Men of Iron by Howard Pyle (golden son ebook .txt) 📖

forward in so saying, but were I in thy place, my Lord, I would change me yon breast-piece and over-girth of my saddle; they are sprung in the stitches.”

“Nay,” said the Sieur de la Montaigne, laughing, “breast-piece and over-girth have carried me through more tilts than one, and shall through this. An thou give me a blow so true as to burst breast-piece and over-girth, I will own myself fairly conquered by thee.” So saying, he saluted Myles with the butt of the spear he still held, and passed by to his end of the lists.

Myles, with Gascoyne running beside him, rode across to his pavilion, and called to Edmund Wilkes to bring him a cup of spiced wine. After Gascoyne had taken off his helmet, and as he sat wiping the perspiration from his face Sir James came up and took him by the hand.

“My dear boy,” said he, gripping the hand he held, “never could I hope to be so overjoyed in mine old age as I am this day. Thou dost bring honor to me, for I tell thee truly thou dost ride like a knight seasoned in twenty tourneys.”

“It doth give me tenfold courage to hear thee so say, dear master,” answered Myles. “And truly,” he added, “I shall need all my courage this bout, for the Sieur de la Montaigne telleth me that he will ride to unhorse me this time.”

“Did he indeed so say?” said Sir James. “Then belike he meaneth to strike at thy helm. Thy best chance is to strike also at his. Doth thy hand tremble?”

“Not now,” answered Myles.

“Then keep thy head cool and thine eye true. Set thy trust in God, and haply thou wilt come out of this bout honorably in spite of the rawness of thy youth.”

Just then Edmund Wilkes presented the cup of wine to Myles, who drank it off at a draught, and thereupon Gascoyne replaced the helm and tied the thongs.

The charge that Sir James Lee had given to Myles to strike at his adversary’s helm was a piece of advice he probably would not have given to so young a knight, excepting as a last resort. A blow perfectly delivered upon the helm was of all others the most difficult for the recipient to recover from, but then a blow upon the helm was not one time in fifty perfectly given. The huge cylindrical tilting helm was so constructed in front as to slope at an angle in all directions to one point. That point was the centre of a cross formed by two iron bands welded to the steel-face plates of the helm where it was weakened by the opening slit of the occularium, or peephole. In the very centre of this cross was a little flattened surface where the bands were riveted together, and it was upon that minute point that the blow must be given to be perfect, and that stroke Myles determined to attempt.

As he took his station Edmund Wilkes came running across from the pavilion with a lance that Sir James had chosen, and Myles, returning the one that Gascoyne had just given him, took it in his hand. It was of seasoned oak, somewhat thicker than the other, a tough weapon, not easily to be broken even in such an encounter as he was like to have. He balanced the weapon, and found that it fitted perfectly to his grasp. As he raised the point to rest, his opponent took his station at the farther extremity of the lists, and again there was a little space of breathless pause. Myles was surprised at his own coolness; every nervous tremor was gone. Before, he had been conscious of the critical multitude looking down upon him; now it was a conflict of man to man, and such a conflict had no terrors for his young heart of iron.

The spectators had somehow come to the knowledge that this was to be a more serious encounter than the two which had preceded it, and a breathless silence fell for the moment or two that the knights stood in place.

Once more he breathed a short prayer, “Holy Mary, guard me!”

Then again, for the third time, the Marshal raised his baton, and the horn sounded, and for the third time Myles drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks. Again he saw the iron figure of his opponent rushing nearer, nearer, nearer. He centred, with a straining intensity, every faculty of soul, mind, and body upon one point—the cross of the occularium, the mark he was to strike. He braced himself for the tremendous shock which he knew must meet him, and then in a flash dropped lance point straight and true. The next instant there was a deafening stunning crash—a crash like the stroke of a thunder-bolt. There was a dazzling blaze of blinding light, and a myriad sparks danced and flickered and sparkled before his eyes. He felt his horse stagger under him with the recoil, and hardly knowing what he did, he drove his spurs deep into its sides with a shout. At the same moment there resounded in his ears a crashing rattle and clatter, he knew not of what, and then, as his horse recovered and sprang forward, and as the stunning bewilderment passed, he found that his helmet had been struck off. He heard a great shout arise from all, and thought, with a sickening, bitter disappointment, that it was because he had lost. At the farther end of the course he turned his horse, and then his heart gave a leap and a bound as though it would burst, the blood leaped to his cheeks tingling, and his bosom thrilled with an almost agonizing pang of triumph, of wonder, of amazement.

There, in a tangle of his horse’s harness and of embroidered trappings, the Sieur de la Montaigne lay stretched upon the ground, with his saddle near by, and his riderless horse was trotting aimlessly about at the farther end of the lists.

Myles saw the two squires of the fallen knight run across to where their master lay, he saw the ladies waving their kerchiefs and veils, and the castle people swinging their hats and shouting in an ecstasy of delight. Then he rode slowly back to where the squires were now aiding the fallen knight to arise. The senior squire drew his dagger, cut the leather points, and drew off the helm, disclosing the knight’s face—a face white as death, and convulsed with rage, mortification, and bitter humiliation.

“I was not rightly unhorsed!” he cried, hoarsely and with livid lips, to the Marshal and his attendants, who had ridden up. “I unhelmed him fairly enough, but my over-girth and breast-strap burst, and my saddle slipped. I was not unhorsed, I say, and I lay claim that I unhelmed him.”

“Sir,” said the Marshal calmly, and speaking in French, “surely thou knowest that the loss of helmet does not decide an encounter. I need not remind thee, my Lord, that it was so awarded by John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, when in the jousting match between Reynand de Roye and John de Holland, the Sieur Reynand left every point of his helm loosened, so that the helm was beaten off at each stroke. If he then was justified in doing so of his own choice, and wilfully suffering to be unhelmed, how then can this knight be accused of evil who suffered it by chance?”

“Nevertheless,” said the Sieur de la Montaigne, in the same hoarse, breathless voice, “I do affirm, and will make my affirmation good with my body, that I fell only by the breaking of my girth. Who says otherwise lies!”

“It is the truth he speaketh,” said Myles. “I myself saw the stitches were some little what burst, and warned him thereof before we ran this course.

“Sir,” said the Marshal to the Sieur de la Montaigne, “how can you now complain of that thing which your own enemy advised you of and warned you against? Was it not right knightly for him so to do?”

The Sieur de la Montaigne stood quite still for a little while, leaning on the shoulder of his chief squire, looking moodily upon the ground; then, without making answer, he turned, and walked slowly away to his pavilion, still leaning on his squire’s shoulder, whilst the other attendant followed behind, bearing his shield and helmet.

Gascoyne had picked up Myles’s fallen helmet as the Sieur de la Montaigne moved away, and Lord George and Sir James Lee came walking across the lists to where Myles still sat. Then, the one taking his horse by the bridle-rein, and the other walking beside the saddle, they led him before the raised dais where the King sat.

Even the Comte de Vermoise, mortified and amazed as he must have been at the overthrow of his best knight, joined in the praise and congratulation that poured upon the young conqueror. Myles, his heart swelling with a passion of triumphant delight, looked up and met the gaze of Lady Alice fixed intently upon him. A red spot of excitement still burned in either cheek, and it flamed to a rosier red as he bowed his head to her before turning away.

Gascoyne had just removed Myles’s breastplate and gorget, when Sir James Lee burst into the pavilion. All his grim coldness was gone, and he flung his arms around the young man’s neck, hugging him heartily, and kissing him upon either cheek.

Ere he let him go, “Mine own dear boy,” he said, holding him off at arm’s-length, and winking his one keen eye rapidly, as though to wink away a dampness of which he was ashamed—“mine own dear boy, I do tell thee truly this is as sweet to me as though thou wert mine own son; sweeter to me than when I first broke mine own lance in triumph, and felt myself to be a right knight.”

“Sir,” answered Myles, “what thou sayest doth rejoice my very heart. Ne’theless, it is but just to say that both his breast-piece and over-girth were burst in the stitches before he ran his course, for so I saw with mine own eyes.”

“Burst in the stitches!” snorted Sir James. “Thinkest thou he did not know in what condition was his horse’s gearing? I tell thee he went down because thou didst strike fair and true, and he did not so strike thee. Had he been Guy of Warwick he had gone down all the same under such a stroke and in such case.”