University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE ESQUIRE.

It was about eleven o'clock of the morning, on a fine clear
autumnal day, which had succeeded to a night of storm and
fury, that a single wayfarer might have been seen seated beside
the brink of a small consecrated well on the roadside between
Braine la Leud and Brussels. The road, at that period,
lay stretching far through an unbroken forest, which indeed
covered the whole face of the country for many a league in
circuit, with but a few small tracts of cultivated land, smiling
like sheltered oases amid the wide waste of green leaves and
waving fern, that clothed both vale and upland. It would
have been impossible for a poet's fancy to conceive, or painter's
hand to delineate a spot more singularly picturesque, more
lonely or romantic, than that which had been chosen for a
resting-place by the worn traveller, a small sequestered nook
between three short but abrupt hills, which closed it in on
every side save one, where down a narrow gorge, the head of
a broad valley, the waters of the little fountain welled with a
gentle murmur, soon to be lost in the turbulent channel of some
larger but not purer streamlet. The spring-head of this crystal
streamlet was sheltered from the sun and air by a small
vault of freestone, wrought in rich Gothic fret-work, and surmounted
by a cross of rare workmanship; an iron cup was
attached to the margin of the basin by a chain, and a stone
bench, over-canopied by a huge ash-tree, afforded a pleasant
resting-place to voyager or pilgrim. Behind the well
there rose a tall, rough bank of sand, within which was the

birthplace of those limpid waters, all overgrown with wildflowers,
and running with long wreaths of eglantine and honeysuckle,
and all around it the tall Titans of the forest reared
their great heads exulting in the sunshine, which bathed their
airy tops in floods of yellow lustre, while all their lower limbs
and moss-grown boles, and the soft, green sward at their feet,
were steeped in cool, blue shadows. The sandy road, which
wound through this deep solitude, seemed little travelled —
for no wheel-tracks and but few hoof-prints could be traced
along its yielding surface — not a sound was to be heard except
the gentle breath of the morning air whispering constantly
among the ash-leaves, and low gurgle of the rivulet, and now
and then the sudden song of the thrush or blackbird bursting
out from the thickets in a gush of liquid ecstasy, and hushed
almost immediately into repose and silence. So seldom, too,
it would appear, were human beings seen in that sylvan district,
that an unwonted tameness was perceptible among the
animal creation. Several small birds hopped down into the
road, and even ventured up to drink or lave their disordered
plumage in the little channel which wound across the path,
within a few yards of the man's feet who sat there silently; all
overdone with travel. Nay, more, a wild deer came out from
the copse on the farther side, and gazed about it for a moment,
and eyed the strange forms with some apparent apprehension;
but seeing that he moved not, drank its fill of the stream, and
only when the man raised his head from his hand whereon he
had been resting, did it bound away with startled speed into
the deeper woodlands.

It was the man himself who gave the point and character to
the scene; for he was such a one as least of all would have
been expected in that place. He was an old man, as could be
seen at once, even before he lifted up his face, for his hair
was as white as snow, though singularly long and abundant;

but, when he moved his dense and shaggy eyebrows, his large
mustache, and pointed beard, all of the same silvery hue,
confirmed the first impression, although the sunburnt and somewhat
ruddy hues of his complexion, and the full, bright black
eye, should have belonged to one many years his junior. His
dress was as much unsuited to a foot-traveller, as it was easy
to see he was; for, besides that he had no horse or any beast
of burden, his feet and lower limbs were all besmirched and
stained with clay and mud of twenty different colors, caught,
it would seem, from as many different sloughs and quagmires,
as his being there at all seemed old and unaccountable. It
was a complete suite of the heaviest horse-armor then in fashion,
consisting of a very solid corslet, or cuirass of plate, worn
over a loose shirt of chain-mail, the sleeves of which protected
his arms, while his legs and feet were guarded by hose of the
same material, and splendid shoes of steel. His helmet lay
on the ground beside him, with its crest bruised and dented,
and the avantaille wrenched quite away from the sockets.
Above his armor he wore a cassock of buff-leather, guarded on
the seams with lace, and embroidered on the breast with the
cognizance of a chained dragon — but it was sorely rent and
defaced, and cut quite through in many places, and dabbled
with fresh stains of gore, and soiled as if with clay. His
mail, moreover, was much battered; blood might be seen
oozing from beneath the rivets of his gorget, and trickling
down his right arm from the shoulder.

He was very faint, too, and weary, as it seemed from his uncertain,
vacillating movements; yet he did not wait a long time,
before having bathed his face and hands in the cool water, and
gathered up his battered casque and gauntlets, he arose from
his seat, and, supporting himself on the truncheon of a broken
lance, which was the only offensive weapon he carried, except
a long and formidable dagger at his belt, took the road,

dragging his legs wearily along, that led toward Brussels. He
had not, however, taken many steps before the tramp of a horse
coming down the road at a light gallop caught his ear, and the
next moment the rider crossed the brow of the hill, meeting
him face to face at a short distance off. It was a gay and
handsome boy, splendidly mounted on a bright blood bay Arab,
dressed in a gambesoon of fine white cloth, with horse of the
same fabric, and russet-leather buskins, all richly laced with
gold, and blazoned on the breast with the same bearing that
decked the old man's cassock. Under the gambesoon he had
a light shirt of linked mail, the edges of which were visible,
and the neck and sleeves, polished as bright as silver, but on
his head he wore only a cap of embroidered velvet with a tall
plume.

The moment his eye fell on the old man, staggering feebly
up the slope, he checked his horse and sprang from the saddle.

“Mother of God!” he cried in tones expressive of more
consternation than could be deemed befitting an eleve of chivalry.
— “Matthieu Montmesnil in this plight! Where is our
lord? Speak, man, where is Sir Hugues de Coucy?”

“Prisoner! — Ermold de Clermont. Prisoner to that base
villain, Talebard Talebardin!”

“Now, by St. Paul!” replied the boy, his face flushing fiery
red, “I scarce can credit mine own ears! Hugues de Coucy
yield him a prisoner to a churl — a base and cruel robber!
That would I not believe, though I did see it happen. Thou
art mad, Montmesnil, to say so.”

“I did not say so, Ermold,” answered the old man, in a
broken voice, “sooner would I bite out my tongue with my
teeth, that it should tell dishonor of the Coucy. Nathless,
prisoner he is, and to that same marauder. When he refused
to yield him, rescue or no rescue, they stripped his armor off
and bound him, hand and foot, and keep him for his ransom.”

“And thou didst see this? — Thou! thou! Matthieu de
Montmesnil! didst thou see our lord bound like a beast before
the shambles, and madest not in to rescue or die with him!
Now, by St. Paul! I do believe thy wounds have made thee
mad, that thou dost lie upon thyself — for from no other tongue
of man beside thine own would I believe thee coward, and
recreant, and traitor! nor do I now believe it. Oh! say, Mattheiu,
say it is false that thou hast spoken! Say anything but
that thou hast fled and left thy lord in durance!”

“I may say nothing but the truth,” returned the other perfectly
unmoved; “yet hear me out, Ermold — thus it fell out:
To be short, we found last night in the forest, good Master
Morillon of Bruges, bound to an oak-tree, and his fair nephew
and his train all foully slaughtered; and learned how that they
had been beset by the Rouge Batard; and the young lady,
Marguerite, carried off with her maidens. And so we mounted
Master Morillon upon Gray Termagant, and rode off all
night, and at the break of day came on the rogues in the little
vale of the headless cross, and charged them lustily. Our
lord bored the Red Bastard through and through, as a cook
spits an ortolan; and Clement de Mareuil and I, each slew his
man in the tourney; but Raoul broke his lance with the gray
monk of Soignies, and so the robber-priest 'scaped harmless.
And just at that same instant, while our steeds were blown
and all our lances splintered, lo! you, down came by the two
cross-roads, Talebard Talebardin, with thirty men or more,
yelling or howling like incarnate fiends, charged us in front and
rear, and bore us down in a moment. Sir Hugues slew three
men, at three blows, outright with his two-handed sword; and
I and the rest did our best — but the roan horse was thrust
into the eye with a spear-point, and our lord felled to the pummel
with a mace — and Clement and Raoul were slain in a
moment — and I was badly hurt, for my horse went down

rolling over me, when it was a minute ere I could get loose.
And ere I did so, Sir Hugues was fast bound; and so, when I
saw that his life was safe, and that there was no chance of
rescue — knowing right well that they would stick the 'squire
like a pig, though they might spare the knight — I crawled
into the thicket while the robbers were all thronging round our
lord; but ere I had got off a spear's length, the gray priest, who
was hurrying back to join his comrades, caught me fast by the
throat — but I put my dagger into him, up to the dudgeon hilt,
under his corslet rim. And here I am, no recreant nor coward!
hey, Ermold?”

“No, no; forgive me, Matthieu, the rash word, But I was
half distraught, when thou didst say our lord was prisoner to
the incarnate fiends. But how didst thou come hither — hast
walked six leagues since day-break in thine harness; and what
wilt thou now do, to get our good lord free?”

“Only five leagues, Ermold — only five leagues, or a little
over; and that were no great thing, but that my harness is, as
thou sayest, not the best gear for walking — and that being
wounded, I can not move so lustily as common; but for the rest,
I came hither, Master Ermold, first to meet thee, whom I knew
to be on the route by this time, with tidings from Sir Raimond
of Fontanges — not that thine arm is strong enough to do much
in a melée, but that thy heart is true, and thy wit somewhat
quick and pregnant. And now let us take counsel. And,
first, what news bringest thou from the beau sire Raimond?”

“That he will meet our lord the tenth day hence with sixty
lances, before the walls —”

“Too late! — the tenth day hence — too late for any purpose,”
answered the old man; “then must we on to Brussels;
though I trow the churl burghers will scarce unbuckle their
fat bags to pay Sir Hugues' ransom, much less take bow and
spear to save him.”

“No, no; that is no scheme at all. Besides, it is keen steel,
and not red gold, that must be ransom for De Coucy. We
must fall in and rescue him by the strong hand.”

“If the strong heart could make the strong hand, Ermold,”
said the old warrior, smiling with a half-melancholy glance of
admiration at the kindling eye and noble features of the gallant
boy, “then wert thou champion such as rarely has couched
lance in Flanders. But Heaven preserve thy wits; there be
thirty spears at least of these marauders; and we be an old
wounded man and a weak boy! 'Twill not do, Ermold, though
dearly would I buy it, if it would.”

“Ay! but it will, though — ay! but it will, though — for not
three miles hence, marching hitherward — I passed them an
hour since, for they rode slowly not to break down their
destries — are thirteen lances of Franche Compté, stont, free
companions, every one of them, under the leading of Geoffroy
`Tete-Noir.' I have two thousand gold crowns in my
wallet, and we will buy them to the deed, and win our master
from his chains, and save the beautiful Marguerite — God send
we may! — for she was very kind to me when I lay ill and
sorely hurt in Bruges, and gain ourselves high honor!”

“Brave boy! brave boy! 'twill do! turn thy nag straight,
ride like the wind to meet them, and bring them hither with
all good speed to the fountain; there will I tarry and bind my
wounds up something, for they shoot now, though I felt them
not a while since.”

No more words were needed; the page wheeled his fleet
Arab round, and touching him with the spur, darted away like
an arrow from the bow, and crossed the hill-top, and was out of
sight in a moment. The aged esquire in the meantime, dragged
himself back to the well, and, his immediate apprehensions
quelled, set about unriveting his armor and binding up his
wounds in earnest. As he did so, however, he muttered to

himself, “It is for the last time! the last, most surely! I but
must needs have all the strength I may for the stern struggle —
stern it will be, I warrant me! and then will I die under shield
freely, and willingly. Thou knowest!” he added, turning his
eyes reverentially upward, “so I may see him free!”

Scarcely had he finished his brief soliloquy, before the heavy
clang of armor was heard coming up the hill at the trot; and
shortly afterward the spear-heads and bright pennons of the
men-at-arms were seen glittering above the bushes; and then
the party wheeled into full view, fourteen stout cavaliers, all
well-armed in bright suits of Flanders iron, with two or three
led horses, and a mule or two loaded with pieces of spare
armor, lances, and provender, and several skins of wine. The
leader, a very powerful man, whose jet black hair, beard and
mustaches, curling in fierce luxuriance, justified fully his
soubriquet of Tête-Noir, was busied in deep converse with
Ermold the page, although by the heavy frown that lowered
on his brow, and the half-despondent look of the boy, it appeared
that he was not yet wrought to conviction.

As they reached the little hollow by the fountain, their
trumpet sounded a halt; and while the leader dismounted, and
strode up to question Montmesnil, the men picketed their horses,
and prepared for the morning meal.

At first the chief of the free companions appeared reluctant
to engage in the adventure, alleging the superior numbers of
the marauders, the difficulty of finding them, and the prejudices
of his men, who might not be willing to attack men of a class
from which — though considering themselves soldiers of honor
— they were not, after all, very far removed.

Here, however, it seems he counted without his host, for
one of the others, a sort of lieutenant or second in command,
called out loudly when he heard the words of his leader, denying,
with a fearful imprecation, that they had aught to do anything

in common with such low thieves as Talebardin. “Besides,”
he added, “it were foul sin and shame, to suffer such a
knight as Hugues de Coucy to linger in such durance without
blow stricken in the cause. Why, before God! we should be
held the shame and scorn of all France! No! no! Geoffroy,
let the page shell out the two thousand crowns here, and let
the 'squire pledge us his master's honor, provided we redeem
him man and armor, and set the damsels free — five thousand
more to be paid down in Brussels, at good St. Martin's tide —
and we will breakfast here, and ride right on and win him with
war weapons!”

The bargain was soon concluded, and after a hearty meal
the trumpet again blew to horse; and Matthieu being provided
with a fresh casque and other arms, and mounted on one of
the led chargers, they rode off at a round pace, for the vale of
the headless cross.

Two hours' hard riding brought them to the spot, which was
still marked distinctly with the dread tokens of the fray, several
dead horses lay upon the spot, among others the roan Andalusian
of the knight, despoiled of his rare armor and magnificent
housings, and the bodies of Clement and Raoul, where they
had fallen; and all the road was poached up by the hoofs of
the heavy chargers, and the gore stood in many a hoof-track
curdled and horrible. But fearful as such a spectacle would
be deemed now-a-days, it was of occurrence too frequent, at
that time, to create any wonder or disgust in the bosoms, even
of the young and delicate of either sex, much less in these
stern soldiers. They halted, however, on the spot, and examined
the ground very closely. And here they would probably
have been entirely at fault had they been soldiers of a more
regular order; for there was no distinct track from the place
leading away in any one direction, but, as it seemed, the whole
party had dispersed to every quarter of the compass, leaving

no clew whereby they might be followed to their haunts. It
was not long, however, before the sagacity of the free companions
detected the probable direction; and the troop again got
into motion, though their movements were now slower and far
more guarded than they had been heretofore. After crossing
the forest for about an hour, they reached a wide glade or
woodtrack, through which it was evident that the marauders
had passed, for the greensward was cut up by prints of hoofs,
which one of the free lances confidently asserted to be the
same as those he had examined in the vale of the cross. A
closer investigation proved that they must have passed very
recently, for a fresh blood-drop was discovered on the grass,
still wet, which must have fallen from some wounded rider or
spurgalled horse's flank.

Here, then, a second halt was held, and three or four of the
most sagacious men were sent off in different directions, to reconnoitre
the positions of the enemy. It was not many minutes
before the first returned, bearing the tidings that they were
close at hand, halted, as it seemed, for the evening, in a small
green savannah, half circled by a swampy streamlet. The
others soon came in confirming their comrade's tidings, and
bringing the further intelligence, that they were eight-and-twenty
men, well, although variously armed — that their horses were
picketed close by, while the troopers were feasting around a
fire which they had kindled — the knight heavily ironed, and
the females lying a short way aloof, under a clump of trees,
while some of the leaders of the party appeared to be throwing
dice for the possession of their fairer captives.

Few minutes were required to form the plan of action. It
was necessary to ford the brook a little way above the meadow,
where the routiers lay, so as to gain firm ground and space for
a charge; and before doing this, Geoffroy Tête-Noir examined
the girths and stirrup-leathers of every charger in his troop,

inspected all the arms in silence, and then, lowering his vizor,
mounted his strong charger. And here the indomitable valor
of old Matthieu shone out resplendent. He was so worn with
his wounds and weariness, that for the last ten miles he had
hardly been able to keep his saddle; but now he roused and
kindled to the fray, as an old war-horse to the blast of trumpets.
All prayers of Ermold, all exhortations of the condottierii, that
he would remain at rest till the fray was over, were unheeded
— scorned — before even Geoffroy Tête-Noir he rode in the
van.

They forded the stream with success, they wheeled around
the hill-side, and made ready for the onset, but in the meantime
the clash and clang of their coming, aroused the routiers,
and they sprang hastily to their arms. Most of them were
indeed mounted — but all were in confusion, and many scarcely
firm in their saddles, when the free companions poured like a
torrent down the hill — “Tête-Noir — Tête-Noir for Tankarville!
De Coucy to the rescue and charge home!”

The shock was terrible, the fight was fought out furiously.
The superior numbers, and the despair of the routiers, would
have perhaps counterbalanced the better horses, and more
complete equipment of the men-at-arms, but the disarray in
which they were taken, was fearfully against them; the giant
strength of Tête-Noir, the high and fiery valor of old Montmesnil,
and the mad impetuosity of the page Ermold, who
fought in his laced jerkin, foremost among the lances, swept
the marauders down like chaff before the whirlwind.

Ere yet the strife was ended, while the robbers, driven back
to the streamlet's brink, were striving desperately to escape,
and the free lances as desperately bearing them to the earth,
Matthieu had hewed his way through the mêlée, and reached
his liege lord, who had started up from the ground, but was
prevented by his bonds from joining in the fray. A stream of

gore was pouring from the old man's vizor, and from a dozen
rents in his plate armor, and he so staggered as he leaped to
the ground, that he had well nigh fallen; yet he rushed up to
Hugues de Coucy, and with his dagger wrenched out the rivets
from his manacles and fetters, and tore them from the limbs of
his loved lord. Then he sank down upon his knees and
clasped the knight's legs with his aged arms, and wet his feet
with honest, loyal tears.

“Thou art free — thou art free,” he cried, “my master! thou
art free, and I die rejoicing! yet say, before I die, thou pardonest
my leaving thee when captive, for to this end I left
thee, to this end only. Say, master, that I died thy true and
loyal 'squire!”

“No! by St. Paul of Tankarville,” the knight exclaimed,
“no! by St. Paul of Tankarville! — but a true knight and
loyal!” — and with the word he stooped and took the old man's
sword out of his hand, and striking him slightly on the shoulder,
he continued, “for with thine own sword — nor ever was a
better! — I dub thee knight — before the ladies, before God
and good St. George! Rise up, good knight and gallant —
Sir Matthieu de Montmesnil,” and he raised him to his feet as
he spoke, and opened his vizor, and kissed his ashy brow.
But a mighty gleam of exultation flashed over the features of
the dying man, and he gasped out with a faint voice, but joyous
accents, “A knight! a knight — and by the honored hand of
the Coucy! Too much — oh, too, too much!”

Then the count, seeing that his spirit was on the point of
taking flight, laid him on the ground softly, and took his hand
and knelt in tears beside him.

“When I am gone,” the old man feebly gasped, “make —
Ermold, thine esquire! — for though young, he is true, and —
and valiant! Bury my sword beside me — farewell — De
Coucy — and forget not old — old Matthieu!”