KNIGHT AT ARMS

Front matter

Senenes Stutieetens

“ te Eee gk

4 ah Wal, i?

Contents

Tue Moor anp ais Lapy

Smtvain Looxs Back .

—-

CHAPTER I THE HERITAGE OF ST. LO “TO-DAY to you, to-morrow to me,” said Silvain

“Keep me a place, lads.” He put the rest of the sausage in his mouth and waved to his companions and strode off.

There were three of them hanging in the walnut tree. With a creak of ropes the bodies swayed to the wind and turned faces which had no eyes. Silvain went up the white road singing. It was the year of grace 1483.

He came back to France a large fair youth who carried his head high, having found no other fortune. He walked quick and light, with a singular grace as though he were poised to dash on or turn or spring aside. That distinguished him, that and the thrownback head which seemed to look at a far horizon. The dust of November was grey upon his hose and his leather doublet. His only decoration was the dagger at his girdle.

Where the road turned to avoid the steep scarp of the chalk hills a man stood out to meet him and sud- ' denly, so that they came chest to chest.

“Halt, fellow!” It was a raucous cry, with an oath and a scowl behind it.

“Why, so I do,” Silvain said gently.

The man was armoured in helmet and coat of mail, he had a hand jerking at his sword. ‘In the King’s

I name, stand!” He worked his black brows. “Look you, fellow, there is a toll on all who pass this way for the mending of the bridge. It is an ordinance of the King. Ten sous, my gallant.” He held out his left hand.

“Good faith, good master, I have crossed no bridge ”” Silvain drew back.

“But you will cross it, fool.” ; einer

“T hope so, indeed. If it please God.” Silvain took off his cap. ‘But, alas, my master, I have no money.”

“You lie, a base treacherous lie. What, you will cheat the King’s officer? Open your scrip, boy.”

Silvain spread empty hands. The man laughed. “Oh, you are a sack that must be slit,’ and out came the sword.

While Silvain seemed still drawing back he sprang in and the hilt of his dagger took the man between the eyes. The man went down and the sword flew. Silvain took that and before the man knew what was to do he found Silvain sitting on his chest unbuckling his sword belt.

“So, so!” Silvain put on the belt and kissed the sword blade and thrust it into the scabbard. “It shall lose no honour with me.” He stood up and made a bow. “I have great pleasure that I met you, my lord.”

“A robber,” the man said, sitting up; “‘a rascal. But you are mad. Do you not see what I am? Look at my helmet,”—which had fallen off—‘‘my brigandine” —he patted a coat of overlapping plates of steel, like a fish’s scales—‘‘the King’s livery, boy. I am a franc archer. By St. Tringan, you have hanged yourself if the provost hear of you.”

‘Good master, you would not tell tales.”

‘“‘Now the fiend burn your impudence!’’ The man thrust upon him again.

‘Peace be with you, poor soul,” said Silvain and pulled out the sword.

The man fell on his knees and held out his hands.

“Grace, my lord, I will spare your life. You are a free man from this hour.” Silvain laughed and pulled him up. “By Our Lady of Vire, this is a hard world for honest folk,” says he, making a grimace at his sword as it was sheathed again by Silvain’s side.

“You are too good for it, brother,” Silvain smiled. “Come, let us make it better.”

The man drew back. “No, no. You have my sword. But I will fight for my coat. And I will die for my breeches.”

“Brother, you shall have a sword on each side, by God’s grace.”

The man stared at him. ‘‘Now, who are you that hice like mother’s milk and go about to earn hanging?

“T am called Silvain de St. Lo, brother. And there is my life in your hand.”

The man looked at him. ‘You are mad, or you lie. God pity you, my lord, I think you are mad.”

“Have you anything to lose, brother?”

“One life only, my lord. And I love it well.”

“So do I mine. But I have a castle and lands if I can win them.”

“Peace, peace. I have a mansion in heaven if I can get there. But here I have a hole in the ground.” He pointed up the steep hillside. “It is better. Come and see.”

He took Silvain’s arm and climbed fast. Silvain was propelled into a cave in the chalk. The mouth was concealed by bushes of juniper: it was so low that they bent double to go in, but beyond there was room enough and a comfortable smell of onions. “God bless you, brother,” said Silvain. ‘‘No man has taken me to his home this long while.” :

“Since you come asking for a home underground, best have one you can get out of. Stand close and look.”” He pointed to the road below where four men were riding: they were lightly armed, but they bore lance and shield. On their black breastplates was painted a red bull’s head. i |

“They are of the Baron de Criquebeeuf’s household. What is that to me, brother? I do not challenge him.”

“Said the hare of the fox. But once a young hare sought an old hare and bade him follow and drive the sheep from their good clover and take it and live fat, and while they talked of this there came by an old dog fox and had hare to his dinner.” .

‘And so these hares are gone to ground,” Silvain smiled.

“No wise man talks of what is his even though he has it not, while Criquebceuf’s riders are near. And whatever you be, you are not a wise man, my lord.” He pulled down onions from the string which hung above him and offered them to Silvain with a hunch of rye bread. “It is a hard world for good Christians. But there is a runlet of cider behind you. Breathe med iene put your mouth to the spigot and thank God or all.

“Health to you, brother!” Silvain drank. ‘‘Whoever you are, you are no churl.”

‘“T? All Normandy knows me. I am Thibaut, the franc archer of Mére Eglise who keeps the road for honest folk. But what are you, my lord? That is the riddle, said the monkey to the man.”

“Good faith, no riddle. Iam my father’s son. I am Silvain de St. Lo. What, you have heard how the King drove my father from St. Lo and gave it to a knight of Touraine. Then my father rode with the Duke of Burgundy and I was his squire. But he died in his bed, poor soul. He had no fortune ever. So this he left me, to win back the honour of St. Lo and the pride of the name. And now King Louis who despoiled us has gone down to hell, and here am I.”

“Quoth the mouse to the new cat, as he came to her kitchen. What, would you trudge to St. Lo, one naked man, and pull Sir Arnaud out with your hands?”

“Not I, brother,” Silvain smiled. “For I will go riding and in armour and. a

‘And with a good sword!” Thibaut made a grimace. “Pray, my lord, did you pass a walnut tree on your way?”

: "I saw the fruit. Have courage, brother. I do not ie:

“But I do,” said Thibaut. ‘Do you know what those pretty men did, messire? They made a noise when Criquebceuf took their land. He dies soon and dies hard who troubles the peace of the seigneurs.”

Silvain smiled. “It may be that I shall find time to speak with M. de Criquebeeuf,” he said softly.

*““Now St. Luke heal your poor head! Would you eat up every lord in Normandy?”

“Dear friend, I am no hungry man. No, faith, I would quarrel with none, now that King Louis is in hell, saving Sir Arnaud the Tourangeois who holds what is mine. For the rest, I do desire their good will and kindness.”

“Do I not show it, then?” says Thibaut, rubbing his head where was sprung up a bruise the size of a plum.

“Nay, I have it here,” Silvain touched the sword. “Brother, I stand your debtor. But see how I pay. Go, tell Sir Arnaud who has come against him that he may hang me in good time and pay you the butcher’s price. Or ride with me and I will find you fortune. Choose, brother. You shall not say I left you poor.”

“Now I know you are mad, my lord. For no man ever wanted me with him in all my days. By the sweet lips of Our Lady I will not deny you. It is the fools that Heaven loves, and if you lead and I come after there is folly enough to please all the saints.”

‘Amen, so be it,” Silvain laughed.

Something in this manner Silvain and Thibaut set out to conquer the world. Whereat men wondered, then and after; for they said that Thibaut once ran from a scarecrow when it would not answer his challenge, and none but Silvain ever thought him a man for a desperate venture. He was a long bag of bones, he looked a beggar of the highway with his stoop and his shufile and the twists of that dark face which was never shaven nor bearded, he had a beggar’s shrewd eye for men. Not the fellow, they said, to join in a boy’s wild dash at fortune. And whether he ever knew Silvain in this world is doubted yet. But wherever they are, it is sure that Silvain has chosen to be with him. He would never be reasonable, Silvain of the far gaze.

There was a confusion of coming and going in France. Since King Louis, whom all men feared, was dead and a child reigned, some hurried to court, some to their castles to snatch new advantage. The highways were busy with men-at-arms seeking masters who would pay in cash or plunder, and knights in quest of fighting. Silvain and Thibaut going afoot were nothing accounted of on the Paris road, but when they came into Fleury Silvain stopped by the best inn. ‘This may serve for a night, brother,” he said, looking lordly at the big fellows who lolled and drank.

‘Are you made of money? It is silver there for a salt herring. Come, old Berthe the hen wife will give us a dish of chitterlings and clean straw and -

Silvain strode into the inn saluting the men at their

liquor graciously. ‘God bless your house, good man,” says he to the landlord, who stood agape trying to reconcile his poor clothes with his manner. ‘Give us what you have and let it come quickly,” and he sat himself down at the head of the table. The landlord began to talk. “Your best will serve, friend.” Silvain waved his hand and pulled out a book of the life of Our Lady and began to look at the paintings in it. Thibaut slunk into the kitchen. : The food was a bowl of Caen tripe. At the smell of it the men-at-arms came boisterously to table. Silvain helped himself and pushed the bowl on. ‘Good appetite, friends,”’ he smiled.

“Who set this puppet at the top of the table?” one of them cried, a lusty red fellow. Silvain, who was asking for a flask of white wine of Touraine, did not choose to hear. “‘I say, my lady’s page, who gave you first dip?” He flung a pellet of bread.

“Why, friend, there is no first nor last here,” says Silvain gently. ‘‘We are all equal at our meat.”

“You whelp, do you count yourself as good as a man that bears arms?”

“But you lack courtesy. You would make me boast, good friend.”

“Hear him! Boast quotha! Bark, puppy, and I'll whip you.”

“My friend, I have heard enough of you. Fill your mouth and be still.” He lifted his cup. “I wish you peace:

It did not arrive. The man started up ina splutter of oaths, while his friends mocked them both.

“Let him take the air till his head be cool,” said Silvain, and went on eating.

The man came to him. “By my belly, it carries a sword!” he cried. ‘What is the iron for, child?”

Silvain drank up his wine and wiped his mouth. “Bear me witness, all here, it is not I who sought this.” He stood up. ‘Mark me, fellow, if I fight, I fight for all I have against all of yours and no way else.” He smiled. ‘Ah, now you are cooler.” —

“All of yours! A naked man afoot!” the man jeered. .

Silvain put his hand to his neck and drew out a knight’s chain of gold. ‘Naked am I, fellow? Come, take my life, and this is yours. What stake have you?”

One of his companions plucked the man’s sleeve. “You ride blind, Bertrand, this is no cub.”..But he uh shaken off. Bertrand had his eyes on the massy gold links. se uy “Body of God, I will match you for it, horse and — mail and all.”

“You have said.” Silvain turned to the others: “Pray do us honour, friends. Lead on, messire.”” He waved Bertrand to the door. ;

Out in the cool evening wind they stood against each other. The red Bertrand settled his helmet and wetted his sword hand. He was a big fellow, but young enough to be swift, he had a black breastplate and beneath it a coat of chain mail hung guarding half his thighs. Silvain threw his cap away and tossed back his fair hair and looked to the little company of Bertrand’s friends. ‘Give us the word, my lords.” ‘They clustered together muttering, laying wagers how soon Bertrand would get a stroke home, how many blows the youngling would stand.

“By St. Denis, it is no match. Give the child a helm, Bertrand,” one of them cried.

“Good thanks, friend. Our match is made,” Silvain smiled. ‘At your pleasure.”

“He fights naked. He said it.” Bertrand made his sword whistle.

“Fight then and win who can. Go!”

As the word was shouted Thibaut slunk out of the inn, huddled and cringing, gnawing a ham bone.

Bertrand stood fast, cutting figures in the air with his sword. Silvain moved round him and he swung on his heel and grinned. ‘Snap, puppy, snap,” he said. Silvain made a feint at his face and as he came on guard sprang back and stooping to make the most of his reach swept a cut at the man’s legs. Bertrand gave ground and beat the blade down and it glanced off the mail coat and along the thigh with no weight in the blow but scraping.

“Body of God, a hit, a hit!” one of the wagerers cried out.

“He has it!” Thibaut howled. ‘See his blood!”

“Go in, Bertrand,” his fellows called. ‘Head of St. John, go in. Or he'll ride your horse yet.”

And swearing, Bertrand went in. Stroke upon stroke beat at Silvain’s bare head. He took them on his sword, but it was only anvil to the hammer of Bertrand’s blade, and the fury, the sheer weight of the blows bore him down: his knees bent, he stumbled. Then, while he seemed to fall, he sprang aside and was gone and Bertrand struck the air and staggered forward. As he went by Silvain rose to his full height and crashed a stroke on the unguarded helm. Bertrand met the ground breast and face, and where he fell he lay.

Silvain tossed back his hair and turned to the man’s friends. ‘Is he down, my lords?” he said. He came to ue still body and stood over it, his sword on the neck.

‘A beaten man he is. Do not strike,” one said. And another: “By my faith, you are a knight at arms.”

Thibaut ran in and began to loose the man’s breastplate. Silvain picked up the sword and tried its balance. “Tt is worth a better man,” he said. ‘Take it, friend,” and he laid it to Thibaut’s hand. ‘‘Nay, leave him his helm and his coat. I would flay no man.” He put on the black breastplate, he took the purse from the man’s belt and weighed it in his hand. ‘His horse should be heavier,” he smiled and turned away.

“By my faith, you find fortune easily,’ a man growled.

“Why, so I do,” Silvain smiled. ‘‘Would you do so, friend?’ But none of them challenged him. “And fortune I find for all that follow me. Go, look to your fellow. He is a brave man of his hands. And when he asks what struck him, tell him that it was one Silvain, a lonely man. God be with you, my children. Who would ride with me, may find me to-morrow about this time at the cross of Hectomarre.”’ He went into the inn calling to the landlord. ‘‘Good fellow, there is here a man who has done himself a hurt. Care for him well.” He felt in Bertrand’s purse. ‘Here is money for him. Let him lack nothing.”

“And whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will repay you,’ Thibaut whined. “That is scripture, fellow. And my master’s name is Sir Silvain the Samaritan.”

Then they went out and saddled Bertrand’s horse and Silvain rode away with Thibaut trudging at his stirrup. But Thibaut looked often behind him. ‘Have done with that, brother!” Silvain turned the head round. “A man who looks over his shoulder I cannot live with.”

“Nor without, my lord, in your trade. When these honest fellows think of it, they may seek to win your winnings again.”

“They may, and therefore we vanish, lest they be tempted against their strength. But I believe they will not. For I gave them hope to feed on.”

Thibaut chuckled. ‘And if they go to the cross of Hectomarre they will find neither breastplate nor horse. Hope is a good servant and a bad master, as the wench said when she took the man’s presents and married his friend.”

“Rogue, I make no tryst to break it. If they seek me, they will find me.”

Thibaut drew off. Thibaut bowed low. ‘My lord, I have done you a wrong,” he said. “I began to think you were not mad.”

“Then you began to come to your senses. Good faith, there is no madness in me. [I am as cold and cunning as King Louis. I have my kingdom to make. I know what I want and I count what I do.”

“Oh, you see far, you see far!” Thibaut looked up at him. ‘Do you see near?”

“I see bed and fodder. Come, it is time. There is work for to-morrow.”

He turned his horse into a beech wood and rode on through the gloom to the shimmer of twilight in a glade where there was grass for the horse. There on the beech leaves he said his prayers and slept. And

Thibaut watched him a while and stole off to rob a hen roost.

THE HERITAGE OF ST. LO II

When they had made a breakfast of roast eggs they took the road again. ‘Whither now, my fair lord?” says Thibaut. ‘To the field where the rainbow ends?”

“To the land of fair honour, brother.”

Thibaut twisted his face. ‘Will there be any more purses on the road?” he said, but said it to himself, Silvain looked so noble a master against the morning sun.

And as the day went by he was the more puzzled. The road had many travellers. Still, now that Silvain was on horseback he could hold his own among them, but he was meek: he let himself be thrust into the ruts, he stared at knights and men-at-arms like a wondering boy, and having gone some way he halted and turned and rode back. When this was done yet again Thibaut came to him with tongue hanging out. “Please you, my lord, I have no tail,” he said. ‘Therefore I take no pleasure to run after it. I grow dizzy with all this turning.”

“Then lie down and scratch, friend. I know what I do.”

Upon the third return, they met a knight and his squire riding abreast at a round pace. ‘The squire carried the lance and shield, the knight had his helmet at the saddle, but he was a glitter of steel from neck to toe, in plates that overlapped and roundels, nobly armoured. He rode a big Norman charger and needed it, for he sat tall in the saddle and yet had length of leg like Silvain. He took the crown of the causeway as by right, but so did Silvain, and when the squire shouted him out of the way spurred his horse. The squire checked to draw aside lest his master should be jostled, and Silvain, heavier man on heavier horse, crashed into him, and flinging squire upon knight sent both reeling in disorder off the road. te

“By my faith, you are no gentle horsemen.” Silvain reined up to watch them, hand on hip. “Hard heel will not mend heavy hand, messire.”

“Go, beat me the knave, Henriot,” the knight cried.

“Oh, a wise knight. He fights by proxy,” Silvain laughed. “Come, child, and be his whipping boy,” and he drew his sword.

“Bones of St. Denis, give me the lance.” The knight turned and set his horse going to ride Silvain down.

“Good faith, here is a knightly deed. A brave knight, oh and a wise knight,” Silvain said, but he too charged.

The lance was aimed at his breast. He made his horse swerve from the point and when it slid by him, turned inward again, rose in his stirrups and struck a back-hand blow. It came upon the knight’s head while he went by unsteady from his missed charge and beat him from the saddle sideways heels over head.

Silvain leapt down upon him, but he was in no haste to be up. Blood was coming from his mouth and his nose and he raised himself on his elbow and groaned, looked dully about him.

The squire cried out his horror and rode at Silvain, but was encumbered by Thibaut who clung to him, leg and sword arm, and pulled him out of the saddle and rolled with him in the dust.

“The boy is a good boy,” Silvain smiled. ‘But I think this fight is fought. How say you, sir?’ He poe a point to the man’s neck. ‘Do you yield yourself

‘‘To a nameless man? Not I, by my faith.”

“It is well said. You will die then?”

The knight dashed the blood from his face. ‘Do your pleasure,” he said sullenly.

“You choose well.” Silvain lowered his point. “Oh, sir, be content. You have lost no honour this day. I am Silvain de St. Lo.”

After a moment the knight cried out, “‘By the blood of St. John, it cannot be.”

“What is, is,” Silvain smiled. ‘And you, who blazon the golden stag of Morson, I think you may yield to the lord of St. Lo.”

“IT am Artus de Morson,” the man scowled at him and then with an oath looked all ways for help. There was no help in his squire. The lank Thibaut had wound himself about the lad’s body and disarmed him and was mounted on his horse catching the other two. The road was empty else. ‘‘I yield myself,” he muttered.

Silvain put up his sword. “I must hold you to ransom, Sir Artus.”’

“By my faith, you will be paid,” Sir Artus cried. “I is with Monseigneur de Criquebceuf. He will do me right.” ;

“What, is he still alive? But you shall not need him. You shall go free for your arms and your horse. Pray you, let your squire serve you.”

Then Silvain put on his armour as it was stripped from him and took his lance and his shield and mounted his horse, and with Thibaut wearing the breastplate and riding the horse of the first fight, they made speed. And after them followed slowly Sir Artus on his squire’s horse and the squire afoot.

But Thibaut shook his dark head. “Good, my lord, you are too fast for me, as the slug said when the osterpillar bade him be a butterfly. You went naked and afoot yesterday and by night you were a man-at-arms, and to-day you ride a knight. St. Tringan watch over me, what will you be to-morrow?”

“Myself, friend.”

“Pray you, will you know yourself when you find yourself ?”

“What, man, do you fear for me? I shall not fail my fortune.” ‘They rode on and Silvain was busy scraping the stag’s head from the shield of Sir Artus.

‘‘Aye,” says Thibaut, ‘‘but you will not wipe him out so. He has taken his grudge down the road to Criquebeeuf.”

“You will look over your shoulder, will you?” Silvain poked his knife into the man’s arm. ‘Nay, God speed him, I have a mind to speak with M. de Criquebeut.” ‘ ; "2

Thibaut grimaced, wriggling his arm. “If I look behind, do you look before,” he said. ‘Whither are we going, my lord, that we go so gay?”

“Why, to the cross of Hectomarre,” Silvain laughed.

“Oh, Mary our Mother!” Thibaut groaned. “‘It is a wild life with you, as the hen said to the fox when he ran with her into a trap.” And the nearer they came to Hectomarre the farther he fell behind.

The men-at-arms had taken up the challenge. They guarded the cross roads on either side, two of them mounted on watch, the others lying by their horses. But when Silvain came riding alone, in a knight’s armour, his face hidden in his helmet, they did not know him and let him go by. He turned then, he put up his vizor: “Are we all here?” he smiled.

There was shouting. “By my bones, he has come! It is the lad of the inn. Who the devil is your nga cee And they got to horse, drawing up against

im. °

Silvain counted them off with his gauntleted hand, one, two, up to eight. “A good company, by the grace of God. How say you of me?”

“Let us come to it,” one cried, and another, “It is not only you that can strip a man.”

“Surely no,” Silvain smiled. “Eight upon one should do it, though some go down. Forward then, Who comes first ?”

No man was eager to lead. They muttered among themselves till one swore: “By the head of St. John, he has kept his tryst. He did not bid us here to flay him. What have you for us, my lord, that you come to seek us.

‘““Why, now you speak like men. I have a rich adventure. I am Silvain de St. Lo and I ride to win my heritage. If you ride with me you shall have gallant work to do and win fair fortune. Who lays his life on mine?”

“By St. Denis, it is I will venture,” one man cried. “T like your luck, my lord.” And another said, ‘‘What isto do then? There is a King’s man in St. Lo.”

“And the King is dead.. Sir Arnaud de Fontaines is lord of my lands and holds my castle of St. Lo. I go to reason with him. Thus we go. To-morrow in the evening I come to the castle a traveller benighted and ask a night’s lodging. So do you all, but one by one and each long after other. And when we are in I will speak with Sir Arnaud and by the grace of God I will show him that his King is dead.” He bared his hand and held it out. ‘Who is man of mine?” There was not one but took it. ‘‘Forward, then! Go each his own wa ae

“To the devil,” said a sepulchral voice behind him as they rode off. ‘Thibaut came up in the shadows. “This will be a merry meeting, as the old carp said when he saw the dragnet coming down the pond.”

“Go, hide in your hole then. I take no man against his will.”

“Do you not?” Thibaut twisted his mouth. “T come. Icome. And-God He knows I fear.”

Chapter II Entry Of Monseigneur De Criquebq:uf

HE castle of St. Lo stood alone on a hill of sand and sandstone, as though the hill itself rose into brown turrets, which in the gloaming mingled with the sky. Riding through the little cluster of houses at the foot, where the herdsmen and ploughmen of the seigneur lodged, Silvain and Thibaut climbed the steep to the main gate. There on the iron-barred oak hung a horn and Thibaut blew a blast. They were challenged from the gate-house tower, they declared themselves and were let in. There was no lack of courtesy, but the lord of St. Lo seemed to live humbly. Thibaut must look to the horses himself. When Silvain came to the hall he found no one in it and the tables bare and a dying fire. His men coming in one by one stared hard and made long faces. ‘They kept to their orders, they would not know one another or Silvain, but with a grin at him, “Here is poor cheer, sir knight,” one said.