The Lances of Lynwood by Charlotte Mary Yonge (read 50 shades of grey txt) 📖

“I should think so!” said Leonard. “Up in the morn hours before the sun, to mass like a choir of novices, to clean our own arms and the Knight’s, like so many horse-boys, and if there be but a speck of rust, or a sword-belt half a finger’s length awry—”

“Ay, ay, I once had a fortnight’s service with a Knight of that stamp, but a fortnight was enough for me, I promise you. And yet Gaston le Maure chooses to stay with him rather than lead a merry life with Sir Perduccas d’Albret, with all to gain, and nought to lose! A different life from the days he and I spent together of old.”

“Gaston d’Aubricour is as sharp as the Knight himself,” said Leonard, “and gibes me without ceasing; but yet I could bear it all, were it not for seeing Eustace, the clerk, preferred to me, as if I were not heir to more acres than he can ever count crowns.”

“What may then be your name, fair youth, and your inheritance?” demanded the one-eyed Squire, “for your coat of arms is new in the camp.”

“My name is Leonard Ashton; my father—” but Leonard’s speech was cut short by a Squire who stumbled over his outstretched foot. Both parties burst into angry exclamations, Leonard’s new acquaintance taking his part. Men looked up, and serious consequences might have ensued, had not Gaston hastened to the spot. “Shame on you, young malapert,” said he to his hopeful pupil. “Cannot I leave you one moment unwatched, but you must be brawling in the Prince’s own presence? Here, bear this bread to Sir Reginald instantly, and leave me to make your peace. Master Clifford,” added he, as Leonard shuffled away, “‘tis an uncouth slip whom Sir Reginald Lynwood has undertaken to mould into form, and if he is visited as he deserves for each piece of discourtesy, his life will not be long enough for amendment, so I must e’en beg you to take my apology.”

“Most readily, Master d’Aubricour,” replied Clifford; “there would not have been the least offence had the youth only possessed a civil tongue.”

“Is not he the son of one of your wealthy Englishmen?” asked the one-eyed Squire, carelessly.

“Ha! Why should you think so?” said Gaston, turning sharply; “because he shows so much good nurture?”

“Because his brains are grown fat with devouring his father’s beeves, fare on which you seem to thrive, le Maure,” said the one-eyed, “though you were not wont to like English beef and English discipline better than Gascon wine and Gascon freedom. I begin to think that the cub of the Black Wolf of the Pyrenees is settling down into a tame English house-dog.”

“He has teeth and claws at your service,” replied Gaston.

“Ay?” said the Squire interrogatively; then, changing his tone, “But tell me honestly, Gaston, repent you not of having taken service with gallant Sir Perduccas?”

“Why, you have left him yourself.”

“Yes, because we had sharp words on the spoil of a Navarrese village. My present leader, Sir William Felton, is as free and easy as d’Albret, or Aymerigot Marcel himself. And is not yon ungainly varlet the hope of some rich English house?”

“I must see their hopes meet with no downfall,” said Gaston, walking away, and muttering to himself. “A plague upon it! To train two boys is more than I bargained for, and over and above to hinder this wiseacre Ashton from ruining himself, or being ruined by le Borgne Basque! What brought him here? I thought he was safe in Castile with the Free Companions. I would let the oaf take his course, for a wilful wrong-headed fool, but that it would scarce be doing good service to Sir Reginald.”

The Knights had nearly finished their meal, and the Squires having served them with wine, returned to their own table, now freshly supplied with meat, which the yeomen in their turn carved for them. Gaston kept Leonard under his own eye till the party broke up.

On the way to the tent, he began to take him to task. “A proper commencement! Did you take the Prince’s pavilion for one of your own island hostels, where men may freely brawl and use their fists without fear of aught save the parish constable?”

“What business had he to tread on my foot?” growled Leonard.

“What business had your foot there? Was not your office, as I told you, to stand ready to hand me whatever I might call for?”

“I was speaking a few words to another gentleman.”

“The fewer words you speak to le Borgne Basque the better, unless you think it is Sir Reginald’s pleasure that you should be instructed in all the dicing and drinking in this camp, and unless you wish that the crowns with which your father stored your pouch should jingle in his pockets. It is well for you the Knight marked you not.”

“You held long enough parley with him yourself,” said the refractory pupil.

“Look you, Master Leonard Ashton, I do not presume to offer myself as an example to you save, perhaps, in the matter of sitting a steed, or handing a wine-cup. I have no purse to lose, and I have wit to keep it if I had, or at least,” as a recollection crossed him, “if I lost it, it should be to please myself, and not le Borgne Basque; above all, my name and fame are made, and yours—”

“What would you say of mine?” said Leonard, with sulky indignation. “The heir of Ashton is not to be evened to a wandering landless foreigner.”

“It is not in sight of these mountain peaks,” said Gaston, contemptuously, “that I am to be called a foreigner; and as to being landless, if I chose to take my stand on the old tower of Albricorte, and call myself Lord of the whole hill-side, I should like to see who would gainsay me. For name, I suspect you will find that many a man has trembled at the sound of Beranger d’Albricorte, to whom Ashton would be but that of an English clown. Moreover, in this camp I would have you to know that the question is, not who has the broadest lands, but who has the strongest arm. And, sir Squire, if you are not above listening to a piece of friendly counsel, to brag of those acres of yours is the surest way to attract spoilers. I had rather a dozen time trust Eustace in such company than you, not only because he has more wit, but because he has less coin.”

“Who is this man? What is his name?” asked Eustace.

“Le Borgne Basque, I know no other,” said Gaston. “We reck little of names here, especially when it may be convenient to have them forgotten. He is a Free Companion, a routier, brave enough, but more ready at the sack than the assault, and loving best to plunder, waste, and plunder again, or else to fleece such sheep as our friend here.”

“How could such a man gain entrance to the Prince’s pavilion?”

“Stout hearts and strong arms find entrance in most places,” said Gaston; “but, as you saw, he durst not appear at the upper table.”

The next morning the army began their march to the Pyrenees. They halted for some days at the foot of the hills, whilst negotiations were passing between the Black Prince and Charles the Bad, King of Navarre, who might easily have prevented their entrance into the Peninsula by refusing a passage through his mountain fastnesses.

When the permission was granted, they advanced with considerable danger and difficulty. The rugged paths were covered with snow and ice, which made them doubly perilous for the horses, and but for Gaston’s familiarity with his native hills, Sir Reginald declared that he could never have brought his little troop across them in safety.

At length they emerged through the celebrated Pass of Roncesvalles, where Eustace in imagination listened to the echoes of the dying blast of Roland. On the following evening he had the delight of reading his history in the veritable pages of Archbishop Turpin, which precious work he found in the possession of Brother Waleran, a lay-friar, in the employment of Sir John Froissart the chronicler, who had sent him with the army as a reporter of the events of the campaign. This new acquaintance gave very little satisfaction to Sir Reginald, who was almost ready to despair of Eustace’s courage and manhood when he found he had “gone back to his books,” and manifested, if not so much serious displeasure, yet even more annoyance, on this occasion, than when, shortly after, he found that Leonard Ashton spent every moment at his own disposal in the company of le Borgne Basque. That worthy, meeting the young gentleman, had easily persuaded him that Gaston’s cautions only proceeded from fears of stories that might with too much truth be told against himself, and by skilful flatteries of the young Englishman’s self-importance, and sympathy with his impatience of the strict rule of the Knight of Lynwood, succeeded in establishing over him great influence.

So fared it with the two young Squires, whilst the army began to enter the dominions of the King of Castile. Here a want of provisions was severely felt, for such was the hatred borne to Pedro the Cruel, that every inhabitant of the country fled at his approach, carrying off, or destroying, all that could be used as food. It was the intention of Bertrand du Guesclin, the ally of Enrique of Trastamare, to remain quietly in his camp of Navaretta, and allow hunger to do its work with the invading force, but this prudent plan was prevented by the folly of Don Tello, brother of Enrique, who, accusing Bertrand of cowardice, so stung his fiery spirit that he resolved on instant combat, though knowing how little dependence could be placed on his Spanish allies.

The challenge of the Prince of Wales was therefore accepted; and never were tidings more welcome than these to the half-famished army, encamped upon the banks of the Ebro, on the same ground on which, in after years, English valour was once more to turn to flight a usurping King of Spain.