CHAPTER XXVI. HOW "THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST WERE A' WEDE AWAY."

In this pause of the battle, Dicky Cheke and Maurice Woodville, with the custrels and varlets who were looking after the horses of the dismounted knights and esquires, took refuge in the square, and the men began to take the affair a little more easily.

The dismounted knights got on horseback again, and Ralph was delighted to see that the time was coming when they would be the attacking party. He longed to break a lance with some of those swaggering French men-at-arms who rode past them, waving their spears and jeering them with taunting words. But the time had not come yet. In the interval the wounded were attended to. Surgical science was at a very low ebb, but what little the surgeon-barbers did know, was applied to the relief of the sufferers, most of whom, however, bled to death. The men of the Wight had hitherto suffered very little; two men had been killed outright by a cannon-ball, and some dozen or so had received more or less serious lance thrusts. The men who served the artillery, however, had been very severely handled, and the Isle of Wight men, few of whom had seen cannon-shot wounds, were shocked at the awful results of those few minutes of artillery practice at close quarters.

Clumsy and badly served as those primitive guns were, the execution they did was murderous; and the Captain of the Wight, who possessed such large experience of medi?val warfare, noted the change those deadly weapons must produce, and determined to urge upon King Henry the importance of employing more largely in the field these engines of destruction.

Dicky, Ralph, and Maurice were all mounted and standing together. From their superior position on horseback they could see through their visors all that was going on, as far as it was possible to make out anything in that forest of spears. The boys could not understand why they stood inactive spectators.

"Marry, Ralph, why don't we give it these varlets as they ride past us? A good charge now would knock over dozens, and I am longing for my prize-money. Look at that fat Frenchman! did you ever see such a jack-pudding?"

"T wish I could make out what is going on," said Ralph, who had been trying to pierce the bewildering masses of steel-clad men, who seemed never to end as they trotted past with lance on hip and fluttering pennon. "Hullo, here come the footmen; now look out."

But the free archers only drew up out of bow-shot, and watched the men-at-arms. It was evident by their gestures they could see something the vanguard could not see.

The Captain of the Wight seemed uneasy and restive. He was urging something in a low tone on the old Marshal de Rieux, who only shook his head and muttered,--

"Pas à present; ce n'est pas le moment."

"Then it will never be the moment," said the Lord Woodville impatiently. "Look there!"

"Body o' me, Ralph!" said Dicky in consternation, "the Bretons and Gascons are running away. Look, there goes the banner of Laval; down goes the golden flag with its fiery cross and blue eagles; there goes d'Albret. Fie on its golden lilies and purple flag! where are Orleans and Orange! Look! the Allemaynes are being cut down. Mercy on us! see how the sword-strokes flash. Why don't we charge?"

The impatience of all the men of the Wight became very great. They uttered their grumblings aloud.

"Let's charge them, my Lord Captain. Don't be kept back by that old dotard of a Frenchman. He's changed sides twice; maybe he'd fain do it a third time."

This was a very awkward suspicion, and one at such a moment most sinister in its influence on the minds of the English and Breton troops.

The Captain of the Wight saw he could restrain them no longer. He also longed to take an active part in the battle. He turned to the Marechal de Rieux.

"Sir, I can keep my people together no longer. We must charge and retrieve the fortunes of the day, or die in the attempt."

"Comme vous voulez," said the Marshal, shrugging his shoulders. "Mais tout est perdu. On ne peut plus."

The Captain of the Wight turned in his saddle--he raised his sword.

"Men of the Wight, now is our time. Men-at-arms, close your ranks. Archers and billmen, prepare to charge. Let all men follow me."

A loud and ringing cheer broke from all that eager band of armed men, and with a fierce alacrity the square broke up. The little force of men-at-arms in front, the infantry forming their serried ranks behind.

"'Tis too late!" muttered Tom o' Kingston, and many of the older and cooler heads agreed with him.

"'Twould be better to march off the field as we are," said Sir John Trenchard; "they'll never dare to touch us--they've had too much of it already, and we could join the garrison of Fougéres, who are marching upon Rennes."

But these experienced soldiers kept their grumblings to themselves, and prepared to do their duty, even though they knew death to be the reward.

As Dicky Cheke rode behind his chief, he noticed a wounded archer, and was struck by his calm courage. The man had lost one leg from a cannon shot, but he was still sitting up supporting himself on the other and shooting steadily at the French. When he saw his comrades were about to leave him, without a word or thought of himself, he called out to his comrade,--

"Dickon, have thou mine arrows, I can go no more. There are still three left. Take them and riddle yonder Frenchmen. Give my love to Sue, poor lass! I'll just lay me down a while."

And so the archers parted; and Dicky rode on more grave than he had ever been in his life.

"Ralph," he muttered; "Ralph, dear boy, if I should be left behind too, there's a gold chain I would like thee to have, and my goshawk, she's been well trained, and thou wilt be kind to her, I know. There's little Alice, my sister, too, give her my bells and jesses; and to mother--No, certes, Ralph, I'll not play the girl. Art not ashamed of me, Ralph?" and Dicky tried to whistle a tune, but it only came in a melancholy pipe from out his barred helm. "Marry, 'tis the heat," said Dicky ruefully.

"Nay, Dicky, cheer up. There's thy Frenchman in the gay armour a-head. Think of the ransom thou art going to get."

"Ah, Ralph, my boy, methinks 'tis the ransom Sir John Merlin told us had been paid for all of us long years gone by that I shall win to-day. I wish I had paid more attention to my prayers--But marry, come up! here we go! Oh! this is something like! Have at them! A Cheke! a Cheke! say I. St George for merry England!--Ah!"

His voice suddenly changed, and the poor boy reeled in his saddle, as a fierce and burly French man-at-arms drove his lance into his corslet and broke off the point. Dicky's head fell forward. He dropped his lance and clutched the pommel of his saddle. Everything swam before his eyes, and he fell from his horse with a groan.

But Ralph had well revenged him. His lance caught the Frenchman under the gorget, driving the chain shirt into his neck, and bore the man-at-arms out of his saddle to the ground.

The melée had now become fierce. The French, who were well handled by their skilful young leader, the Vicomte de Thouars, who was only twenty-seven years old, had kept a body of men-at-arms behind their infantry in reserve, and to watch the movements of the Breton vanguard. This fine body of troops, under the celebrated James Galliotti, seeing the change of formation of the square, charged at once, and took the vanguard in flank. The infantry were cruelly handled, and orders were issued to spare not a single man who wore a red cross. Out-generalled, and abandoned by the rest of the army, for the main battle had been utterly broken, the Swiss pikemen were doggedly holding their ground, or slowly retiring before the fierce onslaught of the French, while the rearward, seeing how hardly the battle was going, had fled without striking a blow. The men of the Wight and their Breton comrades were gallantly upholding the honour of their race. Shoulder to shoulder, and back to back, the pikemen stood, fiercely exchanging thrust for thrust with the eager warriors of Gaul. But numbers were against them, and gradually their ranks were thinned.

The Captain of the Wight, boldly seconded by his knights, esquires, and men-at-arms, had plunged into the midst of the French cavalry.

Three knights the Lord Woodville had himself unhorsed, his lance was gone, but his sword still flashed, and rose and fell, and Ralph still rode beside his lord.

Seeing how fierce was the little band of men around the Captain of the Wight, the French men-at-arms turned aside to easier conquests, and the battered and wounded knights and esquires were fain to rest grimly on a little rising ground they had gained to the right of the battle-field.

How different was the scene from the morning. Of all that gallant, gay, and careless army, no coherent mass remained. The dusty road was covered with piles of dead and dying men. Broken pikes, splintered lances, pools of blood lay all around. Here and there fainting men, sore stricken, leant upon the end of their halberds, or sank swooning to the ground. A weary group of English still held together, and repelled the relentless onslaught of the French; but they had no hope, and had nowhere to go. No quarter was offered or asked, and their only object was to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Ralph looked wearily round. Dicky Cheke had gone. Maurice, poor lad, could scarcely sit his horse. His head ached, and his pulses throbbed with the fearful heat of the day, and he had received a terrible blow from a bill across his thigh. The taces of his armour had saved his leg, but it had shorn away the upper part of his genouilliere, or knee-piece, and exposed the bone of the knee.

Ralph himself was badly wounded on the left arm, but he could still wield his mace. His sword had been broken long ago, and he knew scarcely anything of the fight. His head swam, and he felt giddy and faint. The Captain of the Wight was also desperately wounded, and had raised his visor for more air. Tom o' Kingston leant forward on his horse's neck, and Sir John Trenchard reeled in his saddle. Master Meux had gone. No other knight or esquire remained. They could be seen, easily distinguished by their white surcoats and red crosses, lying still and motionless, either apart or amid a pile of their enemies.

At this moment a fresh body of men-at-arms, among whom were two or three knights in very rich armour, rode back from the pursuit of the flying Bretons.

"They give us no quarter: let us die in harness," said the Captain of the Wight. "Yonder are all that are left of our gallant fellows; let us go and die with them."

No one answered. Ralph still thought of his promise. Although Yolande would never know it, he would save his lord from death, or die with him. But they were utterly weary with fighting. Their arms were stiff and nerveless. Ralph could form no thought, he only kept saying to himself, "I will do my duty, I will do my duty."

"Now, gentlemen," said the Captain, in a voice still clear and resolute, although feeble from pain and weariness, "this is the last time we shall speak to each other on earth. My friends and comrades, do you pardon me for having brought you into such great misery? I humbly ask your forgiveness, and it sore repenteth me of the dolour I have caused."

"My lord, say no more," said Sir John Trenchard: "may God assoil thee as freely as I do. 'Tis the lot of all men to die. We have done our duty, and shall do more yet before we go hence. Let us charge the enemy."

"Ay, before our wounds grow stiff," muttered Tom o' Kingston. "But I would fain some one could tell Polly Bremskete how I played the man."

But Ralph thought of nothing that was said. He only saw a grey mist--a crimson sunset glow--brown purply foliage, and a lovely face with large blue eyes, a crown of waving yellow hair, and two soft lips saying, "Thou will watch over him, Ralph;" and he kept saying to himself. "I will do my duty."

And now the time had come. The group of weary horsemen rode down to meet their death. Grimly they settled themselves in their saddles, and sternly they handled their weapons. The setting sun glowed on their battered armour, their fluttering tabards, and on the blood-red cross on their breasts--

    "The deare remembrance of their dying Lorde."

All the gay splendour of pompous war was gone, there only remained the iron will of stern and fixed resolve animating those war-worn figures, awful in their grim and reckless daring. They rode to seek their death.

The French men-at-arms, seeing them coming, were struck with admiration at their gallant bearing; but the orders of their captain were strict. No one who wore a red cross was to be spared. They therefore prepared to meet the little troop. Their leader was no less a person than Sir James Galliotti himself. With generous chivalry, seeing the Lord Woodville had no lance, he threw away his own, and drew his sword. The little squadrons met, and for a moment it was difficult to tell how the shock had gone. But in a minute more it was seen that the Captain of the Wight was still on horseback, and fighting against fearful odds. But the gallant Sir James Galliotti was down, and so were Tom o' Kingston and Sir John Trenchard. The former had singled out a huge Frenchman, and cleft his helm in twain, but had, at the same time, been pierced through his visor into his brain by another man-at-arms. Sir John had also killed his man, but had received a mortal wound in doing so, and lay grimly still waiting for death to relieve him. "I would my good dame could have had my body for burial, for she ever kept such fine linen for my winding-sheet. But it is as God wills, and it will serve for her own cere-cloth. 'Tis hard for her I die, seeing her own age. I misdoubt me if she can find another husband now. But 'tis ever as God wills."

Ralph still struggled beside his lord. He had set his teeth, and his gauntlet seemed to have grown to his mace. In front of him was a well-armed cavalier, who was aiming a deadly thrust at the Captain of the Wight. Ralph smote down the spear, and attacked the foe with such strength as was left him. He threw himself upon the man-at-arms, and split his helmet with his mace. But his antagonist had also struck him, and the fierce back-handed stroke shore off the upper part of his casque, exposing Ralph's wavy fair hair and weary eyes.

"What! Is it thou, De Lisle?" cried the voice of his foe. "Then I am right joyous. Never more shalt thou leave this field. I have sought for thee everywhere to-day. At last my hour hath come."

"Ay, and so it hath," said Maurice Woodville, who with a last faint effort, thrust his dagger through the visor of the man-at-arms, and both fell to the ground together.

Ralph, still thinking only of his lord, and heeding nothing that concerned himself, turned round to see where he was. In wild despair he leapt from his horse. The Captain of the Wight was down; but over him stood a tall knight, who was defending him against the thrusts and blows of the enemy. Ralph rushed forward, parrying a fierce cut at his exposed head with his wounded left arm, and the Frenchman, seeing no more glory was to be won, turned away to look after their fallen leader. Ralph stooped down over his lord. His head swam, he reeled and fell. All sense left him, and he lay in a dead faint. He must have lain some time unconscious, for when he was recalled to life by some cooling bandage to his head, the sun had sunk, and the pale primrose of the evening sky was fading into the ashy grey of night. There were faint sounds near, voices, and dreary moans, and above, the stars were shining down on that grim scene of woe, as they had shone on thousands before and would shine on thousands after. He listened to the faint voices near. Was he in England? Who were they?

"Then I have thy pardon, noble knight? Would to God I could have His too! Ah, evil have been my days, and fierce my life, but from henceforth I vow to humble myself before Him, and lay aside the sword for ever."

Ralph listened. Who could it be?

A faint voice answered with great difficulty and many pauses.

"I thank God I have had this meeting before I die--He hath ever been merciful to me, sinful man that I am--but in no wise hath His mercy been more marvellously proven than in saving me from the sin thou wottest of.--Thou didst her and me cruel wrong. I say no more of that--I thank God I die, and I thank Him all the more in that thou knowest now how guiltless she and I have been. Not of mine own strength did I resist temptation, but, as is written in Holy Writ, 'Noe temptacion hath o'ertaken thee, but what God will withe ye temptacion alsoe makke a waie to escape.' I am near my end now." The voice became weaker. "I cannot forgather my thoughts. Thou wilt see her. Tell her--ah!--I shall see her too, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but where we 'are as the angels of God in heaven.'" And the voice, scarcely audible in the last few gasps, ceased for ever.

The other voice broke out,--

"Ah, Sir Edward Woodville, noble Captain, gentle knight, how thou wert head of all Christian knights, and now thou liest dead! Ever wast thou the pattern of all true knights. The courtliest wast thou, that ever bare shield, the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse. Ever wast thou the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights. The meekest and the gentlest that ever loved woman. The sternest to thy mortal foe that ever laid spear in rest. And now thou art dead! And I live. Ah, me. What dolour and grief is this; that I could not give my life for thy life! Ah, sinful man that I am. How shall I atone for my evil life? How dolorous hath been this day. And the departing out of this world of all this meynie of joyous and gentle men!"

Ralph listened, as in a dream. The voices ceased, and the whirr of a night-jar hummed above the low wail of the deserted battle-field. The faint sound of inarticulate pain rose and sank on the gentle night breeze. The still air seemed to vibrate with pain.

Presently a soft hand touched his brow. He looked round. A slight form was bending over him, and a gentle voice murmured,--"'Tis a friend; but speak no word, there is yet danger around."

Ralph lay still, his senses had not yet recovered their usual vigour. He liked lying still, as the balmy night air of midsummer fanned his brow, watching the solemn stars blinking down, and the flitting bats as they flickered to and fro. He felt desperately thirsty, and turned his head to see if the mysterious figure were near.

"Father!--father!--ah me, how dolorous is the time! Father, shall we not get hence? Alack! he heareth not! Father! the night grows damp, thy wounds will stiffen. Alack! alack! he heedeth not!"

Again all was silent over that dismal scene. The heaps of dead men glinted in the starlight, and the night wind stirred the torn and tattered tabards till they rustled in the wind.

Ralph began to recover his senses as the chill air of night fanned his forehead, but as he awoke to the reality of life, a numbing sense of bitter pain passed through his heart. Where were all his friends? Where were those gallant four hundred who had gone in all the pride of strength and joyous manhood to win fame, and name, and fortune in the sunny land of France? Where was Dicky Cheke? Alas, poor Dicky! Did he need no ransom now? Had his thoughts come true? Was the only ransom he would ever require the great ransom paid for all? There they lay, with solemn upturned faces, whiter than their white tabards, and signed with the ruddy sign of their "deare Lord." The solemn stars shone for their funeral torches, and the rustling leaves of the deep, still forest whispered a dirge for the silent dead.