Bertrand of Brittany. Warwick Deeping

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