# Under the Fleur-de-Lis

"Old Italy—Silvain stood by his king though all men scorned him."
Under the Fleur-de-Lis
A COMPLETE NOVELETTE
by H. C. BAILEY
Author of “The Moor of Milan” “The Babes in the Wood,” etc.
THE sun was setting, the peaks of the Apennines rose dark into a sky of flame and the plain lay in golden light. Silvain came by the road under the foothills singing his evening psalm.
“An offering of a free heart will I give thee and praise thy name, O Lord, because it is so comfortable. For He hath delivered me out of all my trouble——”
Men ran upon him from a hollow in the hills and caught his bridle and bade him stand.
“—and mine eye hath seen his desire upon mine enemies.” Silvain made an end of his psalm and drew his sword, and a hundred yards behind Messire Thibaut gave a howl and charged to help.
“Here is nothing for you but steel,” said Silvain mildly. “Who has a lust to die?”
There were half a dozen about him, sturdy rascals, armed with dagger and sword, and they laughed at him.
“Put up your iron, my master. If you strike, it is you who go down. We are many on one and as many more as you need.
“I do not doubt you,” Silvain smiled. “But consider: If I go down some of you will go down with me. It is not worth while for me or for you.”
He was still speaking when he drove spurs into his horse and struck with the flat of his sword at the hands on the bridle and the horse plunged and broke from them, and Thibaut rode into the midst and drove a way through.
But Silvain turned and halted as soon as he was clear.
“Whose men are you?” he cried. “I am Silvain de St. Lo.”
Then one man grumbled in French, “Blood of God, he is a Frenchman!” and they made off.
“By my faith, this is not to end so,” Silvain said and rode after them. “Bring me to your master.”
They stared back at him, bewildered and sulky, but led on through the folds of the hills and Silvain followed close. And he put on his helmet and took his shield from where it hung behind him and rode on ready with naked sword.
“Now will I make a good end, as the bull said when he tossed the butcher’s boy and ran into the slaughter house,” quoth Messire Thibaut.
In a little way they saw men riding on the hillside who halted as they were seen and one shouted—
“How now, Jacques? Who do you bring me; or is it he who brings you? The —— take you, you come like driven sheep.” He too spoke French.
“Sir, are you the shepherd of these sheep?” Silvain cried.
“’Ware wolf, lad, ’ware wolf!” the answer came with an oath.
“I am Silvain de St. Lo.”
The other stared and rode forward lifting his hand in salute. “——, you are welcome. I am Gilbert du Marais. What have you brought us, brother?”
“A sword, sir. Your men stopped me on the road and I seek their master. I pray you choose your ground. There is light enough yet for us to prove ourselves.”
Gilbert laughed.
“I like that. That is the right stuff. But no thank you I will not fight you, not I. Dog does not hunt dog. We are Frenchmen both.”
“Sir, I am sorry for it.”
“Peace, lad, peace. Here is no fair fighting. Silvain de St. Lo is a better sword than I. I know it and the —— knows I am in no haste to die. But look you, if you make an end of me, here are men enough who will have your blood for mine. No, child. I will not let you run upon death.
“Come, what is your quarrel with me? They stopped you on the road? It is their trade, the dogs. Why, they took you for one of these Italian city soldiers who are all money and no sword. What are we,here for but to shear the sheep of Italy? But the —— burn me, the lads were blind not to know a knight of France. I ask your pardon, Silvain, and there is an end.” He held out his hand.
“If you please,” Silvain said and took it and Messire Thibaut was heard to give a great sigh.
“Good fellow,” Gilbert cried. “Come on with me and I will show you merry cheer. ——! it warns my heart to have Silvain de St. Lo of our company.”
In this manner Silvain met Gilbert du Marais who brought him to Philibert de la Vire which made for him the best day of his life and the worst.
WHERE the hills rise toward the mountains they came in the twilight to the ruins of a castle. From a shapeless mound of fallen stone the black walls rose broken and jagged. But Gilbert kept his word. He had good quarters and good cheer. Though the castle hall was covered with a low roof of planks and shut in by a patchwork of curtains, something between a hut and a tent, it had rich furniture and plate and the tables were laden with spiced meats and all the wines of Lombardy.
“Do we not live like kings, brother?” Gilbert chuckled with his mouth full of ortolan, and Silvain said that King Charles had no better fare.
“He has worse, I swear,” said Philibert de la Vire. “Well, a man must take what he earns.”
Silvain was sitting between them and he looked from one to the other. Gilbert spread himself, a loose-made, careless fellow, taking his pleasure of the moment and there was nothing to be seen in his red face but sensual good will. His cousin Philibert was a little man, low of brow and cunning of eye, greedy in his ways, but finding no satisfaction, like a peasant driving a bargain, a hard little man and gloomy.
Silvain asked him if he had news of the king and the army of France. “—— a word have I heard,” said Gilbert and drank to French swords and King Charles.
“And God send him a horse with a good wind,” said Philibert.
“What sir? Is the army in retreat? I did not know that.”
“Nor did I. But I can guess. If a man goes rabbiting where wasps nest, he will soon be running.”
“Drink again, cousin,” Gilbert laughed and passed the wine along. “See your luck through the wine, it is none so black.”
“Nor is the king’s,” said Silvain. “He has won many a victory and none stand against him.”
“What has he won?” Philibert growled. “Glory and smoke, poor loon, glory and smoke.”
Gilbert chuckled. Silvain stared.
“Sir, you make me wonder,” he said. “If you think the king is in danger why do you linger here? If you fear the venture that he has chosen why did you come so far?”
“And you may wonder,” Philibert’s little eyes twinkled. “There are many things you will wonder in this world, Sir Silvain. Men are not all fools.”
Gilbert struck in quickly to make peace. Between more wine and gross stories and coarse songs Silvain heard some of Gilbert’s philosophy. Italy was a —— good country if a man knew how to use it. But that way was not the king’s way of marching with an army. Nothing in that but glory and smoke as Cousin Philibert said. But a brisk company watching the high roads could make a duke’s ransom every week. No such country as Italy for fat merchants’ caravans and fine lords and ladies who had guards that would not fight. Why then, no such country for lusty Frenchmen.
The two cousins and their men, it emerged from Gilbert’s chatter had marched into Italy with King Charles, meaning to grow rich by a war of plunder. When they found that the king was engaged on a military display they withdrew from the army and made a private war on the travelers of Lombardy. And thus they throve in safety.
While the French king was parading his arms all down Italy the Italian cities dared not squander men to go fighting a band of soldiers of fortune. If the king got into trouble and had to retreat, Sir Gilbert and Sir Philibert were so near the mountains that they could be off to France with his vanguard.
“It is a neat thing, lad, it is a neat thing,” Gilbert clapped Silvain on the shoulder. “Do you want your share? Why, we have done well, but the —— doubt we should do better with a knight like Silvain in our company. There are pretty ventures, you rogue. And booty enough for three. I do not grudge you, not I.”
“Sir, I ride on,” Silvain said.
Philibert laughed—
“That is his life! He rides on.”
“Not to-night, lad,” said Gilbert, and poured more wine for him and struck up another song.
They sat late and again and again Gilbert plied him with offers to join them. It be came clear to Silvain that there was some reason why he should not be allowed to go away. He yawned and asked leave to sleep.
Gilbert took a man and a lantern and led him among the ruins to a tower which was still sound.
“We lie here and there in this old place,” he explained, as they climbed the stair, “but this is good quarters, lad.” He held up the lantern in a room which had much furniture. “This was a pretty lady’s bower,” he chuckled. “Dream of her, Silvain.”
He set down the lantern and went off singing a ribald song as Thibaut came with their gear.
“There is good wine in this place, lord,” Messire Thibaut grinned and yawned and stretched himself out on the floor. “God make me as full tomorrow. Amen.”
But Silvain put down the lantern on the table so that no light showed and went to the window. He saw a man take post at the door of the tower on guard.
Then he turned and said, “Do not sleep, brother,” and Thibaut groaned.
Silvain watched that man on guard till he had his measure and then lay down on the floor by Thibaut and with his lips at Thibaut’s ear, “Is there a watch on the horses?” he whispered.
“One man watches the horse lines.”
Silvain went back to the window and listened till all was quiet. Then he stole down the stair. The sentry was lounging in the doorway. He heard something, turned and heard nothing—for Silvain stood still, hidden in the curve of the stairway—and turned again to lounge. A fist in an iron gauntlet grasped his mouth and a dagger hilt struck his temple. He was stunned and senseless without a sound. Silvain carried him up and tied him in a bundle of bedclothes.
They took their gear and made for the horse lines. As soon as they saw through the darkness dark shapes in rank Messire Thibaut dropped down flat with the turf and crept on. Silvain stopped and found a stone and threw it. One of the horses plunged and kicked. The sentry ran to quiet it. While he was busy Thibaut came near and rising suddenly behind him brought him to the ground with a cloak over his head. Silvain ran in, and the man was tied up in the heelropes with a peg to bite on. And they saddled and made off.
“Pity me,” Thibaut groaned. “What is all this, lord?”
“Gilbert did not tell me, brother,” Silvain laughed. “But I think that he will.”
With the stars for a guide they made their way back to the road, and there Thibaut slept and Silvain watched till dawn. As soon as he had light enough to see far he took Thibaut and the horses and hid them in a fold of the hills and himself chose a place on the high ground whence he could watch the way to the castle.
HE HAD not long to wait. Gilbert and Philibert came with all their company and came in haste.
“All these for me, friend?” Silvain said. “You do me too much honour.”
Philibert went on and reconnoitered while the rest halted. Then they moved forward slowly. The mass of them went into hiding in the broken ground by the road. Men on foot scattered on either side of it and lay down. Two or three horsemen spurred southward some way and vanished.
“Alas, it is not for me,” said Silvain. “This is the secret venture that would be spoiled if I rode away with news of it. But I did ride away and still he ventures. A brave Gilbert! Well, you have laid a pretty ambush. Who is to fall into it, Gilbert? Fare you well, I go to see.”
He stole down to the horses and Thibaut, and they mounted and worked round among the hills till they came on the road far to southward and out of sight of the sentries of Gilbert.
But they had come too far. Between them and the ambush a long train of horsemen with baggage mules and litters was going leisurely on to destruction. Silvain galloped after it holding up his hand. It halted, a knight came out from it and met him.
“Who is your captain?” Silvain cried. “I am Silvain de St. Lo, a knight of France.”
“I am the captain of the guard of my lord of Mantua. Do you come from the King of France?”
Silvain saw the wrinkled scarred face of an old soldier of fortune look at him cunningly.
“I come from myself. My news is that you are in danger.”
The Mantuan looked round at his men at arms and laughed, and Silvain went on:
“Sir, you know what you have with you that is worth taking. I know that three miles away there is an ambush laid to take it. There are forty men against you. If you can break through, go your way and God be with you. I have done my part.”
The Mantuan pulled his lip.
“Forty?” he said. “Frenchmen?”
“God made them French, sir. The devil made them rogues.”
The Mantuan looked along the road, looked at the broken ground and made up his mind.
“Good thanks, sir. I go back,” and he shouted orders. But in the midst of them a woman’s voice called him. He made a grimace. “Come sir, tell your tale, I pray you,” he said and brought Silvain to a litter borne by mules.
Its curtains were drawn back. The woman in it had raised herself on her cushions. Silvain saw a dainty face made piquant by the mocking curve of the mouth. It would have been fragile but for the breadth of brow. It would have been too fair but for the violet darkness of the eyes.
“Why do we loiter, Taddeo?” she said, and looked at Silvain.
“Here is a French knight come to tell there is a French ambush set for us. I turn back, my lady.”
“Why does he forsake his friends to serve me?” her eyes were steady on Silvain.
“They are no friends of mine who bring shame on France,” Silvain answered. “For the honor of France I must save you, lady.”
“And so for the honor of France I am to run away. I thank you, sir. Do you know who I am?”
“I know that you are a woman.” Silvain bowed. “That commands all of me.”
“I am Isabella d’Este, sir,” she cried.
And Silvain smiled as he bowed again for he understood the anxieties of Gilbert and Philibert. Isabella d’Este was as great a lady as any in Italy and the wife of the Marquis of Mantua, a potent prince and a soldier of fame. She would be a splendid capture. The man who had her to sell might ask what he chose of Italy or France.
But she was not pleased with that smile.
“Oh, you are merry! It is a jest that I can not come to my own city but must turn and run from your French brigands.”
“By my faith I do not bid you turn back. I say there are forty men in ambush to capture you. Here are more than forty with you. If they have heart for it they may break through and bring you on. But if you do not trust them it is time to turn and be gone.”
She looked at Taddeo but he shook his cautious head. “My lady, I dare not bring you into danger. I have to answer for you to your lord.”
“You shall answer for it if you turn back,” she cried. “I go on, Taddeo, I go on if I go alone. March, sirrah!”
“Oh lady, you are too bold,” Silvain laughed. “Here is only one captain and that is not you.” He saluted to Taddeo. “At your orders, sir.” And he drew away from her making Taddeo’s horse move too. “Now let us order it.”
“What the —— am I to do with her?” Taddeo muttered. “You see what she is.”
“Let her stay where she is,” Silvain said. “Leave a dozen men and the rest of us try our fortune. If it goes ill they can bring her off. But I think it will not go ill.”
“The men are well enough,” said Taddeo. “They will fight out a fight. But there is no fire in them and your Frenchmen are fiends.”
The end of that talk was that they left the angry lady on the road and marched on with most of the baggage. Taddeo and all his unmounted men, who had pikes and swords, and the baggage and some of the horsemen kept the road. Silvain picked out a dozen who were young and well mounted and led them off by the way he had come through the hills.
SO THE sentries of Gilbert and Philibert saw at last the expected Mantuan company. It marched with a couple of horsemen ahead, a guard of horsemen in the rear, and in the midst a long train of mules and litters with pikemen marching on either side. There beyond doubt was the lady Isabella. The first horsemen were suffered to pass. When the mule train came, Gilbert and Philibert broke out of ambush. The pikemen were ready, turned and stood shoulder to shoulder, a line of spears on either side the litters.
“Away, you sheep,” Gilbert roared as he charged. “Break them, break in!”
And Philibert and he and one or two more charged through the spears but the most of his men, unarmored, flinched from the steady line or could not break it.
Then came a shout from their rear, “Mantua! Mantua!” and the thunder of galloping horses and while they wondered and faltered and turned, bewildered what this might be, from the ground where they had lain in ambush fresh men charged on them shouting “Mantua! Mantua!”
That was the end of Gaston’s company. It reeled and broke and the cautious Taddeo came up and flung in his reserve to sweep it away. Scattered into single horsemen, leaving many fallen on the road, it fled back into the hills.
Silvain halted and took off his helmet.
“I wonder if he knew me, the brave Gilbert,” he smiled.
Taddeo’s trumpet sounded the rally. Taddeo was in a hurry to form his column again and be off. The lady and her guard were brought up, he gave the word to march and rode beside her.
“Rest at ease, my lady. There is no more to fear of them. They are broken men. It went hard for a while, but I have my pikes well drilled and they stood to it till I could develop my tactic. Then the thing was done. The truth is they have no science, these Frenchmen. They are bold in the charge but they do not know how to order a fight.”
“Where is our Frenchman?” said the lady.
“Oh, he is gone on with the advance guard. It is a wild youth,” Taddeo smiled indulgently. “He must wear out many a horse. He ranges to and fro like a dog. But I do not fear to trust him.”
“That is gracious,” said the lady. “Then you will give me leave to speak with him? Bid him come.”
But Silvain did not come. He was resolved that the lady should fall into no other ambush and he rode far ahead of Taddeo’s stolid column, searching the ground. It was not till the walls of Mantua were in sight that he halted beside the road and waited for her litter. From the town where her family ruled a troop was riding out to meet her. Taddeo saw it and barked out orders that set his men dressing their ranks and marching stiffly.
Silvain and Thibaut sitting at ease on their tired horses watched the column go by. When the golden litter came Silvain drew his sword and saluted the lady. She did not see him at first for she lay back on the cushions and Taddeo was riding at her side. Then she raised herself on her elbow.
“Bid them halt, Taddeo,” she cried and beckoned to Silvain. “Why do you sit there like a statue, my friend?” she said. “I bade you come to me long ago.”
“I am your servant, lady. I was watching the road. And here the road ends. I pray you give me leave to kiss your hand.”
“Forward, Taddeo,” she signed to him to let Silvain come to her. The column began to move. “And what is your road, my friend?”
“I go my way to seek honor.”
She smiled. “There is none by my side?”
“By my faith, I am proud that I ride here.”
“Yes, you are proud,” she said, considering him. “I also have some pride, my friend. You have brought me safe out of a vile danger. What shall I give you for that?”
“I pray you, give me your hand to kiss.”
A man came riding fast down the column, a sturdy fellow in a rich array of blue and red and gold. He bowed low to the lady and swung his horse round to her.
“My heart gives you welcome,” he cried. Silvain reined back and gave him place beside her.
“It is good to come,” she said softly and their eyes spoke together.
“Each day that I wait for you is a longer day.”
“I have had the longer days to bear.” They smiled at each other and then she turned from him. “I come late, sir. I have had a war to fight to come to you. I should not be here for you tonight but by this French lord’s grace.” She made him look back at Silvain. “He has delivered me out of the hand of the French. My lord Marquis, this is Sir Silvain de St. Lo. I pray you honor him for my sake, who indeed deserves all honor for his own.”
The marquis bowed.
“Sir, I have heard of many deeds of Silvain de St. Lo and envied him. I am proud to stand his debt.”
“Here is no debt, my lord. To serve your lady would be service that pays itself richly. But what I could do was little matter. She was her own captain,” Silvain smiled.
“I think it is no little matter that a knight of France should ride against Frenchmen. Sir, you had a hard choice. You have chosen like a noble knight. But we are fortunate.”
So they brought him to Mantua and made him their guest in the palace and showed him stately courtesy. The place was full of princelings and their gentlemen and their captains and many eyes looked askance at the Frenchman but the Marquis of Mantua had the will to see that his pleasure was law.
“What shall be done to the man that the marquis delighteth to honor?” said Messire Thibaut, who throve on palace fare. “Surely he has some great thing for us, lord.”
“I fear it, brother,” Silvain smiled.
BEFORE a week was out it came. He was beckoned out of the company in the great hall of audience to the room where the marquis sat alone. “We have seen too little of you in these busy days, sir. Believe that you have been often in my mind.”
“Sir, you have been too kind to me.”
“I have done nothing. You did for me what a man does not forget. Sir Silvain—I think you are bound to no lord.”
“It is true. I am my own man.”
“I should count myself happy if you would ride with me. I go upon a great venture, sir. I take command of the armies of a league to save Italy.”
Silvain drew a long breath.
“From the King of France, my lord?” he said.
“Yes. As you saved my wife from his brigands, I hope that I may save Italy from him.”
“My king is no brigand, my lord.”
“I judge him by his acts. The work he has done in Italy is brigand’s work. He snatches at our towns, he claims lordship of our lands, he seeks to make himself a realm in our country. Your king? Why, you can not serve such a king. You know it.”
“I am a knight of France, my lord. To France I must be loyal, or I am nothing.”
“His cause is no cause for you, Silvain. You know it well. You have been long in Italy. You do not ride with him. You have to fight against the rogues who march under his banner. Come, fight with me and deliver the land from evil. Is it a good cause? Your heart knows.”
Silvain smiled sadly.
“What should I answer you, my lord? I think your heart knows that.”
“What has he brought upon Italy? Rapine and death and outrage for men and women who had done him no wrong. We gather and march to defend our right. God is for us. He can not stand against us, this robber’s king. But the fight will go hard and we need every knight’s aid. Come Silvain, here is honor to win.”
“Not for me, my lord,” Silvain said. “If all you say is true, why then my place is now with the king.”
“No by God’s grace. You would not march with him to plunder us. It is not for you to defend him when we rally to take vengeance.”
“By my faith, it is in that day I must fight for him. I had no part in his victories. I dare not stand aside if he marches on defeat.”
“Why, this is mad loyalty. You will take the wrong cause because it goes to ruin.”
Silvain looked up.
“Is that mad, my lord? I think your heart does not say so. I am a knight of France and if France has evil days I must bear my part.”
“Go your way, you have chosen,” the marquis said. “God guide you, Silvain.” And Silvain went out with bowed head.
That night there came to him servants who brought him armor of Milan steel and a gold chain worked in the cypher of the lady Isabella and he was told that my lord had ordered two chargers to be stabled with his.
Then Messire Thibaut chuckled and rubbed his hands.
“This is a noble lord. Surely he has some great place for us.”
“Noble he is, brother,” Silvain smiled. “For he arms me against himself.”
The jaw of Thibaut fell and he groaned.
“You turn against him? Alas, my bones, we never had fortune yet but Silvain must seek a way to lose it. What irks you here? This lord has been gentle and gracious, a sweet lord, and I will go bail for him he is one to trust.”
“O brother, he is the noblest prince that ever I knew. But he marches against the army of France and I must turn my sword upon him and be his enemy.”
“Why?” said Thibaut. “France never gave you anything that you should lose all for her. Look, lord. France has sent her army to the —— but you did not choose to go with them. Then why the —— go after them now?”
“France is our mother,” Silvain said.
“Pity poor me,” Thibaut moaned. “Oh Silvain, my lord, you have an uncomfortable soul. When you go to heaven you will turn upon God to fight for the poor souls in hell.”
But Silvain had his way, and so nobly armed and mounted they rode out from Mantua in the dawn and made southward to find King Charles.
It was a journey that asked some skill. For all the roads had grown busy. People of importance and their escorts were going to and fro between Rome and Florence and Venice and Milan and all these cities and Modena and Mantua. Troops were on the march too, levies of citizens, bands of hired soldiers of fortune; Germans and Swiss as well as Italians, all suspicious, most of them eager for a quarrel or seeking, as Thibaut moaned, what they might devour. But Messire Thibaut quaked too soon for Silvain found a way through them peace ably, shunning a challenge, giving place rather than give offence; irresistibly meek and supple.
“God have mercy,” said Thibaut, “his head is bowed and his mouth is shut and he has no joy. So have I seen a man when the shadow of death fell cold upon him.”
But Silvain pushed on fast and came through the Apennines and beyond Pisa and there in the country by the sea saw the banners of the French army.
He was kneeling by a wayside shrine to give thanks when horsemen rode out from the vanguard and challenged him and brought him to their captain.
A KNIGHT who sat tall on a great charger shaded his eyes to look.
Silvain cried out “Bayard!” and galloped on. “I said in my heart that it would be you, brother. There is none but Bayard to lead the vanguard of France.”
Bayard grasped at his hand.
“Oh my brother, this should be your place.”
Silvain shook his head and smiled.
“You have been my captain in my heart many a year now. I have prayed often that I might be such a knight as you are.”
“God has given you better fortune.”
“Richer, not better,” Bayard said. “But what now? Tell me, have you come to us at last?”
“At last, that is the word. Yes, I have come to ride for France. I pray you, Bayard, let me serve with you.”
“With me?” Bayard laughed. “Where I am there is always a place for you. But the king will need you for something greater.”
“I look for no welcome, Bayard. I bring no good news.” He lowered his voice. “My fear is that I have come too late.”
Bayard stared at him.
“This is not like you, brother,” he said. “What fear rides with you that you look so heavily?”
“How is it in the army? Are you strong and in good heart?”
Bayard smiled.
“Do not fear for us. Our heads are high, and our hearts. By Our Lady, we have a right to go proud. All is won that we marched to win. We have given our king a new realm and wide dominion. Our Lord Charles is anointed King of Naples and Emperor of the East and King of Jerusalem. He has put on the robe and crown of Byzant.”
“And sovereignty of dreams,” Silvain said. “And now you turn back to France. How many men have you left behind, Bayard?”
“There are twelve thousand holding Naples,” said Bayard.
Silvain turned in the saddle and looked back down the column of march and crossed himself and murmured a prayer.
“Fifty thousand came out of France,” he said. “Here are no more than ten thousand. You have left many behind.”
“It is true. They wasted away in Naples,” Bayard said. “There was a sickness upon us. But many are gone here and there making free companies to seek fortune.”
“And plunder Italy. By my faith, this was a noble venture, Bayard, and France has won much honor. For the king is made Emperor of the East and King of Jerusalem. God help him, when will he come to the Holy City? Dreams, dreams!”
“Are you here to speak evil of the king, Sir Silvain?” Bayard cried.
“Not I, brother. I am a knight of France and I ride to him in his need.”
“You are gracious. He has won many victories without your sword. There are good swords to serve him yet.”
“Bear with me, Bayard. I saw no honor in this venture. I held off in your victories. Now dangers gather about you I must ride with you. You march with ten thousand men. Beyond the mountains there fifty thousand marshaled to destroy you and a great captain to lead them, Francesco of Mantua.”
Bayard laughed.
“Here is a noble fight for France! What, brother, why do you come heavily talking of fear and ill news? This is the best we have heard since we came into Italy. We could find never an army strong enough to prove our swords. God be thanked, here is hope of a deed of arms at last. Come, I must bring you to the king. Do not fear brother, you will be welcome.”
While the army plodded on King Charles and his courtiers were halted in a great tent to rest through the heat of the day. His Majesty lolled upon cushions, drinking wine from a cup half filled with snow.
“It is Bayard, sir,” said Etienne de Vesc, the favorite at his elbow. “He brings some stranger.”
The king yawned and turned his big head.
“I bring Sir Silvain de St. Lo, my lord,” said Bayard, and there was some stir in the drowsy company.
The king looked away like a surly child.
“I have nothing for him,” he mumbled. “He is no knight of mine.”
Then Etienne de Vesc said quickly—
“Name of God, Bayard, you take your duty lightly. Our vanguard has no captain while you bring your wandering friends to tease us.”
“Will you teach Bayard a captain’s duty, Sir Etienne?” Bayard said. “My lord, Sir Silvain has great news for you.”
“Well, what is it?” the king cried peevishly. “What is it? Speak out and have done.”
“Great news it is, my lord,” Silvain said. “I dare not call it good news. There is a strong league gathered to give you battle, Venice and Florence and the Pope’s men and Mantua and all the states of the north. Even your friend Lodovico of Milan has turned against you.”
“——!” said the Marshal d’Esquerdes, who was the king’s second favorite. “I always said that man was a knave.”
But Etienne de Vesc cried out—
“Fie, this is all known. This is not news. Do you think to win favor by this stale stuff?”
“When was it known? I did not know it,” said d’Esquerdes. “Look, my lord, if all this is true we march too slow.”
“All this is true and more. The emperor has sent them men, my lord, Germans and Switzers, and they gather a great host and Francesco of Mantua leads them.”
“The Mantuan! Name of ——, they have the best captain in Italy,” d’Esquerdes cried. “Where do they muster, sir?”
“South of Modena, sir. They gather toward the Apennines. I fear they watch the passes.”
“I swear they will. How many men?”
“By my faith, I count them fifty thousand.”
“The —— you do!” D’Esquerdes turned to the king. “Do you know what I think, my lord? I think you lie there too long.”
The king started up—
“March then, march. I do not keep you. By Our Lady, I am not afraid of them, I!”
“No, sier, but here are some who fear shadows, or would have you fear,” said Etienne de Vesc. “Who is this knight that knows so much of the enemy? Who sent him?”
A LOOSE-MADE man thrust forward. Silvain saw the red face of Gilbert du Marais grin at him.
“I can tell you that, Sir Etienne,” Gilbert cried. “This knight spied upon us when we laid an ambush to seize the Lady of Mantua to be a hostage for her lord and brought the Mantuans down upon us and delivered her. But for him we should have had her safe and my lord of Mantua would not dare to lead his league against France.”
“Why, the man is a traitor!” cried Etienne.
“He fights for Mantua, not France. Bear me witness, Philibert.” Gilbert turned and thrust his cousin forward.
“He fought for the lady,” Philibert’s little eyes glowed. “He delivered her. He broke our company. He tricked us.”
“Look at him!” Gilbert laughed, for Silvain stood pale and silent. “He dares not deny it. He is a Mantuan—no Frenchman.”
Silvain flung back his head.
“By my faith, I did not think I should live to hear a French knight boast to his king of your deeds. This is true: You did lay an ambush to capture the Lady of Mantua and I found it out and delivered her.” He turned upon the king. “I pray you my lord, is this your way of war that you would have your knights lie in wait for a woman and take her to hold her at their will?”
“What do you say?” The king rolled his big head. “I know nothing of it. It is all folly.”
“Folly and worse,” said Etienne de Vesc. “Here is one who would be on both sides. He fights for Mantua. He comes to tell tales of Mantua. Go your way, sirrah, the king wants no men of two faces.”
“Sir,” said Bayard. “It was I who brought Sir Silvain to my lord.”
Then the Marshal d’Esquerdes cried—
“Do you answer for him, Bayard?”
“Sir, his honor is my honor,” Bayard said.
The Marshal laughed—
“——, Etienne, it will be long before you have such warranty,” and the King, too, cackled laughter. “Hear my mind, my lord. This news is true and I thank God we have it. For we must march and march fast or the rogues will gather and hold the passes against us and we shall be trapped in the mountains and never win out.
“Name of God, how can the man be false? He bids us march on to France and march fast and that is right soldierly reason. But if a man says there is nothing to fear and we can wait and take our ease, I hear Italian gold clink in his pockets.” He looked with a sneering smile at Etienne and Gilbert. “To the —— with all traitors. This knight is true!” he clapped Silvain on the shoulder. “Let us march, my lord!”
Then one man and another cried out, “Forward, forward,” and Etienne de Vesc held his tongue and the king said angrily, “Forward, then. It is not I who fear. Why are we kept here? To horse!”
Bayard took Silvain’s arm and drew him away.
“This was a mean welcome, brother. Patience yet and you shall shame them.”
“I have done my part,” Silvain said. “I am content. But I should have done nothing without you, Bayard.” They found their horses and mounted. “May I serve in your company?”
“You serve who should lead.”
Silvain smiled. “I have ridden alone all my days. I am no leader. But I would ride under the lilies before I die and I think I can serve France yet. You will need every sword.”
“Your heart is heavy, brother. What do you fear? There are no troops in Italy will stand against a French charge. We shall win great glory of this host.”
There rose up before Silvain a vision of Philibert’s low brow and his little gloomy eyes and he heard Philibert’s growl—
“What has he won, poor loon? Glory and smoke.”
Bayard looked at him curiously. “What is in your mind? It is not like you to go sad upon danger.”
“I think of the men about the king. When I told you of danger, your heart was glad. But there was no joy in that tent, Bayard.”
“It is true. They treated you vilely. Bad blood thrives in a court. You have had evil fortune, Silvain.” He smiled indulgent sympathy. “But you will ride on lonely ventures. It makes you enemies.”
“I live my life, brother,” Silvain smiled. “No matter for me. Who leads the army? Not you nor I. Your little king? He will be a child all his days. He is in the hands of men who send him to war that they may fill their pockets.”
“I must not hear this,” Bayard said coldly. “This is treason.”
“What? To say that Etienne’s men are brigands? You heard them boast of it. To say that Etienne takes bribes from the king’s enemies? The marshal told him so before the king’s face and he had no answer. Who leads the army? This knave at the king’s ear, who will keep the army dallying till the Italians have trapped it in the mountains and so earn his bribes.”
“I will not believe you,” Bayard cried. “Etienne is greedy and mean of heart but no traitor. But what if he were? The marshal commands and he drives hard. We shall march fast enough, have no fear,and the army is staunch. ——, there is no traitor can trap the army of France!”
“I pray God you are right,” Silvain said sadly.
“Why, man, there is no heart in you. You are turned to cunning and bitterness.”
“I think I grow old, Bayard,” Silvain said gently. “You have a boy’s heart yet.”
“Oh, brother, keep your loyalties!” Bayard cried.
One thing Silvain had forgotten, the desire of men to save themselves. What was said in council in that army was not long secret and when that story of a league of enemies passed through the ranks every man was zealous to push on into safety. The marshal had no need to drive them though he drove hard and they marched through the Italian summer, ruthless to themselves and their horses, unwearying.
They had cannon, unwieldy as guns were then, in the youth of artillery. When the teams gave out they dragged those fourteen pieces by man power. Great lords took their share of pulling and hauling, knights who had counted it loss of honor to go afoot trudged in their armor that weary pikemen might ride. And the mass of the army labored on up the steep broken tracks from dawn to dark, straining strength and will to the uttermost.
“Do you fear yet, brother?” Bayard said. “We march like Frenchmen. Like Frenchmen we shall fight.”
“It is an army,” Silvain smiled and tossed back his fair hair and looked up at the peaks of the Apennines. “I wish I knew what they are doing on the other side of the hills. Give me leave, Bayard and I will go and see.”
“Let them do what they will, we shall break them.”
Silvain was startled. “That is a soldier’s thought not a captain’s, Bayard.”
“I do what I have to do,” said Bayard coldly. “I do not think of the other side of the hill. And I have not failed in a fight yet.”
“You are the most gallant knight of us all,” Silvain said. “But see, brother: It will save many a life to know what they intend against us. Let me go.”
“You try to see too far. You always seek to be wiser than any man. How often has that sent you on a lonely venture, Silvain? And little honor it has brought. Ride on with us and do your part when the hour comes.”
“And so I will. O Bayard, my brother, it is not my honor I think of but the honor of France. Here is her army marching blind and we can save many a man for her. Let me go.”
“Do as you will,” said Bayard coldly. “You are your own man.”
THEN Silvain took Thibaut and his two spare horses and rode on into the mountains and traveling fast by mule tracks above the road they climbed on till there lay before them the green northern valleys and the dim plain of Lombardy. In the pass which comes down to the broad stream of the Parma they saw many troops.
Some time they spent wandering on the high ground till Silvain had made out that the mass of the army of the league was marshaled below.
“We shall never break through there, not though we were all paladins,” he said. “And that is the road we go. Come, brother, there is always a way round.”
He led away northward across one valley and another where no army could march till they came upon the defile that goes by Fornovo, a cleft in the mountains dividing into broad valleys which opened on the plain. And there were no troops at all.
“By my faith that gate stands open,” he said. “My lord of Mantua has made sure which way we shall come. He is very sure!” And they turned their horses and rode back.
Dusk was falling when they came upon the army. High in the mountains it lay in bivouac, marked out by a ring of fires that glowed golden and red in the gloom and covered it with a cloud of smoke that hid the mountain peaks. Bayard was riding round his outposts and Silvain called to him from far off and galloped on without a challenge.
“Good fortune! I have found you soon. You have marched well, Bayard. I did not think you would have come so far.”
“You do not think well of us. I know it,” Bayard said.
“I think you are the finest troops in the world. But by my faith, this is far enough.” He lowered his voice. “For you come the wrong way, Bayard. I have found the army of the League and they hold this road against you with all their strength.”
“God be thanked,” Bayard cried.
“God is with us, by my faith. I have found you in time. We must turn aside and take the road by Fornovo. They have no guard there. If we press on fast we shall win through and be safe in the plain. Bring me to the king, brother.”
Bayard stared at him. “Turn aside, flinch from the enemy, shun battle—is this what you come to tell him?”
“If you go down to battle in the Parma valley they will hold you against the mountains and crush you to dust. They are five to one and all the good ground they hold. I have seen them. Why man, it is no shame to march another road. You would not break your lance against a castle wall.”
“Name of God, I have not learnt to shun battle because the enemy are strong. When did you learn, Silvain? What has changed you? You do not speak with your own voice. This is craven.”
Silvain drew in his breath. “It is Bayard who says that to me! You have known me long, brother.”
“I do not know you now. You are all cunning and fears.”
“God help me, I must do as I can,” Silvain said and turned his horse and rode on through the bivouac.
To the king’s tent he came and there begged to speak with the Marshal d’Esquerdes. That bustling man, when he heard there was news, would have brought him in to the king.
“I pray you walk apart with me, my lord. It is your head leads this army. Hear me and judge what you will do.”
The marshal, well pleased with that, linked arms with him and they paced to and fro in the dark and Silvain told his tale.
There was none of Bayard’s chivalry in the Marshal d’Esquerdes. He was a soldier who made war for gain and having gained all he could in Italy was intent on getting safe home with it. He had no notion of fighting a battle unless he could win. He had no zeal to fight any battle. He grasped at the chance of evading the army of the League.
One doubt only troubled him, whether the road by Fornovo was a good road, and when Silvain promised him that they would march as well that way as the other, he chuckled and swore that Silvain was a godsend.
“Fornovo for us, lad. We will be off with the dawn and march round them and they shall never see any of us but our dust. The —— speed them, we can outmarch all Italy once we are down in the plain.”
He bustled off into the king’s tent again.
Silvain turned to find Thibaut at his elbow.
“How is it with him, lord?” Thibaut croaked.
“He trusts me, brother. He is for Fornovo. He has gone now to the King. He will have his way. He knows what he wants, and that is to save himself.”
“Pity me, so do I. We are not all Bayards, lord. That is a mad knight. But I know one who is madder.”
“I?” Silvain laughed. “God help me, I am cold and cunning enough.”
“Yes, lord, when you think for others. But when you think for your own fortune, mad, mad as the saints in heaven.” He shook his head sagely and sighed. “What must be, must. But here is a knuckle of ham.” He made it peep coyly from his wallet kissing the neck of a bottle. “Do not thank me, lord. Thank the good God who made me a thief.”
In the lee of a rock they ate that stolen supper and Thibaut lay down and snored to the stars. But Silvain was wakeful. He watched the king’s tent whence no man had come since the marshal went in. The marshal came out at last with half a dozen more and he was talking so fast and loud that none of them could put a word in, and the burden of his speech was that the Marshal d’Esquerdes was a great captain, and they would march by Fornovo and he would bring them safe off and a great captain was he. They vanished into the gloom and the clatter of his voice died slowly away.
“He has a will as loud as he is,” Silvain reflected. “He has won. But he had to fight for it. He is hot yet.” He sighed. “Alas, poor king! You have knaves to your friends. Alas, poor France! Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child.”
Other men came out from the tent, not so noisy as the marshal, debating whether he was right or wrong and Silvain heard a voice that he knew.
“——, he is a Marshal of France,” said Gilbert du Marais. “Let him lead, the king has said it and so say I.”
“The short way home is the way for me,” said Philibert.
Then Etienne de Vesc spoke softly, something that made men laugh. But Gilbert cried out:
“You are wise, my lord, —— doubt you, you are wise. You may be right for what I know and the marshal has listened to rogues. But this is sure. The marshal is to lead and we must follow. Heart of God. I ride with him though we ride to the ——.”
“Well said, cousin,” Philibert chuckled and there was a murmur of approval.
“The blind lead the blind.” Etienne said softly. “Beware of the ditch, my lords.”
They went their several ways and Etienne went with Gilbert and Philibert.
“What now?” Silvain said to himself. “Gilbert and Philibert stand out loyal to the marshal—that is strange—and their patron prophesies ruin and yet cherishes them kindly, that is most strange. What comes of it?”
STEALTHILY, avoiding the rings of fire light, he followed them. They stood together awhile in the darkness. Then Etienne turned and came back to the king’s tent alone.
Gilbert and Philibert strode on to the horse lines and Silvain heard the creak of saddle leather.
It was enough for him. He made haste through the sleeping camp. His own horses were far away by Bayard’s out posts. Before he was mounted Gilbert and Philibert had a long start. He was checked by Bayard’s wary sentries and lost more time before he could get leave to pass, by a pretence that the marshal sent him.
There was no hope in rousing Bayard. Bayard would never help him again. No use to give the alarm and shout that two knights had fled to join the enemy. None but the marshal himself would dare act against the friends of Etienne de Vesc. To find him, to persuade him, while Etienne was giving a dozen good reasons why they were gone would waste the night. And they would be safe away and nothing proved or sure.
“O Bayard, my brother, here is another lonely venture,” he laughed sadly as he rode on into the dark. For he had never a doubt what he must do.
Gilbert and Philibert had declared themselves on the marshal’s side against Etienne in order that no one should suspect them of deserting to betray the marshal. So Etienne could scoff at the marshal’s plan and when he was betrayed and the army was led to disaster, no man could blame him or his.
A clever fellow, Master Etienne. In the hour when it seemed that the French had found a way to safety and left him no more chance of selling them, he devised a plan for their ruin which would enrich him and free him from all suspicion.
The marshal ordered the march by Fornovo. Etienne who had kept the king loitering while the Italians gathered against him would have had the army go into the Parma valley where the Italians waited for it. The marshal prevailed, so Etienne was sending on the news that the Italians might move round to Fornovo betimes. Thereafter with his pockets full of Italian gold Etienne would boast that he had always been for the Parma road and that if the king had listened he would have brought them safe off.
Thus Silvain read the maneuvers of the night. It was certain in his mind that Gilbert and Philibert were riding straight for the Parma valley. He had to gain upon them half an hour’s ride, he had to find them in the dark, he had to stop them before they reached the Italian outposts.
One advantage only he had, that his days of riding to and fro had given him good knowledge of the mountains. That Gilbert and Philibert would go by the road, he had no doubt. No other way was easy or safe. But if he followed by the road he would wear his horse out before he caught them.
He turned away on a rough track steering by the stars and the loom of the mountain peaks and climbed for a high pass which the road forsook to find an easier way by a long circuit. When he saw below him again after many a mile the gray band of the road on a black shoulder of mountain he halted and listened and after a little heard the beat of hoofs. He had come in front of them, but they had good galloping ground before them and he a steep hill side.
He struck down on a long slant. They heard him, saw him—no help for that—and though they could not know who he was drove their horses on. But Silvain had chosen his line well, the slope fell easier, he came at the last in a sudden burst of speed and crashed into the second man shoulder to crupper and rode him down.
The other was well away while Silvain’s horse staggered from the shock. The man on the ground roared:
“Help cousin, help. Stand by me. I am a dead man else. Turn, man, death and the ——, he is but one.” So Gilbert, spitting and swearing and struggling to get free from his fallen horse.
Philibert halted and looked back and turned and rode at Silvain, bending low in the saddle, a little man hidden behind his horse’s neck holding his sword like a lance. So he rushed on, but Silvain going easily leaned out of the saddle as he came and his sword sliding along Philibert’s sword held it off and went into Philibert’s neck between helmet and breastplate and pierced him through and through and thrust him from his horse. Down he fell while his horse rushed on and Silvain swung round upon Gilbert.
But Gilbert shrank from him crying:
“I yield myself. Have mercy. I am a knight and will pay a knight’s ransom. Have mercy.”
“I am Silvain de St. Lo. Come, stand by my stirrup or I will cut you down.”
“Silvain!” Gilbert cried. “Why do you set upon us? —— this is wicked work. We ride out on the king’s service and you——”
“What service?”
“Why, man, we were riding to find where these cursed Italians are marshaled.”
Silvain laughed. “You will never find them, Gilbert.”
“What do you say? God’s death, you will not kill me now. I have yielded myself.”
“You are my prisoner. I am sorry for it. Hold by my stirrup. March!”
“But Philibert! Do not leave him for the love of God.”
“There is no help for Philibert. He chose death, Gilbert.”
Gilbert groaned!
“Good St. Martin, pray for him. I have brought him to his death.” He ran to the fallen man and lifted his head and cried, “Brother, forgive me!”
Silvain walking his horse up to them heard Philibert laugh faintly.
“It is as it is,” Philibert gasped. "Go your way. I go mine. And the —— takes all.”
“Silvain, of your grace,” Gilbert cried. “His breastplate bites into the wound. Help me with him.”
Silvain swung down and raised the little man while Gilbert fumbled with his armor.
“Name of God, he must not die in torment,” Gilbert muttered. “So, so. Hold him a moment. So.” And then he dived past Silvain, throwing him down upon the dying man and vaulted on Silvain’s horse and dashed off into the night.
Silvain started up and heard Philibert’s gasping laugh. “He is up and you are down,” Philibert croaked. “What have you won? Come lie with me. The —— takes all.”
Silvain ran seeking the loose horses in the dark, found one at last and galloped after Gilbert.
But Gilbert was far ahead and better mounted now and though Silvain rode hard when the dawn broke he was above the valley of the Parma and saw far below a single horseman coming to the Italian lines.
SILVAIN turned and made across the mountains to the Fornovo road. He spurred the weary horse till it could do no more, then flung himself from the saddle and trudged on.
The sun was high and the army had gone far on the way to Fornovo before he met the vanguard. Bayard’s men challenged him, then recognized him under his dust and let him pass. Bayard rode by without a word or a look. But in the rear of Bayard’s company was Thibaut leading the two spare horses. He gave forth a howl of greeting and Silvain flung himself on a horse and galloped on to seek the marshal.
In the middle of the long column of march the Marshal d’Esquerdes was riding beside the king. Silvain made his salute and turned and kept pace with them, but it was long before the marshal could notice him, for the king was in a martial humor that day, he had mounted his black charger, he had put on his gilded armor and his silver helmet with the blank plumes and he had to tell the marshal how to conquer Italy.
But at last earnest looks and signs did their work. The marshal shook off His Majesty and broke away and rode out to Silvain. “What the —— ails you that you come hovering over us like a crow?”
“I bring you ill news, my lord,” Silvain said in a low voice. “Your plan is betrayed. The Italians will be ready for you at Fornovo.”
The marshal glared at him.
“——! you promised me the pass of Fornovo was clear.”
“And so it was, my lord. But there are traitors stand by the king. After you made your plan last night, two knights of the Sieur de Vesc stole out from the camp, Gilbert du Marais and Philibert de la Vire. And when I knew it I hunted them over the mountains and Philibert is dead but Gilbert saved himself from me and came down to the Italians at Parma. He was in the king’s tent. He knows all. He will bring them to meet you at Fornovo. Still there is time, my lord. Halt and turn aside and make for the Parma valley.”
“Make for ——,” the marshal growled. “You are too cunning, my man. You know too much. Wherever we go you find danger. The —— take you, if we are trapped at Fornovo you led us into the trap.”
“I have warned you, my lord. Turn now and go by Parma.”
“Oh rogue, can I turn the king’s army as you turn your horse?”
“There is time yet——”
“——, I will hear no more of you. To the —— with your tales. If all Italy holds the pass against us we will break through.”
“I pray you, my lord, give me men to lead,” Silvain cried.
“You? Go to the rear. Ride with the baggage. That is the place for you and your fears. Go, I say, I will not trust you near the enemy. You are too busy, my man.”
Silvain turned his horse and slowly made his way down the column. Among the mules and the packhorses laden with the king’s pomp and the spoils of Italy Thibaut found him.
“God comfort you, my lord,” he groaned. “What is this?”
“This is my wages, brother,” Silvain said. “I have failed and I live.”
The army was smitten with convulsions. The marshal and his knights and his squires raged up and down calling on the laboring guns to go forward, sending pikemen on, bringing horsemen back. It was the desire of the marshal that the army should advance in order of battle, no easy thing to contrive on a march down the broken ground of a mountain side into a funnel of a valley.
Thibaut sucked his teeth.
“My poor bones, we make haste,” he said. “We are all tumbled and shattered before we have fought. What shall we be like after?”
“Pray God the Italians are hurried too,” Silvain said. “That is our hope.”
“Why if they run at us as we run at them we shall all be as merry as peas in soup.”
Once down in the valley the marshal harried his army into some order and made a front that spread from side to side, though the boulders that strewed the ground and the torrent in the midst broke the line. Some way ahead they saw banners and the gleam of steel. The Italians had a long march to make from their old position and they were not rushing to the fight. Francesco of Mantua knew his men and his trade.
He had chosen his ground well. Where the valley opened out and forked his ranks were drawn up barring the easier road, ready to charge the French in flank if they turned to the other. He had already enough men to make a stand and more were coming up the valley but all his force was not yet in sight.
“By my faith, we may do it yet!” Silvain cried as he scanned their numbers. “Here is only a morsel of an army. Forward! Forward!”
But the marshal sounded a halt. Having room for a wider front he must make a new order of battle and fight by the rule. He spread his army out and brought up his fourteen guns and set them in the middle of the line and the weary gunners began a slow and solemn cannonade.
The Italians had no guns to answer it, but they held their ground and the fire did them little harm for it was not in the art of gunnery to foresee what any gun would do and most of the balls hit the ground before they hit the enemy and others went wide and others high. But the din was great and the smoke.
“Pity me, this is dread,” quoth Thibaut sneezing. “Yet a merciful way to fight. I have seen an oak staff shed more blood.”
“You will see blood enough, brother,” Silvain said.
The marshal having shattered his enemy’s line by gun fire according to the rules of art, sent his best horsemen to charge and break through. They charged well, but they found a stubborn fence of pikes and were checked and thrown back and Italian horsemen fell upon their flank and scattered them.
So the fight went with charge and countercharge; for the guns had fired off all their powder and shot in vain, and the French horsemen rode furiously but could not break the steady Italian line and the ground was strewn with their dead.
Francesco of Mantua was content to beat them back. He ventured no advance. He kept his men in hand. He would not move his main strength from the ground he had chosen.
“THIS day is a long day, friend,” Thibaut said.
Silvain was out of the saddle pacing to and fro wearily, turning with a toss of the head to look at the fight, tramping on again bent over the ground. Thibaut saw his face white and his sunken fierce eyes. About them with the baggage were more than the muleteers, lacqueys and men who had slunk out of the fight and there was a din of gloomy chatter.
Suddenly Silvain checked.
“They have a captain there, brother,” he said loudly. “He will hold us here till we have worn out our strength. And then we are meat for his supper. Here we stay waiting till he is ready to eat us and there is the road to France.” He pointed to the other fork of the valley across the Italian front.
After a first grimace of horror Messire Thibaut took his cue. “By my bones, it is time to go,” he grinned. “We should be off with the baggage and leave the noble knights to fight it out behind us.”
That noble counsel went to the heart of the cowards and camp followers with the baggage. They began to slink off. Some of them started the pack horses. In a little while all the baggage train was in motion making off behind the army to the open valley on the flank.
Then Silvain flung himself on his horse and galloped to the fight.
“God deliver him, he is mad,” Thibaut gasped, but he mounted and followed after.
The Italians saw the long line of laden beasts laboring away, saw the plunder of their land being borne off and roared out rage and threats. The Marshal d’Esquerdes saw his men leaking away in retreat and cursed and sent a troop to head them off.
Silvain rode to the front line and found Bayard’s company, worn by many a charge, drawn up under the silent guns. “Forward, brother, forward for God’s honor,” he cried. “Look, they waver, they will not stand.”
Bayard stood in dinted and bloody armor beside a weary horse. He wiped the sweat from his eyes.
“You come late to the battle, Sir Silvain,” he said. “I have no place for you.”
“This is your hour, Bayard, God gives you glory,” Silvain rode out to the front and he shouted. “In the king’s name, charge! France! France!” and he drew his sword and galloped on. “Forward for France!”
“Great God, is he to shame us?” Bayard muttered. “By St. Denis, he is in the right! Sound trumpets! Advance banner! Charge!”
For the thing was going as Silvain foretold. The Italian line shook and shifted. To watch all the French train of plunder escaping them was too hard a trial for the old hired soldiers of fortune who made half Francesco’s army, and the other half, young levies, saw a retreat begun and thought the French were beaten and the time come for pursuit. Here and there men broke from the ranks and surged forward.
So upon a shaking, ragged line Bayard’s company charged and clove deep and fought their way through and when the golden lilies tossed in the gap they had made came the rest of the French horse men by troops and squadrons till the army of Francesco was shattered and swept away, a rabble of fugitives.
The little king, more splendid than ever with his gilded armor flashing on men squalid with the dirt of battle, with his black charger prancing and curvetting among weary horses and wearier men, came riding beside the Marshal d’Esquerdes to take the cheers of his army. But it was Bayard the marshal sought and Bayard was halted under the hillside, rallying a company many of whom were down, whose horses could hardly move for wounds and fierce riding.
“Here is the king to thank you, Bayard!” the marshal cried.
“You have ridden well, sir,” the little king said graciously. “I have always had honor for Pierre de Bayard. You have proved worthy. I give you my hand.” And so he did while Bayard bowed low.
"Sir, he is the best knight that ever fought for France,” the marshal cried. “Name of God, Bayard, that was a grand stroke. You have the eye of a great captain. You took your moment, by ——! That was the finest charge that ever a man rode.”
“Oh, sir, this praise is not mine,” Bayard said. "It was not I who led the onset but Silvain de St. Lo. I pray you do him honor, for he has won this battle.”
The marshal frowned, the marshal stared.
The king tossed his big head and cried out:
“Who leads this army then? It seems I do not know. I thought it was the king of France.”
“Silvain de St. Lo?” the marshal growled. “Are you mad? That is the knave who brought us into this Italian trap. Why man, he is false as ——. It was he who set the baggage train in flight, telling the fools to save themselves for all was lost. Body of God, if we are not betrayed, no fault of his for he has worked hard enough.”
“I do not know that, my lord. But this I know, he rode to me and bade me charge and charged himself before us all.”
“Why man, because he meant to betray you too. He thought the army was worn out and you would fail and break and give the Italians a chance to come down on us and make an end. Charge first? I warrant he did. He was in haste to get over to them before I caught him.” The marshal laughed. “The —— give them joy of him? I think they will not be quick to pay him for this day’s work. The knave had not told them how Frenchmen fight.”
Bayard hung his head.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry. He was a true knight once.”
Away behind him by the stream a man who sat beside a dead horse muttered “You too, brother?” and scrambled to his feet and trudged off up the hillside and after him another followed wearily.
“Where now, lord?” Thibaut groaned.
But Silvain was murmuring to himself—
“An offering of a free heart will I give thee and praise thy name O Lord,” and he laughed. “I have ridden under the lilies this day.”
“What is for us now?” Thibaut groaned. “The more we do the worse we fare. Naked we end as we began. And no man is our friend.”
“We go to win honor, brother,” Silvain said and strode on in the gathering dark.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1961, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 62 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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