I recorded a Christmas episode earlier this year, but because of the vagaries of podcast production, it drifted to early December. Here’s a replacement, about the Abbey of Saint Nicholas at Tresco. Nicholas, in local lore, is a fearsome chap : he’s far more similar to the weapon smuggler who turns up in the Narnia novels than the jolly old elf that the Dutch took to America.
We also meet a persistent culture of pirates, who may make suitable Enemies for a covenant, and we learn what service was due for the lands about Ennor castle. The recording which was used in the episode was one of mine, through Librivox. It comes from “Scilly and Its Legends” by James Whitfeld
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IT was a goodly pile, that Abbey of St. Nicholas in Tresco, or, as it was then called, Iniscaw, embosomed, like a picture, in the setting of its brown hill, gleaming with heather blooms, and with golden furze. In every direction around it lay hamlets, and comfortable farm-houses, surrounded by cultivated lands, and meadows of deep green. Surely the good Fathers owned a fair heritage; and the state of their dependencies showed that, while enjoying a pleasant lot themselves, they dealt gently and kindly with those beneath their sway. So was it in those days. Not then, as now, was the pilgrim or the wayfarer compelled to seek a venal welcome at the wayside inn.
Not then, as now, was hospitality only to be bought. The first of the monastic virtues, and the one most worthily practised, was charity. Far and wide, through Christendom, were scattered those memorials of our Fathers’ piety, those solemn Abbeys and Priories, buried in the dim religious shade of trees coeval with the foundation of the buildings, over which they bent so gracefully. And wherever arose one of those grey piles, there was to be found a sacred hospitality,—a kindness dispensed alike to rich and poor,— a practical lesson of love for God and man. Under the shelter of those walls grew up a loving tenantry, and, still lower in the scale, a body of peasants, connected with their superiors by ties of affection, and of reverence, and of benefits, both given and received.
Go now to Scilly, and seek out the Abbey gates. Where are they? In a bright garden, full of the luxuriant beauty of tropical flowers and shrubs, you pass by two glorious aloes, and behold a grey wall, and a fine pointed arch. Is there anything more? Yes, there is yet one relic more. A few antique graves are scattered around; for this place, redolent of perfumes, was the burial ground of the Abbey. There is nothing here to remind you of death.
The ground is covered with a Mosaic of bright-eyed blossoms, and the air is heavy with fragrance. These grey stones, and ancient tombs, are all that is left of the great Abbey. If you would ask for the old Catholic hospitality on this spot, as of yore, it must be from the dead, whose mansions are lying about, and whose spirits may, peradventure, brood over the scene of a majesty decayed, and spoiled, and utterly laid waste. A hind, passing by, looks at you through the mossy arch; the wind moans round the fragments that remain, and the saddened stranger, gazing for a moment on the ruins of God’s house, remembers what it once has been, and, with a sigh, turns sorrowfully away.
Not such, however, was the appearance of the stately Abbey of St. Nicholas, in Tresco, about the middle of the fourteenth century, on one fine morning, in May. The peace and dignified tranquillity, that generally characterised it, were gone. All was hot haste, and confusion, and hurrying to and fro. The reverend brethren paced the lofty walls, or passed from chamber to court, and from court to chamber, or gazed through the great gates, now opened wide, with distress and terror painted upon their countenances. From time to time a string of cattle, or of sheep, or of beasts of burden, entered the sacred precincts, while their drivers, accompanied by troops of women and children, outvied each other in their dismal tales, to which the monks listened, with faces as pale as those of the speakers. Every now and then, amid the disarray and uproar, there arrived a band of armed men, headed by some one of higher rank, who held lands of the Abbey by bridle and spear, and came, with his vassals, to discharge his feudal devoirs, by protecting it, and doing battle in its cause.
As troop after troop filed in, the military garnishing of the place became very respectable; and a casual observer would have smiled at the idea of danger to a stronghold so well defended. But the peril that menaced it was apparently of no common kind. In spite of the formidable muster of men-at-arms, and spearmen, and archers, and cross-bow men, that crowded the Abbey courts, the terror that existed before their coming did not seem to cease, nor were its inmates reassured by their presence.
In the midst of the discordant shouting, and the absence of all order, and of all authority, the monks, and peasants, and troops, were mixed up together in a medley of inextricable confusion. No one was there of rank or of talent sufficient to entitle him to take the lead, as well as for others to acquiesce in his superiority. The only person to whom men would naturally have turned was the Abbot. But the good priest was well-nigh beside himself with dismay. He moved backwards and forwards, amid the crowd, as it ebbed and flowed, like a man paralyzed by some great shock. “Monseigneur St. Nicholas,” was his constant and dolorous cry, “pity us, and come to our aid. Save us, for we perish, and there is none to deliver us. Monseigneur St. Nicholas, pray for us!”
The prayers and ejaculations of the worthy Abbot were, naithless, of small avail, towards the restoration of the peace so rudely disturbed. As drove, and flock, and horseman, and footman, passed into the monastery, it became evident that, spacious as were its limits, they would soon prove insufficient to accommodate the new comers.
The retainers of the house, armed and equipped for service, stood in groups, or seated themselves to rest, here and there, while their leaders seemed to have abandoned the idea,—if such a one ever existed,—of establishing some discipline. After a few ineffectual efforts, they let things take their course, and looked listlessly on. Now an order was issued to send forth scouts, to ascertain what was passing on the side from which danger was dreaded, and then it was countermanded, until thin lines of bluish smoke dotted the landscape, in ominous proximity to the Abbey, and the command was repeated, but it was unheard, or, if heard, unheeded. From time to time the man, stationed on the top of the great tower, as a lookout, reported the progress of the enemy, and, at every fresh intimation of the spoiler’s approach, the Abbot’s agony in- creased, and his appeals to Monseigneur St. Nicholas became more incessant.
One or two of the chief tenants tried to arrest the disorder that prevailed, and to induce the Abbot to second them. There could be but one result, were this state of things to continue. They saw this, and made an effort to amend matters. “Holy Father,” they said, ” it is time to hang out from the tower the great banner of the house, and to man the walls.”
But to these appeals the priest turned a deaf ear. His reply was still the same. “God, and Monseigneur St. Nicholas, be our aid!” he cried, “what can I, or what can any man, do in such a strait? Lo’, I am a man of peace, what then know I of the battle or of blood? I will not trust in the arm of flesh, but in the weapons of the Spirit, and of prayer. Monseigneur St. Nicholas, aid us!”
And the good followers of the Abbey, thoroughly disheartened, shrugged their shoulders, and, great as might be the Abbot’s faith in the help of his Patron Saint, seemed themselves to share but little in his devout trust. They went back to their men, with a look on their weather- beaten brows that spake, as plainly as glance ever spake, of minds made up to meet the impending danger, but of hopelessness, and utter despair of success.
One of these men, who was past the prime of life, and had apparently seen some service, from the broad scar that traversed his sun-burnt forehead, was disposed to give vent to his discontent in words. He gazed sternly round upon the increasing crowds, whose din had become almost deafening, with no friendly or placable look. Then his eye wandered to the figure of the Abbot, who was standing still, in a lamentable state of bewilderment and indecision. “Aye,” muttered the stout veteran, half in soliloquy, and half addressing himself in to his companion, ” Heaven helps him who helps himself. My old captain, Sir John Chandos, whose one eye nothing ever escaped (on his soul be peace!), could do nought with such a scum as this. Would that I and my men were safely back, and housed within the walls of my manor at Samson. There might I at least strike a good stroke for mine own, or make some composition with these rovers. But the Abbot can neither fight, nor bid others do it for him. Marry, he will find his prayers but a sorry defence against lance-heads, and sword points, and blazing brands. I would give the value of ten arpents of my best land, sith the fight must be fought against such odds, if Bras-de-fer were but here.”
Most of this long monologue had fallen unheeded upon the tympanum of the Abbot’s ears, but they caught its conclusion. The effect was electric. The name pronounced seemed even as is a beacon to a storm-tost mariner,—as a straw to a drowning man. He was in a moment absorbed by the one idea that he had just received, as though it were an inspiration from on high. Turning to William le Poer, the speaker, he demanded, in an agitated voice, where Bras- de-fer was, and bade them summon him instantly.
The attempt indeed was made, but it was made in vain. To the cries that resounded on every side, coupled with his name, no answer was returned, save the significant one of silence. Bras-de-fer was nowhere to be found; and the Abbot’s distress grew again to a height that would have been amusing, had it not also been sincere and real.
A new cause for alarm was now superadded to those already existing. The warder on the tower announced the appearance of one of the scouts, who had been sent out to explore the neighbourhood. At the same moment with the announcement, in he rode, spurring his panting hob, or cob, whose bloody sides, and foaming mouth, gave tokens of his rider’s headlong speed. In he rode, breathless, and almost without tongue to tell his tale. The crowd, as he entered, made way for him silently, and then closed round him, and asked him for his tidings. They were soon told.
The fleet of pirates, whose threatened presence had frightened the Islands from their propriety, was the naval portion of those dreaded and detested routiers, who scorched their track upon the shores they visited with sword and flame. Like locusts, they had passed over the fair lands of France and Italy, and left a desert behind them. The fatal legacy of the English wars, they had lingered on, sometimes, by the temptation of pay and plunder, bribed into the service of one of the neighbouring sovereigns; sometimes put down by the united forces of the crown, and of the great Barons ; and, sometimes, for lack of prey to feed upon, dwindling into mere herds of robbers. Still, however, they continued to exist, and were ever ready, at times of civil discord, to start up into unnatural strength and stature. Such a’ portentous gathering was it that swept, like a hurricane, over the ancient Hesperides, the Fortunate Isles, now called Scilly, and threatened pillage and death against the fair Abbey of Tresco. This formed the substance of the hobbler’s tale.
The modern Vikingir, the routiers, had swooped upon the rich booty, from far and near. Their united bands, seizing upon all the shipping within their reach, came down upon the monastery, in which, in addition to wealth of its own, was deposited much belonging to others. Those, however, who put trust in its broad moat and frowning towers, might now feel some apprehension for the result. Fenced cities had stooped, and given way, before these terrible bands. Princes had condescended to treat with them, and to pay a species of black-mail for their protection or their forbearance. And now, like a multitude of ravening wolves, they made right for the treasures of the Sanctuary, even as the Assyrian yearned for the wealth of Zion.
They disdained to summon a place, the wealth of which gave a spur to their covetousness, and which for its weakness they despised. They made, therefore, no overtures to the monks. Their terms were simply surrender and submission. Between that, and resistance to the uttermost, there was no medium. The choice was given to the community, and a dreadful choice it was.
Like the memorable message and reply at Saragossa, the leader of the robbers might have demanded an instant capitulation; and who was there, amid that panic-stricken mob, to reply to his insolent summons, in the words of Palafox to the Frenchman, ” Guerra al cuchillo”—War to the knife? When it was known that the great host of routiers had disembarked, and were coming in force against the Abbey, their advanced parties being seen already on the side of Bryher hill, the very magnitude of the danger produced a sort of calm.
Men were stunned into order, and began to feel the necessity of subordination. By a sort of tacit and spontaneous movement, some of those better equipped and disciplined fell in together, and proceeded to man the wall. Some mangonels, and military machines, were carried thither, and prepared for use. The old captain, William le Poer, took advantage of this mute submission to post the troops to the best advantage, and to place the non-combatants in a situation where they would, at least, be out of the way. After doing all in his power, he had descended to consult the Abbot on some doubtful point, and had just found the reverend Father in the great court, when both soldier and priest were startled by a shout, that made the welkin ring, and was re-echoed by the grey pile around them.
The stout veteran cut short his speech, and listened for a repetition of the cries. When it came, he then knew the reason for that burst of enthusiasm. None can feel the value of an able leader, when the question is one .of life and death, so well as a soldier. And therefore it was with no common joy or exultation that he gathered the meaning of that warlike welcome. It was the greeting of his followers to a well proved chief. William le Poer’s heart leapt within him, as the air shook with one unanimous acclaim,—” Bras-de-fer, Bras-de-fer, St. Nicholas for Bras-de-fer!”
“Marry,” said the worthy Abbot, “Sir Bras-de-fer is somewhat slow in making his appearance, but right glad am I that he is come at last. Peradventure he has gathered his vassals, and the knaves loitered, and delayed the good knight. I trust that his band is neither scanty nor ill- equipped, for he holdeth broad lands of the Church, and, as a certain Father hath it —” here he broke off, and stood with silent amazement, gazing on the scene that presented itself. First, his hands bound behind his back with a cord, his head drooped in a hang-dog fashion upon his breast, and his whole figure bearing unmistakeable signs of dogged, . insolent, ruffianly fear, came a man, clad in half-armour, but possessing no offensive weapons. His steel cap, or salade, as -well as his breast and back plate, were stained with rust and dirt, and his swarthy face, and untrimmed beard, and garments of buff, were in perfect keeping with the rest of his equipments. He looked what he really was, a common routier, or condottiero, of the day. Behind him, and quickening his pace occasionally by a sharp prick of his lance, rode one of a far different stamp.
As if in’ con- trast to the mere mercenary, the base trafficker in war, appeared one of those martial and chivalrous warriors, whom Froissart painted and loved so spiritedly, followed, as his whole train, by two well appointed esquires. Of great stature, far exceeding the usual height of men, and of enormous strength, he yet sate bis powerful Norman destrier, with the ease and grace of a page mounting his first war- horse. He was clad in complete armour, and over his bright bassinet, and shadowing his open and honest features, floated a long white plume. His whole bearing was a model of noble and manly vigour, and the very smile upon his firm resolute mouth, was an augury of victory.
The fathers of the men of those days, who had fought in the wars of the giants, when England and France had met so often in stricken fields, face to face, looked frequently upon such champions, and spoke of Edward Plantagenet in his black mail, and Chandos, and Audley, and Felton; and, on the opposite side, the brothers du Guesclin, and the Marshals de Lignac and de Passac, and Comminges, and Perigord, who, though simple Counts only, dared to send their gloves in defiance to the Prince of Wales. In the days of which I am writing, however, the heroic mould was well nigh worn out. In the words of Ariosto,— “Natura la fece, et poi ruppe la stampa.” •The eleventh Louis loved chivalry but little, and if he was served by such men as Dunois, it was almost against his will. Even in the wars then terminated, few had seen a more perfect or a more gallant cavalier than he, who, with his visor up, and with his brave spirit stamped upon his face, rode into the Abbey court, amid waving of caps, and gratulatoiy shouts, and a wild welcome, uttered in chorus by a hundred tongues.
Bras-de-fer spake not a word in reply, but threw a bright glance over the crowd, and then went straight up to the Abbot. The holy man was paralyzed. He gazed in utter astonishment upon the good knight, then upon his prisoner, and lastly upon his esquires. When, however, he was convinced of the reality of what he saw; when, by the existence of his senses, he became certain that the four, now grouped in his presence, composed the whole attendance of his redouhted vassal, astonishment gave place to anger,—anger too great to find expression in words. All that he could say was, ” Monseigneur St. Nicholas, aid us!” in a manner so ludicrously plaintive, as to bring a smile on the lips of Bras-de-fer.
“Aye” said he “my Lord Abbot, I trust he will help us, for we lack his aid, and, if legends tell truth, he was a rude adversary in his day. Do ye know with whom ye have to deal?” As no one answered the question, he continued. “If all the fiends of hell were let loose, saving your presence, my reverend friend, they could have no more fitting leader than the master-spirit of that murthering and pillaging horde. As I rode in, I chanced to light on this villainous routier, overthrew him horse and man, and got from him all the news he could furnish. I am ill at telling a story, so the sum of the whole is this. All the sea-kings, as they are pleased to call themselves, are collected in one band, to fall upon us, and at their head is that devil incarnate, Jean l’Ecorcheur, who flays his captives alive.”
There was nothing simulated, now, in the dead silence that fell upon the crowd. The champing of the charger’s bit sounded loud and harsh in the interval of that awful pause. It seemed a sentence of death, so stern was the intelligence, and so crushing in its effects. It were as though one of those avenging seers of old had descended suddenly with a message from on high, and had proclaimed “thus saith the Lord, set thine house in order, for thou shalt die, and not live.”
Bras-de-fer alone appeared utterly unconscious of the heavy nature of the tidings he had brought. Springing lightly from his selle, he gave his steed to one of his esquires, and broke the spell, by crying, in a loud hearty tone,—” To the ramparts, my merry men, to the ramparts, an ye would not have this bloodsucker make a meal of us!” And he was turning away, for the purpose of ascending the flight of steps leading to the walls, when he was arrested by the Abbot, who now, for the first time since the knight’s coming, found power to speak.
“Tarry awhile, Sir Bras-de-fer,” said he, ” for I would fain question you. If it be sooth that the fiend l’Ecorcheur (whom may God and St. Nicholas confound!”—here the Abbot piously crossed himself) “be bound hitherward, and seeks to lay his sacrilegious hands upon the patrimony of the blessed Church, wherefore does it chance that her first vassal, Sir Dreux de Barentin, rides to her defence with such a scanty train? Is it possible that he comes alone, and not, as of old, with banner displayed, and a goodly power of bowmen, and spearmen, and with all the strength of carnal war?”
“It is even so, my reverend friend,” replied Sir Dreux, or rather, as he was commonly called, Bras-de-fer, in- differently, while his skilful eye took in at a glance all that was passing with the troops posted above, “it is even so. All my gathering consists but of myself, with Richard and Anthony yonder, unless ye would count Bayard in the roll.”
“False man, and false knight!” shouted the churchman, who began to lose both patience and his senses, at once, under this new shock, ” I rede ye to know that St. Nicholas can resume his grants; aye, and he shall do it. Did we not give thee lands, wide and fair, to hold of the Abbey by bridle and spear, and art thou not, as leal servant of the Church, vowed to bring to her aid, whenever, and by whomsoever, attacked, ten men-at-arms, each of them fully equipped, and followed by two bowmen and a jackman? Where be they, thou faithless vavasour? God and St. Nicholas help us in our extremity, for, of a verity, we perish, and there is none to succour us!”
During the first part of this speech, Bras-de-fer had been leisurely scanning the military preparations, going on under the ordering of William le Poer, and had evidently paid but slight attention to the angry priest. But the tone of anguish that marked the closing sentence touched him. Kindly lay- ing his hand on the Abbot’s arm, he said to him, in a voice of singular gentleness and feeling, ” Pause, my good old friend, ere you condemn me. I must be brief, for I am sadly wanted yonder, but the matter stands thus. Last night, when I received tidings of this pestilent invasion, I sent out, as was my duty, to summon to my standard all,—and more than all,—who were bound to bear arms in your defence. By sunrise, this morning, the whole were reported, by my muster-master, to be in waiting, and ready to set out. But, as untoward fortune would have it, the Lady Claude, my wife, was taken with labour throes. I could not move her hither, nor could I leave her unguarded at home. I did what necessity compelled me to do. To defend my castle of Ennour, and her, I left my contingent, and surely it is a feeble garrison enough, but hither I came myself, as bound in honour, and in my devoir, to fight, and, if need be, to die in your cause. So courage, my dear Lord, we shall beat off these routiers, stout knaves though they be, and with the more credit, seeing the feebleness of our means of defence.”
The Abbot groaned in spirit, most dismally. “Ever have I found,” he sighed, ” that a woman is at the bottom of all evil or mischance. For what saith a certain Father,’ Ubi fcemina, ibi diabolus.’ And as for the glory of which you speak, my fair son, would that in its place we had the two score soldiers, who are now waiting the pleasure of the Lady Claude.”
“Sith it may not be mended, my Father,” answered Bras-de-fer, as he prepared to depart, ” we must endure it as well as we can, which is a piece of philosophy taught me by old Froissart. Yet cheer up and fear not. I am no braggart, God knows, still bethink thee that perchance my arm and my leading may well balance, aye, and outweigh, the services of a few hirelings. There are in Scilly scores of such to be had for the buying, but there is only one Bras- de-fer.” So saying he ascended the steps, leading to the outer rampart, and left the Abbot standing alone.
The latter felt the justice of his remark. Bras-de-fer, as a leader, had a reputation of the highest order. His military skill and judgment were unrivalled. Yet to lose the best contingent of the house was mortifying enough. “Surely” quoth the priest, “Sir Bras-de-fer hath reason on his side. The best lance in merry England is worth a score of common men. I would, however, that his fair wife had chosen her time better. She is a woman, and it is ill dealing with that troublesome sex. As old Sir John hath it, we must remedy it as best we may.” And the Abbot walked slowly after Bras-de-fer, sorely vexed in spirit. But the presence of his warlike vassal had inspired him with something like confidence. He sought the ramparts, to look around on what was passing, not indeed in a cheerful mood, but less downcast than before. So true it is that the courage and high qualities of one man will often fill a host of waverers with hope and alacrity, and infuse into their bosoms the energy that is all his own.
No sooner had Bras-de-fer taken the command, than he proved how correct was his estimate of his own value. All the vassals capable of bearing arms were mustered, and passed in review, and were then told off in divisions, each of which was placed under the leadership of some veteran soldier. The archers and cross-bow men were posted on the walls, which were both crenelated and machicolated, and preparations were made for pouring melted pitch, and boiling water, on the heads of the assailants, in case they should, attempt a storm. The pontlevis was raised, and between it and the great gate, a wicket of which only was allowed to be open, there was constructed a semicircular embankment or breast-work, one end of which terminated at the wall, and the other joined the hill side. It was the height of a man’s shoulders, and was defended by ten picked cross-bow men. It could only be approached in front, as the ground on the right was precipitous, and on the left the slope was swept and commanded by the great tower.
The best and most disciplined of the whole array were drawn up in reserve, in the Abbey court. Having thus put everything in train, Bras-de-fer ordered a manchet of bread and beef, with a good black-jack of humming ale, to be served out to every man under arms; and then, cautioning all to be on their guard, and to quit themselves like men, and faithful children of the Church, he sought the Abbot, who was gazing fearfully abroad.
The scene that met their eyes was one of stirring interest, to a mere spectator, though, to those then looking upon it, it possessed a sterner and more terrible character. At the end of the wide slope before them, as it rose from the valley, under Bryher hill, was seen advancing, with some pretence to discipline, a vast body of men. They were marshalled in several divisions, each headed by its own leader. They consisted, as might have been expected, principally of foot, a few only being mounted on the small active horses called hobs, from which their riders in the military language of the time were called hobbilers or hobblers, and whence we also derive our name of cob. They were preceded by numbers of bowmen, who acted as scouts, and explored the ground.
Generally speaking, their equipments were heterogeneous, and dimmed by use; but the experienced eye of Bras-de-fer remarked that the spear heads were bright and clean, from which he augured that, however rusty their defensive armour might be, their weapons of offence would be found service- able enough. In the rear of the several columns was beheld a mixed multitude, together with some captives, and a few carts charged already with plunder. At the head of the whole, clad in complete steel, rode the redoubtable l’Ecorcheur.
He was followed by a man-at-arms, who filled the office of an esquire, and bore his lance. His arms were handsome, and his whole bearing that of one who affected some degree of state, either from vanity, or as a means of overawing others by that pomp and show, which always has its effect upon the multitude. As soon as he had arrived within two bowshots of the Abbey, he halted his men, and drew them up in regular order, as well as the inequalities of the ground would allow. He then rode forward alone, taking care to keep out of the reach of an enemy’s arrow.
After making a careful survey of the place, he paused exactly opposite to that part of the walls, on which were the Abbot and Bras-de-fer. The latter, who had been watching his adversary’s movements with great interest, came to the edge of the parapet, and stood there, erect and still, so that the whole of his gigantic proportions were visible to the besiegers. The two celebrated champions remained, for a time, face to face, neither of them speaking a word, and the eyes of all men being; directed on them alone. Those, who were near to 1’Ecorcheur, might behold a shade of disappointment and vexation cross his brow, but in no other way did be betray his annoyance, at finding himself thus confronted by one of the boldest warriors of the day. Bras-de-fer, on his part, looked with curiosity on the chief, whose name had become invested with so much unenviable notoriety. The silence that followed this reciprocal survey was first broken by the Reiter, who, advancing a few paces nearer to the Abbey, summoned it, loudly and peremptorily, to surrender.
“And what if we like it not, Sir 1’Ecorcheur? ” inquired Bras-de-fer.
“Death to every living soul within the walls,” was the reply; “death to all alike, but, as you are the leader, a higher bough for your hanging.”
“Gramercy for your courtesy, Sir Routier,” said Bras- de-fer, “the walls of St. Nicholas are high, and his servants stout of heart, so we will strike a stroke in defence of holy Church, the more readily, too, since we like not to trust to your word, should we yield ourselves to your mercy, and crave grace. May it please you then, Sir Flayer, to retire out of arrow-flight, for if you remain longer where you are, we will try the temper of your corslet. Shoot, men, shoot! Arrows to the head! Shoot, trebuchet! St. Nicholas to the rescue, and set on!”
It was well at the moment, for 1’Ecorcheur, that he took Bras-de-fer’s advice. He escaped unharmed himself, but two arrows struck his charger, which bounded furiously, and nearly dismounted its rider. He became livid with passion, and gave orders instantly to commence the attack; while the manner, in which his commands were carried into effect, showed the defenders of the Abbey that they were dealing with no common foe.
A number of men first advanced, bearing before them those large pavoises, or pavises, which were used in opening approaches against a fortified place. These were shields, of about the soldier’s height, and broad enough to cover him completely. Being of stout wickerwork, bound over with leather, they were sufficiently light to be manageable. Be- hind this shelter, which was borne by one man, followed an archer or cross-bow man, keeping himself protected from the hostile shot, and looking warily out for an opportunity of sending an arrow, or a bolt, at those who manned the walls.
Several large vans, or moveable towers, which could be taken to pieces, or joined together, at pleasure, succeeded these; and, as soon as they were well posted, mangonels, and machines for throwing large stones, were brought for- ward. A sharp fire was maintained, without intermission, for nearly half-an-hour, at the end of which time there was a pause, as if by mutual consent.
Both parties, as it were, drew off, to ascertain their respective damages, and to prepare for a fresh onset and defence. The result of the inquiry was in favour of the Abbey. Not a man on the walls had been hurt. Two’or three of the non-combatants, huddled together in the precincts and courts, had been slightly touched by spent shafts, but no serious casualty had occurred.
On the side of the besiegers the list of wounded was far heavier. Nearly a dozen had been killed or severely injured by the Abbey men, who shot coolly from under cover. The bodies of the slain, and those pierced by arrows, as they were carried, or as they staggered, to the rear, were, in the eyes of both parties, an omen of success or failure. The defenders were animated with hope and courage, and the attacking forces were equally dispirited and depressed.
Jean l’Ecorcheur himself, who was utterly unaccustomed to reverses, actually foamed with rage. He was beside himself. He shook his clenched fist at the Abbey, and addressed its guardians with the foulest blasphemies. At the same time he directed his men to begin the assault anew. Long ladders were prepared, and brought to the front, while a fresh band of archers came forward, and watched every portion of the walls.
While this was passing without, Bras-de-fer was not idle within. His eye, and his over- looking care, were everywhere. Amid a hail of arrows, he seemed to bear a charmed life. Armed cap-a-pied, a bright and lofty mark, he moved from post to post, advising some, cautioning others, and speaking to all in that clear bold tone of confidence, which a soldier loves. At last, he came to the spot, where, sheltered by a corner tower, the Abbot stood to watch the progress of the fray.
“What think you, Sir Bras-de-fer?” said he, as the knight rejoined him, “how speeds the day with those sons of Belial?”
“An’ they succeed no better than hitherto” answered the knight, ” their’s is but labour thrown away. Not a step has been gained yet; but they have lost some of their best men. Courage, my reverend friend, the Abbey of St. Nicholas will be a virgin fortress still. But what is this?” he added, pointing to a figure on the ramparts, at no great distance from them.
On a nearer approach, it was seen to be the Abbot’s favourite dwarf, dragging after him, with difficulty, a weapon of antique form, and of enormous size and weight. The sight seemed to rouse the Abbot’s indignation and surprise to the highest pitch.
“Anathema maranatha!” he cried, ” the profane imp of evil has laid his sacrilegious hands upon the feudal arbalete of the blessed Monseigneur St. Nicholas, which he wrested from the Cornish giant, who robbed Lombard merchants, coming hither to traffic, and pious pilgrims, as they crossed the Abbey lands; yea, and slew the heathen with his own bow. Thou misshapen knave, knowest thou not the sanctity of that consecrated weapon? Answer me, thou misbegotten and mischievous varlet!”
“And knowest thou not, holy Lord Abbot,” replied the dwarf, “that a bolt from it hath pierced a coat of Spanish mail, at five hundred good paces?” With these words, much to the amusement of Bras-de-fer, and to the wrath of the Abbot, he proceeded to drag his load to the parapet, on which, with much trouble, he rested it. He then attempted to string it, but in vain. The bow and cord, alike of steel, resisted his efforts, and he chafed with rage, at seeing himself thus foiled. Bras-de-fer walked to his side, and watched him, as well as the weapon, with a curious eye.
While this scene was passing within, the attack without was recommenced, more hotly than ever. Jean l’Ecorcheur stormed with fury, like a fiend. He rode in among the pavoises, cursing and shouting to his men, who exerted themselves desperately, in hopes of gaining distinction under the eye of a leader, who never rewarded with a niggard hand. Their shot flew thick and fast, and wounded some of the besieged. At last he espied the Abbot in his place of safety. The sight of the good Priest seemed almost to drive him mad. He overwhelmed the Abbey, and all connected with it, with the vilest abuse. Raising himself in his stirrups, and shaking his mailed hand at the walls, he bade their defenders yield instantly, and be at his mercy.
“Thou dog of an Abbot!” he cried, “for the slaughter of my men, I will take with thee a reckoning, that shall deter others from following thy example. By all the fiends in. hell, I will roast together, in a slow fire, thee, and the image of thy mock Saint, Nicholas, whom may Beelzebub “— the rest of the sentence was never spoken, for word passed not those brutal lips again.
Bras-de-fer, as was related above, stood by the dwarf, and watched his abortive efforts to bend the mighty bow of St. Nicholas. Suddenly, an idea seemed to strike him. Pushing the little man gently aside, he seized the string, and drew it to the spring, as lightly, as though it were a silken cord. Then he adjusted a bolt to the groove, and took a deliberate aim. And at the very moment when 1’Ecorcheur was pouring forth his blasphemies against St. Nicholas, the bow of St. Nicholas avenged him. The bolt, entering his mouth, passed into his brain; and the routier, springing convulsively up into the air, fell upon the plain, a lifeless corse.
“As it crashed through the brain of the infidel,
round he spun, and down he fell.
Ere his very thought could pray,
Unanealed he passed away,
Without a hope from mercy’s aid,
To the last, a renegade.”
“Well shot, quarrell,” cried the exulting dwarf, but Bras- de-fer preserved a stern and thoughtful silence. He waved with his hand a signal for his men to cease their discharge, and then stood watching the effect of his blow. That effect was, indeed, decisive.
L’Ecorcheur, like Bras-de-fer, was a leader, who had no second to supply his place. At first there was a confused rush to the spot where his body lay, but when he was discovered to be past all aid, a panic fell on the great host, that had so lately obeyed him as one man, and it began to melt away, like the mists on a mountain-side.
All the military train, with the plunder, was left standing. Before twilight came down, not a routier was in the island of Tresco. Their white sails gleamed upon the waves. The deliverance of the Abbey was complete. Bras-de-fer, with the Priest, watched their rapid and disorderly retreat, along the margin of the broad lake, which then, as now, occupied the valley. “
Thine was a happy shot, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot, “surely it was a blessed deed. St. Nicholas nerved thy arm, to smite that spoiler, hip and thigh. Thou hast slain the accursed Philistine, even while he railed against the servant of God.”
“Sir Monk,” replied Bras-de-fer, with unusual gravity, “I do not gainsay you, neither do I deny that the fall of Jean l’Ecorcheur, by my hand, has preserved your Abbey. I cannot expect you to feel as a soldier feels. But this I will say. He, whom men call the Flayer, routier as he was, still was a valiant soldier. Truly, I slew him, and I did it in a good cause. Yet he and I have ridden together under the same banner, and fought in many a bloody field. It would have pleased me better had we met, on yonder open plain, horse to horse, and man to man, in fair and knightly strife. As it is I smote him, after the fashion of the simple dwarf, from under cover; as I have heard, in your holy- book, that Abimelech, a stout Jewish captain, was stricken by the hand of a woman. Me seemeth it was not thus that Bras-de-fer should have conquered in your cause.”
“Tush, my son,” said the Abbot, impatiently, “these be silly questions of what is called honour. What matters it, so long as the mad wolf be killed, by what hand, or by what weapon, he falls?”
“True, Father,” replied Bras-de-fer, “I believe you are in the right. After all, our little friend here deserves more credit than I. God inspired him with the idea, which I put in practice. He conceived, and I only executed. Thus God rebukes our pride, for He made Bras-de-fer second to this feeble child. It is God alone who is our Deliverer. To Him, and to His Name, be praise!”
Games From Folktales 