to be slight, but which drove in the steel, and laid him prostrate on the plain.

St. Real paused for an instant, to see whether the ill-fated D'Aubin would rise; but a cry of "Au Roi! au Roi!" struck his ear; and turning, he perceived the Baron de Rosny, covered with wounds, pointing to a spot where the white plume of Henry Quatre was still floating in the midst of the foe. It still floated; but nevertheless there was about it that uncertain wavering, that staggering rise and fall, which showed St. Real at once that his sovereign was hard pressed by the multitude that surrounded him. Every other thought was instantly cast aside before the feeling of superior duty; and calling to some of his troopers who were near to follow, he galloped on, and cleft his way like a thunderbolt into the press around the king. Ere he could reach him, however, a loud shout echoed from the midst of the crowd, and the white plume disappeared. Two sweeps of St. Real's sword dealt death to the reitters that lay in his path; and the next moment he reached the spot where Henry was struggling up from the carcass of his gallant charger, who had fallen dead beneath him, after receiving a multitude of wounds.

The young cavalier instantly sprang to the ground, exclaiming, "Mount my horse, sire!" and held the stirrup while the monarch sprang into the saddle. At the same moment a pistol shot struck him on the casque, and made him reel, but it did not penetrate the well-tried steel; and, looking round, he saw that in the brief space of time which had elapsed since he came up, the spot on which they stood had become comparatively clear, with none but one or two of his own and the king's attendants very near, while on the slope of the hill appeared a confused mass of the enemy, with their backs to the field of battle, and their faces towards the Eure.

The next instant his own ecuyer led him forward a horse, while the king, exclaiming, "They fly, St. Real, they fly! Mount and follow with what men you can collect!" struck his spurs into the charger's side, and galloped on to gain the horsemen who were in the act of pursuing the fugitives. St. Real hastened to obey, and springing on the charger's back, in a moment gathered together about fifty of his own troopers, and spurred after the king. As he reached the top of the slope, the whole field of battle lay open before his eyes; and a strange and confused, but not unpicturesque, sight it was. Three dark masses of the Leaguers and their pursuers were seen hurrying over the distant country towards the river; while, as the broken clouds were borne rapidly over the sky by a quick wind, the different groups of Royalists and fugitives, dashing on in fury after each other, were at one moment covered with deep shadow which hid all the several parts; at another, exposed, with the sunshine picking out in bright relief each individual horseman as he scoured across the upland. On the other side lay the plain where that fierce and bloody fight had taken place, covered with knots of fugitives, prisoners, wounded and dead, with the artillery playing upon a village in which the Leaguers were making a last effort; and the clouds of smoke still rolling solemnly over the field, after the fierce flash was gone, like heavy remorse following the eager act of angry passion. Small bodies of the Royalists too were seen, dispersing any group of the Leaguers who attempted to reassemble, and taking those prisoners whose horses were incapable of bearing them away; while the reserve under Marshal Biron, dark and heavy, hung upon the opposite slope, advancing slowly like a lurid thundercloud, borne along by the slow breath of the summer wind.

Near the same spot whence St. Real took a hurried glance over the field, the king himself had stopped for the same purpose; and the moment after he turned back. "St. Real," he said, as he came near the young noble, "the battle might be lost yet! Do you see the Walloons have still possession of the village?--and that strong body of Swiss there on the left still holds a good position. Come with me; we must make sure of the victory ere we urge too far the pursuit." Thus saying, he rode back at full speed towards the spot where his own squadron had been originally placed.