  It so happened that when Bertrand rode down to the lists on his cousin’s horse a certain Sir Girard de Rochefort held the field, having emptied saddle after saddle, and astonished the crowd with his powerful tilting. Lord after lord had gone down before him, till the elder men grew jealous of their dignity, and left him to be flown at by the ambitious hawks among the squires. Sir Girard had made short work of the adventurous youngsters, and it seemed that he would have the prize and the place of honor, and the wreath from the hands of Jeanne de Blois. Already he boasted no less than ten falls to his spear, and had unhorsed such riders as the Lord Peter Porteboeuf and Sir HervÈ de Leon. Bertrand rode down into the lists, the cheerful audacity of youth afire in him, ready to fight any mortal or immortal creature, man or devil. What was the splendor of Sir Girard’s past to him? What did it signify that De Rochefort had hardened his sinews fighting for three years under the banner of the Teutonic Knights, and that he had carried off the prize at a great tourney at Cologne? Bertrand was as strong in his ignorance as he was heavy in the shoulders. He came fresh and raw from the country, contemptuous of all odds, and untroubled by any self-conscious magnifying of the prowess of his opponents. He was there to fight, to break his neck, if needs be, and to prove to his kinsfolk that the ugly dog could bite. The Sieur de Beaumanoir, who saw him enter, sent one of the heralds to him to ask his name. The spectators were eying him indifferently, yet noticing that his shield was covered and his surcoat turned so as to hide the blazonings. They supposed that he would follow the fate of those before him, for Sir Girard had just taken a fresh horse, and the dames in the galleries had already voted him invincible in their hearts. “The Marshal would know your name, messire.” “Tell him I am called ‘The Turncoat,’” roared Bertrand through the bars of his visor. “But your name, messire?” “Curse your meddling; you shall have it anon. I am a Breton man, and my father carries arms upon his shield.” The herald, repulsed by Bertrand’s roughness, returned to the Sieur de Beaumanoir, and told him how the knight with the covered shield desired to conceal his name. The Marshal, who was a shrewd gentleman, smiled at the title Bertrand had chosen to inflict upon himself, and gave the heralds word to prepare for another course. Bertrand was sitting motionless on Olivier de Manny’s horse, his eyes fixed on the towering figure of Sir Girard de Rochefort across the rent and hoof-torn turf. The man bulked big and ominous, and his red shield, with its golden “bend,” seemed to blaze tauntingly before Bertrand’s eyes. The lad was breathing hard and grinding his teeth, a species of mad impatience gathering in him as he gripped his spear and waited for the trumpet-cry that should launch him against De Rochefort’s shield. Once only had he swept his eyes towards the gallery and looked for TiphaÏne in her green gown embroidered with the blue and silver of her father’s arms. He saw her sitting beside the Vicomte, her eyes fixed on him with a dreamy and half-questioning look, as though she waited for some mystery to reveal itself. From that moment Bertrand forgot the ladies in cloth of silver and of gold, the great seigneurs, the crowd about the barriers, even Duke John himself. He was like some savage and high-spirited hound straining to be let loose upon the quarry. Down sank the Sieur de Beaumanoir’s marshal’s staff; the trumpets blew, a dull roar rose from the people crowding about the barriers. Bertrand heard it, like the sound of an angry sea or the crying of wolves through the forest on a winter’s night. His blood tingled; all the fierceness of a wild beast seemed to wake in him at the cry. Dashing his heels into De Manny’s horse, he brought the animal into a gallop that made the dust fly from the dry grass like smoke. Girard de Rochefort’s scarlet shield was rocking towards him, with the bright bassinet flashing in the sunlight above the rim. Bertrand crouched low, drove his knees into the saddle, and gathered all his massive strength behind the long shaft of his feutred spear. In a flash they were into each other like a couple of beaked galleys driven by a hundred lashing oars. There was a whirl of dust, the splintering of a spear, the dull ring of smitten steel. Bertrand, dazed, felt the girths creak under him, his horse staggering like a rammed ship. For a moment he thought himself down in the dust under the weight of De Rochefort’s spear. Then the tumult seemed to melt away, and he found himself staring at an empty saddle and at Sir Girard rolling on the turf, his mailed hands clawing at the air. A great shout went up from the barriers. “Sir Girard is down! Look, his horse has the staggers still.” “Who is the other fellow? He charges like a mad bull.” “Sir Turncoat—the heralds called him. I would wager it is De Montfort playing one of his brave tricks.” Bertrand, his ears ringing, and the breath driven out of him for the moment, stood up in the stirrups and brandished his spear. A fierce joy leaped in him, driven up like fire by the gusty cheering of the crowd. The rough quintain in the woods had taught him well, and he—Bertrand the despised—was crossing spears with the Breton chivalry. He looked towards the place where TiphaÏne was seated. Yes, her eyes were fixed on him, and she was waving her hand. Bertrand wondered whether she guessed who it was who fought with his surcoat turned and his shield covered, and had given the fall to De Rochefort, the rose-crowned champion of Cologne. Bertrand felt a hand touch his bridle. It was the Sieur de Beaumanoir, in his red jupon, covered with the blazonings of Brittany, his eyes fixed curiously upon the closed and gridded bassinet. “Bravely ridden, sir. Will it please you to uncover to me, that the heralds may shout your name?” Bertrand bent forward in the saddle and whispered to the Marshal through the bars of his visor: “Your patience, sire. I have borrowed my cousin’s arms to prove to my father that I am no magpie.” Beaumanoir nodded. “On my honor—you can trust me,” he said. “I am Bertrand du Guesclin, no man’s man.” “What, the lad on—” “Yes, sire, the lad on the yellow horse. All Rennes has been mocking me, God curse them, as if a man is of no worth without brave clothes and a handsome face.” The Marshal patted Bertrand’s knee with his gloved hand. “Well done, Messire Bertrand du Guesclin!” he said. “I should like to have the knighting of you. And is your heart still hungry?” “Hungry, sire! I am ready to fight any man with any weapons he may choose.” And fight Bertrand did that day with a fierceness and a devil’s luck that seemed never to desert him. Though it was his virgin tournament, he showed no rawness in the handling of a spear, and saw many a man’s heels kicking towards the blue. The crowd took to idolizing him as time after time he thundered down the lists to hurl some rival out of the saddle. Nothing came amiss to him, hardly a stroke went wide. He was the popular hero for the moment, the cock of the chivalric barn-yard, and a mysterious stranger, so far as the great ones were concerned. Who was he? Some said an Englishman; others, a Fleming. The truth stood that the clumsily-built fellow in the turned surcoat held the field against all comers, and that the ugly lad from Motte Broon found himself lifted high on the wave of martial splendor. Bertrand had run his twelfth course, and was waiting for yet another rival to appear. He was sweating furiously under his harness, and his face glowed like a winter sun. The shield-cover was rent to tatters, and his cousin’s blazonings exposed. Yet all the gentry knew that Olivier de Manny stood in the gallery making love to Yolande of VitrÉ. He alone knew the secret of the borrowed arms, and would confess nothing, even to Yolande when she smiled at him. Bertrand had broken two spears. His heart was beating like a bell, and he was drunk with delight, yet very grim for all his glory. Again the trumpets were screaming and another falcon ready to fly in the face of the young eagle of the Breton moors. Bertrand wheeled his horse into position, put forward his battered shield, set his teeth, and feutred his spear. One more burst for the glory of TiphaÏne—the child of seven! There was a shout from the crowd. Bertrand had swerved, when at full gallop, and drawn aside with his spear raised. Suddenly, on the approaching shield, he had seen the red eagle of the Du Guesclin’s, his father’s arms, and had wheeled aside in time to escape the spear. Sieur Robert drew his horse up heavily upon its haunches, astonished and not a little angry at the way that Bertrand had faltered and refused to tilt with him. Mocking shouts came from the barriers. The common people were fickleness itself, and were ready to jeer at their late hero as though he had tricked them into praising him beyond his due. “He is afraid! Sir Turncoat is afraid!” “Shame, shame, to shirk a gentleman!” “The fellow’s cowed; he’ll not face the Eagle.” Bertrand whipped his horse round and rode close up to the barriers, brandishing his spear. “Who says I am afraid?” he roared. No one answered him. “Come out, any of you—rich or poor. Let any man call me coward—and I’ll fight him with axe—or club—with bare fists. Let him only choose.” This time the crowd cheered him. It was the touch of temper that swayed them back towards applause. Bertrand, his eyes flashing, turned his horse, and, riding past his father, saluting him as he passed, approached De Beaumanoir, who understood the meaning of what had happened. The Marshal came to meet Bertrand, and stood close to him, so that they could speak without being overheard. “Sire, I cannot tilt against my father.” “Well said, lad.” “Carry Sieur Robert du Guesclin my courtesies, and tell him I have a vow upon me not to ride against his family.” The Marshal nodded. “And, sire, of your kindness send me another man to smite that I may show these scullions that I am not tired.” Beaumanoir gave Bertrand his hand, and went to speak with Robert du Guesclin, who was sitting his horse in the centre of the field, not a little incensed against the man who had shirked his challenge. He broke forth into angry accusations as De Beaumanoir approached him, and pointed scornfully at Bertrand with his spear. “Peace, man!” said the Marshal; “listen to me—” “The fellow has tricked me.” “Messire, it is your son.” Du Guesclin nearly dropped his spear. “What! Who?” “Your son Bertrand, messire. The lad had the courage to dare the crowd’s taunts rather than tilt against his father.” Sieur Robert bore himself like a man bewildered, as much so as if De Beaumanoir had offered him a hundred gold pieces for that “priceless destrier”—Yellow Thomas. There was a slight tinge of scorn in the Marshal’s voice. He guessed how matters stood between Du Guesclin and his son. “The lad has behaved with honor.” The knight of the Eagle acknowledged the contention. “Messire de Beaumanoir, he has conquered his own father with courtesy.” Therewith Du Guesclin put spurs to his horse, and, cantering up to Bertrand, held out his hand to him. “Lad,” he said, “forgive me; I will keep your secret.” And they shook hands and saluted each other in the eyes of all. Bertrand was not kept tarrying for further rivalry. A Norman knight, Sir Guy of Lisieux, came cantering into the field, having sworn to discover the name of the man who had sent so many gentlemen hurrying out of their saddles. Bertrand took ground against him, and they were soon galloping over the smoking grass. The Norman aimed for Bertrand’s bassinet, Bertrand for Sir Guy’s shield. The spear-head struck the Breton lad full and firmly on the visor. He staggered for an instant, recovered himself, and found the cool wind playing upon his face, and his bassinet, with the laces broken, rolling behind him on the grass. As for the knight of Lisieux, he had shared the fate of his predecessors, and was lying on his back, half stunned, while his horse galloped riderless towards the barriers. The people were shouting and pointing to Bertrand, the ladies leaning from the galleries. All eyes were fixed upon him as he sat his horse in the middle of the field, looking round him a little sheepishly, his face aglow, his eyes turned towards the Raguenels’ benches. Every one was asking the same question of his neighbor. “Who is he?” “God knows! A boy.” “And an ugly one—to boot.” For a moment Bertrand appeared dazed by the thousand faces that were turned on him, the fluttering kerchiefs, the shouts and counter-shouts of the crowd. It was all strange to him, he who had been scowled into a corner and treated with contempt by his own kinsfolk. The glare of triumph puzzled him. Then, as by instinct, he picked up the bassinet on the point of his spear and rode slowly towards the place where TiphaÏne sat beside her father. “Bertrand!—see, it is Bertrand!” She sprang up, clapping her hands, her face glorious, her eyes sparkling with delight. Dame Jeanne sat like one smitten dumb, staring at Bertrand as he drew near on his cousin’s horse. No illusion flattered the good lady’s malice. It was Bertrand without doubt, Bertrand the unbeautiful, Bertrand whom she had mocked and ridiculed. Jeanne du Guesclin’s pride seemed to return with a clatter upon her head. She flushed a hot crimson as she caught Stephen Raguenel’s eye. The Vicomte was twinkling, palpably tickled at the way madame had overreached herself. “Bertrand!” she said, mouthing the words with hardly a sound. She glanced at Olivier. The sweet fellow had a scowl upon his pretty face. “Who would have dreamed of it?” he muttered. “Bertrand must have been praying to the devil.” TiphaÏne was leaning over the balustrading, clapping her hands and smiling till her eyes seemed filled with light. Bertrand had ridden close to the gallery. His face was transfigured as he lifted the bassinet to her on the point of his spear. The child took it between her hands, kissed it, and stood smiling at Bertrand, her hair turned into tawny gold by the sun. “Was I not right, Bertrand?” she said. “Yes,” he answered her, “we have earned our triumph, TiphaÏne, you and I.” And catching sight of Olivier’s sulky face, Bertrand burst out laughing. TiphaÏne turned and saw the reason of his mirth. Her eyes sparkled, her mouth curled with childish triumph. “Never look so sour, little Olivier,” she said; “some day your brother shall teach you how to play the man.” And thus it was that the buffoon and the beggar overset the prejudices of the mighty, and that the rough and unpolished pebble changed under Dame Fortune’s wand into a precious stone of splendor and of worth. Bertrand was crowned Lord of the Lists that day. He sat beside Jeanne de PenthiÈvre at supper, with TiphaÏne laughing and sharing the red wine in his cup. Before them on the board stood the swan of silver, with rubies for eyes, that Bertrand had won at the tourney. He had given it to TiphaÏne, even because she had found his soul for him, and had stood by him when others mocked.
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