La Guardia Blanca ⚔️🛡️

Sumérgete en el intrigante mundo de ‘La Guardia Blanca’ de Arthur Conan Doyle, una obra cargada de acción, misterios y valientes héroes. 🌟 En este relato histórico, nos encontramos con el valor y la astucia en un contexto de lucha y estrategia durante la época medieval. 🏰

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In ‘The White Guard,’ Arthur Conan Doyle immerses us in a thrilling story of courage and honor set against the backdrop of the Russian Civil War. A group of brave men fight for freedom and justice while facing the brutality of the conflict. Throughout the plot, we encounter characters who reflect the internal struggle between duty and humanity. This action-packed and emotional work is a testament to human courage in the face of adversity. Chapter 1. HOW THE STRANGED SHEEP LEFT THE FOLD. The great bell of the Belmonte monastery tolled resoundingly across the valley and even beyond the dark line formed by the forests. The woodcutters and charcoal burners working along the Vernel side and the fishermen on the Lande River momentarily suspended their tasks to exchange questioning glances. For although the sound of the abbey bells was as familiar and well-known in those parts as the song of larks or the chatter of magpies in hedges and walls, the peals had their fixed hours, and that evening the ninth had already sounded, and prayer was not far away. What extraordinary event had launched the great bell of the abbey into flight so untimely ? From all sides, the religious men could be seen arriving, their white habits standing out vividly against the lawns of the gnarled oak avenues. Some came from the vineyards and winepresses belonging to the community, others from the dairy, the marguerites, and the salt mines, and some, hurrying along, from the distant ironworks of the Solent and St. Bernard’s Farm. They were not surprised by the unusual ringing of the bells, for the abbot had already sent a special messenger to all the outlying quarters of the monastery the night before, with orders to announce the planned general meeting of the following day. On the other hand, Lay Brother Athanasius, who for a quarter of a century had cleaned and polished the abbey ‘s heavy bronze knocker , declared with amazement that he had never witnessed such an untimely and urgent convocation of all the members of the community. One only had to observe these members to understand the great variety of occupations in which they were engaged and to form an idea, however incomplete, of the immense resources of the abbey, a center of extremely active life. Here were two monks whose hands and forearms were stained red with must; further away, another, old and robust, carried on his shoulder the axe with which he had just chopped large bundles of firewood. He was followed by the shearer brother, whose occupation was betrayed by the enormous shears he carried hanging from his belt and the strands of wool attached to his sackcloth. A large group was equipped with hoes and spades, and the two monks who brought up the rear laboriously carried a heavy basket full of carp, trout, and tench, since the next day was a vigil, and they had to provide for the sustenance of fifty religious with unrelenting appetites. It is true that they worked hard, because the venerable abbot Fray Diego de Berguén was as severe with all of them as he was with himself, which is saying something, and in his convent no slackers were tolerated. While the friars and novices were gathered, the abbot, hands crossed and his expression preoccupied, walked from end to end of the large hall of the monastery designated for solemn ceremonies. His thin features and sunken cheeks revealed the ascetic who had known how to triumph over his passions, not without a cruel and long struggle, until he had completely mastered them. Although of weak appearance, his imperious and energetic gaze recalled that the blood of famous warriors ran through his veins and that his twin brother, Captain Bartholomew de Bergen, was one of the valiant English champions who had planted the Cross of Saint George on the walls of Paris. As soon as the last bell rang, the abbot approached a table and rang the bell that called the lay brother on duty, asking him in the Anglo-French dialect used in English monasteries throughout most of the fourteenth century: “Have the brothers arrived?” “They are gathered in the main cloister, reverend father,” replied the abbot. lay brother, who stood in a humble attitude, his hands crossed on his chest and his gaze fixed on the ground. “All of them? ” “Thirty-two professed and fifteen novices. Brother Marcos, prostrate with fever, is the only one missing. He says that… ” “What he says is irrelevant. Sick or not, it was important above all to obey my command. I will tame his rebellious spirit, as I will do with other members of this abbey who need severe discipline. And you yourself, Brother Francis, are at fault. It has come to my ears that you raised your voice in the refectory, while the brother lector was commenting on the divine word. What do you reply to this accusation?” The lay brother did not whisper, nor did he even move. “A thousand Hail Marys and as many creeds, recited with arms crossed before the altar of the Virgin, will serve to remind you that the Supreme Creator gave us two ears and one tongue, so that we may hear much and speak little. Send Brother Master here to me. ” The frightened lay brother tiptoed out, closing the door behind him. The door opened a few moments later to admit a monk, short in stature, robust in build, whose imperious gaze accentuated the stern expression of his face. “Have you called me, Reverend Father? ” “Yes, Brother Master. I wish that today’s act, which imposes a very difficult duty on me, be carried out with the least possible scandal; and yet, it is necessary to give the guilty party a public lesson, as an example to the rest. ” The abbot spoke these words in Latin, the language in which he usually spoke to the religious whom, because of their age, or because of their office, or their merits, he judged worthy of special deference. “It is my opinion that the novices should not attend the trial,” Brother Master observed. “A woman figures in the accusation, and I fear that perfidious images will tarnish the purity of their thoughts… ” “Woman, woman!” the abbot murmured. “Radix malorum,” as the venerable Chrysostom said, an exact definition applicable from Eve to the present day. “Who will denounce the sinner? ” “Brother Ambrose. ” “A chaste and pious youth. ” “And a model of novices.” “Let the trial then proceed in accordance with the traditional practices of the order. See that the professed are admitted and accommodated in order of age, and that the wicked Tristan da Horla, whose conduct already demands severe measures, appears in due time . ” “And the novices?” “They will wait in the cloister of the chapel, where it would be helpful if the reader could refresh their memory on the subject of the “Gesta beati Benedicti.” In this way , all idle conversation and every occasion for frivolity will be avoided. Once alone, the abbot returned his gaze to the whimsically illuminated pages of his breviary and remained in that rude attitude until the last of the monks had entered the room. They sat on the two carved oak benches that ran from the dais to the opposite end of the room, where Brother Ambrose and the Master of Novices occupied their respective seats. The first was a tall, pale, and wiry young man, nervously clutching a rolled-up parchment in his hands. From his seat on the dais, the abbot looked down at the two rows of monks, whose placid, plump, sun-tanned faces, with rare exceptions, and whose contented expressions clearly indicated the quiet and happy life they led there. Brother Diego then fixed his penetrating gaze on the young monk sitting opposite him and said: “You are the accuser, Brother Ambrose.” May our venerated patron Saint Benedict grant you his grace and direct our judgments on this occasion, for the good of the community and for the greater glory of God. How many charges are brought against the novice Tristan? —Four, Reverend Father, replied the person questioned in a low and submissive voice. —Have you enumerated and set forth them as our holy rule commands ? —They are contained in this parchment… —Which you will give to the brother relator for his reading when the time comes. Bring in the accused. Upon hearing this order, a lay brother standing by the door opened it wide. in pairs, admitting a young novice and two other lay brothers who until then had accompanied and watched him in the antechamber. It was the novice Tristan de Horla, a young man of remarkable stature and athletic form, whose black eyes contrasted with his red hair and whose features, by no means unpleasant, ordinarily revealed frankness and good humor, although at that moment they reflected an expression of defiance and anger. With his hood fallen around his shoulders, his habit unbuttoned to reveal his Herculean neck, his hairy arms crossed over his chest bare to the elbows, he reverently greeted the abbot and calmly walked to the kneeler reserved for him in the center of the room. His black eyes quickly scanned the crowd and finally settled, with a somewhat ironic expression , on the accusing brother. He handed the parchment to the narrator of the order, who read it with a measured voice and solemn intonation, listened to attentively by all the religious gathered there. The document read as follows: Charges formulated on the day of the Assumption, in the year of grace 1366 , against Brother Tristan, formerly called Tristan de Horla and the present novice of the holy monastic order of Cîteaux. Read on the Thursday following the said feast of the Assumption, in the Abbey of Belmonte, before the reverend abbot Fray Diego de Berguén and the community gathered in chapter. The charges brought are: First: That a certain quantity of weak beer had been distributed to the novices as a special concession on the occasion of the aforementioned festival, in the proportion of one azumbre for every four novices, the accused seized the jug by force and drank the azumbre in one sitting, to the detriment of his table companions Paul, Porphyry, and Ambrose; who declared that they could hardly eat the salted herring that formed the day’s repast. Upon hearing these details, the accused bit his lip to hide a smile, and several of the monks glanced at each other sideways; others coughed to keep from laughing. But the abbot remained impassive and stern while the narrator continued his reading: Second: That when the Master of Novices punished this outrage by putting the guilty party on bread and water for three days, in honor of Saint Tiburcia, that unrepentant sinner declared in the presence of the novice Ambrose that he would like to see a legion of demons carry the aforementioned Brother Master through the air. Third: That, admonished by the latter again, the accused seized his accuser by the neck and plunged him into the garden pond, just long enough for the victim of such an outrage to finish the creed he mentally recited in order to commend his soul to God, believing his last hour had arrived. The exclamations of surprise and censure heard from both benches indicated that the members of the community appreciated the gravity of the last charge; but the abbot imposed silence, raising his bony hand. “Continue,” he said to the reader. –And fourth: That shortly before Vespers, on the feast of St. James the Apostle, the aforementioned Tristan was seen on the Vernel road, in conversation with a woman named Maria Soley, daughter of the forester of that name. And that after much laughter and resistance on the part of the aforementioned maiden, the accused took her in his arms and led her to the other side of the Las Hayas stream, to prevent that emissary of Satan from getting her feet wet. This unprecedented infraction of our holy rule was witnessed by three members of the community, to their great scandal and to the undoubted joy of all hell, which thus saw a novice of our order fall into mortal sin. The profound silence that followed those words, even more than the gestures and the horrified expressions of some of the religious, revealed how profound and unanimous was the reprobation of those listening. “Who are the witnesses of such an enormous sin?” asked the abbot, in a voice that betrayed his indignation. “I am one of them,” said Brother Ambrosio, standing up; “and with me.” Porfirio and Marcos witnessed it, and Marcos was so affected that he has been in the infirmary ever since…. “And the woman?” continued Fray Diego. ” Did she not burst into anguished tears upon witnessing such behavior from a man wearing our sacred habit? ” “No, reverend abbot. On the contrary, she smiled sweetly when he placed her across the ford, thanked him, and held out her hand. I saw it with my own eyes, just as Marcos saw it. ” “You saw it, wretches!” cried the abbot. “And did you not know that the thirty-fifth regulation of this order strictly forbade you to do so? Since when have you forgotten that in the presence of a woman we must all lower our eyes and even turn our faces away? And if you had kept your gaze fixed on your sandals, how could you have seen the smiles and grimaces of that demon disguised as a woman?” To your cells, false brothers, on bread and water until next Sunday, with double lauds and matins so that you may learn to obey the laws that govern us! Ambrosio and Porfirio, terrified by this unexpected reprimand, fell trembling in their seats. The abbot looked away from them to fix his gaze on the main culprit, who, far from showing fear or bowing his head, calmly met Fray Diego’s furious gaze. “What do you allege in your defense, Brother Tristán? ” “It was nothing, my father,” was the young man’s reply, delivered with the pronounced Saxon accent that characterized the English peasants of the West at the time. Certainly, the unusual accent caught the attention of the religious, most of them pure-blooded Englishmen. But the abbot only noticed the calmness and indifference that the novice’s response revealed, and indignation colored his gaunt face. “Speak!” He ordered, slamming his fist against the arm of the chair. “As for the beer,” Tristan observed, not the least bit perturbed , “keep in mind that I had just come home from work in the fields, and as soon as I tipped the mug I saw the bottom of it, and somehow I drained it dry. I must have been thirsty. It’s true that I lost my temper when the good Maestro ordered me to fast, but that’s easily explained when you remember that bread and water is a sad diet for a body and appetite like the ones God has given me. It’s also true that I did try my hand at Ambrosio’s kestrel, but the dive he complains of was nothing more than a fright without consequences.” And as I do not deny any of the above charges, neither can I deny, if such a charge is true, that of having helped Soley’s daughter cross the Las Hayas ford, considering that the poor girl was wearing shoes and stockings and her Sunday skirt, while I was barefoot and didn’t care a fig about getting my feet wet. And I consider that not having behaved as I did then would have been a disgrace, for a novice as for any other man who respects himself and women… Those words filled the abbot’s exasperation, especially uttered as they were with the mocking smile that had barely disappeared from Tristán’s lips since the beginning of his tirade. “Enough!” exclaimed Friar Diego. Far from defending himself, the guilty party confesses and aggravates his fault with his flippant words. All that remains for me is to impose a fitting punishment. With this, the abbot left his seat, and all the monks followed suit, casting fearful glances at the irritated face of their superior. “Tristan of Horla,” he continued, “in the two months of your novitiate, you have given clear proof of your perversity and that you in no way deserve to wear the white habit, the symbol of a spotless spirit. You will, therefore, be stripped of that habit and dismissed from this abbey, its lands and belongings, without income or benefit of any kind and without the spiritual graces enjoyed by all who live under the tutelage and special protection of Saint Benedict. Your name will be erased from the registers of the order, and you are forbidden to set foot again within the abbey or enter any of the farms or estates of Belmonte.” That first part of the sentence seemed terrible to the monks, especially the older ones, accustomed as they were to the peaceful life of the abbey, outside of which they would have felt as helpless and helpless as children left to their own devices. But evidently, worldly life held no terrors for the novice; rather, it attracted and pleased him, judging by the joyful expression with which he heard the announcement of his expulsion. His joy increased the anger of Friar Diego, who continued: “So much for spiritual punishment. But such punishments pain little to evil servants of God, with hardened hearts. I know how to punish you in such a way that you will feel it, now that your misdeeds have deprived you of the protection of the church. Let me see!” Three lay brothers, Francis, Athanasius, and Joseph, seize the scoundrel, tie his arms, and tell the brother gatekeeper to give him several dozen lashes with a good whip! As the sturdy lay brothers approached to obey the abbot’s orders, all the novice’s placidity vanished. He seized the heavy oak kneeler with both hands and, raising it high like a mace, shouted in a loud voice: “Hold on! I swear by Saint George that the first one of you who dares to touch me will have your head smashed into a thousand pieces!” The warning could not have been clearer or more forceful, and, combined with the threatening attitude of the novice, whose strength was well known to all, was enough to make the lay brothers retreat more than quickly and to frighten the religious, who rushed en masse towards the door. Only the abbot seemed ready to rush at the rebellious novice, but two monks who were standing near him seized him by the arms and managed to pull him out of danger. “He is possessed by the devil!” cried the fugitives. “Call for help! Let the gardener come with his crossbow, and call the stable boys too . Quickly, tell them that we are in mortal danger! Run, brothers! See, he is already upon us!” But the victorious Tristan da Horla had no thought of pursuing them. He dashed the kneeler to the ground, knocked down his informer Ambrose with a single blow , who raised a great cry, and, trampling over the bewildered friars who formed the rear guard, rushed down the stairs. The doorkeeper, Atanasio, saw a gigantic white shape rush by, and before he knew what it meant or the cause of the commotion on the stairs, the indomitable Tristan was already far from the abbey and striding along the dusty Vernel Road. Chapter 2. HOW ROGER DE CLINTON BEGAN TO SEE THE WORLD. The walls of the old convent had never witnessed such a scandal. But Fray Diego de Bergén valued the good discipline of the community too much to allow it to remain under the impression of the novice’s triumphant rebellion; So it was that, summoning the brothers together again, he delivered a philippic like few others, comparing the expulsion of the wrathful Tristan to that of our first parents from Paradise, calling down upon him the chastisements of heaven, and warning his listeners that if some of them did not show more zeal and obedience than hitherto, the expulsion that day would not be the last. With this, calm was restored, and Fray Diego’s authority was in a good place. He ordered the monks to return to their respective duties and retired to his cell. Hardly had he begun his prayers when he heard a soft knock at the door. “Enter,” he said in a voice that betrayed his ill-humor; but no sooner did he fix his eyes on the importunate man who thus interrupted him than the grim expression on his face disappeared, replaced by a kindly smile. The one who arrived was a slender young man, with rather thin features, blond hair, a good presence, and very young judging by the childlike expression on his face. His clear and beautiful eyes also revealed an almost childlike candor; his gaze was that of an adolescent whose spirit had developed until then far from the emotions, sorrows, and struggles of the world. However, the lines of his mouth and The pronounced shape of his beard indicated an energetic and resolute character. Although he did not wear the monastic habit, his robes, hose, and thick stockings were of a dark color, as befitted a resident of that holy house. From a wide strap across his shoulder hung a swollen satchel, such as travelers used in those days; in his right hand he carried a thick ironed staff and in the other his brown cloth cap, which had a large medallion sewn on the front with the image of Our Lady of Rocamadour. “I see that you are now ready to set out, my dear son. And it is not without a curious coincidence,” continued the abbot thoughtfully, “that on the same day the most wicked of its novices and the youth whom we all consider the most worthy of our young disciples and who is also the favorite of my heart should leave this monastery. ” “You are too kind, my father,” replied the youth. For my part, if I were given the choice, I would end my days at Belmonte. Here I have had my sweet home since childhood, and when I leave this house, I do so with true regret. “These penalties are trials imposed by God, Roger, and each one has his cross to bear. But your departure, which saddens us all, is inevitable. I promised your father that when you turned twenty you would leave Belmonte, to see something of the world and judge for yourself whether you preferred to remain in it or return to this sacred refuge. Pull up that stool and sit down.” Roger did so, and the abbot continued, after reflecting for a few moments: “Twenty years ago your father, the landlord of the farm at Munster, died, leaving valuable farms and lands to the abbey and also leaving us his youngest son, a child of a few months, on the condition that we raise and educate him in the monastery.” The good gentleman did so not only because your saintly mother had died, but because Hugo de Clinton, his eldest son and your only brother, had already given proof of his wayward and violent character, and it would have been absurd to leave you entrusted to him. But as I said before, your father did not want to dedicate you irrevocably to the monastic life; the choice will depend on you, and you need not make it now, but when you have some experience of life, in order to decide wisely. “And will not the positions I have already held in the community, apart from my duties as a scribe, prevent my departure? ” “Not at all. Let’s see: have you been a steward and an acolyte? ” “Yes, Father. ” “An exorcist and later a lector? ” “Yes, Father. ” “And obedient and pious like a professed brother, but you have never taken a vow of chastity. Is that not true? ” “That is correct, my father. ” “For nothing prevents you from entering the world and living in it as freely as one who has never set foot in a cloister.” And I can say with pleasure that this new life opens before you with good auspices, because in addition to the sound principles we have instilled in you, you are skilled and can support yourself and make yourself useful to others. Tell me what you have learned lately; I already know that you are a sculptor of no mean merit and that few youths your age can beat you on the zither and the rebec. And I will say nothing of your voice; our choir loses with you the best of its singers. The youth smiled with pleasure and said: “To the patience of good Brother Jerome I also owe the trade of engraver, which I have learned passably, and I have done many works in wood, ivory, bronze, and silver. With Fray Gregorio I have learned to paint on parchment, metal, and glass. I know how to enamel, I know something about the carving of precious stones, I can make many musical instruments, and as for heraldry, there is no scribe or novice in Belmonte who knows it better than I do.” “That’s not a short list!” exclaimed the superior in a cheerful tone. ” You couldn’t have learned more at the Royal College of Exeter. But what about your other studies, your readings and compositions? ” “I haven’t read much, but Brother Chancellor can tell you that I haven’t neglected the library. The Gospels with commentary, St. Thomas, the Collection of Canons… ” “That’s all good, but you need another kind of reading today, something more.” of natural sciences, geography, and mathematics. Let’s see: from this window you can see the mouth of the Landes and beyond, a few sails of fishing boats that have crossed the bar and put to sea. Suppose that instead of returning to the port tonight, these boats were to continue their journey for days and days in the direction they are now heading. Do you know where they would end up? “They have their prows set to the East,” the young man answered promptly, “and they are heading straight for that region of France that today forms part of the dominions of our powerful lord the King of England. Turning their prows south, they would reach Spain, and to the northeast, they would find the states of Flanders and beyond, the people of Muscovite. ” “That’s true. And if, after reaching our king’s dominions in France, a traveler were to set out eastward? ” “Well, he would visit the French lands that are still in dispute and the famous city of Avignon, where His Holiness is temporarily residing .” Beyond them stretch the states of Germany, the great Roman Empire, the tribes of the pagan Huns and Lithuanians, and finally the city of Constantine and the dominion of the hated sons of Muhammad. “Well, Roger. And beyond? ” “Jerusalem, the Holy Land, and the mighty river that had its source in the earthly paradise. Afterwards… I don’t know, my father; but the end of the world won’t be far from those places, as far as I can imagine. ” “Not so, my good Roger, and that will prove to you that there is always something left to learn. You must know that between the Holy Places and the end of the world live many and very numerous peoples, such as the Amazons, the pygmies, and even certain women, as beautiful as they are dangerous, who kill with a glance, as is said of the basilisk. And to the east of all these nations is the kingdom of Prester John, whose vague descriptions you will have found in books.” I know all this for a fact, having been assured and described to me by a brave captain and great traveler, Señor Farfán de Setién, who rested in Belmonte on his way to Southampton and recounted his voyages, discoveries, and adventures to us in the refectory, with such curious and interesting details that many brothers forgot to eat for the pleasure of listening to him without missing a syllable of his story. “What I would like to know, my father, is what lies at the end of the world…” “Little by little, my little friend,” interrupted the abbot. “What there is or isn’t there is no need to ask. But let’s talk about your journey. What will be your first stop? ” “My brother’s house in Munster. Not only do I wish to meet him, but the unfavorable reports I have always received about his character and way of life seem to me all the more reason to try to reform him and draw him back to the right path. ” The abbot shook his head. “Your inexperience soon becomes apparent.” The Munster landlord’s bad reputation is long-standing, and may God grant that he will not be the one to sway you from the good path you have followed until now. But whether you live with him or fate takes you in other directions, be wary above all of false allurements and the wiles of women, the greatest danger that threatens men of your age, and especially those like you who have never encountered this enemy of our tranquility on their path. Farewell, my son. Embrace me and receive the blessing of heaven that I invoke upon your head. I also fervently commend you to the glorious Saint Julian, patron saint of travelers. May your life be Christian and happy. The parting of those two men was painful, one animated by the paternal affection he professed for the orphan and the other by his infinite gratitude toward the kind protector of his entire life. Their separation was made all the harder by the conception they had of the world, which they regarded from their tranquil refuge as a center of iniquity, danger, and resentment. The monks and novices who had not gone out to their duties waited for Roger in the portico, where they bid him farewell warmly, for he was greatly appreciated by all. They also gave him some gifts: a small ivory crucifix, a book of prayers and a small painting depicting the Slaughter of the Innocents, artfully executed on parchment. All those mementos of his affectionate friends were soon neatly stored in the satchel, upon which the far-sighted Brother Atanasio also placed a package that he highly recommended to Roger and which, as he later discovered, contained a loaf of white bread, a magnificent cheese, and a bottle of good wine. The moved young man finally set out, his ears ringing with the blessings and farewells of the kind monks. Upon reaching a nearby height, he stopped to contemplate for the last time those places where his peaceful and happy life had passed. There stood the dark and monumental abbey building, the residence of Fray Diego, with its adjoining chapel, the gardens and orchards, all illuminated by a splendid sun. Beyond the wide Lande estuary, the ancient stone well, the chapel of the Virgin, and on the esplanade in front of the convent, the group in white habits, those friends of his adolescence, who, upon seeing him lingering, renewed their greetings. Two tears ran down Roger’s cheeks, he sighed deeply and resumed his journey. Chapter 3. HOW TRISTAN OF HORLA LEFT THE FULLER AT PERNETAS. It would be a very unusual case for a young man of twenty, full of health and life, to devote the first hours of absolute independence enjoyed since childhood to mourning the cell of his convent and the discipline of the cloister. It so happened, then, that Roger’s emotion was short-lived, and even before losing sight of Belmonte, he recovered the joy proper to his years and was able to appreciate the beauty of the landscape in all its splendor. It was a very beautiful afternoon; The sun’s rays fell obliquely on the leafy trees, casting arabesques of shadows along the path, alternating with broad golden bands. Between the trees, as far as the eye could see, were dense bushes, some turning yellow in the breath of autumn. The scent of the flowers was joined by the pleasant resinous emanations of the pine groves, and only the murmur of clear streams occasionally interrupted the murmur of the breeze through the branches and the song of the birds. But the solitude and stillness of the fields were only apparent. Life thrived vigorously and actively in them and in the neighboring forests. Brightly colored insects buzzed around the leaves and flowers; Playful squirrels stopped their skirmishes to look down on the strange traveler from high in the branches, and now the growl of the fierce boar in the thicket could be heard, now the rustling of the dry leaves trampled by the deer, which was fleeing at full speed. The smiling traveler soon left Belmonte and its green meadows far behind, and hence his surprise was even greater when he saw, sitting on a stone by the side of the road, a man who seemed to be a religious man from that community, judging by the white robes he was wearing. But as he drew closer , Roger noticed that the friar’s face, somber and ruddy, was completely unfamiliar to him, and that from his gestures and the pained expression on his face, he looked more like a bedraggled traveler than anything else. Suddenly, he saw him get up and run up the road, gathering and lifting with both hands his sackcloth, which was at least two hands too long for the stranger’s short and plump body. But he soon stopped, panting as if he were short of breath, and finally let himself fall on the grass. Roger hurried up to him, and the other asked: “Do you know, my good friend, the Abbey of Belmonte? ” “Yes, indeed; I come from there and have lived there until today. ” “Praise be to God, for in that case you will be able to tell me who is a friar like a dragon, with a face full of freckles, black eyes, and red hair , whom, to my misfortune, I have just met on this road. Do you know him? There can be no one as great or as wicked as he in the abbey. ” “From his address, that is the novice Tristan de Horla. What has he done to you? ” “My soul grieves that what he did was not done to me by highway robbers ! But the weakling took away every garment I had on me.” leaving me in my breeches and then he put this white sackcloth on me, leaving me here, lying helpless and not daring to return to the village, much less to introduce myself to my wife, who, if she sees me in this state, will cry out to the heavens, calling me a drunk and a loose cannon. “But how did that happen?” asked the scribe, who could hardly contain his laughter. “I’ll tell you about it from the cross to this day,” replied the other. “I was passing along this same road and very close to where we are now, when I ran into the bandit friar with the red head. Believing him to be a religious man as God commands, devoted to his prayers, I greeted him and continued on my way to Léminton, where I live and earn my living as a fuller. But after a few steps I heard him call me; I turned around and he asked me if I had heard of the new indulgence granted to the Cîteaux monks.” “No,” I replied. “So much the worse for your eternal salvation,” he said; and he spoke at length of His Holiness’s high esteem for the virtues of the Abbot of Bergen, and how, in recognition and reward for these virtues, the Pope had resolved to grant a plenary indulgence to every sinner who wore the Cistercian habit and kept it on long enough to recite the seven Psalms of David. Upon hearing this, I knelt at his feet, begging him to allow me to obtain so great a grace by lending me his habit, to which he agreed after much entreaty and after I gave him twelve centavos to gild the image of the blessed Saint Lawrence. Having removed this garment, I had to lend him my good doublet and cloth hose so that no passerby might see him in his underwear, and he even asked me for the thick pair of stockings I was wearing to protect himself, he said, from the rather chilly breeze while I was saying my prayers. Having barely reached the second psalm, he finished wrapping himself up and, shouting at me to try to conduct myself as befitted a pious friar, he hurried up the road as if pursued by demons. As for me, a sinner, I can neither run wrapped in this flour sack, which is too big for me on all sides, nor is it a question of taking it off and presenting myself in the village with nothing more to wear than a short-tailed jacket, some patched-up breeches, and a pair of shoes. Not even stockings. By the life of the thieving friar! “Don’t be discouraged, good man,” said the lad, “for you can easily exchange your sackcloth for a doublet at the convent, when you don’t have any acquaintances around to save you. ” “Yes, I do,” replied the fuller. Beyond the hedge lives a relative of my wife’s, but she is the most vitriolic and cursing I know, and if my adventure were to reach the ears of that witch, I wouldn’t dare show my face outside my house for a month. But if you would, my good sir, you could do me a great favor by only going out of your way a couple of crossbow bolts, and… “That I will do most gladly,” said Roger, pitying the poor man whom the mischief of Tristan, his friend from the convent, had placed in such a difficult situation. “Then take that path on the left, which will soon lead you to a clearing in the woods, and there you will see a charcoal burner’s hut. Tell him to give you a couple of garments and that Master Rampas, the fuller of Léminton, is sending you with great urgency. He has good reason not to refuse me what you are going to ask of him in my name. ” Roger did as he was told and soon found the cabin with the charcoal burner’s wife alone in it, as her husband was away working in the woods. He explained his mission and the woman, obliging, immediately began to prepare the bundle, while Roger watched her with the natural curiosity of someone who had never spoken to a woman, much less dressed hand in hand with a daughter of Eve in a solitary cabin lost in the woods. He noticed that her bare arms were rounded, although sunburned, and that she was wearing a modest brown petticoat and a shawl wrapped around her chest and fastened with an enormous copper pin. “Master Rampas the fuller!” she repeated, going back and forth in search of clothes. If I were his wife, I would teach him to let himself be robbed in the middle of the road by the first stray who came along. But “Well, he’s always been a good soul, and I’m not the one to fault him or deny him a favor. He did me a great favor by paying out of his own pocket for the burial of Frasquillo, my eldest son, whom I had as an apprentice at the fulling mill and who was carried off by the Black Death two years ago. And who are you, my good sir? ” “A wayfarer. I’m coming from Belmonte and I plan to reach Munster tonight or tomorrow. ” “And coming from Belmonte, it’s enough for me to look at you to know that you were once a disciple of the monks. But with me, there’s no reason to lower your eyes or turn as red as a pepper. Bah! What’s that to me? The friars must have told you good things about us women, and by faith, it could be said that not one of them has ever known or loved his own mother! How beautiful the world would be if the Prior Fathers would expel all women from it!” “God forbid,” Roger said fervently. “Amen a thousand times. But you are a fine young man, and you seem all the more so to me because you are both modest and restrained. It is also easy to see that you have not spent your few years in the open air, suffering the harshness of the cold in winter and scorched by the sun’s rays in summer, as my poor Frasquillo had to endure, and he was not yet fourteen when God took him from me. ” “The truth is, I have seen very little of the world, my good woman,” the young man replied.
“So much the better for you. And now, here is the bundle for good old Rampas, and tell him not to hurry to return those clothes. When he passes by, he can leave them in the cabin. Holy Mary, you are covered in dust! It is clear that in convents there is no woman to take care of you. I will clean you up a bit. Oh!” And now, give me a kiss and go in peace. Roger bent down to be kissed by her, a greeting very much in vogue in England at that time, and Erasmus noted this much later, saying that the kiss as a greeting was more common in that kingdom than in any other country. But the experience was new to Roger, and the touch of the villainess made an impression on him that he had never seen before. He was thinking about this as he left the cottage and remembered the abbot’s words, finally wondering what the abbot would have said and felt in a similar situation. But when he arrived back on the road, Roger saw a sight that made him forget everything else. The ill-fated Master Rampas was standing a short distance from where he had left him, moaning, stamping, and becoming more desperate than ever, and what was worse, without his habit, nor any clothing except a very short kirtle and his shoes. In the distance, a big man was running away among the trees, carrying a bundle in one hand and resting the other on his side as if his flanks ached from laughing so much. “Look at him!” howled the fuller. “There he goes! You are my witness, I’ll put him in Chester jail. He’s taking my habit! ” “What’s happened here? Who is that man? ” “Who can it be, my pest, but your Tristan the thief, Tristan the robber, who, not content with having left me almost naked, came back to steal my sackcloth, as if a Christian could walk down the public highway in this nightgown. He’s stolen my habit, my habit! ” “Forgive me, good man, the habit was his…” “Come on, then let him take everything.” He will soon be back to strip me of my shoes and this nightgown, for as far as it goes… Our Lady of Rocamadour will do! “And how did that happen?” asked Roger, filled with astonishment. “Are those the clothes you brought me? Please give them to me, for even the Pope would not take these from me, even if the whole Sacred College helped him.” How was it? Well, you had hardly left me when Don Thief came running back, and as I began to apostrophize him, he asked me very sweetly if I thought it possible for a good religious man to abandon his brand new, warm cassock to put on the doublet and hose of a craftsman. I began to take off my habit, very happy, while he explained that he had left so that I could say my prayers with greater devotion. He also pretended to unbutton my doublet to give it back to me, but as soon as I handed him his Sackcloth hurried off again, leaving me in what I was wearing, which isn’t much . “There’s a rogue!” And how the bigot laughed! Roger listened to the story of these woes with all the seriousness he could. But when he looked at the poor man dressed in the charcoal burner’s rags and saw the expression of offended dignity on Master Rampas’s chubby face and bulging eyes, he found it impossible to contain his laughter. He had never laughed so hard or so heartily, and unable to stand, he leaned against the trunk of a tree, unable to speak, tears welling up in his eyes as he laughed heartily. The fuller looked at him gravely; new bursts of hilarity writhed Roger’s body, and Master Rampas, seeing that this showed no signs of ending, gave him a ceremonious bow and walked slowly and haughtily away, waddling his shoulders. Roger watched him until he was out of sight, and even after he himself was on his way, he laughed heartily every time he remembered the face and the grimaces of the fuller of Léminton. Chapter 4. OF ENGLISH JUSTICE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. The road Roger followed was little frequented, but not so much so that the wayfarer failed to meet from time to time some muleteers, a poor beggar, and other travelers as tired as himself. Among those Roger met on his way was also one who seemed to be a friar, who whimpered and asked him for some gored meat to buy bread, for he was dying of hunger. The young man quickened his pace without answering, because in the convent he had learned to distrust these vagrant friars; not to mention that from the bag that the beggar carried on his back he saw sticking out the rather raw bone of a leg of mutton, which good Roger would have wanted for himself . He didn’t go far without hearing the curses hurled at him by the supposed priest, followed by such blasphemies that the traveler ran to avoid hearing them, and didn’t stop until he was out of sight of the foul-mouthed friar. At the edge of the woods, Roger discovered a laborer sitting by the side of the road with his wife , eating a huge hare pie and a flask of cider . The brutal laborer uttered a rude exclamation as Roger passed, and Roger continued on his way, ignoring him. But when the woman dared to shout to the handsome young man, inviting him to dine with them, her husband became so enraged that, taking up his staff, he began to beat his charitable companion. The young man realized that it was best to get some distance, greatly distressed to see that everywhere he found only violence, deceit, and injustice. He was thinking about this, comparing those episodes of his day with the monotonous life of the convent, when behind a fence to his right, he saw the strangest spectacle imaginable. Four legs covered in tight, brightly colored harlequin stockings and long boots with twisted toes moved in time, the bushes obscuring the upside-down bodies of those limbs. Cautiously approaching, Roger heard the sounds of a flute, and as he rounded the fence, his surprise grew even greater when he saw two young men who , apparently without much difficulty, were holding themselves upside down in the grass and playing flutes, while imitating the movements of a dance with their feet. Roger made the sign of the cross and was tempted to run; but at that moment, the musicians discovered him and immediately came up to him, jumping on their heads, as if they were made of flint and not flesh and blood. Arriving a few steps from Roger, these very strange dancers bent their bodies, and placing their feet on the ground, assumed their normal position without the slightest effort and came forward smiling, with their hands on their hearts, in the attitude of acrobats or clowns greeting the audience. “Be generous, my prince,” said one of them, holding out a braided cap that he picked up from the floor. “Hand in your pocket, handsome young man,” replied the other. “We accept all kinds of coins and in any amount, from a bag of ducats.” or a handful of doubloons, or even a single gored man, if you can’t make a larger offering. Roger thought he was in the presence of a pair of goblins and even tried to remember the formula for exorcism; but the two strangers burst into uproarious laughter at the shock and surprise reflected in his expression. One of them jumped up and, landing on his hands, began to walk with them, stamping his feet in the air. The other asked: “Have you never seen minstrels? At least you’ve heard of them. That’s what we are, not witches or demons. ” “Why this shock, blond cherub?” asked the other. “Don’t be surprised at my surprise,” Roger finally replied. “I’ve never seen a minstrel in my life, and much less did I expect to see two pairs of legs dancing mysteriously in the air . And what about jumping on your skulls? I’d like to know why you do such extraordinary things.” “It’s difficult to answer, and I’m sure if it were up to me you’d never see me again walking upside down, swallowing burning tow, or playing the lute with my feet, to the amusement of onlookers and the horror of tender little pages like yourself… But what do I see? A flask! And full, full of the rich juice of sweet grapes! Forfeiture!” And with all his might, he seized the bottle of wine that the steward’s brother had given to Roger, which he carried in his half-open satchel. Drinking half the wine took the minstrel an instant, and then he passed the flask to his companion. Hardly had he finished it before he made a gesture of swallowing it, so truly that it frightened Roger; then the evaporated flask reappeared in the minstrel’s right hand, which he tossed high, caught on his left calf, from which he seemed to extract it to present to Roger, accompanied by a comical bow. “Thank you for the wine, lad,” he said; “it’s one of the few good things we’ve tasted in many days. And to answer your question, we’ll tell you that our profession obliges us to continually invent and rehearse new tricks, one of which, among the most difficult and applauded, you have witnessed. We’ve come from Chester, where we’ve won the admiration of nobles and commoners alike, and we’re headed for the Pleyel fairs, where, if we don’t win many ducats, we’ll have no lack of applause. I assure you, I’d give a good number of these for one of those, or for another draught of your delicious wine. And now, my friend, if you’ll sit down on that stone, we’ll continue our rehearsal, and you’ll pass the time .” Roger did so, and then noticed the two enormous bundles that formed the minstrels’ luggage, which, as far as they could see, contained silk doublets, glittering belts, and bands of tinsel and imitation gems. Beside them lay a vihuela, which Roger took and began to play with great skill, while the acrobats continued their astonishing exercises. They were soon in time with the vihuela , and it was a sight to see them with their feet in the air, dancing on their hands, with as much speed and ease as if they had been walking in that position all their lives. “Hurry up, hurry up!” they shouted to the player, who obliged them by laughing uproariously. “Bravo, Don Alfeñique!” finally exclaimed one of the dancers, sinking exhausted onto the grass. “You kept him very quiet, sir musician,” said the other, imitating him. Where did you learn to play like that?’ ‘What I just played, I learned on my own, without music or a teacher, from having heard it several times back in Belmonte, where I come from. ‘ ‘The devil take me if you’re not the helper we need!’ said the minstrel, who seemed older. ‘I’ve been looking for a long time for a vihuelist, a flautist, or whatever, to accompany us and play by ear, and you’ve got a magnificent one. Come with us to Pleyel; you won’t be sorry, nor will you lack a few ducats, good beer, and a better mood as long as we’re together. ‘ ‘Not to mention that we’ve never had dinner without a good slice of meat on the plate, and you’ll be no less. For my part, I promise you half an azumbre of wine on Sundays, as long as we’re in town,’ said the other. “It’s a Gascon, and of the old variety,” he added, winking an eye to give more value to his offer. “No, it can’t be,” replied the young man. “My destiny is another, and if I am to reach it in time, I can’t allow myself many stops as long as this one. Rest in God.” Having said this, he hurried away, ignoring the repeated offers of the minstrels, who finally took leave of him and wished him good luck. The last time he saw them, before turning a bend in the path, the youngest of the acrobats had climbed onto his companion’s shoulders and from that height was greeting him with two brightly colored pennants, which he waved above his head. Roger waved goodbye to them and, smiling, set off for Munster. All these varied incidents of his day seemed strange and extremely interesting to him . The few hours since he left the peaceful cloister had provided him with more excitement than a year of life in Belmonte. It seemed incredible to him that the fresh bread he was eating with pleasure had come fresh from the abbey’s ovens. He soon left the hilly terrain covered with trees and found himself on the vast plain of the Solent, whose fields, enameled with multicolored flowers, presented here and there green or bronze clumps of waving ferns. To the traveler’s left, and not far away, the thick forest continued, but the path diverged quickly from it and wound through the valley. The sun, approaching its setting between purple clouds, illuminated the cheerful fields with a soft light and grazed the first trees of the forest, casting inimitable touches of gold and red between the branches. Roger admired the beautiful landscape, but without pausing, because according to his reports, he was still a long league from the first inn where he intended to spend the night. All he did was take a few bites of the bread and the delicious cheese he had brought with him. Along that stretch of road, the traveler met a good number of people. First, he saw two Dominican friars in black robes, who passed by without even looking at him, their eyes fixed on the ground and murmuring their prayers. They were followed by a fat, chubby, and smiling Franciscan, who stopped Roger to ask if there wasn’t a certain inn nearby famous for its eel cakes. When the young man replied that he had always heard the eel stews of the Solent praised, the epicurean father headed toward that village, licking his lips with pleasure. Shortly after, our traveler saw three reapers approaching, singing loudly, with an accent and jargon so different from anything he had heard in his convent that they seemed to him more like men of another race expressing themselves in barbaric language. One of them was carrying a heron they had caught in the neighboring marsh and offered it to Roger for two gorings. He excused himself as best he could and was glad to leave the singers behind, whose tangled red hair, sharp sickles, and brutal laughter made them unpleasant traveling companions, especially when encountered at nightfall in the open country. More dangerous than those cheerful peasants proved to be a gaunt beggar who came out to meet him shortly afterward, using a crutch to replace his missing leg. Although apparently weak and humble, Roger had no sooner passed without depositing the coin he demanded in the greasy hat than he heard the wretch’s angry cry and a terrible blasphemy, followed by a stone that, had it struck our hero in the head, would probably have put an end to his adventures. Fortunately, the stone grazed his ear and crashed violently into a nearby tree. Roger took cover behind his trunk with a leap, and from there he made his retreat, concealing himself in the undergrowth, not returning to the path until he had put a good distance between himself and the ragged madman. It seemed to him that in England there was no more protection for life and property than each man could provide with his own fists or the swiftness of his legs. Where was the law, that law he had heard about in the cloister, superior to prelates and barons, of which he saw no trace or sign? Nevertheless, the sun could not have set that day without Roger seeing for himself an unforgettable example of the harshest law of that age and of the swiftest dispensation of justice ever witnessed by human eyes. In the center of the valley there was a hollow through which the waters of a crystalline stream ran. To the right of the road, at the point where it crossed the stream, there was a shapeless pile of stones, perhaps an ancient burial mound, which disappeared almost entirely beneath the heather and ferns. Roger was searching for the ford when he saw coming from the opposite side a poor woman, weighed down by age and infirmity, who twice tried in vain to place her foot on a wide, flat stone placed in the middle of the stream. Roger saw her sit down discouraged on the bank and, crossing the ford, he approached her and offered to help her. “Come, good woman; the passage is not as difficult as it seems.” “I cannot, lad; age has clouded my eyes, and although I know there is a stone at the ford, I cannot see it. ” “That is why it must not remain,” said Roger; and taking the gaunt old woman in his arms, he quickly carried her to the other side. ” You seem too weak and ancient to travel alone,” he continued when he saw her falter and fall to her knees. “Have you come from far away? ” “From Balsain, where I left my ruined cottage three days ago. I am going to find my son, who is the king’s huntsman at Corvalle and has offered to look after me these last days of my life. ” “It is his duty to do so, since you looked after him in his childhood. But have you eaten? Do you have provisions?” “I had a bite at dawn, at Dunán’s tavern… But there I also left the last coin I had left, and that is why I must arrive this very night at Corvalle, where I will lack nothing.” If you could see my son, so arrogant, so generous! I forget my troubles when I picture him in his green hunting coat, the king’s coat of arms embroidered on his chest. “The journey from here to Corvalle is long, especially for you, and it’s almost nighttime. But here is a little bread and cheese, and also some coins to complete your supper at the first inn. May God rest with you. ” “May he protect you, generous youth,” said the old woman, walking away, offering her blessings in abundance. As Roger turned to start walking, he discovered what he hadn’t noticed until then: that his brief interview with the poor woman had had witnesses. These were two men, hidden until then among the heather that covered the aforementioned pile of stones, who, abandoning their hiding place, were heading toward the hollow. One of them, an old man in ragged clothes, with an uncultivated beard and a crooked nose, looked more like a bandit than a wayfarer; The other was one of the few black men in England at that time, and Roger gazed in amazement at the bulging lips and large, white teeth that stood out against the blackness of their complexions. But the appearance of both strangers was so suspicious that Roger thought it prudent to climb the bank and take the road at a brisk pace, in order to avoid meeting them. The others did not follow him, but before going far enough, he heard the cries for help from the old woman, stopped in the middle of the road by the two scoundrels, who hurriedly stripped her of the coins he had given her, her woolen shawl, and the small basket she was carrying. Roger dropped his satchel and, grasping his iron-shod club, turned back, jumped across the stream , and headed at full speed towards the group formed by the robbers and their victim. But they did not seem willing to give way, for seeing the black man coming, she took out a shining knife and waited for him with firm footing. The other took hold of his knobby cane and, with threats and curses, invited Roger to approach. No danger could have stopped the bold young man at that moment, usually so measured and peaceful, but whose countenance indicated that indignation and anger were blinding him, turning him into a formidable adversary. Arriving in front of the black man, he He unleashed such a furious blow with his club that he dropped his knife and fled, screaming in pain. Seeing him, the old man sprang upon Roger, clasping his arms tightly around his waist, and shouted to the other to stab his enemy in the back. The black man approached, seized his weapon, and Roger believed his last hour had arrived, although he did not cease to make vigorous efforts to overthrow his adversary, whose throat he gripped furiously as they struggled from one side of the road to the other. At that supreme moment, the galloping of numerous horses over the stones was distinctly heard , and almost at the same time, a cry of terror from the black man, who fled at full speed and soon hid in the undergrowth. The other bandit, whose eyes betrayed the fear that had seized him, made desperate efforts to repulse Roger, but Roger finally succeeded in overthrowing him and holding him firmly, expecting to receive immediate reinforcements. The riders arrived at full speed, preceded by what appeared to be the leader of the band, who rode a beautiful black horse and wore a fine velour coat, crossed his chest by a wide red band embroidered with gold, and covered his head with a cap of white feathers. He was followed by six crossbowmen, with doublets of buriel cloth, belts of ramrod, helmets without feathers, and crossbows and arrows on their backs. They descended the slope, crossed the ford, and in a few moments arrived at the scene of the fight. “Here’s one of them!” exclaimed the leader, dismounting and shaking the bandit by the neck. “Go see the ropes, Pedro, and tie his hands and feet so that he doesn’t slip again. His time has come, and by Saint George! this time he’ll pay for it all together. Who are you, young man?” he asked Roger. “A clerk from the Abbey of Belmonte, sir.” “Do you have a letter or paper to prove it? Aren’t you just one of the many beggars who infest these roads? ” “Here are the letters from the Abbot of Bergen. I have no need to beg,” said the young man, somewhat offended. “So much the better for you. Do you know who I am? ” “No, sir. ” “I am the law, I am the magistrate of the county, and I represent the justice of our kind sovereign, Edward III. ” “You have arrived in time, sir,” said Roger, bowing to the personage. ” A few moments more, and you would have found only my corpse here, and perhaps that of this poor woman as well.” “But we’re missing the other one!” exclaimed the magistrate. “Haven’t you seen a black man? He was the accomplice of that thief, and together they were fleeing… ” “The black man escaped in that direction when he heard you,” said Roger, pointing towards the stones of the crumbling barrow. “He’s hiding in the bushes and can’t be far away,” said one of the crossbowmen, preparing his dreaded weapon. “I’ve been watching the surrounding countryside ever since we arrived . He knows that with our horses we could reach him in a jiffy, and he’ll be careful not to run away. ” “Then go and find him! It will never be said that a criminal of his kind escaped the magistrate of Southampton and his crossbowmen. Leave that bandit lying in the dust. Now, lads, form up in line, a good distance apart, and begin the hunt. Ready your crossbows, and I ‘ll get you game such as the king himself cannot have. Norris here on the left; Red James on the right. That’s right. Watch out for the bushes, and a quart of wine for the good shot who hits the target. ” The black man had slipped through the heather to the ruined monument, behind whose stones he hid. After a short while, he wanted to find out what his pursuers were doing or planning, seeing them split up into a long line and advance through the undergrowth in the direction he had taken and that Roger had indicated. Although the fugitive poked his head out as cautiously as possible, the slight movement of some ferns was enough to denounce his presence to the magistrate, who at that moment stared at the eminence formed by the stones and the bushes that partly covered them. “Ah, scoundrel!” cried the official, drawing his sword and pointing him out to his soldiers. “There he is! Stand firm, crossbowmen! He is already leaving his lair and running like a deer. Shoot!” And so it was, for when the black man heard the mayor’s voice and saw himself discovered, he took to his heels. “Aim two yards to the right, lad,” said a veteran crossbowman next to Roger. “No, there’s hardly any wind; a yard and a half is enough,” replied his companion, letting go of his crossbowstring. Roger shuddered, for the sharp shaft seemed to pierce the fugitive through and through. But he kept running. “I’ll tell you two yards, you slob,” remarked the old crossbowman, aiming as calmly as if he were shooting at a target. The deadly shaft whistled off, and the black man was seen to suddenly give a tremendous leap, open his arms, and fall face first to the ground, where he remained motionless. “Under the left shoulder,” was all his matador said, rushing forward to retrieve his shaft. “There’s no mistaking an old dog.” Tonight you can get drunk on the finest wine in Southampton, the man said to his impassive crossbowman. Are you sure you’ve dispatched him? “He’s as dead as my grandmother, sir. ” “Right. Now for the other scoundrel. There’s no shortage of trees in the forest, but we don’t have time to waste. Come on, Lobato, take out that sword and cut off the scoundrel’s head, as you know how. ” “Please grant me a favor I ask of you!” begged the condemned man , teeth to teeth. “What is it?” asked the magistrate. “I’ll confess my crime first. The black man and I were, in fact, the ones who, after stealing as much as we could from the boat Rosamaria, on which he was the cook, murdered and robbed the Flemish merchant in Belfast. I’m ready to be sent there, before my judges. ” “That confession has little merit and will be of no use to you.” “Because in addition to your misdeeds in Belfast and everywhere else, you’ve just committed an assault in an unpopulated area within the territory of my jurisdiction, and you’re going to die. Enough talk. ” “But sir,” Roger observed, pale with emotion, “he hasn’t been tried, and…” “You, young man, will do me great favor by not speaking of what you don’t understand and care the least about.” “And you, scoundrel,” he continued, addressing the prisoner, “what favor is this you ask for? ” “I have in the boot of my left foot a small piece of wood wrapped in linen. It once belonged to the boat in which the blessed Saint Paul was when the waves cast him onto the island of Melita. I bought it for three doubloons from a sailor who came from the Levant. I ask you to allow me to die with this relic in my hand, and in this way I will obtain not only my eternal salvation but also yours, for, owing you such a great favor, I will not fail to intercede for you for a single day.” At a sign from his commander, the crossbowman James removed the criminal’s shoes and found the valuable relic in his boot, wrapped in a long strip of fine silk. The soldiers devoutly crossed themselves, and the magistrate took his hat off as he took it and handed it to the condemned man. “If it should happen that, through the merits of the great apostle Saint Paul, your crimes are pardoned and the gates of Paradise are opened,” said the credulous magistrate, “I hope you will not forget the grace I grant you and the promise you make me. And bear in mind, too, that all your intercession must be for Robert of York, Mayor of Southampton, and not for Robert of York, my first cousin, the Constable of Chester. And now, James, to your preparations, for we still have a good distance between here and Munster, and the sun has already set. ” With eyes wide with terror, Roger contemplated this moving scene. the fat, richly dressed figure; the group of crossbowmen who looked on indifferently, holding the reins of their horses; the old woman, as terrified as he, who sat by the side of the road awaiting the end of the bloody drama; and finally, the criminal standing there, his arms tied and pale as death. The oldest of the crossbowmen stepped forward at that moment and drew his sharp blade; Roger turned his back and retreated hastily, but after a few steps he heard a horrible, dull sound that made him tremble, followed by the thud of his body as it fell to the ground. Moments later The corregidor and four crossbowmen trotted past Roger, the other two having received orders to dig a grave and bury the bodies. One of the soldiers was cleaning the long blade of his sword on his horse’s mane, and seeing him, Roger was so overcome with anguish that he threw himself down on the grass and burst into convulsive sobs. A wicked world, it was said, hard-hearted men, both criminals and those charged with administering brutal and bloody justice! Chapter 5. OF THE STRANGE COMPANY THAT GATHERED AT THE GREEN BIRD INN. Night had fallen and the moon was shining between light clouds when Roger, tired and hungry, arrived at Dunán’s inn, famous for ten leagues around and situated outside the town, at the intersection of the three roads: Balsain, Corvalle, and Munster. It was a low , gloomy building, its doorway pointed out to the wayfarer and illuminated at night by two lit torches. From the central window projected a long pole-like bar, from the tip of which hung an enormous dry branch, a sure sign that the thirsty traveler would find all kinds of drinks at the inn, and especially the golden beer and fine wine that contributed so much to the establishment’s well-deserved reputation. At its door, the young man paused, idly gazing at a saddled horse waiting, pawing, tied to a thick ring fixed to the wall. It was the first time that the descendant of the Clintons of Munster had entered an inn, and he wondered what kind of people his fellow innkeepers would be and what kind of welcome they would give him. But he also considered that if the distance to Munster was not far, on the other hand, he did not know his brother, of whom he had the worst reports. and that the right thing to do was to spend the night at Dunan’s inn and go by daylight to his relative’s house, who neither expected him, nor knew of him, nor had ever shown the slightest interest in him. The bright light that illuminated the inn door, the peals of laughter that could be heard from it, and the sound of clinking glasses made the inexperienced traveler, who until then had spent his nights in the neat and quiet cell of the convent, hesitate for a moment. But he made an effort and, telling himself that this was a public inn where he had as much right to enter as anyone else, he passed through the door and found himself in the common room. Although it was one of the first nights of autumn and not at all cold, thick logs were burning on the hearth, the smoke of which rose partly through the chimney and partly also filled the room and oppressed the throats of all those present. Over the fire could be seen a large cauldron, the contents of which were boiling vigorously and emitting a most appetizing odor. Seated around were a dozen or more rough drinkers, who, upon seeing Roger, burst out in such loud voices that he stood there indecisive, looking at them through the smoke that filled the place. “Another round, another round!” cried a ragged loafer. “Bring me my beer, and let the newcomer pay for it! ” “That’s the law of the Green Bird,” howled another. “How do you understand it, Aunt Rojana! A new customer and empty glasses? ” “Wait a minute, my good sirs, a minute. If I haven’t asked what you want, it’s because I already know, and I’m pouring beer for the woodcutters, mead for the musician, cider for the blacksmith, and wine for everyone else. Come here, good gentleman,” he said to Roger, “and be most welcome. You know, it has always been the custom of the Green Bird that the last to arrive pay for a drink.” Will you agree to this? “I will take care not to violate the customs of your house, madam innkeeper. But it will not be out of place to say that if my will is good, my purse is not very full; nevertheless, I will gladly give even a ducat to present to those present. ” “Bravo!” they all cried with one voice, clinking and emptying their glasses. “Well said, my little friar!” cried a resounding voice, as a heavy hand fell on Roger’s shoulder. He turned and saw at his side Tristan de Horla, his fellow cloisterer, who had been expelled from the abbey that morning. “By the Cross of Gestas! Bad days are ahead for Belmonte,” continued the burly ex-novice. In twenty-four hours, two of the three men in the entire convent have said goodbye to their ancient walls. Because I’ve known you for a long time, my friend Roger, and despite your doll-like face, you’ll grow up to be a man. The other one I’m referring to is the good abbot. He’s neither my friend nor do I owe him any favors, but he has a courageous heart and pure blood, and he’s worth far more than the gang of geese he has at his command. Isn’t that so, Rogerito? ” “The monks of Belmonte are saints… ” “Saintly courgettes, who only understand how to live well and fill their bellies. Do you think these arms of mine and that head of yours were given to us to lead such a life? There’s much to do and gain in the world, my friend, but not for those who shut themselves up within four walls.” “So why did you become a novice? ” “The question is fair, by my faith, and the answer is not difficult. Because the blonde Margot, from the Royal Farm, married Gandolfo the Left-Handed, a scoundrel of seven soles, leaving Tristan of Horla high and dry, despite his promises and other things I know. And when the aforementioned Tristan was as besotted as a fool, he went into the convent instead of asking the king for a halberd or a bow and giving the Left-Handed a beating as if all he had to himself. With calm came reflection, I scared the informer Ambrose, had my white habit taken away, the abbot was furious, and I feel sorry for him, I left the monastery forever, and here I am, happier than ever.” His listeners burst into laughter, just as the landlady arrived with two large jugs of wine and beer, followed by a servant with plates and spoons, which she distributed to the guests. Two of these, wearing the green coats of gamekeepers, removed the cauldron from the fire and made a plate for the rest, and they all ate the steaming stew with gusto. Roger settled himself in a corner somewhat removed from the fire, where he could eat and drink in peace while observing the actions and sayings of that strange gathering, illuminated by the light from the hearth and three or four torches placed in iron rings fixed on the blackened walls. Besides the gamekeepers and a few sturdy beggars who earned their living by charcoal-burning and chopping wood in the neighboring hills, there were a musician with a ruddy nose, a cheerful student from Exeter, and further away a man with tangled hair and a long beard, wrapped in a coarse tabard, and a young man, apparently a huntsman or page, whose shabby doublet reflected little credit on the munificence of his master, whoever he was. Beside him, the cheerful ex-novice was eating heartily, to his right stood three rough farmhands. In the farthest corner of the hearth, a customer was snoring, exhausted by the frequent libations he had undoubtedly indulged in before the arrival of the other guests. “That’s Ferrus the painter,” said Aunt Rojana, pointing with her ladle at the sleeping drinker. “And I, fool that I was, believed him and gave him something to drink before he had painted the promised sample, and now I am left without a sample and without the wine that that spendthrift has swallowed! Imagine,” continued the indignant landlady, turning to Roger, “that Ferrus offered me this morning to paint me a banner with a green bird, the name this honest inn has borne for many years, on condition that I would give him all the wine he wanted during his work; and look what that charlatan has painted and wants me to hang over my door! ” Saying this, the good woman presented a board on which, on a reddish and untidy background, there waddled a sort of dying hen, painted green, with one bulging, yellowish eye placed nearer its neck than its beak. This one was bent and enormous, and from it hung a white painted sign with this inscription in black letters: _To the Green Pagaro!_ That masterpiece of the itinerant painter was received with great laughter, and Roger himself could not help but agree with the innkeeper that this The cross-eyed parrot and that fantastic spelling would harm the inn’s reputation and would make the gentlemen who stopped there to rest and refresh themselves during their frequent hunts laugh. “It would be the ruin of my house,” exclaimed Aunt Rojana. “Don’t worry, good woman, I hope to improve the painting somewhat,” said Roger, “if you give me the colors and brushes of the artist Ferrus. ” “May Heaven prosper you if you do so, handsome sir,” she said, surprised and delighted with the offer; and in a jiffy she brought him and opened Ferrus’s satchel, admiring the promptness and skill with which Roger handled the colors, palette, and brushes, and, erasing the green scarecrow , began to paint the background of the new sample. “The Baron of Ansur will have to plow his fields himself if he wants grain,” shouted one of the drinkers, wearing a sheepskin coat and thick leather boots. As for me, I’m never setting foot on their lands again. For two hundred years my entire family has been sweating bullets so that the lords of Ansur have good wine on their tables and gold cups in which to drink it and brocade and silk to dress themselves in. I swear that from today I’ll take off my livery and never work for those lazy lords again! “Hold your tongue, Rodin,” warned the innkeeper. “No, no, let him,” said one of the woodcutters. “What we need is for many peasants to think like Rodin and throw off the yoke. We’ll be prosperous if even the power of speech is denied us. For my part, even if they cut off my ears… ” “Look, cutting off ears can be done as beautifully by the executioners of barons as by the knives of woodcutters,” added another of them. “By Saint George! For myself, I can say that I’d rather live in the mountains than serve a servant of the king.” “I have no master but the king,” declared another of those present, after hoisting a tankard full of beer. “And who is the king?” ventured Rodin, who was already half-witted. “Is he by chance an English king when his tongue refuses to utter two words of our own? Remember his visit last year to the castle of Malvar, where he presented himself with a great force of seneschals, justices, constables, huntsmen, and guards. During one of the hunts, I was guarding the gate of Glendale when I saw the king bearing down on me with his horse, saying, “Ouvrez, ouvrez!” or something to that effect. Is this the king we English have now? ” “Shut up, they say!” suddenly cried Tristan de Horla, giving a tremendous kick to the footstool in front of him and throwing it against the logs of the hearth, which threw off a thousand sparks. Let no one insult the good King Edward in my presence, nor even name him, unless it be with due respect. Otherwise, by the Cross of Deeds!… If he cannot speak English, he knows how to fight better than many Englishmen, who spent their lives gorging themselves on juicy meat and good ale while he dealt and received blows beneath the walls of Paris! Such energetic words, spoken by that sinewy young man, discouraged the grumbling ones, who from that moment on talked less and drank more. Thus Roger was able to overhear what was being said in another group composed, as the grateful innkeeper had whispered in his ear, of a blood-bleeder, a traveling dentist, and the musician with the fiery nose. “A raw rat is my invariable prescription against the plague,” the doctor said gravely; “a raw rat cut open.” “Wouldn’t it be better to roast it a little, Mr. Physician?” asked the tooth-puller. “Why, eating raw rats… ” “Who’s talking about eating them, Master Verdin?” the disciple of Aesculapius exclaimed disdainfully. “The little animal, split open, is applied to the sore or the inflammation that precedes it. And since the rat is an unclean animal, it attracts and absorbs bad humors by its very nature, ridding the patient’s body of them. ” “And can such a remedy also cure smallpox?” asked the musician, after satisfying himself that his mug contained not a drop of beer. “As surely as the plague,” the physician affirmed, cleaning his plate with a crust of bread. “Well then,” continued the musician, “I’m glad your treatment isn’t widely known, for I’m sure smallpox and the plague are the poor man’s best friends in England. ” “How is that, my friend?” asked Tristan. “Pour a little ale from your tankard into this goblet and I’ll tell you. Well, it has often occurred to me that if the plague and other afflictions were to carry off half the people now living in Lord King Edward’s dominions, those who remained could live in good houses, work little or nothing, and live in plenty. ” “Look where the harpist is sticking out!” exclaimed Master Verdin. “Well, since you have such hard hearts, I wish that when the plague begins to kill Englishmen, it will carry you off first… ” “My plague!” What pains you, Mr. Dentist, is that if half the world were to die, you would be left practically without a job, you who only know how to depopulate jaws and barely earn enough today for bread and cheese. Laughter began again at good Verdín’s expense, and the musician got up to take his ancient harp from a corner, which he began to play vigorously. “Let’s make way for the coplero!” exclaimed the woodcutters. “Sit here by the fire, and call on a cheerful tune, like the ones you played at the pilgrimage to Malvar. ” “Play The Rose of Lancaster! ” “No, no, The Girls of Dunán! ” “The Archer and the Villain!” Ignoring those voices, the musician continued plucking the strings, his gaze fixed on the smoky ceiling, as if trying to remember the words to his song. Then he intoned in a hoarse voice one of the most obscene songs of the time, to the visible approval of most of his listeners. The blood rushed to Roger’s face, and he left his seat and exclaimed imperiously: “Shut up! What shame! You, you, an old man who should set a good example to others! ” The surprise of all those people was profound. “By the beard of the King of France!” exclaimed one of the huntsmen. The student has recovered the power of speech and is about to give us a sermon. “The damsel has been offended,” said a peasant. “Come here, Mr. Physician, and bleed this cherub before he faints. ” “Continue your song, Master Lucas, there’s no accent to put on it! Are we at an inn or in my lady the Baroness’s drawing-room? ” “I’ll be damned if I play or sing any more!” “What did your grace expect, a sacred hymn or a litany? ” the musician said sulkily, sheathing his harp. “So what did your grace expect, a sacred hymn or a litany? Since when do the ballads sung by all the minstrels in the kingdom frighten pages? As I said, I’ll sing no more. ” “Yes, you will,” replied one of his listeners. “Let’s see, Aunt Rojana, a jug of good stuff for Master Lucas. I’ll treat. Let’s have some ballads, and if the young man doesn’t like them, let him leave, or else… ” “Take it slow and steady, don Valiant,” interrupted Tristán, placing himself in front of Roger, as if to protect him. “My companion has reprimanded the old ballad singer because he has never heard the shameless things that seem like jokes to you, nor does he believe that a man with a gray head like the master’s could say them without protest, even though his nose may proclaim him a professional drunkard.” But since this little blond friar won’t hear your songs, you won’t sing them today, and you, sir braggart, won’t throw him out of this inn. ‘ ‘Good heavens, what a supreme justice has befallen us today!’ exclaimed a frowning peasant, rising to his feet. ‘Have you perhaps bought *The Green Bird*?’ asked another. ‘ See, not only the weeping page, but you too, are going to fall flat on your face on the road. ‘ ‘Truce, Tristan!’ cried Roger hurriedly. ‘I’m going, rather than be the occasion of a fight. ‘ ‘Shut up, lad,’ replied his friend, rolling up his sleeves and showing his Herculean arms. ‘It’s a bad year for me if these rabble haven’t found their match. Step aside and see their hair on fire…. Come closer, you idiots! Come and make acquaintance with the fists of Tristan of Horla, you scoundrels!’ Seeing that things were going seriously, the foresters and gamekeepers got up hastily to make peace, while the innkeeper and the physicist They were addressing themselves now to the peasants and woodcutters, now to the spirited Tristan, trying to placate them with kind words. At that moment the door of the inn was violently opened, and everyone’s attention was fixed on the newcomer who presented himself with such unceremoniousness. Chapter 6. HOW SIMON THE ARCHER SET DOWN HIS FEATHER COVER. The unknown man was of medium height, vigorous and well-built; his face was dark, carefully shaven, and his features were pronounced and somewhat rough, partly disfigured by a tremendous scar that crossed his left cheek from his nose to his neck. His eyes were lively, with a threatening expression in their brightness and in the habitual contracted brows. His mouth, with its hard lines and tightly-pressed lips, certainly did not soften the severity of his countenance, which revealed a man familiar with danger and always ready to combat it. His long sword and the strong bow he carried on his back revealed his profession, just as the damage to his mail and the dents in his helmet clearly showed that he had come from the fields of battle, then stained with English and French blood in the war waged by Edward III and his son, the Black Prince, against King Charles V of France. From the archer’s left shoulder hung a white iron-crown with the red cross of St. George in its center. “Hello!” he exclaimed, blinking his eyes quickly, dazzled by the bright light from the hearth and the torches. “Good fire, good company, and good ale! God save you, comrades. A woman, by my life!” he said, seeing Aunt Rojana, who at that moment was passing by him with a couple of jugs brimming with beer. “Cheers, my love!” and putting his arm around the innkeeper’s waist, he placed two resounding kisses on her cheeks. “Ah, cest lamour, madame, cest lamour!” he hummed. “Woe to the French rogue, for he has stuck to my tongue, and I shall have to drown him in good English beer. For you must know that I have not a drop of French blood in my veins, and that I am the archer Simon Aluardo, an Englishman of good stock, and very happy to set foot on his own soil again. So it was that when I disembarked from the galley on the beach of the Boyne, I kissed the ground, for it had been eight years since I had seen it, just as I kissed you, fair innkeeper, for from Boyne to here I have scarcely seen half a dozen fine girls, and none as appetizing as you… But by my sword! Those scoundrels have made off with the cargo,” he exclaimed, rushing towards the door. “Hello! Are you there? Come in at once, you scoundrels!” At his voice, three porters entered the room with bundles and stood lined up against the wall. “Let’s see if you’ll give me back my property intact, you hustlers. Number one: a French coverlet of the finest down, two bedspreads of worked damask silk , and twenty yards of Genoese velvet. ” “Here it is, Captain. ” “What captain, what dead child! Let’s see, the second: a bolt of purple cloth, a finer shade of which has never been seen in England, and another of cloth of gold. Place it there on the floor next to the other’s bundle, and if anything is stained or damaged, I’ll cut off your ears. Number three: a locked box containing gold and silver brooches, two valuable daggers, a locket studded with pearls, and other spoils, won by me with the point of my trusty sword.” Another item, a package containing a chalice and two crucifixes, all of sterling silver, found by me in the church of Saint-Denis in Narbonne during the sack of that city; objects which I appropriated to prevent them from falling into worse hands than the very clean ones of one of King Edward’s archers. Here, you puppets! The account is complete. Here are two sous a person, which I shouldn’t give you, but two kicks each; and tell the landlady to give you a drink, I’ll pay. Everyone watched and listened with interest to the veteran, who had barely quenched his thirst by draining an enormous tin cup full of beer before speaking again: “And now for dinner, ma belle. A roast capon, a worthy piece of meat.” of my appetite and two or three flasks of good Gascon wine. I have gold doubloons and silver cornets in my pocket, and I know how to spend them, like a good soldier. For now, all who hear me will come and have a drink of whatever they like with me. The invitation was not to be refused; they refilled their jugs and drank to the health of the cheerful archer, whom they all surrounded, except for some woodcutters and commoners who lived far away and, much to their regret, had to leave the inn. The newcomer had removed his mail, helmet, and cloak and placed them on his packs, along with his sword, bow, and arrows. Sitting in front of the hearth, his saddlebag unbuttoned, and holding with his strong, tanned right hand the handle of a good- sized jug filled to the brim, he smiled with an expression of profound contentment. His curly chestnut hair draped around his neck , and he looked no more than forty, despite the deep marks left on his face by the hardships of his long campaigns and the excesses of pleasure and drink. Roger had put aside the painting of the famous exhibit and gazed in admiration at this type of warrior of that time, so new to him, who in a short space of time had shown himself to be tough and violent, gallant, generous, smiling, and finally peaceful, confident in his strength and self-satisfied. At that moment, the archer happened to glance at him and saw the surprise and curiosity reflected on the young man’s face. “To your health, mon garçon!” he exclaimed, raising his jug and with a smile that revealed two rows of firm, white teeth. “By my sword, you haven’t seen many men-at-arms, or you wouldn’t look at me as if I were a Moor recently returned from Spain!” “I’ve never seen a soldier from our wars,” Roger confessed frankly, though I’d heard and read much about their exploits. “Well, by all accounts, if you cross the sea, you’ll see them more numerous than bees in a hive. You couldn’t shoot an arrow in the streets of Bordeaux today without piercing an archer, page, knight, or squire from one side or the other. And not the kind we see around here, with a doublet and cloak, but with mail or a cuirass. ” “And where did you find all those fine things you have there?” asked Tristan, pointing to the archer’s piled-up treasures. “Where there are many other and better ones waiting to be collected by well-educated lads like you, who shouldn’t continue to rust here, waiting for their master to pay them their wages, but should go and earn them themselves, back in France.” “I swear to such a life, for it is worthy of men, noble and honorable like no other! Come, drink with me to the health of my comrades, to the glory of the Black Prince, son of the good King Edward, and above all to that of the noble lord Claude Latour, leader of the undefeated White Guard! ” “Claudee Latour and the White Guard!” exclaimed those present in unison , almost all of them aware of the great deeds of that valiant captain and of the invincible corps under his command, the famous White Archers , who had taken a leading part in the struggle against France. “Bravo, comrades! I’ll refill your cups again, for the good toast you have given to the brave men who wear the white vest. Here’s that beer, my angel!” And turning to Aunt Rojana, who was looking at him smiling and pleased, he intoned a war song, in a tremendous voice, playing at the top of his voice. “By my faith, I know more about shooting arrows than I do about singing ballads. ” “I know that song from the cross by now, and my harp knows it as well as I do,” said the musician. “And if this gentleman preacher,” he added, looking at Roger, “has no objection, I will play and sing it for this brave archer.” Roger often recalled the lively and picturesque scene that the Green Bird hall presented at that moment. In the center of the circle was the chubby, red-faced minstrel, singing the popular verses with great expression; the group of listeners, the archer Simon keeping time with his head and hand, and the ex-novice Tristan, who was none the less pleased with Master Lucas’s song , judging by the smile that animated his good-natured face. “By the edge of my sword!” exclaimed the archer at the end of the song. Many nights I have heard that same song in the English countryside, and he says that more than two hundred of the king’s soldiers joined in his chorus; but this old drunkard is far behind those of us whose profession is to handle the bow, the crossbow, and the halberd. Meanwhile, the innkeeper and a beautiful young woman who assisted her had placed on the solid oak table the appetizing dishes that made up Simon’s dinner, accompanied by some enormous slices of white bread. “What I don’t understand,” the archer continued cheerfully as he prepared to finish his dinner, “is why young fellows like you should agree to live close to the land, bending your backs and sweating your butts off, when you could lead such a good life under the king’s banner.” Look at me. What do I have to do? What the song you just heard says: hand on the string, string on the arrow, and arrow on target . Which is precisely what you do as a distraction and pastime on Sundays, after the hard work of the week. “And the pay?” one asked. “Well, you see: I eat well, I drink better, I treat whomever I please, I ask no favors from anyone, and I bring my fiancée silk and brocade fabrics worthy of a princess. What do you think of the pay, _mes garçons_? And what about that pile of trinkets and charms you see in that corner? It all comes straight from the south of France, where we made our last campaign. When do you expect to earn a hundredth of that loot? ” “It’s rich, by my faith,” said the tooth-puller. “And then, the possibility of pocketing a good ransom.” Don’t you know what happened a few years ago in the battles of Crécy and Poitiers? There wasn’t an English man-at-arms, page, or squire who didn’t take at least one rich French baron, count, or high knight prisoner. There’s my cousin Robert, a boor if there are few, who, at the beginning of the enemy’s retreat from Poitiers, got his hands on the French paladin Amaury de Chateauville, lord and master of a hundred towns and castles, who had to put up five thousand pounds of gold for his ransom, plus two superb horses with rich medals. It’s true that the boorish Robert was soon penniless, thanks to a French girl as pretty as a pearl and cleverer than a squirrel. But those are his accounts, and besides, haven’t they made enough to spend them, especially in the company of a good palmetto? Isn’t that right, ma belle? “They say our brave archers return home not only rich but courteous,” replied the Red-faced woman, who had been deeply impressed by the frankness, good humor, and generosity of her new guest. “To your health, heavenly eyes!” was the gallant soldier’s rejoinder, raising his glass and smiling at the innkeeper. “One thing I don’t see very clearly, Sir Archer,” said the student of Exeter. “And that is that, since our good prince signed the Treaty of Bretigny with the French sovereign, after our recent and great victories, you speak to us of war with France and of ransoms and plunder … ” “Which means I’m lying, sir,” interrupted the soldier, clutching the enormous roasted capon in front of him by the hooves as if it were a battle club. “God save me from such audacity,” the young man exclaimed hurriedly . “You come from there, and perhaps you bring news never yet heard of in England.” The truce with France is not to be eternal…. –Not at all. But even though it is quite true, as you say, that today we are not about to break our bones with the soldiers of King Charles, your question proves that you are novices in the ailments of war. You must know that on the land of France the lashes continue, because Brabantines, Nantes, Gascons and adventurers of all kinds are marching as always divided and in arms, not to mention numerous bands of ruffians without flags, who surround and plunder cities and give and receive knife blows without tale. And it would be a bad thing if, when every quisque has his hand on his neighbor’s throat and every baron marches at the head of his band against the first person who stands in his way, the five hundred English archers who make up the invincible White Guard had no means of earning a living in that troubled river . They are not so many now, because the Chevalier de Montclus took a hundred of them on his expedition to Milan against the Marquis of Montferrat; but I count on recruiting here myself quite a few lads eager for honor and profit, and with them completing the ranks of the finest corps that today camps under the banner of Saint George. The only thing missing is for Sir Leo de Morel to agree to leave his castle once more and take up his sword, placing himself at the head of our archers. “It would be no small fortune for them,” observed the physicist, “because except for our prince and the noble Lord of Chandos, there is no better lance in the whole kingdom, nor more proven courage than that of Sir Leo de Morel.” “You speak like a book; I’ve seen him beat the copper, and there’s hardly anyone who can match him. No one would say so, with his small body like a page, his courteous manners, and his gentle voice; but by my sword! From the time we embarked on the Orvel until the siege of Paris, and that was almost twenty years ago, there hasn’t been a better English knight, nor a skirmish, ambush, assault, or sortie in which he wasn’t in the forefront . In search of him, I’m going to the castle of Monteagudo, before recruiting my men, to deliver a letter from Sir Claude Latour, begging him to take the command left vacant by Montclus’s departure. But I wouldn’t like to present myself to him alone, but at least with a good pair of future white archers… What do you say to that, fellow?” asked Simon, addressing an athletic woodcutter. “I have a wife and three children in my cabin,” he replied, “and I can’t leave them to serve the king. ” “And you, lad?” “I am a man of peace,” Roger replied, “and besides, I have a very different mission. ” “Aren’t you two bad chickens! Where are the men of Dunan, Malvar, and Balsain? Are there only women in Corvalle and Vernel now? Then, thunder and lightning! Why don’t you put on a foot guard and cap and start working the spinning wheel, not drinking with men?” At that moment, a heavy hand fell on Simon’s shoulder, the big hand of Tristan de Horla, and he was heard to say with great calm: “You are a complete liar, Sir Archer, as the lies you have been telling us for half an hour prove; and you are also a loose tongue, and I will slap you soundly if you repeat what you have just said. ” “Bravo, mon garçon!” cried the archer, laughing heartily. I knew that if there was a man in the circle, I’d have no trouble finding him. So you want to slap me, huh? Well, look, I have something else to propose. A proper fight. Not a fistfight, because I have my own plan and I don’t want to ruin that sunny face God has given you. We ‘ll stand here in the middle of the room, grab each other however we can, and if you knock me down, I’ll give you that superb feather coverlet I won at the capture of Narbonne, which has no equal even in the king’s chamber… “I’m pleased,” Tristan agreed, hastily removing his robes and doublet, revealing the powerful muscles of his neck, chest, and arms. ” Come, archer; you can say goodbye to your coverlet, and at least to a couple of your bones, which I’m going to break on the ground.” “You’re quite a man, Red Head,” exclaimed the archer with a hearty laugh, putting aside his jug and tightening his wide leather belt. “Wait a moment,” said a huntsman. “We know what the soldier bets; but if you lose, my friend Tristan, what will the other man gain ? ” “I have nothing to bet,” replied Tristan, very annoyed, looking at Simon. “Yes, you have, my giant, yes, you have,” said the latter. “If you knock me down, you ‘ll take a princess’s blanket; but if I knock you down, I’ll take your body, without being the devil, and I’ll enlist it for four years in the Guard.” Blanca, with other young men like you whom I hope to take to France, and who, if they escape alive, will thank me. “That’s it!” Three or four voices exclaimed. “Accepted, and enough of this talk,” said Tristan, stepping forward with his left foot , leaning back with his body, and opening and closing his enormous hands. The archer, though much smaller in stature, had muscles of steel and was an expert fighter. He cautiously approached his opponent, who was scowling at him, his red hair bristling, ready to seize him in his claws. The archer smiled and suddenly launched himself at his opponent with the speed of lightning, swung his leg around Tristan’s, and, wrapping his sinewy arms around Tristan’s waist, tried to knock the giant onto his back. Few men could have resisted that furious attack, but Tristan, without losing his footing, gave the archer a terrible shake and hurled him against the wall as if shot from a catapult. “Ma foi!” It was a mere trifle that you won the blanket and made me open with my head yet another window in this honorable inn,” said the surprised soldier, who could barely keep his balance. ” Let’s try again.” And returning to the center of the room, he pretended to repeat his previous attack. Tristan bent down to seize him, thus assuming the position Simon desired, who with incredible speed seized him by both legs, or rather, threw himself against them, forcing Tristan to fall forward and onto the archer’s back and from them, headfirst, to the ground. The blow would have had grave consequences for our ex-novice had it not landed squarely in the belly of the ill-fated painter, who was still sleeping it off in his corner, oblivious to everything that was happening in the inn. He woke up with a start and, shouting loudly, the spectators joined him with their laughter and bravos; but above all the din, the strident voices of the defeated athlete could be heard, demanding that the fight continue. “Again, again! Come, archer, and by Saint Pachomius, I’ll crush you like a rag! ” “Not in my time,” replied Simon, buttoning up his vest. “You’ve been beaten in a fair fight, and you’re not a lapdog with whom one can play often and without risk. ” “In a fair fight, you say?” It was a vile trap…. “Not a trap, but a well-known trick of French fighters , and one that will add a magnificent recruit to the ranks of the White Guard. ” “As for that,” Tristan replied, “I don’t regret having lost, for an hour ago I decided to go with you, for I like your character and the soldier’s life, for which I believe myself born. However, I would have liked to give you a beating and earn my down blanket. ” “I don’t doubt it, mon ami, but it’s up to you to find a couple of them where they abound and with your own fists. Cheers! But what’s the matter with that weakling, yelling so much? ” These last words referred to the pained painter, who was still sitting in his corner, screaming to the heavens. Suddenly he stood up and, looking at the group with terrified eyes, exclaimed: “God help me! Don’t drink! The beer, the wine… poisoned!” and putting both hands to his stomach, he ran, passed through the door, and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Simon, Tristan, and the other drinkers roaring with laughter. Soon after, some of these men retired to their homes, and Aunt Rojana’s guests to their not-so-soft beds. Roger, tired in body and spirit, soon fell into a deep but unrestful sleep, and imagined himself to be present at a noisy sabbath, in which were, in company with witches and goblins, minstrels, beggars, monks, soldiers, and the many curious fellows who had gathered that night at the Green Bird’s Inn. Chapter 7. How the Wayfarers Passed Through the Wood. At dawn, the good landlady was already stirring the fire in the kitchen, grumpy about the loss of the twelve sous owed to her by the student of Exeter, who, taking advantage of the last shadows of the night, had taken his bundle and quietly left the hospitable house. The wailing of Aunt Rojana and the cackling of the hens, which peacefully filled the common room as soon as she opened the inn door, soon awakened the guests. After finishing their meager breakfast, the physician set off, riding his peaceful mule, followed a short distance behind by the tooth-puller and the musician, the latter still drowsy from the previous day’s beer. But the archer Simón, who had drunk as much or more than the others, left the hard bed happier than castanets, singing at the top of his lungs “Los Amores de Albuino,” a very popular folk song of the time. After kissing his landlady and chasing the maid into the attic, he went to the nearby stream, repeatedly dipping his head in its crystalline waters, as if on a campaign trail, as he said. “Where are you headed this morning, Moor of peace?” she asked Roger as soon as she saw him. “To Munster, to my brother’s house, where I will probably stay for some time,” Roger replied. “Tell me what I owe you, good woman. ” “What you owe me?” exclaimed the landlady, who was admiringly gazing at the young man’s painting the night before. “Tell me how much I owe you, Mr. Painter. This is a bird, not a puppet! Come here, you two, and look at this beautiful standard! ” “Be quiet, and he has eyes the color of fire!” exclaimed the maid. “And frightening talons and beak,” said Tristan. “Look at the boy, how quiet he was,” commented the archer. “That’s a great bird and a beautiful standard for you, landlady.” The modest artist was pleased to hear such spontaneous praise, and no less pleased to think that life was not all grudges, strife, crime, and deceit, but could also offer moments of legitimate satisfaction. The innkeeper flatly refused to accept a single salary from Roger for his lodging, and the archer and Tristan seated him at the table between them, inviting him to share their abundant lunch. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn,” said Simon, “that you also know how to read parchment, when you are so clever with brushes and colors. ” “It would be a great shame for me and for the good monks of Belmonte if I didn’t know how to read,” replied Roger. “Since I have been a scribe at the convent for five years, and I owe the monks everything I know. ” “This lad is a prodigy!” exclaimed the archer, looking at him with admiration. “And without a beard and with that girlish face! Be careful, I can shoot an arrow at a target, however small it may be, and at 350 paces, something that many very good archers in both kingdoms can’t do; but I’ll be hanged if I can read my name written in those scribbles you use.” In the entire White Guard, only one soldier knew how to read, and I remember him falling into a cistern during the assault on Ventadour; which proves that reading and writing are not for men of war, no matter how much it might be useful to a scribe. “I too understand something,” Tristan said with his mouth full; “though I wasn’t with the monks long enough to learn it well, for that is a very intricate matter. ” “Yes? Well, here I have something that will allow you to show off,” the archer replied, taking a parchment from his chest and handing it to Tristan. It was a thin roll, firmly held together with a red silk ribbon and sealed at both ends with large seals of the same color. The ex-novice looked at the outer inscription for a long time, his eyebrows drawn together and his eyes half-closed. “As I haven’t read much these days,” he finally said, “I’m not entirely sure what it says here. I may think it says one thing, and another may read something quite different.” But judging by the length of the lines, it seems to me that they are some verses from the Bible. “Your verse is not wrong, comrade,” said Simon, shaking his head . “What is certain is that you do not make me believe that Señor Claudio Latour, a brave captain if there ever was one, made me cross the Channel with no more embassy than a psalm. Pass the scroll to the young man, and I’ll bet a crown that he’ll read it to us in a jest.” “Well, for now, this isn’t English,” Roger said, barely having read a few words. “It’s written in French, in very exquisite handwriting, and translated, it reads as follows: To the very high and very powerful Baron Leon de Morel, from his faithful friend Claude Latour, Captain of the White Guard, castellan of Biscar, lord of Altamonte and vassal of the undefeated Gaston, Count of Foix, lord of high and low justice. ” “How is it?” said the archer, recovering the precious document. “You’re worth a lot, boy. ” “I thought it said something like that,” Tristan commented, but I kept quiet because I didn’t understand what he meant by high and low justice. “By God, you would understand it well if you were French! Low justice means that your lord has the right to fleece you, and high justice authorizes him to hang you from a battlement, without further ado. But here is the letter I must take to the Baron de Morel, the plates will be clean and the jug dry.” It’s time to set off . You’re coming with me, Tristan, and as for the bearded one, where did you say you were going? “To Munster. ” “Ah, yes! I know this county well, although I was born in Austin’s, in the hamlet of Cando, and I have nothing to say against you Hansonians , for there are no better archers or comrades in the White Guard than those who learned to shoot in these parts. We’ll go with you to Munster, lad, since that will hardly take us away from our path. ” “Let’s go!” exclaimed Roger happily, who was pleased to continue his journey in such good company. “But first it’s important to put my loot in safekeeping, and I believe it will be completely safe at this inn, about whose owner I have the best information. Listen, fair landlady. Do you see those bales?” Well, I’d like to leave them here, in your care, with all the good things they contain, except for this little box of worked silver, crystal, and precious stones, a gift from my captain to the Baroness de Morel. Will you keep my treasure for me? Don’t worry, archer, it will be as safe with me as in the king’s coffers . Come back whenever you want, for you will find everything here intact. You are an angel, bonne amie. That’s what I say: English land and women, French wine and plunder. I will return, yes, not only to seek my wealth but to see you. One day the wars will end, or I will tire of them, and I will come to this blessed land never to leave it again, looking for a woman as cunning as you… What do you think of my plan? But we’ll talk about this later. Hello, Tristan! At a fast pace , my children, the sun has already crossed the tops of those trees, and it’s a shame to waste these hours on the road. “Goodbye, my life!” Don’t forget good Simon, who truly loves you. Another kiss! No? Well, goodbye, and may Saint Julian always bring us such good fortune as this one. A beautiful, temperate day made the three friends’ journey to Dunán a most pleasant one. In its streets, they saw numerous men-at- arms, guards, and squires from the king’s escort and his nobles, who were then staying at the nearby castle of Malvar, the center of the royal hunts. In the windows of some of the houses, less humble and dilapidated than the rest, small coats of arms could be seen indicating the lodging of a baron or nobleman, one of the many who had not been accommodated in the castle. The veteran archer, like almost all the soldiers of the time, easily recognized the arms and insignia of many of those knights. “There is the head of the Saracen,” he was saying to his companions; “which proves that Sir Bernard de Brocas, to whom these arms belong, is around here . I saw him at Poitiers, in the last attack we gave on the elegant French knights, and I assure you that he fought like a lion. He is a chief huntsman to His Highness and a troubadour like few others, but he is no equal to the Lord of Chandos, who sings lively songs with more grace than anyone. Three golden eagles on a blue field; that is one of the Lutrells, two brothers, each braver than the other. I judge by the crescent moon above it. which must be the emblem of Hugh Lutrel, the old Constable’s eldest son, whom we carried off the battlefield of Romorantin with his foot pierced by a dart. There, to the left, the Debrays’ helmet with its curled plumes stands out. I served for a time under Lord Roland Debray, a great drinker and a good lancer, until his fatness prevented him from riding. Thus continued Simon, listened attentively by Roger, while his Herculean companion watched with interest the groups of pages and squires, the magnificent greyhounds, and the young men cleaning their weapons and saddles or discussing the merits of the horses belonging to their respective masters. As they passed in front of the church, its doors opened to admit a large group of faithful. Roger bent his knee and uncovered his head, but before he had finished his short prayer, his two companions had disappeared around the bend in the village street beyond the church, and Roger had to run to catch up with them. “What!” he exclaimed. “Not even a Hail Mary before the open doors of the house of the Lord? Is this how you expect Him to bless your day? ” “Friend,” Tristan replied, “I have prayed so much in the last two months, not only when I rise and go to bed, but at Matins, Lauds, and Vespers, that I still feel sleepy thinking about it, and I believe I have at least a few weeks’ worth of prayers in advance. ” “Prayers are never too much,” Roger observed warmly. “They are the only thing that can help us. What is man, if not a beast, for whom life is reduced to eating, drinking, and sleeping? Only when he remembers the immortal spirit that animates him does he rise and become a man, a rational being. Think how sad it would be if the Redeemer had shed his precious blood in vain!” “Come on, what a fine fellow this lad is! He blushes like a maiden and at the same time preaches like the entire sacred College of Cardinals!” exclaimed the archer. “And by the way, since you speak to us of the death of Our Lord, I swear I cannot think of it without wishing that scoundrel Judas Iscariot, who by all accounts must have been French, had come to these parts, so that he could have the pleasure of shooting him with a hundred arrows, from the feet to the crown of his head. And no less scoundrels were those who crucified Jesus. For my part, the death I prefer is that which is received on the field of battle, near the great red banner with its rampant lion, amid the shouts of the combatants, the clash of arms, and the whistling of arrows. But let me be killed by lance, sword, or dart, let me fall to the blows of the battle-axe or pierced by a halberd or dagger; ” But it would seem a disgrace to me to be killed by one of those bombards that cowards are now beginning to use, which can strike down a brave man from a distance and are more suited to frightening women and children with their flashes and reports than to dealing with hairy-chested men. ” “I’ve read something in the cloister about these new war machines,” said Roger. “And I can hardly understand how a bombard can hurl a heavy iron ball twice the distance reached by the arrow of the best archer, and with enough force to shatter armor and batter walls. ” “That’s right. But it’s also true that while the novice armorers were cleaning their bombards and forcing them to swallow a black powder that must be the work of the devil and were being attacked by one of their iron balls, we white archers used to shoot them with up to ten arrows each, leaving a good number of those scoundrels pierced and lying down, may God confound them.” However, I won’t deny that in the siege of a town or fortress, stone-thrower and bombardier companies render magnificent service and open up for real soldiers the breach we need to get a close look at the enemy. But what’s this? Someone seriously wounded recently passed by here. Look! As he said this, the soldier pointed and followed a trail of blood that stained the grass and stones of the road. “A wounded deer, perhaps…” “I don’t think so. I’m a good enough hunter to have discovered its trail, had one passed this way. Whoever it is, he’s not far away. Do you hear? ” The three of them began to listen. From among the trees of the forest came the sound of blows struck at regular intervals, the echo of wails and mournful cries, and a voice intoning a rhythmic song. Filled with curiosity, they quickly moved forward and saw among the trees a tall, thin man dressed in a long white habit . He was walking slowly, his head bowed and his hands folded. The habit had fallen open from his shoulders to his waist, revealing his back, which was purple and bloody, letting out trickles of blood that stained his tunic and dripped onto the ground. Behind him followed another man of smaller stature and older, dressed like the first, carrying an open book in his left hand, while in his right he held a long whip, with which he cruelly flogged his companion after finishing each of the prayers he was chanting in French. Our travelers watched the unexpected spectacle in astonishment when the whipper handed the book and whip to his companion and uncovered his own back, from which blood soon began to flow from the furious blows inflicted by his executioner. This was a strange and new thing for Roger and Tristan, but not for the archer. “They are the Penitents,” he said; friars whom we met at every step in France, and very numerous in Italy and Bohemia, but hardly known yet in England, where I certainly did not expect to see them. Even the few who are here are all foreigners, so I have been told.” _En avant!_ Let us speak to these reverends who think so little of their own skins. “You have whipped yourselves enough, my fathers,” the archer said to them in good French as he reached the penitents. “The trail of your blood is long on the road. Why do you mistreat yourselves in this manner? ” “This is for your sins, this is for your sins!” they both murmured, fixing their sad gazes on the newcomers. And they resumed their discipline as vigorously as before, ignoring the words and entreaties of the strangers, who gave up gazing at that sad scene since they could not prevent it, and hastily set off. “By the life of these fools!” exclaimed Simon. “If my sins need blood to wash them away, I have left more than two jugs of what runs through my veins on the soil of France.” “But lost in a good fight , and not coldly and drop by drop, as penitents shed it without further ado . But what is this, lad? You are whiter than the famous plumes of Montclus’s helmet, which served us to recognize and follow him there in Narbonne. What is the matter with you? ” “It is nothing,” said Roger. “I am not accustomed to seeing human blood flow . ” “It is strange to me,” said the veteran, “that one who thinks so well and speaks so well should have such a weak heart. ” “Hold on!” exclaimed Tristan. “It is not weakness of spirit, for I know this lad well. His heart is as whole as yours or mine; it is just that he has in his brain much more than you will ever have under that pewter pot that covers your skull, and consequently he sees further and feels deeper than we do, and is affected by what cannot affect us.” “There is no doubt that to watch blood flow with indifference requires learning,” Simon agreed, after laughing at his recruit’s disrespectful departure. “These foreign monks seem to me to be very holy people,” Roger observed, “otherwise they would not impose such cruel martyrdom on themselves in satisfaction for the sins of others. ” “Well, I laugh at them and their scourging, psalms, and niceties,” Tristan said. “Who benefits from the blood they shed? Stop being silly, Roger, after all, these friars may very well be like some you and I know, eh? They would be better off leaving their backs and not become redeemers, but rather be a little more humble, for their pride is obvious from a mile away. “By Satan’s tail, recruit, I never believed that with that carrot-colored head you could think such discreet things! Whatever the wise Roger may say, neither this archer, nor apparently this red Mameluke, will ever believe that the good Lord likes to see men, friars or not , tearing their flesh open with a whip. Surely he looks more favorably on a frank and cheerful soldier like myself, who never offended the vanquished or turned his back on the enemy. ” “You think as you can, and you think you say well,” replied Roger. “But do you imagine that there are no other enemies in the world than the French warriors , nor more glory than that which can be achieved by fighting them? You would consider a valiant champion the one who defeated seven powerful rivals in a single day.” So what do you say to the just man who attacks, conquers, and subdues those other seven and more powerful enemies of the soul, the deadly sins, with some of which he must struggle for years? Those champions I admire are the modest servants of God who mortify the flesh to dominate the spirit. I admire and respect them. “May it be well, my petit, and no one will stop you while I am around. You are priceless as a preacher. You seem to remind me of the late Father Bernard, who was once a chaplain to the White Guard and was an angel with warts and gray hair. Indeed, at the Battle of Brignais, a German soldier in the service of the King of France ran him through with his pike, a sacrilege for which we obtained the excommunication of the killer from the Pope of Avignon.” But since no one knew him, and all we knew of him was that he was short and stocky and handled a pike like a battering ram, it is to be feared that excommunication has not reached him, or worse , that it has fallen on some other cursed German, one of the many who leave their homeland only to leave their lives in France. Roger laughed at the fantastic canonical knowledge of the veteran, whom he asked if the valiant White Guard had indeed reached Avignon and bent the knee to the successor of Saint Peter. “Doubt it not, my boy,” replied Simon. “I have seen Pope Urban twice with my own eyes. He is, or was, because there was talk in the camp recently of his death, a tiny old man, with very large eyes, a crooked nose, and a tuft of white hair in his beard. The first time we got ten thousand ducats out of him, but he screamed and flew into a furious rage.” The second meeting was to ask him for another twenty thousand ducats, and I assure you it caused a fierce uproar. It took three days of bickering and lobbying before our captain summoned us to receive and transport the bags containing the gold doubloons. I have always believed we would have gotten off better by sacking the Pope’s palace, but the English commanders were against it. I remember a cardinal coming to ask us if we preferred to receive fifteen thousand ducats with a plenary indulgence for each archer, or twenty thousand ducats with the curse of Urban V. Throughout the camp, there was only one opinion: twenty thousand ducats. However, our captain eventually gave in, and we received the apostolic blessing against our will and countless indulgences. Perhaps it was worth more this way, because we white archers needed them badly at that time. The pious Roger listened to these details in horror. The beliefs of his whole life, his profound respect for the pontifical dignity, the veneration he professed for the visible head of the Church, all impelled him to protest against the soldier’s scandalous irreverence. It seemed to him that by merely listening to the impious tale he had sinned himself; that the sun must hide its brilliant rays behind black clouds and the countryside exchange its joyful finery for the desolation and sadness of the desert. He only somewhat recovered his lost calm when he had fallen on his knees before one of the rude crosses near the road and prayed fervently, asking forgiveness for the archer and for himself. Heaven. Chapter 8. THE THREE FRIENDS. Tristan and Simon continued walking. When Roger finished his prayers, he gathered his staff and bundle, and running like a deer, soon reached a cabin located on the left side of the path and surrounded by a fence. Beside it, the archer and his recruit were standing, watching two boys , about eight and ten years old respectively. Both stood in the middle of the small garden that surrounded the house, silent and motionless, their eyes fixed on the trees on the other side of the path, and holding in their left hands, extended horizontally, long sticks like pikes or halberds, they looked like miniature soldiers. They were both of handsome features, with blue eyes and blond hair; the bronze color of their complexions was a clear indication of the life they led outdoors in the solitude of the leafy forest. “Like father, like son!” cried good Simon joyfully when Roger arrived. “That’s the way to bring up children.” By my sword! I myself could not have trained them better. “But what is it?” asked Roger. ” They’re like two statues. Is there anything the matter with them ? ” “No, but they are training and strengthening their left arms so that, when they become men, they can hold the heavy battle bow properly. That’s exactly what my father taught me, and six days a week I had to remain in that position for at least an hour a day, holding my father’s heavy iron-shod staff at arm’s length, until my arm felt like lead. “Hello, you little rascals! How much longer have you got?” “Until the sun rises over that tallest oak and makes us close our eyes,” replied the eldest. “And what will you be? Farmhands, woodcutters? ” “No, archers!” they both said with one voice. “Well answered, you rascals! It’s obvious your father is one of my own. But what will you do when you become soldiers?” “Killing Scots,” said the little boy, frowning. “Now then! What wrong have King Robert’s poor subjects done to you? I know the galleys of Spain and France haven’t sailed far from Southampton lately, but I doubt the Scots will be showing up here now or for many years. ” “Well,” insisted the eldest boy, “we learn to use a bow to kill Scots, not French or Spanish, because they were the ones who cut off our father’s fingers so he could never handle his bow again. ” “That’s quite true,” said a sonorous voice from behind the wayfarers. The speaker was a tall, rugged peasant who, as he approached , raised both hands, each missing its thumb and first two fingers. “By Saint George! Who mistreated you like this, comrade?” asked Simon. “It is quite clear,” replied the other, “that you were born far from the accursed land of Scotland, and that, although a soldier, our banners have not led you into the dens of those wolves. Otherwise, you would immediately recognize in these mutilations the barbarity of Douglas the Devil, or the Black Earl, as he is also called. ” “Did he take you prisoner? ” “Yes, for my sake. I was born in the north, in Beverley, near the Scottish border, and I can well say that for many years there was no better archer from Trent to Inverness. My fame was ruined, as it was that of many other good English marksmen, for when our fighting brought us into Douglas’s hands, that hyena, instead of killing us, cut off three fingers from each hand so that we could not dispatch any more of his soldiers, or shoot him through the liver with an arrow. May God grant that these two sons of mine may one day more than repay their father’s debt!” In the meantime, the king has given me this little house and some land here in the south, and we live off the proceeds. Let me see, boys! What is the price of your father’s two thumbs? “Twenty Scottish lives,” replied the eldest. “And for the other four fingers I lack? ” “Ten more lives,” said his little brother. “Thirty in all. When you can bend my great war bow, the I will send them to the border to enlist under the command of the invincible Copeland, Governor of Carlisle. And I assure you that if they come face to face with my executioner and within four hundred paces, the old fox Douglas will cut off no more English fingers. “May you live to see it, comrade,” said Simon. “And you, my children, bear in mind the advice of a veteran archer who knows his trade: when you draw the bow, keep your right hand close to your body, so that you draw the string not only with the strength of your arm, but with the help of your right side and thigh. And for your lives, learn also to shoot in a curve, because although the arrow usually flies straight to the target, you will often find yourself attacking people entrenched behind battlements or on the top of a tower, or enemies who hide their chest and face with their shields and who are killed only by arrows that fall from the sky.” I haven’t strung a bow for two weeks, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give you a practical lesson, so you’ll know how to shoot a Scotsman’s brains out, even if you only see the feathers in his cap. ‘ Saying this, Simon seized the mighty bow he carried on his back, took three arrows, and pointed out to the children, who eagerly followed his every movement, a very tall tree and, beyond it, in a clearing in the forest, a rotten trunk a foot in diameter and no more than two or three feet high. The archer measured the distance with an eagle’s eye and immediately launched the three arrows one after the other, with incredible speed, aiming high above . The arrows grazed the highest branches of the tree, and two of them pierced the trunk we’ve mentioned, describing a huge and perfect curve. The third arrow grazed the dry trunk and penetrated deep into the ground, two inches from it. ‘Superb!’ exclaimed the maimed archer. “Learn, boys, this is a good teacher!” “By my faith, if I were to start talking to you about bows and crossbows, I wouldn’t finish all day,” said Simon. “In the White Guard, we have marksmen capable of shooting, one by one, all the joints and sockets of the best-constructed armor. And now, little ones, go and bring me my arrows; they cost a fortune and are very useful, and it’s not a good idea to leave them stuck in the dead trunks along the road. Goodbye, comrade; I hope you will train that pair of falcons so that one day they may bring you good game and also take out the eyes of the bird with whom you have such a serious score to settle.” Leaving the maimed archer behind, they followed the path that narrowed as it entered the forest, the silence of which was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a hurried dash through the undergrowth. A moment later, a beautiful pair of fallow deer leaped onto the road, and although the travelers stopped, the alarmed buck leaped again and disappeared to the left of the road. The female remained for a few moments as if amazed, looking at the group with her large, gentle eyes. Roger gazed at the superb animal with admiration, but Simon could not resist the hunter’s instinct and prepared his bow. “Tête Dieu!” he exclaimed in a low voice. “We’re not going to have a bad roast for dinner. ” “Hold on, my friend!” said Tristan, placing his hand on Simon’s bow as the fallow deer disappeared at a run. “Don’t you know that the law is extremely strict? In my own village of Horla, I remember two hunters whose eyes were put out for killing those animals. I confess that I didn’t like you very much the first time I saw and heard you, but since then I have learned to esteem you, and by the Cross of Gestas!” I wouldn’t want to see the gamekeeper’s knife playing a trick on you. ‘ ‘It’s my job to risk my neck,’ Simon shrugged . However, he replaced the arrow in its quiver, shouldered his bow, and walked on between his two friends. They climbed a rise and soon reached a high point from which they could see the thick woods to their left and behind them, and to the right, though at a great distance, the tall white tower of Salisbury, whose Cheerful little houses surrounded the church and spread out along the hillside. The
lush vegetation, the pure mountain air, the songs of a multitude of birds, and the view of the rolling meadows beyond Salisbury were a sight as new as it was interesting to Roger, who until then had lived on the coast. He breathed with delight and felt his blood flow more strongly through his veins. Tristan himself appreciated the beauty of the landscape, and the sturdy archer sang, or rather, sang out of tune, some spicy French songs, with a voice and bellows that wouldn’t leave a single bird within half a mile .
They lay down on the grass, and after a brief silence, Simon said: “I like that companion we left down there. You can see on his face the hatred he harbors for his executioner, and, truth be told, I like men who know how to prepare a just revenge and show a little gall when the opportunity arises.” “Would it not be more humane and nobler to show a little love for one’s neighbor?” asked Roger. “We have a little sermon,” said Simon. “But I am certainly with you on this matter of love for one’s neighbor, Father Preacher; for I suppose you will include the fair sex, who have no more fervent admirer than I. Ah, les petites, as we used to say in France, were born to be adored! I am glad to see that the friars of Belmonte have given you such good lessons, my boy. ” “No, I am not speaking of the fair sex or of worldly love. What I meant to say was that the vengeful peasant could well have had less hatred for his enemies in his heart. ” “It is impossible,” replied Simon, shaking his head. “A man naturally loves his own kind, those of his own race. But how can it be understood that an Englishman should feel the slightest affection for the Scots or the French? Have you not seen them on one of their raids, splitting the heads and hacking the bodies of our brothers?” By the edge of my sword! I would rather embrace Beelzebub himself than shake the hand of one of those scoundrels, even if his name were King Robert, or Douglas the Devil of Scotland, or Constable Bertrand Duguesclin of France himself. I am beginning to suspect, my boy, that bishops know more than abbots, or at least they leave your Abbot of Belmonte far behind, because I myself have seen with these eyes the Bishop of Lincoln grasp a double-edged axe in both hands and strike a Scottish soldier with such a blow that it split his head in two, from crown to beard. So if that’s the way to show brotherly love, you can tell me. Faced with an argument as irresistible as the bishop’s axe blow, Roger was left speechless and not a little scandalized. “So you have also taken up arms against the Scots?” he finally asked. “Well, that would be good!” The first arrow I shot from the ranks, and to kill, was over there at Milne, a Scottish rocky plain full of ravines and twists and turns. We were commanded by Berwick and Copeland, the same man who later took the king of those highlanders prisoner. Good school, recruit, good school that is for men of war, and I’m sorry that before I take you to France you didn’t take a walk in those crags. “I understand the Scots are good warriors,” Tristan observed. “Strong and long-suffering; they don’t advance during combat, but they don’t flee either, instead they stand firm, giving each blow that throws sparks from helmets and corselets. With the axe and the battle sword they have no equal, but they are very poor crossbowmen, and what they are with the bow, it’s even worse. Besides, the Scots are generally very poor, even their leaders, and few of them can buy a coat of mail as modest as the one I’m wearing.” Hence they fight at a great disadvantage against our knights, many of whom wear helmets, breastplates, gauntlets, and coats of mail worth four or six Scottish heirs. Man for man, with equal weapons, they are as good soldiers as the best in England and all Christendom. “And what about the French?” “They are also very powerful fighters. Our weapons have been very fortunate in France, but that doesn’t mean we should underestimate their soldiers. I have seen them fight in open fields and within their fortresses, in assaults, ambushes, sorties, night raids, duels, jousts, and tournaments; and I can assure you, boys, that they have brave hearts and firm arms. Among the knights who followed Duguesclin, I could cite for you at this moment about twenty capable of breaking lances, without a disadvantage, with the most brilliant paladins of England. Meanwhile, the people, burdened with tributes and taxes, suffer, work, and remain silent, living as God tells them to. ” “Have you visited other countries?” asked Roger, who was deeply interested in these stories and reports. “I’ve been to Holland, Flanders, and Brabant, and I believe that this time Tristan will have the opportunity to see not only a good part of France, but also something, and even a bit of the beautiful land of Spain. I’ll tell you about the Dutchman: he’s slow and slow, and he won’t draw his sword for a maiden’s beautiful eyes or for a mere trifle; but with just cause and good captains, he knows how to defend his country, wetter than a frog’s pond. And above all, don’t touch his bales of wool, his velvets from ancient Bruges, and other merchandise, because then he’ll fly into a rage and you’ll have to kill him to make him see reason. Yes, laugh! Well, remember what happened to the French at Courtrai, where the fat Dutch taught them they knew how to handle steel as well as forge it. ” “What do you think of the Spanish?” asked Roger. “A warlike race indeed.” As it turns out, they’ve been engaged in continuous warfare for over six centuries with the most seasoned of the Arab people, who took possession of almost the entire country and, I believe, still occupy half the Peninsula. I had my share of battles with the subjects of the King of Castile at sea when his fleet came to challenge us at Chelsea, and there we had a hell of a brawl with them, in which eighty English and Spanish ships participated. And now that I’ve answered your questions, young man, I’m going to make you a proposition. I see you’re interested in my stories. I know you’d make a career in the army despite the fact you look like a weakling, but you have good advice. Well, listen, choose any of the objects I left at the inn, the one you think is most valuable, and I ‘ll give it to you, on the condition that you come with this lad and me to France, as soon as I finish the mission that takes me to Monteagudo Castle. “It cannot be,” replied the young man. “I would gladly go with you to France or any other country, not only because it pleases me to listen to you, but because outside of Belmonte you are the only friends I have in the world. But I must abide by the will of my dead father and see first and foremost my only brother. What happens next remains to be seen, but I tell you for sure that you would make a sad acquisition for your White Guard, for neither by temperament nor by education am I suited to that continual battle in which you live. ” “It’s my talkative tongue!” cried the archer. “I don’t let him go without him talking about arrows and sword thrusts, as if there were nothing else in the world. But come here, my little doctor, and let me explain what I have in mind. You must know that we need more than soldiers and crossbows. In the first place, for every parchment seen in England, twenty must be written or deciphered in France.” For every statue, for every carved precious stone, for every coat of arms, shield, or emblem, molding , and relief that can occupy and feed a skilled and discreet scribe like yourself, there are a hundred there. At the sack of Carcassonne, I saw whole rooms crammed with parchment, without any of us being able to read a word of so much muddle. At Arles and Nîmes, there are ruins of arches, palaces, and sanctuaries, mosaics, paintings, and inscriptions, some so ancient and others so exquisite that multitudes of people come to admire them, not only from all over France but from other nations. I already see in your eyes the desire to contemplate so many good things. Come with me! “I would very much like to see all those riches of antiquity and those exquisite works of art,” said Roger. “Another thing. I have left more than three hundred white archers there who for two years have not heard a single word of advice, not a single religious discourse, and God knows that no one needs it as much as they. If you have duties here, the mission I am offering you is not a bad one either. Up to now your brother has done very well without you, and I know from Tristán that in twenty years he has not once taken the trouble to go to Belmonte to look you in the face. Brave little brother, you are going to seek! ” “No, and the fame he has throughout the region!” added Tristán. Everyone knows, and you and I have spoken about it at the convent, that your relative Hugh de Clinton is a relentless drinker, a brawler and a gambler, who has caused major scandals and who will probably listen to you as much as a dog, if he doesn’t mistreat you. “I can’t believe it,” Roger replied. “And if he is so bad, I, his only brother, have a greater duty to give him some good advice. Don’t insist, friends, for I would gladly follow you, if my choice were free. And now, let us part. There is the square tower of Munster, and here is the path which, as the abbot explained to me, leads directly to the village. ” “God save you, lad,” exclaimed the archer, giving him a close embrace. “I am quick to hate and to love, and I assure you that it pains me to part from you. ” “Would it not be better to wait here until I see what reception his brother gives him?” Tristan proposed. “Not so,” said Roger. Whether well received or ill received, the chances are I’ll stay at the farm in Munster, and waiting for me here would be a waste of time. “However,” Simon observed, “just in case something happens, it would be good if you knew where to find us, should the need arise. Look; Tristan and I are going to follow that road to the left, leaving the woods and the shortcut you’re going to take on the right. At nightfall, we’ll reach Monteagudo Castle, the former residence of Count William of Salisbury, whose constable is Baron Morel, who now lives there. Will you remember? It’s very likely we’ll remain there for about a month, until our departure for France.” It cost Roger a great effort to separate himself from those two good friends, especially inclined as he was to the life of travel and adventure that so attracted him, not for the incentives that men like the archer and his recruit might find in it , but for the vast field it offered to his burning desire to learn, to see the world, and to put to practical use the varied knowledge, trades, and arts acquired at the convent of Belmonte. He did not dare look back for fear of weakening his resolve, and only when he had walked a good distance and hidden among the trees did he risk a last glance. The archer remained motionless in the same place where they had parted, arms crossed and staring thoughtfully at the ground. The sun shone on his helmet and the mail of his coat, and over his shoulder could be seen the end of the enormous war bow. Beside him stood the gigantic Tristan, still wearing the tattered garment of the fuller of Léminton. A few moments later they both continued on their way, and Roger quickly took the path to his brother’s farm. Chapter 9. IN THE MUNSTER FOREST. The path led between tall, powerful trees, whose branches in many places formed green arches over the road, covered with grass and dry leaves. Few people usually traveled along it, and the silence was complete; only once did Roger hear in the distance the sharp barking of hunting dogs. Not without some emotion did the traveler recall that the entire forest and a large part of the adjoining lands had once belonged to the then powerful Clinton family. Knowing the history of his house, he knew that he was descended from that Geoffrey de Clinton, lord of the towns of Munster and Bisterne when the Normans first set foot on English soil. But the vicissitudes of the times deprived Roger of his knowledge of the forest. their descendants from a large part of those domains, and finally the lordship of Bisterne was confiscated from them for the benefit of the royal patrimony, due to the complicity of one of the Clintons in a Saxon uprising. The depredations of great feudal lords continued to reduce the property, and it was no less reduced by some donations to the church, such as that made by Roger’s father, who opened the gates of Belmonte to him. Having become a tenant of Belmonte, he occupied the old manor house of Munster until his death, now inhabited by his eldest son, to whom he left entrusted the cultivation of two farms and the ownership of some cattle and part of the forest. Roger was not unaware that despite the decline of the family, his brother Hugo still occupied an independent and relatively important position in the region, and he looked with pride at those giants of the forest that had belonged for so many generations to the Clintons of Munster. Absorbed in his recollections, he was surprised by the sudden appearance of a man dressed like a peasant, tall and vigorous, who blocked his path , brandishing a long, gnarled staff. “Not one step further!” cried the stranger. “Who are you that you dare set foot in this forest? What are you seeking, and where are you going? ” “And who are you to ask me such questions?” said Roger, putting himself on his guard. “A man can split your skull open with a blow of a club if you are slow of speech,” was the brutal reply. “But where have I seen such a face before?” “Last night, at the inn of the Green Bird,” said Roger, who had just recognized Rodin, the commoner threatened by Tristan and who had spoken so violently against the king and his nobles, and in particular against his lord, the Baron d’Ansur. “Shut up, it’s true! And what have you got in that satchel?” “Nothing of value, a few clothes and half a dozen books. ” “That’s what you say, but for me, seeing is believing. Here comes the satchel. ” “Don’t expect it. ” “By Christ’s nails! Don’t you know, boy, that I can cut you to pieces in a heartbeat? ” “I would have given you the few coins I have if you had asked me in the name of charity. But you threaten like a bandit, and I will know how to defend myself. Not to mention that you won’t escape the vengeance of the tenant of Munster when he learns of the vile way you treat his brother on his own lands. ” “Our Lady of Rocamadour help me!” exclaimed the frightened criminal, lowering his weapon. “Are you the brother of Hugh de Clinton? How could I have imagined it! I will not be the one to rob you or detain you a moment longer.” “Since you know my brother, please show me the shortest route to his house.” Before the bandit could reply, the sonorous notes of a hunting horn were heard, and Roger saw a beautiful white horse racing through the trees at a short distance, followed by the trailing pack and a number of hunters. Their voices, the galloping of the horses, and the barking of the hounds resounded loudly throughout the forest. The cries with which they urged on the hounds could still be heard: “Hang on, Bayard, Moro, Greyhound! Hang on, hang on!” when the trotting of the horses began again, and a group of hunters appeared a few paces from Roger. Preceding them was a man of between fifty and sixty years of age, with a robust body and a swarthy face, under whose bushy eyebrows shone two eyes with an imperious and penetrating gaze. He had a long, graying beard, and everything in his appearance and manner revealed a man accustomed to commanding and being obeyed. He handled the beautiful steed with sovereign grace and wore a rich white silk tunic embroidered with small gold fleurs-de-lis, with a long purple mantle flowing from his shoulders. It was impossible not to recognize Edward III, the invader of France and conqueror of Normandy, the victor of Crécy, one of the most brilliant warriors among the many valiant ones who had ruled the Anglo-Saxon people. Roger reverently doffed his cap, but the commoner placed both hands on his cane and looked on with a blank expression. friendly to the group of knights following the king. “Hello!” exclaimed Edward, stopping his horse in the middle of the road and looking at Roger and his companion. “Le cerf! Est il passé? No? Here, Brocas, tu parles langlais. ” “Have you seen the deer, scoundrels?” a knight of the escort asked imperiously . “If you have frightened it and made it swerve, it will cost you your ears. ” “He passed between those two trees,” Roger pointed out, “and the dogs were following him closely. ” “That is quite right,” said the monarch, who continued speaking in French, for although he understood the language of his people, he had never mastered it well, nor would he speak what he called a harsh and barbaric language. “I assure you,” he continued, turning in his saddle towards the group of knights, “that either I am very much mistaken, or it is a six-pointed stag, the most magnificent of all we have raised today. Forward!” Behind him, warriors and courtiers disappeared at full speed, except for one, the Baron Brocas, who, making his horse leap, raised his whip, and brought it across the commoner’s face, shouting: “Uncover yourself, dog! Uncover yourself whenever your king deigns to look at you!” And, giving rein to his horse, he rushed after the hunters. The villain received the lash without moving a single muscle. Then he raised his fist in the direction of his executioner and roared: “I know you, you cursed Gascon swine, and one day you will pay! Curse the man who left your pigsty at Rochecourt to set foot on English soil! May I see you quartered and your wife and children starved to death ! ” “Hold your tongue, good man,” said Roger; though the blow was cowardly and capable of inflaming the wrath of the humblest. Let me search my satchel for an ointment I’m carrying that will be of great relief to you. “No, only one thing can soothe the pain and wash away the insult, and that perhaps time will provide me. There is your path, the shortcut that passes between that thicket and the tree with the broken branch. Hurry up , for Hugo de Clinton is having a joyful get-together with his reveling companions today , and it wouldn’t do you any good to delay the festivities or even to present yourself in the middle of them. I must stay here for now.
” Aside from the pain caused to Roger by those repeated allusions to his brother’s licentious life, he was also surprised and distressed by the blind hatred he noticed among the classes that constituted the society of his time. The worker cursing the powerful, the nobles treating the humble like beasts of burden. Before, when the nobility was the nation’s staunchest bastion, the people tolerated it; Now, it was known that the great victories won in France had been achieved not by the strength of these or those barons, by the lance of this or that knight, but by the valor of the soldiers, sons of the people of England and Wales, and the prestige of the militant nobility had largely disappeared , and their exactions were protested against and their arrogance censured. Men whose fathers and brothers had fought like lions at Crécy and Poitiers and seen the finest of European cavalry crash against the iron walls formed by the disciplined commoners of England could not conceive that a great lord could inspire fear, much less respect, in them. Power had changed hands. The protector had become the protégé, and the entire ancient feudal apparatus was shaking on its rotten foundations. Hence the continual complaints and murmurings of the Anglo-Saxon people, their perennial discontent, the local riots, all that unrest that culminated a few years later in the great Tyler uprising. What so worried Roger as he learned about the state of mind in Hanson’s country would have equally surprised any other traveler in all the other counties of the kingdom, from the Channel to the cliffs and lagoons of Scotland. The youth’s fears increased as he approached Hugh’s dwelling, his father’s house. Soon the woods thinned out, and at last a large meadow appeared before him, where the young men were grazing. Beautiful cows; beyond, numerous herds of pigs could be seen, and a wide stream ran through the center of the plain. A rustic bridge led to a road that led straight to the door of a large wooden building, which Roger contemplated with deep emotion. A column of smoke rose from the high chimney, and a chained mastiff slept peacefully at the door . The sound of voices brought the traveler from his contemplation, and he saw a man and a woman emerge from the trees and head toward the bridge, engaged in animated conversation. The former was wearing an elegantly cut suit, though of a dark color and lacking the ornaments and decorations that distinguished the gentlemen of the royal escort. His long, very blond hair and beard contrasted sharply with the black hair of the beautiful young woman walking at his side. She was tall and slender, with a dark and graceful face. She wore a red velvet cap perched coquettishly on one side, a rich and tightly fitted suit, and in her gloved right hand a small falcon, whose ruffled feathers she gently stroked. Roger noticed that one side of the beautiful stranger’s dress was stained with mud. Half hidden in the shadow of an enormous oak tree, he gazed raptly at that radiant apparition, that pure and beautiful face that reminded him of the angels painted and sculpted on the altars of Belmonte. Finally, the young woman advanced a few steps ahead of her companion, and the two quickly crossed the meadow until they reached the rustic little bridge, where they stopped and resumed their interrupted conversation. Two lovers? So the only witness to that scene immediately believed, but he soon noticed that the man blocked the young woman’s path across the bridge and that she spoke with great animation, sometimes taking on tones of threat and anger. From time to time she glanced toward the woods, as if expecting help from that direction, and at last her face assumed such an expression of anguish that Roger, unable to resist this silent appeal, abandoned his hiding place and hurried towards the bridge. Having arrived, he had come quite close to the two figures, without their noticing his presence, when the man suddenly flung his arm around the young woman’s waist and clasped her to his breast. She released the startled falcon and, with a sharp cry, slapped and scratched the ruffian’s face, trying in vain to free herself. “Do not be angry, pretty dove,” he said with a hearty laugh; ” you will only hurt yourselves. As I said, fair Constance, you are on my land, and you will not leave it without paying me the tribute of your beauty. ” “Let go, villain!” she cried. “Is this your hospitality? Rather die than yield! Let go, or else! Let go of me, young man!” she cried desperately when she saw Roger. “Help me, for God’s sake! ” “I will,” cried the young man, running to her aid. “Let that lady go, for shame on yourselves for your conduct!” The assailant directed a flashing glance at Roger, which betrayed his fury. At that moment, the young man thought he was the most handsome man he had ever seen, although anger contorted his features, accentuating their somewhat sinister expression. “You miserable madman!” he exclaimed, without letting go of the maiden, who was struggling uselessly. “Do you dare to give me orders? Go on your way, get away with all your speed, or I shall kick you out of here! Go, I tell you! This fine girl has come to pay me a visit, and I don’t want her to leave me so soon. Isn’t that so?” he said, letting go of the young woman’s waist and seizing her wrist. “You lie!” she screamed, and bending down quickly, she sank her teeth into the hand that held her. He released her with a roar of pain, and the maiden ran for cover behind Roger. “Get off my land, you vagabond!” cried the other furiously. From your appearance and your dress, you seem to me to be one of those sacristy rats who grow fat in convents and are neither man nor woman. Get out of here before I cut off your ears, you scoundrel! ” “You say these are your lands?” asked Roger sharply, ignoring the threats and insults. “Then whose should they be, you charlatan, but mine? Am I not Hugh de Clinton, descended from Geoffrey and all the lords Munster has had for more than three hundred years? Do you intend to dispute it with me, lapdog? But no, for you are of a race as lazy to work as you are cowardly to have any dealings with a man. Flee, or I’ll dash you to pieces! ” “For pity’s sake, do not abandon me!” cried the weeping maiden, trembling. “Fear not,” said Roger resolutely. “And you, Hugh de Clinton, should not forget, for you are noble, that nobility obliges. Put aside your fury and let this lady go in peace, as she earnestly entreats you, not a villain, but a man as well born as yourself. ” “You lie! There is no one in the whole county who can claim nobility like mine.” “Except me,” replied Roger, “for I am also a direct descendant of Geoffrey de Clinton and all the lords of Munster in the last three centuries. Here is my hand,” he continued, smiling, “I have no doubt you will welcome me now. We are the only two branches left of the noble and ancient Saxon stock. ” But Hugh rejected Roger’s extended hand with a blasphemy, and a look of hatred crossed his face. “So you are Belmonte’s wolf cub? I should have known and recognized in you the hypocritical novice who dares not respond to injury with injury, but with honeyed words. Your father, despite his faults, had the heart of a lion, and few men would have looked him in the eye in his rage. But you! Do you know what you cost him and what you have taken from me? Look at those pastures, and the crops on the hill, and the orchard next to the church. ” Do you know that all this and much more was robbed from your dying father by those insatiable friars in exchange for making you a useless sanctimonious man in their convent? It was for you that they robbed me before, and now you come in person, probably to whine for another piece of my property with which to fatten your cronies. What I’m going to do is unleash the dogs so that you’ll remember your first and last visit to Munster all your life; and in the meantime, make way! With that, she pushed Roger violently aside and once again seized her victim’s arm. But all thoughts of reconciliation had vanished from the youth’s mind, and he rushed to the young woman’s aid and, brandishing his thick staff, cried: “You may say what you will to me, but brother or no brother, I swear on the salvation of my soul that I will kill you like a dog if you do not respect this lady!” “Let go, or I’ll break your arm!” The threatening movement of the club and Roger’s look and expression clearly indicated that he was going to do as he said. He was at that moment the descendant of the Clinton nobles, transformed into a formidable champion of a lady’s honor. His heart was beating violently, and he would have fought to the death with not one but ten enemies. Hugo understood at once with whom he had to deal. He released the maiden’s arm and looked this way and that for some weapon, a stick or a stone; and finding none, he rushed at full speed in the direction of the house, at the same time placing a whistle to his lips and uttering a long, piercing whistle. “Flee, for God’s sake!” cried the young woman. “Get to safety before I return! ” “Not without you, by my life!” said Roger resolutely. “Let me call as many dogs as I want. ” “Come, come with me, then!” “I beg you!” she insisted, pulling at his arm. “I know that man, and I know he will kill you without mercy. ” “Well then, let us flee!” And holding hands, they ran off in the direction of the forest. The new couple had scarcely reached the first trees when they saw Hugo hurrying out of the house; he was carrying a naked sword in his hand, which gleamed in the sunlight, but his dogs were not following him , and he paused for a moment at the door to release the mastiff he had chained there. “This way,” said the young woman, who seemed to know the forest perfectly. “Through the undergrowth, to that ash tree whose branches bend over the water. Don’t bother about me, I can run as lightly as you. And now, along the stream. We’ll get our feet wet, but we must make the dog lose track of us, for he is probably as bad a breed as his master. So saying, the beautiful maiden ran down the middle of the stream, her frightened falcon perched on her shoulder, quickly pushing aside the branches that blocked her path with her hands, sometimes jumping from stone to stone and gaining ground so swiftly that Roger had difficulty keeping up. He admired this spirited, beautiful young woman, whom he had saved and who in turn was trying to save him. They ran for a long time along the bed of the winding stream, and just as Roger began to feel out of breath, his beautiful guide threw herself, palpitating, onto the grass, clutching her heaving breast with both hands. Roger stopped. A few moments later, the fugitive recovered her usual good humor, and sitting down, almost forgetting her recent danger, she exclaimed: “May the Holy Virgin protect me! See how covered in water and mud I have become. For this matter, my mother is confining me for a week in my chamber, and having me embroider morning and night the famous tapestry of the Seven Peers of France. She threatened me with this the other day, when I fell into the pond in the park. And that because she knows I cannot bear tapestry and that my pleasure is running through the fields and the woods on foot or on horseback.” Roger gazed at her, entranced, admiring her black hair, the perfect oval of her face, her joyful and beautiful eyes, and the open smile she gave him, which showed her confidence in him. Through her, Roger was reminded of the danger that threatened them. “Make an effort,” he said, “and let’s continue on our way. He may still overtake us, and I tremble, not for myself, but for you.” “The danger is over,” she replied. “Not only are we off his land, but having led him astray by taking the stream, it is almost impossible for him to find us in this immense forest. But tell me; having had him at your mercy, why did you not kill him? ” “Kill my brother? ” “Why not?” said the resolute maiden, with an expression of anger that gave new charm to her pretty face. “He would have killed you without hesitation. How vile! Had I had that club in my hand, the vile Hugo de Clinton would have remembered me. ” “I am only too sorry for what I have done,” said Roger, seating himself beside her and hiding his face in his hands. “God help me! At that moment I lost my composure, I forgot everything, and if it takes him a moment longer before he releases you—my only brother, the man in whose house I intended to live and whose affection I longed to win! How weak I have been!” “Weak?” she replied. “I don’t believe my father himself would have thought you so, though he is as severe as any in judging the courage and fortitude of men. But do you know that it is not at all flattering to me to hear you complain of what you have done? Come to think of it, I admit that a woman, a stranger to you, ought not to separate two brothers; and if you will, let us turn back and make your peace with Hugo by handing over your prisoner to him. I will know how to get rid of him. ” “A very miserable and cowardly man would be who would do such a thing. I regret, indeed, that your assailant was my own brother, but to hand you over? Never! ” “That is well,” said the maiden, smiling, “and I understand what is happening to you. The truth is, you appeared as suddenly as minstrels do in their plays; You were the valiant champion who saved the afflicted lady at the moment when the horrible dragon was about to devour her. But come, he said, rising, calling the falcon and arranging his wet clothes as best he could. Let us go out into the clearing and it is very likely that we shall find my page Rubin with Troubadour, my palfrey, to whose fall I owe all my misfortunes of this day and my having found myself in the hands of the ogre of Munster. But do me the favor of giving me your arm; I am more tired than I thought and almost as frightened as my poor little falcon. Look how he trembles. He too is indignant to see his mistress so ill-treated. Roger listened with delight to the young woman’s conversation and supported her with his arm. as much as possible, pushing aside the branches and searching in vain for a passable path. “Keep quiet, Mr. Champion,” his cheerful companion finally said to him. “Don’t you want to know who I am or hear my story? ” “If it pleases you to tell it to me… ” “Oh, if it interests you so little, it would be best to keep it to yourself… ” “No, please,” he said briskly. “Tell me, I’m dying to know something about you. ” “Well, you’ll know the story, but not the name. I must give something to the man who has made his brother an enemy because of me. After all, Hugo said you came straight from the convent, so this will be a kind of confession, as if you were a white-bearded reverend, eh?” Know, then, that your kinsman has sought my hand, not so much, as I imagine, for gifts I have not, as for the fortune that his marriage with the only daughter of… my father would bring him, for I have already told you that you will not know who I am. My father is not excessively rich, but he is a man of high birth, a valiant knight, indeed, a famous warrior, whom the pretensions of that rude and scoundrel man… Forgive me! I forgot that you bear the same name. “No matter; go on, I beg you.” “From the same spring often proceed very different streams; one turbid, the other clear and crystalline,” she said promptly. To be brief, I will tell you that neither my father nor I could tolerate such pretensions, and that this violent and vindictive man has been our enemy ever since. My father, fearful of the harm he might cause me, has forbidden me to hunt in all the part of the forest that lies north of the Munster Road. But this morning my brave falcon hunted down an enormous heron , and my page Rubin and I completely forgot the path we were following and the distance we had traveled, thinking only of the adventures of the hunt. Troubadour stumbled, unfortunately, throwing me violently to the ground and ruining my skirt, the second one I have worn torn and stained this week, to the greater indignation of my mother and the grief of Águeda, my good governess. “And then?” Roger asked anxiously. “Between the stumble, my fall, the scream I gave, and Rubin’s shouts, the horse was so frightened that it took off at full speed, pursued by the page. Before I could get up, I saw the snubbed suitor at my side, who announced that he was on his land and courteously offered to accompany me to his house, where I could comfortably await the page’s return.” I dared not refuse, but I soon realized from his looks and words that I had acted wrongly. I tried to take the bridge, but he brazenly prevented me, and then—Jesus help me!—I cannot think of his vulgar insults without shuddering. How much I owe you! And when I remember that I… How disgusting! “What is it?” asked Roger, amazed. “When I remember biting his hand, placing my lips on the flesh of the villain, it seems to me that I have suffered the disgusting touch of a snake. But you, how courageous and energetic in the face of such a formidable enemy! If I were a man, I would be proud of such acts. ” “A small thing when it is such a great pleasure to serve you,” replied Roger, deeply pleased to hear such praise from such lips. “And you? What do you intend to do now? ” “Do you see far away, far below, that enormous trunk, next to the wild rosebush?” Well, either I’m very much mistaken, or Rubin will soon reach it with the horses, for that is the place where I stop to rest on almost all my excursions in these parts. Then it’s home without delay. A gallop of two leagues will completely dry feet and clothes. “But what will your father do? ” “I won’t tell him a word about what happened. If you knew him, you would know that it is impossible to disobey him without facing terrible consequences, and I have disobeyed him. He would avenge me, it is true, but it is not in him that I will look for an avenger. The day will come, in a joust or tournament, when a gentleman will want to carry my colors to the arena, and I will tell him that there is an affront pending, that his competitor has been chosen, and that it is Hugo de Clinton.” An offense washed away, and one villainous heart less in the world… What do you think of my plan? “Unworthy of you. How can you speak of revenge and death, you, so young and candid, on whose lips only words of kindness and forgiveness should be heard? Cruel world, which at every step makes me remember the seclusion and peace of my cell! When you speak thus, you seem to me to be an angel of the Lord advising me to follow the spirit of evil. ” “Thank you a thousand times for the favor, my lord,” she replied, releasing his arm and looking at him sternly. “Do you mean to say that you are not only sorry to have found me in your path, but that you are in fact calling me a preaching devil? Be careful , my father is violent when he gets angry, but not even he has ever said anything like that to me. Take that road on the left, Mr. Clinton, for I am not good company for you.” And with a curt courtesy, she quickly walked away. The youth was surprised and regretted his inexperience, which had twice caused him to say something very different to what he had longed to express to the beauty. He looked at her sadly, hoping in vain that she would stop or that with a glance she would announce her forgiveness; but she continued walking briskly down the steep path, until only her red cloak could be seen here and there among the branches. With a deep sigh, Roger took the path she had pointed out and walked for a good while with a heavy heart , replaying in his memory all the incidents of that unforgettable encounter. Suddenly, he heard a light footstep behind him, and turning sharply, he found himself face to face with the beautiful woman, her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the ground, and a picture of the most humble repentance. “I will not offend you again, not even speak,” said the young woman, “but I would like to continue in your company until we leave the forest. ” “You cannot offend me!” exclaimed Roger, delighted at the sight. Far from it, I am the one who should have held my tongue. But bear in mind, in pardoning me, that I have spent my life among men and I can hardly know how to speak to a woman in such a way that my words do not even slightly displease her. “I like it that way. And now, complete your retraction; say that I was right in wanting to take revenge on my offender. ” “Ah, not that!” he replied gravely. “Do you see?” the young woman exclaimed triumphantly and smiling. “Who is the hard and inflexible heart here, the severe preacher, the one who insists on keeping us at odds? Well then, I will give in, because you must continue earning merit until you obtain, as I wish, a bishop’s miter or a cardinal’s hat. Listen to me; for your sake I forgive your brother and take upon myself all the blame for what happened, since I myself went in search of danger. Are you content?” “How worthy of you are those words! You will undoubtedly find more pleasure in them than in your first thoughts of revenge. ” She shook her head in doubt and, looking into the distance, uttered a slight exclamation that revealed more surprise than pleasure. “Ah!” she said. “There’s Rubin with the horses.” The page boy had also seen them, his long, blond , curly hair surrounding his graceful face. He rode happily, leading the white palfrey by the bridle, the involuntary cause of his mistress’s adventures . “I have searched for you everywhere in vain, my lady Doña Constanza!” he cried, waving his plumed cap in the air. “Troubadour” didn’t stop until El Castañar, he added, dismounting and holding the stirrup for his mistress; and even so, it was difficult for me to catch it. Has something unpleasant happened to you? You must be tired, aren’t you?” “Nothing has happened to me, Rubin, thanks to the courtesy of this young man,” he said, while the page looked attentively at Roger. “And now, Monsieur de Clinton,” he continued, taking the reins and mounting lightly, “I will not leave you without telling you that you have conducted yourself today like an honorable gentleman and without thanking you. You are young and I do not believe you are rich; perhaps my father can be of use to you in your future career, whatever it may be. He is respected by all and has powerful friends. Will you not tell me what they are?” Your plans, now that you can’t count on your brother? “Plans? None; I can’t have them. I only count two friends outside of Belmonte Abbey, and I parted from them this morning. Perhaps I can join them in Salisbury. ” “And what have they gone to do there? ” “One of them, a brave soldier, is carrying an important message to Monteagudo Castle for Baron León de Morel.” A joyful laugh from the beautiful woman silenced the surprised young man, who a few moments later found himself alone in the middle of the road, gazing at the cloud of dust raised by the horses. Arriving at a small rise, the lady stopped her steed and sent him a friendly farewell . There Roger remained motionless until he lost sight of his pretty companion. Then he slowly took the road to the village, with ideas and feelings very different from those of the inexperienced youth, almost a child, who a few hours before had left that same road by way of the shortcut through the forest. Chapter 10. A CAPTAIN AS FEW AS THERE ARE. Roger was thinking that he could neither return to Belmonte within a year nor even appear in the vicinity of his father’s house without his ill-tempered brother setting his dogs on him; and that consequently he found himself in the world at random, without knowing what to do and with very little means to continue traveling and spending money, without occupation or profit. With the ten silver ducats that the good abbot had deposited in his purse, he could barely live a month, but not twelve. His only hope was to join as soon as possible his two comrades for whom he felt the affection that they had also shown him. So he quickened his pace and ran for a while, eating the bread he carried in his satchel and quenching his thirst in the clear streams he found along the way. After an hour, he was fortunate enough to catch up with a woodcutter, who was carrying his axe over his shoulder and heading in the same direction as him, which saved him from wasting any more time or even getting lost on the numerous paths that crisscrossed the forest. The conversation between the two wasn’t very lively, as the woodcutter only chatted about matters of his trade, the quality of this or that wood, and the quarrels between workers in this or that village, while Roger couldn’t get the memory of the charming stranger out of his mind. So distracted and preoccupied was he that his companion finally fell silent until he turned left onto the Chestnut Grove path, leaving Roger on the wide Salisbury Road. Some beggars, a courier of the king, several woodcutters, and other people he met along the way indicated the proximity of the village. He also saw a burly horseman with a long, black beard pass by , carrying a rosary of thick beads in his hand and a huge broadsword hanging from his belt. From the shape and color of the habit and the eight-pointed star embroidered on the sleeve, he recognized him as one of the Knights Hospitaller of St. John of Jerusalem, whose Master resided in Bristol. The young traveler received the Hospitaller’s blessing openly and reverently, filled with admiration for that famous order, unaware that he had already acquired a large part of the Templars’ considerable wealth and that the once humble and selfless Knights of St. John now preferred the comforts of their palaces to the adventures and dangers of the campaign against the infidels of the East. The sun had set behind black clouds, and it soon began to rain. A nearby leafy tree offered the best shelter, and Roger took refuge under its branches even before hearing the cordial invitation of two travelers who had preceded him and who, seated at the foot of the tree, had before them half a dozen salted herrings, a loaf of brown bread, and a wineskin that later turned out to be full of fresh milk, not wine. They were two young students , among the many seen at that time not only in the large cities but on the roads and inns of almost all of England. They argued more than they ate and cheerfully greeted the newcomer. “Come here, comrade!” said one of them, short and plump. “Vultus” ingenui puer._ Do not be frightened by my companion’s face, for as Horace said, _foenum habet in cornu_; but he is more harmless than he seems. —Don’t bray so loudly, Colás, replied the other, who was tall and skinny. If we are going to quote Horace, remember that _loquaces si sapiat_… or as we would say in good English, flee from charlatans like the plague. And by my faith, if everyone followed that advice you would find yourself alone in the world. —Good logic, good! As usual, you get tangled up in your own arguments and fall flat on your face, said Colás with a hearty laugh. First premise: men should flee from my loquacity. Second: you are here eating herring hand in hand with me. _Ergo_, you are not a man. Which is what they wanted to prove, my friend Florian, and what I knew very well; that you’re a puppet and not a man. Roger and Florian laughed heartily, and the former sat down next to the debaters. “Here’s a herring, friend,” said Florian; “but before you partake of our splendid hospitality, we must impose certain conditions. ” “The one I’m most interested in,” replied Roger jovially, “is that a slice of bread also comes with the herring. ” “You see, lazybones?” asked Colás of the other student. “Have I not told you a hundred times that wit and grace in speech surround me like a subtle aura, and that no one approaches me without shortly giving evident signs of the wit that overflows within me? You yourself were the most uncouth monster I have ever met in my entire life, but in the week you have been with me you have already made two or three very passable puns, and this morning one rather sharp comment that I would have no problem accepting as my own.” ” As you will at the first opportunity, you sly fellow, to flaunt your talents in someone else’s favor. But tell me, friend, are you a student? And if so, do you come from the classrooms of Oxford or those of Paris? ” “I have studied something,” Roger replied, “but not at those great universities, but with the Cistercian monks, in their convent of Belmonte. ” “Bah! Not much, and probably bad. What the hell kind of teaching can they give there? ” “Non cui vis contingit adire Corinthum,” Roger observed. “Take it and come back for another, Brother Florian! But let’s stop arguing and get some food, as we’ve said, for the herrings are getting cold, and the bread is threatening to turn into pebbles, and the milk into cottage cheese.” Which did not prevent the others from renewing their arguments while Roger ate, and from soon adding to their arguments and sophisms, and from raining down quotations from Latin and Greek, from scholastic and evangelical sources, from syllogisms, premises, inferences, and deductions. The questions and answers followed one another like the blows of tireless swords on strong shields. Finally, Colás calmed down somewhat, while his companion continued his oration, triumphant and conceited. “Ah, thief!” he suddenly cried. “You’ve eaten my herrings! ” “And very tasty they were,” Colás replied sarcastically. “But that is part of my argument, the final effort, the peroratio, as orators call it.” Because, my friend Florian, ideas being _things_, as you have just made very clear and proven, you have only to think or concoct a couple of plump herrings and conjure up a two- pound flask of milk, with which your stomach will be quite satisfied and content. ” “So that’s it, eh? A good argument, all right, but we must answer it.” And, as he did so, he gave the red-faced Colás a slap that made him fall backward. “And now,” he continued, getting up, “imagine that you haven’t suffered that blow and you’ll see how it won’t hurt you, and you won’t steal herrings again.” The student, crossing himself, grabbed Roger’s club and almost broke a bone of his companion. Finally, Roger managed to calm them down , and when the rain had stopped, he took leave of those amusing debaters. It wasn’t long before he saw groups of cottages, cultivated fields, and the occasional farmhouse; But the sun was approaching its setting when the traveler saw in the distance the high tower of Salisbury Priory. He was glad to reach the end of his journey for that day, and much more when, as he rounded the walls of an orchard, he discovered Simon and Tristan, sitting very peacefully on a fallen tree. Neither of them noticed his presence because they were all absorbed in the game of dice they were engaged in. Roger approached very quietly and observed with surprise that Tristan had Simon’s bow slung over his back and Simon’s sword girded on, and that between the two, as if to mark the next move, lay the archer’s helmet. “Curse!” he exclaimed, looking at the dice. “One and three! I haven’t had worse luck since I left Rennes, where I lost even my boots. ” “As for you, comrade. ” “Four and three,” said Tristan in a deep bass voice. “Here’s the helmet. And now I’ll bet it against your vest, archer. ” “I’ll bet! But if this bad streak continues, I’ll arrive back at the castle in my shirt.” “I swear to you! Nice look for an ambassador. ‘Hello!’ he cried, rising hastily upon seeing Roger and throwing his arms around his neck. ‘Look who’s fallen from the clouds, recruit! ‘ Tristan was no less pleased than the archer, but he limited himself to opening his mouth and narrowing his eyes, which was his way of smiling, while he tried with both hands to place Simon’s helmet on his enormous red mane. ‘Are you coming to stay with us, _petit_?’ asked the veteran, patting Roger on the back. ‘At least I hope so,’ replied the latter, moved by the affectionate welcome of his friends. ‘Bravo, lad! The three of us will go to war together, and may the devil take the weather vane from the convent of Belmonte. But where have you gotten yourself, you’re up to your knees in mud?’ ‘Into a stream,’ said Roger; And taking the floor, he related to them the incidents of his day, the attack by the robber, his encounter with the king, the reception given him by his brother, and the rescue of the beautiful huntress. The others listened attentively, but he had hardly finished his tale, which he was walking between the two friends, when Simon turned back and went away, puffing. “What’s the matter with you, archer?” cried Roger, running after him and seizing his vest . “Where are you going? ” “To Munster. Let go, you puppet! ” “What are you going to do there? ” “Putting six inches of iron into your little brother’s belly? What! Insulting an English maiden and setting dogs on her brother! Why, have I this sword? I mean, no, that lazy fellow Tristan has it, and I’ll take it from him right now. ” “Me, Tristan! Take hold of it!” “Roger,” cried Roger, laughing aloud and pulling at Simon. Neither she nor I suffered a scratch. “Come on, my friend!” And between them they finally managed to get him back in the direction of Salisbury. However, he walked a good way with a sullen face, until he spied a fresh-faced ploughwoman and sent her a smile with a kiss. “But let’s see,” said Roger. “How is it that the soldier does not carry the tools of his trade with him now? And you, Tristan, what are you doing with bow, sword, and helmet in time of peace? ” “I’ll tell you. It’s a game that friend Simon insisted on teaching me. ” “And the scoundrel proved the master,” growled the archer. “He has plucked me as if I had fallen into the hands of the King of France’s crossbowmen. But for my sins! You must give me back that stuff, my friend, if I am to fulfill Sir Claude Latour’s errand, and I will pay you for it as good as new, at the price of a gunsmith.” “Here is everything I’ve earned from you, and don’t even talk about paying me for it,” said Tristan. “My only wish was to carry this gear for a while, to take the strain off it, since in France and Spain I’ll have to wear it daily for some years. ” “Ma foi, you were born to be a soldier and a good companion,” exclaimed Simon, delighted. “That’s what you should say and do. Well done, recruit! Who has ever seen an archer without a bow? Don’t worry, I’ll get you one as good as this, back in the army. But look! To the right of the priory, the brown, square tower of the castle stands out on the eminence, and even at this distance I think I can make out on the flag that flies there the red roe deer of Monteagudo’s coat of arms.” “Red on a white field,” said Roger, “but I don’t know if it’s a roe deer, a lion, or an eagle. What is that shining on the wall? On the battlement, beneath the flag. ” “The steel helmet of a sentry,” replied Simon. “But let us hasten our pace if we are to arrive before the bell rings the signal for vespers and the bugle calls for raising the drawbridge; for the Baron de Morel, being a good soldier, is most exacting and rigorous in point of discipline.” The three comrades soon found themselves in the extensive settlement built at the foot of the old church and the threatening castle. The Baron de Morel had dined that evening before sunset, according to his custom; He then visited the stables, where his two warhorses, Darius and Armorel, were resting from their past campaigns, along with other fine horses and the ladies’ palfreys. Finally, he ordered the huntsmen to bring out the hounds and let them run and romp freely for half an hour in the castle avenues. The kennels held about thirty of them, and a considerable amount of barking arose as the pointers and sighthounds, mastiffs, greyhounds, bloodhounds, and hounds of every size and color rushed forth in a crowd . Behind the huntsmen and pages, whose voices increased the commotion, could be seen the noble Lord of Morel, smilingly contemplating this lively scene. The good baroness walked at his side, and the two continued walking to the stone bridge that separated the town from the castle. He was the famous warrior of short stature and little flesh, and neither his appearance nor his manners revealed him to be the valiant English champion whose lofty deeds were on everyone’s lips. The years had somewhat bent his frame, although he was no more than forty-eight years old; and at the time we know him, he was still suffering from poor eyesight as a result of the besieged men of Bergerac having emptied a basket of quicklime over him , when the Baron was leading the assault on that place at the head of the Derby veterans. The constant exercise of arms and the hardships of his past life as a soldier had kept him as vigorous and active as ever; he was thin-faced, dark-skinned, and wore the twisted mustache and long goatee that were then in vogue among army gentlemen. The fine felt hat with a jaunty white plume, tilted slightly over his right ear, partially concealing the scar of a long wound that ran from his temple. Half of that ear was taken by a bombardier’s ball there in Tournay, during the Wars in Flanders. She wore a rich black velvet suit and a short cape of the same color, and wore shoes with twisted points, although not as excessive as was customary in the following reign. Her body was encircled by a gold-embroidered belt, on whose wide buckle were engraved the Morel coat of arms, five red roses on a silver field. At her side, leaning on the parapet of the bridge, the Baroness seemed the perfect example of the haughty chatelaines of the time. Taller than her husband, she had the dominant gaze and physical robustness that had made possible the heroic exploits of Agnes Dunbar, the Countesses of Salisbury and Montfort, and other English ladies who had proven themselves as courageous as their noble husbands when the occasion arose, and little less adept than them in the handling of the sword or the battle-axe . But many of those English heroines and others we could mention, such as Monteagudo, Chandos, and Belver, were not only courageous but beautiful, the latter adjective that could not in any way be applied to the Baroness of Morel. “I repeat, Baron, that a maiden like our daughter should not spend her life hunting and running through fields and forests,” the imposing lady was saying to her husband. “If we let her continue to be surrounded by horses and dogs, pages, huntsmen, and soldiers, tending falcons, and learning, very cunning, French ballads, which is what she was doing when I surprised her yesterday in her room, how can she be fit to be the wife of a fellow nobleman and to govern a castle, as I have done during your long absences?” with a hundred men-at-arms and servants at her command, half of whom only know how to idle and drink beer? And she tells us that the ballads I’m telling you about, which she hid under her pillow when she saw me enter, had been lent to her, according to her own confession, by Father Christopher himself, from the Priory. It’s true that he always tells me the same thing. “That’s all very true, my good friend,” replied the magnate, “but bear in mind that she’s very young, full of life and health, mischievous and cheerful as a child, and that there’s time for everything. ” “Her pranks are becoming extremely serious and require severe correction from you. ” “You certainly don’t mean that I’d ever raise my hand to her. I’ve never done that with any woman, and I won’t except the one who has my blood in her veins. I trust you to correct her when her conduct deserves correction.” especially in my absence, my dear, for if I have been idle at the castle for so long, it has been only because of you, and I confess that without your presence I could not endure a week of this quiet and pampered life. I was born a soldier and a soldier I must die. “That was what I feared,” the baroness exclaimed in anguish. “Do you think I have not noticed your restlessness of late, and the mustering of your arms in the company of René the squire? May Our Lady of Embrún help me! ” “Do not be distressed. This is not merely my inclination, but a duty, a call to our honor. You well know that the renewal of the war is a settled matter, that our troops are reconstituted at Bordeaux, and by St. George’s Day! It would be a sight to see if, alongside the lions of the royal standard, the arms of all the English nobility were displayed, except the roses of Morel.” “I myself would not have allowed it ten or fifteen years ago; but have you not served the king as the first? Have you not given brilliant proofs of courage in ten campaigns? Let the wounds on your body and the fame of your name speak for themselves. The king himself does not expect you to fight to the death, and the bravest soldier one day lays down his arms and returns home. ” “It is not in me to do so, believe me. When our gracious sovereign rushes into battle armor at seventy, and the Lord of Chandos imitates him at seventy-five, with as many campaigns and wounds as I count, the lance of Baron Leo de Morel can hardly lie dormant . My own fame compels me, since my absence would be all the more noticeable . No, Eleanor, I must go.” Not to mention that our estate is not as large as I would like for you and our daughter, and that only the position of constable I hold here by favor of my good and powerful friend the Count of Monteagudo, whose castle we inhabit, allows us to maintain the position commensurate with our rank. And you well know that it is in war that the noble and the brave find today not only honors, but riches. The royal reward, the rich booty, and the enormous ransoms of this war will forever shelter us from all fear, as far as our fortunes are concerned. “You have earned superb ransoms and booty with your efforts, but you are as generous as you are brave, and others have taken advantage of your estate. ” “Negligence. No more splendor at the expense of the tranquility and well-being of my people. Take heart; the campaign will not be long, and I long to receive definitive news.” “Look, Baron, near the last house in the village, those three men are taking the road to the castle. One of them is a soldier.” Our three acquaintances were indeed reaching the end of their journey, covered in dust, but without any sign of fatigue and chatting happily. The Baron immediately noticed the young man with blond hair and an intelligent face, who was attentively observing the castle and its surroundings. On his right was a poorly dressed giant, whose tight and short harness made it clear that it had not been cut for him. The traveler on the left was a robust, swarthy-faced veteran, with a sword at his belt and a long bow at his side. back; the battered helmet and the faded colors of the lion of Saint George sewn on his chestcoat left no doubt as to the soldier’s origin, whose appearance bespoke his recent campaigns. Upon reaching the bridge, the archer looked the noble captain in the eye, greeted the Baroness with a respectful bow, and said: “Forgive me, Baron, but despite all the years that have passed, I recognized you at once, even though until today I had not seen you wearing velvet, but rather a helmet and corselet. I have often drawn my bow beside you at Romorantín, La Roche, Maupertuis, Auray, Nogent, and other places. ” “And I am glad to see you, and to welcome you to the castle of Morel. My steward will provide a good bed and good table for you and your companions there. Wait, archer; yes, I seem to remember your face, although I cannot trust my eyesight as I once did.” Rest a while, and then I’ll call you so you can give me news of what’s happening in France. Rumors have reached us so far that before the year is out our banners will be flying south of the great mountains on the Spanish border. ” “There was much talk of this in Bordeaux upon my departure,” replied Simon, “and by all faith the armorers were working tirelessly, and I saw a good number of soldiers arrive. But allow me to deliver this letter that the brave Gascon knight Sir Claude Latour placed in my hands for you. And to you, madam, I bring from him this jewel case, which was presented to him at Narbonne and which he offers you with his respects.” The archer had repeated those words to himself many times during his journey, and they were the same ones his captain had uttered; but the truth is that the lady, although appreciative of the rich gift, took no notice of the archer’s remarks because she was as absorbed as her husband in reading the parchment, which he was reading to her in a low voice. Roger and Tristan, who had stopped a few paces away from the archer, saw that the Baroness had turned pale and that her husband was smiling contentedly. “You see, my lady,” he said, “that they don’t want to leave the old greyhound alone when they’re preparing to bring down the hunt. What do you say, archer, about this White Guard they’re talking about here? ” “You spoke of greyhounds, Baron, and I assure you there is no better pack than that Guard in either kingdom when it comes to hunting big game, especially if they’re led by a good hunter. We’ve been in wars together, sir, but I’ve never seen a braver or more fearsome body of archers. We all want you as our captain in this coming campaign; and what the White Guard wants, who’s stopping them? ” “Well, I like it!” exclaimed the Baron, not hiding his pleasure. The truth is , if all those archers look like you, there’s no leader who wouldn’t feel proud to command them.” What’s your name? Simon Aluardo, from the county of Austin. And that giant? He’s Tristan of Horla, a mountaineer like no other, whom I’ve just enlisted in the White Guard. He’ll make an excellent soldier. Good fists, eh? You look sturdy and strong, archer, but I’m sure that handsome fellow is even stronger. Let’s see, Tristan, if you can put all my crossbowmen to shame, none of whom could roll that stone into the torrent yesterday. Although I fear that not even your Herculean arms could handle it. Tristan went to the rock with a smile. It was enormously heavy and partly sunk in the earth; but the colossus tore it from its damp bed with the first jolt, and not content with rolling it, lifted it from the ground and threw it into the water. The noble couple expressed their admiration for this prodigy of strength, while Tristan wiped the mud from his hands, still smiling good-naturedly. “Those arms of yours have once encircled my ribs,” said Simon, “and I still seem to hear them creak. This other companion of mine,” he continued, noticing that the Baron was looking at Roger, “has until now been a scribe at the Abbey of Belmonte, where he leaves the best memory, as attested by the letters from the abbot he carries with him. And he is also a young man of great learning.” though only a few years old. His name is Roger de Clinton, and he is the brother of the tenant farmer of Munster. “That last is a bad recommendation,” said Monsieur de Morel, frowning ; “and if you resemble your brother in deeds…” “Far from it, sir,” said the archer briskly. “I can assure you the contrary, and indeed today his brother threatened to kill him and unleashed the dogs on him. ” “Do you also belong to the White Guard? Judging by your face, age , and bearing, you have not had much military practice. ” “I would like to go to France with these two friends, sir,” said Roger. “But I don’t know if I’m fit to be a soldier, for I have always been a man of peace; a student since I left childhood, and also a reader, exorcist, acolyte, and scribe at the abbey.” “That doesn’t mean,” the Baron observed, “that it never hurts for each company to have its own amanuensis, someone who understands more about reading a scroll and drafting a report than shooting arrows at the enemy. I still remember a secretary I had during the Calais campaign, named Sandal, who was also a troubadour and minstrel of merit. You should have heard the rhymes he composed describing battles, assaults, and sorties, and all the incidents that occurred during the long siege of that place. But we’ve talked enough, and it’s time to return to the castle. Rest, eat, and drink with my men-at-arms, for they are good and cheerful company. Come, madam, if you like. ” “Yes, the air has freshened considerably,” said the lady, taking the Baron’s arm. The noble couple headed toward the castle, followed by Simon, who was pleased to have accomplished his mission and seen his beloved captain of yesteryear, and Roger, amazed to find in the famous warrior a modest and affable man, without a trace of the insufferable haughtiness of many nobles. Only Tristan seemed dissatisfied, expressing it with muffled grunts. “What’s the matter with this cress?” Simon said in a low voice, stopping and looking at Tristan. “It’s just that you deceived me. You promised to have me serve under one of the greatest captains in the kingdom, and instead you’re looking for that weakling dressed in velvet , with his watery eyes, who, being so thin and wasted, looks like he hasn’t eaten in three days, to be captain of the White Guard… ” “Hello, so that’s where it hurts!” Well, look, Samson, make sure he doesn’t hear you, that little one with the watery eyes, because only then would you know the strength of his fists. As for the rest, I’m giving you three months to change your mind. Only those who have seen him spin a fine war machine know Captain Morel . You’ll see, you’ll see. At that moment, a great deal of shouting was heard in the streets of the town; men, women, and children ran from one side of the main street to the other, shouting, and taking refuge in the houses. On the other side of the bridge, running as fast as he could in the direction of the castle, a man appeared. Upon seeing the Baroness, he rushed up to her and shouted, sweating and panting: “Run away, madam, run away! Save her! The bear, the bear!” Indeed, running towards them was an enormous black bear, of terrible appearance, its mouth half open and with a piece of chain tied to its neck. In two bounds, Tristan was at the Baroness’s side, lifting her in his arms as if she were a feather. With her, he ran swiftly off the road to some nearby trees. Roger only managed to take a few steps in the same direction and stared in astonishment at the furious animal. Meanwhile, Simon let out a string of French and English curses and readied his bow. Then, to everyone’s surprise, they saw that the Baron de Morel not only had not fled but was now walking straight toward the bear with a calm gait, carrying in his hand the red silk handkerchief he had used when talking to Simon and his friends. The bear came up to him, gave a low growl, and, rising on its hind legs , raised its powerful paw. “Hello, ugly! So we’re in a bad mood?” the Baron said calmly, crossing the bear’s muzzle twice with his silk handkerchief. The animal, surprised, stared at him for a moment, then fell on all fours and growled again, looking from right to left as if uncertain what to do, while the Baron, two steps away, watched him curiously, blinking his irritated little eyes. At that moment, four farmhands arrived with thick ropes and in a few moments had the fugitive secured. The bear’s owner also arrived, fearful of the punishment that might await him, and uncovering his head, explained to the Baron that he had left the beast securely chained at the door of a tavern while he was having a glass of beer, and that the castle dogs, having suddenly arrived, attacked the bear, enraging it and causing it to break its chain. Far from punishing or reprimanding it, the Baron gave it a few silver coins, much to the outrage of the Baroness, who still hadn’t gotten over her shock. “I beg your pardon, comrade,” Tristan said to the archer as they entered the castle gates. “The Lord of Morel is quite a man. I say, what calmness and what nerve! For my part, I want no other leader than him. ” Chapter 11. FROM CONVENT TO SQUIRE AND FROM DISCIPLE TO MASTER. Over the massive arch that gave entrance to the fortress could be seen the coat of arms of the Monteagudo family, a roe deer gules on a silver field, and next to it the arms of the veteran constable, the roses of Morel. As they crossed the drawbridge, it seemed to Roger that in one of the loopholes gleamed the armor of a soldier; and hardly were they all in the portico when a bugle sounded and the heavy bridge rose behind them as if propelled by invisible hands, with a loud clang of chains. The baron escorted his wife to the castle hall, and a fat steward took charge of the three newcomers, treating them royally. Their stomachs amply satisfied and refreshed with a bath in the nearby irrigation ditch, Tristan and Roger followed the archer, who was closely examining the fortress with the practice of someone who had seen so much in his life. To their two companions, who had been in a castle for the first time, the thick walls seemed completely impregnable, and they were astonished by the number of sentries posted at the gates, walls, and battlements, not to mention the soldiers of the guardhouse located near the drawbridge , who were cleaning their weapons, singing, or talking with their wives and children in the wide portico. “I reckon a handful of rustics could defend this fortress against ten of the king’s companies,” said Tristan. “Same here,” Roger agreed. “Well, you are quite mistaken, my boys,” exclaimed the archer. ” I have seen far more formidable ones than this brought down in a single night. By the edge of my sword! And what about the castle of Monleon, in Picardy, which resembled a hill and which we, the soldiers of Sir Robert Nolles, stormed, took, and plundered before the White Guard existed? From there I took some horse harness of solid silver, which was worth a hundred ducats. ” “Are you the archer Aluard?” a crossbowman who had just crossed the castle courtyard asked him at that moment . “Simon Aluard, at your service. ” “Well, look closely at me, comrade, and I will have no need to name my name. ” “A bad bombardment will strike me if that is not the band of Reno the archer!” “Embrace me, comrade!” and the two friends clasped each other like two bears. “Yes, the archer Reno, now a crossbowman in the Baron’s service, and almost forgotten how to shoot with a bow or a crossbow. But come here, old wolf; in the armory there’s talk of once more roaming the good land of France, and even of the Baron himself… ” “Good news spreads quickly, I see,” Simon said, laughing and winking at Tristan. “Bravo!” cried Reno. “From now on, I’ll offer a two-pound candle to my patron saint. If you only knew what it’s like for a soldier like me to rot here, within four walls, with blood! May those days come when we had Frenchmen to kill and arrows to give and take, not to mention what is always won and shared with friends.” “How nice it is to see you so well disposed,” replied Simon. “But listen, my friend, is your purse so empty? Because in that case, while we enter the first camp, castle, or town of France, here I have my old leather purse at my belt, and all you have to do is put your hand in it. You know that among brothers in arms, there is no such thing as yours or mine. ” “No, my friend; here, even money is not needed. It is not like in France, where we were always fighting with the men and kneeling on the ground and open handed to the women . Those were the days! Provided they return soon … And besides, it is a matter of settling a small outstanding score. You don’t know it, but while we were beating copper at Rennes, the French galleys landed at Chelsea and burned and killed until they were exhausted, and when I returned to my village, I found that among the victims of their halberds were my mother, my sister, and her two children, two little ones who could hardly speak.” Good heavens! When I tell you that I’m burning with desire to find myself face to face with that rabble again… Well, don’t worry, Reno, although it seems that this time they’re waiting for us in Spain rather than France, things are in such turmoil that there will always be work everywhere and for all tastes. We’ll certainly find in Castile the famous Duguesclin, who, armed with the finest French lances, is in the service of a Spanish prince, Don Enrique de Trastamara, determined to put him on the throne. Meanwhile, the legitimate monarch, Don Pedro, brother of the pretender, has approached our King Edward for help, and I believe that the Black Prince himself will lead us into battle. You see, then, there’ll be an opportunity to put an arrow in a Castilian as soon as in a Frenchman. But in the meantime, my friend Reno, I believe that you and I also have our unfinished business , and… Oh, my goodness, I had forgotten that with the joy of seeing you, comrade! said Reno. That’s quite true, and it’s also true that we’d barely been on our guard when the accursed provost and his men-at-arms separated us. “May the plague take them for meddling. But since we agreed to clear up the matter at our next meeting, and I see you’re wearing your sword, be on your guard, Reno, my friend, and to whomever God gives it to… ” “A pledged word and a matter of honor are sacred matters,” said Reno , drawing his sword. “The moonlight is enough to see our bulk, and these two lads will serve as witnesses. A matter of honor, comrades. ” “What are you saying?” exclaimed Roger. “What matter of honor can induce two friends like yourselves to kill each other in cold blood? Here! But don’t you know that this is a mortal sin, that hatred blinds you? Please, Simon! ” “There is no hatred or anything like it, my little friar,” replied Simon jovially, while the other veteran looked at the young man in surprise. There’s only one little matter left unresolved to our liking. Watch my sword, Reno! “Watch mine, brother Simon, for I haven’t had the opportunity to draw it once for months, and I need this skirmish to exercise my wrist. Here we go! ” “What bloodthirsty spirit is driving you? I won’t allow it, and you’ll have to kill me first!” cried Roger, standing in front of the archer. “Nor will I,” exclaimed the equally surprised Tristan, raising a heavy plank he saw leaning against the wall. “There, enough of this joking! The first one who moves the crossbow, I’ll crush him like a toad. Of course! ” “What evil fly has bitten this pair of geese?” asked Reno. “Be careful, big fellow, I don’t want you to get bled first and then have that board fall on you…” “Tell me, Simon,” Roger interrupted briskly, “the cause of your quarrel, to see if it admits of an honorable settlement, before you cut each other’s throats like implacable enemies. ” The archer looked thoughtfully at the ground and then at the moon. “The cause, lad? And how do you expect me to remember such a thing, when our dispute took place back in Limoges more than two years ago? But there’s Reno, who’ll tell you in a jiffy. ” “Not so,” said Reno, lowering his sword. “Since then I’ve had other So many things to think about, and even if I break my neck, I’ll never remember. I think we were playing dice. No, I think it was a matter of skirts. Eh, Simon? —Dice or women, I think you’re close. Let’s see, in Limoges we knew … Shut up! Don’t you remember that fresh-faced Rosa, who served at the Three Crows inn? —Aux Trois Corbeaux! —I bet you don’t know a word of French now, you beast. What a girl that was! I fell like a saint. —And I did, and many others too, said Reno. I’m not sure that she was the object of our quarrel, but I know very well that on the very day we were going to fight, she disappeared from the inn in the company of Ivon, that Welsh archer. Do you remember? A discharged soldier told me later that they’d opened a tavern in some town on the Garonne, and that Rosa is still up to her old tricks, and he drinks as much wine and beer as ten of her customers. “Yes? Well, that’s where our quarrel ends,” said Simon, sheathing his sword. “It won’t be said that over a girl capable of preferring a deserter , and especially a son of Wales, two lads like us have come to blows. ” “It’s better that way,” replied Reno, sheathing his sword, “because the Baron would have heard us or known about the duel, and he’s got word that he’ll have the right hands of the garrison’s duellists cut off. And you know when he says something… ” “As if it came from the Bible, I know it. Come on, a visit to the steward, who seems like a good man to me, and see if he’ll give us some beer with which to toast the Baron.” The four of them headed toward the castle kitchens, but as they left the courtyard, they saw a genteel page who addressed Roger , saying, “The Lord of Morel awaits you upstairs, in the parlor next to his chamber. ” “And my companions? ” “Only you.” Roger followed the page, who led him up a wide staircase to the first-floor corridor and to a chamber whose walls were covered with tapestries and panoplies, where he left him alone. The young man uncovered his head and, seeing no one, began to examine the weapons and the antique, massive carved oak furniture . The primitive simplicity of castle rooms had disappeared, due in part to the desire to provide greater comfort for the ladies and above all to the example of the crusaders, who had brought from the East luxury and riches incompatible with the uncomfortable and petty life of feudal fortresses. No less powerful an influence had later been that of the great wars with France, a nation that in the 14th century had far surpassed England in the arts of peace, and whose progress and refinements left a marked imprint on the English customs of that time. Roger was absorbed in the contemplation of the objects of art that enriched the room when he heard the barely suppressed laughter of a woman. He looked around without seeing a person; the laughter continued, and finally, behind the screen to his left, he saw a white hand holding a mirror with a silver frame and handle, positioned so as to reflect his every movement. The young man remained motionless for a few moments, not knowing what to do, and then he saw the hand and mirror disappear and a very beautiful young woman approach him , wearing a dress as elegant as it was rich. In her smiling face, Roger recognized that of the maiden whom he had freed that morning from her brother’s snares, and his surprise grew even greater. “I see you are amazed to find me here,” the charming lady said happily. ” I would like to be a troubadour, to sing as our adventure of yesterday deserves ; the wicked Hugo, the distressed maiden, and the valiant paladin who rescues her from the clutches of the tyrant. My songs would make you famous, and you would go down in history as another Percival or Amadis, famous and great righter of wrongs. ” “What I did was insignificant to deserve such praise,” Roger was finally able to say. “But you do not know, madam, how happy I am to see you again and to know that you have arrived safe and sound at your home.” “Assuming this castle is. ” “It is, and Baron Leon de Morel is my father. I could have revealed it to you when we said goodbye, but since you told me this was the end of your journey, I preferred to remain silent and surprise you before you return to your four walls. But first of all, I have summoned you to give you a commission, or rather, to ask for a service. ” “What do you want? ” “How ungallant of you! But anyway, I’m not surprised. A gentleman more accustomed to the company of ladies would have immediately placed himself at my command, but you ask me what I want from you. Well then, I need you to corroborate my words with your testimony. I’m going to tell my father that I found you in the part of the forest south of the Munster Road.” Otherwise, if he finds out that I disobeyed him and planted the plant on Clinton’s lands, I won’t escape without a terrible ambush and at least a week of spinning and tapestry-making. ” “If the Baron questions me, I won’t answer him. ” “What! But you’ll have to answer him. And assure him of what I’ve told you, or I’ll have a very bad time. ” “But how can I tell him what isn’t true? Would you be capable of doing it, knowing that you were leagues north of the road?” “Oh, you bore me with your sermons! Do you refuse? Well, I know what I must do. ” “Please don’t be offended. Think about what you’re asking of me… But here is your noble father. ” “Pay attention to me and you’ll see whether or not I am a good disciple of yours.” ” My father,” she continued, addressing the Baron, who had just entered; ” I am deeply obliged to this gentleman, whom I met this morning in the forest of Munster, and who rendered me a valuable service. The incident occurred exactly two leagues north of the Munster road, and consequently on a property where you had forbidden me to set foot. ” “Ah, Constance!” replied the Lord of Morel, who was giving his arm to an old lady; “it is more difficult for me to make you obey me than those two hundred devil-may-care archers whom I commanded at the siege of Guienne. But be quiet, child, your mother will be here in a moment, and there is no need for her to know. This time we will not call for the provost and his guards, eh? But retire to your chamber and do not return to your old ways. Sit here by the fire, my mother,” he said to the old woman when her daughter had withdrawn. “Come near, Roger de Clinton.” I wish to speak to you, and in the presence of my mother, without whose good advice I am not happy to make decisions whenever I can consult her. Roger, surprised, bowed. “I myself instructed the Baron to send for you,” said the noble lady, ” because I have the best information about you and I believe you deserve complete confidence. I know something of your history; you have lived in the cloister, and it is good that you see something of the world now before choosing between one or the other. Precisely, my son needs someone like you at his side, to watch over him, to attend to him. Among your companions, if you accept, you will see young men of the finest nobility in the kingdom. ” “Are you a horseman?” asked the Baron. “I have ridden a great deal on Belmonte’s estates. ” “However, we will take into account the difference between the friars’ peaceful mule and the warhorse. Are you a musician? ” “I can sing and play the zither, the flute, the rebec… ” “Bravo! And in heraldry? Can you read blazons?” “Oh yes, perfectly! I learned it, like everything else, in the convent. ” “Well, in that case, interpret those arms,” said the Lord of Morel. “Armor; four quarters, azure and gules; triple lion rampant; the heraldic rose , joined to the tower’s blazon, argent on gules; armed arm, with a double sword; griffin, half-flight, and crested helmet. ” “You forgot that one of the three lions, that of my relatives the Lutrels, is also armed, and the others are not. But that’s fine for a novice. I know that you also read and write well, which is very useful on occasions, when the lives of many, the fate of a square, and Perhaps the success of the war. Do you think you can serve as a squire to a nobleman in the campaign we are about to undertake? “I am willing and will learn what I do not know,” replied Roger, who was filled with joy at the prospect of obtaining that position with the baron. “Well, you will be my son’s squire,” added the old woman. “You will look after his belongings, his weapons, whatever he needs and can contribute to his greater comfort, although he has never had much in the camps. And you will also look after his purse, because my dear baron is so generous that he would probably empty it into the hands of the first unfortunate person he felt sorry for. It would not be the first time. Many details of squire service are unknown to you, naturally, but as you yourself say, you will soon learn them, and I believe you will be the best squire my son has ever had.” “My lady,” said the young man, deeply moved, “I appreciate the high honor you and the Baron have bestowed upon me, entrusting me with a position so close to the person of one of the most famous knights of the kingdom. In accepting such a great favor, all the more welcome to me given the circumstances and isolation in which I find myself, I only fear that my inexperience will make me unworthy of your favor. ” “Not only educated, but modest; qualities indeed very rare in pages and squires,” continued the kind lady. “Rest tonight, and tomorrow my son will see you. We knew and esteemed your father, and we are pleased to do something for his son, although we cannot bestow our esteem on your brother, one of the most turbulent spirits in the region. ” “It will be impossible for us to leave this entire month,” said the Baron, “for there is much to prepare, and you will have time to familiarize yourselves with your duties. ” Rubin, my daughter’s page, is mad to follow me, but he is even younger than you, almost a child, and I hesitate to expose him to the hardships of this war in distant countries. “Since you will not be leaving for a few weeks,” observed the old woman, “it occurs to me that this young man can render us good service during his stay at the castle. I understand that you have learned much at the abbey ? ” “I have studied much, madam, but I have learned only a small part of what my good teachers know. ” “What you know is sufficient for my purpose. I would like you, from tomorrow, to devote a couple of hours a day to instructing my granddaughter Constance as much as possible , for she greatly needs it and does not like studies. It seems that she learned to read only to devour sentimental and useless novels or insipid ballads.” Father Christopher comes from the priory to teach him what he can, but not only is he very old, but his pupil dominates him, and he derives little benefit from her conferences with the good father. With her and with Louise and Dorothea de Pierpont, maidens of good family who reside with us, you will form a small class. Until tomorrow. Thus found Roger converted not only into the squire of Baron Leon de Morel, future captain of the White Guard, but also into the teacher of three noble maidens, a position he had never dreamed of holding. Thinking of this and rejoicing at the change that had occurred in his fortunes, he resolved to spare no effort to please his benefactors. Chapter 12. HOW ROGER LEARNED MORE THAN HE COULD TEACH. Throughout the south of England, preparations for war began simultaneously and with great vigor. The news that Simon and other emissaries of the army commanders in France had brought to the court and to the castles of the kingdom were received with enthusiasm by nobles and soldiers, for whom a new campaign in a foreign land meant glory and profit. Six years of peace had thousands of veterans who had participated in the campaigns of Crécy, Nogent and Poitiers impatient and for whom there was no more promising prospect than that of invading the territory of France or Spain, commanded by the son of their sovereign , the famous Black Prince; and from one sea to the other there was only talk of war preparations, recruitment and the concentration of forces in the points previously designated. Each town and village prepared and made ready its contingent without delay, and throughout that autumn and part of the following winter, the call of bugles, the trotting of horses, and the measured tread of infantry, archers, crossbowmen, and men-at- arms, now in organized companies now in isolated groups, could be heard continually along the roads , heading for this or that castle or port. The ancient and populous county of Hanson was among the first to respond to the call with a great force of soldiers. To the north flew the banners of the lords of Brocas and Roche, the former with the severed head of the Saracen in the center of the shield and the latter with the historic red castle of the House of Roche, both followed by numerous combatants. The vassals of Embrun in the east and those of the potentate John de Montague in the west joined within a few weeks the forces raised by the lords of Bruin, Liscombe, Oliver de Buitron and Bruce, from Andover, Arlesford, Chester and York, and marched south towards Southampton. But the largest and most brilliant contingent from the county was the one gathered around the standard of Morel, thanks to the fame of the baron. Archers from the Forest of Balsain, highlanders and chasseurs from Vernel, Dunan and Malvar, veteran and novice men-at-arms, and noble knights eager for prestige, all made their way to Salisbury, from the banks of the Avon to those of the Lande, to enlist under the banner of the five red roses of Morel. However, the Baron was not one of those wealthy magnates who could maintain a large army under arms, and with regret he was forced to dismiss a large number of volunteers, who sought other commanders, limiting himself to following the instructions sent to him by his friend Claude Latour, authorizing him to equip one hundred archers and fifty men-at-arms, who, united with the three hundred veterans of the White Guard who remained in France, would form a corps whose command could be accepted without hesitation by so great a captain as the Baron de Morel. With the aid of Simon, appointed drill sergeant, Reno and other veterans, he carefully selected his men and by the middle of November he had a complete and picked force of one hundred of Hanson’s best archers and fifty well-mounted men-at-arms. Two noble friends of the baron entrusted their sons, young and handsome knights named Froilán de Roda and Gualtero de Pleyel, to him to share with Roger de Clinton the honors, dangers, and duties of the office of squire. The pieces of armor for the men-at-arms and most of the swords, axes, and lances awaited Morel’s soldiers in Bordeaux, where they could be procured at better and much less expensive prices than in England; but not so the large battle bows, in whose material and quality the English armorers surpassed all others. The men-at-arms and archers also had to be uniformed with plain helmets , chain mail, a white sleeveless doublet over their mail, and the red lion of Saint George on the chest, all of which made up the uniform of the famous White Guard that Simon Aluardo wore with such pride. Morel’s forces presented a superb appearance when their veteran captain, mounted on his best warhorse, gave them their final review in the great courtyard of the castle. Of the 150 men, at least half had been soldiers, some all their lives; among the recruits, the gigantic Tristan de Horla stood out, bringing up the rear, carrying his enormous war bow on his back. Equipping the company took several weeks, and Roger and his friends had been at the castle for two months when the Baron announced to his wife that everything was ready for their march. Those two months completely transformed Roger’s future, awakened in him a previously unknown feeling and made life more pleasant. Then he also learned to bless his father’s foresight, which had allowed him to see something of the world before burying himself forever in the solitude of the cloister. How different life seemed to him then, how exaggerated the words of the Master of Novices when he described in the blackest colors the pack of wolves, as he called it, that were waiting to devour him as soon as he left the protective walls of Belmonte! Alongside the criminals and depraved, he had also found men of brave heart, cordial friends, a noble leader a hundred times more useful to his country and his compatriots than the virtuous abbot of Bergen, whose life passed forgotten and monotonous from year to year, in a petty circle, surrounded by those monks who prayed, ate, and worked peacefully, isolated from the rest of mortals, as if there were no inhabitants in the world but themselves and no horizons other than those of the abbey grounds. His own judgment told Roger that in passing from the service of the abbot to that of the baron, far from losing, he had made an advantageous change. It is true that his gentle nature made him view the violence of war with horror, but in that era of military orders, the separation between the priest and the soldier, who were then often united in a single person, was not as marked as it is today . In fairness to Roger, it must be said that before finally accepting the Baron’s offer, he meditated a great deal and sought heavenly advice in his prayers; but the result was that within three days he had chosen his weapons and horse, the price of which he offered to pay with part of what he would receive as war booty. From then on, he devoted long hours to the handling of weapons, and since there were plenty of good masters and he was young, agile, and vigorous, he soon learned to direct his horse and wield his sword very skillfully, earning words of approval from the veterans and holding his sword against Froilán and Gualtero, his lord’s other two squires. But it is almost unnecessary to say that Roger had another, very powerful reason for preferring a career in arms and taking leave of the convent. Life offered him an irresistible attraction: the presence of the woman he loved. The woman, who there in the cloister represented the sum of all worldly temptations, dangers, and snares, the pitfall that man must above all avoid in order to persevere on the right path, the being whom the Cistercian monks could not look upon without sin or touch without exposing themselves to the most severe punishments of the rule. Roger, on the other hand, found himself daily, one hour after the ninth hour and another before prayer, in the company of three beautiful maidens, his disciples; and far from finding the presence of those young women reprehensible or sinful, he felt happier than ever instructing them, answering their questions, or engaging in pleasant conversation with them. Few disciples were as great as Constance de Morel. A man older and more experienced than Roger would have been surprised, and perhaps irritated, by her retorts, her sudden changes of temper, the readiness with which she sometimes took offense, and the tears and protests with which she at other times submitted to her teacher’s instructions. If the subject of the lesson interested her, she followed the explanations with surprising enthusiasm, leaving her companions far behind. But if the subject seemed dull and dry, there was no way to attract her attention or make her understand or remember what had been explained. Occasionally, she openly rebelled against Roger, who, without the slightest irritation, continued his lesson with infinite patience. Soon after, the rebellious pupil repented and humbled herself, accusing herself, ashamed of the injustice done to Roger by her conduct. On the other hand, she did not allow her other two companions to show the slightest hint of inattention or rebellion. Only once did Dorothea attempt to contradict Roger, and such was Constance’s indignation and such reproaches that the poor child left the room with tears in her eyes, which earned Constance the severest reprimand she had ever received from the young professor. But after the first few weeks, Roger’s influence, with his unalterable patience and dignity, on the noble maiden’s conduct became evident. He understood that Roger’s rectitude and lofty ideals were an admirable example and appreciated the handsome squire’s lofty merits. And Roger, for his part, also understood that day by day his admiration for that adorable young woman grew , whose image and memory never left him for a moment. It was also said that she was the only daughter of the Baron of Morel, and that the poor squire could hardly have set his eyes on her, without a handful of silver with which to pay for the horse and weapons with which, for the first time, he would seek his name and fortune in war. But his love for Constance was his life. No consideration, no obstacle, could make him renounce it. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon. Roger and his companion, Froilán de Roda, had gone to Bristol to hasten the completion and delivery of the last shipment of replacement bows that the Baron had entrusted to the armorers of that city. The day of their departure was approaching. The two squires, their errand completed, were riding along the Salisbury road , and Roger noticed with surprise his companion’s unusual silence. Froilán was a cheerful and talkative young man, delighted to leave his quiet paternal home for the adventures and excitements of the long journey they were about to undertake and the coming war. But that day Roger saw him silent and thoughtful, barely answering his questions. “Tell me frankly, friend Roger,” he suddenly exclaimed, “if it doesn’t seem to you, as it does to me, that the beautiful Lady Constanza is looking sad and pale these days, as if tormented by an unknown anguish. ” “I haven’t noticed anything,” Roger replied, surprised, “but it could well be as you say. ” “Oh, certainly. Look at her sitting thoughtful hour after hour, or walking on the castle terrace, forgetting her falcon, Troubadour, and hunting.” I suspect, my friend Roger, that all the studying and learning you teach her is too much of a task for her, for she studied little or nothing before, and that it worries her and may even make her mental and physical ill. “It is the Baroness’s, her lady mother’s, orders… ” “Well, without being disrespectful, I believe that my lady the Baroness would be more in her place defending the castle walls or commanding a company in the assault of a stronghold than entrusted with the education of her daughter. But listen, my friend Roger, what I have revealed to no one until now. I love Doña Constanza, and I would gladly give my life for her… ” Roger paled and remained silent. “My father is rich,” Froilán continued, “and I am his only son and heir to the domains of Roda. I don’t believe the Baron has any objection as far as wealth and nobility are concerned. ” “But what about her?” Roger asked in a low voice, without looking at the squire, so that he might not notice his agitation. “That is what drives me to despair. I have never seen indifference like his, and until now I might as well have sighed before one of the marble statues in the Park of Roda. Do you remember that exquisite white veil she wore yesterday? Well, I asked her for it as a favor to wear on my helmet in combats and tournaments, as an emblem of the lady and mistress of my thoughts.” She merely gave me the coldest and most emphatic refusal, adding that if a certain knight cared to ask for the veil, she would give it to him; otherwise, she would give it to no one. I have not the slightest idea who this fortunate mortal is. And you, Roger? Do you know whom she loves? ” “I don’t even suspect it,” replied Roger; and yet, at saying those words, a most gratifying hope was awakened in him. “Since yesterday, I have been racking my brains trying to find out.” Lady Constance is not a maiden to conceal her loves, if she has any, and consequently the gallant must be known to us. But whom does she see and speak to, besides her parents, her two friends, and the servants of the castle? I will give you the complete list of the men who have spoken to her in these two months: you and our comrade Gualtero de Pleyel, Father Christopher of the priory, the page Rubin, and myself. Do you know of any others? “No, certainly not,” replied Roger; and the two handsome young men continued. Riding in silence until they reached the castle. During the next morning’s lesson, Roger noticed that the beautiful young woman was, indeed, pale and sad. Her face seemed thinner, and her beautiful eyes had lost some of the liveliness and joy that gave them such precious charm. After the lesson, the young professor questioned the young ladies of Pierpont, his other two students. “Constance is suffering, it is quite true,” Dorothea replied with a mischievous smile. “But her illness is not one that kills. ” “God forbid!” Roger exclaimed. “But tell me, I pray you, what ailment afflicts her? ” “One that, in my opinion, also afflicts another person, whose name I could name without fear of being mistaken,” Louise de Pierpont replied in turn . “And you, who know so much, cannot guess her ailment? ” “No.” She looks tired and sad, she is always so cheerful…. “Well, just think that in three days you will all be leaving, and the castle will be practically deserted, and we will not see a living soul, unless it be a soldier or a rustic… ” “That is true,” exclaimed Roger. He had not thought that in three days he will have to part from his father… “His father!” said both young women, bursting into a silver laugh. “Ah yes, his father! Until evening, Monsieur Roger!” and they went off happily, calling aloud for their friend Constance. Roger remained absorbed. He seemed to see a very clear insinuation in the words and in the laughter of both young women, and yet he hardly dared to give to Constance’s sadness and sighs the interpretation that his love desired. Chapter 13. HOW THE WHITE GUARD LEFT FOR THE WAR. The day of Saint Andrew, the last day of November, was the one designated for the march. At a very early hour, the beating of the drums began, calling the soldiers together, followed by the call of the trumpet, ordering the formation of the White Guard in the fortress’s courtyard of honor. From a window in the armory, Roger contemplated the interesting spectacle: the ranks of sturdy archers and behind them the imposing group of men-at-arms, covered in iron and motionless on their horses, pawing impatiently. They were commanded by the veteran Reno, from whose lance fluttered a long, narrow banner with the five roses; in front of the infantry, the archer Simon, proud of the magnificent company under his command. The castle servants and some men-at-arms who were to remain on guard at the fortress and wanted to say goodbye to their friends also came to the courtyard . Roger was admiring the martial spirit of the troops when he was startled by a sob he heard behind him. He turned quickly and saw with astonishment Lady Constance, who, pale and faint, was leaning against the wall of the room, trying to stifle the sobs that shook her breast with a handkerchief placed over her lips . Her beautiful eyes, fixed on the ground, were filled with tears. “Oh, don’t cry!” cried Roger, running to her side. “The sight of all those brave men hurts me when I think of their fate and the destiny that awaits many of them. ” “May you see them all again before a year is out! Don’t worry so,” said the young man, daring to take her hand. “I wish I could go too,” added Constance, looking at him through her tears and smiling sadly. But in time of war, we are only allowed to waste away with impatience within the walls of a fortress, spinning or embroidering, while out there on the battlefields … Ah, what good am I in this world? “You!” Roger exclaimed passionately. “You are an angel from heaven, my only thought, my whole life! Oh, Constance, I cannot live without you, how can I leave you without a word of love! Since I first saw you, everything has changed for me. I am poor and not of your birth, although of noble origin, but I offer you a sincere love, a constant and eternal adoration. Say to me a single word of affection, if not of love, and it will be enough to encourage and sustain me in your absence, a thousand times more deadly than all the dangers of war. But Alas! I have frightened you with my words, perhaps offended you… The moved maiden had put her hands to her breast and twice tried to reply, but in vain. At last she said in a weak voice: “You have surprised me, yes, but not offended. Complete and sudden has been the change wrought in you. Will you not change again in absence? ” “Cruel! How can I cease to love you? Please, a single word of hope, a glance, to treasure as a supreme good and know that I may continue to adore you! I ask you no oath or promise… Tell me only that you do not forbid me to love you, that one day perhaps you will have an affectionate word for me… ” The young woman looked at him sweetly, her lips parted in a slight smile, and Roger seemed to hear the longed-for reply already; But at that moment a powerful voice resounded in the castle courtyard, followed by the great noise of weapons, footsteps, and the trotting of horses. The column was setting off. “Do you hear?” exclaimed the young woman, her face erect, her eyes shining. “They’re about to leave. It’s my father’s voice. Your place is at his side, from this moment until his return, until both of our returns. Not another word, Roger. Win my father’s esteem above all else. A good knight expects no reward until after he has fulfilled his duty. Farewell, and heaven protect you! ” The young man, filled with joy upon hearing these words, bent down to kiss his beloved’s hand. She quickly withdrew it upon feeling the touch of Roger’s ardent lips and hurried from the room, leaving in the hands of the astonished and overjoyed squire the white veil that Froilán de Roda had vainly requested as a most precious prize. At that moment, the creaking of the chains lowering the drawbridge was heard; the expeditionaries cheered their leader, who, having placed himself at the head of the column, had given the order to march. Roger, fervently kissing the fine veil, hid it in his chest and ran out into the courtyard. A cold wind was blowing and the sky was beginning to cloud over when Morel’s soldiers took the steep road to the town. Nearly all the residents of Salisbury were waiting for them on the banks of the Avon, and they saw Reno first, dressed in full armor, riding on a black steed, majestically bearing the banner of his famous captain. Behind him, three abreast, were twelve veterans of the great wars, who knew the coast of France and the main cities, from Calais to Bordeaux, as well as the forests and villages of their native land, the county of Hanson. They were armed to the teeth with a lance, a sword, and a double-edged axe, and carried on their left arms the short, square shield used by men-at-arms of the time. Peasants, women, and children enthusiastically acclaimed the banner of the five roses and its arrogant guard of honor. They were followed by fifty chosen archers, sturdy and tall, wearing simple helmets, coats of arms, and over them the white doublet with the red lion of St. George. They wore sturdy boots tied around their legs with long thongs, all of which constituted the equipment of the White Archers. On their backs was a well-stocked leather quiver and a battle bow, the most terrible and deadly weapon known to date. Hanging from their belts was a sword, axe, or mace, according to each one’s choice. A few steps behind the archers were the drums and bugles, four in number, and behind them ten or twelve mules with the small column’s equipment, tents, clothing, spare weapons, cooking utensils, provisions, tools, harnesses, horseshoes, and other essential or even useful items in the field. A servant of the baron led the ornately caparisoned white mule that carried the noble warrior’s clothing, weapons, and other belongings. The center of the column was made up of about one hundred archers, and bringing up the rear were the rest of the cavalry, that is, the recently recruited men-at-arms, all of them picked soldiers, though not veterans like their comrades in the vanguard. Our friend Simon commanded the bulk of the archers, and behind him, in the front line, stood Tristan de Horla, an Alcides with a helmet, chain mail, bow, arrows, and a colossal mace. The moment the column entered the village street, a flurry of banter erupted, and farewells and hugs abounded. “Hello, Master Retinto!” cried Simon, seeing the innkeeper’s bruised nose. “What will you do with your vinegar and watered-down beer, now that we’re leaving? ” “Well, I’m going to rest, because you and your companions have drunk every drop of everything I had at home, except the water. ” “Your barrels may be dry, but your purse is full, you scoundrel!” exclaimed another archer. “Let’s see if you can stock up on supplies for when we return.” “Bring your throat unharmed, for you will not lack beer and wine, archer,” a voice shouted from the crowd, in response to him with great laughter. “Close ranks, for the street here is a narrow alley,” Simon ordered. “For God’s sake! There’s Catherine, the little miller, more beautiful than ever.” ” Goodbye, ma belle!” Tighten that belt, William, or the axe will cut your calluses. And see if you can walk with a little more life, moving those shoulders and holding your head high, as only white archers know how to walk . And you, Reinaldo, don’t shake the dust off your vest again. Do you think we’re going to make a stop? Wait, son, for before we reach the port you’ll be as dusty as I am, no matter how much you clean yourself up.” The column had reached the last houses of the village when the Lord of Morel emerged from the castle, riding on the spirited Ardorel, black as jet and the finest warhorse in the entire county. The Baron was dressed in black velvet and a cap of the same with a long white plume, fastened by a gold clasp, and he bore no other arms than his sword, suspended from the cantle. But the three gallant squires who followed him, well mounted, bore, in addition to their own arms, Froilán his lord’s helmet with a helm, Gualtero his sturdy lance, and Roger his emblazoned shield. Beside the Baron trotted his wife’s white palfrey , for she wished to accompany him to the entrance of the forest. The good Baroness had not wished to entrust to anyone the task of carefully selecting and packing her husband’s clothes and effects; she had arranged everything herself, except for the weapons. And these were the instructions he gave to Roger and the other squires, when entrusting them with the Baron’s person. “I think nothing has been forgotten,” he continued, “I highly recommend it to you, Roger. All the clothes go in that box on the right side of the mule. The bottles of Malvasia are in the basket on the left; you will prepare a glass of that wine for him, very hot, at night, so he can drink it before going to bed. Make sure he doesn’t stay with his feet wet for hours on end , because he never remembers such things. Among the clothes goes a small box with the most essential medicines; and as for the bedclothes, they must be very dry, especially on campaign… ” “Don’t worry about me,” said the Baron, laughing at this enumeration. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your concern, but you want my squires to treat me more like an ailing old man than a seasoned soldier. ” And what do you say, Roger? Why so pale? Doesn’t it gladden your heart, as it does mine, to see the five roses serving as an ensign to such gallant soldiers? “I’ve already given you the purse, Roger,” continued the Baroness, impassively, “to prevent your master from being left penniless from the first days of the march. Be very careful with the money. The gold-embroidered boots are exclusively for the day the Baron presents himself to our gracious sovereign, or to the Prince his heir, and for the meetings of the nobles. Then you can put them back, before the Baron goes hunting in them and destroys them… ” “My good friend,” observed Monsieur de Morel, “it pains me to my soul to part from you, but we have reached the borders of the forest and you must go no farther. May the Virgin keep you and Constance as much as I can.” return. But before we part, please give me one of your gloves, for I wish to wear it on the front of my helmet in tournaments and combats, as a token of the woman I love. ” “Leave it, Baron, for I am old and not at all beautiful, and the handsome lords of the court would laugh at you if you proclaimed yourself the champion of such a poor lady. ” “Listen, squires!” exclaimed the Lord of Morel. “Your eyesight is better than mine, and I wish that if you see a knight, however noble and high, disdain this token of the lady I serve, you inform him immediately that he must deal with Baron León de Morel, on horseback with lance and shield, or on foot with sword and dagger, in combat to the death.” Having said this, he respectfully received the glove that the baroness offered him and secured it to his cap with the same gold clasp that held the waving feather. He then bid a fond farewell to the tearful lady , and, setting his horse at a trot, followed by his squires, took the road through the forest. Chapter 14. Adventures of a Journey. The Baron remained for some time with his head bowed; Froilan and Roger were no less silent and thoughtful than he, but the cheerful Gualtero, who had no sorrows or loves, amused himself by brandishing his master’s heavy lance, threatening trees with it and directing great boats at imaginary enemies, though taking great care that the Baron should not notice his warlike pantomime. They brought up the rear of the column, and at times Roger heard the measured tread of the archers and the neighing of horses. “Come to my side, boys,” said the Lord of Morel as they passed in front of a farmhouse where the road widened considerably. Since you are to follow me to war, it will be good if I tell you how I wish to be served. I have no doubt that Froilán de Roda will prove himself a worthy son of his valiant father, and you, Gualtero, of yours, the noble Lord of Pleyel. As for Roger, always remember the house to which you belong, the honor bestowed upon you, and the duties imposed upon you by the long line of the lords of Clinton. Do not make the mistake, so common among soldiers, of believing that our expedition has as its principal objective the obtaining of booty and ransoms, although every good knight can and usually will achieve both . We are going to France, and to Spain, as I hope, first of all to uphold the splendor of English arms, and secondly to make our name and our shield famous, an immense advantage for a knight over a peasant. And this prestige can be obtained not only in battles and sieges but in jousts and duels, for which there is never a lack of reason or pretext. But in a foreign land or in enemy territory, no pretext is needed; all it takes is to draw one’s sword and politely invite another gentleman to a duel. For example, if we were in France, I would now tell Walter to gallop toward that knight who is coming over and, after greeting him in my name, invite him to cross swords with me. “Well, the poor fellow wouldn’t be so frightened,” exclaimed Walter, who was looking attentively at the stranger. “As if he is the miller from Salisbury, riding on his red mule, and probably gorged on beer, as is customary. ” “That is why the squire should ask, in case of doubt, whether the passant is a knight or not. I have had many interesting adventures on my travels, and one of the most memorable is my encounter a league from Reims with a French paladin with whom I fought for nearly an hour.” His sword broken, he struck me with his mace with such a terrible blow that I fell battered and unable to bid farewell to that valiant champion as I wished, nor to ask him his name. I only remember that his coat of arms was a griffin’s head on a blue band. On a similar occasion, I received a sword thrust in the shoulder from Léon de Montcourt, with whom I had the honor of crossing swords on the road to Bordeaux. That was our only meeting, and I retain the fondest memories of it, because my enemy conducted himself like a true knight. And let us not forget the brave jouster Le Capillet, who would have become a great captain in the French army… “Did he die?” asked Roger. “I had the misfortune to kill him in a delightful little wood near the walls of Tarbes. We encountered similar adventures everywhere, in Languedoc, Ventadour, Bergerac, Narbonne, even without seeking them out, for a French squire often awaited us at the turn of the road, bearing a courteous message from his lord to the first English knight who would accept the challenge. One of them broke three lances with me at Ventadour, in honor of his lady. ” “Did he perish in the contest, Baron?” said Froilan. “I have never known. His servants carried him away in their arms, stunned, fainted, or dead. At the time, I did not care to inquire into his fate because I myself emerged from the fight bruised and injured. But here comes a horseman galloping, as if pursued by a legion of enemies. The wind was sweeping the road, which at that point formed a gentle slope. On the other side of a hollow, it rose again and was lost in a small wood, among whose first trees the rearguard of the column was just disappearing . The rider passed by it without stopping and began to climb the slope at the top of which stood the baron and his servants, constantly harassing his horse with spur and whip. Roger saw that the steed was covered in dust and sweat and that it was mounted by someone who appeared to be a soldier, with stern features and a helmet, buckskin coat, and sword. On the saddlebag he carried a package wrapped in white linen. “Make way for the king’s messenger!” he cried as he approached. “Little by little, sir shouter,” said the nobleman, leading his horse across the road. “I too have been the king’s servant for more than thirty years, but I have never gone around shouting it out loud. ” “I am on duty, and I carry with me what belongs to the king.” You block my way at your own expense…. “Among my many adventures, I have also come face to face with scoundrels who concealed their traitorous designs by pretending to be messengers of His Highness,” insisted the Lord of Morel. ” Let us see what credentials they have for you. ” “By force, then!” cried the rider, drawing his sword. “If you are a knight,” said the baron, “we will continue our interview right here. If you are a commoner, any of these three squires of mine, however noble, will consider himself well served to punish your audacity.” The stranger looked at them angrily and, dropping the hilt of his sword, began hurriedly to unwrap the parcel he carried on his bowstring. “I am neither a knight nor a squire,” he said, “but a former soldier and now a servant of our prince’s justice. Do you want credentials? Well, here they are!” and he presented the horrified knights with a freshly severed human leg. This is the leg of a thief quartered at Dunan, which, by order of the Chief Justice, I am taking to Milton to be nailed there to a post where all may see it, and serve as a warning. ” “Plague!” exclaimed the Baron. “Step aside with your burden. Follow me at a trot, squires, and let us leave this executioner’s assistant behind us as quickly as possible. Phew! I assure you,” he continued when they were on the opposite slope, “the heaps of dead on a battlefield do not cause me as much repugnance as one of those carnages on the scaffold. ” “Well, there has certainly been no lack of atrocities in the wars of France, according to the accounts of our soldiers,” observed Roger. “That is true,” replied the Baron. But know that the best combatants, the true soldiers, never mistreat a defeated and unarmed man, nor slit the throats and tear to pieces prisoners, nor prey on the weak in the sacking of a fortress. That cruel task is left for the cowards and the vile, who unfortunately are never lacking, and for those mobs of marauders who go like vultures following the troops and looking for easy prey. If I am not mistaken, there to the right of the road among the trees. “A chapel of the Virgin,” said Froilán, “and at its door an old beggar. ” The nobleman uncovered his head and, stopping his horse at the door of the modest chapel, prayed aloud to the Queen of Heaven to bless his weapons and those of his soldiers in the coming campaign. “A little alms, my good lords,” the beggar then said in a pleading voice. “Please do good to this poor blind man, who hasn’t seen the light of day for twenty years. ” “How did you lose your sight, grandfather?” the Baron asked. “In the flames of a fire, which burned my entire face. ” “Your misfortune is great, but it also saves you from seeing no small amount of misery, like what we just witnessed on this very road,” said the Lord of Morel, recalling the bloody leg of the dismembered thief. “Give him my purse, Roger, and let’s quicken our pace, for we’ve fallen far behind.” Roger took great care to obey his lord’s order and, remembering the Baroness’s instructions, took a single coin from the purse entrusted to his care and gave it to the beggar, who received it with murmured thanks and prayers. From a nearby eminence, the travelers saw the village of Horla, situated at the bottom of a valley, the vanguard of Morel’s forces approaching the first houses. Morel and his squires put their horses into a gallop and soon reached the rear ranks, at the same time that a shrill voice was heard and the soldiers burst into laughter. The baron then saw a gigantic archer marching outside the ranks, followed by a tiny old woman, poorly dressed and holding a stick, which she vigorously used to beat the archer’s shoulders every few steps, while still shouting at him. The victim of this novel execution paid as much attention to the blows he received as if they had been struck against one of the oaks in the forest. “What is that, Simon?” asked the lord of Morel. “What outrage has the archer committed?” If he has offended that woman or seized her property, I swear to leave him hanging in the town square, even if he is the best soldier in my company. “No, Lord Baron,” replied the veteran, struggling to contain his laughter. “The archer Tristan is from this village of Horla, and the woman is his mother, who welcomes him in her own way. ” “I will teach you, you lazy, stray, idler!” cried the old woman, brandishing her staff. “Little by little, mother,” said Tristan, “for I am no longer a loafer, but an archer for the king, and I am going to the wars of France. ” “So to France, scoundrel? It would be better for you to stay here, for I will give you all the war you want, without going so far. ” “I will not doubt that, good woman,” said Simon, “for neither the French nor the Spanish will dust him off as you do.” “And what is it to you, you loose cannon?” exclaimed the old woman, turning angrily on Simon. “You’re a fine soldier too, a busybody, a drunkard! ” “Hold on, Simon!” the archers said in chorus, with great laughter. “Leave her alone, comrades,” said Tristan, “for she has always been a good mother, and what drives her mad is that I have done my holy bidding all my life, instead of working like a slave with the woodcutters of Horla. It’s time we said goodbye, Mother,” he continued, lifting the woman, as weak as a feather, and kissing her affectionately. “Don’t worry, I will bring you a silk skirt and a velvet mantle not fit for a queen, and tell my sister Juanilla that there will be good silver ducats for her too when I return. ” With that, the archer returned to the ranks and continued the march with his companions. The woman remained whimpering, and when he reached her the baron said: “Do you see, sir? It has always been the same; first he became a monk to be idle, and because a young woman did not want him, and now he goes off to war, leaving me old and poor, without a soul in God to bring me an armful of wood from the forest… ” “Console yourself, good woman, that with God’s protection he will return safe and sound and not without his share of the booty. What I am sorry about is having given my purse to a beggar out there in the forest… ” “Forgive me, sir,” said Roger; “there are still some coins in it.” “Then give them to the archer’s mother,” ordered the nobleman, putting his horse to a trot, while Roger placed two ducats in the woman’s hand. old woman, who, forgetting her anger, invoked heaven’s blessings upon the Baron, Tristan, and their companions. Once the column reached the Léminton River, the order to halt was given for lunch and rest, and before the sun began its march toward sunset , the soldiers resumed theirs, singing joyful songs. For his part, the Baron longed to reach the end of his journey and reach enemy territory, to cross swords and break lances once more with the adversaries of his previous campaigns. While he was thinking about them, he and his squires saw two men coming along the road who immediately caught their attention. The one in front was a skinny , deformed creature, whose tousled red hair increased the volume of an enormous head; his wet eyes were cruel and grim, he seemed filled with terror, and he held in his hand a small crucifix that he raised high, as if showing it to all the passersby. Behind him walked a tall , burly fellow with a long black beard, carrying over his shoulder a studded mace, which he raised at intervals over the other’s head, threatening to kill him. “By Saint George, we have an adventure!” said the Baron. “Find out, Roger, who these people are, and why one of the peasants is thus threatening and frightening the other. ” But the squire need not advance, for the two men walked on and soon arrived within a few paces of the Baron. The one carrying the crucifix then flung himself down upon the grass, and the other immediately raised the heavy mace, with such an expression of fury and hatred that it truly seemed the fallen man’s last hour had arrived. “Hold on!” cried the Baron. “Who are you, and what has that wretch done to you?” “I am not to account for my actions to the wayfarers I meet on the road,” replied the stranger curtly. “The law protects me.” “That is not my opinion,” said the nobleman, “for if the law permits you to threaten a defenseless man with that club, neither should it prevent me from placing my sword to your breast. ” “By the nails of Christ, protect me, good knight!” exclaimed the one with the crucifix at that point, falling upon his knees and stretching out his hands in supplication. “I have a hundred doubloons in my belt, and they are yours if you kill my executioner. ” “How is it, you scoundrel? Do you intend to buy a nobleman’s arm and sword with gold? I believe, by my faith, that you are as base in soul as in body, and that you deserve the treatment you receive. ” “You speak very truly, sir knight,” replied the one with the mace, “for this is Peter the Red, a highwayman, with more than one death on his conscience, the terror of Chester and all the region for many months.” A week ago, he treacherously killed my brother. I pursued him with some of my neighbors, and, closely hounded, he took refuge in the monastery of San Juan. The reverend prior refused to hand him over to me until I had sworn to respect the life of this murderer as long as I held in my hand the crucifix he had given him as a pledge of asylum. I have kept my oath until now like a good Christian, but I have also sworn to follow the wretch until he falls exhausted and to kill him like a dog as soon as the holy cross that still protects him slips from his hands. The bandit roared like a wild beast; the other approached him threateningly with his mace raised, and the spectators of the scene watched them for some time in silence, then moved away along the road that led to the column. Chapter 15. HOW THE YELLOW GALLEON SET SAIL. Morel’s soldiers slept that night in San Leonardo, spread out among the farms, barns and outbuildings of that village, which belonged, like so many others, to the rich abbey of Belmonte, which was not far away. Roger saw with joy again the white habits of some of the religious settled there and movedly remembered his years of monastic life when he heard the chapel bell calling for vespers. At dawn, men-at-arms, archers and servants embarked on wide boats that were waiting for them on the Lande estuary and passing in front of the picturesque village of Esbury they arrived at the Solent roadstead and the port of Lepe, where they were to embark on the king’s galley. In the harbor, they saw a multitude of barges and launches, and anchored a good distance away, a large vessel rocking on the foamy waves. “Praise be to God!” exclaimed the Baron. “Our friends from Southampton have kept their promise, and here is the yellow-painted galleon they described and offered to send to Lepe in their last letters. ” “Canary yellow,” said Roger. “And apparently, large enough to accommodate more soldiers on board than a pomegranate has seeds. ” “Which I’m glad about,” observed Froilán, “because either I’m mistaken or we won’t be making the journey alone. Don’t you see there in the distance, among those shacks on the beach, the colors of a gonfalon and the gleam of weapons? Those reflections don’t come from fishermen’s oars or peasants’ robes . ” “That’s quite true,” replied Gualtero. Look, there goes a boat full of men-at-arms, heading for the ship. We’ll have a large company, so much the better. And for now, they welcome us; see the townspeople coming to meet us. Large groups of men, women, and children were making their way to meet the boats and waving hats and handkerchiefs from the beach, shouting joyfully and cheering the famous captain. No sooner had the archers from the first boat, commanded by Sergeant Simon, jumped ashore than a fat, richly dressed figure approached him, wearing a thick gold chain around his neck from which hung an enormous medal of the same metal on his chest. “Welcome, high and powerful sir,” he said, uncovering his large bald head and bowing deeply to Simon. “Welcome to our city and accept our humble respects. Give me your orders at once , illustrious captain, and tell me how I may be of service to you and your people.” “Well, since you offer it so kindly,” Simon replied sarcastically, “for my part, I’ll be content with a couple of links of that chain you wear around your neck, a thicker one I’ve never seen, not even among the most opulent knights of France. ” “You’re certainly joking, Baron,” replied the admirable personage, who was none other than the mayor of Lepe. “How am I to give you part of this chain, the emblem of our city’s municipality? ” “We’ll be done for,” grunted the veteran. “You’re looking for the Baron of Morel, our valiant captain, and there he is, just disembarking and riding the black horse. ” The mayor looked at the baron in surprise, whose frail appearance was ill-suited to the fame of his prowess. “You are all the more welcome,” he said, after repeating the respectful greeting he had earlier addressed to the cunning archer, “because this loyal city of Lepe needs defenders like you and your soldiers more than ever. ” “What are you saying?” “Explain yourselves,” exclaimed the Lord of Morel, waiting attentively for the official’s reply. “What is happening, sir, is that the bloodthirsty pirate Blackhead, one of the cruelest Norman bandits, accompanied by the Genoese Titus Carleti, has recently appeared along our coasts, looting, burning, and killing. Neither the valor of our people nor the ancient walls of Lepe offer sufficient protection against such fearsome enemies, and the day they appear here… ” “Goodbye, Lepe,” concluded Gontrán the squire in a low voice. “But do you have reason to believe they will attack your town?” asked the baron. “Without a doubt.” The two large galleys loaded with pirates have already sacked the neighboring towns of Veymouz and Porland, and yesterday they burned Coves. Very soon it will be our turn. “But the fact is,” observed the Lord of Morel, turning his horse in the direction of the city gates, “that the royal prince is waiting for us in Bordeaux, and for nothing in the world would I wish to see him on his way, leaving me behind. Nevertheless, I promise you that I will head for Coves and do everything possible to discover and punish these bandits in the vicinity, treating them in such a way that they do not think of new expeditions or landings. ” “We are very grateful for the offer,” replied the magistrate, “but I do not see how you can triumph with your single ship over the two powerful corsair galleys, while with your archers on the walls of Lepe it would be easy for you to teach the pirates a bloody lesson. ” “I have already told you my reasons for not stopping here. And as for the inequality of forces, believe me that the sight of that yellow galleon waiting for me there inspires me with great confidence, and that with my people on board I will not fear attacks from two or three pirate ships. We will set sail today. ” “Forgive me, Lord Baron,” said one of those accompanying the mayor. “My name is Golvín and I am the captain of the Yellow Galleon, assigned to guide you.” A sailor since childhood, I have fought aboard English ships against Normans and Genoese, Bretons, Spaniards, and Saracens, and I assure you that the ship under my command is too weak to attack corsairs. All you will achieve if you fall upon them will be the slaughter of half your people and the prospect, for those who survive, of being sold into slavery and spending their lives rowing on pirate or Moorish galleys. “Well, don’t think, Captain, that I have lacked naval battles in my long career as a soldier,” replied the nobleman, “and because the punishment of these scoundrels presents difficulties, all the more is my desire to face them and lay hands on them. Despite your words, Captain, you seem to me to be an experienced and courageous sailor, and I believe that with me you will gain honor and profit in this enterprise.” “I have done my duty by telling you frankly what I think of it, given the circumstances in which you are about to undertake it,” said Golvín, flattered by the Baron’s words. “But, by Saint Barbara! I am an old sailor, and I know nothing of fear. Whether we sink or not, count on me. I will take you to Coves, and if the ship’s owners don’t like the voyage, let them find another captain after the fight.” Following the group of chieftains and squires, Morel’s soldiers entered the town , mingled with a multitude of townspeople whose faces reflected their joy at the arrival of those gallant defenders. Simon’s servant was leading two robust girls by the arm, to whom he swore eternal love, and among the last rows stood the tall Tristan, on whose broad shoulder sat a fifteen-year-old fisher girl, who, somewhat frightened, clutched the giant’s helmet with both hands. The magistrate rode pensively beside his illustrious guest and didn’t notice that a prodigiously obese gentleman with a florid countenance was pushing his way through the ranks of onlookers and hurrying toward him . “How can you tell, Your Honor!” cried the newcomer with such effort that his face turned purple. “Where are the oysters and clams promised for today’s meal? ” “Calm down, Sir Oliver,” said the magistrate. “It’s quite possible that my steward and cook have forgotten the oysters or haven’t been able to get them; but there’s no reason to despair over such a pittance. There’ll be plenty to eat. ” “Bicoca? Well, I like it! A meal without oysters, without a single miserable clam! What will become of me? You would never have invited me to your table… ” “Come on, stay at least one day without oysters, my friend Oliver,” exclaimed the Baron, laughing, “for if today you have lost your favorite dish, in return you will see again a friend, a comrade in arms. ” “By Saint Martin!” cried the chubby figure, forgetting all his anger. “You, Sir Leo, the champion of the Garonne! Welcome! Ah, with you the memory of those good times is renewed. What adventures, what cuts, and what warriors! Do you remember? ” “Yes, by my faith. Happy days and glorious triumphs those were. ” “But we were not without tribulations and sorrows either. Do you remember what happened to us at Médoc? ” “It would not be much, good Oliver; some skirmish you had in which I took no part, for I remember very well not having drawn my sword while I was in Medoc…. “Always the same, furious Morel, incorrigible fierabrás. It’s not a question of giving and receiving lance blows and sword thrusts, but of the irremediable calamity that befell us at that tavern, where we were left without the most delicious hare pie I’ve ever seen because that brute of an innkeeper, instead of salt, filled it with sugar. God of justice, how can I forget such a disaster! ” “Ha, ha, ha! I see that you too are still the same, Sir Oliver, peerless gastronome, whose appetite equals your courage. Oh, yes! The inn at Medoc, in the company of Lord Pomers and Claude Latour, and your despair at seeing the stew lost, and how you pursued the innkeeper, sword in hand, into the street and tried to set fire to the tavern. Ha, ha! Believe me, Lord Mayor; My friend and companion, the noble Oliver de Butrón, is a dangerous man when he raises his lance and when his stomach grumbles, and the best thing you can do is to procure him as quickly as possible those shellfish he craves. “He’ll have them on his plate in less than an hour,” said the magistrate. “In the state of alarm we’re in, I haven’t been able to think of anything, and I confess I completely forgot the promise I made your noble friend last night to provide him with one of his favorite dishes. But I suppose, Lord de Morel, that you too will honor my poor table. ” “I still have much to do,” replied the baron, “for I intend to embark all my people this very afternoon. What force do you command, Sir Oliver? ” “Forty-three men. All forty are hopelessly drunk, and three are between two lights, but I have them all safe on board.” “Well, it would be best if they didn’t drink another drink, because before nightfall I intend to give them a job well done, unleashing my men and me upon those Norman and Genoese pirates you may have heard of. ” “And they have with them a good supply of caviar and fine spices from the Levant and other delicious delicacies that I promise I’ll enjoy,” said the burly nobleman, licking his lips. “Not to mention the good business that can be done by selling the leftover spices. I beg you, Captain, that when you return on board you order the sailors to throw a bucket of water over as many of my soldiers as are still in Calamocan. ” Leaving his noble friend and the city’s dignitaries gathered for the banquet, the Baron and his White Guard headed to the beach, where the embarkation of men, horses, and weapons quickly began in large boats that took them aboard the galleon. The baron urged them on with such haste, and the captain and his sailors received them and accommodated them on board with such skill , that the signal to raise the anchor was given while Señor de Butrón was still devouring the delicate delicacies on the corregidor’s table. Such haste is not surprising when one remembers that shortly before, the Black Prince had embarked fifty thousand men in the port of Orvel, with horses, artillery, and baggage, the squadron setting sail twenty-four hours after embarkation began. In the last boat to leave the beach of Lepe were the two famous captains, Baron León de Morel and the knight Oliver de Butrón, forming the greatest contrast imaginable. They were followed by another boat filled with large stones that the baron had ordered to be brought on board. Shortly after, the enormous Yellow Galleon set sail, hoisting its purple ensign with a golden image of Saint Christopher in its center and greeted by the acclamations of the crowd that thronged the beach. Beyond Lepe, the forests of Hanson stretched out, and behind them, the green hills in an unbroken line, forming a cheerful and picturesque landscape. “I swear by my sins that it is well worth fighting and dying for such a beautiful land!” exclaimed the Baron, who, standing in the stern, had his eyes fixed on that fertile and populated coast like no other. “But look there, Sir Oliver, among those rocks; don’t you think you saw a hunchback? ” “I can see nothing,” replied the person addressed in a melancholy tone, “because with the rush you always give us when it comes to going to break the soul with someone, I have an oyster as big as my fist choked and I can’t forget the bottle of Cyprus wine that I had to leave on the table, without so much as tasting it. “I saw him, Baron,” said Froilán; the hunchback was on the highest rock, watching our ship, and suddenly disappeared. “His presence confirms the good omens I observed today,” replied the Baron. As we headed toward the beach, a priest and a woman crossed our path, and now we see a hunchback before losing sight of the coast. A fortunate omen. What do you think of it, Roger? ” “I don’t know what to tell you, Baron,” replied the young man. The Romans and Greeks, highly enlightened peoples, had complete faith in these omens, but there are many among modern thinkers and scientists who consider such signs to be vain and childish. “I won’t say that,” observed Monsieur de Butron, recalling at that moment another of the gastronomic disasters he so lamented. Omens never fail, and if not, let the whole army of Prince Edward say so, that way back in the Pyrenees Pass, he suddenly heard a tremendous crash of thunder in the middle of the day, without a single cloud hiding the blue sky. We all knew what this meant and that we were threatened with a great calamity; and indeed, thirteen days later, a superb quarter of venison disappeared from the door of my tent, and my squires discovered that six bottles of Béarnais wine he was carrying for my table had gone sour… “Well, since you’re talking about squires,” said the Baron when the laughter provoked by the memory of Sir Oliver had ceased, “I must tell my men that today they will have a brilliant opportunity to prove their valor and imitate the example left by their noble ancestors. Go to the chamber, lads, and bring me my harness.” Lord de Butrón and I will arm ourselves here on deck, with your help. Then you prepare for whatever may happen and tell the officers to have men and weapons ready at the first signal. Which of us will command, Sir Oliver? You, my friend, you. I am an old warrior like you and I know my trade, but I cannot compare myself with the great captain who was once squire to William of Marny. Whatever you do will be well done. You will do as you please. Your flag will fly from the prow and mine from the stern. I will give you your forty men and as many archers of mine as the vanguard. Fifty more men with my squires will form the afterguard. The rest will be in the center and on the sides of the ship, except for a dozen armed with bows and crossbows, who will go in the tops. What do you think of the distribution? Excellent. But here they bring me my armor, and putting it on is already a long and difficult task for me. Meanwhile, there was a great deal of activity on board. The archers and men-at- arms formed into groups on deck, examining their bows and listening to the advice given by Sergeant Simon and other veterans, experts in the handling of this fearsome weapon. “Stand firm, lads, and don’t let anyone move from where I put them,” Simon went on saying from group to group. “As long as you have a good bow in your hand, no pirate will come near. And above all, don’t forget that as soon as one arrow is released, the other must already be in your hand and on the string. This has always been the rule in the White Guard. ” “And I say, my friend Simon, isn’t it also a rule to give each soldier half a quart of wine while he waits for the pirates with a dry throat?” asked Tristan de Horla. “That will come later, drunkard, but now we have to earn it.” Each man to his post, for either I am mistaken or two masts are pointing out that way, behind the Agujas de Coves. Archers and men-at-arms lay down on deck, in compliance with the baron’s orders. Near the prow hung from a sturdy lance the coat of arms of Butrón, a black boar’s head on a gold field, and in the center of the prow Reno the veteran planted the banner with the five roses of Morel. The center of the ship was covered by the swarthy Southampton sailors, all a hardened force, armed with boarding-axes, maces, and pikes. Their leader, Captain Golvín, was talking to the Baron at the stern, both scanning the horizon and keeping an eye on the sails and the two helmsmen. “Give orders,” said the Baron, “that no soldier or sailor be seen until the bugle orders them to lower their bows. It’s only fitting that those privateers take the Galleon for a Southampton merchantman fleeing upon discovering their ships. ” “There they are! Didn’t I say so?” exclaimed the captain, hurrying back to the Baron after conveying his order. “See the two galleys rocking placidly in the outer bay of Coves, and look also on land, to the east, at the smoke raised by their last fires. Ah, dogs! They’ve seen us now.” The arsonists’ launches are moving away from the coast at full speed, heading for their galleys, may God confound them. And what a crowd on board! It’s like an anthill. I repeat, Baron, that the undertaking could very well prove beyond our strength. Those pirate vessels are first- rate, and their crews are desperate men, fighting to the death. “Well, my friend, I envy your good eyesight,” replied Lord Morel with imperturbable calm, winking his irritated little eyes. “For now, do me the favor of telling the people that no quarter is being given to anyone today. With these beasts, I don’t want prisoners. Do you have a priest or a religious man on board? ” “No, Baron.” “It doesn’t matter.” The White Guard can do without them, because I’ve had them all thoroughly confessed since Salisbury, and damned if they’ve had any opportunity to commit misdeeds since we set out. But in truth, I feel sorry for the Vinchester contingent commanded by my noble friend de Butrón, for according to reports and signals, they’re a wayward bunch and have made a great deal of trouble these past few days. Let’s see, give orders that everyone say an Our Father and a Hail Mary while they wait for the signal to attack. Soon the prolonged murmur of all those prayers was heard, recited with singular devotion by archers, sailors, and men-at -arms as devout as they were brave. Many of them brought out crosses and relics, which they fervently kissed, lying on the deck and not showing themselves to the enemy. The Yellow Galleon had left the waters of the Solent and was moving away from the coast at full sail, cutting heavily through the foamy waves. The two pirate vessels, painted black, narrow and long, had launched themselves in pursuit, contrasting sharply with the greater height and robust shape of the galleon they were chasing. They looked like two hungry wolves chasing their prey. “But tell me, Baron. Those dogs have already seen the shield and banner we carry on the bow and stern and know we have two noblemen on board,” said Golvín. “I had already thought of that, but it is not proper for knights or commanders of royal troops to conceal their presence. They will say you are bound for Gascony and have received noble passengers bound for our prince’s headquarters. How they close the distance! Judging by their appearance and ours, you would think two falcons preparing to fall upon an innocent dove. But it is no wonder they reach us so quickly, with their triple row of oars, at a pace that we only have the sails. Do you see any signal or flag aboard those ships?” “There is an enormous black head painted on the mainsail of the left-hand ship ,” replied the captain. “It is the galley of the cruel Norman pirate, and the first time I saw it was at Chelsea. I saw him too, Blackhead, in the midst of battle. He is a giant with the strength of six men and the crimes of sixty on his conscience. ” “Only a barbarian like him would dream of entering into combat with two wretches hanging from the yards of his ship. Do you see them? ” “That is indeed the case,” replied the baron. “The Virgin of Embrun will grant me the favor of hanging him also in a few hours. What is that ensign on the sails of the other pirate? ” “The red cross of Genoa. ” “Which proves that we have there the bearded Titus Carleti, so brave and “Almost as bad as his fellow pirate. That Genoese claims there are no archers or soldiers like his in the world, and we must prove him wrong. ” “We will,” agreed the spirited captain. “But in the meantime, it would be good for the archers and crossbowmen, chosen in advance, to climb into the tops, concealing their presence and number as much as possible. The three anchors are already amidships, each with twenty feet of cable and securely lashed to the mainmast, with four good sailors in charge of each anchor. According to your orders, ten men distributed along the deck, with skins full of water, will take care to extinguish any fire that the incendiary arrows might start if used by those bandits. The stones are also in the tops, and the archers will be responsible for crushing with them any group of pirates that come within range.” “Send them any other heavy objects you have on board in addition to the stones ,” the Baron ordered. “Then the best thing would be to hoist Sir Oliver up to them,” Walter suggested. “A fine occasion for jest!” said the Lord of Morel, with a look that made the squire tremble. “Besides, it shall not be said that a servant of mine has mocked a nobleman in my presence without due correction.” After all, he continued, with difficulty repressing a smile, “ I know only too well that it was a boyish jest, with no malicious intent. However , Walter, I owe it to your father Carter de Pleyel to command you to keep a tight rein on your tongue. ” “Attack port and starboard simultaneously,” exclaimed Captain Golvín, seeing the two enemy ships separating. The Norman has a stone-thrower at the bow, and they are preparing to fire. ” “Now, Simon, three archers, the best you have,” the Baron ordered; Let them choose the most powerful bows at hand and teach the gunners a lesson as soon as they think they won’t miss their arrows. “Arnoldo, Renato, and Jaime, aft!” the veteran immediately exclaimed. A bloodbath for the first fool who touches that rock pile. Three hundred and fifty paces, at the most. Arnoldo, my son, you go first, and see if you can show off. Do you see that scoundrel in the red cap? Well, then, thread him before they fire. ” The three aforementioned archers, their gaze fixed on the prow of the enemy ship, slowly drew the strings of their enormous bows, no longer caring whether the pirates could see them or not. The numerous group they had formed had moved away from the rock pile, leaving two men alone beside it in charge of shooting it. The one with the red cap bent to aim, opened his arms, and fell face down with an arrow stuck in his side. Almost at the same instant, the other pirate received a dart in the throat and another in the leg and was left writhing on the deck. The pirates’ furious shouts were answered by the archers’ roars of laughter. “Well done, lads!” cried Simon. “But hide yourselves again behind the railing, for I see they’ve decided to take advantage of this lesson and are stretching out a mesh net to protect themselves against our arrows. Let no one appear. We shall soon hear the whistling of those giants’ stones.” Chapter 16. OF THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE YELLOW GALLEON AND THE TWO PIRATES. The supposed merchant ship and her two pursuers were heading rapidly westward, leaving the coast of San Albano to the north. Not another sail could be seen on the entire horizon. Roger remained near the wheel, looking at the enemy galleys and receiving full in his face the strong breeze from the sea that stirred his curly blond hair. A worthy descendant of so many famous Saxon warriors, his heart beat violently , and he longed to come to blows with the pirates without further delay. Suddenly, it seemed to him that a hoarse voice spoke in his ear, and turning quickly, he gave the helmsman an inquiring look. The sailor, smiling, pointed with his foot to a thick arrow stuck deep in a plank three paces from Roger’s head. A few seconds later, the helmsman fell face downwards, and Roger saw the bloody shaft of another arrow on his back . He bent down to raise the unfortunate man and heard the sound of the darts falling on board, similar to those produced by autumn rain on the dry leaves of the forest. “Nets of mail astern!” ordered the baron. “And another man at the helm!” said the captain imperiously. “You and ten archers entertain the Normans,” added the Lord of Morel, addressing Simon, “and have ten more of Sir Oliver’s men do the same with the Genoese. I don’t want to reveal our full force to them yet. ” Ten picked archers commanded by Simon immediately took up position on the stern side where the Norman ship was advancing, and the three squires watched with admiration at the calmness of those veterans at such moments and the precision with which they obeyed the commands, moving together as if they were one man. Their companions, hidden behind the rail, were not short of jokes and advice. “Louder, Fernán, louder, they’re not boarding yet.” Stay close to the bow, Renato; it seems you’re afraid of it or fear the string will stain your vest. Keep the wind in mind, and don’t waste an arrow. Meanwhile, the two enemy stone-throwers had taken the offensive, the men of both pieces well protected by a high mesh net. The Genoese man’s first stone whizzed over the archers’ heads and fell into the sea; the Norman stone-thrower’s killed a horse and knocked down several soldiers; another tore a huge hole in the Galleon’s sail; and the fourth struck the center of the prow and, rebounding, threw two of Butrón’s men-at-arms into the water. The captain stared at the baron. “They’re keeping their distance,” he said, “because our twenty archers have caused them great losses. But they’re going to kill many of us with their stone-throwers. ” “Well, a stratagem to bring them closer,” and the baron briefly gave his orders. Once these were transmitted, the archers began to fall as if the pirates’ artillery and arrows were wreaking great havoc. Very soon there were only three archers on each side, and the enemy ships rapidly closed in, their decks filled with a horrible mob shouting triumphantly and brandishing sabers, axes, daggers, and pikes. “They’re coming like fish to bait,” exclaimed the baron. “To them, soldiers, to them! The standard here, at my side, and the squires to defend it. Have the anchors ready to throw them aboard those condemned men. Sound the trumpets, and God protect our cause!” A unanimous acclamation answered him, and the gunwales of the English ship suddenly appeared covered from stem to stern by a double line of hulls. The enemy mob let out cries of rage, especially when they received the hail of arrows fired by the English archers in the center of that motley crowd, composed of men of all shapes and colors, Normans, Sicilians, Genoese, Levantines, and Moors. The confusion aboard both pirates was terrifying, and the slaughter great, as the archers launched their arrows and shafts from the top of the enormous Galleon, which dominated the enemy decks. Moreover, in that compact mass , ready to board what they believed to be a harmless merchant vessel, not a single arrow was lost, and the pirates fell in heaps, dead or wounded. Meanwhile, the men-at-arms assigned for that purpose had thrown two anchors aboard the enemy vessels to prevent their retreat, and the three ships were joined by a double iron rope, pitching heavily. Then began one of those frantic, bloody, and heroic struggles, not reported by any historian, not sung by any poet, of which no other sign or monument remains than a powerful and happy nation and a coast not devastated by the depredations that once ravaged it. The archers had cleared the bow and stern of both galleys of the enemy, but the pirates attacked the center of the Galleon in great numbers, falling furiously on both sides upon the sailors and men-at-arms and fighting with them hand to hand, in such confusion that the soldiers and sailors in the tops did not dare to throw darts or rocks, afraid of wounding and crushing their own comrades. In that confused mass of men, only the gleam of sabers and axes could be seen, falling with a shrill noise on helmets and armor, knocking down English, Genoese, and Normans, amidst a terrifying clamor, an indescribable tumult. The giant Blackhead, covered in iron and carrying a tremendous mace, overwhelmed all who came within his reach; each blow of his mace knocked down a victim. From the starboard side, the Genoese Carleti, short in stature, but whose broad shoulders, robust body, and muscular arms denoted his strength, had launched himself into the boarding with no less vigor . At the head of fifty picked and well-armed Italians, he forced his way almost to the mast of the English ship, and the sailors found themselves trapped as if between two iron walls by their fierce assailants, giving and receiving death without asking for quarter. But at that supreme moment, the help they so desperately needed arrived. The Lord of Butrón with his men-at-arms and the Baron, followed by his squires, de Reno, Simon, Tristan de Horla, and twenty others, threw themselves like lions against the mobs that had invaded the deck from both sides and, cutting a bloody path, reached the thickest part of the fighting. Roger did not leave his master’s side for a single moment, and although he had heard much of his prowess, he had never until then had any idea of his courage, his calmness in combat, or the swiftness of his movements. He leaped from one pirate to another, striking them down with a thrust or a slash, parrying the blows inflicted upon him with his shield and sword, and striking terror into his enemies. One of his blows struck Titus Carleti, wounding him in the neck , and at last the Blackhead himself resolved to finish off this fearsome combatant, and rushing to meet him, he raised his heavy mace over him. The baron bent down to better protect himself with his shield, while parrying the blows of the furious Genoese, but at that instant he slipped in a pool of blood and fell on the deck. Roger attacked the Norman giant, but a blow from the latter’s mace shattered his sword and fell him among a group of dead and wounded. Blackhead was about to repeat the blow when he felt his wrist seized as if by iron clamps and saw at his side Tristan, the Herculean archer, who, bending the Norman’s body backward and displaying his incredible strength, ended up breaking his arm and throwing him full length on the planks of the bridge. Once he was knocked down, he put his dagger to his face through the bars of his visor, and the fearsome pirate remained motionless, the only way to avoid the death that threatened him so close. Disheartened by the loss of their leader and closely hounded , the Normans turned their backs and abandoned the Galleon, leaping hastily onto the deck of their ship, where they began to be decimated by the arrows of the English archers and the boulders thrown at them by the sailors from the tops. Furthermore, with the pirate ship firmly attached to the Galleon by the latter’s anchor, Lord de Butrón and fifty veterans crossed aboard the Norman in pursuit of the fugitives. The fierce fight continued on the starboard side. The Genoese and his henchmen defended themselves vigorously, retreating step by step from the furious attacks of Baron de Morel, Roger, Reno, and their archers. Carleti, hoarse from rage and exhaustion and covered in wounds from which blood flowed profusely, returned aboard his ship with the remaining pirates, constantly defending himself, pursued by a dozen Englishmen who rushed to board the galley. Then Carleti leaped away from his companions, ran the length of the deck , and returning aboard the Galleon, cut with a single slash the anchor cable that held his ship. Having done this, he leaped back onto the deck of his galley, whose rowers began to heave it away from the Galleon. “Saint George help us!” cried Gualtero de Pleyel. “The Baron is on the galley, fighting with the Genoese! They’re taking him! ” “He’s lost!” cried Froilán de Roda. “Let’s jump out, Gualtero!” Both young men, standing on the side of the Galleon, launched themselves into space. The unfortunate Froilán fell over the oars of the pirate galley and disappeared among the waves; Gualtero, more fortunate, reached the deck of the enemy ship and joined the Baron’s companions. Roger wanted to follow his two friends in defense of their lord, but Tristán de Horla forcibly prevented him. “How can you take that death leap, boy, if you can barely stand?” he said. “Your head is full of blood. ” “My place is at the Baron’s side!” roared Roger, struggling uselessly. “Stay here, I tell you, and you’ll stay come hell or high water. You’d need wings to reach the galley.” It was gradually moving away. “Look at their courage, how they defend themselves, how they attack!” continued Tristán, following the details of the fight aboard the pirate. Our men have cleared the stern of the enemy and are advancing, with the Baron at the head. Bravo, Simon, a good blow! Reno is fighting like a tiger. The Genoese, although a bandit, is a brave man, there’s no doubt about it. He’s managed to gather his men on the prow…. By the Cross of Gestas, one archer has already fallen, and another! Damned Carleti! But there goes the Baron, to take care of him. Look, Roger! “The Baron has fallen… ” “No, one of his tricks. There he is again, more spirited than ever. What a sword!” The pirate leader falls back, falls, pierced through and through. “Hurrah, hurrah!” The others flee, surrender. There goes Simon. “For life!” “Now lower the flag of the red cross, now hoist that of Morel, the five roses…” “Hurrah!” The death of Tito Carleti put an end to all resistance, and his galley, changing tack, headed back toward the Galleon, greeted by the enthusiastic shouts of the soldiers. The Baron and Sir Oliver were soon reunited on the deck of the English ship, and the anchor that held it to the Norman galley was removed, and the three ships set sail a short distance apart. Roger, growing weaker with each passing moment, listened with admiration to the calm voice of the captain, who continued to command the maneuver as calmly as he had during the battle. “Our poor Galleon is certainly in serious damage,” Golvín said to Monsieur de Morel as soon as he could speak. “The rail is smashed, the mainsail is in tatters. What will the shipowners say when I show up with their ship in such a sad state? ” “The sad thing would be,” said the Baron, “if you were to suffer because of me, especially after today’s work and your brilliant behavior.” Nothing, you take those two galleys as proof of the journey and let the shipowners sell them. The proceeds will be used to reimburse the damages suffered by the Yellow Galleon, and the rest will be kept until my return, to be distributed among all. You will not complain on your part. On my part, I owe the Virgin of the Priory a silver image worth ten pounds for having granted me the favor of defeating and killing the Genoese pirate, whose valor and skill in the handling of weapons I am the first to acknowledge. And you, Roger? Wounded? “It’s nothing,” said the youth in a weak voice, removing his helmet, which still bore clear marks of the Norman’s powerful mace. But no sooner had he uncovered himself than blood flooded his face, and he collapsed. “He will soon recover,” said the nobleman after examining him closely. ” I have lost a brave squire today, and I can hardly lose another. How many casualties have we had, Simon?” “Nine archers, seven sailors, eleven men-at-arms, and your squire, the young Lord of Roda. ” “And the enemy? ” “Only the Norman chieftain remains alive. There he is, tightly bound. You will have him at your disposal, Lord Baron. ” “Hang him without delay. I made the vow, and it must be kept. But hang him from a yardarm of his own ship, for such was my promise. ” Blackhead, though wounded and with a broken arm, had remained standing by the rail, between two archers. At the Baron’s words, he shuddered, and his face twisted violently. “Hanged, me?” he exclaimed in French. “A villain’s death, me?” “Well, according to reports,” said the Lord of Morel, “you hanged anyone who fell alive into your hands, without distinction between noble or commoner. I have also vowed to hang you. ” “I am Lord of Andelys and royal blood runs in my veins.” “You are a heartless pirate,” replied the baron, turning his back on him, just as two sailors seized Blackhead and placed the noose around his neck. Feeling the rope, the pirate leader made a supreme effort and broke the bonds that tied his hands. He knocked down one of the archers who was guarding him, and, grabbing the sailor holding the rope by the waist with his one good arm, lifted him up and threw himself into the sea with him. “He’s escaped!” cried Simon, running to the point on the deck where Blackhead had disappeared. “Say rather that he’s dead,” replied the captain. Both have sunk like lead in the water. “I do not regret it,” said the Baron; “for although I have not been able to fulfill my vow, this pirate has behaved like a brave man in the fight, he has died like one, and it would have been a shame to hang him as if he had been one of those weaklings who accompanied him.” Chapter 17. ON THE BAR OF THE GARONNE. For two days the Yellow Galleon sailed under full sail, driven by favorable northeasterly winds, leaving Ushant, the westernmost point of France, behind, and on the third day passing Belle Ile, it sighted some transports returning to England. The two noblemen had their coats of arms hung on the side of the ship and watched with the greatest interest the signals with which the transports responded, which indicated the names of those knights whom sickness or wounds had forced to return home at such a critical moment. In the afternoon, signs of an impending storm began to appear, which deeply alarmed Captain Golvín. Not only had he lost a third of his sailors, but half of the remaining crew were aboard the two captured galleys. This, combined with the damage suffered by his own ship, put him in very poor condition to withstand the storms of that dangerous coast. The wind blew violently all night, causing the heavy transport to roll heavily. Roger, although weakened by blood loss, climbed onto the deck at dawn, preferring to be drenched by the waves rather than remain confined to the cramped, dark, and rat-filled cabins. Clinging to a halyard, he contemplated with emotion the spectacle of the turbulent sea, covered with countless waves and reflecting the black color of the clouds. The two captured galleys followed the Galleon at a short distance, also struggling with the wind and waves. To the left, through the mist, lay the land of France, that land where his ancestors had shed their blood and achieved everlasting glory; France, home of so many famous knights, so many beauties, the scene of unforgettable deeds and the seat of great monuments, of art, luxury, and wealth. Standing before that French shore, Roger kissed the precious veil given him by the beautiful Constance de Morel, and kissing it, he swore an oath to win with his valor a fame worthy of so noble a lady, or perish in the quest. He was roused from his meditations by the hoarse voice of the captain, who, dominating the tumult of the elements, shouted to him: “You have a bad attitude, sir knight, and I am not surprised, for I myself, having sailed since childhood, do not recall ever seeing such a sure promise of a revolting storm. A bad day and a worse night await us. ” “My thoughts were different,” said the squire, “quite unaware of the tempest that threatens us.” “Do use me if I can be of any use to you. But speaking of thoughts, they are no less dark when I imagine the difficulties of my return voyage: contrary winds, the mainsail split in two, a third of my sailors dead, and the ship damaged and leaking everywhere. I believe that before we reach Southampton again we shall be turned into salted herrings.” Judging by the amount of water I expect to take on board as soon as I set my bow for England. And what does my lord say to that? He’s down below, helping his friend decipher coats of arms. All he tells me is not to speak to him about such trifles. Trifles! And what about Sir Oliver? As soon as I tell him I’m short on sailors, he tells me to cook them all in Gascony sauce. I turned to the archers. “What if you want!” They spend hours playing dice over there, presided over by Sergeant Simon and Reno, and the red-headed giant who broke the pirate’s arm. “Look, this Galleon is going to sink any moment,” I tell them. “And they don’t care. That ‘s your account, bad captain,” one tells me. “Six and white,” another grunts . “And that Simon, may God confound him, ends up sending me to hell.” “You can hear them from here, pack of sharks!” Indeed, despite the sound of the wind and the waves, the echo of the oaths and laughter of the gamblers who filled the bow reached them. “If I can help you,” Roger suggested. “You have enough to do looking after your damaged head, or what remains of it thanks to the helmet that took the brunt of the blow. But everything that can be done for now has been done; the starboard breach has been covered with sails and interlaced cables, and it only remains to be seen what will happen when we change course to avoid the rocks and shoals of the coast, which we are getting too close to. Here comes the Baron, and by my faith, he is just in time. ” “Do not take my distraction lightly, Master Golvín,” said the knight, walking with difficulty as a result of the ship’s rolling. “I was deeply preoccupied with a difficult heraldic matter, on which I would like to hear your opinion, Roger.” These are the quarters of the coat of arms belonging to the Sosire family, whose chief, Sir Leiton, is my uncle, married to the widow of Sir Henry Oglander of Nunvel. The delimitation of these quarters has been a matter of much debate among all who understand blazons. How are we doing, Captain? “I’m worried about the state of the ship, Baron. We’ll have to luff very soon, and as soon as I try, the poor Galleon will begin to take on water. ” “Call Sir Oliver at once!” cried the Baron. Shortly after, the fat knight arrived aft, slipping at every step, clutching the rail, the halyards, and everything else he could get his hands on, his face puffy and cursing his fate. “What kind of ship is this, Captain,” he exclaimed between two rolls, “on which an honest knight cannot take a step without risking his soul to pieces?” If this dance is to continue much longer, put me aboard one of those pirates, who can’t be more dashing than your ship, for sure. When I could no longer resist weakness, I sat down before a jar of malmsey and a mutton shanks, and at the first lurch the jar fell on me, covering me with pearls in my robes and breeches, and the stew ended up, sauce and all, on the holy ground. There are my pages running after it, like greyhounds chasing a doe. Heaven’s sake, what galley or what tarasque!… But have you called me, friend Morel? “To hear your opinion, unfortunate and hungry knight. Here you have Master Golvín, afraid that if the Galleon veers around, it will begin to take on water. ” “Well, let it not veer, the matter is clear.” And with your permission, Baron, I ‘m going back to see what those scoundrels of pages are doing… “But if we don’t tack, we’ll end up against the rocks before you can sit down at table again,” said the captain. “Then tack, with a thousand cavalry,” growled Señor de Butrón. ” Would you allow it, my friend Baron?” At that instant, the lookouts’ voices were heard: “Rocks ahead!” In the center of an enormous wave, a hundred yards away, the dark stones of a reef appeared, covered with foam. The captain threw himself at the helm and began to shout the commands; the sailors practiced their maneuvers without losing a moment; the bowsprit turned with a prolonged screech, and the galleon changed course, a very short distance from the threatening rocks. “I don’t think I can save them in time,” roared the captain, clinging to the wheel. “Saint Christopher help us! ” “Since we’re in such great danger, I want my flag flying on deck,” said the Baron calmly. “Go and get it, Roger, and nail it here. ” “And I,” exclaimed Sir Oliver, “promise my exalted patron Saint James of Compostela to visit his shrine there in Spain if he gets me out of this predicament, and to eat one more carp every waking day for a year. How the sea roars! What are you saying, Captain? ” “We’re passing, we’re passing!” cried Golvín, his eyes fixed on the breakers nearest the bow. “By God!” A few moments of waiting followed, and then the scraping of the keel on the rocks was felt throughout the ship . One of these, its point projecting obliquely, scraped hard against the side of the hull, tearing out long splinters. A moment later the Yellow Galleon completed its flight, the wind filled the sails, and all escaped the grave danger, fleeing from the threatening coast amid the acclamations of sailors and soldiers. “Praise be to God!” exclaimed the captain, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “I will not return to Southampton without offering a five-pound candle to good Saint Christopher in the convent chapel. ” “Well, I’m glad,” commented Sir Oliver, “for in truth I prefer to die lean, although after having eaten so many fish in this life, it would be only right for the fish to eat me. And since it’s about eating , I’m returning to my cabin… ” “Wait a little longer, my dear companion,” said the Baron, “for if I understand correctly, we are escaping one danger only to fall into another.” “Captain!” the boatswain cried at that moment. “The waves have swept away the sails closing the port hole! The ship is taking on water!” Many sailors rushed out after the boatswain, announcing that the water was flooding the interior of the ship and that the horses were in immediate danger. Obeying Golvín’s energetic orders, they secured sails over the hole in the side, an extremely difficult operation under the circumstances, which, once completed, prevented, though not completely, the entry of water. The Galleon had sunk considerably, and the waves frequently swept over the deck. “I don’t think she’ll hold in the direction we’re going,” said the captain, ” but if I tack, we’ll run aground. ” “And if we lower the sails?” suggested the Baron. “Couldn’t we wait for a calm sea and the wind? ” “No, both would soon throw us against the rocks. In thirty years on board, I’ve never been in a similar situation.” May the saints in heaven have mercy on us! —And I trust very particularly in the protection of Great Saint James, on whose day I vow to eat another carp, in addition to the one already promised for all the vigil days of the year…. Golvín looked in the direction of the two captured galleys; he could see them a great distance away, now leaping over the waves, now falling heavily among them. —If they were closer, said the sailor, we might still be able to save ourselves. For now, Baron, it would be best for you to take off your armor, because at any moment we could find ourselves in the water. —I will not accept your advice, replied the knight. It will not be said that a nobleman voluntarily disarms because he is threatened by Aeolus and Neptune. What I will do is summon the White Guard on deck and await with them whatever good or bad fortune heaven may bring us. But what is that, Master Golvín? Poor as my eyesight may be, it seems this is not the first time I have seen those two promontories over there on the left. “By Saint Christopher!” exclaimed the sailor in a joyful voice, looking eagerly in the direction indicated. “It’s La Tremblade! And I thought I hadn’t gone past Oloron! There, in front of us, is the mouth of the Garonne, and once we have passed the bar, all danger will be gone. Luff, lads! Helm to port!” The bowsprit moved again, the wind picked up the sails to starboard, and He urged the weary ship in the new direction offered by such an unexpected refuge. From one end of the wide estuary to the other, the waves formed a moving barrier crowned with foam, which extended to the north as far as a high peak and to the south as far as a low, sandy point. In the center, a small island against which the waves crashed furiously. “Between the island and the promontory there is a channel,” said the captain; ” the pilot of the royal prince himself pointed it out to me. We shall see if the Galleon obeys my command, loaded with water as she is and submerged a fathom more than she ought. ” “Forward, master,” exclaimed the Lord of Butrón; Twice has fortune been favorable to us in the imminent dangers of this day, and if she protects us now, I make a vow to blessed Santiago de… “Hold your tongue, my friend Butrón, for if you continue offering us carp , you will end up incurring the indignation of the saint… ” “I beg you to order the soldiers to lie down on deck and remain motionless,” said the captain. “In a few minutes we will be saved, or our last hour will have arrived.” Archers and men-at-arms obeyed promptly. Golvín clung to the tiller and stared forward, beneath the billowing mainsail. The two commanders, motionless aft, also contemplated the dreaded bar. Finally, the Yellow Galleon reached the breakers, avoided the obstacles, and in a few moments, leaving all danger behind, sailed the calm waters of the Garonne. Chapter 18. HOW THE BARON MADE A VOW TO WEAR A PATCH. One Friday morning, December 29th, two days before New Year’s Eve, the Yellow Galleon anchored off the noble city of Bordeaux. Roger’s interest and admiration were great as he contemplated from on board the forest of masts, the numerous boats crossing in all directions, and the beautiful city spread out in the shape of a crescent along the riverbank, with its high towers and multitude of buildings of the most varied architecture and colors. Never in his tranquil life had he seen a city of equal importance, nor did England, with the sole exception of London, have any that could compare with it in size and wealth. At that time, the products of all the fertile regions bathed by the Dordogne and the Garonne arrived in Bordeaux: textiles from the south, furs from Guienne, wines from the Médoc, to be later exported to Hull, Exeter, Dartmouth, Bristol, or Chester in exchange for English wools and flannels. In Bordeaux were also located the famous smelting furnaces and forges that had made their steels universally renowned and with which the finest- tempered swords and lances were forged. From his galleon, Roger saw the smoke rising from the tall chimneys of the foundries, and the breeze occasionally carried to him the call of the bugles that resounded from the walls of the square. “Hello, my petit!” said Simon, approaching him. “You are now a full-fledged squire and on your way very soon to wearing the golden spur, while I am and will always be a sergeant instructor of archers and nothing more. I hardly dare to continue speaking to you with the same frankness as when we were plundering in the inns of our homeland. Nevertheless, I can still serve as your guide in these new places for you, especially in Bordeaux, whose houses I know one by one, as well as the friar knows the beads of his rosary.” “You know me too well, Simon, to believe that I could scorn a friend like you because fortune seems to smile upon me,” replied the young man, placing a hand on the veteran’s shoulder. “ I am sorry that you should have thought such a thing. ” “No, comrade, not even think it. It was a test to see if you were still the same, although I should not have doubted it for a moment. ” “Where would I be today, if I had not met you at the inn at Dunán? I certainly would not have gone to the castle of Monteagudo, nor would I have been our brave captain’s squire, and I probably would never have seen …” Here he stopped, blushing, but Simon did not notice, absorbed as he was. with his own memories. “A fine inn at the _Green Bird_, eh? By the edge of my sword! I could do worse things than marry that fresh, plump innkeeper when the day comes to exchange this doublet and mail for the cloth robes. ” “Well, I thought you had given your word of marriage to a Salisbury girl . ” “Three, friend Roger, three. And I greatly fear never to return to that town, in order to avoid a warmer welcome than three French squadrons could give me in Gascony. But look at that great tower where the banner of the golden lions flies; it is the English royal flag, with the motto of our prince. The building is the Abbey of St. Andrew, and he has been staying there with his court for more than a year. ” “And that other gray tower?” “The Church of St. Michael, and to the left, St. Remus. The next large house is Berland Palace.” Look also at those strong walls, with three postern gates facing the river and sixteen along the entire length of the land. “And why the continual sounding of so many bugles? ” “It can hardly be otherwise, when almost all the great lords of England and Gascony are ensconced behind those walls, and everyone wants their bugle to be heard as loudly and as frequently as their neighbor’s. By my faith, they remind me of a Scottish encampment, for the commotion they raise with their bagpipes. A group of pages is advancing there to water the horses. Each one of those steeds indicates the presence of a knight in Bordeaux, for I understand that the men-at-arms and archers have already marched in the direction of Dax. ” “Simon!” called the Lord of Morel. “Tell the people that the boats will be here in an hour and to have everything ready for the landing.” The archer saluted and hurried forward. Sir Oliver soon joined his friend, and the two knights began to stroll about the deck, observing and discussing the view of the city. The Baron wore a black velvet suit, with a round cap of the same material and color, and attached to it was the Baroness’s glove, partly covered with a curling white feather. The apparent modesty of this rich but dark suit was contrasted by Sir Oliver’s brilliant attire. He was dressed in the latest fashion, with a doublet, breeches, and a short cap of green velvet, with red slashes on the sleeves, and a large red cap . The toes of his shoes, curved à la poulaine, seemed to threaten the legs of the plump knight. “Once again we find ourselves before this gateway of honor, which has so often opened the way for us to the fields of battle and glory,” said the Baron, surveying the city with a brilliant gaze. There flies the prince’s flag, and it is only right that we pay homage to him first of all. I can already see the boats that are to convey us heading this way. “The inn next to the western gate is not a bad place,” replied the glutton, “and we might as well satisfy our hunger before going to greet the prince, for his table, though covered with brocade and silver, is not much for people of my appetite, nor does His Highness have the slightest sympathy for his superiors… ” “His superiors?” “At the table, with fork in hand, I mean. God forbid I should be disrespectful to him, but I saw him smile because I was looking at the carver for the fourth time one day when we were served superb game. And on the other hand, I feel sorry for him at the table, toying with his golden goblet, from which he drinks at most a little watered-down wine.” And I remind you of the inn, my friend, because war and glory are not enough for a body like mine, nor is it a matter of tightening the belt in haste to greet His Highness. “Almost all the ships near ours bear the coat of arms of some nobleman,” continued the Lord of Morel. “There is that of the Percys, and nearby those of Abercombe, Moreland, Bruce, and many others. It would be strange if such a gathering of gallant knights did not result in notable deeds of weapons. Here is our launch, Butrón, and if it is your pleasure, we will go directly to the abbey with our squires, leaving Master Golvín in charge of the arms and baggage and their disembarkation. Soon the knights and squires were installed in one of the launches and their horses in a barge prepared for the purpose. As soon as the baron reached land, he bent his knee and offered a fervent supplication to heaven. Then he took a small black patch from his breast and, placing it over his left eye, tied it firmly, saying: “By Saint George and by my lady! I vow not to uncover this eye until I have seen the land of Spain and performed there a feat of arms that will redound to the honor of my country and my name. Thus I swear on my sword and on my lady’s glove.” “Seeing and hearing you makes me feel twenty years younger, Morel,” his friend said to him when they had mounted and set off for the Sea Gate. “But, please, if a blind knight like yourself voluntarily loses half of what little sight he has left, you won’t be able to distinguish an English archer from a Spanish captain. It seems to me that you have not been very wise in your choice of vote. ” “Know, sir knight,” the baron replied in an imperious voice, “that I will always see enough to distinguish the path of duty and glory, a path on which I need no guide. ” “We are well-off, and it is not a bad temper you display as soon as you have arrived on French soil!” exclaimed Sir Oliver. But if you seek a quarrel with me, and I shall have none with you, I will take this opportunity to leave you alone and visit once more the nearby Golden Head, whose stews of pickled partridges have left an eternal memory in me. “No, my friend,” said the Baron with a smile. “We know and esteem each other too well to quarrel over words, like two pages. Believe me, come with me to greet the Prince, and then we will seek lodging and a table; although I suspect he will be sorry to see so good a servant as yourself exchange the Prince’s table for that of a tavern. But who is there? Is not that gentleman who greets us Sir Robert Delvar? God be with you, good Robert! And here is De Cheney too. What a pleasant meeting!” The four gentlemen continued on their way together, followed by Roger, Walter, and John of Norbury, Sir Oliver’s squire. Behind them rode Reno and Verney, Morel and Butrón’s standard-bearers. Norbury was a tall , wiry young man who rode upright and without looking to the right or left, as if very familiar with the city, where he had been a few years before. But Gualtero and Roger, full of curiosity, scrutinized everything: passersby, streets, buildings, and coats of arms, constantly calling each other’s attention to their surroundings. The young man from Pleyel never tired of hearing the new language spoken by the street vendors and groups of townspeople. “Have you ever heard of anything like that?” he asked his companion. The strange thing is that it hasn’t occurred to them to learn English and speak properly , now that their land belongs to the crown of England. And , by my life, these French girls are worth an empire. Look at that girl in the blue jacket. What a figure! It is no wonder that the appearance of the city made a deep impression on those who beheld it for the first time. Rich, populous, and bustling, Bordeaux was then at its peak. In addition to its industries, armories, and great commerce, the prolonged wars that had ruined so many other French towns had greatly favored it. In Bordeaux, immense booty from battles, plunder, and maritime plunder was seized and sold, the proceeds of which were almost entirely spent there . Furthermore, the large court of the Black Prince, permanently established there, had attracted a multitude of English nobles with their families and servants, a sumptuous element whose entertainment, festivities, and great expenditure contributed not a little to the prosperity of the noble town on the Garonne. However, the recent accumulation of numerous forces for the upcoming expedition to Spain to aid Don Pedro of Castile against his illegitimate brother Don Henry of Trastamara, had produced great shortages and scarcity of provisions and the Black Prince had just sent the greater part of his tercios and squadrons to the region of Dax, in Gascony. In front of the Abbey of Saint Andrew a large square opened up which, upon the arrival of our knights, was occupied by crowds of curious townspeople, soldiers, religious, pages and street vendors. Some brilliant knights who were on their way to the prince’s residence crossed the square at intervals, separating with difficulty the groups of men, women and children who rushed before them. The enormous oak and iron gates were wide open, indicating that the prince was holding an audience at that moment; and some twenty archers posted in front of the building kept the crowds at a proper distance, not failing to occasionally distribute ribbon blows to the more daring onlookers. In the wide portal stood guard two knights fully armed, their visors lowered and leaning on their lances; and between them, seated at a low table and attended by two pages, was His Highness’s secretary, charged with recording in the register before him the names and titles of the visiting nobles, and especially those of those newly arrived at court. This personage was an elderly man, whose long white hair and beard gave him a venerable appearance, enhanced by the loose purple robes that covered him to the feet. “There you have Roland de Parington, royal secretary,” said the Lord of Morel. Woe to anyone who tries to deceive him or contradict his notes and records, for he is the most learned man in genealogical matters and has in his memory the titles and blazons of every knight in France and England, and I believe also the complete history of their alliances and services. Let us leave our horses here and enter with the squires. Arriving at the gate and the royal secretary, they found him engaged in animated conversation with a young and elegant knight, apparently very eager to gain admission to the abbey. “You are called Marvel?” asked Roland of Parington. “Well, it seems to me you have not yet been introduced. ” “That is correct,” replied the other. “Although I have only been in Bordeaux twenty-four hours , I did not wish to postpone presenting my respects to Your Highness. ” “For you have many other very serious matters to attend to.” But being Marvel, you must necessarily belong to the Marvels of Normanton, and I see this from your coat of arms: sable and ermine. “I am Marvel of Normanton,” the young man affirmed after a moment’s hesitation. “Then your name is Stephen Marvel, firstborn son of Baron Guy of the same name, who died recently. ” “Baron Stephen is my elder brother,” the nobleman confessed in a low voice, “and I am Arthur, the second in my house and of my name. ” “That’s it!” exclaimed the implacable secretary. ” And if that is so , where is the crest on your shield that denotes it? When will the silver crescent moon be installed that your coat of arms should bear, indicating that it is not that of the head of the family, but that of a second son? Withdraw, my lord, and do not expect to be presented to the prince until you have your coat of arms in order.” The nobleman withdrew in confusion. The secretary followed him with his eyes and almost immediately noticed the banner with the five crimson roses that the veteran Reno carried so proudly. “By my name!” exclaimed Parington. We have guests here today who need not be asked if they are sponsored by first-rate nobility. The Roses of Morel! And I say, the boar’s head of the Butróns! Ah! These are the banners that may stand here in line, waiting their turn, but that have appeared and will always appear in the front line on the fields of battle. Welcome, gentlemen! What joy for Chancellor De Chandos when he sees and embraces his favorite comrades in arms! This way, Gentlemen. Your squires are undoubtedly worthy of their lords’ renown. Let’s see the arms. Hello! Here we have a Clinton, of the ancient family of Hanson, and one of the Pleyels, ancient Saxon nobility. And you? Norbury. There are such men in Cheshire and also on the Scottish border. A common sight, my lords; your admission and presentation will take effect immediately. The pages opened a nearby door that led into a large hall, where our knights found many other noblemen gathered, who, like themselves, were awaiting an audience. At the front wall of the entrance door, another door was guarded by two men-at-arms. It opened at intervals to admit an official who loudly named the nobleman designated by the prince. Butron and Morel sat down, and Roger soon spotted among the groups of handsome knights one who was approaching him, whom everyone was saluting with respect and looking at with obvious interest. Very tall and slender, his hair white, and his excessive mustache that fell limply toward his neck, he seemed to retain, with his eagle-like gaze, the liveliness of his gestures, and the grace of his gait, all the vigor of youth. His face was covered in scars, an indelible mark, some from terrible wounds, which completely disfigured him; he was also missing an eye, and with so many injuries it would have been impossible to recognize him as the gallant youth who forty years before had been the delight of the English court for his valor, his fame, and his presence, and the favorite knight of the ladies. But then as later, he remained Chancellor de Chandos, honor and honour of the nobility of the kingdom, one of its finest lances, and the most respected of its knights, the hero of Crécy, Chelsea, Poitiers, Auray, and as many other battles as the years of his long and glorious life. “Ah, I find you at last, heart of gold!” exclaimed Chandos, embracing Baron Morel closely. I had news of your arrival, and I have not stopped until I found you. “It is a great pleasure to see my dear friend and model of knighthood again,” said Morel, returning the embrace. “And from what I see,” added Chandos, laughing, “in this campaign we shall be made up of equals, for I am missing an eye and you have covered one of yours. Welcome, Sir Oliver! I had not seen you. We will go in to greet the prince with all haste, but I warn you that if he keeps such knights waiting it is because he is very busy. Don Pedro of Castile on one side, the King of Aragon on the other, the King of Navarre, who changes his mind overnight, and then the swarm of Gascon lords,” he added in a low voice, “with their interminable pretensions, everything contributes to the prince not having a moment of his own.” How did you leave my lady of Morel? “In good health, but saddened in spirit. She badly instructed me to greet you in her name. ” “I am always her knight and her slave. And your voyage? ” “I couldn’t wish it better,” replied the baron. “The sea was somewhat rough, but we were fortunate enough to sight some pirate galleys, to whom we said a few words. ” “Always fortunate, Morel! You’ll tell us about that adventure. But now, leave your squires here, follow me closely, and I believe the prince will not hesitate to receive you out of turn when he learns what pair of illustrious veterans are waiting in the waiting room.” The lords of Morel and Butron followed the lord of Chandos, greeting many former comrades in arms among the groups of nobles as they passed. Chapter 19. BEFORE THE DUKE OF AQUITAINE. Although not of great size, the prince’s chamber was furnished and decorated with as much taste as richness. At the end of the platform, on a dais, stood two regal armchairs with canopies of crimson velvet enameled with silver fleurs-de-lis. Carved seats covered in damask, tapestries, carpets, and richly upholstered cushions completed the furnishings. One of the dais’s armchairs was occupied by a tall , well-proportioned figure, with a pale face and a somewhat harsh gaze. gave his face a somewhat threatening expression. This was Don Pedro of Castile. In the armchair on the left sat another Spanish prince, Don Jaime, who, far from appearing bored like his companion, showed great interest in everything that surrounded him and greeted the English and Gascon knights with smiles and greetings. Close to them and on the same dais , also occupied a lower seat the famous Black Prince, Edward, son of the ruler of England. Modestly dressed, no one who did not know him would have dreamed of seeing him as the victor of so many great victories, whose fame filled the world. His worried countenance now reflected an expression of anger. On either side of the hall could be seen a triple row of prelates and high dignitaries of Aquitaine, barons, knights, and courtiers. “There is the prince,” said Chandos as he entered. The two figures seated behind him are the Spanish monarchs for whom, with God’s help and our own efforts, we are going to conquer Castile and Majorca, respectively. His Highness is deeply concerned, and I am not surprised. But the prince had noticed their entrance, and a pleasant smile animated his face. “Your good offices are unnecessary this time, Chandos,” he said, rising. “These valiant knights are too well known to me to need an introducer. Welcome to my duchy of Aquitaine, Sir Leon de Morel and Sir Oliver Butron. No, friends; bend the knee to the King, my father, at Windsor; give me your hands. You have arrived well, for I intend to give you no small task before you see your land of Hanson again. Have you been to Spain, Lord de Butron? ” “Yes, Your Highness, and what I remember most is that famous and most delicious stew of the country… ” “Always the same, as I see!” ” exclaimed the prince, laughing, as did many other knights. But don’t worry, once we get there we’ll try to get you your favorite Spanish dish, prepared with every rule of art. You see, Your Highness,” he continued, addressing King Don Pedro, “that among our knights there is no shortage of enthusiastic admirers of Spanish cuisine. But, to Sir Oliver’s credit, he also knows how to fight on an empty stomach. He proved it well back at Poitiers, when we fought for two days with no food but a few crusts of bread and a few draughts of muddy water; and I still remember how he rushed into the thick of the fight and with a single blow brought down the head of a brilliant Picard knight.” “Because he happened to block my way to a wagon loaded with provisions that the French had,” Sir Oliver observed, to the great laughter of all present. “How many recruits have you brought me?” the prince asked him. “Forty men-at-arms, sir,” Sir Oliver replied. “And I have a hundred archers and fifty lances,” said the Lord of Morel; “but another two hundred men are waiting for me near the Navarrese border. ” “What force is this, Baron? ” “A famous company, called the White Guard.” To the Baron’s great surprise, his words were greeted with unanimous laughter. The prince himself and the two foreign kings shared in the general hilarity. The Baron of Morel calmly looked from side to side, and finally, noticing a burly knight with a bushy black beard standing near him and laughing louder than the others, he went up to him and, touching his arm, said: “When you have finished laughing, you will not deny me the favor of a brief interview, in a place where we can understand each other face to face and sword in hand… ” “Calm down, Baron!” exclaimed His Highness. Do not seek a quarrel with Lord Robert Briquet, for he is as guilty as all of us.” The truth is that when you arrived, we had just heard, and I was angry, news of the misdeeds committed by that same White Guard, such and so many that I swore to hang the captain of that company. I was far from finding him among the bravest and most chosen of my leaders. But my oath is void, since you have just arrived from England and do not even know what your people have done here, nor is it possible to demand from you the slightest responsibility for it. ” “That I should be hanged is a small matter, sir,” the Baron replied immediately, “although the kind of death is less noble than I would have expected. But the essential thing is that the Prince of England and model of knights should not break his oath, for any reason or pretext… ” “Do not insist, Baron. Having recently heard a resident of Montaubán tell us about the plundering and depredations of these outlaws, I vowed to severely punish the one who actually commands them today. You and Monsieur de Butron are invited to my table and, for the time being, are among the knights in my retinue.” The two noblemen bowed and, following Monsieur de Chandos, they reached the opposite end of the hall, outside the dense groups of warriors and courtiers. “You are very anxious to be hanged, my good friend,” said Chandos, ” and by my life, in that case the best thing would have been to address yourself to King Pedro, who would have been quick to oblige, considering that your White Guard has behaved on the frontier like a pack of wolves. ” “I shall soon bring them to heel, with the favor of Saint George and a good rope to hang the most unruly. And now I beg you, my noble friend, to tell me the names of some of these gentlemen, for there are many unknown faces around me. On the other hand, others I have known since I girded my sword. ” “Look first of all at those grave religious figures next to the royal seats. One is the Archbishop of Bordeaux, and the other the Bishop of Agen. That gentleman with the graying beard, who has undoubtedly attracted your attention by his imposing figure and martial appearance, is Sir William Fenton.” I have the honor of sharing with him the duties of the Chancellery of Aquitaine. “And the nobles placed on the right of Don Pedro?” “They are distinguished Spanish captains who have followed the monarch into exile, and among them I must name Don Fernando de Castro, the first by the steps, a model of chivalry and as noble as he is brave. Facing us are the Gascon lords, whose serious and angry appearance reveals the recent disagreement they have had with His Highness. The one of tall stature and Herculean physique is Captal de Buch, a name you will have heard frequently, for there is no more famous lance in Gascony. Speaking with him is Oliver de Clisón, surnamed the Brawler, always quick to stir up tempers and stir up discord.” A cut in the left cheek will point you to the Lord of Pomers, accompanied by his two brothers, followed in line by the Lords of Lesparre, Rosem, Albret, Mucident, and de la Trane. Behind them I see numerous knights from Limousin, Saintonges, Quercy, Poitou, and Aquitaine, with the valiant Guiscard d’Angle in the background, he of the purple doublet and ermine-trimmed ferrero. “What of the knights on this side of the hall?” “They are all English, some of the royal retinue, and others, like you, captains of auxiliary companies or of the army. There are the Lords of Neville, Cosinton, Gourney, Huet, and Thomas Fenton, brother of Chancellor William. Look carefully at that knight with the aquiline nose and red beard, who is placing his hand on the shoulder of the captain with his dark face, hard gaze, and modest attire.” “I see them clearly,” said the Baron. “And I swear they are both more accustomed to donning armor and striking blows than to appearing among courtiers in the royal chamber. ” “It is the same with many others of us, Sir Leo,” replied Chandos, “and I can assure you that the Prince himself is more at ease on the field of battle than in his palace. But listen to the names of those two captains: Hugh Calverley and Robert Nolles. ” The Lord of Morel bent down to contemplate these famous warriors at his leisure; one a captain of auxiliary companies and an incomparable guerrilla; the other a renowned paladin, who from a very low position had risen to occupy second place only to Chandos among the the finest English lances, and having gained immense popularity among the soldiers of the entire army. “Nolles has a heavy hand in time of war,” continued the Lord of Chandos. “As he passes through enemy territory, he always leaves a trail of blood behind him, and in the north of France, the dismantled castles and destroyed villages that Sir Robert left behind in those devastated regions are still called the Ruins of Nolles. ” “I know his name and I would not mind breaking a lance with so distinguished and feared a knight,” said the Baron. “But look, the prince is very angry.” While the two noblemen were speaking, William had received the homage of other newcomers and listened impatiently to the proposals of some, usually adventurers, who offered to sell their swords, and to the demands of quite a few merchants and shipowners in the city, who had been harmed, they said, by the excesses of the soldiery. Suddenly, upon hearing one of the names announced by the official in charge of introducing those requesting an audience, the prince rose hastily and exclaimed: “At last! Come closer, Don Martín de la Carra. What news, and above all, what message do you bring me from my beloved cousin of Navarre?” The newly arrived knight was of haughty figure and majestic bearing. His dark face and very dark eyes, hair, and beard indicated his southern origin. Over his court attire, he wore a long black cloak, of a shape and material very different from those worn in France and England. He advanced with measured stride and, bowing deeply, said: “My powerful and illustrious lord, Charles, King of Navarre, Count of Évreux and Champagne, and Lord of Béarn, commands me to greet fraternally his beloved cousin Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Aquitaine, deputy… ” “Enough, Don Martín!” the prince interrupted impatiently. I know your sovereign’s titles, and I certainly am not ignorant of mine. Tell me without further ado whether the passage through the passes is clear , or whether your lord chooses to break the word he gave me a few months ago, at our last meeting. ” “The King of Navarre could hardly break his word,” said the Spanish envoy in an irritated tone. “The only thing my illustrious sovereign requests is an extension of the deadline for fulfilling the agreement, as well as certain conditions… ” “Conditions, postponements! Is your king speaking with the Prince Royal of England or with the provost of one of his towns? Conditions! I will dictate them to him very soon. But let us get to the point. I understand that we will find the passes in the mountain range closed? ” “No, Your Highness… ” “Free, then, and the passage clear? ” “No, Your Highness, but I… ” “Say nothing more, Don Martín!” A sad spectacle indeed, that of such a noble and respectable knight pleading for such a base cause. I know what Charles of Navarre has done, and how while with one hand he received the fifty thousand gold sovereigns agreed upon in exchange for allowing us free passage across the border, he extended the other to Don Enrique de Trastamara or the King of France, receiving in it rich compensation for disputing our entry. But I swear by my holy patron that just as well as I know my cousin from Navarre, he will soon know me. False!… “Sir, allow me to remind you that if such words were spoken by any other lips than yours, I would demand an immediate retraction!” said the man from Carra, trembling with indignation. Don Pedro frowned and looked angrily at his compatriot, but the English prince greeted those words with an approving smile. “Well done, Don Martín!” he exclaimed, “such a burst is worthy of you!” Tell your king that if he fulfills what we have agreed upon, I will not touch a stone of his castles nor a hair of his subjects; but if not, I will follow you closely, carrying with me a key that will open wide all the doors he closes to us. And woe then to Charles and woe to Navarre! His Highness then bowed to the two leaders, Nolles and Calverley, who was nearby, and spoke with them for a few moments. Both noblemen immediately left the chamber with a haughty stride and a joyful smile. “I swear by the saints of Paradise,” continued the Prince, “that just as I have been a generous ally, I will also know how to be an implacable enemy. You, Chandos, give the appropriate orders so that Señor de la Carra is treated and attended to as his rank and qualities deserve. ” “Always kind,” observed Don Pedro. “Even with those who show themselves as haughty as that envoy has just done,” added Don Jaime. “Rather, say that I always try to be fair,” replied Prince Edward. “But here I have news of interest to Your Highnesses; a dispatch from my brother the Duke of Lancaster announcing his departure from Windsor to bring us reinforcements of four hundred lances and as many archers.” As soon as my wife the Duchess recovers her health, and I hope it will not be long, we will begin our march, with the grace of God, to join the main body of the army at Dax and place Your Highnesses in possession of your states.” A murmur of approval greeted those words, and the prince gazed with satisfaction at the faces of all those captains, eager to follow him and distinguish themselves under his banners. “The titled King of Castile, Henry of Trastamara, against whose forces we are going to fight, is a skilled and courageous warrior, and the campaign will provide an opportunity to win countless laurels. Under his command are fifty thousand Castilian and Leonese soldiers, with more than twelve thousand men-at-arms from the French companies he has in his pay, veterans whose valor I recognize. The mission of the peerless Bertrand Duguesclin to the Duke of Anjou is also a fact , to win him over to Henry’s cause and return to Spain with numerous troops recruited in Brittany and Picardy.” And he will probably do so as he intends, for the Grand Constable is one of the most prestigious and energetic men of our time. What say you to that, Captal? Duguesclin defeated you at Cocherel, and this campaign offers you revenge. The Gascon warrior greeted the prince’s allusion with a sour expression, and it pleased the Gascon knights surrounding Captal de Buch no less, for it reminded them that the only time they had attacked the French troops without English aid had met with complete defeat. “It is no less true, Your Highness,” said Clisson, “that we have now obtained revenge , for without the aid of the Gascon swords you would not have taken Duguesclin prisoner at Auray, nor perhaps broken the hosts of King John at Poitiers… ” “The Gascon rooster tries to peck very high, and barely rises a foot from the ground,” interrupted an English knight. “The smaller the rooster, the larger the spurs,” Captain de Buch retorted loudly. “If they don’t get them cut off by anyone who can,” said the Lord of Abercombe. “You English are more daring and haughty than we are,” replied Captain Robert Briquet. “But I am a Gascon, and you, Abercombe, will give me an account of those words. ” “Whenever you please,” said the other, turning his back on him. “As you will give me one, Lord of Clisson,” exclaimed Sir Vivian Bruce in turn. “An unbeatable opportunity,” the Baron de Morel was then heard to say, “for such a brilliant Gascon lance as that of the Lord of Pomers to do me the honor of crossing with my very humble one.” In a few moments, a dozen challenges were heard, revealing the ill will and the rancor existing between the Gascons and the English. The former gesticulated furiously, the latter answered them with impassive contempt, while Prince Edward watched them in silence, secretly pleased to witness this scene so in keeping with his fighting spirit. However, the division among his own leaders could bring him no good result, and he hastened to calm things down. “Let there be peace, gentlemen,” he ordered, extending his arm. “Whoever of you continues such a foolish quarrel outside of here will have to answer to me. I need the concurrence of all your swords, and I will not I will allow you to turn them against each other. Abercombe, Morel, Bruce, do you doubt the courage of the Gascon knights? “That I will not do,” replied Bruce, for I have seen them fight like good men too often. “They are brave, no doubt, but there is no fear of anyone forgetting it as long as they have a tongue to proclaim it at all hours, without rhyme or reason,” said Abercombe in turn. “Do not sue again,” the prince hastened to say. “If it is Gascon to speak out loud what they think, there are also those who accuse the English of being cold and taciturn. But you have heard, lords of Gascony; the same people who have just had a childish quarrel with you recognize your courage and the qualities of any honorable knight. Captal, Clisón, Pomers, Briquet, I count on your word.” “Your Highness has it,” replied the Gascons, though they did not hide their reluctance to do so. “And now, to the banquet hall!” continued Edward. “Let us drown every last memory of this strife in a few flasks of good malmsey. ” Turning then to his royal guests, he courteously led them to the places of honor reserved for them at the table laid out in the neighboring room. After them followed the brilliant gentlemen who had previously been invited to the prince’s table. Chapter 20. HOW ROGER RIGHTENED A WRONG AND TOOK A BATH. The reader will remember that Walter and Roger had remained in the antechamber, where they were soon surrounded by a lively group of young English gentlemen, eager for fresh news of their country. The questions became frequent: “Is our beloved sovereign still at Windsor? ” “What about the good Queen Philippa? ” “And what about the beautiful Alice Perla, the other queen?” “The devil take you, Harold,” said a tall and burly squire, seizing the man who had just spoken by the collar and shaking him. “Do you know that if the prince had heard that little question, it might have cost you your head? ” “And since it’s empty, good Harold would have little to lose by it. ” “Not as empty as your purse, Rodolfo. But what on earth does the steward think? They haven’t even begun to set the table yet. ” “Good heavens! There isn’t a hungrier young man in all Bordeaux. If knight’s spurs and rich offices were won with the stomach, you’d be a constable at the very least. ” “Well, I say, if they were won by drinking, my little Rodolfo, we’d have had you as chancellor years ago. ” “Enough of this talk,” exclaimed another, “let Morel’s squires talk. What are they saying in England, young men? ” “Probably the same as when you left it,” replied Walter, irritated. However, I reckon they didn’t talk as much as they did when there were so many chatterboxes around… “Hello! What does that mean, modern Solomon? ” “Find out if you can.” “We’re in awe of this paladin, who still hasn’t removed the yellow mud of Hanson’s thickets from his shoes and yet he’s already calling us chatterboxes. ” “What clever people these lands have, Roger!” said Gualtero sarcastically , winking at his friend. “How should we take your words, my lord?” “Take them where you can without burning yourself,” replied Gualtero. “Another witty comment!” “Thank you for the compliment.” “Look, Germán, it’s best if you leave it, because Morel’s squire is sharper and more clever with his tongue than you. ” “With his tongue, I grant you. And with his sword?” asked Germán. “That is the point,” observed Rodolfo, “which can be cleared up in two days, on the eve of the great tournament. ” “Little by little, Germán,” then exclaimed a squire with rough features, whose robust neck and broad shoulders revealed his strength. “You take the insults of these people with astonishing calm, and I am not prepared to be called a chatterbox without further ado. The Baron de Morel has given repeated proof of his ability and worth, but who knows these young gentlemen? This other one doesn’t even whisper. What do you say to that?” As he spoke these words, he placed his heavy hand on the shoulder of Roger. “I have nothing to say to you,” replied the young man, trying to contain himself. “Come, this is not a squire, but a tender little page. But don’t worry, your cheeks will have less rouge and your hand more vigor before you return to shelter behind your nurse’s footcloth. ” “I can tell you that my hand is always ready… ” “Ready to what? ” “To punish insolence, my lord,” replied Roger, his face angry and his eyes flashing. “But how interesting this cherub is becoming!” continued the rude squire. “Let me see if I can describe him: eyes like a doe, very fine skin, like my cousin Bertha’s, and such long, blond curls …” As he said this, his hand touched Roger’s curly hair. “You are looking for trouble… ” “And even if it were so?” “I would tell you that you act like a boor, and not like a man of good birth. I would also tell you that in my lord’s school one does not learn to seek a chance by such coarse means. ” “And how did you learn to do it, model of squires? ” “Not by being brutal or insolent, but by addressing you, for example, to say courteously: I have resolved to kill you, and I hope you will do me the favor of appointing a time and place where we may meet face to face with sword in hand.” And if I were a courteous squire worthy of the name, I would take off my glove, as I do now, and let it fall at his feet; but having to deal with a swindler like you, I would throw it in his face! ” And with all his strength he flung the glove into the squire’s mocking face. “You will pay with your lives!” he roared, white with rage. “If you can take it from me,” Roger replied stoutly. “Bravo, my lad!” cried Walter. “Stand firm. ” “He has behaved himself properly, and he can count on me,” added Norbury, Sir Oliver’s squire. “It’s your fault, Tranter,” said German. “Aren’t you always looking for trouble with newcomers? Well, there you have it. But it would be a shame if the matter were to escalate. The lad only answered one provocation with another. ” “Impossible!” cried some of them. “Tranter has received a blow! A slap might as well be left. ” “But what about Tranter’s insults? Didn’t he begin by putting his hand in the other man’s hair?” said Harold. “You speak, Tranter. There has been offense on both sides, and things might as well remain as they are. ” “You all know me,” said Tranter, “and you cannot doubt my courage.” Let him pick up his glove and admit his wrongdoing, and I will speak of it no more. ‘ ‘A wicked bolt will strike him if he does so,’ murmured Walter. ‘Do you hear, young man?’ asked Germanus. ‘The offended squire will forget the blow if you tell him you have acted rashly. ‘ ‘I cannot say such a thing,’ declared Roger. ‘Bear in mind that we often test the courage of newly arrived squires, to see if we ought to treat them as friends. You have taken that test as a mortal offense and answered with a blow. Say you are sorry, and that is enough. ‘ ‘Do not take matters to the point of the spear,’ Norbury then said in Roger’s ear. ‘I know this Tranter, who is not only your superior in physical strength but also very skilled in the use of the sword. But Roger de Clinton had noble Saxon blood in his veins, and once he was angered, he was very difficult to appease.’ Norbury’s words, which indicated danger, only strengthened his resolve. “I came here accompanying my lord,” he said, “and knowing that I was surrounded by Englishmen and friends. But that squire gave me a brutal reception, and what happened is his fault. I’m about to pick up my glove, but, by God, not before he asks my pardon for his words and gestures. ” “Enough!” exclaimed Tranter, shrugging his shoulders. “You, Germán, have done everything possible to save him from my revenge. The proper thing is to settle the matter at once. ” “I say the same,” Roger agreed. ” After the banquet, there’s a council of chiefs, and we have at least two hours.” available, said a gray-haired squire. “And the place of combat?” “The tournament field is deserted, and there we can… ” “Not at all; it must be within the confines of this building where the court resides. Otherwise, the prince’s indignation would fall upon us all. ” “Bah! I know an ideal place for such events, right on the river bank. Let’s leave the abbey grounds and take the Rue des Apostles. We’ll be there in three minutes. ” “Then _en avant!_ said Tranter, setting off in great haste, followed by many squires. On the banks of the Garonne there was a small meadow bordered at two ends by high walls. The ground sloped steeply as it approached the river, which was very deep at that point, and the only two or three boats visible were moored at a great distance. Several ships were anchored in the middle of the river . Both combatants quickly removed their robes and caps and drew their swords. At that time, dueling etiquette was unknown, but single encounters such as the one described were very common, and in them, as in jousts, Squire Tranter had earned a reputation that fully justified Norbury’s friendly warning. Roger, for his part, had not neglected his daily exercise with his weapons and could be considered a considerable shot, if not one of the first. The contrast between the two combatants was striking: dark and robust, Tranter displayed his hairy chest and the robust muscles of his shoulders and arms, while Roger, blond and rosy, personified youthful grace. Most of the spectators expected an unequal fight, but there were two or three experienced fighters who noted with approval the young man’s steady gaze and agile movements. “Halt, gentlemen!” exclaimed Norbury as soon as their swords crossed. Tranter’s weapon is almost a hand’s breadth longer than his adversary’s. “Take mine, Roger,” said Walter de Pleyel. “Leave it, friends,” replied Morel’s servant. “I know my sword’s weight and reach well, and I am accustomed to it. The inequality matters nothing. Forward, my lord, for we may be needed at the abbey!” Tranter’s enormous sword indeed gave him a marked advantage. His feet wide apart and both knees slightly bent, he seemed ready to rush with a leap upon his enemy, to whom he presented the point of his long sword at eye level. The hilt had a large guard that well protected hand and wrist, and at the beginning of the cross, next to the blade, a deep notch designed to receive and retain the adversary’s sword and to break or disarm him by a vigorous movement of the wrist. Roger, on the other hand, had to rely entirely on his own skill; The weapon he wielded, though of the finest temper, was slender and simple-handled, a sword for cutting rather than for fighting. Tranter, aware of the advantages that favored him, was quick to exploit them and, leaping forward, delivered a vigorous thrust at Roger, followed by a tremendous cut that cut him in two. But with no less swiftness Roger came to the double parry, although the violence of the attack made him retreat a pace, and even so, the point of the enemy’s blade tore the doublet across his chest. As soon as the lightning struck in turn, Tranter’s sword violently swept aside his own and, continuing its swing, delivered another terrible cut, which, although parried in time, stunned the spectators, Roger’s friends. But danger seemed to be attracting him, and he replied with two swift, full-throttle thrusts, the second of which Tranter could barely parry, and as he made his move, his sword grazed Roger’s forehead, so close had he come. Blood spurted forth and covered his face, forcing him to retreat out of reach of his enemy, who stood for a moment breathing heavily, while the witnesses of the fight broke the silence they had maintained until then. “Well done both of you!” exclaimed Germanus. ” You are as brave as you are skillful, and this contest must end here. ” “What’s done is enough, Roger,” said Norbury. “Yes, yes!” cried others; “he has behaved himself.” “For my part, I have no wish to kill this lad if he confesses himself defeated,” said Tranter, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Do you beg my pardon for having insulted me?” Roger suddenly asked him. “I? Not in my time,” replied Tranter. “On your guard, then!” The gleaming steels clashed furiously. Roger took care to advance continually, preventing the enemy from freely using his long sword; it struck him lightly in the shoulder and almost at the same time wounded Tranter in the thigh, but as he raised his sword to strike him again at the chest, he felt it firmly caught in the cut made for that purpose in the enemy’s blade. An instant later, the sharp sound of Roger’s sword breaking was heard , leaving only a piece of blade no more than three palms long in his hand. “Your life is in my hands,” exclaimed Tranter with a triumphant smile. “Hold on! He surrenders!” exclaimed several squires. “Another sword!” cried Walter. “Impossible,” said Rodolfo; it would be against all the rules of the duel. “Then, Roger, throw that piece of sword to the ground,” advised Norbury. “Are you begging my pardon?” repeated Roger, turning to Tranter. “Are you mad?” replied Tranter. “Then be on your guard again!” cried Roger, renewing his attack with such vigor as to compensate for the smallness of his weapon. He had noticed that Tranter’s breathing was labored, and he resolved to harass and tire him out, making the most of his own agility. His adversary parried this torrent of blows as best he could, watching for an opportunity to end the fight with one of his deadly slashes; but neither the short distance at which Roger purposely maintained himself nor the swiftness of Roger’s movements allowed him to use his long sword to any advantage. But Tranter, an experienced duellist, knew that it was impossible to sustain this violent and tiring attack for two more minutes, and that the cloud of blows raining down on his sword with dizzying rapidity would soon subside . And so it happened; fatigue was already paralyzing Roger’s arm. His adversary understood that the moment had come to deliver a decisive blow, and, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, he leaped back to gain the necessary space. That movement saved Roger; his adversary had been retreating steadily since the renewal of the fight and had unwittingly reached the same bank. As he fell back once more, he lost his footing and sank into the waters of the Garonne.
With a general cry of surprise, everyone rushed to Tranter’s aid, who had completely disappeared into the deep, icy waters of the river. Twice his anguished face appeared, and in vain he tried to grasp the belts, swords, and branches his companions held out to him. Roger had thrown his broken sword to the ground and gazed at his painful agony with profound pity. All his fury had dissipated as if by magic. At that moment, for the third time, the squire’s contorted face appeared above the water; his gaze met Roger’s, and the latter, unable to resist this silent appeal, violently pushed aside a squire in front of him and threw himself into the Garonne. An expert swimmer, a few strokes were enough to bring him to his adversary, whom he seized by the hair. But the current was powerful, and the courageous youth soon realized the difficulty of keeping Tranter’s body afloat and swimming to the shore at the same time. Despite his most vigorous efforts, he couldn’t seem to gain a line. He desperately took a few more strokes, and a shout of joy from those on land announced that he had cleared the dangerous current and reached a calm pool formed there by a projection of the terrain. Moments later, the the end of Walter’s belt, to which he had knotted those of some of the other squires. He gripped it tightly, unable to swim a moment longer, but without letting go of Tranter. The squires pulled them out of the water in a trice, depositing them almost lifeless on the grass. Tranter, who had not struggled like his adversary against the raging current, was the first to emerge from his lethargy. He sat up slowly and looked at Roger, who soon opened his eyes and smiled with pleasure at the praise that everyone was heaping on him. “I am very grateful to you, my lord,” said Tranter, in a not very friendly tone. “Without you, I would have perished in the river, for I am a native of the Varen Mountains, where there are very few who know how to swim. ” “I neither ask nor expect thanks,” replied Roger. “Help me up, Walter.” “The river has been my enemy today,” continued Tranter, “but it has behaved itself kindly to you, for it is to him that you owe the life which I was about to take from you. ” “That remained to be seen,” replied Roger. “It is all over!” exclaimed Germain, and more happily than I believed. What is beyond doubt is that this young man, whose name they tell me is Roger de Clinton, has brilliantly won the right to belong to the very honorable guild of squires of Bordeaux. Here is your robe, Tranter. ” “And you, Clinton, throw this cloak over your shoulders and come as soon as possible. ” “What I regret most is the loss of my good sword, which lies at the bottom of the river,” sighed Tranter. “To the abbey!” exclaimed several of the squires. “Just a moment, gentlemen!” said Roger, who had picked up his broken sword from the ground and was leaning on Walter’s shoulder. I have not heard this gentleman retract the words he addressed to me, and… “What! Do you still insist?” asked Tranter, surprised. “And why not? I am slow to respond to provocations, but once I have resolved to obtain redress, I demand it while I have strength and breath left. ” “Ma foi,” said Germán abruptly. ” You are as white as wax. Follow my advice and consider the matter at an end, for you cannot complain of the result. ” “No,” insisted Roger. “I did not provoke this quarrel, but once it has begun, I swear not to leave until I have obtained what I came for or perish in the demand. There is no more to be said; give me your excuses or procure another sword, and let us resume the fight.” The young squire, pale as death, exhausted by the tremendous effort he had just made to save his enemy and by the loss of blood staining his shoulder and forehead, nevertheless proved by his attitude, his words, and his accent that he was animated by an unshakeable resolve. Tranter himself admired this invincible energy and yielded to the great strength of character the young gentleman had just demonstrated . “Since you have taken what you must have considered an innocent joke to such a point, I must declare that I am sorry for having said what offends you so much,” Tranter said in a low voice. “And I also deplore the response I gave to it,” Roger promptly replied . “Here is my hand. ” “And that makes the third time the bell has rung calling us to dinner,” exclaimed Germán as they all headed in groups toward the abbey, commenting on the vicissitudes of the battle. “For God’s sake!” Monsieur de Pleyel, give your friend a glass of good wine as soon as you arrive, for he is quite drunk, not to mention that he has swallowed two jugs of water. I confess that, judging by his appearance, I would not have expected such fortitude from him. —Well, I declare that the air of Bordeaux has changed my companion into a fighting cock, for never has a more placid and modest young man left the county of Hanson than he. —Yes, eh? Well, his master, de Morel, also has the reputation of being as modest and placid as a lady; and the truth is, neither of them can stand flies. Damn the lad! Chapter 21. WHERE AUGUSTINE PISANO RISKS HIS HEAD. The squires’ table at the abbey of St. Andrew’s since Prince Edward established his court in that historic building. There Roger learned the meaning of luxury and good taste , especially when comparing those feasts with the frugal meals of the convent and the parsimony of Morel’s table. Deliciously marinated boar’s heads, roasted pheasants, sweets and creams never before tasted, confectionery wonders, one of which depicted in every detail the exterior of the regal Windsor Palace—such were some of the culinary wonders Roger savored in the ancient French abbey. An archer rushed to bring him clothes and clothing from those he had left aboard the galleon, and after changing and washing his wounds, he soon regained his strength and good humor, completely forgetting the fatigue of that morning. A page announced to him that his master intended to visit the Chancellor of Chandos that evening and wished his two squires to lodge at the Half-Moon Inn, at the end of the Rue des Apostles. To this inn Roger and Walter repaired at dusk, after their long meal and listening to the toasts and songs with which they passed the hours in the company of the other merry squires. It was raining heavily when the two comrades began to tour the streets of Bordeaux, after leaving their horses and the Baron’s in the prince’s stables. They found no light on their way other than the very scant oil lamp hanging on a corner or at the entrance of the principal houses of the city; but neither the semi-darkness nor the rain prevented the streets from remaining almost as crowded as in broad daylight. The passersby belonged to all classes of that wealthy and then warlike city. There was the fat merchant, whose pleased and smiling face, dark suit of fine cloth, and full purse proclaimed his wealth and well-being. Behind him stood a modest servant, carrying a lit lantern that showed her master where to place his feet without serious stumble. In the opposite direction, a group of young English lads could be seen, archers from the county of Estpleton, judging by the blue pelican sewn on their vests; cheerful people with helmets and hard fists, drinking heavily and singing loudly, whose presence forced the merchant to quicken his pace, while his servant hid her face with her cloak upon hearing the less than delicate compliments of that crowd. There was no shortage of soldiers of the royal guard, elegantly dressed English pages, village women whose shrill voices could be heard for a great distance, pairs of friars , rows of crossbowmen and men-at-arms, sailors, soldiers of the guard corps, Gascon knights shouting and gesticulating according to their usual custom, peasants from the Médoc, English and Gascon squires, and many other people crossing in all directions or talking in groups, using English, French, and Welsh languages , Basque, or the dialects of Gascony and Guienne. Sometimes the groups would part to make way for the litter of a noble lady, or for the archers bearing lighted torches who preceded a high-ranking knight on his way to his lodgings from the feasts at court. The stamping of feet and the neighing of horses, the shouts of street vendors, the clash of weapons, the voices of quarrelsome drunks, the laughter of men and women—all this clamor rose and hung, like the mist in a swamp, over the dark and crowded streets of the great city. The attention of our squires was particularly drawn to two people who were walking in front of them and in the same direction. They were a man and a woman, tall, the former with a lame shoulder and drooping shoulders, who carried under her arm a large, flat object wrapped in black linen. The woman’s gait was youthful and graceful, but her face was barely visible, covered by a thick mantle that only revealed the brilliant gaze of large, brown eyes and revealed one or two curls of jet-black hair. The man leaned heavily on the young woman’s arm, and He tried to protect the bundle he was carrying as much as possible, avoiding the encounter of passersby who might stumble upon it in the darkness. The evident anxiety of this man, who seemed to be carrying a precious cargo hidden, and the appearance of his companion aroused the interest of the two young Englishmen who were following them at a distance of two paces. “Take heart, my daughter!” exclaimed the stranger in what seemed to be one of the dialects of that region. “One hundred more paces and we’ll have him safe. ” “Take good care of him, Father, and fear no more,” replied the woman in the same strange voice. “The truth is, we’re surrounded by a mob of barbarians, many of them drunk. Fifty more paces, my Tita, and I swear by blessed Saint Elmo not to set foot outside the house again until this swarm is in Dax or wherever the demons take it. How they push and howl! Try to push them away, daughter, by moving your body forward a little. ” Give that animal a nudge . It’s impossible to walk now. We’ve done well! The crowded crowd in front of them formed an insurmountable barrier, and they had to stop. Some English archers, full of beer, noticed the strange pair and began to examine them curiously. “By Satan’s tail!” exclaimed one, “look at the arrogant crutch this old man is using. Don’t lean so much on the girl and more on your legs, grandfather. ” “How can you understand it!” said another archer. “The king’s soldiers without a girl to look at them, because the old Frenchmen will take them for a walk. Come with me, queen! ” “Or with me, dove. By St. George! Life is short, and it’s best to make it cheerful. May my eyes never see Chester Bridge again if I don’t say a word to this fine girl! ” “What does that lizard have under his arm?” asked a third. “Let’s see, a bunch of bones. Here’s the package.” The archers surrounded the couple, and the man, bewildered and unable to understand a word of what they were saying, clasped the woman’s arm with one hand and rested the precious bundle on his chest with the other, casting imploring glances around. “Come on, lads!” cried Walter de Pleyel in an imperious voice, pushing aside the nearest archer. “You’re behaving like scoundrels. Keep your hands to yourself, or it may cost you dearly! ” “Hold your tongue, or it will cost you even more!” replied the most intoxicated soldier. “Who are you to prevent the English archers from enjoying themselves? ” “A boorish squire just landed,” said another. “How wonderful it would be if, besides our commanders, the first lad who abandons his mother and appears in Aquitaine were to come and give us orders! ” “For God’s sake, my good lords!” begged the young woman in broken French, “spare us!” “Stop these men from mistreating us!” “Fear nothing, madam,” Roger said courteously. “Let her go, ruffian!” he ordered, addressing an archer who had linked his arm around the young woman’s waist. “Don’t let her go, Bastian!” howled a gigantic man-at-arms with a long black beard, his breastplate gleaming in the dim light of the nearest lantern . “And you, lads, be careful not to touch those rapiers you carry, or I’ll make you swallow a foot of iron in no time! ” “Praise God!” Roger exclaimed at that moment, seeing an enormous helmet bearing red hair, which stood out among the crowd, coming towards them. “To me, Tristan! And Simon too. To me, comrades, help me protect a woman and an old man! ” “Hello, my petit!” Simon shouted in a thunderous voice, pushing his way through in a jiffy, followed by the grinning Tristan of Horla. “What’s going on here? By the edge of my sword! I warn you, Roger, that if you’re going to protect anyone in trouble in this land, you’ve got yourself a long way to go. But don’t worry, after a year of training in the White Guard, you’ll pay less attention to what a few Calamocan archers say and do. What’s this about, I repeat? The provost is coming this way with his guards, and it’s very likely that if you don’t take your time, we’ll have a couple of archers hanged here in less than ten minutes.” “I say, if this is old Simon Aluardo, of the White Guard!” exclaimed the man-at-arms who had shown himself so insolent to the squires. “A hug, Simon! By my life, there was a time when, from Limoges to Navarre, no archer was known so quick to conquer a girl or overpower an enemy. ” “I don’t doubt it, friend Carlín,” replied Simon, “and I truly believe I haven’t changed much since then. But you also know that I don’t take a kiss by force, nor do I attack the enemy from behind, ten against one. To the wise…” One look at the sergeant’s resolute face and Tristan’s huge hands convinced the archers that they could get nothing good by force there . The woman and her father began to make their way through, without anyone trying to stop them, and Walter and Roger followed them. “Wait a moment, comrade,” Simon said to Roger. “I know you performed some feats of prowess this morning at the abbey; but I recommend some caution in bringing out your sword. Consider, it was I who got you into this mess, and if anything happens to you, I’ll be truly sorry, my boy. ” “Don’t worry, Simon, I’ll be cautious.” “Don’t go looking for danger, mon petit, and wait until your wrist is a little stronger. Listen; tonight we’ll meet some friends at the Rose of Aquitaine, two doors down from your inn at the Crescent, and if you want to empty a glass in the company of simple archers, you’re welcome!” The young man promised to join them if his duties as a squire permitted , and slipping between the groups, he came to where Gualtero was standing, talking with the old man and the girl at the entrance of his house. “Thank you, brave knight!” exclaimed the stranger, embracing Roger. How can I express my gratitude? Without your help and that of your friends I would have lost my mind, and God knows what fate would have befallen my poor Tita…. “I don’t believe those thugs would have gone so far, ” said the young man, somewhat surprised. “Ah, devil!” exclaimed the other, bursting into laughter. “I’m not speaking of my head, but of the one I’m carrying here under my arm. ” “Perhaps these gentlemen would like to come in and rest for a moment in our house, my father. If we continue here, another riot may break out at any moment. ” “You are right, child! Come in, gentlemen. A light, Jacob, quickly! Seven steps, that’s it. Take a seat. “Corpo di Bacco,” those scoundrels gave me quite a fright! But it’s no wonder.” Take a Vandal, a Norman, and an Alan, mix them with the most seasoned Moor, get the resulting abortion drunk , and you have a full-fledged Englishman…. They tell me they’re now invading Italy, my homeland, as they invaded France. What people, eternal God! They get into everything, except heaven. “My father,” said the young woman as she helped the old man sit in a comfortable armchair, “you forget that these good gentlemen who have protected us are also English. ” “A thousand pardons! But who would have thought it! Look, my lords, at these works of art I have here; perhaps they’ll interest you, although I understand that on your island the only art known is that of war. ” Four lamps brightly lit the room with a coffered ceiling where they were. Hanging on the walls, above the furniture, in the corners—everywhere were delicately painted glass plates of different sizes and shapes. Walter and Roger looked around in amazement, for they had never seen so many magnificent works of art together. “I see you like them,” said the artist, noticing the expression of pleasant surprise reflected on the faces of both gentlemen. “Which proves to me that there is no lack of Englishmen capable of appreciating such trifles. ” “I would never have believed it possible,” exclaimed Roger. “How colorful, how sharply drawn! Admire, Walter, this Martyrdom of Saint Stephen; it seems as if you or I could pick up those stones painted there. ” “But what about this stag, with the cross flashing over its head like a portentous apparition? It is perfect; I have never seen a more natural stag in the world.” the forests of Bere. “Look at the grass, a light green, that seems to be moved by the wind. By the life of me! Everything I have painted until now has been child’s play. This man must be one of those great artists Brother Bartholomew told me about back in Belmonte.” A look of profound contentment animated the artist’s sallow face upon hearing such spontaneous praise. His daughter had taken off the mantle that until then had covered her shoulders and head, and the two young men admired in her one of the most accomplished types of Italian beauty, which very soon attracted all of Gualtero’s attention and gaze. “And what do you say to this?” asked the old man, unwrapping the package that had caused him so much anxiety. It was a sheet of glass in the shape of an enormous leaf, with a head painted on it with admirable lines, surrounded by a resplendent halo. The coloring was so natural, so true and so expressive of the face, that it seemed like a living image, looking sweetly into Roger’s eyes. He clapped his hands with the enthusiasm that beauty always produces in every true artist. “It’s a marvel!” he exclaimed; “and I marvel that you have risked such a fragile marvel in the streets. ” “I confess it was a grave imprudence. A flask of wine, Tita, but the best, the Florentine! Without your help, I don’t know what would have happened. Examine the complexion carefully; to myself it often seems too dark, flushed from overheated colors, or pale and lifeless . But here you can see the temples throbbing and feel the blood running beneath that bronzed skin. The loss of this work would have been an irreparable calamity for me. It is destined for the church of San Remo, and this afternoon I went with my daughter to see if it would fit properly in the stone frame that awaits it there. I delayed longer than I expected, night fell, and you already know what happened next. But you too, gentleman, seem to have artistic inclinations.” “Are you a painter? ” “I hardly dare answer in the affirmative after what I’ve seen here,” replied Roger. Raised and educated in the cloister, it wasn’t a very difficult task to handle the brushes better than the other novices. “Here are some colors, brushes, and cardboard,” said the old artist, “and I won’t give you any glass because that requires special knowledge and a lot of time. Please give me a sample of your work. Thank you, my child. Fill the glasses to the brim. ” Walter was carrying on an animated and apparently very interesting conversation with the beautiful maiden, he speaking in a mixture of French and English, and she in graceful Franco-Italian phrases, which did not prevent them from understanding each other perfectly. The artist attentively examined his latest marvelous creation to see if the painting had suffered any scratches , while Roger quickly handled his brushes, leaving a sketch of the features and the turned neck of this beautiful woman. “Bravo!” exclaimed the master; You are a painter, there’s no doubt about it, and you could become a very good one. It’s the face of an angel! “Rather, say the face of my lady Constance de Morel,” exclaimed Gualtero, surprised. “It does resemble her, by my faith,” said Roger, somewhat confused. “A portrait? So much the better and more difficult. Young man, I am Agustín Pisano, son of the master Andrés Pisano, and I repeat to you that you have the hand of an artist. I will say more; if you remain in my company, I will teach you the secret of preparing those works on glass that you see there; the composition of the pigments and their mixtures, how to thicken them, which ones penetrate the glass and which ones don’t, the heating and glazing of the plates, in short, all the details of the trade. ” “I would be very pleased to practice and learn with such a great master,” said the youth, “but my duty obliges me to follow my lord, at least while the war lasts. ” “War, war! Always the same!” exclaimed Pisano. And consequently you call heroes and great men those who destroy and kill the most. Per Bacco! For notable men, of true merit, worthy of all glory, the artists we have in Italy, those who build instead of destroy. destroy those who created the artistic beauties of my noble Pisa, those who ennoble the whole nation, Andrea Orcagna, Thaddeus Gaddi, Giottino, Stefano, Simon Memmi, masters whose colors I would be unworthy to mix. And it has fallen to my lot to contemplate with my own eyes their immortal works. I have seen the elderly Giotto, a disciple of the great Cimabue, before whom I maintain that art did not exist in Italy and Greek artists had to be imported to decorate the Gondi Chapel in Florence. Ah, gentlemen, these are the great men, the benefactors of humanity, whose names will live forever! What a contrast to your soldiers, who aspire to glory by ravaging entire regions, roaming the earth with blood and fire! “Well, I consider that soldiers are not superfluous either,” observed Walter. Otherwise, how could those artists you name protect and preserve the products of their genius? “Of which we have quite a few before us,” Roger added. “Are all these works by your hand? ” “All of them. You will notice that some are completed on different plates, which, when joined together, form pictures of a large size. Here in France, they have Clement of Chartres and several other worthy artisans dedicated to this same kind of work. But do you hear? The war bugle is sounding once more, to remind us that we live under the iron hand of the conqueror and not in regions where art reigns. ” “That is a sign for us as well,” said Gualtero upon hearing the bugles. ” I would very much like to remain here longer, surrounded by so many beautiful things,” and as he said this, he looked with admiration at the blushing Tita, “but we must return to our inn, and that before the Lord of Morel returns.” Pisano and his daughter renewed their expressions of gratitude, the squires promised to repeat this pleasant visit, and when the rain had stopped, they went from the Rue du Rei, where the Italian artist lived, to the Rue des Apostles, on the corner of which the _Hosteria de la Media Luna_ displayed its sign. Chapter 22. A NIGHT OF REVELATION IN THE ROSE OF AQUITAINE. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful face, Roger?” asked Gualtero, as soon as they left Pisano’s door. “What eyes! What a divine profile! ” “I can’t deny that she is beautiful. And what about that brown color of her cheeks and the jet-black curls that surround the perfect oval of her face? ” “Where have you left my eyes? With a gaze so clear and so profound at the same time; so innocent and yet so expressive… ” “If there is any fault to be found, it is in the beard. ” “Well, I haven’t noticed it…” “Gracefully cut, that’s true. ” “A lovely chin, Roger. ” “However, don’t you think the whole thing would have been better with half a foot more of a full beard? ” “Ave Maria Purisima! Where did you get the idea that Tita has a beard?
” “Tita? Who’s talking about her? ” “Well, who the devil are you talking about? ” “About the magnificent figure destined for the church of San Remo, don’t you remember? That saint’s head… ” “Oh, go on!” exclaimed Gualtero, laughing. “Look what we’re coming up with now. You’re a real hodgepodge of Vandal, Norman, Alan, and Moorish dog, as the good Pisano used to call us English. Who remembers pictures or paintings when they have before them an angel from heaven, the work of God himself, like the incomparable Tita? Who knows!” “Sergeant Simon sent me,” said an archer, hurrying up to them , “to tell you that the Baron has decided to spend the night at the Chancellor’s lodgings at Chandos and will not require your services. Simon is at that tavern with some comrades and says that if you would care to join us… ” “By my faith,” laughed Walter, “with their singing and shouting they make enough noise to announce their presence without the need for guides or emissaries. Come in! ” Two doors down the din of the revelry could be heard. They entered through a low doorway and at the end of a narrow corridor they found themselves in a large A room lit by two torches. Along the walls, almost the entire length of the room, were piles of straw on which twenty or thirty archers of the White Guard rested, sitting or reclining on their elbows, without helmets, cowls, or swords, and each carrying leather and tin containers filled with beer or wine, according to each person’s taste. Two barrels placed at one end of the room indicated that there would be no shortage of refills for those enormous cups, as often as the archers’ thirst demanded. Beside the barrels and as if presiding over the meeting, were the standard-bearer Reno, Simon, Tristan, and three or four other veteran archers, as well as the brave Golvín, captain of the Yellow Galleon, who had gone to have a few drinks with his cheerful traveling companions before setting out on the return journey to England. Walter and Roger took seats between Reno and Simon, their arrival not silencing the commotion for a moment. “Beer or wine, comrades!” cried Simon. ” Let each of you choose, and don’t come at me with sweet nothings, because the mixture makes you drunk, and it must be one or the other. Here’s your cup, Reuben, overflowing with fortified wine. Do you know the news, sissies? ” “No. What is it?” said both squires. “Well, we’ll have a tournament. ” “Bravo! ” “Yes. The arrogant Captain de Buch has set out to prove to us that he and four other Gascon knights can make the five best English paladins currently in Bordeaux bite their dust . Chandos accepted the challenge immediately, taking charge of choosing our champions; the prince has promised a handsome golden cup to the one who achieves the highest honors, and the whole court is talking about nothing else today .” “Why should the great lords be the only ones having fun?” asked Tristan de Horla. “They might as well open the arena for us archers, and by the Cross of Gestas! It would be a sight to see how we would dislocate five Gascon archers. ” “Or how as many men-at-arms would cripple the same number of soldiers from this land,” said Reno. “Who are the English retainers?” asked Golvín. “We have 341 knights today in Bordeaux, and 340 posters accepting the challenge have already been received. The only one missing is that of Sir Maurice de Ravens, who is bedridden by gout . ” “An archer of the guard told me that the prince wanted to break a lance, but his advisors wouldn’t let him, because there will be more fighting than tournament, so excited are the Gascon lords. ” “For now, we have Chandos. ” “His Highness has forbidden him to take part in the next joust. Chandos will be judge of the field, along with Sir William Fenton and the Duke of Armagnac. Our champions will be the Lords of Abercombe, Percy, Beauchamp, and Leiton, and the invincible Baron Morel. ” “Hurrah! Saint George protect him! A good choice!” shouted the archers. “A good one, as God grants us!” exclaimed Simon. “There is no greater honor for a soldier of good character than to have him for a leader. You will see where he will lead us, boys, and what adventures he will get us into. I notice that since his arrival in Bordeaux he has been wearing an eye patch, just as he did the day before Poitiers. Well, that patch is going to cost a lot of blood, I tell you. ” “How was it at Poitiers, sergeant?” asked a young archer. “Tell us, Simon!” cried others. “Cheers to Simon Aluardo!” many said, raising their elbows. “Ask this one, you bastards,” the veteran replied modestly, pointing at Reno. “He saw more than I did, but by Christ’s nails! I didn’t fail to take part in that turmoil, and a good one at that. ” “That was a great day,” said Reno, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes; “one I don’t expect to see again. Many very good archers also fell during that day. ” “Good? Well, just mention Gofredo, Calvino, El Payo, Nelson, who, before falling and never rising again, grabbed hold of a great French lord and cut his head off at close range. I haven’t seen better archers.” I have never seen anything in my roguish life. “But the battle, Simon, the battle!” many cried. “Tell, tell! ” “Shut up, it’s been said, you flies!” bellowed the sergeant. “Tell, Simon! For there’s no tale worth telling until it’s wet my throat. Good beer! It was in the autumn of 1356; our Prince Edward took Auvergne, Berry, Anjou, and Touraine, and I’ll tell you about Auvergne that the girls are flirtatious and the wine sour. In Berry, turn it around and learn that the girls are sullen and the wine a blessing. But Anjou is a great land for decent archers, because there the wine and women are delicious. All I got out of Touraine was a setback, but at Vierzon, in a monastery of daring fortune, I got hold of a gold chalice for which a Genoese Jew gave me thirty ducats.” From there, walk on until you reach Bourges, where I was given by lot a crimson silk tunic worked with gold and pearls, the like of which you will never see, and a pair of boots with white silk tassels, the same as those of our lord the king. “Did you snatch them from some tent, Simon? ” “I took them off the feet of an enemy knight, you lizard! After considering the case carefully, I told myself that he would have no more need of them, seeing that a fat arrow of mine was coming out of his chest and back…. ” “What else? What else? ” “We had another run on the road, and we were at least six thousand archers when we arrived at Isodun, where luck also favored me. ” “Another battle? Another pair of boots, Simon?” the archers were heard saying. “No, something better than that.” In battle, there’s little to be won except headbutts, unless a ransom is obtained for some fat bird. What happened was that at Isodun, three other Welsh lads and I hid in a very large house that the other comrades overlooked, and there I discovered and seized a blanket of fine feathers such as only the duchesses of France wear. You’ve seen it, Tristan, and you know how rich and soft it is. I draped it tightly over the sutler’s mule, and I have it at an inn near Dunan for the day I get married. Do you remember the landlady, mon petit? he asked Roger, winking. “Forward!” three or four archers shouted. “That’s right,” the veteran continued. ” Let others take the chestnuts out of the fire so you can sit like fools listening to stories with your mouths open. Good beer!” Our six thousand scoundrels, the prince and his knights, myself, and the mule with the down blanket, finally left Touraine, leaving a bloody memory there. In Romorantin, I came across a chain and some gold bracelets, but I also came across a girl as young as the sun, who stole them from me the next day. For you must know that there are people who do not hesitate to seize what belongs to others… “To the point, Simon! That battle! ” “Everything will be fine, youngsters, if you let me breathe. For it happened that the King of France, called John II, put himself at the head of fifty thousand men and pursued us furiously. But the good thing was that when he reached us, certain to put us to the sword, he found that he did not know how to attack us or how to catch us, because we waited for him scattered among the fences and vineyards on some heights, where they could only climb up a slope, and that in the open, offering us a magnificent target. Thus hidden and protected, the archers formed up on our right, with the men-at-arms on the left, the knights in the center, and behind them the blanket mule. Three hundred French knights headed straight toward her, to begin with, and they seemed very brave and handsome, but they were caught in such a cloud of arrows that few escaped with their lives. After them, the German soldiers in the service of King John came forward to attack and fought very handsomely, so much so that three or four slipped through the archers and ran toward the precious mule. But it was useless work, because I saw our captain, the peerless Baron de Morel, stand out from the group of nobles, with his little patch over one eye as he wears it these days, and dispatch those wasters. very calmly. The Baron then launched himself at the main body of the attackers, followed by Lord Abercombe with his four Cheshire squires and others of equal calibre, Chandos and the Prince behind them, and us behind with sword and axe, for we had exhausted our arrows. This was a very imprudent maneuver of ours, for not only did we abandon the protection of the ground, but we also left the sutler’s mule undefended, and some cunning Frenchman or German could have taken it prisoner with my treasure on it. But all turned out well; King John and his son fell into our power; Nelson and I discovered a cart with twelve barrels of fortified wine destined for the king’s table… and I don’t know how it happened, boys, but I assure you I don’t remember what happened next, nor could Nelson. “And the next day?” “As you may imagine, we didn’t waste much time in those byways, but trotted off down the road to Bordeaux, where we arrived safely with the King of France and the down blanket. I sold the rest of my loot, my friends, for as many gold pieces as would fit in my leather satchel, and for seven days I kept twelve candles lit on the altar of blessed Saint Andrew, because it is well known that if you forget the saints when things are going well, they are very likely to forget you when you need them. ” “Tell me, sergeant,” asked a lad from the opposite end of the room, “what was that battle all about?” “Shall we set off now, horse? For what was it all about but to establish once and for all who was to wear the crown of France? ” “That’s good to know.” “I thought it was to find out who should keep your down blanket…” “Look here, son, if I come at you with this belt of mine and start spanking you, you’re going to feel it for real,” said Simon amidst the roars of laughter from the whole gathering. “But it’s getting late, Reno, and when the chicks start twittering at old roosters like me, it’s time for them to go back to the coop. ” “No, no, come on, another song!” shouted many of them. “Let Sabas sing! There’s no one like him in the White Guard. Let him sing, let him sing! ” “Hold on!” said Captain Golvín then. ” There’s no one better than this young fellow to sing songs properly.” And as he said this, he placed his hand on Tristán’s shoulder. “It’s quite true that on board the galleon it seemed to roar a storm when he sang The Bells of Milton.” “Oh, The Miller’s Wife of York. Come on, Tristan!” The ex-novice rubbed the back of his hand over his lips and, looking at the opposite wall, sang the requested song in a tremendous voice. When he finished, his listeners greeted him with a storm of applause and shouts, and Tristan grabbed the nearest glass of beer and drained it in one gulp. “The first time I sang The Miller’s Wife,” he said modestly, “was in Horla’s tavern, when I hadn’t even dreamed of being an archer. ” “Another drink, comrades!” shouted Reno, plunging his enormous leather vessel into the barrel. “To the health of the White Guard and all those who follow the banner of the five roses! ” “To the coming war and certain victory!” toasted Captain Golvín. “To the pile of gold that awaits good archers! ” “And to the pretty girls!” shouted Simon. “And that’s the end of the toasts, baskets!” he added, giving a tremendous kick to the nearest barrel .
With songs, laughter, and jokes, the merry archers paraded by, and soon complete silence reigned in the previously bustling hall of _The Rose of Aquitaine_. Chapter 23. THE JOUSTS OF BORDEAUX. The fame and splendor of the court that surrounded Prince Edward since his installation as Duke of Aquitaine attracted numerous knights from all over Europe, and the tournaments and jousts were by then spectacles frequently witnessed by the residents of Bordeaux. Skilled jousters from Germany, knights of Calatrava, Portuguese and Italian nobles, and even formidable warriors from Scandinavia and other regions to the north and west. But in the city and throughout the region, the news that five of the bravest English knights had issued a challenge to five other nobles of Christendom, whoever they might be, was the subject of the greatest interest and incessant comment. There was great curiosity to see who would accept it, and it was also known that these jousts would be the last for then, as the prince was preparing to leave with all his people for the war in Spain. On the eve of the tournament, a multitude of people from all over the Medoc arrived in Bordeaux, and they had to camp outside the walls, on the plain and on the banks of the Garonne. Nor were officers from the army quartered in Dax lacking, nor were nobles and burghers from Blaye, Bourg, Libourne, Cardillac, Ryons, and many other towns lay in attendance, who arrived during the day and part of the night before the battle, on foot, on horseback, and in vehicles of all kinds. It was no small undertaking to choose five knights per side, when so many brave and eager for glory had been gathered there; and it was of no small consequence that the election occasioned a series of preliminary duels, which could only be avoided through the intervention of the prince and the oldest and most worthy nobles. It was not until the eve of the day appointed for the tournament that the champions’ shields were posted in the lists, suspended from lances , so that the heralds and the public would know their names and also so that any well-founded grievance or protest against the participation of any of them in the tournament could be presented to the field judges. The two brave captains, Robert Nolles and Hugh Calverley, had not returned from the expedition to Navarre that the prince had entrusted to them, which deprived the English jousters of two of their best lances. But there were so many and so good that Messrs. Chandos and Fenton, to whom the final choice was entrusted, had to discuss and weigh one by one the merits and exploits of many candidates; finally deciding in favor of Morel de Hanson and Abercombe de Cheshire, the former renowned among veteran nobles and the latter a hero of Poitiers . Of the younger knights, three brilliant paladins were awarded: Thomas Percy, William Beauchamp, and Rainier Leiton. Of course, all the Gascon knights accepted the English challenge, and the choice, difficult in itself, favored Captal de Buch, Oliver of Clisson, Pierre d’Albret, the Lord of Mucident, and a Teutonic knight named Sigismund of Bohemia. Looking at those ten crowns, the English veterans promised themselves a brilliant tournament like no other, for the maintainers were men of glorious history and proven courage and determination . “By my faith, Chandos,” said the prince as he rode beside the chancellor through the narrow and winding streets of the city, on the way to the arena, “I would fain break a lance in these jousts, supposing the judges on the field did not think me unworthy of jousting with such famous champions. ” “There is no better or more worthy champion in the army than you, sir,” replied Chandos, “but given the circumstances of this tournament, believe me, it is not fitting that you participate in it.” It is not your high office to take sides here in favor of the English against the Gascons, nor to stand with the latter against the former, lance in hand or sword in hand. Things are already too excited. “Always the reason of state, Chandos, which you bring up not only in the council chamber but on the way to a festival as joyful and brilliant as this one. And what do my brothers of Castile and Majorca think of it?” he asked, turning to the Spanish princes, who were riding on his right. “My opinion is that we shall witness no small feat of prowess today,” said Don Pedro, “ in view of the fame and power of the jousters. ” “By Santiago!” observed Don Jaime, “something else is attracting my attention, and that is the good bearing and better clothes of those Bordeaux burghers who crowd around to watch us. This great and comfortable town must truly be rich.” the condition of its inhabitants, despite recent wars and upheavals. “Well, if the appearance of the good burghers amazes you,” replied Don Pedro, “what do you say about those picked men-at-arms and those well- equipped archers? It would be difficult to match, much less defeat, such dashing and well-disciplined forces. ” “I count on those soldiers,” said the English prince, “and on many others like them, to bring the usurpers of Castile and Majorca to their senses. ” Both suitors smiled, their faces revealing the satisfaction and confidence with which they had heard those words. “And once justice is done,” said Don Pedro of Castile, “we will unite the forces of England, Aquitaine, and Spain, and it would be a pity if such a union did not result in great consequences. ” “For example,” added Prince Edward with evident enthusiasm, ” to complete forever the expulsion of the infidels from the territory of Europe. I do not believe we could undertake a more pleasing undertaking for the Holy Virgin, the exalted patroness of Aquitaine.” “Nor is it more acceptable to any Spaniard. In such an enterprise, Your Highness can count on the absolute support of nobles and commoners alike, in León and Castile as well as in Asturias, Navarre, Majorca, and Aragon. And even to pursue the Moors across the sea and fight them in their lairs in Africa and the East. ” “Yes, by God!” exclaimed the Black Prince. “That has been one of my golden dreams, to see the English standard flying over the walls and mosques of the Holy City. ” “The conquest of Jerusalem cannot seem dangerous or arduous to those who have conquered Paris. ” “Nor would I be content with that, but with the siege and capture of Constantinople and a war to the death against the Sultan of Damascus. And once he was defeated, we could still exact tribute from the Tartar hordes, another threat to Christendom. Tell me, Chandos, wouldn’t we be able to reach as far as Richard the Lionheart reached?” “Being able to do it is one thing,” replied the prudent counselor, “ but knowing whether it is right and ought to be done is quite another. Of course, Your Highness, count on the fact that the King of France would see the heavens open the day the English armies crossed the sea in pursuit of the infidels of the East. ” “I know you too well, Chandos, not to know that these words are dictated by your reason, not by fear or weariness of war. What a vast crowd! I don’t remember having seen so many curious onlookers since the day I walked the streets of London accompanying my prisoner, the King of France. ” A sea of heads completely covered the vast plain that stretched from the North Gate to the first vineyards in the east of the city and to the banks of the river. Among the dark tones of that crowd, sometimes the brightly colored shawls of the women stood out, sometimes the helmet of an archer smitten by the rays of the sun. In the center of the plain lay the enclosed space designated for the jousts, with stands and tribunes adorned with a multitude of pennants and flags. It was difficult to open a narrow passage for the princes and their retinue through that compact mass, which greeted them with thunderous acclamations. Behind them arrived numerous richly attired noblemen and ladies, and soon the tribunes were filled, glittering with gold and precious stones. The numerous retinue of the prince and his royal guests included captains and courtiers from Gascony and Spain, from England, Limousin, and Saintonge. On the seats and steps, the dark-skinned beauties of the Garonne enchanted the eye, and next to them, the blond English beauties, each in their finest attire. From the balustrades of the stands hung rich tapestries and wide velvet bands, in the center of which were embroidered in gold, silver, and brightly colored silks the coats of arms of a hundred nobles. They were soon seated, the crowd and the soldiers arranged themselves as best they could, and the pages and grooms took charge of their lords’ weapons and mounts. The keepers occupied the end of the field closest to the city gates. In front of their respective flags were the coats of arms of the five English champions, supported by as many squires: the roses of Morel, the gules bars of Leiton, the lion of Percy, the griffins of Abercombe, and the silver wings of Beauchamp. Behind the flags, the great, luxuriously caparisoned warhorses pawed impatiently. The great majority of the English archers and men-at-arms were gathered at that end of the arena, eager to behold and cheer their famous champions, who, seated at the door of their tents, fully armed and with their helmets on their knees, were quietly conversing about the great event of the day in which they were to play such an important part. But the Gascon people did not hide their preference for Capt. de Buch and his companions, for the popularity of the English had declined considerably since the bitter disputes sparked by the capture of the King of France and the fate that would be given to the royal prisoner. Hence , the applause that greeted the proclamation of the King of Arms, announcing the names and titles of the English knights who were ready, for their God, for their country, for their king and for their lady, to fight against any gentlemen who would do them the honor of breaking lances with them, was not general, though very hearty. Rather than applause, however, it was deafening acclamations that greeted the herald who, at the opposite end of the ring, enumerated the extremely popular names of the Gascon jousters. “I begin to believe you were quite right, Chandos, when you advised me not to take sides or raise a lance today,” the prince said in a low voice, sensing the mood of the crowd. “It seems to me, Monsieur d’Armagnac, that our friends in Aquitaine would not begrudge the defeat of the English champions. ” “That may well be the case, Prince, as I have no doubt that under similar circumstances the people of London or Windsor would favor or acclaim their countrymen. ” “And tangible proof of what you say is not far off,” the prince laughed, “for over there I see some twenty archers whose clamor does not yield to that of the crowd. I greatly fear they will suffer bitter disappointment if the golden cup I have offered to the victor remains in Aquitaine instead of crossing the sea. What are the conditions, Chandos? ” “Each pair will joust no less than three times, and victory will go to the party whose champions have triumphed in the greatest number of single encounters. ” The one who most distinguishes himself among them will receive the trophy offered by Your Highness, and the most skilled jouster of the vanquished will receive a brooch of gold and precious stones. Shall I give the signal? The prince answered affirmatively, the trumpets sounded, and the retainers entered the fray one after another and attacked their opponents, with varying fortunes for both sides. Thus, Sir William Beauchamp fell to the powerful blow of Captain de Buch, but Percy unhorsed the one from Mucident; Lord Abercombe in turn overthrew Lord d’Albret, and finally the Herculean Oliver de Clisson equalized the outcome of the fight with his victory over Sir Rainier Leiton. “To James!” exclaimed Don Pedro, “good lances and great thrust, both the Gascon lords and the English. ” “Who is the next English champion?” asked the prince, his voice betraying his lively emotion. “Baron Leon de Morel of Hanson,” replied Chandos. “A brave and skilled champion if there ever was one.” “Without a doubt, sir, but his eyesight, like mine, is much impaired after long campaigns. With his powerful arm he won in fair fight the golden diadem offered as a trophy by Queen Philippa, Your Highness’s august mother, in the great jousts with which the capture of Calais was celebrated in England. In the castle of Monteagudo, where he resides, he has a treasure of prizes and trophies. ” “I hope the cup of this tournament will go to them,” the prince said in a low voice. “Here we have the German paladin, and from his appearance he seems a very formidable enemy. Warn the king of arms to allow them to be found three times in the ring, since so much now depends on the outcome of this combat. The bugles sounded again, the King of Arms gave the signal, which the heralds repeated, and the last champion of the Gascons advanced to the wild cheers of the crowd. He was a warrior of great stature and powerful body, with a black helmet and armor, and a shield without a badge, as the statutes of the Teutonic Order to which he belonged prohibited such a design. A flowing white mantle flowed behind him, with the black cross bordered in silver of that order embroidered in its center. He spiritedly handled his superb bridle, black as jet and of great height; and after saluting the prince, he turned and took his place at one end of the ring. The Baron of Morel immediately emerged from his tent and galloped toward the small royal balcony, before which he suddenly halted his fiery steed with such force that it reared back and raised its hands, while the rider saluted profoundly. The baron wore shining white armor, a blazoned shield, and a helmet with a long, graceful plume of white feathers. The grace and liveliness of his movements, the splendor of his armor and the paraphernalia of his horse, and the striding motions of the latter aroused unanimous applause. The baron saluted again with singular grace and marched to the point on the bordering field occupied by his opponent, making the noble beast prance more as if he were marching to a joyful festival than to fierce combat. As soon as the two champions stood face to face, absolute silence reigned throughout the arena. The outcome depended not only on the glory that might accrue to the victor, but also on the victory or defeat of the faction they respectively represented. Both warriors of great renown, their prowess had taken them to very different countries and fields of combat, without giving them until then the opportunity to measure themselves hand to hand. The signal was given, and, lances at the ready, the two combatants charged each other, meeting in a tremendous clash before the royal tribune. Although the Teuton flinched at the furious blow of the English knight, his lance struck the latter in the visor with such force that it broke the straps holding his helmet together, and it fell to pieces. But the baron continued his race, his bald head uncovered and shining in the rays of the sun. Thousands of handkerchiefs and caps waved in the air, and a huge uproar welcomed this slight advantage of the Teutonic knight. Not at all discouraged, the Morel knight fled to his pavilion and appeared a few moments later with another strong helmet, ready for the second joust. The outcome of this contest was so evenly matched that the best judges could not have awarded victory to either side. Thus, Morel and the Bohemian stood undaunted against their opponent’s formidable volley, which both received full in the chest without losing their saddle. But in the third encounter, the baron’s lance lodged between the bars of his opponent’s ambush, suddenly tearing off his visor. At the same time, the Bohemian, with singular bad luck, deflected his lance and struck Morel hard in the thigh, contrary to all the rules of the tournament, which forbade striking an opponent from the waist down and declared anyone who did so defeated. This ill-fated blow also gave Morel the right to seize the enemy’s weapons and horse , had he chosen to do so. The applause and delirious shouts of the English soldiers, and the silence and the frowning faces of the people, announced, before the heralds did, the triumph of the former, who had obtained the advantage in three fights, against two won by the Gascons. The ten combatants had already gathered before the prince’s tribune for two of them to receive their deserved reward, when the sharp blast of a bugle called the attention of those present to one end of the arena, all eager to see the unexpected knight who thus announced their arrival. Chapter 24. HOW THE EAST SENT A FAMOUS CHAMPION. It has been said that the great jousts of Bordeaux, for which the square bordering the Abbey of Saint Andrew was narrow and entirely unsuitable , were held outside the city walls, on the vast plain immediately adjacent to the river. To the east of this rose the terrain, covered with green vineyards in summer, through which wound the road leading to the interior, usually very busy but solitary that day when everyone, both travelers and inhabitants of the city, formed part of the spectator crowd. Looking in the direction of that road, one could have seen, even long before the end of the fight, two bright, moving points that drew nearer until the observer could see that they came from the reflection of the sun on the hooves of two riders galloping forward in the direction of Bordeaux. The first was a knight fully armed , riding a spirited black steed with a white star on his brow. The rider seemed short in stature but robust and broad- shouldered, and his visor was pulled low, with no emblem or blazon on his white harness or his smooth, polished shield. The other was evidently his squire, with no other offensive or defensive weapons than his helmet and his master’s powerful lance, which he wielded in his right hand. In his left, besides the reins of his own mount, he also held the bridle of a superb bay horse with luxurious trappings that reached to his hocks. As the two riders and their three horses reached the entrance to the arena, the squire gave that vibrant touch that so surprised the spectators. “Who is this knight, Chandos, and what does he wish?” asked Prince Edward. “By my faith,” replied the chancellor with undisguised surprise, “either I am very much mistaken or he is a French nobleman. ” “French!” exclaimed Don Pedro of Castile. What induces you to believe it if he bears no blazon or device to prove it? I need only look at the shape of his armor, sire, more rounded at the elbow and shoulder guards than any that come from England or Spain. It might as well be harness of Italian make, without the special curve of the breastplate; and the more I look at it, the more certain I am that this corselet was made by craftsmen on this side of the Rhine. But here comes his squire, and Your Highness will soon know what brings him in these parts. When the squire arrived before the prince, he stopped his horse, blew a second time the horn that hung from his belt, and said in a sonorous voice with a marked Breton accent: I come as herald and squire to my lord, a noble and valiant knight and faithful subject of the most powerful King Charles of France. Knowing that these jousts are being held, my lord requests the honor of measuring his arms with an English knight who will accept his challenge, either breaking lances or fighting with sword and dagger, mace, or battle-axe. And he has very expressly ordered me to declare that his notice is addressed only to noble English knights, not to those who, without being so, nor even being good Frenchmen, speak the language of the latter and serve under the banner of the former. “You are bold, I swear to such a one!” exclaimed the Clyssonian in a thundering voice, while other Gascon lords raised their hands to their swords. “My lord,” continued the envoy, ignoring the words of one or the threatening gesture of the others, “is ready to joust at once, even though his warhorse has just covered a long distance without rest, for we feared being late for the tournament.” “You have arrived late indeed,” replied the prince, “for it only remains to award the prize to the victors. But I have no doubt that among these knights of mine there will be some prepared to oblige the champion of France. ” “And as for the trophy,” said the Baron de Morel, “I am sure that I interpret the wishes of these gentlemen when I declare that it will be given to him, despite his delay, if he succeeds in winning it in a fair fight. ” “Take both answers, squire, to your master,” said the prince, “and ask him to name one of the five English keepers who have jousted today to break lances with him. Wait a moment; that knight will not He bears no coat of arms or emblem, and we need to know his name. My lord has sworn an oath not to reveal his name or raise his ambush until he sets foot on French soil again. But then what guarantee do we have that he is not a rustic skilled in the handling of weapons, or a groom disguised in his master’s harness, or even a dishonored nobleman with whom none of my knights would deign to fight? There is no such person, sir, I swear by all that is sacred! said the squire vehemently. Rather, I declare that there is not a knight in the world who would not consider himself very honorable to cross swords with him who sent me here. The squire’s reply is arrogant, said the prince, but until you give us better proof of your master’s noble character, I will not allow the finest lances in my court to joust with him. Do you refuse Your Highness? I resolutely refuse. “In that case, sir, my master has authorized me to secretly reveal your name to the most illustrious Lord of Chandos, and to him alone, that he may declare whether Your Highness yourself could or could not break lances with my master without the slightest disgrace. ” “I accept the proposal,” said the prince briskly. Chandos approached the squire, whispered a few words in his ear, and the old chancellor made a gesture of profound surprise, while he looked with evident curiosity and interest at the motionless knight who stood at a distance awaiting the outcome of these negotiations. “Is it possible?” he exclaimed. “It is the absolute truth, sir,” said the squire. “I swear it by Saint Ivan of Brittany. ” “I should have suspected it,” added Chandos, twisting his long mustache and staring fixedly at the retiring knight. “What do you say, Chandos?” asked the prince. “My lord, I ask a favor of you.” Allow my squire to bring me a harness so I can put it on and have the high honor of crossing swords with the French champion. “Little by little, my good Chandos. You have, and well earned, all the laurels a man can win, and it is time for you to rest. Squire, tell your master that he is most welcome at my court, and if he wishes to take a little rest and refresh himself in my company before the joust, I am ready to oblige him. ” “Forgive me, sir, he cannot drink with Your Highness. ” “Let him then designate the knight of his choice. ” “He wishes to joust with the five English retainers, and with the weapons each of them prefers and chooses. ” “Great is his confidence, I see. But it is not right to prolong his wait, nor do we have much time at our disposal, for the sun is approaching sunset. ” To your stations, knights, and let us see if this stranger can match the arrogance of his words with the height of his deeds. While these preliminaries lasted, the unknown champion remained motionless like a steel statue, erect in the saddle of his warhorse and leaning on his sturdy lance. The expert eye of nobles and soldiers alike divined a fearsome adversary in this man of athletic form and imposing appearance. The archer Simon, who was in the front line with Reno, Tristan, and other comrades, was not lacking in his most complimentary comments about the stranger’s demeanor and the skill with which he had handled horse and lance moments before. Just looking at him seemed to awaken a vague memory in the veteran’s mind. “I’ll bet the great Turk’s mustache,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows, “that I’ve seen that handsome fellow before, though I don’t remember where. Was it at Nogent, was it at Auray?” “What I’m telling you, boys, is that you’re looking at one of the finest lances in France, and it turns out there are none better in the world, and I know what I’m talking about. ” “Well, I say all these tournaments and slyness are pure childishness,” grunted Tristan de Horla. “By the Cross of Gestas! Just let them come at me with lances and thrusts… ” “How would you fight, then, Tristan?” some asked. “There are several ways of doing it,” replied the giant, reflecting; but it seems to me I’d begin by breaking my sword. ” “That’s what everyone tries to do.” “Ah, no! But I wouldn’t foolishly break it on the other man’s shield, but on my knee. And so I would turn what is nothing more than a useless spike into a good mace. ” “And then? ” “I would let the other man drive his sword into my leg or arm, or wherever he saw fit, and then, quite calmly, I would bash his brains out with my mace. ” “Bravo, Tristan! Come, I would give my down blanket to see you loose in the fray. What a fine way of jousting you have!” exclaimed Simon. “Well, it seems to me the best,” said Tristan very seriously. “Or else I would seize the other man by the waist, drag him from his saddle whether you like it or not, and drag him back to my tent, and hold him until he paid me a good ransom.” Great laughter greeted the brave archer’s salute, and Simon promised to do everything possible to ensure that Tristan would be named king of arms so that he could put his strange ideas about jousts and tournaments into practice . “Here comes Sir William Beauchamp,” said Reno. “A gallant knight, but I fear he cannot withstand the volley that the Frenchman’s lance promises to deliver. ” And so it was, for although Beauchamp dealt his opponent a mighty blow to the helmet, he received in return such a furious blow that he was thrown from his saddle and rolled on the ground. Percy’s luck was no better, his shield broken and his left arm unguarded, as well as a slight wound in his side. Abercombe aimed his lance at the stranger’s head , and the stranger followed suit, remaining firm and upright in the saddle after the clash. The Englishman was then doubled over, half-fallen over the horse’s rump, which covered half the field before the rider could recover his normal position. Leiton fell to the blows of the Frenchman’s mace, the former’s weapon of choice; his attendants carried him in their arms to their pavilion. These swift victories over four famous warriors filled the spectators with admiration, and both soldiers and townspeople lavished their applause on him. “A fearsome champion,” remarked the prince; “but now the brave man of Morel advances , on foot and with his sword in hand, with which weapon he is perhaps the most skilled in our kingdom. ” The combatants approached, shouldering and grasping their enormous battle-swords in both hands. The fight was fierce and brilliant; They attacked each other with daring courage and defended themselves with incredible skill, delivering frequent and formidable blows that resounded as their swords clashed against each other or against the heavy harnesses. Finally, the Frenchman raised his weapon to deliver a decisive blow, but that moment was enough for the Baron to discover a vulnerable spot in his opponent’s armor, and swiftly, like lightning, he plunged his sword into the Frenchman’s arm, where it met his shoulder. The wound was shallow, but enough to draw blood, which drew a red line on the polished breastplate. Although the stranger seemed determined to continue the fight, the King of Arms threw his golden cane into the fray, and the combatants lowered their swords. The Prince immediately arranged for the French champion to be invited to remain at his court for a while, and if that were not possible, to sit at his table that night and rest for a few hours in Bordeaux. The knight heard the courteous message and trotted his steed toward the royal tribune, his shoulder bandaged with a white silk handkerchief. “My lord,” he said in a firm voice, greeting the prince, “I cannot sit at your table. I am French and therefore your enemy. The happiest day of my life will be the one when I see the last of the English galleys disappear over the horizon, taking with them the last of the foreign soldiers who today tread and dominate part of this land of France. My words may seem harsh to you, but I repeat, I am your enemy. ” “And by the signs you have given today, a brave and fearsome enemy. The King of France can be proud of having servants like you. But your wound… ” “It is insignificant, and my horse can make the journey very well.” return, which I will undertake at once. Rest with God; and saluting again, he galloped to the entrance of the arena and disappeared, followed by his squire. “Brave, patriotic, and proud,” exclaimed the prince. “I believe that the unknown jouster of today is a great French warrior. ” “Doubt it not, sir,” said Chandos, “and one of the most famous.” Chapter 25. OF A LETTER AND SOME RELICS. When Roger presented himself at the Baron’s chamber the next day, he found him busily engaged in tracing on some blotted parchment some enormous, twisted symbols, which, as he afterwards ascertained, were an attempt at a letter from the Baron to his wife. “You are welcome, Roger,” he said excitedly as soon as he saw the young man. I confess I’m not very good at writing, and here I am, struggling to tell my lady the Baroness the many things I want to say, in scribbles that insist on not coming out straight and that neither she, nor you, nor I will understand. The faithful squire smiled and offered to write as many letters as the Baron wanted in a jiffy, and it was not long before the letter was signed and sealed. The knight briefly recounted the main events of his voyage: the encounter with the pirates, the unfortunate death of the young squire Froilán de Roda, his presentation at court, and how he intended to leave without delay for Montaubán, where the rest of the famous White Guard under his command were while away their time burning and looting. “Something’s missing, sir,” Roger observed, “and if you’ll allow me… ” “Write whatever you like, Roger, and add it to my letter, for everything you say will be of interest and pleasure to my lady the Baroness.” Taking advantage of the permission, the young man described what the Baron had kept quiet out of modesty, the glory he had achieved in combat and jousts. He assured the chatelaine of Morel that the Baron’s health was excellent, that there were still very good ducats in the purse entrusted to his guard and that they would last until he and his lord arrived at Montaubán. Finally, he begged the Baroness to accept his compliments and be kind enough to present them most sincerely to her daughter, the peerless Constance. “That is all very well expressed,” said the Baron, nodding his bald head with satisfaction. “And now, Roger, if you wish to write anything to your relatives in England, I will send it with the same messenger who is to carry my letters. ” “I have no relatives, sir,” said Roger sadly. “My brother is the only one… ” “Yes, I remember how you separated, and I assure you that you do not lose much. But since you have no one of your own blood, do you not have someone there who is dear to you?” “Oh, yes,” replied the young man, sighing. “Come, I see. Is she beautiful? ” “Beautiful. ” “Good? ” “Like an angel. ” “And she doesn’t love you? ” “I can’t say I love anyone else. ” “In that case, your duty is to make yourself worthy of her love. Be honorable and brave; without humiliating yourself before the powerful, show yourself affable and sweet to the poor and humble, and in time you will be honored with the love of a pure and good maiden, the highest reward to which any accomplished knight can aspire. Is your beloved of noble birth? ” “Of our most distinguished nobility, sir. ” “Take care, Roger, take care. Do not aim too high and reap disappointments and bitterness. ” “You knew my father, Baron, and you also know the value of the Clinton de Hanson lineage…. ” “Ancient and indisputable nobility and glorious history.” But I don’t say this because of your blazons, my son, but because of your lack of fortune. If you were the Lord of Munster, instead of your boisterous brother… But either I am mistaken, or the footsteps that resound are those of Sir Oliver. The plump knight was not long in appearing, red with indignation, with the unheard-of news that he had just sent a placard of challenge to the Lords of Chandos and Fenton, chancellors of the Duchy of Aquitaine and to whom the prince had entrusted the selection of the knights who had so brilliantly upheld the honor of the English arms in the tournament the day before. Astonished by such a snub, the Morellan found out that Monsieur de Butron felt offended at not having been among the five chosen and intended to call Chandos and Fenton to account for this disrespect. The Baron had a hard time pacifying his agitated friend, who finally confessed that he was only waiting to taste a new and delicious dish that was being prepared for him at that moment, so that he could also send a message to the prince himself. “But have you been forsaken by God?” the Baron asked him. “What has the prince done to you?” “He thinks little of me, just like Chandos, and is beginning to make me the butt of his taunts and jokes. Do you know the one he threw at me last night after the tournament? One of my friends was praising the strength of my arm, and the prince was kind enough to say that however strong my arm was, it would never be as strong as my horse’s backbone.” This grace was received with great laughter by all present. The Baron laughed too, and once again calmed his ecstatic friend as best he could, and seeing him more inclined to enjoy his dishes and delicacies than to continue issuing challenges at every turn, he took his leave until he met again in Dax. Sir Oliver was in charge of commanding Morel’s two hundred men and leading them to Dax with his fifty hired help, while the Baron left Bordeaux in advance to head for Montaubán, take command of the rest of the White Guard lurking there, and join the main body of the army in Dax before the Prince began his march for Spain. “You, Walter, and Sergeant Simon will accompany me, and also another archer of Simon’s choice to look after my weapons and harness,” the Baron ordered.
Shortly afterward, he left Bordeaux accompanied by Walter de Pleyel, and two hours later, Roger, Simon, and Tristan de Horla set out in his wake. The former had to procure two Landes horses, of as poor appearance as they were excellent. Along the way, while his two companions chatted animatedly, Roger was thinking about the conversation he had recently had with the Baron and wondering whether he should have completed his confession by revealing that his beloved was none other than the beautiful heiress of Morel. How would the latter have received such a declaration? It had certainly been declared that, by virtue of his nobility, he could aspire to the hand of the most noble lady, with no other obstacle standing in his way than his lack of property. For the first time in his life, he desired them, and although he did not doubt Constance’s love , he also knew that the young enchantress would not give him her hand without first receiving her father’s full approval. “Where did the captain say we would find him?” “In Marmande or Aiguillón,” the veteran archer then asked , turning to Roger and bringing him out of his thoughts. “In Marmande or Aiguillón,” he added, adding that there was no possible way to get lost, because from Bordeaux to the two villages mentioned there is no other road than the one we are following. ” “And which I know like the back of my hand,” said Simon. “May my good fortune grant that on my return I may travel through it as well provided with booty as the last time I passed through. Do you see that little village in the distance with the feudal castle? Well, it is Cadillac, a name and place I remember because of the tavern these people call the Mouton d’Or, and which I would call the place of good wine, which we shall soon taste. On the banks of the Garonne, we will later see the hamlet of Bazan, where I stopped for three days on my return from my last campaign; And the blame lay with the local saddler ‘s daughters , three young girls, each more rosy than the other, to whom I had given my word of marriage. “All three? ” The devil so mixed things up that there was no way to leave one or two looking for a bridegroom. Which would have been in very bad taste, by my faith, especially in the case of a gallant archer, because they are all prettier than the other, and the devil take me if I had been able to prefer and choose one of the three. “We have a beggar,” said Tristan at that point, pointing to a nearby tree in whose shade sat an old man, covered from neck to bare feet in a coarse gray sackcloth with a triple cape. and wearing a greasy, broad-brimmed hat with three shells sewn in a row across the front of the crown. “I would say he was a religious man or a pilgrim, were it not for the strange wares he seems to have for sale,” said Simon. Approaching, they saw that on a board before him were placed in a row some pieces of wood, several stones, and a good-sized nail. “Help, gentlemen, a poor pilgrim,” exclaimed the old man, who has lost the sight of his eyes after contemplating the Holy Places with them and who has not eaten a thing for two days. ” “Well, no one would say so, seeing how full and splendid you are, my good man,” said Simon, looking at him attentively. “With such light words you only increase my pain,” said the blind man. “You see me replete and fat, apparently, and therefore you believe me well fed, when what is really bloating and killing me is an incurable dropsy . ” “Poor man!” murmured Roger. “May the lightning strike me if I say another word!” exclaimed the repentant archer. “Do not swear,” said the pilgrim, “and as far as I am concerned, I forgive you from my heart. My misfortunes and my helplessness have reached such a point that I am finally forced to part with my treasures in order to procure some means with which to complete my journey. I am going to the shrine of Our Lady of Rocamadour and there I hope to end my days. ” “And what treasures are these you speak of?” “Here they are, on this board. First of all, this nail, one of those that contributed to the infamous torture that resulted in the redemption of humanity. I obtained this priceless relic from the descendants of Joseph of Arimathea, who still live in Jerusalem. ” “And those stones and timbers?” asked Tristan, no less surprised than his companions. “A splinter from the true cross, another from Noah’s ark, and the third from the door of Solomon’s great temple.” Of the three songs I have here, the smallest was one of those thrown at Saint Stephen by his cruel executioners, and the other two come from the Tower of Babel. It has cost me much to obtain these precious relics, and for all the gold in the world I would not have parted with them; but as I approach death, because I feel my days are numbered, I offer you whatever you want, at whatever price your resources allow you to offer me. Transported, Roger, without reflecting much, turned to his companions and said: “An opportunity like this will never present itself again in our entire lives. I will not be left without that nail, and I must take it and offer it to the Abbey of Belmonte. ” “Just as I will take to my mother that stone that was thrown at the saint,” said Tristan. “Well, in my turn, I prefer the splinter from the temple doors,” said Simon, “and here I give you three ducats, out of the four that I have left.” “And here are two more,” added Tristan. “And four of mine,” said Roger. With this they took leave of the pious and distressed pilgrim, taking with them those venerable relics as unexpectedly as they had been easily acquired. The trouble was that after a short walk they came across a smithy, where they stopped to attend to Simon’s horse, which was in great need of the smith’s services. In conversation with him, Simon told him of their recent encounter and the large purchase they had made. The rustic saw the relics and burst into laughter at once, and taking up a box full of long nails, he presented it to Roger. “See,” he said, “if your nail is not one of these, and if the flakes and splinters of the holy man do not come from that heap at my door, where I myself saw him take them not two hours ago and put them in his bag. He himself asked for the nail, and I gave it to him. By the life of!” You are too gullible to be soldiers. Hearing that and running in search of the old stagehand was all in one. Soon they saw him at the top of a slope formed by the road, but he also saw them at a good distance and, imagining the message they were carrying, he ignored his blindness and, leaving the road, went into the thickets and reached the woods, leaving the three friends more than sullen, so beautifully mocked. Chapter 26. WHERE THE MYSTERIOUS PALADIN IS DISCOVERED. At Aiguillon, where they arrived that night, Baron de Morel and the smiling Gualtero were waiting for them, comfortably installed in the Bâton Rouge inn. The English nobleman was holding an interesting conversation with a famous knight of Poitou, Gaston de Estela, who had just arrived from Lithuania, where he had served with the Teutonic Knights under the Grand Master of Marienberga. The Lord of Morel, extremely pleased with this meeting, spent the idle hours talking about campaigns, sieges, jousts and adventures, and it was dawn when he took leave of Baron de Estela. This did not prevent him from setting out at the early hour he had fixed the day before, and leaving the course of the Garonne at Aiguillon, he and his four companions headed along the banks of the Lot, not in the direction of Montaubán but of Villafranca, where, according to intelligence gathered along the way, some English archers worse than Cain were on the loose, and whom he immediately assumed were the very ones he was seeking and of whom he was captain. Numerous signs revealed the agitation and state of alarm prevailing in that region, and more than once the small cavalcade was surrounded and detained by numerous groups of armed townspeople, to whom they had to inform the object of their journey, or risk becoming suspected and embroiled in a bad situation. “It is quite evident that the peace of Bretigny has not brought much relief to this region,” said M. de Morel. It seems to have gathered here every scoundrel and adventurer left in France and Aquitaine after the war, a people without faith or law who live off plunder and violence. Those high towers you see there belong to the town of Cahors, and beyond it lies the land of France. In Cahors, the travelers rested without incident or adventure worth a separate account, and upon leaving that town, they also left the banks of the river, taking a narrow and winding path that crossed a vast and desolate plain. It was bordered on the south by a leafy forest, upon emerging from which the baron announced to his squires that they had left the dominions of England behind and were setting foot on French territory. Everywhere were heaps of ruins, burned trees and fields, vineyards covered with stones, shattered bridges, and here and there a castle or monastery turned into rubble; signs everywhere of devastation and plunder. That sight saddened the travelers’ spirits, and the Baron began to wonder with suspicion if he would find provisions for his small troop in such a wilderness. Great was the satisfaction of the gentlemen and archers when they noticed that the path led into a wide road, and that a short distance from the crossroads they saw an intact house, large and square, one of whose windows displayed the enormous dry branch that announced an inn or a place to stay. “It’s about time, by God!” exclaimed the Baron, delighted. “Go ahead, Roger, and tell the owner of that inn or tavern or whatever it is that will provide lodging for an English gentleman and his servants. ” Roger spurred his horse and reached the door of the house, leaving his companions a crossbow shot away. Seeing not a living soul, he pushed open the half-open door, entered the hall, and shouted for the innkeeper. Not even then. And since there was no reason to remain there, the young squire made his way gracefully into a large room on the left , on whose hearth some thick logs were crackling and burning with a cheerful flame . Sitting beside the fire in a high-backed, wicker chair was a lady who could not have been more than thirty-five years old, and whose jet-black eyes, eyebrows, and hair contrasted sharply with the extreme fairness of her complexion. But more than her beauty, what attracted attention was her majestic and dignified air and the grave and thoughtful expression on her face. Seated opposite her on a footstool was a robust-looking gentleman, whose broad shoulders were covered by a loose black cloak and who was also wearing a black velvet cap, curly white feather. On the rough table nearby were a wine-jar and a tin goblet, which the gentleman filled and emptied from time to time; when Roger entered, he was occupied in cracking and eating nuts, of which there was a full dish on the table, the shells of which he threw into the flames of the hearth. He turned his face slightly to look at Roger, who beheld with surprise his deformed features, crisscrossed with scars, his small greenish eyes, and his nose, dented and crooked as if it had received a tremendous blow. “Is that you who shouts like that?” he exclaimed in a guttural voice with a sour accent. “Was it ever a young man with more freshness and less consideration? I long to take my whip and teach you a lesson you so desperately need.” Roger’s astonishment grew, overcoming his indignation, and for a few moments he remained motionless, staring at the insolent knight , not knowing how to reply in the presence of the lady. At that moment, the Baron, Walter, and the two soldiers arrived at the door, and they dismounted . But as soon as the stranger heard their voices and the language they were speaking, his face grew furious, and, throwing down the plate of nuts with force to the ground, he began to shout wildly for the innkeeper. The latter, pale and trembling, came to the door of the house and said in a low voice to the newcomers: “Do not anger him, my good lords, for the love of God I beg you. ” “What are you saying? Who is it?” asked the Baron. Before Roger could explain himself, the irritated guest’s voice resounded again: “But what cesspool is this?” he cried. Did I not ask you upon arriving, innkeeper of devils, if your house was free of vermin, so that my noble wife could lodge there without disgust or trouble? “And I answered you, mighty lord, that it is as clean as a whistle,” the other replied humbly. “Then how is it, scoundrel, that we hardly arrive there and already hear the chatter of those damned Englishmen? What worse or more harmful vermin could there be for a good French knight? Let them be off quickly, Master, and if not, so much the worse for them and for you!” The innkeeper did not ask him to repeat this, but ran from the room, just as the lady protested sweetly against the knight’s violent language. “For the love of God!” said the distressed innkeeper to the English, “do me the favor of following your path. Villafranca is not more than two leagues away, and there you will find comfortable lodging at the Inn of Anjou.” “I will not do such a thing,” said the Baron de Morel, “without first seeing the one who speaks thus and saying a few words to him. What are his name and titles? ” “It is impossible to name him, sir, without his permission. But see, if you enter, he will fly into a rage, and then… Believe me, my good sir; you do not know who it is! You are discreet, you are warned; go your way, for mercy’s sake! ” “Shut up, innkeeper!” exclaimed the furious English nobleman. “Or better yet, go and tell that formidable knight that Baron Leon de Morel is here and here he remains , because he so pleases, and neither he nor anyone else will dare to stop him. Go!” The poor man, bewildered and not knowing to what saint to commend himself, took a few steps along the hall when the inner door was suddenly flung open , and the furious Frenchman appeared, his fists clenched, his deformed features convulsed with rage. “You’re still there, you English dogs!” he cried. “My sword, come on, my sword!” But at that instant his eyes fell upon the Baron’s blazoned shield, held by Tristan, and after gazing at it for a moment, his expression softened, and a smile appeared on his lips. “Dear God!” he exclaimed, “why, it is my swordsman of Bordeaux! The five roses! I have reason to remember them since I saw them, not three days ago, at the jousts on the Garonne. Ah, Monsieur Léon de Morel, I owe you a debt!” And as he said this, he pointed to his right shoulder, bandaged with a silk handkerchief. But the stranger’s surprise at seeing the baron could not compare with his own. He stared at the wounded man and finally exclaimed in a loud voice that He revealed his profound joy: “Bertrán Duguesclin!” “The same one who wears clothes and shoes,” replied the other, laughing. “I did well, by my faith, to hide my face there in Bordeaux, for whoever sees it once never forgets it. I am, Lord of Morel, and here is my hand, which will never shake any English hand but yours and Chandos’s. ” “I am not young,” replied the Baron, “and wars have added some years to those I already have, but until now Heaven had not granted me the favor and honor of crossing my sword with another of such clean and deserved fame as the one you opposed to me in the lists of Bordeaux. Happy am I a thousand times! It seems impossible to me that I have still had such high honor. ” “By my faith! You have given me reasons not to doubt it, dear Baron,” said the famous warrior with a hearty laugh. “But come, and let your squires enter also .” I do not wish to deprive my beloved companion of the pleasure of seeing in you a model of nobility, albeit an English one, and a famous warrior. The noble lady received them with a kind smile, and within a few minutes of conversation, she had already won the full respect and admiration of Morel and his squires. With the air of a queen and the manners of the most aristocratic lady, she possessed incomparable tact, a charm that seduced all. Add to this the mystery surrounding her, the general belief that she possessed a supernatural faculty of divining and predicting the future, and you will understand the vivid impression she made on the three English gentlemen. Duguesclin himself observed with evident satisfaction the interest aroused in them by his wife’s pleasant conversation, her pure and elevated ideas, and the uncommon enlightenment she clearly displayed without the slightest heaviness or affectation. “Forgive me,” the French warrior finally said. Such noble and gracious company deserves worthy lodging, and this inn cannot offer it for the night. Let us take advantage of the little time we have left to mount our horses and reach the castle of Tristan de Rochefort, located a league from Villafranca, where we were headed when we decided to rest here for a few hours. The Lord of Rochefort is an old companion in my campaigns and now the steward of Auvergne. “And he will receive you with applause, no doubt,” said the baron. “But what will the steward think of our simplicity? ” “Well, he will bless you when he learns that you have come to cleanse the region of those uniformed scoundrels who ravage it. Mount up, gentlemen! And you, master, here are some gold coins; if anything is left over, consider it for the first needy knight who brings it this way. ” Moments later, both lords rode off, with the lady between them, escorted by young Pleyel. Roger had been delayed at the inn calling for the archers when he heard a distressed voice shouting for help . He approached the door of the room from which the voices came and found himself face to face with Simon and Tristan, who were laughing aloud and hastening to the door of the manor house where their mounts were waiting for them. Roger entered the room and was astonished to see a little man dangling from a strong iron hook hanging from the ceiling . The hook held him by the belt, and the poor man was flailing and kicking like one possessed. “To me, my friends!” he continued bellowing, his face red. “Favor for the champion of the Bishop of Montaubán!” _A moi!_ The innkeeper arrived at that moment and rushed with Roger to the aid of the hanged man. To do so, they had to climb onto the heavy oak table on which lay the remains of the two archers’ repast, and with some difficulty they managed to unhook the bishop’s champion. “Is he gone?” he asked as soon as he set foot on the ground. “Who? ” “The giant, the monster with the red hair. ” “Ah, come!” Tristan the archer said. “Yes, he’s gone,” said Roger. “And won’t he come back? ” “No. ” “He’s got away like a charm!” exclaimed the little man, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Coward! To dare to run away with me! Ah, that I had “I had hoped he would have made a good example of him, as God commands, to set an example for rogues! ” “Allow me, Monsieur de Pelisier,” said the innkeeper, “to put my horse at your disposal, with which you will soon overtake the discourteous archer. ” “Not a chance!” exclaimed the braggart hastily. “I have had a broken leg since the day I killed three of my enemies in the battle of Castelnau. ” “Then I will run and find him myself, so that you may punish him as he deserves who so offends my good customer, Señor Oscar Reginald Bombardón de Pelisier! ” “Pas si vite, mon ami!” I will know how to find him in due time. Imagine the damage your property would suffer if that giant and I were to engage in such a tremendous battle here.” At that moment, the trot of a horse was heard, which stopped at the door of the inn. The prudent Pelisier turned pale and crouched under the table, just as Gualtero’s voice was heard calling Roger. Roger left the inn with his companion, and they soon caught up with the two archers. “That’s a fine way to treat Señor Bombardón de Pelisier,” Roger said to Tristan with feigned severity. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” the young man began, while Simon burst into loud laughter. “By the edge of my sword!” he exclaimed. “I never hope to see a more intolerable braggart again in my life.” He refused to eat or drink with us, or even to speak to us. Then he began to recount his exploits to the beams of the ceiling and ended by saying that he had killed more Englishmen than he had hairs on his head. I was about to gut him with a kick when this fool reached out with his huge hand and, seizing Bombardon, hung him up on a hook like a suckling pig or a piece of cured meat. Ha ha ha! The four friends were still laughing at the adventure when they caught up with their captain, and soon afterward they all arrived at the castle of Rochefort, whose gates were flung wide open as soon as those guarding it heard the name of Bertrand Duguesclin. Chapter 27. PROPHETIC VISION. Tristan de Rochefort, steward of Auvergne and lord of Villafranca, had grown gray fighting against the English invaders, and since the peace was signed, he had never rested, pursuing the bands of adventurers, robbers, and vagrants who infested the region under his command. From these excursions, he sometimes returned victorious, with a dozen prisoners who were soon found hanged on the walls of the fortress; and at other times, he was seen returning in flight, closely pursued by deserters and bandits of all races and colors. Hated by his enemies, he was also hated by the very people he governed and defended, for, apart from his harshness and despotism, they did not forgive him for the floggings and tortures with which he had forced them to pay his own ransom the two times the English had taken him prisoner. His residence was a somber fortress with solid walls and a high crenellated tower in its center. Our travelers found a numerous guard at the castle gate, but the double eagle of Duguesclin offered, at that time, the best safe-conduct for traveling in that turbulent region and was also a golden key capable of opening all the fortresses of France. The noble veteran hurried to greet his friend and comrade-in-arms. and great was his joy at learning that Duguesclin’s companion would soon rid the country of those devilish English archers who had more than once put to flight the seneschal’s soldiers sent against them. An hour later, the three noble warriors and the ladies of Duguesclin and Rochefort were seated around the well-laid table , the latter cheerful and amiable, and much younger than her master and lord. Two other guests of the seneschal were Amaury de Monticourt, of the Order of the Hospitallers, and Otto Reiter, a Bohemian knight of great fame. Four French squires, the two from Morel, Roger and Gualtero, and the chaplain of the fortress, also sat down with their masters . The dinner was long and cheerful, without a single one of the guests remembering the Spiteful and hungry commoners who at that very moment, hidden among the undergrowth, were gazing from afar, with thoughts of revenge and death, at the lighted windows of the castle. The tablecloths being raised, the seneschal’s guests sat comfortably around a large fire, for the night was bleak and cold. Monsieur de Rochefort, as usual, expressed his contempt for those he called swineherds and vile peasants; the kind-hearted chaplain defended the poor townspeople; the commoners’ growing audacity and their waning respect for the privileges of the nobility were discussed, and the hours passed pleasantly in pleasant conversation . For some time now, Roger gazed with interest, and not without some alarm, at the face of Duguesclin’s noble wife, who, sunken into her armchair, seemed recently oblivious to everything being said around her, her eyes shining, her gaze fixed, and her cheeks pale. Roger noticed that Duguesclin was also watching his wife, restless and trembling. “What’s the matter, my wife?” he asked. “Nothing, Bertrand,” she said in a subdued voice, without taking her eyes off the opposite wall where they were fixed. “But there… a vision… ” “I was afraid of it,” said the famous French warrior. ” I owe you an explanation, gentlemen. My good wife is endowed with a prophetic faculty that manifests itself in her from time to time and allows her to predict certain future events. This mystery is incomprehensible to me, but this extraordinary power had already earned the admiration of everyone in Brittany, long before I first saw my Eleanor in Dinan. What I can assure you is that this gift of hers comes from heaven and not from the spirit of evil, which is what constitutes the difference between white magic and black magic.” And from clues well known to me, I understand that my good companion is presently in one of those lucid moments. The last time I saw her in the same state, on the eve of the Battle of Auray, she predicted that the following day would be fatal for me and for Charles of Blois. Twenty- four hours later, he was dead, and I found myself a prisoner of the Lord of Chandos… “Bertran, Bertran!” called the seer in a sweet voice. “Tell me, my love, what fate holds for me. ” “A great danger threatens you, Bertran, at this very moment. ” “Bah! A soldier is always in danger,” said the great French champion with a calm smile. “But your enemies are hiding, creeping, surrounding you at this moment. Ah, Bertran! Be on your guard!” Such an expression of terror was expressed by his distorted features and his wide-open eyes that Duguesclin glanced quickly around the room, fixed his gaze for a few moments on the tapestries covering the walls, and then on the anxious faces of his friends. “I will await that danger if it does not await me,” he said. “And now, Eleanor, speak. What will be the outcome of the Spanish war? ” “I can hardly see what is happening there. Wait… Great mountains and beyond a vast and arid plain, the clash of arms, the cries of battle. The very failure of your mission in Spain will ultimately give you triumph … ” “What do you say to that, Baron? Bitter and sweet at the same time, or as it were, a favor and a disfavor. Do you not wish to ask a question yourself? ” “If I may. Would you please tell me, madam, what is happening there at the castle of Monteagudo?” “To answer that question, I need to place my hand on someone whose memory and mind are constantly fixed on that castle you speak of. Your hand? No, Baron; there is another person here whose thoughts remain fixed on Monteagudo even more insistently than yours… ” “You astonish me, noble lady,” Morel stammered. “Come closer, young man with the blond, curly hair,” said Doña Leonor, extending her right hand in Roger’s direction. “Place your hand on my forehead. Like this, wait.” A thick fog from which an enormous square tower stands out; the fog dissipates, and I can now see the walls, the fortress.” all on a green hill, with the river at its feet, the waves of the sea in the distance, and a church a crossbow shot from the battlements. Beside the river rise the besiegers’ tents. “The besiegers!” the Baron, Gualtero, and Roger exclaimed simultaneously. “Yes, they are assaulting the walls with vigor. They are already setting up their ladders and firing a cloud of arrows. There their leader, tall and handsome, with a long blond beard, is launching his soldiers against the massive gate. But those in the castle are defending themselves valiantly. A woman, yes, a heroine is commanding them. Two, two women on the wall are encouraging the people of Morel, who are returning blow for blow and hurling great stones at their enemies. Their leader has fallen, and his soldiers are retreating, fleeing, everything is going dark, I can see nothing more… ” “By Saint George!” exclaimed the Baron. I can hardly believe that Salisbury and Monteagudo are the scenes of such scenes; but you have given such an exact description of the terrain and the fortress that you fill me with astonishment and fear. “Seize this moment if you wish to know anything more,” said Duguesclin. “What will be the outcome of this long series of struggles between France and England?” asked one of the French squires. “Both will retain what is theirs,” replied the lady. “Then shall we continue to dominate Gascony and Aquitaine?” asked Monsieur de Morel. “No. French soil, French blood and language. They are France’s, and she will reconquer and retain them. ” “But not Bordeaux? ” “Bordeaux is also France. ” “And Calais? ” “Calais too. ” “A black star is ours if that happens!” exclaimed the Baron. “What will then be left for England? ” “Allow me, Baron; And you, madam, tell me first, what will be the future of our beloved homeland? Duguesclin asked jubilantly. “Great, rich, and powerful. Through the centuries I see it at the head of other nations, a people king among all peoples, great in war but greater still in peace, progressive and happy, with no monarch other than the will of its children, one from Calais to the blue southern seas. ” “Do you hear it, Monsieur de Morel?” the French leader exclaimed triumphantly. “But what of England?” the Baron asked sadly. The prophetess seemed to contemplate with profound surprise an unusual scene, a spectacle she had never expected. “My God!” she finally exclaimed. “Where do these vast peoples, these powerful states that rise before me come from? And beyond, others, and others, across the seas. They occupy entire continents where the hammers of their factories and the bells of their churches resound.” Their names, many of them, are English, as is the language they speak. Other lands, surrounded by other seas and under different skies, are also English lands. The flag of Saint George waves everywhere, as much under the sun of the tropics as among the snows of the Pole. The shadow of England extends across the seas. Bertran, Bertran! They conquer us, because the smallest of their buds is more beautiful than the finest and most fragrant of our flowers! The prophetess gave a loud cry, rose from her seat, and fell fainting into the arms of her husband, who said, moved: “The vision is over, the sacred and mysterious hour that reveals the secret of the future!” Chapter 28. ATTACK AND DEFENSE OF THE CASTLE OF VILLAFRANCA. It was very late when Roger was able to retire to rest, but not before leaving the Baron comfortably installed in the room that had been assigned to him. His room, located on the second floor of the feudal dwelling, contained a small bed for himself and two mattresses on the floor, on which Simon and Tristan were sleeping and snoring when Roger entered. The young man was saying his prayers when he heard a discreet knock at the door, and almost immediately Walter entered with a lantern, his face pale and his hands trembling. “What’s the matter, my friend?” Roger asked him quickly. “I hardly know what to say to you. The saddest premonitions assail me, and I tremble without knowing why. Do you remember Tita, the daughter of the artist of Bordeaux? I asked her out on the Rue des Apostles and gave her a gold ring that she promised to always wear as a memory of me. When we said goodbye, she told me that her thoughts would follow me in the wars and that my dangers would also be hers… Well, I’ve just seen her. “Bah! You’re overexcited by the prophecies and spasms of my Lady Duguesclin, and her fingers seem to be guests. ” “I tell you, I saw her just now, coming up the stairs, as distinctly as I see those two sleeping archers. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her hands were thrust forward as if to protect me… “Look, Walter, it’s late, and you need to rest. Where is your room? ” “On the next floor. It’s right above this one. May the Holy Virgin protect us!” Roger heard his friend’s footsteps on the stairs and, going to the window, contemplated the moonlit landscape. On that side of the castle stretched a wide strip of ground covered with fine grass, and a little further on, two copses separated by an open space where only a few bushes grew, silvered by the moonbeams. Roger was distractedly watching them when he saw a man slowly emerge from the trees on the right and , quickly crossing the clearing, bending down as if to hide, disappear into the copse on the left. Behind him passed another, and then another, and then many more, alone or in groups, quite a few of them carrying large bundles strapped to their backs. The young squire remained absorbed for a moment, but very soon he bent down and lightly touched Simon’s shoulder . “Who’s there?” exclaimed the archer, jumping up. “Hello, my little one! I thought the enemy had surprised us. What do you want from me?” Roger led him to the window and told him what he had just seen. “Look, young man,” was the veteran’s reply. In this devilish country, I no longer wonder at anything. Indeed, there are more scoundrels there than rabbits in Hanson’s woods, all heartless people, who walk about at night, for if they did so during the day, the executioner would soon have them . May a wicked lightning strike split them, and it has been said, “Go to sleep!” But first, it won’t hurt to draw this bolt, for we are in a strange house. Lie down and sleep. With this, the archer stretched out on his pallet and in two minutes was fast asleep. Roger imitated him; he thought it must be nearly three in the morning, and he was dozing when he thought someone was pushing and making the bedroom door creak, trying in vain to open it. He began to listen, startled, and heard cautious footsteps moving away from his door and continuing upstairs. Shortly after, something like a stifled cry resounded, like a wail of agony, and as Roger was about to jump out of bed, he glanced at the window and was almost paralyzed with terror. A human body was slowly swinging before the window and from the outside of the wall. It hung from a rope knotted around its neck and evidently fixed at the other end to the window of the upper floor. An irresistible attraction compelled Roger to jump out of bed and approach, just as the moonlight fell full on the face of the hanged man. It was Walter de Pleyel, cowardly surprised and murdered. At Roger’s tremendous cry of surprise and pain, the two archers awoke with a start. “Flint and kindling, quick,” said Tristan in a calm voice. “This moonlight is the work of ghosts. Here’s the lamp, and now we shall see each other’s faces. ” “It’s poor Pleyel, no doubt about it,” groaned Simon. But I’ll be damned if I don’t bring this devilish steward to heel for the way he treats his guests! —No, no, Simon, the murderers are those bandits hidden in the forest I told you about before. And the Baron, God knows what fate has befallen him. I’ll fly to his side… —Wait a moment, comrade, I’m an old dog and I know how these things are done. The first thing is to put my hoof on the point of the bow. You open the door slowly and I’ll present the bait to those scoundrels, if by chance They are there waiting to cut our throats. So they did, and no sooner had the door opened and the helmet appeared than it received a tremendous cut, and the screams of the assassins broke out. But before they could repeat the blow, Simon’s sword flashed, and one of their enemies fell pierced through. “Forward! Follow me, and after them!” cried Simon, and flinging open the door, the three Englishmen rushed from the room, violently trampling over two men they met in their path and rushing down the stairs. The screams issued from the lower floor, where the vestibule was brightly lit by some torches fixed on the trophies that adorned its walls. In front of one of the three doors leading into the vestibule could be seen the bloody corpses of the steward and his wife, the latter with her head severed from her body, and the former with a pike running through her body. Beside them, also dead, were three of the castle’s servants, torn and shapeless, as if a pack of wolves had fallen upon them . At the next door, Duguesclin and Baron Morel, half -dressed and poorly armed, held the assassins at bay; the fire of battle shone with a sinister light in the eyes of both warriors, and the corpses of the enemy lay piled up before them. A numerous group of ragged men, with hideous expressions and armed with pikes, sickles, and spears, again attacked the two knights, who were displaying prodigies of valor and skill. At the moment, reinforcements arrived from Roger and the two archers, whose swords cut a bloody path through the shouting mob. The mob fell back with cries of rage, the five defenders of the castle joined forces and advanced, and soon the vestibule was cleared of enemies. Tristan seized the last two and threw them down the stairs, over the heads of his companions. “Don’t follow them!” cried Duguesclin. “If we separate, we’re lost. I wouldn’t mind dying killing, but I have to protect my poor wife. What do you advise us, Baron? ” “I’m here for advice, for I still don’t know the purpose or meaning of this massacre. ” “They are those bandit dogs of the forest, the worst kind known on earth. They have taken possession of the castle. Look out that window. ” “Heaven help me! There are more than a thousand of them inside the fortress and on the walls. In that group with torches, they are tearing an archer to pieces. There they are throwing another from the wall. Many are now entering through the open gates with great bundles of wood and branches…. ” “Just to set fire to the castle. ” “Would that I would have my White Guard now! But where is Walter? ” “He has been murdered, sir.” “God help his soul! And now, let’s defend ourselves, and above all, a lady who needs all our efforts. Here comes someone who might be able to guide us through these corridors and even lead us out of the fortress. ” “Where we shall soon be roasted to death if we do not leave it soon,” Duguesclin added. Those arriving down the steps four at a time were a French squire and the Bohemian knight, the latter with a wound on his forehead . “Speak, Godfrey,” Duguesclin said to the squire. “Do you know of a free way out? ” “The only one is the secret underground passage that leads to the countryside, and through it those bandits entered the fortress with the help of some traitor. The Knight Hospitaller, who was coming ahead of us, fell dead up there from an axe blow to the skull. The servants and the garrison have been put to the sword. We are the only ones who have escaped alive so far.” In my opinion, the only recourse is to take refuge in the tower, the keys of which you see there, hanging from the belt of my unfortunate lord. Once there, we shall be able to defend the narrow staircase with greater advantage; the walls of the tower are thick, and the fire will take a long time to consume them. Provided we can conduct the lady… “I will go myself,” the noble lady was heard to say, appearing pale and grave at the door of the room she and her husband had occupied at that time. fatal night. I am accustomed to the hazards of war, and if your protection, valiant knights, is insufficient, I will never fall alive into the hands of these wicked men. Saying this, he displayed a very sharp dagger in his right hand. “Eleanor,” said Duguesclin, “I have always loved you, but at this moment more than ever. If the Virgin allows us to protect you, I vow to offer a golden crown to Our Lady of Rennes. Onward, friends!” The assailants, tired of killing, were busy plundering. Only a fairly large group was stirring the fire and silently observing the progress of the blaze. At the foot of the winding staircase by which the French squire had guided them, the fugitives found a ragged sentry, who was quickly killed by an arrow shot by Simon’s sure hand . A small gate separated them from the great castle courtyard, and beyond it could be heard the voices and laughter of a multitude of enemies, drunk with blood and maddened by their triumph. Even the most courageous man would have hesitated before crossing this fragile barrier, but Duguesclin put an end to all hesitation by flinging open the little door. “To the tower, at a run!” he shouted. “The two archers in front, my wife between the two squires, and the lords of Reiter and Morel in the rear, to hold back this rabble! ” They did so with such speed that they had already covered half the great castle courtyard before the surprised peasants began to attack them. The archers cut down in the twinkling of an eye the few who stood in their way, and those who came in close pursuit bit the dust, pierced by the fearsome swords of the three noblemen. They reached the tower door without incident, and the French squire, who was trying to open it, suddenly uttered a cry of anguish and despair. “This is not the key!” he exclaimed, and beside himself, he took two steps in the direction of the wing of the castle they had just left, as if he wished to ask the corpse of his lord for the saving key. At that moment, a mighty peasant hurled an enormous stone at him, striking him full on the head and knocking him senseless at the Baron’s feet. “This is the best key for me!” roared Tristan; and raising the heavy rock, he hurled it in turn with irresistible force at the tower door . A moment later, the gigantic archer had knocked it down, and the fugitives finally entered that momentary refuge. “Up you go, madam!” exclaimed the Baron, pointing the stone staircase to Lady Eleanor , while Duguesclin and his companions struck down the four nearest attackers, badly wounded. The others fell back, always shouting and threatening, but remaining at a prudent distance, after tearing the body of the unfortunate squire to pieces. An act of cruelty which Tristan avenged by rushing into the mob and seizing two villains with his sinewy hands, whose heads he smote against each other with such force that both lay sprawling on the ground, lifeless. “Now let us organize the defense of the tower,” said Duguesclin. “The Baron and I are at the foot of the stairs; England and France will fight together today against the common enemy. Monsieur Otto de Reiter and the young squire de Morel are there, on the first step; the archers are a little higher up, so that they may handle their bows. Attention!” At the first sign of attack from the furious crowd, two arrows were heard whizzing, shot by Tristan and Simon, and the two who seemed to be bandit leaders were left rolling in their blood at the entrance of the tower. Two others suffered the same fate, and then the desperate besiegers rushed en masse to the attack. Their resistance would have lasted little without the narrowness of the gate and the stairway, which impeded the enemy’s movements, while four tireless swords wreaked tremendous havoc on that tightly packed mass of poorly armed men. The fight was stubborn, but it ended with the enemy’s withdrawal, not without the besieged having to mourn the death of Reiter, the knight. Bohemian, who was hit on the head by a blow from a mace. “First stage,” Duguesclin said calmly. “It seems they have enough for now. ” “And there are certainly some very brave dogs among those dogs who fight well,” commented Monsieur de Morel. “But what are they doing now? ” “Our Lady of Rennes help us!” said the French paladin. “They intend to set fire to the tower and roast us in it. I feared as much. Tough on them, archers, for our swords are of no use to us now. ” A dozen besiegers advanced, shielding themselves with enormous bundles of wood and dry branches, which they placed against the walls. Others set them alight with torches, and soon the tower was surrounded at its base by a circle of flames. The smoke forced its defenders to take refuge on the first floor, but soon the floorboards began to burn, the room filled with thick smoke, and they were barely able to climb the last flight without suffocating and reach the top of the tower. The scene from that height was imposing. Meadows and forests gently illuminated by the silver moonlight; in the distance, the piercing ringing of a bell could be heard; to one side of the tower, the castle walls were crumbling, engulfed in flames, and at the foot of their last refuge, the multitude of their enemies was stirring with furious gestures and hoarse cries . “By the edge of my sword!” exclaimed Simon. “It seems to me, friend Tristan, that on this journey we shall not see Spain; nor my down blanket, which fortunately is in good hands.” Thirteen arrows remain, and I’ll be hanged if a single one of them misses its mark. The first one for that damned fellow waving the poor Castilian woman’s silk cloak. Impaled at the waist, a hand’s breadth lower than I expected! Number two: a parting gift to the damned fellow with a head on his pike. He’s already lying belly up. A good arrow from you too, Tristan! You’ve made that handsome lad fall nose first into the fire. Here’s another one! While the two archers were having their way, Duguesclin and his wife were consulting with the Baron and Roger, and they recognized the hopelessness of their situation. “I feel sorry for her,” said the famous French warrior. “Do not grieve for my fate,” replied the loving and valiant lady, ” for since death threatens me, I am never so welcome as receiving it with you at my side. ” “Well, madam,” said the Baron; That is undoubtedly the answer that, in similar circumstances, my unforgettable wife, for whom my last thoughts are, would have given me. “What is this, Baron?” Roger exclaimed at that moment in a loud voice from the opposite side of the terrace. “This? By Saint George!” said the Baron, hurrying up, “a pile of bombardier shells. And here is the iron box for the gunpowder. Now you will see the havoc we are going to wreak on the rabble. You, Tristan, lift that box and place it on the parapet. And you, Simon, lift the lid. Good, it is almost full. Now drop the box at the foot of the tower, into the flames.” The order was hardly carried out when a frightful report resounded. The tower trembled and cracked, threatening to collapse at any moment . The besieged, pale and dumb with terror, clung to the parapet and beheld the ravages of the explosion. From the foot of the tower to a distance of fifty yards, one could see a confused mass of mangled bodies, of wounded men uttering terrifying screams, many of them engulfed in the flames that consumed their rags. Beyond this scene of destruction, numerous groups of terrified people fled at top speed, anxious to get as far away as possible from the fatal tower and its fearsome defenders. “A way out, Duguesclin!” cried the Baron. “Let’s take advantage of their confusion to get out of here and escape if possible.” With that, he drew his sword and began to quickly descend the stairs, followed by his companions, but before reaching the next floor, he stopped, his face filled with dismay. “What’s going on?” “Look! The explosion has brought down the wall, whose debris completely blocks the staircase. And below, the fire continues to undermine the tower. ” “We’re lost,” said Duguesclin. They all returned slowly to the upper terrace, and scarcely had they arrived when Simon let out a cry of joy. “Good news!” he exclaimed. “Do you hear it? It’s the war chant of the White Guard.” Before descending, I thought I heard it too, like a distant echo, but I wasn’t sure. Our friends are coming. Listen!” They all began to listen. There was no doubt. From the valley rose a sonorous, martial chant, more pleasing to the besieged than the most harmonious melody. “There, there!” continued Simon. “See them coming out of the woods and taking the road to the castle. They’ve seen the flames and also the mob of those damned men, and they’re singing as always when the White Guard is preparing to give and receive blows. Ah, brave ones!” “To me, Yonson, Roland, Vifredo! ” “Who’s going?” a powerful voice demanded. “Simon Aluardo, by all means, he doesn’t want to be roasted! And here in the tower you also have a lady to rescue, along with your captain, the Baron de Morel! Quick, scoundrels! The arrow and the string, Vifredo, as at the siege of Maupertuis! ” “Long live Simon!” the archers were heard shouting, and shortly afterward the voice of Vifredo, saying: “Are you ready, comrade? ” “Shoot!” replied Simon. The archer drew his bow, and the arrow fell inside the parapet. Tied to its end was a long string, which Simon seized eagerly. “Saved!” he said, and then, bending over his comrades, he shouted: “Now fasten the long, strong string!” A few moments later he had the thick, life-saving rope in his hands. With his help, they brought down the noble lady first, and soon they all found themselves at the foot of the tower, surrounded by the brave archers of the White Guard. Chapter 29. THE PASSAGE OF RONCESVALLES. “Where is Captain Claude Latour?” was the first thing Baron de Morel asked, as soon as his feet touched the ground. “In our camp at Montpezat, Baron, two hours’ journey from here,” Yonson, the sergeant in command of the archers, said respectfully. “Then let’s march without delay, my boys, for I want to see you all at headquarters at Dax in time to march in the vanguard of the prince.” At that instant, Monsieur de Morel and Roger’s horses were brought in, as well as those of Duguesclin and his wife, abandoned by the peasants in their hasty flight. The two warriors were bid farewell in an affectionate manner . “It has been a great fortune for me,” said Duguesclin, “to have met and met in such exceptional circumstances the famous leader whose name has so often been announced to me by fame. But we must part, for my place is at the side of the King of Spain, to whose orders I must place myself before you cross the mountains of the frontier. ” “In truth, I believed you were in Spain with the valiant Henry of Trastamara. ” “I was there, Baron, and I came to France with the mission of recruiting men to his aid. In Spain you will find me, at the head of four thousand picked French lances , to give your prince a welcome worthy of him and his valiant knights. God keep you, friend Baron, and grant us another chance to meet under more propitious circumstances! ” “I do not believe there exists a more accomplished knight in all Christendom,” said the man from Morel, watching him walk away in the company of his spirited consort. “But are you wounded, Roger?” “What pallor is that?” “All I feel, Baron, is bitter sorrow for the unfortunate death of my good companion from Pleyel. ” “Ah, yes!” said the nobleman sadly. ” I have already lost two brave squires, and I wonder why implacable fate snatches from my side these young men of brilliant future , leaving their white heads like mine untouched . But don’t you remember, Roger, how Lady Eleanor foretold us all these dangers and misfortunes of last night? ” “That is indeed the case, sir.” “Which renews my fears of seeing your other prophetic vision about the siege of Monteagudo fulfilled . But I cannot believe that a French or Scottish enemy force large enough to attack the castle has reached Salisbury . Summon those people, Simon, and let’s march. ” At the first trumpet call, the white archers rushed forward, laden with plunder, and the baron couldn’t hide a smile of satisfaction as he scanned the ranks of those seasoned soldiers with his penetrating gaze. Few leaders could boast of commanding such a fearsome and martial force. There were also some veterans of the great French wars, but the majority of the White Guard were young archers, sturdy English lads, whose breastplates bore rich bands of silk and gold and precious stones glittered , a clear sign of the abundant plunder collected during their long campaign in the south. Perfectly armed and protected by their steel helmets , chain mail covered by a white doublet bearing the red cross of Saint George on the chest, a long bow slung over his back, and a mace or battle-axe hanging from his belt, the Baron felt capable of great deeds at the head of these valiant men. A two-hour march along the banks of the Aveyron brought them to the White Guard camp, consisting of some fifty tents, and among the first to meet them was a richly dressed horseman, who greeted the Baron enthusiastically. “At last!” he exclaimed, shaking his hand. ” We have been anxiously awaiting you for more than a month, Lord of Morel. Welcome! Did you receive my letter? ” “My presence here is due only to it. But I am truly amazed, Lord of Latour, that you have not taken command of these brave archers yourself . ” “Impossible, my noble friend!” exclaimed the Gascon chieftain. You know what these English are like, and there’s no way they’ll accept as their leader anyone who isn’t a fellow countryman. I myself have been unable to gain their trust and obedience; they held their usual meeting, and the stubborn ones, led by that thickhead you have there, Simon Aluardo, resolved that it would be you and no one else who would command them. But your plan was to reinforce the Guard with a hundred recruits, Baron. Where are they? “Waiting for us in Dax, where we’ll soon join them.” “Come to my tent, where you’ll rest, and you and your squire will regain some strength with the little I can offer you here.” In the course of the conversation, Claude Latour was quick to outline his plan to attack Montpezat and Castelnau, nearby and poorly defended towns, in the former of which he assured the Baron that they would find more than two hundred thousand ducats hidden in the fortress, as well as other considerable loot. “My plans are quite different, Lord of Latour,” said the Morel native irritably. “I have come here to command these archers, placing them at the service of the King, our Lord, and the Prince, his son, who needs all our help to restore his ally Don Pedro to the throne of Castile. Today I intend to continue my march toward Dax. ” “For myself,” replied Latour, evidently surprised and displeased, “I am very content with the life I lead here. I have not the slightest interest in this war you speak of, and you certainly won’t see me in Dax.” “In that case, my lord, I shall have the displeasure of taking command of the White Guard without you. ” “If the Guard follows you, Baron, when it learns that you intend to remove it from this country, where it lives in abundance, with no other law than its own will. ” “Then I will find out at once,” replied the Baron impetuously. “If I am their leader, they are coming with me to Dax at this moment; and if I am not—by my name!—then I do not know what I am doing in Auvergne, instead of taking my place in the prince’s escort.” The archers were soon gathered, to whom the Baron, with a firm voice and energetic gesture, addressed himself in these terms: “They tell me, archers, that you have become fond of this luxurious life that Here you have been, to the point of not wanting to leave Auvergne. But, by Saint George, I will not believe it of such brave soldiers, especially when you know that your prince is preparing a great enterprise and needs you. You have chosen me as your leader, and I will be your leader to guide you to Spain. I swear that the banner of the five roses will always wave wherever there are more laurels to be won. But if it is your desire to exchange glory and renown for vile profit and to remain in this region amidst indolence and plunder, seek another leader; I have lived honorably and I shall die with honor. Among you are many sons of the county of Hanson; let them speak first and say whether they are ready to follow the banner of Morel. Immediately a large group of archers, robust mountaineers from Hanson, detached themselves from the column and acclaimed the baron with enthusiasm. “By the cross of my sword, boys!” Simon cried at that point, leaping onto a fallen tree trunk. It would be a disgrace to the White Guard to allow the prince to cross the southern mountains without us clearing a path for him with our bows! War is declared, the royal standard is fluttering in the breeze, and beneath its folds old Simon will be found , even if he has to go alone to Dax… “No, no! Long live Simon! We will all go!” cried the archers, who for the most part had no need of the example so opportunely set by the highly popular veteran. “Let Captain Latour speak!” was heard from the ranks. “Yes, let us hear the Gascon too!” another voice chimed in. “Soldiers!” exclaimed Claude Latour without needing to be urged. “I will do nothing but remind you of the many good things you leave here and the sad reward you are going to seek in a distant war. Liberty and rich booty in Auvergne, severe discipline and miserable pay in the army.” You know what your comrades in the White Guard who went to Italy have won: the sack of Mantua and the ransom of six hundred nobles. I will provide you here with such brilliant coups d’état as that… “That will turn them into a gang of thieves!” Tristan shouted, furious at this harangue. “However, the Gascon captain is not entirely wrong,” a grim-eyed archer timidly said. “You have always been a coward and a traitor, Marcos!” Simon roared, shaking his fist. “Let there be peace,” the Baron said calmly. “Those who prefer to serve Monsieur de Latour are free to follow him. The rest of you, with me wherever duty and patriotism call us.” A dozen archers slipped ashamedly toward the Gascon’s tent, driven off by the jeers of the entire column, which shortly afterward set off with the baron on the way to the English headquarters. Throughout the usually tranquil region stretching from the Adour to the border of Navarre, the numerous corps of the great army were bivouacked; everywhere were the tents of Aquitanian, Gascon, and English commanders and soldiers. The Duke of Lancaster, brother of the prince, had just arrived from England with a retinue of four hundred cavalry and a large force of archers, the last reinforcements expected, and everything was ready for the march. The passes of Navarre remained in the hands of the vacillating Charles, who had tried to negotiate simultaneously with Henry of Castile and Edward of England; but the iron hand of the Black Prince forced him to yield and leave the mountain passes clear. To achieve this, the prince commissioned Captain Hugo Calverley, who at the head of his company quickly entered Navarre and set fire to Puente la Reina and Miranda. That challenge was enough for King Charles to desist from all opposition to the passage of the strong invading army through Navarrese territory. At the beginning of February, three days after the arrival of Baron Morel and his White Guard in Dax, the English army received the order to march towards Roncesvalles. The first to obey it, by express order of the prince, were the three hundred archers of Morel, chosen to open the way and position themselves in the last stretch of the mountain range, in order to wait there and protect the passage of the entire army. Proud indeed, the Baron rode at the head of his men, fully armed and followed by Roger, Simon, and Reno, the latter carrying the standard of the famous warrior. “By my faith, Roger,” said the latter, “I would have preferred to see Charles of Navarre dispute with us the passage of those mountains, which I understand were the scene of a fierce battle in which a certain valiant Roland lost his life. ” “If you will allow me, Baron,” replied Reno, “I will tell you that I know the country well, having served under the King of Navarre. That building whose roof you see among the trees is a nursing home and monastery, and it marks the place where Roland perished. The town on the left is Orbaiceta, land of fine wine. ” “And to the right I see a hamlet…” “It is the town of Los Aldudes, and beyond that the peaks of Altavista.” The Baron pointed out to Roger, who was admiring this beautiful scene, the contrast presented from that height between the arid Gascon plains of the north and the green meadows and picturesque hills of Navarre. They also saw here and there, on the tops of rocks or at the bends of a road, small groups of knights and soldiers of King Charles, who watched them in silence. A sight that put the Baron in a very bad mood, and he spoke of nothing less than falling sword in hand upon those neutral soldiers. The veteran longed for the days when, according to him, passage through foreign lands was never bought with gold or treaties, but was won at the point of the lance or one perished in the pursuit. Finally, the archers reached a point in the mountains from which the towers of Pamplona could be seen on the distant horizon, and there the White Guard halted, in compliance with the prince’s orders. The high mountains were covered with snow, and the archers made themselves as comfortable as they could in a nearby village. Roger spent the rest of that day and part of the next watching the brilliant army assembled for this expedition parade under the banner of the King of England. Simon soon joined him and sat beside him on a high rock. “Men, horses, weapons, and trappings—all this is magnificent, Roger, and worthy of the attention you give it,” said the veteran. “Our brave captain is furious because we crossed the mountains without using arrows or lances, but either I am mistaken, or this Castilian campaign will provide him with as many opportunities to fight as his body can demand before we resume our march north. They say in the army that Henry of Trastamara can unleash 40,000 troops against us, not counting Duguesclin’s French lances, and that all of them have sworn to die rather than see Don Pedro again on the throne of Castile.” “But our army is also numerous and seasoned.” “Twenty-seven thousand men altogether, and in a foreign land. But beware, mon petit, for here comes Chandos himself with his company, and behind them banners and shields among which you will recognize the best of our nobility.” While Simon was speaking, a strong column of archers had filed before them, followed by a standard-bearer bearing high the banner of Chandos. He rode a short distance away, clad in full armor except for a helmet with long white plumes, which one of his squires held on the saddle. His white hair was covered by a purple velvet cap, and a page carried his mighty lance. He smiled with pleasure at the sight of the banner of the five roses waving over the hamlet and, with a farewell, followed his archers along the road to Pamplona. A short distance behind him rode twelve hundred English cavalry, their helmets, breastplates, and weapons glittering in the sun, forming a dazzling squadron, escorted by Lord Audley himself with his six hundred archers and the four renowned squires who had won such glory at Poitiers. Two hundred heavily armed horsemen preceded the Duke of Lancaster and his brilliant retinue, in which stood out four heralds whose long tabards bore the royal arms embroidered on their breasts. On either side of the young prince rode the two seneschals of Aquitaine, Guiscard d’Angle and Stephen Cosinton, the former carrying the banner of the duchy and the latter that of Saint George. Beyond, as far as the eye could see along the road, column upon column stretched out like a river of steel, dominated by graceful crests, gonfalons, and blazoned shields. For much of that day, good Roger remained absorbed in contemplating the splendid squadrons and companies that paraded before him, while he listened attentively to the names being mentioned and the interesting comments made by the veteran Simon, until the last men-at-arms had disappeared into the deep defiles of Roncesvalles, heading for the plains of Navarre. Accompanied by the Duke of Lancaster , the kings of Majorca and Navarre, and the impatient Don Pedro of Castile, arrived at Pamplona with the English vanguard. Also present were handsome Gascon knights from Aquitaine and Saintonge, from La Rochelle, Quercy, Limousin, Agenois, Poitou, and Bigorre, with the banners and forces of their respective districts. Not to be omitted was the numerous contingent from Wales, under the scarlet banner of Merlin. Also present were the elderly Duke of Armagnac with his nephew, Lord of Albret, the men of Esparre, Breteuil, and many others. On the fourth day, the entire army was encamped in the valley of Pamplona, and the English prince summoned its leaders to a council in the royal palace of the ancient capital of Navarre. Chapter 30. THE WHITE GUARD IN THE VALLEY OF PAMPLONA. While the council of war was being held in Pamplona, the White Guard was encamped on the outskirts of the city, between the companies of the Gascon leader La Nuit and the Flemish commander Ortingo. There they amused themselves by throwing their swords, fighting hand-to-hand like ancient gladiators, or showing off their skill with the bow, for which purpose shields placed on nearby hills served as targets . The novice archers advanced in ranks and carefully drew their large bows, while veterans like Yonson, Reno, Simon, and others attentively followed the flight of the arrows, commenting, applauding, or correcting the efforts of the archers. Behind them were grouped many crossbowmen from La Nuit and Brabant, who watched with interest the exercise in which their English allies were engaged . “Bravo, Gerard!” said old Yonson to a young man with blue eyes and blond hair who, with parted lips and a fixed gaze, was following the direction of the arrow he had just shot. There it is, right in the center of the target, and I’ve been waiting for it ever since I saw it leave your hand. Good archer, lad! “Always draw the string slowly and evenly and release the arrow without moving your hand, but suddenly,” said Simon. “And remember that these rules apply equally when you’re shooting at the target as when a horseman comes at you from behind your shield, lance in hand or sword raised, ready to split your soul. But who is that holding the bow like a staff and making so many grimaces as he aims? ” “It’s Sabas, from Bristol. Hey, Sabas!” cried Vifredo, “don’t bend your spine, son, or stick out your tongue, for that’s not going to help you much when you put the arrow to the target.” Lift up that ugly face that God has given you, stand stiff, and extend your left arm wide, without moving it; now draw slowly on the string with your right. “By my faith, I know more about handling the sword and the pike than the bow,” said Reno, “but I have been among archers for so many years that I remember having witnessed some prodigies. There are good marksmen here, but not like some I remember. ” “Do you see that?” asked Yonson of the veteran, extending his arm towards a bombard that was raised not far away on its ungraceful gun carriage. “Well, it’s those hulks that are to blame, with their smoke and their roars. Before them, the archers of the good school are gradually disappearing . And it is a wonder that such a gentle warrior as our prince carries with him such filthy machines, I hope they all explode with a thousand devils. “For first-rate archers, some we had at the siege of Calais,” Simon observed. “I remember that in one of the many sorties, a Genoese raised his arm and shook it as if threatening us. Ten of our boys immediately released as many arrows, and when we later discovered his body, it was seen that he had eight of them stuck in his forearm.” “Well, I’ll tell you,” replied Vifredo, “that when the French captured our galleon Cristobal and anchored it two hundred paces from the beach, two trained archers, Robin and Elias, needed no more than four arrows to cut the anchor cable as if with a knife, so that the galleon nearly crashed against the rocks, and we shot those on board with arrows. ” “Good times those were, and better archers indeed,” said Reno, “but there’s Simon Aluardo, as skilled as any; and as for you, Yonson, it’s as if I hadn’t seen you win the fatted ox back at Fenbury, when the first archers of London competed for it at target practice . ” Listening to them very attentively, leaning on his crossbow, was a sturdy Flemish man with a piercing gaze and a swarthy face, whose dress and bearing betrayed him to be a junior officer in the Brabant troops. “I don’t understand,” he said, turning to the English archers, “why you are so fond of that six-foot-long pole, which makes you shoot and strain like pack mules, when with the windlass of my crossbow I easily obtain the same results. ” “My eyes have seen good crossbow shots,” replied Simon, “but allow me to tell you, comrade, that comparing your weapon with the bow, it seems to me a piece of cake fit for women, who can shoot it as easily and as accurately as you. ” “There would be much to be said about that,” the Fleming replied brusquely. “But I assure you that with my crossbow I do what none of you can do with a bow. ” “Well said, mon garçon!” exclaimed Simon. “A good cock always crows loudly.” But I stick to the facts, and since I’ve practiced very little with the bow lately, there’s old Yonson, who knows how to do things well and will uphold the honor of the White Guard against you. ” “I’ll bet a gallon of Jura wine on the bow,” said Reno, “and by my whiskers, I’d rather bet it on good London beer if there were such a thing in these parts. ” “I’ll bet!” exclaimed the crossbowman. “What I don’t see,” he continued, looking quickly around, “is a target worthy of the name, for I won’t waste my time shooting at those shields, which are good for training recruits. ” “That guy is the best shot in the allied companies,” an English man-at-arms said in a low voice to Simon. “Just this morning I heard it said that he was the one who badly wounded the Constable of Bourbon. ” “I’ll vouch for Yonson, whom I’ve seen handle the bow for twenty years,” replied Simon. “How are you, old man?” Are you resolved to show this comrade the value of an English bow? “You seem to be coming along, Simon, as if for such feats a macho archer, however good he may be, were more valuable than one of those young drones with lynx eyes and iron fists. But anyway, let me try your bow, Roland, it seems to me to be a good one. Scottish in construction, just look at it, light and flexible as well as powerful. No, not those shafts; one of those, three feathers per side and a long, narrow point. ” “Those are the ones I like, you trickster,” said Simon. “Are you ready?” asked the crossbowman, carefully fitting a thick shaft into his weapon. News of the test being prepared had spread throughout the field, and numerous spectators from the different companies formed a wide semicircle behind the two jousters. The crossbowman’s gaze suddenly fixed on a stork, which, having crossed a distant hill, continued its lazy flight in the direction of the camp. As it drew near, they all saw a black dot hovering high above, which they soon recognized was a kite pursuing its victim. Terrified, the stork came to within a hundred paces of the archers, and the bird of prey began to trace small circles, as if preparing to fall upon it, when the crossbowman, taking quick aim, pierced the poor stork with his shaft. Almost at the same time, Yonson drew his fearsome bow, and the arrow stopped the kite in its flight, which began to fall rapidly. A great clamor arose from the spectators, who applauded both feats. But everyone’s approval turned to astonishment when Yonson hurriedly fitted another arrow to his bow as soon as the first was fired, and aiming horizontally, he in turn planted a shaft in the unfortunate stork, almost as it hit the ground. A unanimous shout from the archers, a resounding expression of triumph, greeted this double feat of their comrade, whom Simon embraced tightly, dancing with joy. “Ah, old wolf!” he cried. “We’ll celebrate this together by emptying a jugful of good things. Not content with the kite, you had to skewer the stork as well. By the Great Turk’s beard! Another embrace!” “You are a good shot, by my faith,” said the crossbowman gravely, “but you have proved no better than I. I aimed at the stork and hit the target; no one could have done more.” “I don’t intend to outdo you as a shooter,” Yonson replied, “for I know your reputation; but I did want to show you that with a bow it’s possible to do what you couldn’t have done with your crossbow in the same amount of time, given the time it takes to arm it and fire a second time. ” “That’s true, but now it’s my turn to show you an advantage of the crossbow over the bow. Draw yours as far as you can and shoot the arrow as far as it will go. My shaft will leave it far behind. Mark the distances, Arnaldo, by sticking a spike in the ground every hundred paces, and wait by the fifth spike to pick up and bring me my shafts.” The soldier did so, and a few moments later Yonson’s arrow was whizzing off . “Beyond the fourth spike!” Simon shouted. “Bravo, Yonson!” the archers exclaimed. “Four hundred and twenty paces!” said a crossbowman who, with Arnaldo, had just measured the exact distance and came running back to the group. “Well, now you’ll see how a good Brabant shaft flies,” the crossbowman said calmly. “By the Cross of Gestas!” Tristan growled, “it’s fallen near the fifth pike. ” “No, further, further!” the Flemings shouted excitedly. “Five hundred and eight paces!” Arnaldo shouted, and everyone repeated in amazement. “Which of the two weapons wins now?” the crossbowman asked proudly. “At long range, yours has the advantage, I confess,” Yonson replied courteously. “Little by little!” our friend Tristan shouted at that point in a tremendous voice, advancing until he was beside the conceited crossbowman. “This bow you see here reaches farther than that machine of yours, with the windlass and all, and I’m going to test it for you right now. Would you prefer to shoot again? ” “I’ll stick to the five hundred and eight paces of my last shaft.” “Well, there goes my path of six hundred,” said the gigantic archer, lying on the ground, placing one foot on each end of his bow and vigorously drawing back the string, after fitting a very long arrow. “You’re going to make a mess of bread, lazybones,” Simon told him. “Since when do you expect to surpass the veteran archers? ” “Calm down, Simon, this is a trick of mine and I know what I’m doing. ” “Good for Tristan! Break the bow if you have to, comrade!” shouted the archers. “Who’s that idiot standing there, on the way to my arrow?” asked Tristan, raising his head and looking towards the last pike. “It’s my soldier Arnold, who marks the place where my shaft fell and knows “He has nothing to fear from you there,” said the crossbowman. “No? Then may God forgive him!” exclaimed Tristan, stretching himself out on the ground again , steadying his feet and drawing the string until the bow creaked. “There he goes!” The whistle of the arrow was heard in the distance; the ground measurer threw himself face down on the ground and, getting up at once, began to run in the opposite direction to the group formed by the archers. “Hush, Tristan! If he doesn’t throw himself down, it won’t count! Well done, lad!” exclaimed the archers. “My God!” “I’ve never seen such a feat,” said the Brabant man. “As I said, it’s a trick of mine with which I earned myself a very good few quarts of beer back at the Hanson fairs,” replied Tristan, rising and smiling with satisfaction. “The arrow has fallen 130 paces beyond the fifth pike,” said several archers and soldiers. “Six hundred and thirty paces! That’s a tremendous shot, but it proves nothing in favor of your weapon, my sturdy friend, because to reach that distance you have turned yourself into a bow, and that was not what was agreed upon. ” “What you say is still true!” Simon nodded, laughing. “But now that we have tested both target and distance shooting, I will show you in turn how the bow beats the crossbow in penetrating power. Do you see that shield up high? It’s made of oak covered with leather. Drive your shaft into it as deeply as you can. ” “There it goes,” said the crossbowman, whom Simon imitated after carefully coating the tip of his arrow. “Bring me the shield, Elijah,” Simon said to an archer. The English were dismayed, and the people of La Nuit and Brabant laughed heartily when they saw that the solid shield bore only the crossbowman’s shaft deeply embedded in it, and no sign of Simon’s arrow. “By the life of the three kings!” exclaimed the Fleming. “You haven’t even hit the target, sir Englishman! ” “Haven’t you?” replied the veteran sarcastically; and turning the shield over, he pointed to a small hole on the inside. “Do you see this? Well, it’s just what I expected; your shaft lodged in the oak tree just as it pierced the leather, while my shaft pierced the shield through and through.” The officer’s face revealed his humiliation and disgust, but before he could open his lips, Roger galloped up and, addressing the archers, said: “Our captain, the Baron de Morel, is following me closely and wants to find his soldiers gathered together so that he can give them some good news in person.” Archers and men-at-arms hurriedly donned their helmets, donned mail and doublets, grasped their respective weapons, and in two minutes the White Guard was perfectly formed. Shortly after, the Baron arrived, cantering on his spirited steed and surveying the martial appearance of his men with evident satisfaction. “Soldiers,” he said, “I have come to announce to you that the White Guard has just been the object of a great honor. The Prince has chosen us to form the vanguard, and we shall be the first to attack the enemy. If any of you hesitate at this moment… ” “We shall follow you to the last! Long live our captain! ” the archers shouted together . “Very well. By Saint George!” I expected nothing less from you. We shall march tomorrow at dawn, and you shall mount the horses of Loring Company, which for the time being is incorporated into the reserve. Until tomorrow. ” The archers broke ranks with a thousand exclamations of joy, clapping and embracing one another as if they had just won a victory. The Baron was smiling as he watched them when a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and turning, he found the red-cheeked face of Sir Oliver Butron. “Here’s another recruit for you, knight-errant!” the plump warrior said . “I’ve just learned that you’ll be the first to march toward the Ebro, and I’ll go with you even if you don’t want me to. ” “Welcome, Oliver! Your company, besides being a pleasure, is an honor to me. ” “But I must confess frankly that I have a reason for it.” powerful…. –Yes, your desire to always be where there are dangers to be run and laurels to be won. –Not exactly…. –What are you looking for, then? –Chickens. –Eh? –I’ll explain. Until now we must have had a band of starving people as our vanguard, judging by the cleanup they’ve made of provisions along the entire journey. Since we left Dax, my squire has been carrying a sack of exquisite truffles on his back, but rest assured that we won’t find a single hen or a single chick to eat them with until we leave those voracious marauders behind. And that’s why, my good Lion, I enlist from now on under your banner, truffles and all. –Always the same, Oliver! said the Baron, laughing at his friend’s departure and inviting him into his tent. Chapter 31. HOW TRISTAN AND THE BARON TOOK TWO PRISONERS. Two days of rapid marching brought the Baron and his men to the opposite bank of the swift Arga and beyond Estella, until they had left the valleys and ravines of Navarre behind and found themselves facing the broad Ebro, on whose banks rose numerous hamlets. For a whole night the surprised inhabitants of Viana watched the passage of the river by that troop, who spoke a language strange to their ears and whose weapons and equipment attracted their attention no less powerfully. From that moment on, the White Guard was in Castilian territory, and the next day left them in a pine forest near the city of Logroño, where they stopped to take on men and horses for a much-needed rest, while the leaders held a council presided over by the Baron. He had with him the lords William Fenton, Oliver de Butrón, Burley, called the knight-errant of Scotland, Richard Causton, and the Earl of Angus, all of whom were distinguished among the foremost knights of the army. The rest of the force consisted of sixty veteran men-at-arms and three hundred and twenty archers. Don Enrique de Trastamara, King of Castile, was encamped with his army about ten leagues away in the direction of Burgos, according to reports supplied to the baron by numerous spies. From these he also learned that the Castilian monarch commanded a powerful host of forty thousand infantry and twenty thousand cavalry. The council’s deliberations were long, and although Fenton and Burley maintained that the vanguard’s mission was well accomplished for that time, as they had ascertained the enemy’s position and numbers, and that it was foolhardy to continue there with only four hundred men, amidst an army of sixty thousand and a mighty river, the opinion of the Lord of Morel and other knights prevailed, who did not wish to cross the Ebro without seeing a single enemy or attempting any feat or adventure, however risky . They continued their march, protected by the darkness of the night and guided by a shepherd whose guard Reno took charge of, beginning by securely tying one of his wrists with a strong rope, the other end of which he secured to the pommel of his saddle. Moments after dawn, when the passage through those crags was already becoming quite difficult, their guide tremblingly announced to them that in the darkness he had lost the road; words that outraged the nearest archers, who suspected treason, and which almost cost the shepherd his life when a sudden call of bugles and drums revealed to the expeditionaries the proximity of the enemy. “Speak, villain! What does this rumor mean?” the Lord of Fenton asked the trembling guide in good Spanish. “I know where we are!” he exclaimed. “The army is encamped in that valley. Let’s leave this ravine and from that height on the left you will see the king’s tents. ” Fenton took the slope up, the others followed him stealthily and upon reaching the summit the baron and the knights looked cautiously among the rocks and bushes. The sight that the immediate valley offered to their eyes astonished them. In front of them stretched a great plain covered with green grass and through which two streams wound. Throughout the valley, as far as the eye could see, thousands of white tents, many of them adorned with the emblems and banners of the haughty Castilian and Leonese lords. Far away, in the center of that improvised city, a tent larger and more ornate than all the rest was undoubtedly the monarch’s residence. The call the English had heard was the first morning call; the camp was awakening, numerous soldiers were emerging from their tents, some heading for the nearest stream, while others were preparing and lighting a multitude of fires that began to emit columns of smoke. The English continued to lie in wait for a long time and saw that several groups of Castilian nobles, mounted on their beautiful steeds and followed by pages carrying trained falcons and goshawks, were preparing to indulge in their favorite pursuit of hunting. Large greyhounds ran and leaped at their side. “Arrogant gallants, by my faith,” said Simon to Roger, who, forgetting everything, was gazing with rapture at a spectacle so new to him. “What I think,” said Tristan in turn, “is that if I could seize one of those merry horsemen and make him pay a ransom, I could also buy my mother a couple of cows. ” “Don’t be a kestrel, Tristan,” replied Simon. “Instead, say that with the ransom you could buy a fine English farm and ten aranzadas of land on the banks of the Avon. ” “Yes? Well, I’ll get one of them,” exclaimed Tristan, making a gesture of going down into the valley, in such a loud voice that it caught Morel’s attention. “No one move,” he ordered. Take off your helmets and lower your weapons so that the gleam of the steel in the sunlight does not attract the attention of the enemy. We must wait here hidden until nightfall.” They did so, fearing that they would be discovered and annihilated at any moment , something that seemed inevitable when, around noon, they saw a handsome, lightly armed knight coming up the valley path , mounted on a white horse and carrying a falcon perched on his left forehand. The hunter continued climbing until he reached the summit, forced his horse to break through the natural barrier formed by the bushes, and when he least expected it, he found himself surrounded by the strange warriors hidden there. With a cry of surprise and disgust, he wheeled his horse around, knocked down the two archers who were trying to stop it, and was about to gallop toward the valley when horse and knight were abruptly stopped by Tristan’s iron grip. A moment later, the rider lay fallen on the ground. “We have rescue,” said Tristan. “If I’m not mistaken, archer,” said the Baron, stepping forward after a careful look at the surprised captive, “you have just taken prisoner the noble Spanish knight Don Diego de Álvarez, whom I had the honor of seeing for a time at the court of our prince. ” “I am Don Diego,” replied the knight, “and I would prefer death a thousand times over to being taken prisoner in an ambush by the villainous hands of an archer… Take my sword, sir captain. ” “Little by little, knight,” said the Baron. “You are the prisoner of the soldier who took you captive, brave and honorable youth. Potentates of higher rank than you have ever been seen before held prisoner by English archers… ” “What ransom does that man ask?” interrupted the Castilian. “Well, I,” said Tristan hesitatingly when the question had been translated for him , “would like a few cows, and a little house, even a small one, with its garden and… ” “Enough, enough!” said the baron with a hearty laugh. Let me arrange this matter for you, archer. Everything the soldier wants, Don Diego, can be bought with money, and I believe that five thousand ducats is not too much to ask for the freedom of so renowned a knight. ” “They will be paid to him. ” “I am obliged, however, to retain you among us for a few days, and to ask your permission to use your armor, shield, and horse on an expedition I am planning.” “My harness, weapons, and horse are yours by the law of war. ” “But they will be returned to you. Post sentries, Simon, there at the entrance to the pass, and a guard of archers with weapons ready in case any other knight visits us.” Hours passed, and the English continued to watch every movement of the great enemy host. As night fell, great commotion was noticed in the field, followed by loud shouts and the blast of a hundred bugles. The cause was soon discovered; along the road furthest from the point where the archers were crouching, a strong column was arriving, new reinforcements for the Castilian army. “The devil take me,” Burley finally said, “if at the head of those horses the banner with the double eagle of Duguesclin does not fly! ” “That’s right,” said the man from Angus, “and with it the French knights enlisted in Brittany and Anjou. ” “Four thousand cavalry at least,” replied William Fenton. And there I see the great Bertrand himself, beside his banner. King Henry comes out to meet him with heralds, knights, and banners. See them together, marching toward the royal tent. Meanwhile, the Baron of Morel had dressed his prisoner Don Diego in armor and as soon as the sun set, he ordered his men to prepare their weapons. “Lord of Fenton,” he said, “I have resolved to attempt no small feat, and I have chosen you to command our soldiers in a surprise sortie against the Castilian camp. I will first march out toward the center of the field, with only my squire and two archers. Fall upon the enemy when you see me approach the king’s tent. You will leave twenty men here, on the path that leads from the ravine, and you will return hastily to this same place after your swift attack. ” “What do you plan, Morel?” “You will see later. Roger, you will follow me, leading a spare horse by the bridle.” Let the two archers who accompanied us on our journey through France, and in whom I have absolute confidence, come with us, well mounted . They will leave their bows here, and neither they nor you will say a word, even if they speak to you in the field. Are you ready? “At your command, Lord Baron,” said Roger. “And so are we!” exclaimed Simon and Tristan, mounting and riding forward in turn. “I trust you, Fenton,” said the Baron. “God willing, we shall be gathered here again within the hour. Forward!” The Baron mounted the white horse of Don Diego de Álvarez and calmly left his hiding place, followed by his three companions. Arriving at the valley, they found a multitude of groups of Castilian and French soldiers and knights fraternizing, among whom they passed without attracting attention, and slipping between the rows of tents, they soon found themselves in front of the one bearing the royal standard. At that moment, great cries of surprise and terror broke out on the left side of the field, toward which thousands of infantry and cavalry were rushing, and soon the sound of a furious battle was heard in the distance. With the exception of a few sentries and pages, all those who had been near the royal tent had disappeared, shouting and armed, in the direction of the battle. “I have come here to seize the king!” the baron then said to his men; “and I will either succeed or perish in the pursuit.” Roger and Simon immediately fell upon the men-at-arms guarding the gate and threw them down at the feet of their horses. They quickly dismounted, as the baron had done, and the three rushed into the tent, sword in hand, followed a moment later by Tristan, who had taken charge of securing the five horses near the gate. Shouts and the clash of weapons were heard within the tent, and a few moments later the bold warriors reappeared, their swords stained with blood, and Tristan carrying on his back the richly dressed body of a man who had fainted or died, which in the twinkling of an eye was secured on the spare horse. It took little effort for the Baron and his soldiers, once mounted, to disperse the pages and attendants of the The king who surrounded them, and galloped towards the hill where they hoped to take refuge. The unexpected and furious attack of William Fenton with his four hundred archers had thrown half the camp into utter confusion and sowed death in its wake. A multitude of Castilian horsemen ran in all directions, unable to find the enemy, mistaking them in the darkness for their French allies. Meanwhile, the Baron, Roger, and the two archers with their captive left the field on the other side, finding only two or three groups of soldiers in their path, which they surprised and easily dispersed. The few who gave chase quickly fell back when they reached the ravine and heard the bugles and drums being furiously played by the twenty archers in ambush. The pursuers, as the Baron had anticipated, believed that a large English force, perhaps the entire army of the Black Prince, had taken possession of those heights. The same thing happened when, shortly after, the horsemen commanded by Sir William Fenton arrived, in hot pursuit , without the enemy daring to continue the pursuit into the thicket, where the English were evidently in ambush in considerable numbers. “Behold my conquest, Morel!” cried Oliver de Butrón, as soon as he arrived, waving over his head an enormous ham he had snatched from the enemy. “I’ll treat you, my friend Baron, although it’s a pity we don’t have a bottle of good wine to wash it down with.” “We’ll talk later, Oliver,” said the Baron, panting. “For now, the important thing is to march with all speed towards the Ebro, through the deepest part of the forest. ” “Patience!” said the Lord of Butrón. “But who is this individual you have there? ” “A prisoner I have just taken from the royal tent, and judging by his attire and the shield with the arms of Castile embroidered on his chest, I hope is King Henry himself. ” “The king!” “You are mistaken, Baron,” said Fenton, who was looking closely at the captive. ” I have seen the man from Trastamara twice, and this man bears no resemblance to him. ” “Then, by heaven! I swear to return immediately to the field and bring back the king, dead or alive. ” “It would be a useless temerity, Baron. The enemy’s camp is all about arms. Who are you?” Fenton asked abruptly in Castilian, addressing the stranger. “And how is it that, not being the king, you bear the coat of arms of Castile? ” The prisoner had recovered from the fainting spell caused by Tristan’s vigorous fists, which had squeezed his neck without compassion or consideration. “I am part,” he said, “of the guard of nobles charged with watching over the king’s person. My sovereign was fortunately in the tent designated for Duguesclin when you surprised me. ” I am Don Sancho de Penelosa, an Aragonese knight in the service of His Highness Don Henry of Castile, and I am ready to pay the ransom demanded of me. “Keep your money in good fortune,” said the baron, deeply displeased with the failure of his daring enterprise. “You are free. Tell your master that an English nobleman, Baron Leon de Morel, has done everything possible tonight, though in vain, to pay him his respects in person. Another time. And now, my friends, mount up and march! I had thought I could remove the patch that covers my eye tonight, but it seems I must wear it for some time yet. On my march! Chapter 32. WHERE THE LORD OF MOREL KEEPS HIS VOW. The following morning, as unpleasant and cold as many in the month of March in those parts, found our archers on stony ground at the foot of towering rocks, whose peaks the rising sun was beginning to gild. Among the groups hurriedly preparing breakfast were Reno, Simon, and Yonson, more concerned with preparing their arrows and sharpening their swords than with watching the stew, which the greedy Tristan was eagerly watching over . Roger and Norbury, Sir Oliver’s silent squire, They were trying to warm their frozen hands by the fire. “The stew is boiling!” exclaimed Yonson, putting his broadsword aside. “Let’s eat, before they give us the order to march or a cloud of Castilians and French descend on us! ” “By the life of me!” said Simon, looking at his friend Tristan, “now that this kestrel is on the eve of receiving the substantial ransom for his prisoner, he will perhaps disdain to eat with poor archers. Eh, Tristan? No more goblets of beer or half-rations of cured meat when you see yourself in Horla again, but Gascon wine every day and roast meat until you’re stuffed. ” “What I’ll do in Horla, Sergeant, if I ever get there again, remains to be seen; what I do know is that for now I’m going to put my helmet in that cauldron and eat as much as I can, in case we don’t see another stew all day.” “Well said, lad! Come, every man for himself! Whom are you seeking, Robin? ” “The Baron wishes to see you in his tent,” a young archer said to Roger. Hardly had Roger arrived before his master than he handed him a thick parchment, saying: “A messenger from His Highness has just brought it to me, who tells me that this and other parchments were carried by a knight recently arrived from England to the headquarters. ” “It is addressed to you, Baron, and written, as it reads here, by the hand of Christopher, servant of God and Prior of the monastery of Salisbury. ” “Read quickly, Roger.” The young squire scanned the first lines, turned pale, and uttered an exclamation of surprise and pain. “What is it?” asked the Baron. “Are you going to give me bad news about the Baroness or my daughter Constance? ” “My brother, my unhappy brother!” cried Roger. “Hugo is dead!” “He treated you in life as a mortal enemy, Roger, and I see no reason for you to feel so sorry for his death. ” “He was the only relative I had left in the world. But what news! What unexpected disaster! Listen, Lord Baron.” The prior wrote that shortly after Morel’s departure, a large force of adventurers, bandits, and strays from all over the region had gathered at the Munster farm and placed themselves under the command of the wayward Hugh of Clinton . After defeating the royal security forces and soldiers sent against them, they had laid siege to the castle of Monteagudo, inhabited by the Baron’s wife and daughter. The Baroness, far from surrendering the fortress, had organized and directed the defense with such vigor and skill that on the second day, after determined and deadly assaults, Hugh, the leader of the besiegers, had lost his life, and the besiegers had fled and dispersed. The letter ended by giving the best news about the health of both ladies and invoking the blessings of heaven upon the Baron. “The prophecy!” said the Baron after a long pause. “Do you remember, Roger, what Duguesclin’s wife told us that memorable and fateful night? The assault on the castle, the leader with the blond beard, everything, everything. It’s portentous! And by the way, Roger, I have never asked you why the noble prophetess said of you that you had your thoughts fixed on the castle of Monteagudo with more constancy and affection than I do myself… ” “Perhaps she was also right in saying so, sir,” replied the squire, blushing, “for I confess to you that I think about that castle all day and dream of it at night. ” “Hello!” exclaimed the Baron. “And how is that, Roger? ” “I must confess it to you.” I love my lady, Dona Constanza, your daughter, with the purest and deepest love…. “You surprise me, young man,” said the Baron, frowning. “By Saint George! Do you know that our blood is very noble and our name very ancient? ” “So is mine, Lord Baron, and very noble is the blood inherited from my ancestors. ” “Constanza is our only daughter, and everything we have will one day belong to her. ” “I am also now the only Clinton, and my brother, dead without children, am lord and master of Munster. ” “True. But why did you not speak to me about this before? ” “I couldn’t do so, Lord Baron, because I don’t even know if your daughter loves me.” and there is no offer or promise between us. The famous warrior remained thoughtful and finally burst out laughing. “I swear by Saint George not to take part in the matter!” he exclaimed. “My beloved daughter is the arbiter of her choice, for I judge her quite capable of looking out for herself and choosing wisely. I know her, friend Roger, and if, as I imagine, she is thinking of you as you are of her, not even Henry of Trastamara with his sixty thousand soldiers can prevent my Constance from doing her will and ceasing to love whomever she loves. What I do have to remember here is that I have always desired a brave and accomplished knight as my daughter’s husband . You, Roger de Clinton, are on the way to becoming a brilliant lance, if God protects you. Continue earning merits and winning laurels. But enough of this matter; we will return to this discussion when we see the coasts of England again. We find ourselves in a very serious situation, and it is important to get out of it as soon as possible.” Do me the favor of summoning Monsieur de Fenton, with whom I wish to confer before the enemy reaches us in this disadvantageous position. Roger obeyed immediately and, sitting down on a distant rock, tried to recall, one by one, the Baron’s words and his own confession. He also compared the unfavorable circumstances surrounding him when he had first seen his beloved, a destitute and homeless novice , with the comfortable position created for him by his brother’s untimely death. Furthermore, he had managed to win the Baron’s esteem and confidence ; his comrades in arms considered him a brave man among the brave men of the White Guard, despite his young age. Above all, the Baron had just heard the revelation of his love, more pleased than angry. The result of his meditations was the resolution not to abandon those mountains without winning brilliant laurels that would make him worthy of such high favor and such complete happiness as the future husband of the charming Constance de Morel could promise himself. At that instant, Roger heard the piercing note of a bugle, repeated three times, and, springing from the rock on which he was sitting, he saw the archers taking up their weapons and hurrying towards the horses. In a few moments he reached the group formed by the leaders and heard the Lord of Fenton say: “I have no doubt, it is the call of the enemy’s bugle. But it is impossible that Henry’s troops have overtaken us so quickly. ” “You forget,” said the baron, “the reports of the peasant whom we surprised last night. A brother of the Castilian king,” he told us, “had gone ahead of the main body of the army to harass our advance guard with a body of six thousand cavalry, and I greatly fear that our hasty march has led us from one danger only to plunge us into another. ” “That is indeed so,” said the Angus native. “What shall we do?” “Take up positions on that height and sell our lives dearly, or save them if reinforcements arrive.” The highest of those hills, difficult to climb on all sides and with a fairly extensive plain at the summit, offers us an admirable natural fortress. Give the marching orders without losing a moment, Fenton. Keep your horses, gentlemen, but let the soldiers abandon theirs. If we win, we will have plenty of enemy horses to spare. Since the Castilian leader has discovered us and is not hiding, let us also show him the colors of our flag. Our souls are in the hands of God, our bodies at the service of the king. Let us draw our swords, for Saint George and England! The Baron’s enthusiasm was communicated to his soldiers, and the entire Guard climbed with resolute steps the less steep slope, bristling with boulders and covered with loose rocks that rolled before them and bounced away, disappearing into the valley floor. The height that the English archers finally reached was in fact a very strong position, an enormous truncated cone from whose upper base they could sweep with their arrows the steep path that they had just traveled with great difficulty, while on the other sides the sheer rock formed the position impregnable. The mist that had until then covered the valley began to dissipate, floating in great tatters that briefly touched the treetops and then rose, vanishing into space. The sun then illuminated the surroundings of the rock that had become a fortress, and nobles and archers alike gazed in awe at the vast force surrounding them. The helmets and breastplates of numerous squadrons shone, and the shouts they gave and the call of bugles and drums also indicated that they had discovered the refuge of their enemies and were preparing for the attack. The baron and his commanders gathered before the four standards of their force: that of the English arms, that of Morel , and those of Butron and Merlin, the latter the ensign of some sixty Welsh archers. “Do you see, Baron, that beautiful gold-embroidered banner waving at the forefront of the others?” asked Fenton. Well, it’s that of the famous Knights of Calatrava, and not far from it that of the Order of Santiago. In the center is the royal banner, and either I’m mistaken or there are also many French knights in that force. What do you say to that, Don Diego? The prisoner of Tristán de Horla gazed with joy and enthusiasm at the brilliant cohorts of his compatriots. “For Santiago!” he exclaimed. “You and your friends are going to fall under the pressure of the most famous knights of León and Castile. That force is commanded by a brother of our king, and not counting the glorious banners of Calatrava and Santiago, I see there those of Albornoz, Toledo, Cazorla, Rodríguez Tavera, and many others, as well as those of many Aragonese and French nobles.” The attack was not long in coming. The brilliant squadrons of the two great military orders advanced in perfect formation, and just as the archers were preparing their weapons, they saw with surprise that their enemies had halted, brandishing lances and swords, and that from their ranks advanced two warriors fully armed, their visors lowered and with great white plumes fluttering in the breeze from their shining helmets . Both raised in their stirrups and brandishing their lances, it was evident that they were addressing a challenge to the English knights. “A placard, by my life!” cried the Baron, his one uncovered eye shining. It will not be said that the Baron of Morel has refused such a courteous proposal. And you, Fenton? The English knight’s reply was to leap onto his horse, and , like the Baron, grasping his lance and embracing his shield, both riders descended the steep slope with dangerous rapidity, in the direction of the two Castilian champions, who in turn came out to meet them. William Fenton’s opponent was a handsome knight, young and vigorous in appearance, whose lance struck the Englishman’s shield with such force that it split it in two, while Fenton’s sharp lance pierced his throat, knocking him to his death. Spurred on by the enthusiasm of victory and the ardor of combat, Sir William continued his furious race and disappeared into the tightly packed ranks of the Knights of Calatrava, who in the twinkling of an eye overcame the valiant English champion. The baron, meanwhile, had found a competitor worthy of his effort and spirit in a warrior as famous as Don Sebastian de Gomera, chosen lance of the Knights of the Order of Santiago. They attacked each other with such fury that at the first encounter both lances were broken, and, grasping their steel, they attacked each other with unparalleled courage. The fight was long , the blows and parries brilliant, demonstrating the skill of both, until the man from Santiago, impatient, made his horse leap until he touched the Englishman’s, and rushing at the baron, he surrounded his body with his arms. Both enemies fell to the ground , closely joined. The Castilian managed to dominate his adversary, whose body was weaker than his, and placing a knee on his chest, he raised his armed arm to put an end to the furious combat with a single thrust. But he never managed to deliver the fatal blow. The baron’s sword, swift as lightning, entered obliquely under the raised arm of his enemy, and he He fell heavily to the ground with a stifled cry. A confused shout of applause and spite was heard from both sides, and the Baron, leaping onto his horse, rushed toward the heights, just as the besiegers began their attack on the English position. The archers met them with a hail of arrows that left entire ranks of the assailants splintering in the dust. Their strenuous efforts to reach the heights were in vain; the narrowness and steepness of the road and the obstacles posed by the bodies of men and horses, crowded and rolling in bloody heaps, only allowed them to advance slowly, making them easy targets for enemy arrows. Soon the call to retreat was heard. The archers congratulated themselves when they discovered another enemy even more formidable than the powerless lances of the horsemen. Numerous Castilian slingers had taken possession of other nearby heights and from them launched deadly stones with such force and accuracy that in a few moments the veteran Yonson and some other archers were lying dead , and fifteen of them and six men-at-arms were badly wounded. The English took cover as best they could behind the rocks, many of them stretched out on the ground, and directed their well-aimed arrows at the slingers. “Baron!” exclaimed the Lord of Burley at that moment. “Simon has just told me that we have no more than two hundred arrows left in total. What shall we do? In my opinion, the time has come to parley or die almost defenseless. ” “For now,” replied the Baron of Morel, tearing off the patch that had covered his left eye for so long, “I believe I have fulfilled my vow by killing in loyal combat one of the most powerful and famous enemy knights! And now, let’s die killing!” “I say the same,” Oliver de Butrón calmly agreed, brandishing his heavy mace. “Shoot your last arrow, archers!” cried the Morel native. “Then you will still have swords and axes to sell your lives dearly with!” Chapter 33. THE ROCK OF THE ENGLISH. As if the enemy had heard or guessed the words of the intrepid leader, the cry for vengeance and the extermination of that warlike race, who had been fighting the Arabs for centuries and were preparing for the annihilation of another handful of invaders, no less hated than the followers of Mohammed, then rose up throughout the valley and on the neighboring peaks. The struggle was bloody and terrible, so long, so fierce that even today tradition preserves its memory, and among the mountaineers of the region the scene of the hecatomb is known as the Rock of the English. But they did not yield to the second assault. The archers’ arrows soon exhausted , they fought desperately with swords, pikes, axes, and maces, taking full advantage of their position. Fortunately, close combat prevented the Castilian slingers from continuing their work of destruction. Besiegers and besieged fought in confusion at the only point along the road where the height could be scaled, and there , setting an example for their soldiers, the few English nobles surrounding the baron rushed to the battle. There were times when the baron, Roger, and Butrón would have perished without the timely reinforcement of the Scotsman Burley at the head of the Welsh veterans, who fell upon the enemy with unparalleled fury , forcing them to retreat a good distance. But the losses of the besieged were irreparable, while the Castilians had entire squadrons and companies in reserve in the valley, both unable to take part in the fight until then due to the conditions of the terrain. A gigantic knight of Santiago managed to scale the last cliffs, and felling three archers with as many blows, he was brandishing his sharp sword again, when the courageous Sir Oliver seized him in his sinewy arms. The two enemies struggled furiously, and rolling on the ground in a deadly embrace, they reached the edge of the high plain. and fell headlong into the hideous precipice. Simon’s sword and Tristan’s enormous axe glittered in the sun and struck incessantly upon the heads of the enemy in the foremost line. Reno fell at his side, badly wounded, and Sir Richard Causton also perished there. The Lord of Morel, covered in blood, performed prodigies of valor, rushing everywhere , encouraging and directing his soldiers, closely followed by Roger, who returned blow for blow, more eager to protect his lord than himself. Finally, the archers and men-at-arms who had been formed to the right and left of the place where the fighting was most fierce, made a supreme effort and, rushing upon the besiegers, pursuing and attacking them with desperation, drove back somewhat that incessant column of enemy, on which the incessant losses seemed to have no effect. While the Castilian forces were recovering and consulting with their leaders, this partial retreat provided the English who remained alive with the much-needed rest. Their losses had been great. Of the 370 men who had been on hand when they undertook the defense of that height, no more than 150 remained standing , many of them wounded. Among the dead were the brave nobles Burley, Butrón, and Causton, and the veterans Yonson and Reno. Nor was the respite of the survivors complete, for scarcely had the fields been demarcated before the slingers from the nearby peaks resumed their attack. “Now more than ever I am proud to command you,” said the Baron, looking lovingly at the handful of heroes surrounding him. “What is that, Roger? Are you wounded? ” “A graze, Baron,” replied the squire, staunching the blood from a gash across his forehead. “I wish to speak to you, Roger, and to you as well, Norbury,” said the Baron, addressing Sir Oliver’s squire. The three of them set out for the opposite end of the elevated plain, beneath which the rock could be seen, cut almost sheer, with some jutting boulders here and there. “It is essential,” continued the Lord of Morel, “that the Prince have a precise account of what has happened. We may perhaps be able to resist another attack because they cannot all attack us at once, but the end is not far off. On the other hand, the arrival of timely aid would make it possible to prolong the defense of this position and save the lives of those who still remained defending it. Do you see those horses grazing down there, among the rocks? ” “Yes, Lord Baron,” replied the squires. “And that path that disappears further among the trees and seems to lead to the other end of the valley?” A determined horseman might perhaps reach the prince’s camp, or cross Sir Hugh Calverley’s forces, which are not far off, and bring us the much-desired relief. Here is a rope long and strong enough to enable one of you to descend to the first rocks of the hollow. What say you? “I say, sir,” replied Roger, “that I am ready to obey you at once. But how can I leave you under these circumstances? ” “The better to serve me, and perhaps to save myself, Roger. And you, Norbury? ” For all reply, the squire, no less courageous than Roger, seized the rope and began to fasten it firmly around a projecting rock. Then he removed some pieces of his armor, assisted by Roger, who did the same with his own, while the baron continued, addressing Norbury: “If the prince has already crossed with the main body of the army, inquire as best you can about Chandos, Calverley, or Nolles.” God protect you! The Baron and Roger, deeply moved, watched with their eyes, bent over the rocks, the young squire’s perilous descent. He had come within a short distance and was trying to place his foot in a cleft in the rock when he received the first volley of the enemy slingers. One of the stones struck him full in the temple, and, stretching out his arms, he fell plummeting into the abyss. “If God does not grant me better fortune than that unfortunate man,” said Roger to the Baron, Please tell your daughter that I died thinking of her and with her name on my lips. Tears sprang to the noble warrior’s eyes, and placing both hands on Roger’s shoulders, he kissed him affectionately. The young man ran to the rope and slid down it with great speed. The stones hurled by the enemy’s slings crashed against the rock, one grazing his hair, and finally another struck him in the side, causing him excruciating pain. Having reached the end of the rope, however, he let himself fall from no small height to the summit of the highest cliff, which lay at the foot of the formidable rock where his friends were besieged. So high was this that Roger still had to descend more than twenty yards, down a steep slope that offered him little purchase. Clinging desperately to the wild plants that grew in the clefts of the rocks, placing his feet in the slightest depressions of the inclined plane, or on stones that frequently broke away and threatened to drag him down with them, exposing himself to death ten times over, he finally reached firm ground and, leaping from rock to rock or running through the bushes, found himself safe and sound on the plain that the baron had shown him from above, where some horses were grazing. He was already stretching out his hand to seize the bridle of one of them when a powerful stone hit him on the head, knocking him down, stunned. The slinger who had performed that feat, seeing Roger alone and exhausted, and judging from the young man’s appearance and dress that he was an English knight, began to descend hastily from the hill where he had been posted with others, anxious to rob his victim and knowing that the archers had exhausted all their arrows. But he hadn’t reckoned with Tristan de Horla, who, lifting a heavy boulder with his strong hands, brought it crashing down on the slinger as he passed at the foot of the rock. He did so with such skill that he shattered one of his shoulders, knocking him to the ground where he began to scream loudly. Hearing them, Roger sat up, looked around as if in a daze, and suddenly saw one of the horses standing a few paces away from him. A moment was enough for him to jump into the saddle and gallop down the path that was to lead him out of that fatal valley. But he soon knew his strength was going to fail him; he felt an excruciating pain in his side, his vision blurred, and with a supreme effort, he bent over the horse’s neck, clasped it tightly in his arms, and closed his eyes, almost insensible to his surroundings. Roger never knew how long that frantic race lasted. When he came to, he found himself surrounded by English soldiers caring for him . It was a detachment of two hundred archers and men-at-arms commanded by the fearsome Hugh of Calverley, who, at Roger’s first words, dispatched messengers to the prince’s nearby camp and, placing himself at the head of his soldiers, galloped off to the aid of the Baron of Morel. Roger also went with him, tied to the horse that led him, almost exhausted from loss of blood, the blows he had received, and the vicissitudes of that tremendous journey. When the English reached a height that partially dominated the valley, they saw the Castilian flag on the summit of the rock that had been converted into a fortress . The enemy had finally seized that bastion defended with such heroism. But the fighting had not completely ceased; at one end of the elevated plain, a handful of Englishmen still offered a weak resistance. That spectacle drew a cry of fury from Sir Hugh and his soldiers, who, digging their spurs into the flanks of their horses, rushed, blinded by rage, against the enemy squadrons. The furious attack surprised them greatly, and, ignorant of the number of their enemies and believing that they were surrounded by the bulk of the English army that was in those surroundings, they gave the signal to retreat, hastening to leave the valley in search of a more favorable position for defense. The English did not think of continuing their attack or of pursuing them. Their main desire was to reach the height where they hoped to rescue some of their friends. A sad sight presented itself to their view: heaps of dead and wounded, Castilians and Leonese, French and English; and further away, at the foot of a rock, seven archers, with the indomitable Tristan de Horla in the center, all wounded but not yet defeated, brandishing their bloody swords and greeting their saviors with a shout of welcome. “A tremendous fight and heroic defense of yours!” exclaimed Sir Hugo, contemplating with amazement that devastating scene. “But what is this? Have you also taken prisoners?” he continued, seeing Don Diego de Álvarez unarmed among the archers. “Only one, and he belongs to me,” replied Tristan. I have carefully guarded and defended it, because it represents my fortune and that of my old mother if I ever see her again in Horla…. “Tristan, where is the Baron de Morel?” Roger interrupted anxiously. “I think he has perished, like almost all of us. I saw the enemy place his body on a horse. He was either faint or dead, and they carried him off… ” “Good heavens! And Simon?” “I also saw him rush, sword in hand, upon our lord’s captors , and I do not know whether they killed him or took him prisoner. ” “Give the bugles the order to march!” cried Sir Hugh in a thunderous voice. “Curse! Let us return to the field, and I promise you that within three days we shall have avenged the Baron de Morel! I count on you, brave men, and from now on you are incorporated into my favorite squadron.” “We are archers and we belong to the White Guard, sir, ” Tristan ventured. “Ah, yes! The famous White Guard!” replied the great English guerrilla, looking sadly around. “But the Guard is no more; death has seen to it that it is disbanded. Take good care of that brave squire for me, for I fear he may never see the light of day again,” he added, pointing to the fainting Roger. “Onward!” Chapter 34. RETURN TO THE HOMELAND. We find ourselves in England, on a beautiful July morning, four months after the events just described. Along the road that led directly to the ancient city of Vinchester, and not far from it, rode two horsemen, one young, handsome, and richly attired, wearing the golden spurs of a knight, while the other, a herculean youth, looked more like a laborer than a soldier, his profession not betrayed by the formidable sword he wore at his belt. Over the rump of his horse could be seen a sack containing, among other things, the five thousand ducats paid for his ransom by Don Diego de Álvarez. Needless to say, the rider was our jovial friend Tristan de Horla, recently elevated to the dignity of squire to Sir Roger de Clinton, Lord of Munster, at whose side he rode at that moment. Roger had been knighted by the Black Prince himself, to the applause of the entire army, who considered him one of the finest soldiers in the kingdom. That unprecedented defense, that supreme effort of the White Guard, had been reported and praised throughout Christendom, and the Crown Prince, in the name of the sovereign, had showered honors on the few survivors of such an honorable feat of arms. For more than a month, Roger hovered between life and death, and as soon as his youth triumphed and his delirium ceased, he learned that the war was over and that nothing had been learned about the whereabouts or fate of the Baron de Morel. He received the congratulations and praise lavished upon him by the Prince himself, and as soon as he was ready to endure the journey to London, he embarked, accompanied by his faithful Tristan. Immediately upon arriving in that city, they set out for Hanson, for Roger had had no news of anything since the prior’s letter announcing his brother’s death. Tristan commented with admiration and enthusiasm on everything they saw along the way: the greenery and lushness of the fields, the shades of flowers, and the beautiful appearance of the cattle. “It is good that you rejoice, friend Tristan,” the young knight told him. But as for me, I never thought of returning to my homeland with such bitterness in my heart. I weep for my lord and for the brave Simon Aluardo, and I do not know how I shall dare to communicate the loss of the former to the Baroness and her daughter, supposing they have not already heard of his misfortune. “Alas!” cried Tristan, with a groan that frightened the horses. ” This is a difficult situation you find yourselves in, and I too mourn the death of both of you. But don’t worry, I will give half of these ducats I have here to my mother, and we will add the other half to the money you have, to buy the Yellow Galleon that took us to Bordeaux, and with it we will set out in search of the Baron. ” “Good Tristan!” said Roger, smiling. ” But ah! If the Baron were still alive, we would have had news of him by now. What town is that?” he asked a little later. “Romsey!” I know it well. There stands the monastery with its old brown tower. Allow me to give a coin to the venerable hermit you see sitting there on that stone by the roadside. The old man suspended his prayers to accept the archer’s gift. “You are soldiers, as I see it, my children, and my prayers will accompany you in your endeavors. ” “We come from Spain, reverend father,” said Tristan. “You say from Spain? Ah! An unfortunate expedition in which so many brave Englishmen have sacrificed the lives God would have them. This very day I gave my blessing to a noble lady who has lost all she loved in that cruel and distant war. ” “What do you say?” asked Roger with lively interest. “Yes, a young and very important lady of this region, peaceful and happy as none was a few months ago, and who is preparing to take the veil at the convent at Romsey. Have you not heard, my good gentlemen, of a company called the White Guard?” “Oh yes, very much so!” they both said at once. “For the father of the lady I speak of was the commander of that valiant force, and her betrothed was squire to the famous captain. News reached us that not a single member of the Guard had survived a series of fierce battles, and the poor maiden… ” “Finish!” cried Roger. “Are you speaking of Lady Constance de Morel? ” “The very same. ” “Constance the nun! What are you saying? Has the loss of her father had such a terrible effect on her? ” “Her father and the gallant, fair-haired youth whom she adored. It is the death of the latter that truly opens the doors of the cloister for her… ” “Race, Tristan! To Romsey!” cried Roger, urging his horse to ride, which rode like an arrow. Great had been the joy of the nuns of Romsey upon learning that the noble and beautiful Constance de Morel had asked to be accepted as their sister after a short novitiate. All the preparations for the solemn ceremony were made , the temple decorated, the altar covered with flowers, and numerous groups of townspeople were gathered in the atrium or on their way to the church next to the monastery, eager to witness the imposing ceremony. They had already seen the venerable abbess pass by with her large golden crucifix, followed by the sisters, the clergy, and the acolytes with their smoking censers, and by some beautiful girls who carpeted the ground with flowers as the novice passed by. She followed them among four of her companions, covered from head to toe in a white veil, the center of all eyes. That solemn procession reached the doors of the temple and was about to enter when a sudden confusion was noticed in one of the corners of the square, from which loud cries soon arose. The crowd first swayed and then made way for a rider, a young knight covered in dust, who without hesitation launched his steed into the compact mass of the people. He was the messenger of youth and love, who had arrived in time to snatch from the cloister a life that was by no means destined for him. Arriving at the steps that led to the atrium, he jumped from his horse, and abruptly pushing aside the surprised abbess, the youth went to the spot where the novice was standing and, extending Throwing his arms around her, he exclaimed in a loving tone, redolent of profound emotion: “Constance! ” “Roger!” The novice was about to faint, but Roger received her in his arms and held her lovingly, to the great scandal of the abbess and to the no less admiration of the twenty nuns and novices who were witnessing this unexpected outcome. But Constance and Roger were unaware of what was happening around them, lost as they were in mutual contemplation, intoxicated with the immense happiness of being reunited after a separation she had believed eternal. Behind the lovers lay the dark arch of the church’s entrance; before them lay the whole of life, full of light, joy, and happiness. Their choice was made in a moment, and they walked, hand in hand, towards the light in search of love, she leaving the cloister forever, both of them forgetting for the moment their past sadness. A short time later, the elderly Father Christopher blessed their union in the church of Salisbury Priory. The only witnesses to the tender ceremony were the Baroness, Tristan de Horla, and a dozen archers and castle servants. The spirited Lady of Morel, after long months of anxiety and bitter suffering, still doubted the Baron’s death; it seemed impossible to her that, having returned from so many deadly campaigns, the supreme hour had come for him on that final expedition, far from home, deprived of the love of his family and the solicitous care of his loving wife. She immediately expressed her desire to go to Spain in person and exhaust all resources to discover the Baron’s whereabouts. Roger dissuaded her from her plan, convincing her that it was up to him to undertake the journey, leaving her to remain with her daughter and look after the multiple interests involved in the administration of the vast properties of Munster , linked to that of Monteagudo Castle and its outbuildings. Roger chartered the _Yellow Galleon_, commanded by the same brave Captain Golvín, and a month after his wedding, the young lord of Munster set sail for Sorel, accompanied by his faithful Tristán, in order to find out if the unforgettable galleon had arrived from Southampton. Shortly before reaching Sorel, they stopped in Dalton, a small village on the coast, where Roger noticed the presence of a small galley that had recently arrived, judging by the number of boats and launches surrounding it to convey its cargo ashore . A crossbow shot from the village there was a small building, somewhere between an inn and a tavern, toward which the two travelers headed. At a window on the first and only floor of the little house, a man was looking out, seeming to be watching them with curiosity. Tristan was watching him when a robust young woman rushed out of the inn, laughing aloud, closely pursued by a scoundrel who soon disappeared, like the girl, among the trees in the orchard. The riders dismounted , tied their horses to the fence, and had scarcely taken the path that led to the house when they stopped in astonishment, gazing at each other in silence, deeply moved. “Ah, ma belle!” said a sonorous voice. “Is this how you treat an old soldier who has not seen even a good English girl for some time? By the edge of my sword! Wait a little, and instead of one kiss , I’ll give you half a dozen… ” An exclamation of joy escaped the smiling lips of Roger and Tristan. It was Simon, there was no doubt about it! Simon, well and healthy, had hardly set foot on the ground and was back at his old ways. They were about to rush to him , to call him, when they heard another voice coming from the window. “What is it, Simon?” he said. “If you need me, I ask nothing better than to take up my sword and loosen my arm a little, bringing the first one who gets out of control and starts a fight with us, even on our own land, into line. ” Simon appeared at the sound of his master’s voice and in an instant found himself seized by Tristan’s formidable arms, from which he passed into Roger’s. The good Simon had hardly returned from his surprise when the Baron of Morel appeared at the door, sword in hand and blinking his little eyes more than ever, searching for an imaginary enemy. The embraces were then renewed, which the baron and the veteran were quick to return with interest, overcome with immense joy. During the return journey, their friends heard the tale of their prodigious adventures. Both taken prisoner in the Homeric struggle back in Spain, they found themselves captives of an Aragonese nobleman, who after a long voyage led them to the coast, where he embarked them for some possessions he owned there. Their vessel being surprised on the high seas by Barbary pirates, their sufferings increased under the barbaric yoke of their new master; But upon reaching a small African port, the indomitable baron found a way to kill the pirate captain in the boat that was taking them to land. Then, following Simon, he threw himself into the water and swam to land. After a thousand hardships, they managed to embark on the galley that had just taken them to England, not without rich booty cunningly wrested from their cruel enemies. It is useless to speak of his reception at the castle of Monteagudo and of the immense happiness that filled that fortunate home, a short time before so burdened by sadness and sorrow. Baron León de Morel lived many more years, showered with honors, peaceful and happy. The happiness of Roger de Clinton and his adored wife was also complete. He fought twice in France, winning precious laurels and a very high reputation. He was granted a distinguished position at court and for many years held distinguished offices during the reigns of Richard and Henry IV, who conferred upon him the Order of the Garter and honored him as one of the foremost knights and most valiant champions of his time. As for Tristan de Horla, he married a beautiful girl from Dunan and settled there permanently, enjoying the prestige that his exploits and the five thousand ducats he had so bravely earned in Spain brought him. He and his inseparable friend Simon frequently enlivened the boisterous soirees of the Green Bird with their presence and their perpetual joy. Simon eventually offered his love and his name to the good landlady who had so faithfully guarded his loot from previous campaigns. Thus lived those men, as rude, if you will, as the era that saw their birth and death, but frank, honorable, and brave, leaving future generations an example worthy of imitation and applause. The story of “The White Guard” leaves us with a profound reflection on war, sacrifice, and the fight for justice. As the characters face their own dilemmas, they remind us that, even in the darkest moments, hope and courage can prevail. This story invites us to consider the price of peace and the value of loyalty. Thank you for joining us in this narrative, and don’t forget to subscribe for more captivating stories.