CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
The Count of Perche rode his horse furiously scarcely bearing to glance left or right. Arrows were flying steadily from the battlements picking-off his men with sickening regularity. In God’s name how had the English archers gained access to the castle. This was like Hell on Earth.
De Perche swore violently as his steed reared up with front hooves pawing the ground. The beast had struck some sharp stone or object in the way and whinnied in obvious pain. Fine horseman that he was the Frenchman managed to gain control and succeeded gradually in calming his mount.
“Time to surrender my Lord don’t you think?”
The French nobleman glared ahead of him as he surveyed the aged Earl of Pembroke mounted and defiant barring his progress.
“I never surrender, why I would rather die than suffer such dishonour.”
“Then die valiantly my friend” responded the old warrior bringing his sword crashing down on de Perche’s quickly raised shield. Out of the corner of his eye the Frenchman saw further trouble. His men were now firmly hemmed in seemingly on all sides, with arrows also raining down incessantly from above. In his own mind he had to concede that he had made a mistake trying to fight a battle in these narrow, mazy streets. The Marshal’s strategy had quite overwhelmed him. Damn it those English allies of his had been right in much of what they had said and advised. At least he could fight with honour, that was the most important thing to consider now.
“You fight well for an old gentleman” acknowledged de Perche to the Marshal.
“And you show some courage for a young cockerel” laughed the Earl.
De
Perche aimed a calculated blow at the Marshal’s head. The Englishman was equal
to the problem posed him and moved with amazing alacrity in his saddle. The Earl
was ready to launch a counter-attack when four or five knights charged fiercely
at his young foe. Before the old warrior could halt the proceedings de Perche
had been sent spinning from his horse, or at least partly so for he grasped his
bridle firmly and managed to maintain some part control. A fierce thrust from
the Frenchman’s sword penetrated a gap in one adversary’s body armour sending
that
opponent gasping throatily in a death agony. Another blow across the helmet
knocked an unwary Englishman back over his saddle clawing wildly at a facial
wound that was gushing blood.
“Even out-numbered I am too good for you English mountebanks” sneered the Frenchman.
A horseman raised his weapon to strike at de Perche but was pushed back by another of his fellows advancing quickly to his side.
“Fie on you, gentlemen would you deny the gallant an equal fight. Withdraw and leave the count of Perche to my attentions.”
“So you feel capable of dealing with me alone, my fine English rascal” scolded the Count. “Who have I the honour of addressing? It would be good to know your name before I dispatch you.”
“I am Sir Guy de Buissant” answered the knight.
“So be it, my lad” grimaced de Perche. “Let us commence our labours then and may victory go the valiant.”
The two warriors were not unevenly matched. They traded blow for blow, each feint, each manoeuvre meeting a timely rejoinder. The contest seemed as if it would last until nightfall no man willing to give quarter. De Perche, however, was seldom noted for a completely cool head and in a fatal moment of rashness lunged over-vigorously at de Buissant. The fury of the Frenchman’s assault slightly over-balanced him. This was the moment that Guy had been waiting for, he saw a chink in de Perche’s armour and drove his weapon in hard and true. The Frenchman rose in his saddle lifted his sword arm high as if in a trance. For a moment he rocked slightly then went crashing to the ground.
Guy de Buissant leapt from his horse and quickly went over to his fallen opponent. He cradled de Perche’s head in his arms seeking to remove the Frenchman’s helmet. There was a faint murmur from the Count’s lips as he struggled to utter some words.
“Finished, finished ....” he managed to enunciate with some difficulty.
“A brave fearless fellow” sighed de Buissant. “A pity that he had to die this day.”
“Your own sword arm claimed that achievement, young man. Why do you now bemoan your victory?”
Guy rose and turned to look into the kindly, thoughtful face of the Earl of Pembroke himself.
“My Lord Marshal” he responded.
“Why that is a voice I believe I know, and yes your bearing is familiar.”
“I am Guy de Buissant, my Lord.”
“Ah the denounced de Buissant” grimaced the Marshal. “This might have been well-met but for events you contrived in earlier.”
“I have remained loyal to the King, my Lord.”
“Yes indeed” mused the Regent “The Lady Eleanor has informed us of your watching brief whilst serving in the ranks of our enemies. I would personally not doubt your zeal on our behalf, whether others would be as hospitable in their judgement of you is a matter of conjecture.”
“I am content to allow you to judge me ....”
“You
showed scant regard for that when you escaped from
Guy
threw his hands up in mock despair. He felt content to allow the Regent to
decide his fate. With this defeat at
“I suggest you make yourself inconspicuous” advised the Marshal “Fawkes de Bréauté may be here shortly. He is not exactly one of your greatest supporters, he spoke harshly against the Lady Eleanor as well, a good soldier but a fierce fellow when provoked.”
“I am at your Lordship’s command” replied Guy.
“In that case throw a cloak round you and mingle with the throng. Take this ring and guard it closely and come to me at the location which I will now write down on this slip of parchment. Exactly two days hence.”
“I thank-you my good Lord” bowed Guy at the same time moving quickly away and as bidden melting in the crowd.
The French now seemed a dispirited bunch and many of the English had not the heart to fight to their fullest capacity. Saire de Quincey, as he had indicated, had held his forces back. Robert Fitz-Walter had fought fiercely as was his wont but strangely without too much conviction, as if the result did not seemingly matter anyway. For him he had a somewhat hang-dog expression when brought before the Marshal and his entourage. The Regent gave a knowing smile to de Quincey when that worthy appeared, obviously glad that the whole distasteful affair was over.
“It
is a joyous day for
Saire de Quincey grimaced but thrust his hand on the arm of the old Regent.
“You know my feeling on this, a titled lady has doubtless spoken to you.”
“Of course, of course” smiled the Earl. “And you Fitz-Walter where do you stand now?”
“I must take the lesser of two evils and throw in my lot with you” muttered the dark-avised rebel.
“Tush, tush such ingratitude!” suggested the Earl.
“Honesty more like” retorted Fitz-Walter. “Better an admission of the situation than silky courtier’s responses. At least, God in Heaven, you know where you stand with me. If I say I am with you, however sour-faced I appear, then that is my word spoken with true intent.”
“I trust so, Fitz-Walter” replied the Regent. “There is further work ahead if we are to rid this Country of ours of the Dauphin and his men. I hope we can count on you in this enterprise now that you have embraced our standard.”
Go to Chapter 45 | Back
to Chapter 43 | Index
Front Page | Home
Page for individuals
| Business Services Index |
Site contents & internal links |
Email the Author