  The last sentence came like the crack of doom. The four men started in their saddles. Even the horses raised their heads and snorted. Without a word De Marsac and the Abbot—or the Scrivener as I knew him—closed their visors and with a grimness faced their foes. The Black Prince drove his spurs into his horse’s side and plunged forward. He closed his huge fist and swung his arm with all his might against the knight who was nearest. There was no time to draw a weapon. So sudden and with such determination was the attack that the man caught the blow on his helmet full in the face. His head went back with a snap and he fell to the road without a sigh or groan. The Abbot was not far behind. He, too, urged his horse to the fore. But even in the hurry he took time to lay his hand upon his mace. The knight whom he had singled out was quick enough to draw his sword and to take a steady aim at the Abbot’s head. As the mace wheeled in the air the sword fell. It struck the top of the Abbot’s helmet so sharply that I heard the ring of it where I was standing. The steel was dented in but the sword shivered into a hundred pieces and left the useless pommel in its owner’s hand. Then the mace struck. The clang of it was like the sound of a great muffled bell. The Abbot had lifted himself in his stirrups to get a better swing. The knotted points crashed against the neck of his opponent. There was no armor broken but the force of the blow was strong enough to drive him forward with his face down flat over the horse’s mane. That made two knights out of the fight at the first encounter. It is true that De Marsac and the other had tried to maneuver so that they could all strike at the same time. But the speed with which the Black Prince and the Scrivener had acted was more that they had counted on. They were left, with their horses prancing madly about, in the middle of the road while the two victors galloped on past and slowly reined in their steeds and turned around ready for the next trial. They came back at an even trot. The Abbot had his mace grasped in his right hand taking a sure aim as he came up. The Black Prince sat like an iron statue on his horse. His mace, which was thrice the ordinary size, hung idly at his side. The Abbot singled out the remaining knight as his target. The men met. Their maces rose and fell in the same breath. Their aim was each at the other’s head. But their arms locked. The maces crashed together with a loud clap. The Abbot turned in his saddle and with a slight movement gave his wrist a twist. The mace fell out of his enemy’s hand and he was left on his horse with no weapon save his sword. The Black Prince looked on the fight as though it were a mere play. He came on a little behind the Abbot, straight at his foe. De Marsac knew the strength he was to encounter. He poised his weapon in his hand to get the balance of it so that he might strike his hardest blow. He intended to come down upon his enemy’s head, for it was there that he considered him most vulnerable, and if successful, would put a quick end to him. He rose in his saddle. His mace was in the air. The Black Prince stuck out his arm as though with it he would ward off the force of the blow. The mace descended. In the same second the Black Prince urged his horse a little to the side. The arm that was to receive the weight of De Marsac’s mace suddenly dropped. The blow was spent in the air and the weight of the weapon and the force he had behind it toppled De Marsac from his balance. His feet left the stirrup and he fell in a cloud of dust to the road. The Black Prince could have ended the fight here. He might have jumped to the ground and crushed his enemy with his mace. The advantage was his, but he made no move except to lean over his foe and laugh. “De Marsac,” he cried, “you ought to wear a cap and bells and carry a bauble in your hands. You would make a good king’s fool.” If De Marsac was angry before, he was full of venom now. His horse had galloped off in fright and his mace lay on the ground. “I am not done yet!” he cried and he took his weapon in his hand. “I will fight you till the end.” It was only an idle boast. The Black Prince threw his leg over his horse and dropped lightly to the road. De Marsac with the fury of a madman whirled his mace about his head. He caught the Prince a heavy blow on the shoulder which would have knocked an average man kicking to the earth. The Prince stiffened himself to receive the shock, then, when it was spent, he knotted his mailed fist. He drove it with all his strength into De Marsac’s chest and dented the armor flat against his body. De Marsac spun and staggered like a man walking in a dream. Then, with his breath catching in his throat, he uttered a heavy groan and fell his whole length sprawling to the road. I was so intent on the actions of the Black Prince that I almost forgot the Abbot. He had knocked the mace from his enemy’s hand to be sure. And then, when I turned to him again, I saw that the two men had wheeled their horses about and were running at full tilt at each other for the second time. The knight had his sword in his hand but the Abbot, like the Black Prince, was without arms of any kind, for he had hung his mace at the side of his saddle. When the knight raised his weapon to strike, the Abbot lowered his head and shoulders. With a deft movement he caught his foe by the wrist. As his horse was speeding past, he drew in the reins and gave the wrist a sudden twist. It was the same trick that he had done with the mace. The sword dropped from the knight’s hand but this time the Abbot held on. He half dragged his foe from his saddle and as he was slipping backward he dealt him a swinging blow on the side that sent him headlong from his seat rolling over till he flattened out on his back with his arms extended in the form of a cross. I thought that the fight was now over and that all we had to do was to join the victors. I was burning to deliver my message to the Black Prince and to warn him of the great danger that threatened him from the army that was marching down the valley of the Loire. But I had counted too soon. The archers, who up till now, had drawn themselves up along the side of the road to witness the fray, began to feel the doubtfulness of their own safety. They saw, to their surprise, the Black Prince and the Abbot bowl over the four knights as though they were as inexperienced as boys. And when the leader, De Marsac, was sent tumbling to the ground, they looked to one another for a signal. Their captain was, of course, gone, but the boldest of them strung an arrow to his bow. The others followed suit. Before I could grasp the situation there were the lot of them, some aiming at the Black Prince, some at the Abbot, and one, indeed, had the thought even to cover us. Charles gave me a shove in the ribs. I knew what he meant, so while the going was opportune, we edged back step by step, until we found ourselves in the shelter of one of the scrub trees. There were rocks around, as I have already said, so that with no more ceremony we jumped behind the first, then the second, till we were far enough away to be entirely safe. Then I got the jar of my life. I heard a laugh, a wicked mocking laugh. Before the echo of it died away the Dwarf of Angers popped his head out from behind the boulder next to us. He must have gone the whole distance back to his cave, for he carried in his hands three strong bows and as many quivers full of arrows slung over his shoulder. “Take this,” he said, “and go back.” We were none too soon. The archers had already shot a round at the Black Prince and the Abbot and were stringing their bows for a second attack. The armor of the two warriors had, of course, protected them from hurt. They were both on foot and advancing step by step with dogged resolution. But there was always a chance that the point of an arrow pierce their armor at the vulnerable spot where the headpiece is joined to the corslet or through the opening for the eyes or mouth. As soon as he saw what was happening, the Dwarf let out one of his unearthly yells. He bade each of us to single out a man. We raised our bows and the next second the twang of them sung in our ears. One fellow dropped kicking in the dust. The archer, whom Charles hit, clapped his hand to his side and sank down on the grass at the edge of the road. My fellow was more fortunate, for, although I had taken a steady aim at the region of his heart, he made a sudden move as the arrow left the bow. I caught him above the elbow in the fleshy part of the arm. Although his wound was not deadly, it must have stung him with pain, for he uttered a scream. He threw his bow at his feet and with his arm limp at his side shuffled off to tear his shirt into strips to stop the flow of blood. The victory was ours. It took only one round of arrows to bring our foes to our feet. The few of those left standing did not know which way to turn. The Dwarf with Charles and me at his heels broke from out our cover of the rocks. Each of us once more drew an arrow on his man. But it was only a threat that needed no carrying out. Our enemies saw that we had the upper hand and that to make a further show of fight would only mean their deaths. As though they were obeying a command, they threw their weapons out into the road and advanced with their hands extended as a sign of their submission. It was all over. I ran faster than I had ever run before to the Abbot of Chalonnes. By this time he had raised his visor and was beaming on me with all the old-time twinkle in his eye. “Where is the dagger that you were to bring to the Abbot of Chalonnes?” he demanded playfully. “It is in the shirt of one of those fellows lying on the road,” I said. “He took it from me when they captured us in the inn.” He gave me a resounding clap on the shoulder. “It’s of no consequence,” he said. “I let you take it from me when I met you on the highway near your home. I knew you were without weapons and I was sure you would have need of it to protect yourself.” He smiled and looked at me a long time. “Ah, lad,” he said finally, “you have made a great fight of it. The best of it all is that you have come through.” “But,” said I, “how did you get here?” “I went back and made a long detour through the north of France. I knew you would have trouble near the end of your journey.” “But, my horse?” I insisted. “Where did you find him?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The fellow who took him is lying back there somewhere in the woods.” “And you’re not a highwayman, nor a thief, nor a scrivener after all?” “Tut, tut!” he replied. “I told you once before that you should never judge a man by his clothes. I’m a simple servant of the greatest fighter in France—the Black Prince there. Come,” he said touching me on the arm. “I think you have a word for him.” |
|
