heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn, and, borne on the shoulders
of four strong men, he was carried into the house, and dropped
unceremoniously upon the rush-strewn floor.

Some one took a torch from its socket and bent over the prostrate
squire. Raymond recognised the features--it was the traitorous guide!
But gone was the heavy lustreless expression of his eyes and the
stolid set of his swarthy jaws; instead a look of malevolent
intelligence overspread his face, and by the subservience with which
he was treated by his comrades it was evident that he was a man of
authority.

"Ah! Dolt, fool, beast of an Englishman! How nicely hast thou borne
the Count of Tancarville back to the camp of the cursed invader of
Normandy! Dead or alive, eh? Little didst thou know how near thy
purpose was fulfilled when thy base _routier_ made to pass a knife
across my throat. I--even I--am the Count of Tancarville!"

He paused to observe the effect of this startling announcement, but
Raymond preserved a dignified silence.

"And that simpleton the Constable, thy master," he resumed. "To think
that the Count of Tancarville would be dallying at a hunting lodge
when base English defile the coasts of Normandy! Ah! That was a near
one," he added as another blinding flash of lightning lit up the
room.

"Knowest thou, thou miserable fool," he continued as soon as the
crash of the thunder permitted, "that did that fiery fork but touch
this place thou and I would be scattered, so that all the armies of
Philip and Edward would fail to find a fragment? Eh, I interest thee?
'Tis well; I'll tell thee more, seeing that the knowledge will profit
thee but little. Henri! Cut asunder the bonds that bind this
Englishman's legs, and do thou and Etienne stand close lest he do
himself an injury!"

Handing the torch to a serving-man, the Count led the way, closely
followed by Raymond and his two guards. In an adjoining apartment, so
open to the winds that the torch was almost extinguished, lay seven
sinister-looking objects, which the squire readily recognised as
bombards.

These early cannon were composed of straight lengths of flat iron,
held together by shrunk-on iron hoops, and lashed down to a heavy
baulk of timber, so that in training these clumsy contrivances,
carriage and gun were practically one piece.

"These are the beasts I hunt in this forest," quoth the Count. "King
Philip hath need of them, and, by our Lady of Nîmes, 'twill be a
sight to see the vaunted English bowmen being bowled over by these
bombards. And food these beasts must have! Forward, garçons, and show
this dolt mine animals' food. But, Bertrand, stand aside with that
torch. I am in no mind to go heavenwards yet awhile."

The next room was little better than a cell, lightened by the feeble
light of an oil lamp that glimmered through a horn lanthorn. In a far
corner could be discerned the bent figure of a monk, his cowl thrown
back on his shoulders and his arms bared to the elbow. Ignoring the
interruption, he continued his labours, working a pestle with
untiring energy.

"Behold the worthy successor to Michael Schwartz! My faith! It does
my heart good to show the accursed English the resources of la belle
France; yet, 'tis passing strange that the secret of the making of
the devil's powder should be divulged to a priest of God. Five score
barrels full of the powder are ready for the use of our forces, and
I'll warrant---- Ah! What wouldst thou? Down with him, mes garçons!"

For Raymond, suddenly fired with a reckless determination, had thrown
himself upon the torch-bearer, and with a shower of sparks the
burning brand was dashed upon the floor, missing the bench with its
dangerous compound by less than a span!

The Count and the monk, both white with fear, stamped upon the
blazing embers, while the guards with no gentle hand had forced their
prisoner to the ground.

"A senseless piece of folly," growled the Norman. "And little credit
to thyself."

"'Twould have rid the King of England of a dangerous foe," replied
Raymond stoutly, opening his lips for the first time since his
capture.

"Away with him, till I find a means to make use of him, Etienne!"
exclaimed the Count, taking no notice of the squire's remark.

"To the oubliette?"

"Nay; two of these accursed Englishmen in one den would plague us far
more than if kept apart. One never knows what the rogues get up to
when they plan amongst themselves. Lock him in the old arrow-store."

The old arrow-store was a damp and dismal chamber next to the cell
where Raymond had seen the monk at his researches. It was on the
ground floor, and lighted only by one lancet-shaped window, far too
narrow to admit the passage of a man. The roof was vaulted, the
arches springing from a central pillar, while the floor was paved
with heavy slabs set in strong cement.

This much the young squire saw while the men were making a cursory
examination by the aid of two additional torches; and after removing
an old chest they quitted the room, bolting and locking the heavy
iron-plated door behind them.

Left to himself, Raymond fell a prey to the deepest despondency. The
failure of his ill-starred attempt, the comparative ease of his
capture, and the mortification which the Constable would feel at his
non-return, weighed upon the unhappy squire far more than the danger
of his hopeless position, and, grief-stricken, he lay on a stone
bench, listlessly marking the sound of the rapidly-retreating storm,
till a feeble glimmer through the lancet window betokened that the
day was dawning. He had one consolation, sorry though it was--there
remained another Englishman within the stronghold, the solitary
survivor of five picked men-at-arms.

Presently Raymond stood up and stretched his cramped limbs, then
standing on the bench he found that he could just reach the window.
Grasping the stone ledge with his hands, he raised himself
sufficiently to look out.

It was a cheerless outlook. In front, a bow-shot away, lay the dense
masses of the forest, still hazy with the morning mist. An open
space, broken only by a moat full of slimy water, lay between the
forest and the stronghold, though no drawbridge was visible on that
side.

And beyond the forest lay, at an unknown distance, the English camp,
where even now Sir John Hacket was doubtless expecting his return
with the expected captive. Overcome with the irony of the situation,
Raymond clambered down from the window and relapsed into his moody
and despondent attitude.

For several hours he remained thus, till aroused by the drawing back
of the bolts of his prison door. The door was thrown open, and an
armed man entered, bearing a pitcher of water and a trencher of black
bread, while another man stood without, for fear of an outburst of
the prisoner. Without a word the jailer set down the meal and
retired.

Twice daily was this done, and thus the days sped, slowly and
cheerlessly, but no visit from the Count of Tancarville served to
break the dismal monotony.

On the fifth day Raymond heard the sound of martial preparations, and
climbing to the window he caught a brief glimpse of a body of armed
and mounted men riding past his prison; one of whom, he had no doubt,
was the Count. Then came the rumble of heavily-laden wains, but in
which direction the party disappeared the squire was unable to see.

Evidently the little garrison of this sylvan fortress was
considerably depleted, for Raymond noticed that his jailer came into
his prison alone. He thought, though, that this might have been
through a sense of familiarity at his prisoner's dejected mien. Yet
daily, for hours together, the sound of the pestle, dimly heard
through the thick adjoining wall, showed that the taciturn old monk
still pursued his dangerous task.

Four more days passed in dreadful solitude, till, maddened by the
hopelessness of his condition, Raymond resolved on desperate measures
to attempt his escape. Plan after plan flashed through his brain,
only to be put aside as impracticable. Feigning death, burrowing
through the stone walls of his prison, attacking his jailer, all
seemed hopeless, till at length a scheme, hazardous in the extreme,
yet capable of meeting with possible success, matured in his mind and
hourly increased his hopes of ultimate success.

Usually the jailer found him sitting dejectedly upon the stone bench,
practically invisible in the gloom to any one entering from the
dazzling sunlight without. But on this particular morning Raymond,
awaiting the jailer's footsteps, carefully removed his surcoat and
hid behind the door. Directly the man entered he made, as was his
wont, direct for the bench, when the squire, springing upon him from
behind, muffled his head in the surcoat and bore him to the ground.
The jug and platter fell with a resounding crash, and Raymond,
seizing the broken pitcher, struck the jailer such a shrewd blow that
it all but split his skull, leaving him senseless on the floor.

Hastily dragging his body across to the darkest corner, Raymond
possessed himself of his dagger and escaped from his prison.

Without a moment's hesitation he burst into the adjoining apartment,
where the old monk, engrossed in his work, did not take the slightest
notice of his abrupt entry. Raymond had argued with himself that a
priest engaged in warlike pursuits thereby puts himself without the
pale of the Church; so, overcoming his scruples, he wrenched the
pestle from the hand of the astonished monk and stunned him ere he
could utter a sound.

Then with feverish haste he stripped off and donned the monk's
capacious gown, pulling the cowl well down over his eyes; then,
strapping the wooden sandals over his own pointed shoes, he walked
boldly into the corridor, with bent head and clattering gait.

At the end of the passage was another heavily-barred door, at which a
spearman stood on guard. Holding his dagger firmly in his right hand
and concealing it within the folds of his long sleeve, Raymond moved
straight up to the man. The sentinel opened the door, and with bowed
head stood aside to let the supposed monk pass. In a well-feigned
highly-pitched voice the young squire gave the customary blessing;
then, almost amazed at his good fortune, he gained the free air once
more.

But his difficulties were not yet over. The road from the stronghold
ran under the shelter of the low walls for some distance, then turned
abruptly and crossed the moat by a drawbridge, at the end of which
was a small postern and barbican.

All went well till Raymond was upon the bridge, and the gate-keeper
was making ready to throw open the outer gate, when the sham monk
dropped one sandal upon the bridge, where it lay conspicuously in the
dazzling sunshine.

For a moment the guard paused, gazing in undisguised astonishment at
the tell-tale object, then with a crash he closed the gate and raised
a horn to his lips. But ere he could blow a blast Raymond was upon
him; a glint of cold steel, and the man uttering a choking cry, threw
up his arms and fell in a huddled heap.

Disguise was no longer necessary, and the squire, opening the gate
and casting off his gown as he ran, sped over the open space towards
the sheltering forest.

He heard some one behind him shouting the alarm, but by the time the
watchers on the wall could wind their cross-bows Raymond was almost
out of range, though a dropping bolt, shot at a venture, hummed close
to his head and buried itself in the springy turf at the foot of the
nearest tree.

Though skilled in finding a course by observing the position of the
sun, Raymond was but indifferently versed in woodcraft, and in the
gloom of the forest all idea of direction was beyond him. Onward he
plunged, crashing through the bracken and undergrowth, till to his
great delight he struck a narrow path. This he followed, till at
length he came upon the scene of his ambuscade. A yawning pit,
partially concealed by a screen of hurdles and bracken, lay across
the narrow way, while a score of paces beyond was a tree trunk,
which, having been skilfully cut through close to its base, needed
but little effort to fall into its present position, effectually
barring the road to any but unmounted men.

With a sickening feeling of horror Raymond gazed into the pit, where
lay the mangled remains of two of his men-at-arms, though it was
evident that the plunderer had already been there, as the corpses
were stripped of their arms and accoutrements, while the trappings of
the horses had vanished.

Under the fallen trunk lay the body of the third soldier, plundered
also as far as the ponderous timber would allow, while of the fourth
no trace remained but a dark stain on the clayey soil.

Clambering over the last obstacle, the squire found himself on the
steep path that had been so dangerous a road but a short fortnight
before. On and on he hastened, till he emerged on the high road that
led to the camp, which he estimated to be about four and a half
leagues distant, provided a general advance had not taken place in
the meantime.

He was hatless and without his surcoat, having left that garment with
his late jailer, and there were no distinguishing marks to show that
he belonged either to the army of the King of England or of Philip of
France.

Tying his blood-stained scarf over his chin, he strode boldly
forward, trusting in the rôle of a wounded soldier to avoid being
questioned. At length he gained the summit of a hill, from which he
looked down upon a lovely fertile valley, and in the distance the
blue waters of the English Channel.

A spur of rising ground hid the view on his right, but a few minutes
sufficed to gain its crest, and on looking down he saw a sight that
filled him with joy, for below lay a large unwalled town, which he
rightly guessed to be Caen, while a league off was the English host
in battle array, and between him and the army was a motley array of
Frenchmen issuing from the town to join battle with the invaders.

CHAPTER XVI

THE TABLES TURNED

ONLY one thing could Raymond do. He sat down on the grassy hillock
and watched, knowing well that the fight could but end in one way.

A little group of Norman knights led the van of the French, whose
forces were composed mostly of townsmen, desperate in their vain
attempt to save their town from pillage. Eagerly the keen eyes of the
squire followed their disorderly advance, till they were almost lost
to view in the distance.

To him it seemed as if the white-coated lines of English archers
stirred neither hand nor foot, but he knew full well that the blast
of deadly arrows had sped, for as if by magic the dark masses of the
Frenchmen broke and fled, without coming to hand-grips. Already the
English cavalry were in hot pursuit, and the white winding road
leading to the town was outlined with clouds of dust, which almost
concealed the disorderly remnants of the defeated fugitives.

Directly the advance guard of the fleeing army began to draw near,
Raymond rose from the grass and ran swiftly towards the road. The
Frenchmen, each intent upon his own safety, rushed past him, throwing
off their armour to aid their flight, the mounted fugitives
ruthlessly riding down their less fortunate countrymen.

Seated by the roadside was a man-at-arms, who, sorely wounded in the
shoulder, was endeavouring to divest himself of his hauberk in order
to ease the pain. Actuated both by his own requirements and a feeling
of pity, Raymond helped him to unburden himself of the steel-ringed
coat, and having donned the Frenchman's discarded armour, he bathed
his wound, a deep lance-thrust, with water obtained from a rivulet
that ran by the roadside.

After rendering this service he proceeded to complete his own
equipment. A heavy sword and a light shield were soon found, and it
did not require much effort on the part of the active squire to seize
a riderless horse.

With difficulty curbing the restlessness of his newly-acquired steed,
Raymond urged it into an adjoining field to avoid being swept away by
the panic-stricken horde of fugitives, and eagerly awaited the
arrival of the English host.

Soon the tide of fleeing Frenchmen slackened, and the braver spirits,
maintaining a running fight, alone remained to uphold the honour of
the ill-assorted army of the citizens of Caen.

Suddenly Raymond's attention was drawn to a knot of mailed figures,
who, surrounded by a press of Englishmen, fought savagely with the
courage of despair. One by one the French mounted men-at-arms and
squires fell, till only two knights remained.

The pair, keeping side by side, held their enemies at bay by a shower
of blows from sword and mace, till one, his horse slain by a
Welshman, who paid for his act by having his head cleft by a
back-handed sweep, was dashed to the ground and made prisoner.

On seeing his comrade's fate, the other knight urged his horse
through the crowd of assailants and made a dash for the open field,
where Raymond awaited the chance to join his friends.

Directly the squire caught sight of his emblazoned surcoat and shield
he recognised the Frenchman--it was none other than the Count of
Tancarville!

Shaking off his pursuers, who preferred to return to squabble over
their rights to the ransom of the captive knight, the Count rode
straight for the place where Raymond was concealed. When he was
twenty paces off the squire rode forward and barred his way.

"Yield thyself, Sir Knight!" exclaimed Raymond.

For a moment the Count gazed with undisguised astonishment at the man
whom he had last seen as a prisoner in his stronghold, then,
recovering himself, he put spur to his horse and rode furiously at
the squire.

The combatants were evenly matched, for the advantage of the
Frenchman's complete coat of mail was balanced by the comparative
freshness of his opponent and his steed. The knight had lost his
lance, so that the fight was with swords.

Reining back his horse, Raymond skilfully avoided the first rush, the
Count's sword-point missing his unguarded face by a hand's breadth,
while the squire's return blow fell harmlessly on his adversary's
shield. Instantly Raymond closed in, and before the knight could turn
his steed to meet the counter-attack, the squire's sword had bit
deeply into his enemy's thigh. Then their blades met, and amid a
shower of sparks and the clicking and rasping of steel, Raymond found
himself at pains to defend his unvisored face, and it was not long
before the blood was flowing freely from a cut on his cheek. But the
Count's previous exertions and the loss of blood from several deep
wounds were beginning to tell. His blows did not fall with the same
strength that marked his first rush, though the squire could not
break down his guard.

Long they fought, their horses prancing and curveting as if realising
that their efforts would materially aid their masters' sword-play,
till Raymond's untried blade snapped off close to the hilt, and, with
the exception of a short knife, he was left weaponless.

A quick pull at the reins, and the squire's horse ranged alongside
that of the Norman. The next instant Raymond had grasped his opponent
round the body, and with a mighty heave sought to tear him from the
saddle.

Between the two plunging steeds the combatants fell, locked in a
close embrace, Raymond uppermost; but before he could make good his
advantage and demand his enemy's surrender a stunning kick from the
Count's horse left its master at the Englishman's mercy.

Raymond rose to his feet bruised and breathless, and at that moment a
band of soldiers came hurrying towards them. The newcomers were the
wild-looking Welsh mercenaries, intent on plunder; and, unable to
make them understand who he was, the squire was for a while in danger
of being set upon by these lawless booty-seeking warriors. Standing
over the body of the prostrate knight, he beckoned, shouted, and
threatened, till a highly-pitched voice behind him demanded who and
what he was.

Raymond turned and saw a gigantic, swarthy, and black-bearded man,
clad in a bronze-coloured suit of armour, having a green dragon
emblazoned on his surcoat and shield.

"Squire to Sir John Hacket of Hamptonshire," he replied breathlessly.
"I pray thee bid these rascals desist."

A word from the stranger in an unknown tongue, and the Welshmen
retired.

"Rascals, iss what ye call tem?" asked the new arrival, laughing
boisterously. "I would haf yes know, poy, tat tey are from
Glamorgan--from Glamorgan, I tell you! And tey are the best men in
the Army, I tell ye, poy, for tey are my men, I, David Evans, knight
off Glamorgan. I pray ye pear tat in mind. I myself tought ye wass a
Norman, or at pest a Gascon, seeing ye wass to wear a Frenchman's
hauberk."

The Welsh leader rode off, leaving Raymond to wonder how he could
escape molestation from his friends and still stand by his captive.
Most of the pursuers kept to the highway, and only a few came close
to where he stood. In vain he begged and entreated the passing
soldiers to give a hand to carry off the unconscious Count. Even the
promise of a silver penny had no effect, for the English, intent on
plunder, were already streaming into Caen with the last of their
foes, and the comparatively bountiful offer of payment was invariably
rejected with contempt.

At length, despairing of obtaining assistance, Raymond left his
prisoner and made his way back to the road, hoping to see a familiar
face amongst the victorious soldiers who were hurrying forward to
join in the sack of the town, but there were none of the Hampshire
companies.

Picking up another sword to replace his broken weapon, the squire
preferred to go back to guard his captive, consoling himself with the
thought that on the Count's return to consciousness he could lead him
into the camp; then, suddenly bethinking himself of the rivulet
higher up the road, he hastened towards it to slake his burning
thirst.

This he did, and thereupon made his way back by a different route to
where the Count lay. Barely had he gone half the distance than he
came to a dry ditch, where, to his surprise, he found two fugitives
cowering in the long grass that grew in the trench.

"Je me rends!" they both exclaimed, grovelling at his feet in fear of
instant death, for, being but peasants, they knew that scant mercy
was shown to those who were unable to offer ransom.

In a moment Raymond saw and seized his chance. "Vous êtes mes
prisonniers," he exclaimed, brandishing his weapon. "Venez avec moi."

Driving them before him, the squire soon reached the place where he
had left the Count of Tancarville, and indicated by signs that they
should carry him. This they did, panting with their exertions, for
the knight in his complete armour was a heavy burden. Their progress
was slow, till on arriving on the highway Raymond made them take two
broken lances, and forming a rough litter, they were able to make a
better pace.

At length, they came in sight of the camp, and to his great joy
Raymond saw the well-known banner of the crescent on the blue field,
waving close to the pavilion over which floated the royal standard of
England, for the Constable of Portchester's company was that day
detailed as guard to the camp.

Great was the delight and astonishment of Sir John Hacket and his men
on Raymond's reappearance, for he had been given up for lost; and
greater was the Constable's surprise when his squire, pointing to the
litter, exclaimed with pardonable pride: "Behold, sir, I bring thee
the Count of Tancarville according to thy instructions."

Having handed over his three prisoners and given a brief account of
his adventures, Raymond retired to a tent to enjoy a well-earned meal
and a rest. From one of the archers he learned that his father,
maddened by grief and rage at the supposed loss of his son, had
obtained permission to join for the time being the Sussex company of
Sir Guy of Bramber, vowing that twenty Norman lives would but
ill-balance Raymond's death.

The squire's leisure was of short duration, for Sir John Hacket came
in person to inform him that the King had ordered him to appear
before him.

Raymond's eyes sparkled with delight, for this was a step at least
towards his coveted reward, and hastily attiring himself suitably for
the royal presence, he followed the Constable to the King's pavilion.

It was a large tent, hung with damask, and divided into two parts by
a heavy curtain. In the ante-room were crowds of knights awaiting an
audience, their names and titles being carefully set down by a
herald, while another, stationed at the flap of the partitioning
curtain, where two knights in full armour stood on guard, announced
the various personages who had business with their Sovereign.

Each knight who was ushered into the inner apartment had but a short
stay in the royal presence, and to Raymond, as he waited in
breathless expectation, it seemed as if there was a continuous
procession of warriors, some elated with the prospect of praise and
honour, others nervously ignorant of why they were summoned thither;
while others, knowing that their master had cause for displeasure,
were pacing the crowded ante-chamber, biting their lips in their
anxiety.

All the while a buzz of suppressed voices was heard from the inner
room, and occasionally Edward's hearty voice could be clearly
distinguished as he praised or chid according to the merits or
demerits of the person before him.

Suddenly the sound of a galloping horse was heard, coming rapidly
nearer, then, amid a hum of ill-concealed excitement, a knight,
covered in mud from head to foot, and breathless from hard riding,
burst into the ante-chamber.

"Ah, Sir William!" he exclaimed to the royal herald, "I pray thee
announce me to the King with all despatch. The matter brooks not
delay!" And clanking in his heavy armour at the heels of the herald
he disappeared behind the curtain that concealed the royal presence
from the crowd of waiting knights.

"'Tis Lord Bassett," whispered Sir John to his squire. "Certes, some
event of much moment hath occurred to bring him from the field.
Hearken!"

The newcomer's voice was distinctly audible to those who waited
without. "The men of Caen are holding out stubbornly, Sire, every
house being closed to our troops, and our losses from the darts of
those within are exceeding great. The Welsh levies, aye, and our own
men as well, are killing without mercy man, woman, and child, yet
their acts do but increase the fury of the men of Caen. I pray you,
Sire, that the word goes forth that every soldier shall withdraw from
the city, for otherwise they threaten to destroy it with fire."

"But wherefore should we hold our hand?" inquired the King. "They of
Caen set themselves in battle against our hosts, and must of
necessity abide the consequences."

"But the spoil, Sire, the spoil! 'Tis the richest town in all
Normandy. If we can but prevail on the citizens to lay down their
arms, then the sack can be resumed with more profit and less risk."

"There's wisdom in thy words," replied Edward, "but thy advice is
every whit the same as the Cardinal Legates gave to us but an hour
agone. These we told that it was our resolve to brook no interference
of the Holy Father in matters appertaining to war, but, by my
halidome, the suggestion commends itself to us. Therefore withdraw
our troops. Beat a parley with the townsmen, and demand their
surrender with promise of quarter. Stay! I'll to the front myself!
Herald! Dismiss the knights in waiting, and inform them that we will
receive them on the morrow."

Thus Raymond's opportunity had passed for the present, for when the
morrow came, the King in person met the chief magistrate of Caen, and
in the presence of the Papal Envoys, agreed to accept the
unconditional surrender of the town, pledging his kingly word,
however, that the massacre should cease, and before the evening came
the squire was detailed for another errand.

"Raymond," quoth Sir John Hacket, "I have it in mind that a slight
advancement and no little honour can be obtained if we can seize the
stronghold of the Count of Tancarville, and gain possession of the
store of powder and the bombards of which thou hast spoken. What
think ye? All the powder was not taken away by the Count?"

"I think not, sir."

"And the bombards?"

"I saw none go; nevertheless they may have sent them away."

"Then I'll go to Chandos and crave permission to lead the company
against this strange hunting-lodge in the Forest of Brique. Meanwhile
have thy two prisoners closely questioned, for, methinks, they know
exactly where this stronghold lieth."

The Constable hastened to the tent of Sir John Chandos to obtain the
required boon, while Raymond sent for the two Normans whose lives he
had spared. They were, so the squire ascertained, brothers, and one
had been in the service of the Count of Eu, and knew the precise
position of the Count of Tancarville's forest castle.

Soon Sir John returned, having succeeded in his mission. One of the
prisoners was made to act as guide, and to avoid another blunder he
was told that should the enterprise fail through his neglect or
treachery his brother's life would be forfeit. Rations were served
out to the company, and an hour later Sir John's command, consisting
of three squires, thirty men-at-arms, and fifty mounted archers,
moved out of camp amid the encouraging shouts of their comrades, and
disappeared in the gathering gloom towards the dark masses of the
Forest of Brique.

CHAPTER XVII

THE FALL OF THE COUNT'S STRONGHOLD

UNDER the guidance of the Norman, the company proceeded by a
different route to that by which Raymond made his escape; and, as
night fell, they dismounted and off-saddled in a clearing within half
a league of the Count's stronghold.

Sentries were posted, and every precaution taken against surprise,
but nothing untoward occurred to disturb the camp.

Day dawned, but a thick, fleecy mist prevailed, the moisture dripping
from the steel caps of the soldiers, who, in spite of it being a
summer's morn in fair Normandy, actually shivered with cold. No fires
were allowed to be lighted for fear of giving warning of their
approach, and after a hasty breakfast the company started on the last
portion of the journey.

The way lay through a narrow avenue, similar to that in which
Raymond's ill-fated men-at-arms met with disaster, and the Norman
guide, anxious for his own and his brother's safety, used all his
skill and cunning as a woodman to ensure a successful surprise.

Presently through the mist two gnarled trunks attracted his
attention, and, halting, he beckoned to the Constable to dismount. In
low tones he explained that he wanted a riderless horse to be driven
in front of the company, and, the Constable assenting, one of the
archers dismounted and urged his steed to the head of the column.

To Raymond, who knew the perils of the path, the act occasioned no
surprise, but most of the soldiers watched the action with
wonderment.

The horse had proceeded but a short distance when it stumbled over
some invisible obstacle, and before it could recover itself, a heavy
beam, furnished with a metal barb, came crashing down from the
mist--hidden branches above, pinning the devoted animal to the earth.

A score of willing hands dragged the timber and its victim from the
path. "I pray you send another horse on ahead," exclaimed the
Constable calmly, as if unmoved by his narrow escape, for had he been
in his customary place at the head of the company his fate would have
been sealed.

Silently, and fully anticipating a fresh trap, the troop advanced,
the successor to the ill-fated horse walking cautiously as if
instinctively aware of its perilous mission. A bow-shot farther it
stopped, and, in spite of the application of the point of a dagger,
it refused to move another step.

"Prenez garde, messieurs, c'est un piège," whispered the Norman.
"Mais sans doute c'est le dernier empêchement."

"Step forward, Lavant," exclaimed the Constable in a low tone to one
of the men-at-arms. "Thrust out thy spear and see what lieth here."

The man did so, and almost without resistance the weapon sank in
turf. A twist of the spear and a large piece of what looked to be
green sward gave way, disclosing a yawning cavity, its length being
too great to permit a horse to leap across, while its depth was
sufficient to kill or maim any man or beast that had the misfortune
to fall therein.

At a sign from their leader the soldiers dismounted. One man was told
off to every four horses, a party set silently to work to cut a way
through the dense thicket, so as to make a detour round the pitfall,
and the rest of the soldiers stood where they were, resting on their
arms till the path was cleared.

This done, the company, now diminished in fighting numbers by
one-fourth, resumed their march, and, as the guide had foretold, were
unmolested by any other obstacle till they emerged from the forest at
the edge of the extensive clearing in which stood the stronghold of
the Count of Tancarville.

The sun was now above the tree-tops, and slowly the mist was
dispersing, so that the outlines of the fortress were just visible in
the clouds of lifting vapour.

Ordering his men to lie down within the shelter of the undergrowth,
Sir John called his squires, the master bowman who had taken the
place of the absent Redward, and the oldest man-at-arms, and held a
hasty consultation upon the plan of attack.

Though Raymond had not seen the castle from without, he found that
his idea of the place did not differ greatly from the appearance of
the actual building. It was a long, low structure, but one story in
height, save at one corner, where a low tower commanded the rest of
the stronghold. The walls were pierced with narrow loopholes for the
discharge of arrows, and crowned by a battlemented breastwork. Around
the walls was, as Raymond already knew, a ditch or moat. The
drawbridge was raised, and the outer fortalice or barbican was
furnished with a massive door.

There were no signs of the garrison, which, at the most, numbered
less than two score men, but the possibility of a surprise was
guarded against by the fact that the doorway of the barbican was
closed.

For several hours the little English force lay in front of the
stronghold, the soldiers prone on the grass, their leaders standing
behind a dense thicket, so that no assailant was visible to the
still unsuspecting inmates of the castle.

At length some of the archers who had remained with the horses joined
the main body, dragging with them two peasants who were captured
while on their way to the Count's fortress. The two men bore huge
baskets full of bread on their backs, and the booty was distributed
and eagerly devoured by the soldiers, while the peasants, securely
bound, were detained a short distance in the forest under a guard of
three archers.

Presently one of the men-at-arms approached Raymond. "I beg of thee,
sir, to ask the Constable that he give me leave to force an entry
into yonder fortress."

"How so, Peter? Wouldst essay the task alone?"

"Nay, Master Raymond, but with my comrade, Myles of Fareham, 'tis
easy to attempt."

"And easier to fail? What wouldst thou do?"

"If we don the peasant's clothes and carry their baskets filled with
stones on our backs, I trow 'twill be an easy business to fool those
that are within. Once they open the gate two honest Englishmen can
hold it against a score of Frenchmen till the main body hath time to
come to our aid."

"By St. George! Thou sayest aright; I'll speak to Sir John at once."

The Constable received the project with delight, and preparations for
the assault were instantly made. The two men-at-arms drew the
gabardines of the peasants over their armour, so that they closely
resembled the thick-set, shambling Normans, and shouldering their
heavy baskets, they advanced boldly towards the outwork.

Meanwhile their comrades were eager and alert. The bowmen had chosen
their arrows and strung their bows; the men-at-arms had drawn their
swords and had discarded their belts and sheaths to enable them to
run the quicker to the aid of the two devoted men, and with eyes
intently fixed on the gate of the barbican they awaited the signal to
rush headlong across the open space that lay between them and the
fortress.

To the waiting soldiers it seemed hours ere their two comrades drew
near to the outer work, but when within a few paces of it a sentinel
stood forth on the wall and challenged them. Then, apparently
suspicious of their errand, he blew a loud blast on a horn, which was
immediately answered by the appearance of five or six men from within
the barbican, while over a score lined the walls of the main
stronghold, some of whom began to wind their cross-bows.

At the same time the door was thrown open, and a man, apparently a
captain, stood on the threshold. Up to now these preparations were
simply a matter of form, no matter who the newcomer might be, and
fortunately the iron-nerved Englishmen understood this, for,
staggering under their loads, they still advanced with bent heads to
avoid recognition.

Suddenly the guardian of the gate realised that it was not a pair of
ignorant peasants that he had to parley with. But the knowledge came
too late. Peter of Purbrook had thrown down his load and dashed,
sword in hand, at the astonished Norman. Before the latter could
retreat a step he had fallen with his head cleft to the chin. His
body lay athwart the threshold, and ere the others could rush to
close the gate the Englishmen had pushed their baskets, filled with
stones, against the door, and were awaiting the onslaught of their
foes.

With hoarse shouts of encouragement the English men-at-arms rose from
their ambush and rushed madly to their comrades' aid, while the
archers, shooting rapidly and coolly, directed a dropping fire of
arrows at the defenders on the walls. But they of the outwork had
gathered to defend the gate, and already a fierce struggle was taking
place, the two gallant Englishmen being hard pressed by the enraged
Normans.

With axe, spear, and mace the defenders strove to thrust back the
daring intruders, while the latter, regardless of their own safety,
essayed to keep open the gate. Two of the Normans fell, their bodies
adding to the ghastly pile at the entrance to the barbican, but
directly afterwards Myles of Fareham was slain by a savage
spear-thrust.

Undismayed by the fall of his comrade, Peter of Purbrook hurled an
axe at the helm of the slayer of his friend, then, clearing at a
bound the heap of corpses, bade fair to drive back the defenders
single-handed, while his comrades, with Raymond well in the fore,
were already halfway across the intervening space.

Carried away by the heat of battle, Raymond saw as in a dream the
figure of the devoted man-at-arms clearing a path for his countrymen;
the next instant there was a blinding flash, a deafening roar, and a
thick, choking cloud of sulphurous smoke.

One of the defenders, with the fury of despair, had fired off a
bombard, the huge stone ball crashing through friend and foe alike,
and bounding over the springy turf till it came to a stop a few paces
from the edge of the forest.

Appalled by the sound, the soldiers hesitated, but when the smoke had
partially cleared away the gateway was deserted.

Then the Constable's voice was heard amid the din, "Onwards, men, the
place is ours," and regaining their wits, the Englishmen rushed
forward and reached the deserted barbican.

The discharge from the bombard, by which the remaining Frenchmen,
save one, and four English men-at-arms, including the ill-fated
Peter, had been swept away, was attended by one good result. The
drawbridge had been lowered, and, after applying the linstock, the
cannonier had darted back across it to take refuge in the fortress,
while the heavy bombard, wrenching asunder the leather thongs that
bound it to the carriage, had recoiled till its weight rested on the
end of the drawbridge, effectually preventing it from being raised by
the defenders.

In the meanwhile the English archers, while engaged in keeping down
the fire of the cross-bowmen, had marked the fugitive cannonier as he
sped back to gain the entrance. Ere he had run but half the distance
he fell, transfixed by a dozen arrows, while the attacking party
roared with excitement and jubilation.

Even if the defenders had had another bombard available they would
have been prevented by the hail of shafts from training it on their
adversaries; and, led by the Constable and his squires, the
men-at-arms crossed the drawbridge and thundered at the main gate
with their axes, while the archers, advancing in close order, kept up
a hot fire against every point where a Norman dared show the crest of
his steel cap.

Under the furious blows the door was splintered; then with a united
effort the shattered woodwork gave way, and the victorious Englishmen
rushed headlong into the castle, only to find that not a man of the
garrison was to be seen.

With his own hands the Constable tore down the scarlet wolves' heads
of the banner of the Count of Tancarville, and the blue guidon with
the demi-lune floated in its place, amidst a fanfare of trumpets and
the cheers of the victors.

Then a systematic search of the stronghold was undertaken, but no
trace of the Normans was found till an archer stumbled over a heavy
trap-door, which, on being raised, disclosed a flight of dank stone
steps leading to a subterranean passage. Listening intently, the
Constable and his squires heard the faint sounds of retreating
footsteps echoing along the stone walls of the tunnel.

"It matters not," quoth Sir John. "I doubt whether there be any
person of quality amongst them. Their burrow doubtless leads to some
spot in the forest, and I can ill-afford to risk more lives in a
needless undertaking."

To close the entrance, pieces of heavy timber weighted with stone
were thrown down the yawning pit, and having made all chance of a
return by this outlet impossible, the soldiers devoted their energies
to the exploration of the building.

It was more of a fortified arsenal than a castle, the Count's
principal fortress being ten leagues off, but the spoils of war were
both numerous and useful.

In all, including the bombard in the barbican, there were eleven
pieces of ordnance, a score barrels of powder, steel caps, hauberks,
and weapons of all descriptions. Unwilling to leave the booty where
it might again fall into the hands of the Normans, the Constable made
preparations to carry off the whole of the munitions of war.

Dragging long planks across the open ground, a party of archers
returned to where the horses had been left. By bridging the pitfall,
the steeds were led safely across the fatal trap, and in less than an
hour were within the stronghold, where rough carts in abundance were
ready to be loaded up with the spoil.

Meanwhile Raymond had not forgotten the unfortunate man-at-arms who
had been captured with him in the first attempt to seize the Count.
Aided by a couple of archers, he searched vainly for the secret
oubliette, till at length he bethought him of the two peasants who
had been taken earlier in the day.

These were brought before him, and without much difficulty were
compelled to lead the way. In the floor of the lowest apartment the
peasants pointed out a small door, almost invisible in the deep
gloom. Procuring a torch, Raymond and the archers shot back the
bolts, and on lifting the trapdoor, a dark, evil-smelling dungeon was
disclosed, unlighted and almost unventilated. Mingled with the noise
of scores of rats a low moaning was heard, and in the fitful glare of
the torchlight a narrow circular hole could be distinguished in the
centre of the dungeon, its mouth unprotected by a barrier of any
kind.

"Art there, Robert?" asked the squire, his voice shaking with pity
and emotion.

The only reply was another low moan, as of a human being in direst
distress. Sending one of the archers back for assistance, Raymond
impatiently waited by the yawning pit. The man soon returned, and
with him four lusty men-at-arms, one of whom carried a coil of stout
rope and two more torches.

Directing the men to lower him slowly and carefully, Raymond knotted
one end of the rope under his arms and boldly descended, holding a
flaming torch above his head. The light flickered on the slimy walls
of the pit, which, as he descended, began to increase in size, till
at length he reached the bottom of a deep, bottle-shaped cavity, the
only approach to which being the narrow neck through which he had
been lowered.

The floor was ankle-deep in filth and slime; and, by the aid of the
torch, the squire saw, crouched in the corner, apparently heedless of
the presence of his rescuer, the figure of a man.

Bending over him, Raymond failed at first to recognise his ill-fated
companion-in-arms, for the soldier's face, instead of being the
deep-bronzed, healthy colour that comes of a life in the open air,
was of a ghastly greenish hue, and his eyes, dazzled by the glimmer
of the torch, blinked with a peculiar vacant expression that
suggested madness.

Finding that the man was too weak to stand the strain of the rope
round his chest, Raymond, placing the torch on the ground, lifted him
to his feet, and taking him in his arms, called out to those above to
haul up. Shielding the soldier as well as he could from the rough
sides of the shaft, the squire with his pitiful burden came slowly to
the surface, where rough but kindly hands took charge of the rescued
prisoner, who was little more than a corpse.

[Illustration: A PITIFUL DISCOVERY]

On rejoining the Constable, Raymond found that a discovery had been
made of another score of barrels filled with powder, and the question
of transport was troubling Sir John sorely. For not only was the
quantity too great for the numbers of men and waggons at their
disposal, but the difficulty arose how to reach the highway, the path
by which they had come being quite unsuitable for the carts.

Two scouts were therefore sent out with instructions to follow the
cart-tracks, and to find out whether any of the late garrison still
remained in the neighbourhood.

CHAPTER XVIII

REDWARD'S CONFESSION

IT was close on nightfall ere the two scouts sent out by Sir John
Hacket returned to the captured fortress. They reported that there
was a fairly wide road which joined the highway to Caen about three
leagues from that town, and that there were no signs of any hostile
force in the district they had explored.

So that night the company made merry in the stronghold of the Count
of Tancarville, wine and food being found in abundance, although Sir
John did not for one moment relax the vigilance so necessary in a
strange country.

At daybreak preparations were made for the evacuation of the
fortress, and, headed by the two scouts, the little force set out on
its march to the camp.

First came a strong party of men-at-arms, ready for instant action in
case of attack. Then followed the Constable and his squires,
accompanied by the two peasants and the Norman guide, and surrounded
by a body of dismounted archers, who marched with their bows strung
and their quivers swinging from the hip.

The carts came next, drawn by the horses of the dismounted archers,
and piled high with the spoils of the fortress, including the
captured bombards and as much powder as they could possibly hold.

Next came a small troop of men-at-arms, followed by some more carts,
in which the wounded, including the rescued soldier, lay on heaps of
hay and straw; while the rear was composed of the rest of the
men-at-arms and mounted archers.

In this order they issued under the great gateway, passed over the
drawbridge, and crossed the wide belt of open ground. When the head
of the column reached the edge of the gloomy forest a tucket sounded
and the soldiers came to a halt.

Seeing Sir John and his squires gazing intently at the abandoned
stronghold the men did likewise. They saw the grim and gaunt pile
standing clearly out against the dark background of the forest, and
from the black flag-staff fluttered the blue banner of the company,
with its well-known device of the golden crescent.

Even as they watched, the figure of a man made its appearance on the
battlements; the banner was slowly lowered, and the man disappeared.

A few moments later the same man, mounted on a swift steed, emerged
from the gateway and thundered across the turf. Reining in his horse
before Sir John, the rider handed the banner to the guidon-bearer,
saluted, and fell in with his comrades; but still the Constable kept
his eyes steadfastly on the fortress.

What could it mean?

Slowly the moments sped. To the perplexity of the soldiers, the
castle had an irresistible fascination for their leaders, and,
following their example, they, too, looked in silent wonderment at
the gaunt masses of masonry.

Suddenly, with a flash, a roar, and a cloud of smoke and dust, the
castle appeared to split asunder; huge masses of stone flew skyward,
then with an appalling crash the walls subsided, and in place of the
massive outlines of the fortress there was nothing to be seen save a
pile of blackened stones, over which floated a heavy pall of dense
vapour.

The remainder of the powder had been fired, and the sylvan stronghold
of the Count of Tancarville was no more!

"'Tis well done," was Sir John's only comment, then, on receiving the
word of command, the company resumed its march, and plunged into the
sombre shadows of the forest.

Almost unnoticed, the little force reached the camp, for in the
excitement of the sack of the rich town of Caen the absence of the
company on their successful raid was of small moment to the rest of
the army intent as they were on the gain of booty.

There were two exceptions at least. One was Redward Buckland, who,
being apprised of his son's safety, had left the Sussex company, only
to find to his great disappointment that his comrades had departed on
their raid.

The other was the great Chandos, who, recognising more than most
Englishmen of his day the possibilities of artillery, showed the
greatest interest in Sir John Hacket's report of the expedition,
promising at the first available opportunity to inform the King of
the great service rendered by the Constable of Portchester and his
favourite squire.

But other events were taking place that effectually eclipsed for the
time being the glory of the brilliant raid. Edward, having plundered
Caen, described by Froissart as "large, strong, full of draperies and
all sorts of merchandise; rich citizens, noble dames, damsels, and
fine churches," had reserved for his own share all the plate, jewels,
and choice cloths. The plunder, together with three hundred of the
more opulent citizens, was placed on board the English ships and sent
over the Channel; then, hoping to sack Rouen in a similar manner, the
King advanced with his army up the fertile valley of the Seine.

Foiled in this attempt, he continued his march towards Paris, only to
find the bridges broken down, with a strong hostile force on the
nether bank, and Philip with a large army rapidly approaching from
Guienne.

A desolate track, dotted with the ashes of countless towns and
villages, marked the ruthless advance of the English, till at the
very gates of Paris the flood-tide of invasion became the ebb of
retreat, and Edward, hard pressed, was in danger of being cut off by
overwhelming numbers.

One night, when lying near the village of Poissy, the camp was
aroused, and orders given to prepare to march.

"Whither are we bound?" asked Raymond of his father as they met in
the semi-darkness.

Redward shook his head. "'Tis not a soldier's part to question
orders," quoth he. "I did hear that the King would try to reach
Flanders, but methinks this way leadeth to Paris."

There was no occasion for silence, and, talking freely amongst
themselves, the soldiers struck their tents, and at daybreak were
well on the road to Paris, while the light-armed horsemen attached to
the French army, who hovered around the flanks, wheeled about and
galloped off to inform the French King of the advance of the
invaders.

Hardly had the cavalry disappeared than a halt was ordered; then,
with great celerity, the whole English army turned and retraced its
footsteps.

The Hampshire companies, which at the outset formed the rearguard,
now found themselves in the van, and great was their delight when it
was rumoured that the King had entrusted to them the task of forcing
the passage of the Seine.

"'Tis Sir John Chandos' own doing," remarked Redward, "and as clever
a feint as ever I met with. While the French are massing to prevent
our supposed march on Paris, we are quietly slipping away towards
Flanders."

As they came in sight of the turbid river a horseman spurred madly
towards them. "The bridge! The bridge is broken down!" he shouted,
then without slackening his speed he rode onwards towards the main
body which the King had under his own command.

"The bridge!" growled Redward, "what of the bridge? 'Tis easily
repaired, provided the enemy do not line the farther bank."

"Then show all men what we can do," exclaimed the Constable. "Pull
down that house for me, and I'll warrant there will be a goodly stock
of timber sufficient to build a bridge, let alone patch one up."

The men worked with a will, and soon the house was a shapeless mass
of wood and plaster, while the soldiers, selecting the largest and
strongest beams, dragged them to the spot where the jagged ends of
the riven bridge gaped a good ten yards apart.

Meanwhile Redward and two score of his comrades had thrown off their
armour and quilted jackets, and, with ropes fastened to their waists,
plunged into the swift-flowing river.

To clamber up the woodwork of the broken arch was the work of a few
minutes; then, hauling at the ropes with a will, they dragged two of
the largest beams across the chasm, and after this was done the work
of completing the temporary bridge was a comparatively easy matter.

By this time the whole English army had crowded on its advance guard,
and many anxious glances were thrown backwards in the direction from
which the French attack was expected, but to every one's relief no
enemy appeared till the last waggon of the retreating host had
rumbled over the swaying structure. Then, as the van of the French
army came in sight, the temporary span, together with two additional
arches, crashed into the river, effectually preventing all pursuit
for a considerable period.

The retreat continued, the King making towards Flanders, yet at the
same time gradually approaching the shores of the English Channel, so
as to be able to re-embark should he find himself hemmed in by the
hordes of infuriated Frenchmen.

As the English came on swiftly and in good order, a considerable
force, under Godemar de Faye, fell back before them, seeking a
favourable chance to hinder their advance, while in their rear came
the hundred thousand armed men of King Philip, who had meantime found
means of crossing the Seine and were swiftly pursuing.

At length the English reached the valley of the Somme. Here the same
difficulty awaited them. The bridges were broken down by the
redoubtable Godemar, after he had crossed and drawn up his troops on
the right bank to oppose the passage of the retreating army.

Edward was sore puzzled with the problem of how to effect a crossing,
till a miserable Norman peasant, one Gobin Agace, was brought before
him. Not by threats, but by promises of rich reward, was this
unworthy Frenchman induced to betray his country; and, on his
informing the King of a certain ford, the order for a general advance
was at once given.

Led by the peasant, the English rushed towards the ford. In front
flowed the river, lapping over the white stones and shingle as it
babbled along, an apparently peaceful stream, towards the sea.

On the opposite bank lay the troops of Godemar; but not for one
moment did the King hesitate. Commanding the archers to pour a heavy
covering fire into the masses of Frenchmen, he drew his sword, and
setting himself at the head of his knights and mounted troops, Edward
dashed across the river. Short and fierce was the conflict, but
unable to withstand the fierce onslaught, the Frenchmen gave way, and
were soon in headlong flight.

"Haste, sir," exclaimed Sir John Chandos; "command the main body to
cross." And even as he spoke the dark outlines of the pursuing army
appeared on the crest of a distant hill.

Never was a ford crossed with such celerity. The waggons were dragged
or lifted by the united efforts of crowds of archers, and though
waist-deep in water, the whole army crossed in safety.

Then the order was given to resume the march, the Hampshire companies
being given the post of honour--the task of covering the retreat.

As Raymond stood with his men watching the advancing Frenchmen, their
innumerable banners waving like a reed-covered pond, the archers had
slipped into a long, extended line, and quietly, yet resolutely,
awaited the oncoming enemy.

Suddenly the squire noticed a change in the appearance of the river.
Instead of a silently-flowing stream that ran towards the sea, a wave
of foaming water rushed up in the opposite direction, and almost
instantly the river became a mass of broken water, impassable to man
or beast. The flood-tide had begun, and for six hours at least King
Philip was doomed to rave in fruitless anger on the wrong side of the
Somme.

"We are safe enough for the present," remarked Redward to his son,
"but methinks before daybreak there will be few of us left, for the
best we can do is to hold them in check for an hour after the tide
has run out. Many a tight corner have we been in ere now, but,
certes, this is the worst."

But the master-bowman was wrong, for presently a messenger came to
Sir John Hacket with an urgent order from the King. With an
irrepressible shout of delight, the fiery old knight summoned his
sturdy little band around him.

"It is not fated that our bones bleach on the banks of this river,
_mes enfans_," he exclaimed. "News hath arrived that the King intends
to give battle with the enemy, and hath already ordered his forces in
a strong position but three leagues hence. Thither we are to repair
with all haste. Forward, then, and ere night we shall be with the
main body!"

Eagerly the company fell in, and with hope renewed they set out for
the camp.

"Mark my word, Raymond," said his father, "'tis but putting off the
evil day. A great fight is before us, and, by the rood, 'tis hard to
say how it will end. But I have a small matter on my mind of which I
would speak anon. As soon, therefore, as we arrive in camp, come
aside with me for one brief hour."

Raymond assented, and in silence they rode onwards towards their
destination, a journey which was to many the last they would ever
make on earth.

The sun was sinking low ere they heard the trumpets of the English
host. The place Edward had chosen to make a stand was one of great
natural strength. The army was encamped on the edge of a low plateau,
the right wing being additionally protected by a narrow stream, while
in the rear was a small wood. On the summit of the hill a wooden
windmill stood out clearly against the sky, while but a bowshot away
was the little village of Crécy, its houses, though ransacked by the
invaders, still standing--a contrast to those which had previously
stood in the path of the ruthless army.

As the Constable's company moved towards the quarters assigned them,
Raymond noticed that the archers were already hard at work digging
trenches and cutting stakes for palisades, for the King had given
orders that everything should be ready ere night, so as to allow his
troops a well-earned rest.

After a good repast, for provisions were plentiful in that fertile
valley, Raymond sought his father, and together they walked through
the camp towards the solitude of the neighbouring wood. On the way
they passed the royal pavilion, where, with his chief lords, King
Edward sat at supper, and, judging by the cheerful voices of the
company, it was evident that few doubts were entertained as to the
issue of to-morrow's conflict.

But, silent and sad, the master-bowman and his son went on their way,
for Raymond knew instinctively that there was a great burden on his
father's mind. At length they reached the dark shadows of the wood,
and here Redward halted.

"Raymond, my beloved son," he exclaimed in a voice broken with
emotion, "'tis hard that I should have to tell thee what I am about
to utter, but, before Heaven, I must do it, both for mine own peace
of mind and for thine own. Two score and three years ago this very
day I slew a man. The quarrel was of his own seeking, 'tis true, but,
nevertheless, the law was set against me, and I was made outlaw!"

The master-bowman paused to note the effect of this announcement,
but, beyond a tightening of his lips, Raymond betrayed no sign of
dismay at this astounding confession.

"Then I fled from the country, and assumed a name to which I have no
right," resumed Redward. "In this I did thee a great injustice, for
the ban falls on the outlaw's children equally with himself; and on
this account I ought never to have taken a wife or to have had a
son."

"I care not for myself, father. But what if, even now, thou art
recognised?"

"It matters not, my son. A secret kept for over two score years may
well remain a secret; but I have a misgiving that I shall never see
the sun set to-morrow."

"Father!"

"Nay, Raymond, 'tis but a small matter. I cannot live much longer,
and to fall in battle is a worthy end. But the worst is to be told.
Thou wouldst marry the Lady Audrey!"

The young squire shuddered at the altered prospect.

"Alack a day!" he groaned.

"Ay, Raymond. I fear thou wilt curse the day thou camest into the
world, for to my sorrow I must tell thee--the brother of that lady's
father was the man I slew!"

For a moment the squire was incapable of speech, then, recovering
himself with an effort, he exclaimed, "Nay, father, I blame you not.
It is rather the fate of circumstances and my own foolish pride that
made me look so high. I cannot for one moment continue my suit for
the hand of the Lady Audrey, neither can I ever hope to wear the
spurs of knighthood; but I am still thy son."

"And wouldst thou know thy true name?"

"Not unless it please thee, father; 'Raymond Buckland' hath served me
well these four-and-twenty years; but," he added with pardonable
curiosity, "if I may I would desire to know."

"Dost call to mind Sir Edmund Revyngton?"

"Indifferently so; I wot he is a knight of Devon."

"He is also my brother, and, being without issue, his heir would be,
but for the bar of outlawry, Redward Revyngton, now known to all men
as Redward Buckland."

It was a long story, that narrative of life marred by an act
committed in a moment of anger, but breathlessly Raymond listened
till the master-bowman had finished.

"And if so be thou comest scatheless from the wars," he added, "the
abbot of Netley will deliver into thy hands certain documents
pertaining to thy welfare, and, should Heaven grant that this decree
of outlawry be rescinded (though I shall never live to see the day),
I pray that thou wilt ever acquit thyself as an honourable gentleman
of Devon."

Slowly father and son returned towards the camp, and as they passed
between the long lines of tents, Redward paused before a lodging in
front of which was a shield displaying a mailed hand argent on a
field azure.

Leaving Raymond standing in the gloom, the master-bowman went up and
spoke to a man-at-arms who stood outside the tent.

"My master cannot hold converse with any one this night, especially
an archer," exclaimed the man roughly.

"Convey my message to thy master and leave him to decide the point,
sirrah!" replied Redward in a tone of authority, and, on seeing that
a squire had joined him, the soldier obeyed.

Soon he reappeared, and holding open the flap of the tent, signed for
the visitors to enter.

Following his father, Raymond saw a tall, well-built man, who in
spite of his grey hairs and carefully-trimmed white beard, carried
his years with ease. He had laid aside his armour, and, judging by
the still lighted candles in front of a prie-dieu, he had but just
risen from his orisons.

With a knightly courtesy he waited for the master-bowman to speak,
thinking that one of his followers had come to ask a boon, when to
his surprise Redward addressed him by name.

"Sir Maurice," he exclaimed. "Dost thou not know me? I am thy brother
Redward!"

"Redward? Back from the dead after all these years? Nay, it cannot
be! But yet----"

Drawing nearer he looked closely into the master-bowman's rugged and
bronzed face, then, "Thank Heaven! I have found thee!" he exclaimed,
and Raymond beheld the extraordinary sight of a belted knight and a
surcoated archer falling on one another's necks in a transport of
joy.

Then the squire had to be presented to his uncle. "A fine and gallant
youth, and a credit to the old stock of Revyngtons," declared the
knight. "But, tell me, Redward, why didst thou not seek me out ere
now, knowing I was in the camp?"

"But for one thing, Maurice, I had as lief let it be thought that
Redward Revyngton was no longer in this world. It is Raymond of whom
I think, for I know that to-morrow's battle will count me amongst the
slain. How think ye, Maurice? Is there hope that the King will set
aside the outlawry, and free my son from its curse?"

The knight shook his head sorrowfully. "Sir Reginald Scarsdale is
ever with the King, and his wrath against his brother's slayer dies
not."

"And to make matters worse Raymond, ignorant of my past, seeks his
daughter's hand in marriage."

Sir Maurice smiled grimly.

"I'll do my best, even if it be to beg a favour of Scarsdale himself!
But sit down, Redward, and let us talk at ease, for the hours of
darkness fly quickly, and there is much to be said."

It was after midnight before the brothers bade each other farewell,
and Redward and Raymond returned to their tents.

On gaining the lines of the Hampshire companies, father and son
parted, the former to compose his mind for his anticipated death, the
latter to ponder over the astounding revelations he had just heard.
Sleep was banished from Raymond's eyes, and long he tossed uneasily
on his hard pallet, till the dawn grew ruddy in the east and the
trumpets heralded the advent of the eventful day.

CHAPTER XIX

CRÉCY

FOR a short space after the trumpets had sounded all was bustle, men
running hither and thither, each with a fixed purpose. Directly
Raymond had donned his armour he emerged from his tent to find all
the Hampshire companies busily engaged in breaking their fast, as
were most of the troops, the King having ordered that every man
should make a hearty meal, so as to be sustained throughout the day.

This over, the men formed into their accustomed ranks, and instantly
there was a long procession of camp-followers and lackeys leading the
horses to the enclosure behind the camp, for the order had gone forth
that all combatants were to fight afoot.

Long was that parade remembered by the young squire. The
white-surcoated archers, with their well-filled quivers and, in most
cases, an additional sheaf of arrows in their belts, the
heavily-armed men-at-arms with rusty headpieces and war-worn
accoutrements, all standing fast in regular lines, made a picture
that gladdened the hearts of their leaders as they gazed upon the
stern, bronzed faces of their men.

Already the more remote columns were deploying, and soon the order
came for the first division to march to the ground where the King had
decided to make his stand. The battlefield was well chosen, being on
the edge of the plateau overlooking the little valley that lay
between the English and the direction from which the French attack
was expected.

On arriving at the allotted station, Raymond found that the supreme
command of his division was entrusted to the Prince of Wales, a mere
youth of fifteen, who had already shown great promise of a notable
military career. With him were the Earls of Warwick and Oxford and a
host of noble lords, the brunt of the fight being expected to fall
upon this division.

Raymond found that this division was drawn up in two lines, the two
thousand bowmen being in front and the men-at-arms, numbering eight
hundred, in the second rank, while right behind were the wild-looking
Welsh and Irish auxiliaries, each man eagerly whetting his long knife
for use when the time came for them to be let loose on their
discomfited foes.

Away on the left was another large division of archers and
men-at-arms drawn up in similar order, under the command of the Earl
of Northampton; while, glancing backwards towards the
windmill-crowned hill, Raymond saw the close ranks of the reserve
division, composed of seven hundred men-at-arms and two thousand
archers, under the direct command of the King.

Looking in the direction of Abbeville, Raymond could see no signs of
the French host, and, after all, he wondered whether the attack would
be made, seeing the strength of the natural defences occupied by the
English.

At length a dull hum of excitement ran along the ranks. The voices of
the company-commanders could be heard ordering their men to stand to
their arms, and in a few moments, mounted on a white palfrey and
bearing a white rod in his hand, the King rode slowly along the front
of those rigid lines of warriors.

At intervals he reined in his steed in order to address the troops,
bidding them stand stoutly to their arms and take heed to his honour
in the fight. A roar of cheering greeted the monarch as he left the
first division to inspect the second, and the men were told to stand
at ease, and again refresh themselves with food and rest.

Although awaiting an attack is one of the worst ordeals that can be
undergone, Raymond was amazed at the coolness of the soldiers, as
with merry laugh and jest they sat or sprawled on the ground. Many
were busily engaged in fixing new strings to their bows, smoothing
out the feathers of their arrows, or waxing or greasing the heads of
their deadly shafts to enable them to pierce an obstacle with greater
ease, while others crowded round the master-bowmen, asking advice or
information on the coming struggle.

Redward had shaken off his depression, and greeted his son with a
cheerfulness that was all the more remarkable by reason of his
confession on the eve of battle.

"A goodly sight," he exclaimed, "and never can I hope to be in better
company. Look at the lads! One would think they were about to try
their turn at the butts."

"And think'st thou that the French will fight?"

"Assuredly; they seek to overwhelm and crush us with the weight of
numbers. Can the archers but hold the ridge for one hour the day will
go with us."

"But 'twill be eventide ere the enemy come to blows?"

"Ay; but if mine eyes do not deceive me, there they are, right on the
skyline."

Raymond looked, and in the distance he saw the cloud of dust that
invariably envelops an army on the march. Others had detected the
sight, and there was a general stir amongst the troops. Exclamations
of satisfaction burst from all lips at the prospect of the approach
of the French host.

"'Twill be six or seven hours ere they draw nigh," remarked Redward,
"and footsore and weary will they be after a three leagues' march in
battle array. But, see, Raymond, there is thine uncle, Sir Maurice
Revyngton, at the head of the men of Totnes, and, mark you, Sir
Reginald Scarsdale is in close converse with him. What doth it mean,
I wonder?"

A little later in the day the sun, which had been shining brightly in
the eyes of the English host, disappeared behind a thick bank of
clouds. The air was close and sultry, and at midday the gloom was so
intense that it seemed as if night was drawing nigh. With raucous
cries a vast number of crows, ever regarded as birds of ill-omen,
flew across the front of the army and alighted on the plain beneath;
then resuming their flight they disappeared in the direction of the
advancing Frenchmen.

"It will go ill with the King of France," remarked Sir John Hacket to
his squire. "If he reads the sign aright methinks he will stay his
hand. But see, a thunder-storm approaches rapidly!"

"Pass the word for the archers to protect their bow-strings,"
exclaimed the Earl of Warwick to the nearest Constable, and in
obedience to the order the bowmen either drew waterproof cases over
their bows or, if unprovided with these, unstrung their weapons and
placed the cords under their quilted coats.

Hardly were these preparations completed than the rain descended in a
torrential downpour, blotting out the horizon in a mirky blur, then,
as suddenly as it came, the cloud passed over on its way towards
Abbeville, and the sun again shone brilliantly, its warmth soon
drying the sodden clothing of the soldiers.

Nearer and nearer came the dark masses of Frenchmen, till within a
league of their enemies they halted. Shortly afterwards a group of
horsemen could be seen riding towards the English position, and, amid
breathless excitement, it was observed that four French knights were
approaching.

Either from absolute contempt for their enemies or relying on the
chivalrous instincts that frequently show themselves between opposing
enemies, the Frenchmen rode within a bow-shot of the English lines,
then, calmly trotting along the whole front of the army, they
appeared to be making careful observations of the dispositions of
their foe.

Several knights besought the Prince of Wales to be allowed to have
their chargers brought them, so that they might earn a slight
advancement by engaging the intrepid Frenchmen; others requested that
the archers should shoot them down; but to all entreaties the Prince
firmly but courteously returned a refusal, and in perfect silence the
English allowed the French knights to complete their reconnaissance,
and to retire in safety to their own host.

Slowly the hours passed, and still the French army showed no signs of
advancing. The sun was now shining well behind the English, and would
serve to dazzle the eyes of their attackers. Meanwhile the archers
had planted their pointed stakes, and the men-at-arms in charge of
the bombards had loaded these cumbersome engines and trained them on
the plain across which the enemy must advance.

Once again the wearisome monotony was broken by the appearance of a
man who was observed to make his way steadily and rapidly towards the
English lines. When within bowshot he waved his arms in token of
friendship, and four archers were sent out to escort him to the
Prince. The new-comer was a tall, lightly-built man, with long,
spider-like legs and arms, and sharp, projecting elbow-joints and
knees. He was attired in a close-fitting dress of blue cloth that
served to increase his angularities, and from his belt hung an
ink-horn counterbalanced by a short knife.

"Mark ye," quoth Sir John Hacket to his squire, "yonder sly fox is on
no lawful errand, and, certes, 'twill go hard with him if he plays
the traitor with our Prince. Look at his protruding forehead and his
shifty, blinking eyes. A creature like that would fawn to one's face
and plunge a dagger into one's back! Hark to what he has to say."

The man spoke in a deep yet quavering voice, yet so loudly that
Raymond could hear every word.

"My name, fair sir, is Alexandre Gourdain, and I am clerk in the
household of King Philip."

"Forbear to trouble me with thy name and calling," replied the Prince
curtly, "but deliver thy message."

"Message, fair sir? Nay, I bear no message, but have come to tell
thee that, though counselled to tarry till to-morrow, my master has
decided to begin the fight----"

"One moment! Thou bring'st this news on thy own behalf?"

"Yea, fair sir."

"And seekest a guerdon?"

"Yea, fair sir; I do but ask----"

"Enough, thou recreant! Think'st thou that I would list to a
double-faced rogue to learn the movements of a gallant foe? Hence
with ye! Ho, archers! Strip this coward's coat from off his back, and
give him a score lusty stripes with your bow-cords. Then turn him
loose, and if he go not back to his master, feather him with shafts.
Get thee gone, knave."

"Is it not as I said?" remarked the Constable of Portchester in an
undertone. "See, the archers take a delight in their task."

The twenty strokes were laid on with all the force of the soldiers'
sinewy arms, then, threatened by a hundred drawn bows, the miserable
wretch was pushed out of the lines and sent on his way towards the
army he had stooped to betray.

Signs of animation were now observed in the dense masses of the
enemy. The heavily-armed cavalry rode forth in a disorderly mob,
brandishing their arms and shouting; then, retiring on the main body,
their places were taken by a body of archers, nearly two thousand
strong, who slowly advanced towards the foot of the rising ground,
where the English were posted in firm array.

"'Tis the crossbowmen of Genoa. Steady, my lads; their bolts will be
singing over our heads anon," shouted Sir John, and at the same
moment the Prince of Wales gave the signal for the archers to stand
and make ready.

Silently yet swiftly the white-surcoated lines of bowmen sprang to
their feet and took up their allotted stations in the formation of a
harrow. With feet planted firmly, and with arrows notched to their
six-foot bows, they stood ready for action.

At length the Genoese came within bowshot, the clicking of their
windlacs as they drew the cords of their crossbows sounding like the
chirping of myriad crickets. Then with a loud shout they leaped from
the ground. Another shout, and the leap was repeated.

"Do they take us for a crowd of yokels at a country fair?" asked one
archer of his fellow. "They prance for all the world like a
dog-baited bear."

"They'll dance higher ere long, I'll warrant," replied his comrade
grimly.

Once more the Genoese leapt, then levelling their crossbows, they let
fly a volley of short bolts.

A shout of derision greeted this discharge, for, without exception,
the bolts fell far short of the proper distance, sticking in the
ground at a sharp angle and rendering the advance of the French
cavalry, when it should take place, full of additional peril.

"That shows what the rain did for the strings of their crossbows,"
said Sir John Hacket to the Constable of Lewes, who had joined him at
the beginning of the advance. "Steady, men. At the word, loose wholly
together."

The long-drawn tension was broken by the voice of the great Lord
Chandos. "In the name of God and St. George--shoot!"

The twang of two thousand longbows reverberated along the line. The
intervening space between the armies was white with a sleet of
arrows. Looking towards the Genoese, Raymond saw a dense mass of men
bending over their crossbows and working their windlacs in desperate
haste to reload their cumbersome weapons. The next moment the Genoese
were literally swept away. Hardly an arrow failed to find a mark;
heads, breasts, arms, and legs were transfixed by stinging shafts.
Dead, wounded, and unscathed were mixed in a writhing, struggling
mass, and the confusion was increased by the unwounded striving to
fall back upon the main body of the French host.

All the while the English archers shot straight and true at the
disorganised Genoese. The squire, though unable to see the faces of
the bowmen in front of him, was astonished at the quiet, collected
manner in which they loosed their bows.

Then, as he glanced towards the panic-stricken foemen, the squire
observed a strong body of French mounted troops charging down, as he
supposed, to the support of the ill-fated crossbowmen. The ground
trembled beneath the feet of the cavalry, as with loose rein and
wildly brandished weapons their riders pressed forward in a headlong
charge.

But to Raymond's surprise, instead of deploying right and left of the
fugitives, the Frenchmen cut right through their Genoese mercenaries,
slashing at the miserable men with sword and axe.

In this tangled web horsemen fell in scores. Genoese and Frenchmen
fought each other with the madness of fury and self-preservation, and
all the time the hail of English arrows swept down knight and
crossbow-man in indiscriminate slaughter.

To add to the confusion, the bombards on the right of the Prince's
division opened fire, and amid clouds of thick, suffocating smoke the
heavy stone balls went crashing through the dense masses of the foe,
and, for the first time in warfare, it was seen that thrice-tempered
armour was useless before the power of artillery.

Then a trumpet sounded from the English ranks, and the hail of arrows
ceased as by magic. There was a loud discordant shout, the trampling
of hundreds of feet, and through the now rapidly clearing smoke
Raymond saw the Welsh and Irish levies dash out upon the demoralised
foe. With their long knives they threw themselves on the Frenchmen,
and, in the heat of the fight, all thought of quarter was ignored,
and knights, worth a rich ransom, were slaughtered as they lay
helpless on the ground with as little compunction as if they were
peasants.

So intently was Raymond engaged in watching the struggle before him
that for the time being he did not notice what was happening on the
flanks of the first division, till suddenly the hoarse voice of the
Earl of Oxford was heard shouting, "Stand to your arms, fair knights
and squires! The French are upon us!"

For the first time on that memorable day a desperate hand-to-hand
conflict was about to take place.

CHAPTER XX

HIS LIFE FOR HIS FOE

UNSHEATHING his sword and holding his shield firmly on his left arm,
the squire followed the example of the knights and men-at-arms, and
hastened towards the left flank.

Already the French cavalry, led by the Duke of Alençon, had, by sheer
weight of numbers, forced their way to within striking distance of
their foes, and the long rows of white-coated archers, who formed the
first rank of the defence, were swept aside by the rush of the
mounted French knights, for at close quarters the bowmen were useless
against the lances, swords, and axes of their mailed antagonists.

Before Raymond and his companions could throw themselves into the
press, the horsemen had hewn a way right to the foot of the Royal
Standard, beneath which the Prince of Wales and a chosen body of
knights fought with magnificent courage.

The French and German knights, intent on securing the Prince, hurled
themselves in a compact body towards the Standard, and as fast as one
warrior fell, two more took his place, till it seemed that the
desperate bravery of the attackers would attain its purpose.

Raymond found himself engaged by a tall, broad-shouldered antagonist,
who bore on his shield the cognisance of the House of Luxemburg. For
a space they rained blows at each other, striving by sheer force to
cut down their respective guards, till, by a sweeping blow, the
Frenchman shivered the squire's sword, and only by swiftly leaping
backwards was Raymond able to avoid the deadly stroke: So narrow was
his escape that the point of the descending blade cut a long, clean
gash in his surcoat ere it buried itself a foot deep in the carcase
of a slain charger. Instantly the squire rushed in, struck the
Luxemburger with the edge of his shield, then, ere the man could
recover himself, plunged his dagger to the hilt in his brawny throat.

Without pausing to recover his breath, Raymond rushed towards a group
of French knights who were surrounding a little knot of Englishmen.
It was the Prince's own bodyguard, who, hard pressed, strove their
utmost to defend their young master. Sir Reynold Cobham, beaten to
the ground, lay pinned down by the weight of his armour; the Earl of
Warwick, wounded in the face by a lance thrust, was fiercely beset by
two knights of Cologne, while Edward, though unscathed, was the mark
of nigh a score of determined Frenchmen. Nimbly avoiding one stroke,
parrying another, and diverting a thrust with his shield, the Prince
fought like a trained veteran rather than a mere lad of fifteen.

At length a knight, armed with a huge double-handed sword, made a
swinging cut at the Prince just as the latter had all his attention
drawn by the fierce onslaught of a mounted knight of Sicily. For the
moment it seemed as if nothing could save the Prince from instant
death; but Raymond, regardless of his own safety, sprang forward, and
with his shield and his own body strove to stay the blow. The
knight's sword struck the squire's shield just above the upper
leathern loop that held it to the wearer's arm. The tough metal plate
was sheared through as if made of paper, and the blade, glancing
upwards against the squire's bascinet, struck the Prince a harmless
blow, merely slicing the crest of his helmet.

Raymond fell at the Prince's feet, but the Constable of Portchester,
seeing his squire stricken to the earth, dashed out the swordsman's
brains with a crashing blow of his mace. For a short space Raymond
lay breathless on the ground, then, feeling terribly dazed, he raised
himself and looked around. To his utmost satisfaction he saw that the
Prince of Wales was unhurt. Already the danger was past, for the
Earls of Arundel and Northampton had brought up their division to the
aid of the sorely pressed Prince, and the attackers, beaten at every
point, were giving way in headlong flight.

At length the squire staggered to his feet, and, assisted by an
archer of his company, he slowly and painfully made his way towards
the camp. Darkness was falling, and the English, having been ordered
to refrain from hazardous pursuit, stood in their ranks, while a vast
plain, dotted with thousands of corpses, of which but few wore the
red cross surcoats, silently testified to the hard-fought fight.

As Raymond passed the ranks of his own company Sir John Hacket came
forward and grasped him by the hand.

"My brave squire," he exclaimed. "Right nobly hast thou borne thyself
this day. The Prince hath spoken highly of thy courage and devotion,
and, without doubt, tidings of thy deeds will come to the cars of the
King. But, Raymond," he added sadly, "I have ill tidings for thee."

"My father?" gasped the squire, reading the Constable's unspoken
words.

"Ay, my boy, 'tis thy father. He fell in the thickest of the fight,
and thou hast lost a noble sire and I a brave soldier. Now, bear up,
Raymond, and get thee to the camp and attend to thy hurts, for thou
wilt be required anon."

Wounded in body and mind, the young squire was led to the camp, where
it was found that the Frenchman's sword had driven the stout steel
bascinet heavily against his temple, leaving a dark blue bruise to
show how near he had been to death. Simple remedies were applied,
and, having divested himself of his armour, Raymond recovered himself
sufficiently to set out to find the body of his father, bearing a
torch to aid him in his quest.

He remembered well the place where he had last seen him, close to a
little stunted thorn that grew on the edge of the slope which the
Prince's division had held so well.

A veritable mound of bodies showed how firmly the archers had stood,
and how fierce had been the contest, for in a circle around the tree
lay a heap of red-crossed surcoats, their wearers lying still in
death with their faces to the foe, while around lay the bodies of
their attackers, three deep in places, their rich dress and armour
proving that the flower of French chivalry was unable to vanquish,
although it had broken through, that double line of English archers
and men-at-arms.

The men of the Hampshire companies had suffered more severely than
any, and Raymond, as he pursued his quest, came across many faces
which he sadly recognised.

Here and there, dotted over the ghastly field, were feeble glimmers
of torches showing that others were engaged in the doleful task of
looking for their fallen comrades, though in some instances ghouls
were engaged in their dastardly work of robbing the dead.

At length the ruddy glare of the torch threw its beams upon the form
which Raymond recognised only too well. Stretched on his back, his
sightless eyes staring up at the starry sky, lay Redward, the outlaw
and master-bowman, the body bearing the ghastly traces of eight
separate wounds, all of which were in front, proving that to the last
he had fought with his face to the foe.

Sorrowfully Raymond gazed upon his slain sire; then, realising that
the sooner he performed the last rites there would be the less chance
of the spoiler's fell work, he proceeded to carefully remove the body
to the shelter of the stunted tree, so that he could return to the
camp to find, if possible, the priest attached to the company.

As he lifted the heavy corpse he was startled to hear a feeble voice
exclaim, "Blessings on thy kindness, noble sir; I pray thee assist
me."

Recovering from his astonishment, the squire discovered, pinned
beneath his father's body, a wounded knight. Swiftly Raymond bent to
his aid, and, cutting asunder the laces of his bascinet, he found the
stranger to be none other than Sir Reginald Scarsdale!

"Faith! I did think this would have been the end of me," quoth the
knight. "Hast a draught of wine?"

Raymond shook his head. "I am returning to the camp, an' if it please
thee, I'll help thee back to thy company."

"Do so, squire, for, what with a crack over the head with a
Frenchman's mace, and the weight of yon bowman atop o' me, I feel too
weak to stand of mine own will. What dost thou here?"

"Yonder lies my father."

"Thy father? By St. Wilfrid of Ripon, he was a gallant man! Had he
not stood over me the rascals would have settled my account. I pray
thee tell me his name?"

For a moment Raymond paused, then, in a sudden outburst of
confidence, he exclaimed, "Redward Revyngton!"

"What! Redward Revyngton! And to think that the man whom I, with a
mad desire for vengeance, hounded out of the country should have
given his life for me! Did he wot whom I was?"

"Ay," said Raymond. "For but a few hours agone he and I saw thee in
converse with his brother, Sir Maurice."

"Then out on me for my revengeful spirit! When it lay in his power to
thrust me through the back with a dagger, or even to let me be slain
by my enemies, what did he do? He saved my life! This indeed is
rendering good for evil."

"And ye forgive him his trespass?"

"Ay, young squire. Right willingly."

"Then in my sorrow I thank Heaven," replied Raymond, and in silence
they returned slowly to the camp, Sir Reginald leaning heavily on the
arm of the outlaw's son.

The moment the wounded knight was given into safe hands Raymond
hastened to his quarters, where he enlisted the services of the
priest and four stout archers. The latter took spades and torches
with them, and the melancholy procession set out for the scene of
Redward's last stand, Raymond with Sir John Hacket, who wished to pay
his last respects to his trusted servant, leading the way.

Rapidly the bowmen plied their spades, and soon a deep grave gaped at
the foot of the solitary thorn. Raymond bent and kissed the cold
brow, then, amid the solemn voice of the priest reciting the psalm,
_Domine, refugium_, the body of the brave old master-bowman was laid
to rest.

Bare-headed and dry-eyed, Raymond watched the dark earth being
shovelled down upon the mortal remains of his sire, then, when the
task was accomplished, he turned and walked slowly back to the camp.
There, in the retirement of his tent, his pent-up feelings found
relief, and throwing himself on the ground, he burst into a flood of
passionate weeping.

CHAPTER XXI

THE REJECTED GUERDON

MORNING came, and with it the trumpets again sounded for the troops
to assemble. Was it that a renewal of the fight was expected? Nay,
for the French were in headlong flight, their King being already well
on the way to La Broye. But Edward, sensible of the advantage gained,
had determined to advance on Calais.

Silently the weary soldiers fell into their ranks. The archers, their
white surcoats soiled with mud and stained with blood, the
men-at-arms, with battered armour, and, in many cases,
roughly-bandaged wounds, stood grimly in their martial array,
conscious of the many comrades who had stood thus but a day before
and had gone to their last account.

Suddenly a fanfare of trumpets announced the approach of the King.
With his eyes shining with pardonable pride, the monarch rode slowly
down the war-worn lines, stopping at intervals to bestow honours and
praise as cases of individual merit were pointed out to him. At his
right hand rode the Prince of Wales, and attending him were Sir John
Chandos, the Earls of Warwick, Arundel, Oxford, and Southampton.

When in front of the Hampshire companies the King again drew rein,
and surveyed the stern, determined faces of the men on whom the brunt
of the attack had fallen. Sir John Hacket, attended by his three
squires, stood in front of his command, the banners, according to
custom, being lowered to the ground in the presence of the Sovereign.

"By Our Lady! 'Tis our trusted Constable of Portchester!" exclaimed
Edward. "And by report thou didst hold thyself right gallantly on
yesterday's field. Ah, Sir John, we have something in store to make
amends for our former forgetfulness. Advance thy banner!"

The Constable, taking his banner from the hands of the guidon-bearer,
stepped forward, and, with bended knee, presented the blue silk
emblazoned with the golden crescent to the King, who, drawing a
dagger from his belt, deftly cut off the pointed end of the pennon.
Handing the severed portion to a knight in attendance, the King
returned the banner to Sir John.

The action, simple as it seemed, roused the company to the highest
pitch of enthusiasm, for their adored leader had achieved the great
distinction of being created a knight-banneret, the greatest honour
to be paid by the sovereign, only on the field of battle.

Ere the cheering had died away, the Prince of Wales had plucked his
father's sleeve, and whispered in his ear.

"Of a truth, 'tis the squire who brought the Count of Tancarville to
our camp! And he is the man that came betwixt thee and thine enemies
in the thickest of the fray! 'Tis our pleasure to bestow honours
freely to-day, though, methinks, they be well deserved, and no man
will chide us for being too freehanded. Thy squire's name, Sir John?"

"He is named Raymond Buckland, sire."

"Come hither, squire," commanded the King, alighting from his palfrey
and taking a sword from the hand of the Earl of Warwick.

The supreme moment of Raymond's life was at hand, but the squire,
instead of kneeling to receive the honour of knighthood, advanced a
few paces and stood irresolutely before his sovereign.

"On thy knees, squire!" commanded Edward.

"Nay, sire, I cannot," replied the unhappy Raymond. Low murmurs of
astonishment arose from the King's attendants, while Sir John Hacket,
placing his hand heavily on his squire's shoulder, hissed into his
ear, "Kneel, thou fool! Art bereft of thy senses?"

A dark cloud gathered on the King's face. Then a thought seemed to
strike him, and he spoke again.

"Here, sirrah, tell us the reason of this strange refusal. Nay, have
no fear," he added, in a more kindly tone, observing the squire's
dejection, "for we perceive there is something amiss that will
account for thy demeanour."

Encouraged by the King's words, and rendered bold by the desperate
position in which circumstances had placed him, Raymond replied, in a
low yet distinct voice, "Sire, I am the son of an outlaw, and
therefore unworthy of the honour thou would'st bestow."

"Ah!" exclaimed the King. "This requires further consideration. Sir
John, knowest aught of this?"

"Nay, sire," replied the amazed Constable.

Once again the young Prince of Wales whispered in his father's ear.
The King nodded in response, and again addressed the squire.

"It is our desire to hear more of this matter. See to it that thou
comest before us in our pavilion at noon, Sir John. I hold thee
responsible for thy squire's appearance. And, Sir William," he added,
turning to his scrivener, "I pray thee see to it that the worthy
Constable of Portchester and his squire be instantly admitted to our
presence at that hour."

Remounting his steed, the King, accompanied by his retinue, continued
his tour of inspection, and, on this being completed, he returned to
his pavilion. The ranks broke, and the men were told to enjoy a
well-earned rest ere the march to Calais was begun on the morrow,
while the camp-followers were put to the melancholy task of burying
the dead who had fallen in the fight.

On hearing the story from Raymond's own lips, the kind-hearted Sir
John Hacket's expressions of surprise and pity were unbounded. For
not for one moment had he suspected that the sturdy master-bowman,
though an outlaw, was at one time a gentleman of quality.

"Take it not too much to heart, Raymond," he said. "Many a man hath
been in a worse scrape. I am of a mind to bring Sir Maurice Revyngton
with us when we repair to the King's presence, and 'twould be well if
I saw the knight at once."

So saying, the Constable hastened away, leaving his squire still torn
with conflicting emotions of hope and fear--hope that his own
stainless character and deeds of bravery would wipe out the
undeserved blot that threatened to mar his prospects, and fear that
the formidable barrier of social custom and royal etiquette would for
ever debar him from the road to success.

In less than an hour Sir John returned, a broad smile of satisfaction
overspreading his grim features. "Thy uncle will bear us company, ay,
and another knight, if I mistake not, will interest himself on thy
behalf. Now, bear thyself cheerfully, for I perceive that things will
turn out aright. Waste no more time in gloomy meditations, but make
thyself fit to appear in the King's presence, for the hour of
audience is at hand."

"And the style of mine attire?"

"In full harness, Raymond, for the King will doubtless think fit to
reward thee for bravery on the field, and on that score I have no
doubt. 'Tis meet that thou shouldst appear in the garb of a soldier
rather than in the dress of a common suppliant. And, moreover, our
King delights in the wearing of harness, and looks with favour on
those who doff their armour but rarely when they come to the wars. So
again I tell thee, hasten!"

The squire repaired to his own tent and put on his complete suit of
armour--the same that his father had given him years ago on the eve
of the sack of Hamble--and well the dented and tarnished steel
befitted his tall and erect figure. Then girding on his scabbard,
wherein was thrust the remaining part of the broken blade, and
grasping the fragment of the shield that had diverted the murderous
sweep of the Frenchman's two-handed sword, Raymond repaired to his
master's tent.

The Constable surveyed him with appreciation. "Eh, lad, thou dost
well to bear the silent testimony of thy courage on thine arm. In any
case but the present, when thy future is at stake, 'twould have been
a braggart's ruse. But the King doth know full well that thou art no
boaster, seeing that it was in thy power to accept honour at his
hands, and thou didst shrink from it. But come, the hour of noon is
near. Let us make for the royal pavilion."

Between the long lines of tents, where crowds of soldiers gathered,
in silent wonder, to see the man who had so strangely withstood his
sovereign, the knight and the squire walked side by side, and with a
fresh wave of doubt and fear sweeping over him, Raymond found himself
in the anteroom of the royal tent.

CHAPTER XXII

SIR RAYMOND

SIR JOHN HACKET, having formally announced his rank and that of his
companion, as well as the nature of their business, to the herald,
removed his velvet cap, though he held his bascinet in his left hand,
and at the same time removed his right-hand gauntlet. His squire did
likewise, and, breathing a fervent prayer for courage, he prepared to
follow his master into the royal presence.

The heavy damask curtains were drawn aside by two knights in waiting,
and Raymond heard the sonorous voice of the herald repeating the
title and style of the Constable and his squire. Another moment and
Raymond stood before, but at a respectful distance from, the royal
daïs.

King Edward, who still wore the mailed coat in which he rode along
the ranks earlier in the day, was attended by a number of earls and
barons, while by his side stood the young Prince of Wales, who
regarded the squire with an encouraging smile.

At the foot of the daïs, a little distance to the left, stood
Raymond's uncle, Sir Maurice Revyngton, and his late father's former
enemy, Sir Reginald Scarsdale, who, though still weak and suffering
from his wounds, had, at Sir John's desire, appeared on the young
squire's behalf.

"Ah, squire," quoth the King, fixing his dark, keen eyes upon the
young man's face, "when we summoned thee to appear before us we
looked for an explanation from thine own lips. But thou hast been
forestalled, for these two knights have already told us of thy
condition. Now, what hast thou to say why thou shouldst not be driven
from the camp, being the son of an outlaw?"

"Nothing, sire; 'tis but the law."

"Thou couldst not have said much less," remarked the King, with a
grim laugh. "How sayest thou, Sir Reginald Scarsdale. Hast thou a
desire to press thy claims?"

"Nay, sire," replied the knight stoutly. "For his father, knowingly
and willingly, came to my aid in the thickest of the fight, and but
for his courage I should have been worsted."

"But thine oath of vengeance?"

"Sire, my desire for revenge departed the moment I heard from this
squire the name of his father, who, in truth, slew my only brother.
Furthermore, 'tis my intention to repair, as soon as this war is
over, to the shrine of St. Swithin of Winchester and to seek
absolution from mine oath."

"And thou hast no wish to harm this squire?"

"None, sire. On the contrary I wish him good----"

"Hold, Sir Knight," interrupted the King sharply. "We asked thee a
plain question, to be answered by 'Yea' or 'Nay,' not by
suggestions."

"And thou, Sir John," continued Edward, addressing the Constable.
"Hast thou aught to add in favour of thy squire, beyond what thou
didst tell us but a short time back?"

"Nothing more, sire."

"'Tis well. And now, squire, we have carefully considered thy case,
and we are favourably disposed towards thee." Then, turning to his
barons, he added, with a sly reference to the growing power of
Parliament, "We take it, fair lords, that we shall not offend our
faithful commoners assembled at Westminster by assuming a right to
revoke a decree of outlawry?"

A low murmur of assent was the reply.

"Then, Raymond Revyngton, we hereby pardon thee for an offence that
thou hast not committed--to wit, thou art no longer the son of an
outlaw. Sir William de Saye, our scrivener, will draw up the deed of
revocation, and a copy for the Lord Bishop of Winchester. Art
content?"

"Sire, I thank thee," replied Raymond, bending low before his
sovereign.

"There is yet another matter. Of thy valour there has been no
question. We have in mind the affair with the Count of Tancarville,
and, going farther back, thy journey to Hennebon. But more especially
thy conduct in yesterday's fight, when our dear son, the Prince of
Wales, was succoured by thine aid. We have a mind to inspect thy
cloven shield, which, we do perceive, thou hast brought in case our
memory were in need of a reminder."

The squire, still kneeling, handed his buckler to an attendant, who
in turn presented it to the King.

"A lusty stroke," commented Edward, carefully examining the clean cut
in the metal plate. "Our cousin of France hath men of sinew who in
open fight would be worthy and gallant opponents. Had their peasants
been as good bowmen as our gallant archers but few of us would be
here. Squire," he added, "arise and hand over thy sword."

With martial alertness, Raymond drew the fragment of steel, and a
look of surprise o'erspread the King's face.

"Thine equipment seems at fault," he remarked, smiling a little
grimly. "Nay, we know 'twas done in a gallant fight. Advance, squire,
and kneel before us."

This time Raymond did not refuse, for was he not a man free from the
fatal taint that had threatened to mar everything in his career? With
rapid stride and uplifted head he advanced to the steps of the daïs,
his armour clanking as he moved. Presenting the hilt of his weapon to
the King, the squire sank on his knees.

As in a dream he felt the flat of the broken blade touch his right
shoulder, and the King's voice, in bold and decisive tones, saying,
"Arise, Sir Raymond Revyngton!"

When at length Raymond found himself without the royal pavilion, he
was overwhelmed by the congratulations of his friends, including Sir
Reginald Scarsdale.

"'Twould ill become a belted knight if I did not make amends for the
past," quoth the latter. "And to that end all I can do for thee I'll
do willingly."

"Then on thy knightly honour I hold thee to thy promise," replied
Raymond, catching at the opportunity with new-born courage, "for I
have a matter of much weight of which I would speak."

"Then say on."

Sir John and Sir Maurice, having an inkling of what was coming,
exchanged a knowing smile, and Raymond continued, though his voice
faltered a little.

"Sir Reginald, I love thy daughter Audrey, and would ask thy consent
to win her hand in marriage."

For a while the old knight was too much astonished to reply, then,
holding out his hand, he replied, "Then thou art the youth who
rendered her service at that little affair with the French at
Hampton? Out on me for a thickhead for not linking thee with that
bold feat before. Certes! I will not be less good than my word. Take
the maid, if she be willing to wed thee!" Thus it was that the
newly-made knight found that success begets success, though in his
heart he had not expected to win Sir Reginald's consent so readily.
Yet in the midst of his good fortune the one dark shadow was the
haunting thought of the loss of his father, and he grieved in his
heart that death had deprived his sire of life just as his son was on
the threshold of fame and honour.

Slowly the four knights, Sir Reginald being stiff with his hurts,
proceeded towards the lines of the Hampshire companies, where Sir
John had invited the others to partake of refreshment. Already the
news of Raymond's advancement had preceded them, and the soldiers,
with loud shouts, welcomed the new knight; for the master-bowman's
son was ever popular in the ranks of the men of Portsmouth and
Southampton.

"What are thy plans for the future," asked the Constable later in the
day, "for as heir to Sir Maurice it is fitting that thou shouldst
join him with the men of Devon."

"Nay, by the rood," answered Raymond warmly. "Thou hast ever been a
good master to me, Sir John, and with thee I'll abide till the end of
the war."

"I thank thee for thine appreciation, Raymond, for ever since thou
wert my squire I have loved thee as a son. But now concerning the
maid, the Lady Audrey?"

"Until Sir Reginald returns home I will not press my suit, but should
he do so I hope I may be permitted to withdraw from the camp for a
few weeks to accompany him. Even then, how can I tell that the Lady
Audrey will deal favourably with me?"

"I know that she loves thee, Raymond."

"How so, Sir John, seeing that I know not myself?"

"Raymond, I am afraid thou art more forward with the art of war than
with the affairs of the heart. Would a maid have sent a messenger to
me every week whilst thou wert in Hennebon to know if there were
tidings of thee, if she did not love thee?"

"But how knew she that I was in Brittany?" was the amazed question.

"How? Didst thou not give me a letter to send to her?"

"Only in case I did not return."

"Didst thou? Didst thou? Certes now I remember! But now I think on
the matter, I must have forgotten that, for I did send it," replied
Sir John, with pardonable deceit and well-feigned dismay. "But mind
it not, Raymond, 'twas after all for the best, and, mark my words,
she'll have thee--sure enough."

On the morrow the march was resumed, the King having decided to lay
siege to Calais, and slowly the long lines of English troops, every
man heavily laden with booty, proceeded from the field of Crécy.

Edward had long looked with covetous eyes upon the port of Calais,
for owing to the death of his Flemish ally, Jacques d'Artevelde, at
the hands of fellow-countrymen, and the consequent estrangement with
the Flemings, the King was in need of a continental port for the
distribution of English wool, and, once Calais were taken, the nest
of pirates who made their headquarters there, to the great annoyance
of English ships, would be dispersed. Also an entry for his troops
would be secured within easy distance from the English coast. So,
with these strong incentives, Edward hastened to reduce the town.

Within a week of Crécy, the English lay in a triple ring around the
land side of the town, while a strong fleet cruised constantly
between Grisnez and Gravelines to prevent any succour being sent by
sea, and, without attempting to carry the defences by assault, Edward
relied upon famine to bring about the downfall of Calais.

Throughout the long winter of 1346-47 the blockade was maintained,
and the works of the besiegers resembled the outer walls of a city
rather than temporary trenches, so that the English were in a
position both to keep the citizens of Calais within their walls and
to repel any attempt on the part of the French to raise the siege.

Early in the spring dysentery broke out in the ranks of the English,
and amongst those who were attacked was Sir Raymond. In spite of the
rough yet devoted attention of his men, the skill of the harassed
physicians, and the solicitude of his friends, the young knight was,
for a time, in great danger, and even when the crisis was passed his
progress towards recovery was slow and tedious.

One day as he lay alone in his tent, weak and worn, Raymond heard the
well-known sound of troops marching hurriedly out of camp, and the
blare of trumpets denoted that something untoward was afoot.

Feebly he called the names of the men who usually waited on him, but
in vain; there was no response to his summons, and at length the
tramp of feet died away, leaving the camp as silent as the grave,
save for the flapping of the canvas as the keen wind whistled around
the tents.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE ADVENTURE AT THE RUINED MILL

IN his tent, in terrible suspense, the young knight, Raymond
Revyngton, lay helpless, wondering how went the fight. In due course,
through the opening of his tent, he saw a stream of wounded men
returning, singly or in small parties, some with rough bandages round
their limbs or their heads.

At length came one whom he knew--an archer of the Portchester
company.

"Stephen! Stephen!" called Raymond, as loudly as he could.

In obedience to the knight's cry, the man entered the tent, nursing
the maimed fingers of his right hand with his left, while the blood
poured freely from the stumps and trickled in a crimson stream down
his arm, soaking his sleeve.

Deftly and quickly, notwithstanding his weakness, Raymond bound the
wounded hand, and poured out a cup of wine for the almost fainting
archer. The draught revived him, and the colour began to steal back
into his ashy-grey face.

"How goes the battle?" asked Raymond anxiously.

"'Tis not a battle, Sir Raymond, but a slight passage of arms, though
I perceive that as a bowman my work is done. The French King hath
tried to relieve the town, but my Lord Chandos and seven thousand of
our men have withstood him amid the sand-hills and marshes. Save for
a few hand-to-hand blows, the French never made a stand, and already
they are in full flight."

"Dost feel well enough to walk?" the young knight asked, after a long
pause.

"Yea, Sir Raymond."

"Then get thee outside the camp, and bring me fresh tidings."

The man obeyed, but ere long he returned, exclaiming: "'Tis all over.
The enemy are nowhere in sight and our men are even now returning."

"Then do not tarry longer, but go to thine own tent, for thou needest
better care for thy hurts than I can give thee. This flask of wine I
give thee, for, by St. Thomas, thou hast need of it. Nay, do not
thank me, but away!"

Once more the camp was alive with men, for the threatened attack of
the huge army that Philip had gathered together for the relief of
Calais had been ignominiously repelled, and it was known that the
fate of the town was sealed. Raymond gathered a fairly true account
of the fight from the conversation and joyous exclamations of the
elated soldiery, and presently Sir John Hacket, covered with dust and
showing signs of the conflict, entered the tent.

"Art feeling better, Raymond?"

"Ay, Sir John. But how goes it with us?"

"Passably well but ever I seem to be a messenger of momentous tidings
to thee, whether of good or evil."

"Then there is something amiss?" questioned the young man eagerly,
instinctively surmising that the news was unfavourable.

"Yea, Raymond. My speech was ever blunt, and methinks the sooner I
unburden myself of a message of ill-tidings the easier 'tis for both
of us. Briefly, Sir Maurice hath fallen like the true and gallant
knight he was, and thou art the last of the Revyngtons of Churston."

"Alack-a-me that it should be so! For though I knew but little of
him, I esteemed him a gallant, gentle, and honourable knight even
before I wot he was my kinsman. And Sir Reginald Scarsdale--what of
him?"

"His heart is stronger than his body. In the first impact he was
swept from his saddle by a mere stripling."

"And he is killed, wounded, or taken?"

"Neither, save that he is shaken by the fall, and the King vows that
since he cannot hold his own against a youth he will send him home,
seeing that his fighting days are over."

"And does Sir Reginald know of this?"

"Ay, and if the King will not relent--and he is hard to turn from his
purpose--'twill be the first Scarsdale since the Conquest whose feet
on his altar-tomb rest not upon a lion."

"Alas! the King's decision will hit him hard! Do you, Sir John,
convey my expressions of regret to the gentle knight, and say that it
will give me great pleasure should he deign to visit me."

For several days more Raymond lay weak and ill in his tent, but as
April drew on and the weather became warmer his strength began slowly
to return. At length, pale and wan, the young knight was able to walk
slowly about the camp, supported by two of his archers.

Still the siege continued, a long-drawn, tedious task, with little
chance of knightly deeds of daring to earn advancement. The
close-drawn lines of the besiegers still kept tenacious grip upon the
town, and, though famine and disease wrought havoc amongst its
gallant defenders, the end seemed as far off as ever.

The return of summer found Sir Raymond Revyngton completely restored
in health, though still chafing with impatience at the life of
inactivity, for the younger knights looked with disfavour upon the
King's methods of conducting the siege, and would rather have had the
opportunity of leading their men to the assault than sit down before
the town waiting for famine to do its fell work.

Friendly tilting-matches, hawking, and sports of a similar nature
were indulged in, and Raymond, with an exuberance of energy, took a
leading part in the pastimes. Many a pleasant afternoon was spent in
the open country around the English lines, hunting or making sport
with hounds and falcons, for not an armed Frenchman was to be seen
within twenty leagues of Calais, save the starving wretches within
its gates.

One afternoon in July Raymond and a score of young knights rode
south-eastwards along the sand-dunes, each knight accompanied by a
mounted serving-man and a number of hounds. The country was not of a
nature to yield much sport, yet, eager to while away the time, the
little cavalcade rode carelessly on over the low sandhills.

On their right spread the blue waters of the English Channel, in
front towered the chalky heights of Gris-nez, while behind lay the
red-tiled houses and grey walls of Calais, with the semicircle of
tents that marked the English lines.

At length they reached the summit of a low hill, and here they reined
in their steeds.

"No sign of a living creature," remarked one of the party, "though
the land away on our left seemeth well wooded. How call you yonder
forest, Armand?" he inquired, addressing one of the attendants, a
Gascon who had spent the greater part of his life in the
neighbourhood of Calais.

"'Tis the forest of Ambleteuse, sir," replied the man; "there the
wild boar is to be found."

"Ah There is good sport, fair sirs Let us ride forward."

Half-an-hour's sharp canter brought them to the edge of the wood, and
in a long, straggling line the gay-hearted Englishmen, with loud
shouts and many a blast upon their horns, plunged into the gloom of
the forest glades.

For a while no signs of animal life appeared, then suddenly there
came from one of the rearmost horsemen shouts of "A boar!"

Instantly the party turned, and crashing through the underwood, made
towards the sound. Raymond, who had been in the van, now found
himself in the rear, and, spurring his steed and calling to his
attendant to follow, he strove to overtake his companions, while the
loud grunts of the hunted boar could be distinctly heard amid the
snapping of the brushwood.

At length the glade descended towards a babbling brook, and here the
press of horsemen became so thick that many were riding hip to hip.
Suddenly Raymond's horse trod in a rabbit-hole, and before he could
realise what had happened he found himself hurtling through the air
and striking the soft earth with a heavy thud. Fortunately, the young
knight was lightly clad, and fell without injury, but on leaping to
his feet he saw his body-servant lying, senseless on the ground,
while the two steeds, entangled in their fall, were madly kicking
each other with their iron-shod hoofs.

In the excitement of the chase the rest of the cavalcade had rushed
onwards, heedless of their companions' misfortunes, and the sound of
feet was already dying away.

With a bound Raymond sprang to the side of his attendant and dragged
him out of the reach of the perilous hoofs. Then he sought for his
horn to summon assistance, but the instrument was crushed and
rendered useless by the fall. Baffled in his purpose, he applied his
energies to the task of restoring the unconscious man, bathing his
forehead with water obtained from the brook.

His efforts at length were rewarded, for the servant sat up and gazed
around in a dazed way.

"Art hurt, Thompson?" asked Raymond anxiously.

"Can scarcely tell, Sir Raymond, save that my head is swimming round
like a roasting joint, and my shoulder-blades seem growing out of my
neck."

"'Tis of small moment. But stand up if thou canst." Thompson
staggered to his feet, and to the knight's satisfaction he found that
none of the man's limbs were broken.

"'Tis a sorry pass, for we must needs find our way back afoot. Pull
thyself together, man, for 'tis a goodly step betwixt us and the
camp."

Drawing his hunting-knife, Raymond put the two struggling
horses--each of whom had a leg broken--out of their misery, then the
twain set out on their homeward way. By the time they emerged from
the forest their shadows fell far athwart the path, for the sun was
sinking in the west; but Thompson was rapidly recovering, and their
pace was well maintained.

"There is the hill from whence we first saw the wood," remarked the
knight. "But methinks we can leave that well on our left, for the
camp lies yonder."

"I deem thee to be right, fair sir. But, mark ye! Look at yonder
clouds."

Raymond looked in the direction indicated, and saw that a storm was
rapidly driving towards them.

"Night cometh on apace, and with it a tempest," quoth he. "Hasten, or
we shall be benighted in this dreary plain."

Hardly had they traversed a distance of three arrow-flights than the
wind, hitherto a faint westerly breeze, sprang up with terrific
violence. The sand rose in thick clouds, shutting out everything
except in their immediate vicinity, and the sun, in a mist of pale
yellow sky, sank beneath the indigo-coloured clouds.

Onward they steadily plodded through the heavy yielding sand, the
swiftly-falling darkness bringing with it a heavy storm of rain and
hail. Wondering whether his comrades were faring as badly, the young
knight stumbled and plunged resolutely onwards, his serving-man
following closely at his heels, the whistling of the wind making
conversation impossible.

For over two hours the twain pursued their uncomfortable walk, till
at length a dark object blocked their path. It was a ruined windmill.
Making their way round its massive base, the weary travellers found
some slight shelter from the force of the wind, and, panting from
their exertions, they leaned against the stonework to recover their
breath.

"Dost know where we are?" shouted Raymond, his voice almost inaudible
in the howling wind.

"No, sir," replied the man.

"But a short distance from where we left the wood, I marked this
tower on our left, and, certes, we have been walking round and round
for half the night."

"Then we must needs set out once more?"

"Nay. This will suffice for the present, and here we'll rest till
daylight comes and the storm spends itself. The door is not barred, I
hope."

Walking slowly round the mill, the knight felt for the opening, till
he stumbled over a low stone step. Cautiously ascending, he found at
the fourth step a flat ledge, protected by a broken rail, and here
was the door hanging by a solitary rusted hinge.

[Illustration: TREACHERY AFOOT]

Yielding to the pressure of his shoulder, the door flew open, and the
knight and his companion carefully groped their way in, closing the
door after them. Here, in absolute blackness, they found shelter, the
storm howling wildly outside, yet scarcely to be heard within the
massive stone walls. They had no means of procuring a light, but by
continuing their investigations they felt a pile of broken hurdles
and the lower-most rungs of a ladder.

Raymond was about to ascend, when his servant laid a detaining hand
upon his arm. "Hist!" he exclaimed. "Some one moves in the room
above."

"Nay, thou dreamest!... Ay, thou art right! Hide here, quickly. Art
armed?"

"Nought but a knife."

"'Twill suffice. Now, hold thyself in readiness, but act not till I
give the word."

Crouching behind the pile of hurdles, knight and servant waited in
breathless silence. There was the sound of a heavy trap-door being
raised, and a voice exclaimed in French: "Is it thou, Jehan?"

Receiving no reply, the questioner slowly descended a few steps of
the ladder, and drawing a horn lantern from underneath a cloak, swung
it around him, peering about the room.

Then, perceiving no one, he muttered: "Mon Dieu! It is but fancy, yet
why doth he tarry?" And again concealing the light, he ascended to
the upper story and dropped the trap-hatch with a resounding thud.

"There's fell treachery afoot," whispered Raymond. "Dost know who it
is?"

"'Tis René de Caux, of the following of the Captal de Buche, our
King's trusted favourite. Wait patiently, for ere long no little
advancement will be gained."

Silently the Englishmen waited, every fiercer blast of the storm
causing them to imagine that the expected visitor had arrived. At
last they heard the door pushed open, and a dark form made its way
into the room with a confidence gained by long practice. A low
whistle, like the cry of a night-bird, and the trapdoor was again
removed.

"Ah, Jehan! 'Tis thou at last! Close the door ere I show a light."

"A thousand pests take the weather. This storm hath all but been my
undoing."

The light of the lantern shone upon the face of the new arrival. He
was a tall, slender man, with light hair and refined features, and on
removing his sodden cloak a garment of slashed velvet was revealed,
betokening that the wearer was a gentleman of quality. Armour he wore
none, but a light sword hung from his belt, balanced by a large
leather bag.

"And how fares Sir John de Vienne?"

"Strong in courage when last I saw him."

"And that was----?"

"But yesternight."

"And he agreed to allow you to poison the wells?"

"Nay, by Our Lady, he would not."

"Well spoken, like a brave and gallant knight, for, by St. Denis, the
plan is not to my liking even though these insolent islanders deserve
all that is evil. But, see here! This letter must be given to the
Governor of the town by to-morrow, though, alas! it is cold comfort
to Sir John. Canst arrange to deliver it?"

"They will admit me by the postern of the Boulogne Gate at midnight.
'Twill be done."

"Then take thy reward. Hold the light closer while I count, for I
know a Gascon of old! See to it: all bright crowns, of good weight."

The Frenchman addressed as Jehan handed a sealed document to the
Gascon, who placed it in his doublet; then, setting the lantern on
the ground and extending his hand, the latter counted the coins as
Jehan took them from his wallet.

Loosening his poignard and motioning to Thompson to draw his knife,
Raymond prepared to spring from his hiding-place.

Ere the two conspirators could recover from their astonishment the
young knight had leapt upon them, and with one thrust of his weapon
laid the traitorous Gascon dead at his feet. Instinctively the
Frenchman sprang backwards and whipped out his sword.

"Yield thee!" thundered Raymond.

"To no man!"

In an instant their blades met, the dull light of the lantern
flashing on the glittering steel. Though Jehan had the longer weapon,
he possessed neither the strength nor the skill of his antagonist,
and in less than half a minute's swordplay the Frenchman's blade
caught in the notch that the hilt of most poignards possess, and with
a quick, powerful turn of the wrist Raymond snapped the sword off
close to the guard.

"Now wilt yield?"

"If thou art a gentleman I will; if not, pass the dagger through me
rather than let me disgrace myself."

"I am Sir Raymond Revyngton, knight."

"Then, Sir Raymond, I yield myself to thee; though I pray thee,
certify my master that I fought well ere I yielded."

"And thy name and quality?"

"I am Jehan de Sous-Cahors, seneschal de Vimereux, and of the
household of King Philip."

"Then I have had great honour in taking thee!" said Raymond with due
courtesy. "And now have I thy promise that there shall
be no attempt at escape? Otherwise, though it grieve me to mishandle
a knight, thou must be brought bound into the camp."

"I swear, by St. Denis."

The grey dawn was beginning to break, and the storm was dying away.
Raymond looked out of the door, and saw with great satisfaction the
knight's horse stabled in a small adjoining hut that had been
invisible on the previous night. There in the distance the smoke of
the English camp-fires showed distinctly in the now clear air, while
less than a bowshot from the mill lay the wood that had been the
cause of their misfortune.

Suddenly the young knight heard the sound of scuffling and Thompson's
voice shouting "Help, master, help!"

Darting back to the room, he found his servant engaged in a desperate
struggle with the captive, who was endeavouring to destroy the letter
he had entrusted to the double-dealing Gascon, a portion of which he
had attempted to swallow.

With no gentle hand Raymond aided his man to throw the prisoner on
his back and wrench the missive from him.

"Thy parole, Sir Knight!" he exclaimed.

"----has been kept," gasped the captive, "but I trow thou wilt admit