CHAPTER XXI   HOW GEOFFREY FARED AT THE SIEGE OF HARFLEUR

It was an unwonted sight that met the eyes of the burghers of Harfleur on the morning of the 14th day of August, 1415. From the Rade de Caen to the Rade de Havre the estuary of the Seine was dotted with sails—not those of peaceful merchantmen, but of the ships of the English invaders.

King Harry led the van in a carrack with purple sails, on which were embroidered the arms of England and France. The sun glinted on the armour and shields of the knights of his household, while to add to the almost barbaric splendour of the royal ship musicians blew trumpets and clarions, with all the energy left at their command after a stormy passage across the Channel.

In the wake of the King's carrack, and stretching in irregular lines far to the east and west, lumbered the rest of the fleet of fifteen hundred vessels, till the wide estuary seemed choked with floating fortresses.

On the towering forecastle of the Rose of Hampshire, Sir Thomas Carberry's own cog, a knot of squires and men-at-arms were eagerly scanning the walls and towers of the still distant town of Harfleur.

"I' faith, 'tis a vast difference since the time when we crawled in thither in the old Grâce à Dieu," observed Gripwell.

"Ay," assented Geoffrey. "But what thinkest thou—will the citizens of Harfleur offer resistance?"

"Not to our landing, young sir. Were they ten times as strong they could not hold the vast stretch of shore. But methinks all this host will not frighten them into letting go of their riches without a tough struggle. Mark ye the Jumelles—those twin towers guarding the harbour? Unless mine eyes deceive me, I perceive the glint of steel behind the battlements."

"I heard it mentioned that five of our largest galleys were to make a dash into the harbour," remarked Oswald.

"Foolish talk," ejaculated the old man-at-arms contemptuously. "When we were last within this part didst thou not mark two great chains trailing from embrasures in either tower? Ere now, I'll warrant, those chains have been drawn up, so that no vessel can pass in or out. Certes! Swept by stones, bolts, and arrows, to say nought of those new-fashioned bombards, no craft will remain afloat for five minutes. Nay, Master Oswald, therein thou hast been misinformed, for a leader like King Harry, for all that he be young and daring, would not hazard a main on such a vain enterprise."

As Gripwell had foretold, the English host landed without opposition, at a spot barely a league from the town of Harfleur. Altogether the arduous task of disembarking the stores and munitions of war occupied another three days, at the end of which time Henry commenced a strict blockade of the doomed town.

Nor did he merely sit down before Harfleur. A double line of trenches and batteries at the most salient points were constructed; bombards, firing a thirty-pound stone shot, were secured to their cumbersome carriages, and a heavy fire was directed against the walls.

While this was in progress a mine was commenced close to the northern gate of the town. Working day and night, the sappers plied mattock and spade so diligently that on the third day of the siege the tunnel had all but reached the base of one of the flanking towers of the gate.

To protect these underground toilers a strong force of men-at-arms was stationed in the subterranean gallery under the orders of the Constable of Portchester, who directed his two squires Richard Ratclyffe and Geoffrey, to take alternate duty in the mine.

"And mark ye well," he exclaimed. "Ever and anon ye must bid the diggers cease. Then listen attentively. If ye hear the sound of the Frenchmen's spades speed and bring me word, or our labour is undone. They of the city are not a mere rabble of townsfolk to be despised, for both the Lord of Gaucourt and Sir Jean d'Estrelle are past masters in the art of war. If they have not already commenced a countermine, may I never again break bread."

Just before midnight Geoffrey descended the shaft leading to the tunnel. The sullen glare of the torches threw a weird light upon the naked backs of the diggers, the tarnished armour of the men-at-arms, and the timber props of the long, narrow gallery that reeked vilely of an unwholesome smoke-laden atmosphere.

"Hast heard aught?" asked he of Ratclyffe, who had hastened to meet him with evident relief.

"I did but bid the men cease a short while ago," replied the elder squire. "All is quiet as the grave."

Left to himself, Geoffrey slowly paced the tunnel betwixt the bottom of the shaft and the part occupied by the guard of men-at-arms. The heat soon became so oppressive that he removed his bascinet, placing it on a convenient baulk of timber, then wrapping a scarf round his head he continued his measured pace to and fro till he had completed twelve lengths of the tunnel.

Then bidding the toilers desist, he placed his ear to the damp ground and listened intently.

"Methinks Sir John will have to forswear his bread," he exclaimed to himself, as the diggers resumed their operations.

Thrice did the squire call a halt, but on each occasion there were no signs or sounds of the counter-miners' work.

At length one of the sappers called out that he had struck stone. Making his way to the head of the tunnel, Geoffrey saw by the aid of a torch that the man had spoken truly. The lowermost layer of masonry of the tower lay exposed three feet from the floor of the tunnel.

All that now remained to be done was to undermine the base and place explosives in position.

"Go and carry word to Sir John," ordered Geoffrey, addressing a man-at-arms. "Perchance he may wish to examine the stone-work ere the powder is brought hither."

The soldier hastened on his errand, while the men continued to attack the hard soil with their spades. They had succeeded in their efforts to strike the base of the tower, and one and all were delighted with their success.

Just as Geoffrey was on the point of bidding the toilers desist the floor of the tunnel suddenly collapsed, leaving a gaping hole, through which a swarm of armed men poured with shouts of triumph.

Ere the English men-at-arms could draw their swords the foemen were upon them, striking down the unarmed sappers right and left. In the confusion most of the torches were extinguished, and in the almost total darkness friend gripped friend by the throat, the cries of the wounded adding to the uproar.

With cries of "A Gaucourt!" "St Denis à mon aide!" the French knights pressed home the attack, while the English men-at-arms, with cries of "St. George for England!" strove to hold their own against the overwhelming numbers. More torches were brought to illuminate the ghastly scene, and by their light men fought and died like wild beasts.

Unmindful of his unprotected head, Geoffrey had drawn his sword at the first alarm, and had contrived to force his way to the front. Skill and coolness were thrown to the winds, and striking madly at the forest of opposing spears and swords, the squire strove to keep the foe at bay.

Soon his fury began to tell on him; his sword-arm was becoming nerveless under the strain, while his shoulder was bleeding profusely from a thrust betwixt the joints of his armour.

Still he fought on, till he heard the glad sounds of the succouring forces that the Constable of Portchester was bringing up with all dispatch to the rescue. Just then a mortally wounded man-at-arms gripped the lad's ankle. Simultaneously a powerful Norman flung himself upon the enfeebled and embarrassed squire, and losing his balance, Geoffrey fell.

In the glare of the torchlight he saw the Frenchman's arm raised to deal a coup-de-grâce, but with an exclamation of surprise the man checked the descending knife. A thousand flashing lights danced before Geoffrey's eyes, and with a groan he lost consciousness.

When the young squire came to his senses he found himself lying on a rough pallet in a darkened room. It was now morning. From without came the sullen roar of artillery, mingled with the shouts, shrieks, and cries of the combatants, showing that the assault was being pushed home.

By degrees Geoffrey remembered the events of the previous night—the opening of the countermine, the grim and terrible struggle in the subterranean depths, and his own misfortune. He had a vivid recollection of the arresting of the descending knife of his adversary, but beyond that his memory failed him. Why was he thus spared? Where was he, and by whose agency had he been brought hither?

But the lad's throbbing brain could not suggest a reason. In vain he strove to collect his thoughts, till with a groan of pain and mental anguish he turned himself on his couch. Then he became aware that his shoulder had been dressed, and that a wet bandage had been tied round his head.

Presently, worn out with utter exhaustion, the squire fell into a troubled sleep.

When he awoke the sounds of conflict had died away. A slight murmur in the room caused him to turn his face towards the door. He was not alone. Standing on the threshold was a man dressed in a leathern jacket and close-fitting iron cap, while above his right shoulder projected the stirrup and part of the steel bow of an arbalist.

In spite of his dress and equipment, Geoffrey recognized the man; it was Gaston le Noir, the pilot of La Broie.

"Art awake, young sir?" quoth the Norman. "I trust thou wilt soon be thyself once more."

"How came I here, Gaston?" asked Geoffrey.

"How camest thou here? By St. Denis, 'twas by reason of the debt I owe thee, which I have been enabled to repay. Yet, let it be understood that 'twas more by chance than otherwise, for had I not seen thy face my knife would have been plunged into thy body."

"Then thou art the man who grappled with me, Gaston?"

"Ay," replied the pilot shortly, "I came near to slaying thee in fair fight."

"How camest thou to be shut up in Harfleur?" asked Geoffrey curiously.

"Young sir, I am ever a true Frenchman, therefore 'tis my duty to bear my part in defending the town. Moreover, thy countrymen have burned the village of La Broie, and with it my house; and, what is more, my boat has been pressed into their service."

"But when the war is over and we are masters of France thou canst return to ply thy trade as pilot."

"The English will never be masters of France, young sir," replied the Norman fiercely. "The greater the danger the stronger will all true Frenchmen stand."

"Art thou not a vassal of the Duke of Normandy, and is not our king the Duke?"

"A duke who wars against his overlord is no master of mine," retorted the Norman. "But now, young sir, I must away. Wilt thou give me thy solemn word that thou wilt remain my prisoner, and not attempt to escape? Bear in mind that on the occasion of the attack upon the English mines an order was given that no prisoners were to be taken. At great risk I bore thee hither, and if thou wert discovered by the governor of the town or his officers 'twould go hard with thee and me. Come, Squire Lysle, thy promise!"

"Nay," replied Geoffrey resolutely, "I'll not give thee my parole. Yet rest assured, should I fail in my attempt to break away, none shall know from whose care I have escaped."

"Hot-headed boy!" exclaimed Gaston. "Thou wilt undo all the good I fain would do. Nevertheless, I'll see that thou art guarded. When I am on the walls my man Philippe will stand without the door. Shouldst thou attempt to pass hence thy blood be upon thine own head."

In high dudgeon Gaston le Noir left the lad's presence, vowing that since he had requited his debt he would not suffer his prisoner to be a source of danger to him. Presently he returned, accompanied by a heavy-browed, huge-limbed man whom Geoffrey recognized as being one of the crew of the pilot's boat on the occasion of his journey up the Seine to Rouen.

"Philippe, mark well," exclaimed Gaston. "I have made a fool of myself by giving quarter to this squire; yet thou and I must needs keep a sharp eye on him. Therefore, should he attempt to quit this place, do not fear to pass thy knife across his throat."

Gaston's companion regarded the youth with a grim stare, while Geoffrey took stock of him, wondering whether in his weak state he could, by any manner of chance, prove a match for the powerful-looking seaman. Then, as the door was closed and barred, Geoffrey fell back upon his pallet, a prey to deep despondency.

Though he appreciated Gaston's action in saving his life, the squire realized that the man meant to keep his word. Then, as he dwelt upon the situation, Geoffrey began to see the object of the Norman's solicitude. With the fall of the town, for fall it must, unless succour were speedily forthcoming, the inhabitants would in all probability be put to the sword for having offered resistance to their feudal lord. Therefore Gaston hoped to save his own life by proclaiming his good deed in rescuing the squire from certain death.

Slowly the days of captivity passed, yet the vigilance of the youth's captors was in no wise relaxed. On the subject of the state of the siege they maintained a strict reticence, though by the scanty fare supplied Geoffrey knew that provisions were beginning to fail within the beleaguered town.

Meanwhile the besiegers lay thick without the walls, and slowly yet surely advanced their trenches almost under the shadow of the battlements. But a deadly foe had made its appearance amongst King Henry's host. Dysentery, caused by bad and insufficient food and the September dampness, raged through the camp, till three thousand men, or one-tenth of the invaders, fell victims to the dread pestilence.

Under these circumstances the King realized that it would be better to risk a few hundred lives in a general onslaught than to lose his men in the comparative inaction of an investment; and on the eighteenth day of September preparations for a desperate attack upon the defences were commenced.

Eager to learn the reason for the unmistakable bustle in the besiegers' camp, the Lord of Gaucourt sent a spy from the town. The spy was detected, and on being taken before King Henry he was ordered to be hanged at sunset before the North Gate.

Within the town famine was rampant, but, suspecting that some of the inhabitants had concealed a stock of provisions instead of contributing to the common fund, Gaucourt ordered a house-to-house search.

One of the results of the examination was that Geoffrey was discovered in the house where Gaston had taken up his abode. But for Philippe's dulness of mind the young squire might have been regarded as one of the wounded defenders of the town, but instead the squire was seized and carried before the Governor of Harfleur.

Closely questioned by the Lord of Gaucourt, Geoffrey admitted that he was a squire to the Constable of Portchester, and had been taken prisoner at the destruction of the mine, but he steadfastly refused to give the name of his captor; and as Gaston had hidden himself on the news of the apprehension of his prisoner, and Philippe had retained sufficient sense to pretend to be unable to throw light upon the matter, the culprit who had broken the orders relating to the refusal of quarter remained undiscovered.

"Away with him," thundered Gaucourt at the conclusion of the interrogation. "To the tower at the North Gate. Bid the men-at-arms erect a gallows on the battlements and send a herald to the enemy. Tell them that an English squire is in our hands, and should they execute our spy this squire's life shall pay forfeit."

It was a strange sight that met Geoffrey's gaze as he found himself on the lofty battlements with the shadow of a rough gallows falling athwart the shattered masonry.

Around him stood Gaucourt and the chief men of the garrison and town, while in the background were the men-at-arms and cross-bowmen to whom the defence of the tower was entrusted.

Below the outlines of the besiegers' trenches were spread out like a gigantic map, while upon the earthworks English archers and men-at-arms swarmed like ants, shaking their fists and shouting in impotent rage at the men who were about to take vengeance upon their prisoner.

Yet not an arrow nor a bolt was discharged from either party, for an hour's truce had been agreed upon, so that the French herald could place his master's proposals for the life of the spy before King Henry.

At a safe distance in the rear of the trenches clustered the tents of the English host, the largest flying the banner of the lion and leopards quartered with the fleur-de-lys that denoted the royal pavilion.

Massed in close columns were bodies of the English men-at-arms, accompanied by a swarm of lightly-clad men bearing long scaling ladders. Amongst the banners of the knights who were to lead the desperate attack Geoffrey recognized the star and crescent of Sir Thomas Carberry's company as the Hampshire men stood to their arms, ready at the termination of the truce to rush towards the walls to rescue or avenge their young squire.

At length, escorted by a guard of mounted archers, the French herald left the royal pavilion and rode slowly towards the town. Hardly had he reached the innermost of the triple line of trenches when there was a commotion amidst the tents, and, accompanied by a brilliant train of knights, Henry himself advanced to direct the threatened assault.

"How now, herald?" demanded the Lord of Gaucourt as the envoy, hot and breathless, gained the summit of the tower.

"Fair sir, the English king is not to be bent from his purpose. He bids me say that, according to the usages of war, he will hang our man. Moreover, if this squire dies on the gallows, thy life and that of a score of the bravest knights and men of quality of this town will answer for it—'not by the sword, but by a hempen cord, be the blood of a Gaucourt ever so blue.' Those were the words of the King of England."

At the threat of the rope the French knight's cheeks blanched, for, brave though he was, he recoiled at the thought of dying the death of a churl. Then recovering himself, he exclaimed—

"Let not the King of England think to turn me from my purpose. Watch yon gallows carefully; if our spy is thrown from the ladder, then up with yon squire. I also will remain here to see to the ordering o' it."

Meanwhile the stormers of the English army had advanced to within an arrow's flight of the walls. Like a gigantic spring the attackers clustered together in a vast coil, ready to unwind and thrust itself against the battlements of Harfleur; yet, though the truce was at an end, the reopening of the hostilities seemed suspended till the double tragedy was enacted.

Bravely Geoffrey braced himself to undergo the final ordeal. Come the worst, he was determined to let his enemies see how a true English squire would die, cheered by the desperate yet doubtless unavailing efforts of his own countrymen to effect his rescue.

Slowly the sun sank in the west; longer grew the shadow of the lofty towers, till it was lost in the distance. Then as the blood-red orb disappeared beneath the horizon the gallows on the plain was not without its burden.

The shout of execration that rose from the Frenchmen on the walls was drowned by the sullen roar of rage and fury from the besiegers as the men-at-arms seized the English squire and raised him on their shoulders.

The fatal noose was already around his neck when the Lord of Gaucourt spoke.

"Cast the squire loose," ordered he. "By St. Denis, I am not a butcher. The King of England spoke truly when he said that the spy had placed himself beyond the pale, but this prisoner hath not merited such a death. Take him to the quarters in the citadel. Ho, there! Bid our men stand fast for the honour of France, for our enemies are upon us!"

In the midst of a guard of men-at-arms, Geoffrey, well-nigh bewildered by the sudden change of his fortunes, felt himself hurried from the walls and through the narrow streets. Even as he went he heard the air torn by the thunderous discharge of the bombards, while ever and anon a huge stone shot, glancing from the battlements, would hurtle overhead and bury itself in the midst of the crowded houses of the town.

All that night the squire remained awake in his place of detention, listening to the rumble of the ordnance. Yet though the bombardment was continuous, there were no signs of an actual assault being delivered, and at dawn the cannonade ceased.

Three more days passed, yet beyond a desultory discharge of artillery hostilities seemed to be suspended, then to the squire's inexpressible joy he heard the steady tramp of feet and shouts of exultation uttered by hundreds of lusty English voices.

Ere he could realize that Harfleur had indeed fallen, the door of his prison was thrown open, and Sir Thomas Carberry, attended by Oswald, Ratcliffe, Gripwell, and several of the men-at-arms of Warblington, flocked into the room.

Unable to utter a sound, Geoffrey grasped the knight's hands, while his overjoyed comrades almost overwhelmed him with anxious questions and hearty congratulations.

Thus a second time did Geoffrey Lysle taste the joys of freedom.