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SIR NIGEL
Audley with his squires on the other, so that no man laid his
hand upon it and lived.
But now there was a distant crash and a roar of “Saint
George for Guienne!” from behind. The Captal de Buch had
charged home. “Saint George for England!” yelled the main attack, and ever the counter-cry came back to them from afar.
The ranks opened in front of them. The French were giving
way. A small knight with golden scroll-work upon his armor threw himself upon the Prince and was struck dead by
his mace. It was the Duke of Athens, Constable of France,
but none had time to note it, and the fight rolled on over his
body. Looser still were the French ranks. Many were turning
their horses, for that ominous roar from the rear had shaken
their resolution. The little English wedge poured onward, the
Prince, Chandos, Audley and Nigel ever in the van.
A huge warrior in black, bearing a golden banner, appeared suddenly in a gap of the shredding ranks. He tossed
his precious burden to a squire, who bore it away. Like a pack
of hounds on the very haunch of a deer the English rushed
yelling for the oriflamme. But the black warrior flung himself
across their path. “Chargny! Chargny a la recousse!” he roared
with a voice of thunder. Sir Reginald Cobham dropped before
his battle-ax, so did the Gascon de Clisson. Nigel was beaten
down on to the crupper of his horse by a sweeping blow; but
at the same instant Chandos’ quick blade passed through the
Frenchman’s camail and pierced his throat. So died Geoffrey
de Chargny; but the oriflamme was saved.
Dazed with the shock, Nigel still kept his saddle, and Pommers, his yellow hide mottled with blood, bore him onward
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
with the others. The French horsemen were now in full flight;
but one stern group of knights stood firm, like a rock in a rushing torrent, beating off all, whether friend or foe, who tried to
break their ranks. The oriflamme had gone, and so had the blue
and silver banner, but here were desperate men ready to fight
to the death. In their ranks honor was to be reaped. The Prince
and his following hurled themselves upon them, while the
rest of the English horsemen swept onward to secure the fugitives and to win their ransoms. But the nobler spirits – Audley, Chandos and the others – would have thought it shame
to gain money whilst there was work to be done or honor to
be won. Furious was the wild attack, desperate the prolonged
defense. Men fell from their saddles for very exhaustion.
Nigel, still at his place near Chandos’ elbow, was hotly attacked by a short broad-shouldered warrior upon a stout white
cob, but Pommers reared with pawing fore feet and dashed the
smaller horse to the ground. The falling rider clutched Nigel’s
arm and tore him from the saddle, so that the two rolled upon
the grass under the stamping hoofs, the English squire on the
top, and his shortened sword glimmered before the visor of
the gasping, breathless Frenchman.
“Je me rends! je axe rends!” he panted.
For a moment a vision of rich ransoms passed through Nigel’s brain. That noble palfrey, that gold-flecked armor, meant
fortune to the captor. Let others have it! There was work still to
be done. How could he desert the Prince and his noble master
for the sake of a private gain? Could he lead a prisoner to the
rear when honor beckoned him to the van? He staggered to
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his feet, seized Pommers by the mane, and swung himself into
the saddle.
An instant later he was by Chandos’ side once more and
they were bursting together through the last ranks of the gallant group who had fought so bravely to the end. Behind them
was one long swath of the dead and the wounded. In front the
whole wide plain was covered with the flying French and their
pursuers.
The Prince reined up his steed and opened his visor, whilst
his followers crowded round him with waving weapons and
frenzied shouts of victory. “What now, John!” cried the smiling
Prince, wiping his streaming face with his ungauntleted hand.
“How fares it then?”
“I am little hurt, fair lord, save for a crushed hand and
a spear-prick in the shoulder. But you, sir? I trust you have no
scathe?”
“In truth, John, with you at one elbow and Lord Audley at
the other, I know not how I could come to harm. But alas! I fear
that Sir James is sorely stricken.”
The gallant Lord Audley had dropped upon the ground
and the blood oozed from every crevice of his battered armor. His four brave Squires – Dutton of Dutton, Delves of
Doddington, Fowlhurst of Crewe and Hawkstone of Wainhill – wounded and weary themselves, but with no thought
save for their master, unlaced his helmet and bathed his pallid
blood-stained face.
He looked up at the Prince with burning eyes. “I thank you,
sir, for deigning to consider so poor a knight as myself,” said he
in a feeble voice.
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
The Prince dismounted and bent over him. “I am bound to
honor you very much, James,” said he, “for by your valor this day
you have won glory and renown above us all, and your prowess
has proved you to be the bravest knight.”
“My Lord,” murmured the wounded man, “you have a right
to say what you please; but I wish it were as you say.”
“James,” said the Prince, “from this time onward I make you
a knight of my own household, and I settle upon you five hundred marks of yearly income from my own estates in England.”
“Sir,” the knight answered, “God make me worthy of the
good fortune you bestow upon me. Your knight I will ever be,
and the money I will divide with your leave amongst these four
squires who have brought me whatever glory I have won this
day.” So saying his head fell back, and he lay white and silent
upon the grass.
“Bring water!” said the Prince. “Let the royal leech see to him;
for I had rather lose many men than the good Sir James. Ha,
Chandos, what have we here?”
A knight lay across the path with his helmet beaten down
upon his shoulders. On his surcoat and shield were the arms of
a red griffin.
“It is Robert de Duras the spy,” said Chandos.
“Well for him that he has met his end,” said the angry Prince.
“Put him on his shield, Hubert, and let four archers bear him to
the monastery. Lay him at the feet of the Cardinal and say that
by this sign I greet him. Place my flag on yonder high bush, Walter, and let my tent be raised there, that my friends may know
where to seek me.”
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SIR NIGEL
The flight and pursuit had thundered far away, and the field
was deserted save for the numerous groups of weary horsemen
who were making their way back, driving their prisoners before
them. The archers were scattered over the whole plain, rifling
the saddle-bags and gathering the armor of those who had fallen, or searching for their own scattered arrows.
Suddenly, however, as the Prince was turning toward the
bush which he had chosen for his headquarters, there broke
out from behind him an extraordinary uproar and a group
of knights and squires came pouring toward him, all arguing,
swearing and abusing each other in French and English at the
tops of their voices. In the midst of them limped a stout little
man in gold-spangled armor, who appeared to be the object of
the contention, for one would drag him one way and one another, as though they would pull him limb from limb. “Nay, fair sirs,
gently, gently, I pray you!” he pleaded. “There is enough for all,
and no need to treat me so rudely.” But ever the hubbub broke
out again, and swords gleamed as the angry disputants glared furiously at each other. The Prince’s eyes fell upon the small prisoner, and he staggered back with a gasp of astonishment.
“King John!” he cried.
A shout of joy rose from the warriors around him. “The King
of France! The King of France a prisoner!” they cried in an ecstasy.
“Nay, nay, fair sirs, let him not hear that we rejoice! Let
no word bring pain to his soul!” Running forward the Prince
clasped the French King by the two hands.
“Most welcome, sire!” he cried. “Indeed it is good for us that
so gallant a knight should stay with us for some short time, since
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
the chance of war has so ordered it. Wine there! Bring wine for
the King!”
But John was flushed and angry. His helmet had been roughly torn off, and blood was smeared upon his cheek. His noisy
captors stood around him in a circle, eying him hungrily like
dogs who have been beaten from their quarry. There were Gascons and English, knights, squires and archers, all pushing and
straining.
“I pray you, fair Prince, to get rid of these rude fellows,” said
King John, “for indeed they have plagued me sorely. By Saint
Denis! my arm has been well-nigh pulled from its socket.”
“What wish you then?” asked the Prince, turning angrily
upon the noisy swarm of his followers.
“We took him, fair lord. He is ours!” cried a score of voices.
They closed in, all yelping together like a pack of wolves. “It was
I, fair lord!” –”Nay, it was I!” –”You lie, you rascal, it was I!” Again
their fierce eyes glared and their blood-stained hands sought the
hilts of their weapons.
“Nay, this must be settled here and now!” said the Prince.
“I crave your patience, fair and honored sir, for a few brief minutes, since indeed much ill-will may spring from this if it be not
set at rest. Who is this tall knight who can scarce keep his hands
from the King’s shoulder?”
“It is Denis de Morbecque, my lord, a knight of St. Omer, who
is in our service, being an outlaw from France.”
“I call him to mind. How then, Sir Denis? What say you in
this matter?”
“He gave himself to me, fair lord. He had fallen in the press,
and I came upon him and seized him. I told him that I was
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SIR NIGEL
a knight from Artois, and he gave me his glove. See here, I bear
it in my hand.”
“It is true, fair lord! It is true!” cried a dozen French voices.
“Nay, sir, judge not too soon!” shouted an English squire,
pushing his way to the front. “It was I who had him at my mercy,
and he is my prisoner, for he spoke to this man only because he
could tell by his tongue that he was his own countryman. I took
him, and here are a score to prove it.”
“It is true, fair lord. We saw it and it was even so,” cried a chorus of Englishmen.
At all times there was growling and snapping betwixt the
English and their allies of France. The Prince saw how easily this
might set a light to such a flame as could not readily be quenched.
It must be stamped out now ere it had time to mount.
“Fair and honored lord,” he said to the King, “again I pray
you for a moment of patience. It is your word and only yours
which can tell us what is just and right. To whom were you graciously pleased to commit your royal person?”
King John looked up from the flagon which had been
brought to him and wiped his lips with the dawnings of a smile
upon his ruddy face.
“It was not this Englishman,” he said, and a cheer burst from
the Gascons, “nor was it this bastard Frenchman,” he added. “To
neither of them did I surrender.”
There was a hush of surprise.
“To whom then, sir?” asked the Prince.
The King looked slowly round. “There was a devil of a yellow horse,” said he. “My poor palfrey went over like a skittle-pin
before a ball. Of the rider I know nothing save that he bore red
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
roses on a silver shield. Ah! by Saint Denis, there is the man himself, and there his thrice-accursed horse!”
His head swimming, and moving as if in a dream, Nigel found
himself the center of the circle of armed and angry men.
The Prince laid his hand upon his shoulder. “It is the little
cock of Tilford Bridge,” said he. “On my father’s soul, I have ever
said that you would win your way. Did you receive the King’s
surrender?”
“Nay, fair lord, I did not receive it.”
“Did you hear him give it?”
“I heard, sir, but I did not know that it was the King. My master Lord Chandos had gone on, and I followed after.”
“And left him lying. Then the surrender was not complete,
and by the laws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque,
if his story be true.”
“It is true,” said the King. “He was the second.”
“Then the ransom is yours, Denis. But for my part I swear by
my father’s soul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has
gathered than all the richest ransoms of France.”
At these words spoken before that circle of noble warriors
Nigel’s heart gave one great throb, and he dropped upon his
knee before the Prince. “Fair lord, how can I thank you?” he
murmured. “These words at least are more than any ransom.”
“Rise up!” said the smiling Prince, and he smote with his
sword upon his shoulder. “England has lost a brave Squire, and
has gained a gallant knight. Nay, linger not, I pray! Rise up, Sir
Nigel!”
CHAPTER XXVII
HOW THE THIRD MESSENGER
CAME TO COSFORD
Two months have passed, and the long slopes of Hindhead are russet with the faded ferns – the fuzzy brown pelt
which wraps the chilling earth. With whoop and scream the
wild November wind sweeps over the great rolling downs, tossing the branches of the Cosford beeches, and rattling at the
rude latticed windows. The stout old knight of Duplin, grown
even a little stouter, with whiter beard to fringe an ever redder face, sits as of yore at the head of his own board. A wellheaped platter flanked by a foaming tankard stands before him.
At his right sits the Lady Mary, her dark, plain, queenly face
marked deep with those years of weary waiting, but bearing the
gentle grace and dignity which only sorrow and restraint can
give. On his left is Matthew, the old priest. Long ago the goldenhaired beauty had passed from Cosford to Fernhurst, where the
young and beautiful Lady Edith Brocas is the belle of all Sussex,
a sunbeam of smiles and merriment, save perhaps when her
thoughts for an instant fly back to that dread night when she
was plucked from under the very talons of the foul hawk of
Shalford.
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
The old knight looked up as a fresh gust of wind with
a dash of rain beat against the window behind him. “By Saint
Hubert, it is a wild night!” said he. “I had hoped to-morrow to
have a flight at a heron of the pool or a mallard in the brook.
How fares it with little Katherine the peregrine, Mary?”
“I have joined the wing, father, and I have imped the feathers; but I fear it will be Christmas ere she can fly again.”
“This is a hard saying,” said Sir John; “for indeed I have seen
no bolder better bird. Her wing was broken by a heron’s beak
last Sabbath sennight, holy father, and Mary has the mending
of it.”
“I trust, my son, that you had heard mass ere you turned to
worldly pleasure upon God’s holy day,” Father Matthew answered.
“Tut, tut!” said the old knight, laughing. “Shall I make confession at the head of my own table? I can worship the good
God amongst his own works, the woods and the fields, better
than in yon pile of stone and wood. But I call to mind a charm
for a wounded hawk which was taught me by the fowler of
Gaston de Foix. How did it run? `The lion of the Tribe of Judah,
the root of David, has conquered.’ Yes, those were the words
to be said three times as you walk round the perch where the
bird is mewed.”
The old priest shook his head. “Nay, these charms are tricks
of the Devil,” said he. “Holy Church lends them no countenance, for they are neither good nor fair. But how is it now
with your tapestry, Lady Mary? When last I was beneath this
roof you had half done in five fair colors the story of Theseus
and Ariadne.”
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