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

The first red streak of dawn was beginning to glow in the eastern sky, when the note of a bugle rang out from the Prince’s tent and was responded to by hundreds of other horns. That instant the quiet slumbering camp awoke, the space in front of every tent was filled with busy men, arming themselves, or saddling their horses. Gaston and Eustace, already fully equipped, assisted Sir Reginald to arm; Leonard was roused, and began to fasten on his armour; the men-at-arms came forth from their tent, and the horses were saddled and bridled; “And now,” called Sir Reginald, “bring our last loaf, John Ingram. Keep none back. By this day’s eve we shall have abundance, or else no further need.”

The hard dry barley-bread was shared in scanty, but equal measure, and scarcely had it been devoured, before a second bugle blast, pealing through the camp, caused each mail-clad warrior to close his visor, and spring into the open plain, where, according to previous orders, they arrayed themselves in two divisions, the first commanded by the Duke of Lancaster and Sir John Chandos, the second by Prince Edward and Don Pedro.

After a pause, employed in marshalling the different bands, the host advanced at an even pace, the rising sun glancing on their armour, and revealing the multitude of waving crests, and streamers fluttering from the points of the lances, like the wings of gorgeous insects. Presently a wall of glittering armour was seen advancing to meet them, with the same brilliant display. It might have seemed some mighty tournament that was there arrayed, as the two armies stood confronting each other, rather than a stern battle for the possession of a kingdom; and well might old Froissart declare, “It was a pleasure to see such hosts.”

But it would be presumptuous to attempt to embellish a tale after Froissart has once touched it. To him, then, I leave it to tell how the rank of banneret was conferred on the gallant old Chandos, how the Prince prayed aloud for a blessing on his arms, how he gave the signal for the advance, and how the boaster, Tello, fled in the first encounter. The Lances of Lynwood, in the division of the Duke of Lancaster, well and gallantly did their part in the hard struggle with the brave band of French, whose resistance was not overcome till the Black Prince himself brought his reserved troops to the aid of his brother.

With the loss of only one man-at-arms, the Lances of Lynwood had taken several prisoners. It was high noon, and the field was well-nigh cleared of the enemy, when Sir Reginald drew his rein at the top of a steep bank clothed with brushwood, sloping towards the stream of the Zadorra, threw up his visor, wiped his heated brow, and, patting his horse’s neck, turned to his brother, saying, “You have seen sharp work in this your first battle-day, Eustace.”

“It is a glorious day!” said Eustace. “See how they hurry to the water.” And he pointed over the low shrubs to a level space on the bank of the river, where several fugitives, on foot and horseback, were crowding together, and pressing hastily forward.

“Ha!” cried Sir Reginald, “the golden circlet! Henry of Trastamare himself!” and at the same instant he sprang to the ground. “You,” said he, “speed round the bushes, meet me at the ford they are making for.” This was directed to Gaston, and ere the last words were spoken, both Sir Reginald and Eustace were already beginning to hurry down the bank. Gaston rose to his full height in his stirrups, and, looking over the wood, exclaimed, “The Eagle crest! I must be there. On, Ashton—Ingram, this way—speed, speed, speed!” and with these words threw himself from his horse, and dashed after the two brothers, as they went crashing, in their heavy armour, downwards through the boughs. In less than a minute they were on the level ground, and Sir Reginald rushed forward to intercept Don Enrique, who was almost close to the river. “Yield, yield, Sir King!” he shouted; but at the same moment another Knight on foot threw himself between, raising a huge battle-axe, and crying, “Away, away, Sir; leave me to deal with him!” Enrique turned, entered the river, and safely swam his horse to the other side, whilst his champion was engaged in desperate conflict.

The Knight of Lynwood caught the first blow on his shield, and returned it, but without the slightest effect on his antagonist, who, though short in stature, and clumsily made, seemed to possess gigantic strength. A few moments more, and Reginald had fallen at full length on the grass, while his enemy was pressing on, to secure him as a prisoner, or to seize the pennon which Eustace held. The two Squires stood with lifted swords before their fallen master, but it cost only another of those irresistible strokes to stretch Gaston beside Sir Reginald, and Eustace was left alone to maintain the struggle. A few moments more, and the Lances would come up—but how impossible to hold out! The first blow cleft his shield in two, and though it did not pierce his armour, the shock brought him to his knee, and without the support of the staff of the pennon he would have been on the ground. Still, however, he kept up his defence, using sometimes his sword, and sometimes the staff, to parry the strokes of his assailant; but the strife was too unequal, and faint with violent exertion, as well as dizzied by a stroke which the temper of his helmet had resisted, he felt that all would be over with him in another second, when his sinking energies were revived by the cry of “St. George,” close at hand. His enemy relaxing his attack, he sprang to his feet, and that instant found himself enclosed, almost swept away, by a crowd of combatants of inferior degree, as well as his own comrades as Free Lances, all of whose weapons were turned upon his opponent. A sword was lifted over the enemy’s head from behind, and would the next moment have descended, but that Eustace sprang up, dashed it aside, cried “Shame!” and grasping the arm of the threatened Knight, exclaimed, “Yield, yield! it is your only hope!”

“Yield? and to thee?” said the Knight; “yet it is well meant. The sword of Arthur himself would be of no avail. Tiphaine was right! It is the fated day. Thou art of gentle birth? I yield me then, rescue or no rescue, the rather that I see thou art a gallant youth. Hark you, fellows, I am a prisoner, so get off with you. Your name, bold youth?”

“Eustace Lynwood, brother to this Knight,” said Eustace, raising his visor, and panting for breath.

“You need but a few years to nerve your arm. But rest a while, you are almost spent,” said the prisoner, in a kind tone of patronage, as he looked at the youthful face of his captor, which in a second had varied from deep crimson to deadly paleness.

“My brother! my brother!” was all Eustace’s answer, as he threw himself on the grass beside Gaston, who, though bleeding fast, had raised his master’s head, and freed him from his helmet; but his eyes were still closed, and the wound ghastly, for such had been the force of the blow, that the shoulder was well-nigh severed from the collarbone. “Reginald! O brother, look up!” cried Eustace. “O Gaston, does he live?”

“I have crossed swords with him before,” said the prisoner. “I grieve for the mishap.” Then, as the soldiers crowded round, he waved them off with a gesture of command, which they instinctively obeyed. “Back, clowns, give him air. And here—one of you—bring some water from the river. There, he shows signs of life.”

As he spoke, the clattering of horses’ feet was heard—all made way, and there rode along the bank of the river a band of Spaniards, headed by Pedro himself, his sword, from hilt to point, streaming with blood, and his countenance ferocious as that of a tiger. “Where is he?” was his cry; “where is the traitor Enrique? I will send him to join the rest of the brood. Where has he hidden himself?”

The prisoner, who had been assisting to life the wounded man out of the path of the trampling horses, turned round, and replied, with marked emphasis, “King Henry of Castile is, thanks to our Lady, safe on the other side of the Zadorra, to recover his throne another day.”

“Du Guesclin himself! Ah, dog!” cried Pedro, his eyes glaring with the malignity of a demon, and raising his bloody weapon to hew down Bertrand du Guesclin, for no other was the prisoner, who stood with folded arms, his dark eyes fixed in calm scorn on the King’s face, and his sword and axe lying at his feet.

Eustace was instantly at his side, calling out, “My Lord King, he is my prisoner!”

“Thine!” said Pedro, with an incredulous look. “Leave him to my vengeance, and thou shalt have gold—half my treasury—all thy utmost wishes can reach—”

“I give him up to none but my Lord the Prince of Wales,” returned the young Squire, undauntedly.

“Fool and caitiff! out of my path! or learn what it is to oppose the wrath of Kings!” cried Pedro.

Eustace grasped his sword. “Sir King, you must win your way to him through my body.”

At this moment one of the attendants whispered, “El Principe, Senor Rey,” and, in a few seconds more, the Black Prince, with a few followers, rode towards the spot.

Hastily dismounting, Pedro threw himself on his knees to thank him for the victory; but Edward, leaping from his horse, raised him, saying, “It is not to me, but to the Giver of victories, that you should return thanks;” and Eustace almost shuddered to see him embrace the blood-thirsty monster, who, still intent on his prey, began the next moment, “Here, Senor Prince, is the chief enemy— here is the disturber of kingdoms—Du Guesclin himself—and there stands a traitorous boy of your country, who resolutely refuses to yield him to my just vengeance.”

As Pedro spoke, the Prince exchanged with Sir Bertrand the courteous salutation of honourable enemies, and then said, in a quiet, grave tone, “It is not our English custom to take vengeance on prisoners of war.”

“My Lord,” said Eustace, stepping forward, as the Prince looked towards him, “I deliver the prisoner into your princely hands.”

“You have our best thanks, Sir Squire,” said the Prince. “You are the young Lynwood, if I remember right. Where is your brother?”

“Alas! my Lord, here he lies, sorely hurt,” said Eustace, only anxious to be rid of prisoner and Prince, and to return to Reginald, who by this time had, by the care of Gaston, been recalled to consciousness.

“Is it so? I grieve to hear it!” said Edward, with a face of deep concern, advancing to the wounded Knight, bending over him, and taking his hand, “How fares it with you, my brave Reginald?”

“Poorly enough, my Lord,” said the Knight, faintly; “I would I could have taken King Henry—”

“Lament not for that,” said the Prince, “but receive my thanks for the prize of scarcely less worth, which I owe to your arms.”

“What mean you, my Lord? Not Sir Bertrand du Guesclin; I got nothing from him but my death-blow.”

“How is this then?” said Edward; “it was from your young brother that I received him.”

“Speak, Eustace!” said Sir Reginald, eagerly, and half raising himself; “Sir Bertrand your prisoner? Fairly and honourably? Is it possible?”

“Fairly and honourably, to that I testify,” said Du Guesclin. “He knelt before you, and defended your pennon longer than I ever thought to see one of his years resist that curtal-axe of mine.