CHAPTER XXITHE REJECTED GUERDON
MORNING came, and with it the trumpets again sounded for the troops to assemble. Was it that a renewal of the fight was expected? Nay, for the French were in headlong flight, their King being already well on the way to La Broye. But Edward, sensible of the advantage gained, had determined to advance on Calais.
Silently the weary soldiers fell into their ranks. The archers, their white surcoats soiled with mud and stained with blood, the men-at-arms, with battered armour, and, in many cases, roughly-bandaged wounds, stood grimly in their martial array, conscious of the many comrades who had stood thus but a day before and had gone to their last account.
Suddenly a fanfare of trumpets announced the approach of the King. With his eyes shining with pardonable pride, the monarch rode slowly down the war-worn lines, stopping at intervals to bestow honours and praise as cases of individual merit were pointed out to him. At his right hand rode the Prince of Wales, and attending him were Sir John Chandos, the Earls of Warwick, Arundel, Oxford, and Southampton.
When in front of the Hampshire companies the King again drew rein, and surveyed the stern, determined faces of the men on whom the brunt of the attack had fallen. Sir John Hacket, attended by his three squires, stood in front of his command, the banners, according to custom, being lowered to the ground in the presence of the Sovereign.
"By Our Lady! 'Tis our trusted Constable of Portchester!" exclaimed Edward. "And by report thou didst hold thyself right gallantly on yesterday's field. Ah, Sir John, we have something in store to make amends for our former forgetfulness. Advance thy banner!"
The Constable, taking his banner from the hands of the guidon-bearer, stepped forward, and, with bended knee, presented the blue silk emblazoned with the golden crescent to the King, who, drawing a dagger from his belt, deftly cut off the pointed end of the pennon. Handing the severed portion to a knight in attendance, the King returned the banner to Sir John.
The action, simple as it seemed, roused the company to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, for their adored leader had achieved the great distinction of being created a knight-banneret, the greatest honour to be paid by the sovereign, only on the field of battle.
Ere the cheering had died away, the Prince of Wales had plucked his father's sleeve, and whispered in his ear.
"Of a truth, 'tis the squire who brought the Count of Tancarville to our camp! And he is the man that came betwixt thee and thine enemies in the thickest of the fray! 'Tis our pleasure to bestow honours freely to-day, though, methinks, they be well deserved, and no man will chide us for being too freehanded. Thy squire's name, Sir John?"
"He is named Raymond Buckland, sire."
"Come hither, squire," commanded the King, alighting from his palfrey and taking a sword from the hand of the Earl of Warwick.
The supreme moment of Raymond's life was at hand, but the squire, instead of kneeling to receive the honour of knighthood, advanced a few paces and stood irresolutely before his sovereign.
"On thy knees, squire!" commanded Edward.
"Nay, sire, I cannot," replied the unhappy Raymond. Low murmurs of astonishment arose from the King's attendants, while Sir John Hacket, placing his hand heavily on his squire's shoulder, hissed into his ear, "Kneel, thou fool! Art bereft of thy senses?"
A dark cloud gathered on the King's face. Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he spoke again.
"Here, sirrah, tell us the reason of this strange refusal. Nay, have no fear," he added, in a more kindly tone, observing the squire's dejection, "for we perceive there is something amiss that will account for thy demeanour."
Encouraged by the King's words, and rendered bold by the desperate position in which circumstances had placed him, Raymond replied, in a low yet distinct voice, "Sire, I am the son of an outlaw, and therefore unworthy of the honour thou would'st bestow."
"Ah!" exclaimed the King. "This requires further consideration. Sir John, knowest aught of this?"
"Nay, sire," replied the amazed Constable.
Once again the young Prince of Wales whispered in his father's ear. The King nodded in response, and again addressed the squire.
"It is our desire to hear more of this matter. See to it that thou comest before us in our pavilion at noon, Sir John. I hold thee responsible for thy squire's appearance. And, Sir William," he added, turning to his scrivener, "I pray thee see to it that the worthy Constable of Portchester and his squire be instantly admitted to our presence at that hour."
Remounting his steed, the King, accompanied by his retinue, continued his tour of inspection, and, on this being completed, he returned to his pavilion. The ranks broke, and the men were told to enjoy a well-earned rest ere the march to Calais was begun on the morrow, while the camp-followers were put to the melancholy task of burying the dead who had fallen in the fight.
On hearing the story from Raymond's own lips, the kind-hearted Sir John Hacket's expressions of surprise and pity were unbounded. For not for one moment had he suspected that the sturdy master-bowman, though an outlaw, was at one time a gentleman of quality.
"Take it not too much to heart, Raymond," he said. "Many a man hath been in a worse scrape. I am of a mind to bring Sir Maurice Revyngton with us when we repair to the King's presence, and 'twould be well if I saw the knight at once."
So saying, the Constable hastened away, leaving his squire still torn with conflicting emotions of hope and fear—hope that his own stainless character and deeds of bravery would wipe out the undeserved blot that threatened to mar his prospects, and fear that the formidable barrier of social custom and royal etiquette would for ever debar him from the road to success.
In less than an hour Sir John returned, a broad smile of satisfaction overspreading his grim features. "Thy uncle will bear us company, ay, and another knight, if I mistake not, will interest himself on thy behalf. Now, bear thyself cheerfully, for I perceive that things will turn out aright. Waste no more time in gloomy meditations, but make thyself fit to appear in the King's presence, for the hour of audience is at hand."
"And the style of mine attire?"
"In full harness, Raymond, for the King will doubtless think fit to reward thee for bravery on the field, and on that score I have no doubt. 'Tis meet that thou shouldst appear in the garb of a soldier rather than in the dress of a common suppliant. And, moreover, our King delights in the wearing of harness, and looks with favour on those who doff their armour but rarely when they come to the wars. So again I tell thee, hasten!"
The squire repaired to his own tent and put on his complete suit of armour—the same that his father had given him years ago on the eve of the sack of Hamble—and well the dented and tarnished steel befitted his tall and erect figure. Then girding on his scabbard, wherein was thrust the remaining part of the broken blade, and grasping the fragment of the shield that had diverted the murderous sweep of the Frenchman's two-handed sword, Raymond repaired to his master's tent.
The Constable surveyed him with appreciation. "Eh, lad, thou dost well to bear the silent testimony of thy courage on thine arm. In any case but the present, when thy future is at stake, 'twould have been a braggart's ruse. But the King doth know full well that thou art no boaster, seeing that it was in thy power to accept honour at his hands, and thou didst shrink from it. But come, the hour of noon is near. Let us make for the royal pavilion."
Between the long lines of tents, where crowds of soldiers gathered, in silent wonder, to see the man who had so strangely withstood his sovereign, the knight and the squire walked side by side, and with a fresh wave of doubt and fear sweeping over him, Raymond found himself in the anteroom of the royal tent.