On a breezy autumn morning, while we made practice of arms in the courtyard, a herald from De Lacey, the Lord High Constable, rode over Mountjoy drawbridge. He had an urgent message for my father, and the like for Sir Geoffrey, the young Lord of Carleton, Sir James Dunwoodie of Grimsby and all the other loyal knights and barons of our neighborhood. The Welsh had broken over the border once more; and under Rhys, their barbarous chief who styled himself King of Wales, were burning and ravaging through the Western Marches. Many miles of fair and fruitful land they had overrun; and now they lay before Wallingham, threatening that goodly fortress and all of those who had taken refuge within it with fire and sword.

The army of the Welsh was five thousand strong. They had driven the garrison of Wallingham within walls at once; and had they been as skilled in the use of mangonels and other enginery of siege as they were with the swords and javelins of their ancient custom, they would ere this have breached or scaled the walls and given the place over to massacre and the torch. But stout Sir Philip De Courcey still stood at bay; and now De Lacey was arming for his relief. The Constable had but five hundred horsemen; and of these seven score mail-clad knights, for the young king, Richard the Lion Hearted, so lately crowned, was gathering for the Crusade a vast array of the chivalry of England; and this left our Western Marches but lightly defended. So the Lord Constable was sending messengers far and wide, calling to his standard the knights and barons of the Western counties with all the mounted men that at a day’s notice they could muster.

De Lacey had many times before met and scattered the bands of Welsh marauders. Now he meant to deliver such a blow as should break their power forever. He had sworn to drive them not only from the plain of Wallingham, but across the Marches and into their mountain fastnesses and to harry and slay them till not a score of the robbers remained under the skull-bone banner of their chief. To this end, he would accept no foot-soldiers, even as archers. His whole force must be mounted in order that the Welsh, on their tough little mountain horses might not escape as they had done after many another bloody raid.

On the following day there gathered under the Constable’s banner at Hereford such an array of chivalry as I had ne’er before seen. Four hundred mail-clad knights were there, and near a thousand men-at-arms in good steel caps and braced and quilted leathern jackets and bearing the stout shields and heavy broadswords of their trade. Then there were twelve hundred and more of archers, mostly armed with cross-bows, but some with long-bows and cloth-yard shafts, some having quilted caps and jackets, but more being lightly clad in the foresters’ Lincoln green or peasants’ hodden gray. All, as by the Constable’s command, were mounted in some sort, though truly some of the sorry old nags and hairy-legged plow-horses that they bestrode might have much to do to overtake one of the wiry and long-shanked Welsh who fled on foot, to say naught of their ponies that could run all day without tiring on their moorland tracks and winding mountain ways.

Geoffrey, the young Lord of Carleton, with two hundred men, was at the meeting place when we arrived. Soon after came Dunwoodie of Grimsby, Lord Pelham, Lionel of Montmorency and the men of Mannerley, Whitbury and Gresham. By the Commander’s order, each man had in his pouch store of bread and dried meat for three days’ campaigning. Beyond that time, we must find our eating where we could. ’Twas mid-afternoon ere our force was assembled; but we took the road straightway, and by nightfall were encamped at Hardiston, half way to Wallingham.

For Geoffrey of Carleton, for myself, the Heir of Mountjoy, and my squire and comrade, Cedric of Pelham Wood, this was the first sight and sound of war on such a scale; and we were fairly lifted up by the thought of what the morrow would bring. Cedric and I had each nineteen years at Candlemas, and Sir Geoffrey but six months less. Many bloody frays had we seen in the petty warfare of our countryside with robber baron and with banded forest outlaws; and each of us already knew the pang of hostile steel. Cedric, indeed, was but lately recovered from the wounds he had a year before at Morton where he had been accounted as one dead. But the tramp of an army of mounted men and the sweet music of their clinking armor and weapons we heard for the first time that day. We rode near the middle of the line; and, glancing forward and back at the gallant train, that seemed a whole crusade on the narrow roads, could scarce believe that there existed anywhere an enemy that could stand before its charge. Our mail-clad knights alone, riding under the lead of the stern old Constable, seemed invincible. The Welsh, we knew, fought without defensive armor, save their bull’s hide shields; and almost I pitied them for their nakedness when I thought of the terrible Norman spears and swords in the hands of men long trained in their skillful use and hardened by years of warfare. It seemed scarce fair indeed that knights and gentlemen should fight at such advantage. The arrows and javelins and e’en the sword strokes of their enemies would touch them not, while their own well-aimed blows would cleave through flimsy defenses and scatter wounds and death. Thus mused I in my youthful ignorance; but ere two days had passed I was both sadder and wiser. Never again will I pass such hasty judgment on the power of an enemy I have not surely tried.

Though both Sir Geoffrey and I were as yet knights by courtesy only, not having won our spurs, we were armed and equipped for the expedition like the older knights about us. Cedric also, though a yeoman born, wore a coat of woven mail, and had a good broadsword at his side. But slung upon his back the while was his steel cross-bow—his first and favorite weapon and the one with which he had such wondrous skill. He could strike a running hare more surely than I could one that sat stock still beneath a bush; and he had managed to impart to a dozen and more of the Mountjoy archers some measure of his craft, so that ’twas acknowledged we had the best cross-bow men in the countryside.

Geoffrey of Carleton had gained much in the two years just past in breadth of shoulder and length of arm; and could now dispute with me on almost even terms with the foils or the wooden targes and broadswords of our martial play. I had already the height and reach of my father who had a name for bone and brawn and feats of knightly strength; and Cedric, though a handsbreadth shorter, had the shoulders and thighs of a smith. He could hang by one arm from a bough, and draw himself up to the chin; and I have seen him crumple a gold coin in his hand by way of making good his word when he had declared it over thin and light.

Though Cedric was born and had lived till his sixteenth year in the woodland cottage of his father, the forester of Pelham, his speech was not as that of the churls around us; and at Castle Mountjoy he had learned the ways of gentleness as readily as one of noblest blood. My lady mother was never aweary of lessoning such a pupil in the manners of a knight and gentleman; and now had reason to look with pride on her work. Withal Cedric ne’er forgot the class from which he sprung nor carried himself as a lord over them when given authority.

We made but a short night of it at Hardiston. By three o’ the clock we were in saddle again, and pricking forward toward the plain of Wallingham. By sun-up we were within three leagues of the castle, and the Constable had sent forward light-armed scouts to bring us word of the siege. Then spake my father, with the freedom of an old comrade of the Constable’s and veteran of many a hard campaign:

“Methinks, my lord, that Rhys and his Welsh rabble will ne’er await our coming on Wallingham Plain where they must needs fight with the castle in their rear and the danger of a sortie of the garrison. Beshrew me if they do not fly again across the Marches when they hear of our coming in force, and await another time to strike at undefended lands.”

“By’r Lady! Mountjoy,” returned the Constable, “I believe thou’rt right, and Rhys will never risk his thieving crew on a good wide field where sword and lance decide the day. But what would’st thou suggest? Can we do aught but ride for Wallingham as hard as may be?”

“Aye, my lord. There is a fork o’ the road a bowshot hence where one track leads to Wallingham and the other to Egbert’s Ford o’er a wide stream a league from the castle. ’Tis on the road to the Marches; and if we ride and hold it, we may there intercept the Welsh and cut them off from their retreat. If they leave not Wallingham, we can ride from thence and take them at vantage.”

“Well said, Mountjoy, i’ faith!” cried De Lacey, “prithee, Sir Richard of Mountjoy, ride forward and give the word to the vanguard to take the right turning. We’ll come between the rogues and their retreat, and fight, mayhap, with the river at our backs. There’ll be full many of them, I trust, that will never ride again for robbery and burning.”

Mine errand with the vanguard was quickly done. Less than an hour thereafter we rode out of the forest in sight of Egbert’s Ford. Then were Lord Mountjoy’s words full justified for we saw before us, and but half a mile away, the whole army of the Welsh in full retreat on the road toward the Marches and the tangle of mountains and valleys beyond. Fortune smiled on our banners that morning; for indeed, had we foreknown our enemies’ movements and timed our coming to the minute, it could not have better fallen out. As we emerged from the greenwood, half of the Welsh army had already crossed the stream; the water at the ford was filled with mounted men and bullock carts, laden with spoil and making their difficult way through the swift-flowing current; and the remainder of their forces still stood on the hither side, awaiting their turn for the crossing.

It needed not the eye of a great captain to discern our vantage in such a posture. As our knights and men-at-arms came forth on the field they set up a shout of joy full like that of unleashed hounds that see the boar started from his covert. Almost without a word from their chiefs, and without a moment’s loss, they formed in line of battle. Then came the Constable’s ringing word: “Forward for Saint George!” and the line rolled forward down the hill with a rush and roar like that of the great downfall of rock and earth and full-grown trees that I had once seen in the Western mountains.

My father and I rode at the head of the Mountjoy knights and men-at-arms, and not far from the Constable. Sir Geoffrey full gallantly captained the chivalry of Carleton and Teramore, and Lionel of Montmorency rode just beyond him, leading a hundred lances. Lord Mountjoy had named Cedric to lead the Mountjoy archers, five score strong; and I could see o’er my shoulder that they were the first of the bowmen to form their line and follow in the wake of the men-at-arms. Thus the army of the Constable poured down upon the luckless Welshmen in two thunderous, onrushing waves.

They made shift to meet our attack as best they might, facing us with stubborn courage indeed, but with little skill of the military art, and with a battle front that seemed more like a moiling and howling mob of rioters than an army under its lawful captains. If any noise e’er heard could have effected it, we might have been checked indeed, for, as we galloped down upon them, they set up a chorus of shrieks and yells that seemed like to split one’s ears. Swords and maces seemed their principal weapons, with here and there a lance or a battle-ax, and mingled helter-skelter with their heavier arms, the bows and shafts of their archers. Their bows had not the length nor the power of those of our English foresters; and the cloud of arrows they sent toward our mail-clad line had no more effect than as if a flock of sparrows had sought to check and thwart us.

Into that howling mob we rushed with leveled lances. Our horses were stayed by the very mass of the bodies of our enemies; and in a moment we were assailed, as it seemed, from all sides, by the survivors, some of them dreadfully wounded, but wielding swords and battle-clubs and javelins with a demon-like fury.

Their skill with these weapons was not to be despised; and, if they had no coats of mail to shield them, neither were their movements impeded by weight of armor. Hundreds of our men-at-arms and scores of knights fell in that struggle on the river brink. Victory was no such easy goal as I had thought.

Meanwhile the half of the Welsh army which was on the other side of the river, commanded by Rhys himself, essayed to re-cross and come to the aid of their comrades. They might well have succeeded, and mayhap found some means of outflanking us, had it not been for the watchfulness of Cedric of Mountjoy. He and our whole array of archers had been close behind us, striving to do their share by way of shooting between our bodies at the mass of Welshmen. But soon the tangle was such that their bolts seemed as like to slay friend as foe, and they had gradually desisted. Then Cedric caught sight of the Welsh entering the water on the farther side, and drawing the Mountjoy archers to the left of the main battle, began sending a stream of quarrels in their direction. The Lord Constable, having just then a moment’s respite, saw what was toward, and sent word to the other leaders of our bowmen to follow the tactics of the Mountjoy men. In a moment the air above the stream was filled with a cloud of bolts and shafts, and the waters became clogged with dead and dying men and horses. Such a rain of death and wounds was not to be endured by unprotected men. Soon the Welsh warriors were turning their horses’ heads again toward the bank; and those that regained it, with their fellows who had not yet reËntered the ford, fell back to a safer distance.

Now the battle on the river bank went swiftly to its close. The struggling and yelling Welsh grew ever fewer, and our knights gained room for yet more deadly work with sword and lance. Soon the half of the Welsh forces that had occupied the hither bank had been destroyed or scattered, and our army was crossing the river in pursuit of Rhys and his remaining warriors who were riding for life toward the mountains in the West.

True to his sworn purpose, the Constable lost not a moment in the chase. The Welsh horses were fresher than ours that had already traveled far that day, and they were more lightly burdened, else we might have ridden them down and finished the work so well begun at Egbert’s Ford. As it was, our enemies, by abandoning their spoils and lashing their ponies forward without mercy, managed to keep well beyond bowshot for the half a dozen leagues that lay between the Ford and the entrance of a narrow valley that led up into the mountains where they had so often before found safe retreat. Into this defile we rode at three o’ the clock, cutting down or making prisoners of a dozen stragglers whose horses had failed them at the beginning of the upward road.

Without pause we spurred on up the stony pathway for a mile and more; then found the valley narrowing to a pass between high walls of rock. Through this the army of the Welsh had gone, leaving a guard of a hundred or more to stay our progress.

Our leader well knew the tactics fit for such a juncture. He halted his main force, and sent forward the archers,—the long-bow men under Simon of Montmorency, and those with cross-bows under Cedric of Mountjoy. Soon the defenders of the pass were whelmed with a cloud of arrows and quarrels. They sheltered themselves as best they might ’mongst rocks and trees; but the arrows came like rain, searching every cranny of the pass. In scarce half an hour the last of the Welsh rear-guard was slain or had fled, and the way was open before us.

The Constable left two hundred men-at-arms and archers, under an old and trusted knight, to guard the pass behind us; and we rode forward into the wide valley. The day was now far spent, and the sun had passed from sight behind the mountains that rose ever higher toward the West. The scattered oaks and firs and the great rocks that strewed the valley on either hand might well have sheltered an ambush; and we rode forward more slowly, with lines of skirmishers well to the fore and to the right and left.

And now it seemed that Fortune who with the sun had smiled upon us all day long, withdrew her favor also, for we had traversed scarce a league of the rocky track along which Rhys and his army had fled when thick clouds obscured the narrow sky above us; thunder roared and rumbled in the mountain passes, and torrents of rain began to fall. The darkness swiftly enclosed us, and we had perforce to halt lest we should lose our way amongst the woods and rocks. There, drenched and chilled and worn with a day of riding and battle, we made bivouac and ate of the food in our pouches. Mindful of the skill and daring of the Welsh in night attacks, the Lord Constable posted double lines of sentinels; and we seized such sleep as we might, wrapped in our dripping cloaks and lying upon the grass and leaves.

At last, I for one, slumbered heavily; and it seemed but an hour ere our leaders roused us and we saw the black shadows of the mists around us turning gray with morning light. While we ate again of the bread and meat we carried, the Constable despatched two riders with a message to Sir Guy Baldiston at the pass, with commands to send back word to Wallingham of our whereabouts and our intent to pursue the ravagers still farther.

In half an hour we were again in saddle, and De Lacey was giving directions for our better ordering to guard against surprise upon the march, when one descried our messengers returning at full gallop and lying low upon their horses’ necks as if in fear of arrows that might come from wayside rocks and trees. They rode indeed not like the soldiers of a victor’s army but like men who are hunted and flee for their lives.

In a moment more they had attained our lines, their horses loudly panting with the labor of such galloping over rough and stony paths; and the foremost rider cried out to the Commander:

“Oh, my lord! Sir Guy and all his men are slain, and the Welsh have the pass again. We but narrowly escaped being taken ourselves.”

The Constable sat on his great war-horse, gazing and frowning at the messenger for a length of time that an arrow, shot strongly upward, might have needed to come again to earth. Then he said, sternly:

“And how closely didst thou see all this?”

“My lord, we rode within a bowshot. ’Twas something dark and misty; and we knew not what was toward. The pass is filled with Welshmen; and they raise the skull-bone banner. ’Tis an army such as we encountered yesterday.”

De Lacey glanced about him at his leaders.

“My lords and gentlemen: you hear what has chanced. Shall we attack again from this side or fare onward?”

“We must ride onward, my lord, and that quickly,” answered Lord Mountjoy, “we cannot force that narrow pass ’gainst such an army as our messenger describes. Doubtless they hold also the crags above; and from thence they can roll down rocks that would fell and crush any force that attempted it.”

“We saw many hundreds of them on the crags above,” put in the messenger.

“And what if we ride forward?” demanded the Constable. “Have we a clearer road on that side?”

“Aye, my lord,” returned my father, “once, years agone, I rode through this valley a hawking. There is another gateway, called the Pass of the Eagles, three leagues farther west. It is much broader than the other, and if we hasten, Rhys can scarcely gather a force that can hold it against us. Then beyond is the good wide valley of Owain, adown which, in ten hours hard riding we may gain the Marches once more.”

The Lord Constable gazed at the ground before him for a moment. Then he lifted his head and spake so that all around might hear.

“My lords: this Welsh freebooter hath shown himself a better general than I. He hath enticed us into this valley, and then hath closed the gate behind us, as one entraps a bear or wolf. The storm, it seems, hath given him respite; he fights in his own land, and doubtless the night hath brought many recruits to his banner. Now ride we on to force this other gateway ere he gather an army that can close that also. Forward, for Saint George.”

At the full trot we rode away, and for an hour and more we slackened not our speed. By the sides of the pathway, or crouching under crags on the hillside, we saw at intervals the huts of stones and turf of the Welsh mountain folk; but all stood silent and deserted with never a wisp of smoke from chimney or sight of woman or child.

When the sun was an hour high, the valley narrowed again around us; and we came in sight of the Pass of the Eagles. Then indeed we knew that if any of us returned alive from this adventure, ’twould be by the favor of all the Saints and by the utmost might of our arms. For the army of Rhys stood before us, drawn up in twenty ranks across the defile which was there of a furlong’s width. In the front rank stood the spearmen with the butts of their weapons firmly planted in the ground and the points held at the height of a horse’s breast; in the next the King and his sons, the leaders of tribes and all of those who bore the heaviest arms and iron shields; behind them, rank after rank of swordsmen and javelin throwers, and, rearmost, their archers with bows in hand and arrows ready notched.

The flanks of the Welsh array were protected by high and rocky slopes where scrubby oaks and thorns found scant foothold amidst the crags and where no horse could tread. On both sides of the valley where it narrowed to the pass were broken cliffs that not a mountain goat could scale. Beyond these lay the heather-covered mountainsides and faraway rocky peaks where already snow had come.

At the word our men wheeled into line of battle, the armored knights in the van, in two open ranks, then the men-at-arms in three more of closer array. The archers were not to charge with us, but, with a dozen knights and a hundred men-at-arms under Lord Mountjoy, were to form a rearguard lest other bodies of the Welsh close in upon us. Both Sir Geoffrey and I had won favor in the Lord Constable’s eyes by somewhat we had accomplished in the fighting at the ford; and now I led the forces of Mountjoy at his right and Geoffrey those of Carleton and Teramore on his left hand.

In a moment came the furious shock of battle and all the frightful scenes of the struggle by the river’s edge—with the vantage now on the side of our enemies. Many of the steeds of our gallant knights transfixed themselves upon the Welsh lances; and their riders, brought to the ground, fell victims to swords or javelins or were crushed beneath the hoofs of our own oncoming ranks. But the line of spears was utterly broken; and the other knights and men-at-arms drove furiously into the mass before them. Swords and lances did their terrible work, and in the briefest time hundreds of our enemies had fallen. The Constable fought that day with a huge mace, and, swinging it about his head as it were a willow wand, he seemed like the great god Thor of the heathen worship of old.

But now for every two or three of the Welsh one of our knights or men-at-arms perished also. Some of the tribesmen, struck down by the swords of the riders, thrust upwards at our horses with swords and knives as we passed over them, and so cast down many a rider into the mÊlÉe of dashing hoofs and glancing blades; and many times furious warriors, laying hold upon the riders, brought them to the earth and to speedy death. Their archers and javelin throwers aimed at our necks and faces; and though many of their shafts flew wide or even struck down their own, others found their marks indeed and added to our fatal losses.

From one desperate moment to another, for a length of time ever unknown to me, the struggle and the slaying went on unchecked. Our numbers grew ever fewer, and we were gaining scarce a yard of ground. For all the heaps of fallen, the Welsh fought on with undiminished fury; and ’twas evident that they would slay the last of us ere we could force the pass. Lionel of Montmorency had fallen with half his men, as also Dunwoodie and Sir William, his brother and heir. The Lord Constable himself was wounded, and, panting with fatigue and loss of blood, had dropped his mace to fight again with broadsword. Sir Geoffrey of Carleton had once saved him from the hands of a huge Welsh warrior who sought to drag him from his saddle; and now the two fought almost back to back in an ever narrowing circle of enemies.

Suddenly I saw and felt the tribesmen wavering and giving ground before us, and became aware of a shower of cross-bow bolts that was falling among them and striking them down by hundreds. Looking up to see whence they came, I beheld Cedric of Mountjoy and half a thousand of his cross-bow men among the rocks in the promontory to the right, discharging their bolts as fast as they could lay them in groove and pouring a most deadly hail into the thick ranks of our enemies. ’Twas evident that Cedric had dismounted all his men and found some means to scale the cliffs and strike the Welsh in flank.

Then I saw that a body of the enemy, hastily called from the rear-most ranks by the huge and red-haired Gruffud, son of Rhys, assaulted this position and sought to pull our archers from their posts of vantage. Climbing upward amongst the crags, they faced at closest range the deadly aim of the cross-bow men. Backward they fell by scores, their bodies crushing down those below them. Not a dozen came to grips with the archers. Of these the leader had his great sword thrust aside by Cedric’s bow, then was seized about the waist, lifted from the earth and thrown to the rocks below where he lay still with broken back.

With the fall of Gruffud, our men set up a mighty shout, and pressed the Welsh ever the harder. The deadly bolts still poured down from Cedric’s vantage ground, but shifted ever their direction as we drove the enemy before us. The yells of the Welshmen, which had been those of victory and triumph, now changed to cries of despair. Hundreds turned and fled; and of these many cast down their weapons that they might run the faster. Soon the downward pathway ahead of us was filled with fugitives, and only a few bands of desperate warriors fought on, preferring death to such a defeat after victory had been almost within their grasp.

With the pass open before us, we paused not to pursue the Welsh into the rocky and wooded fastnesses where they had fled. Taking up our sorely wounded in such litters as we could hastily form, and those with less grave hurts behind the other horsemen, we reformed our column and rode away down the broad valley toward the Marches and the goodly fortress of Wenderley that Sir John Clarendon held for the King.

When the moon rose at the ninth hour of the evening of that day the Lord High Constable stood in the courtyard at Wenderley, surrounded by the lords and barons of his expedition and of the castle garrison. His wounds had been bathed and bandaged, but his face was white with the bloodletting and the fatigues of the day so that his friends were urging him to seek his rest. Yet for the time he put away their counsel, declaring that one duty yet remained. Young Geoffrey of Carleton and I with Cedric, my squire, had been summoned before him.

“Kneel down,” he commanded, sternly. We obeyed in silence, and he drew his sword from its sheath and thrice struck the young Lord of Carleton lightly on the shoulder.

“Rise, Sir Geoffrey of Carleton,” he said, “I dub thee knight. Be thou ever faithful, true and valorous as thou hast been this day.”

Then I also received the strokes of the sword and words were pronounced that made me a knight and chevalier in verity.

Lastly, and to my great amaze, I heard the words:

“Rise, Sir Cedric De La Roche. I dub thee Knight of the Crag. The device on thy shield shall be an eagle in token of the spot where thy resource changed defeat to victory. Be thou ever faithful, true and valorous as thou hast been this day, and England hath gained a stout defender and King Richard of the Lion Heart a worthy support to his throne.”