The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (best books to read all time TXT) 📖
- Author: Maurice Hewlett
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Yours.'
He Found Him After Some Days' Perilous Prowling Of The Norman March.
Gilles Had Received The Summons Of His Duke To Be _Vi Et Armis_ At
Rouen; A Little Later Gaston Might Have Met Him In The Field Of Broad
Battle, But Such Delay Was Not To His Mind. He Met Him Instead In A
Woodland Glade Near Gisors, Alone (By A Great Chance), Sword On Thigh.
'Beef, Thou Diest,' Said The Béarnais, Peaking His Beard. Gilles Made No
Reply That Can Be Written, For What Letters Can Shape A Norman Grunt?
Perhaps 'Wauch!' Comes Nearest. They Fought On Horseback, With Swords,
From Noon To Sunset, And Having Hacked One Another Out Of The Similitude
Of Men, There Was Nothing Left Them To Do But Swoon Side By Side On The
Sodden Leaves. In The Morning Gaston, Unclogging One Eye, Perceived That
His Enemy Had Gone. 'No Matter,' Said The Spent Hero To Himself. 'I Will
Wait Till He Comes Back, And Have At Him Again.'
He Waited An Unconscionable Time, A Month In Fact, During Which He
Delighted To Watch The Shy Oncoming Of A Northern Spring, So Different
From The Sudden Flooding Of The South. He Found The Wood-Sorrel, He
Measured The Crosiers Of The Brake, And Saw The Blue Mist Of The
Hyacinth Carpet The Glades. All This Charmed Him Quite, Until He
Learned, By Hazard, That The Sieur De Gurdun Was To Be Married To Dame
Jehane Saint-Pol On Palm Sunday In The Church Of Saint Sulpice Of
Gisors. 'God Ha' Mercy!' He Thought, With A Stab At The Heart; 'There Is
Merely Time.' He Rode South On The Wind's Wings.
Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 8 (How They Held Richard Off From His Father's Throat) Pg 45Long Before The Pink Flush On The Almond Announced The Earth A Bride, On
All Gaulish Roads Had Been Heard The Tramp Of Armed Men, The Ring Of
Steel On Steel. This New War Splintered Gaul. Aquitaine Held For
Richard, Who, Though He Had Quelled And Afterwards Governed That Great
Duchy With An Iron Whip, Had Made Himself Respected There. So The Count
Of Provence Sent Him A Company, The Count Of Toulouse And Dauphin Of
Auvergne Each Brought A Company; From Périgord, From Bertram Count Of
Roussillon, From Béarn, And (For Reasons) From The Wise King Of Navarre,
Came Pikemen And Slingers, And Long-Bowmen, And Knights With Their
Esquires And Banner-Bearers. The Duke Of Burgundy And Count Of Champagne
Came From The East To Fill The Battles Of King Philip; In The West The
Countess Of Brittany Sent About The War-Torch. All The Extremes Of Gaul
Were In Arms Against The Red Old Angevin Who Sat At Her Heart, Who Was
Now Still Snarling In England, And Sending Message After Secret Message
To His Son John. That Same John, Alone In Paris, Headed No Spears,
Partly Because He Had None Of His Own, Partly Because He Dared Not
Declare Himself Openly. He Had Taken A Side, Driven By His Vehement
Brother; For The First Time In His Life He Had Put Pen To Parchment.
God Knew (He Thought) That Was Committal Enough. So He Stayed In Paris,
Shifting His Body About To Get Comfort As The Winds Veered. Nobody
Inquired Of Him, Least Of All His Brother Richard, Who, Beyond Requiring
His Signature, Cared Little What He Did With His Person. This Was
Characteristic Of Richard. He Would Drive A Man Into A High Place And
Then Forget Him. Reminded Of His Neglect, He Would Shrug And Say, 'Yes.
But He Is A Fool.' Insufficient Answer: He Did Not See Or Did Not Choose
To See That There Are Two Sorts Of Fools. Stranded On His Peak, One Man
Might Be Fool Enough To Stop There, Another To Try A Descent. Prince
John (No Fool Either) Was Of This Second Quality. How He Tried To Get
Down, And Where Else He Tried To Go, Will Be Made Clear In Time. You And
I Must Go To The War In The West.
War Showed Count Richard Entered Into His Birthright. As A Strategist He
Was Superb, The Best Of His Time. What His Eye Took In His Mind Snapped
Up--Like A Steel Gin. And His Eye Was The True Soldier's Eye,
Comprehending By Signs, Investing With Life What Was Tongueless Else.
Over Great Stretches Of Barren Country--That Limitless Land Of
France--He Could See Massed Men On The Move; Creeping Forward In Snaky
Columns, Spread Fanwise From Clump To Woody Clump; Here Camping Snugly
Under The Hill, There Lining The River Bluffs With Winged Death; Checked
Here, Helped There By A Moraine--As Well As You Or I May Foresee The
Conduct Of A Chess-Board. He Omitted Nothing, Judged Times And Seasons,
Reckoned Defences At Their Worth, Knew All The Fordable Places By The
Lie Of The Land, Timed Cavalry And Infantry To Rendezvous, Forestalled
Communications, Provided Not Only For His Own Base, But Against The
Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 8 (How They Held Richard Off From His Father's Throat) Pg 46Enemy's. All This, Of Course, Without Maps, And Very Much Against The
Systems Of His Neighbours. It Was Thus He Had Outwitted The Heady Barons
Of Aquitaine When Little More Than A Lad, And Had Turned The Hill Forts
Into Death-Traps Against Their Tenants. He Had The Secret Of Swift
Marching By Night, Of Delivering Assault Upon Assault, So That While You
Staggered Under One Blow You Received Another Full. He Could Be As
Patient As Death, That Inchmeal Stalker Of His Prey; He Could Be As
Ruthless As The Sea, And Incredibly Generous Upon Occasion. To The Men
He Led He Was A Father, Known And Beloved As Such; It Was As A Ruler
They Found Him Too Lonely To Be Loved. In War He Was The Very Footboy's
Friend. Personally, When The Battles Joined, He Was Rash To A Fault; But
So Blithe, So Ready, And So Gracefully Strong, That To Think Of Wounds
Upon So Bright A Surface Was An Impiety. No One Did Think Of Them: He
Seemed To Play With Danger As A Cat With Whirling Leaves. 'I Have Seen
Him,' Milo Writes Somewhere, 'Ride Into A Serry Of Knights, Singing,
Throwing Up And Catching Again His Great Sword Gaynpayn; Then, All Of A
Sudden, Stiffen As With A Gush Of Sap In His Veins, Dart His Head
Forward, Gather His Horse Together Under Him, And Fling Into The Midst
Of Them Like A Tiger Into A Herd Of Bulls. One Saw Nothing But Tossing
Steel; Yet Richard Ever Emerged, Red But Scatheless, On The Further
Side.
Upon This Man The Brunt Of War Fell Naturally: Having Begun, He Did Not
Hold His Hand. By The Beginning Of February He Had Laid His Plans, By
The End Of It He Had Taken Saumur, Cut Angers Off From Tours, And Turned
All The Valley Of The Loire Into A Scorched Cinder-Bed. In The Early
Days Of March He Sat Down Before Tours With His Siege-Engines,
Petraries, Mangonels, And Towers, And Daily Battered At The Walls, With
Intent To Reduce It Before The War Was Really Afloat. The City Of Saint
Martin Was Doomed; No Help From Anjou Could Save It, For None Could Come
That Way. Meantime The King His Father Had Landed At Honfleur, Assembled
His Normans At Rouen, And Was Working His Way Warily Down Through The
Duchy, Feeling For The French On His Left, And For The Bretons On His
Right. He Never Found The French; They Were Far South Of Him, Pushing
Through Orleans To Join Richard At Le Mans. But The Countess Of
Brittany's Men, Under Hugh Of Dinan, Were Sacking Avranches When Old
Henry Heard The Bad News From Touraine. That Country And Maine Were As
The Apple Of His Eye; Yet He Dared Not Leave Avranches Fated Behind Him.
All He Could Do Was To Send William The Marshal With A Small Force Into
Anjou, While He Himself Spread Out Westward To Give Hugh Of Dinan Battle
And Save Avranches, If That Might Be. So It Was That King Philip Slipped
In Between Him And Le Mans. By This Time Richard Was Master Of Tours,
And Himself On The Way To Le Mans, Nosing The Air For William The
Marshal. This Was In The Beginning Of April. Then On One And The Same
Day He Risked All He Had Won For The Sake Of A Girl's Proud Face, And
Nearly Lost His Life Into The Bargain.
He Had To Cross The River Aune Above La Flèche. That River, A Sluggish
But Deep Little Stream, Moves Placidly Among Osiers On Its Way To Swell
The Loire. On Either Side The Water-Meadows Stretch For Three-Quarters
Of A Mile; Low Chalk-Hills, Fringed At The Top, Are Ramparts To The
Sleepy Valley. Creeping Along The Eastern Spurs At Dawn, Richard Came In
Touch With His Enemy, William The Marshal And His Force Of Normans And
English. These Had Crossed The Bridge At La Flèche, And Came Pricking
Now Up The Valley To Save Le Mans. Heading Them Boldly, Richard Threw
Out His Archers Like A Waterspray Over The Flats, And While These
Checked The Advance And Had The Van In Confusion, Thundered Down The
Slopes With His Knights, Caught The Marshal On The Flank, Smote Him Hip
And Thigh, And Swept The Core Of His Army Into The River. The Marshal's
Battle Was Thus Destroyed; But The Wedge Had Made Too Clean A Cleft.
Front And Rear Joined Up And Held; So Richard Found Himself In Danger.
The Viscount Of Béziers, Who Led The Rearguard, Engaged The Enemy, And
Pushed Them Slowly Back Towards The Aune; Richard Wheeled His Men And
Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 8 (How They Held Richard Off From His Father's Throat) Pg 47Charged, To Take Them In The Rear. His Horse, Stumbling On The Rotten
Ground, Fell Badly And Threw Him: There Were Cries, 'Holà! Count Richard
Is Down!' And Some Stayed To Rescue And Some Pushed On. William The
Marshal, On A White Horse, Came Suddenly Upon Him As He Lay. 'Mort De
Dieu!' Shrilled This Good Soldier, And Threw Up His Spear Arm. 'God's
Feet, Marshal, Kill One Or Other Of Us!' Said Richard Lightly: He Was
Pinned Down By His Struggling Beast. 'I Leave You To The Devil, My Lord
Richard,' Said The Marshal, And Drove His Spear Into The Horse's Chest.
The Beast's Death-Plunge Freed His Master. Richard Jumped Up:
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