CHAPTER XI   HOW SIR OLIVER GAINED HIS FREEDOM

A roar of merriment, mingled with a few cries of shame and pity, greeted the English knight's reappearance in the lists. Clad in an ill-fitting suit of chain mail with breastplate and bascinet, the joints of which were so rusty and stiff that considerable effort was necessary to move them, Sir Oliver rode slowly into the lists, his lean and decrepit steed barely able to carry its rider.

Yet, in spite of the obvious inferiority of his harness and the feebleness of his horse, Sir Oliver Lysle bore himself with a knightly demeanour that changed the roar of mirth into the silence of shame.

"Sir, this is beyond knightly forbearance," expostulated Sir Conyers de Saye, one of the champions in the previous encounters. "I pray thee grant this knight the use of his harness and a proper charger."

"Nay, Sir Conyers, he must abide by that which he hath," replied Sir Yves angrily.

"I pray thee, Sir Oliver, to do me the favour of accepting the loan of my plate armour," cried another knight.

"And my charger," added another.

"And I do perceive that thy lance is three spans shorter than that of thine adversary," exclaimed a third.

"Fair sirs, I thank ye," replied Sir Oliver. "But concerning the harness 'tis not meet that I should place a true knight's suit of mail in jeopardy. This mail will suffice, since already it is accustoming itself to my limbs. Also the offer of a lance I beg to decline. Methinks an English heart behind this lance will atone for its shortness when opposed to a recreant knight who hath not the courage to openly declare either for Burgundy or Orleans."

Sir Denis winced within his shell of proof mail. If the steel of the English knight were as sharp as his tongue, his own task would not be quite so easy as it had seemed. As for Sir Yves, he was grinding his teeth with rage and discomfiture.

"Nevertheless," continued Sir Oliver, "I will deem it an honour to accept the loan of a suitable charger from a true and gallant knight of France."

"Nay, that shall not be," objected the Tyrant. "Either the charger provided or none."

"Charger, forsooth!" exclaimed Sir Conyers de Saye scornfully. "Art blind, Sir Yves, that thou canst not tell good horseflesh from bad, or is it a case of oculos habent et non videbunt? Either Sir Oliver hath leave to accept the loan of a serviceable charger or I'll shake off the dust of this place."

"And I," "And I," shouted the other knightly guests, who, in order to prove the sincerity of their intentions, began to call upon their squires and pages to follow them from the castle.

"Let him have the horse, then," replied the Lord of Malevereux ungraciously.

"I pray for thy success," whispered Sir Conyers encouragingly, as Sir Oliver was assisted into the saddle of the borrowed charger.

A tucket sounded, and Sir Denis cantered to the other end of the lists, while the English knight, after having given his steed a short run to test its capabilities, drew up in anticipation of the signal for the onset.

Unable to control his feelings during the inevitable pause, Geoffrey started to his feet.

"St. George for England, father!" he cried out, oblivious to all else besides the two combatants.

Men turned in astonishment to gaze at the daring youth. Sir Denis marked the lad with a ferocious glare. Sir Yves, engaged in conversation, heard but the first portion of the exclamation, while Sir Oliver caught everything but the last word.

"Ay, young sir, St. George for England and God's benison on my task," he replied.

The next instant the warder of the Lord of Malevereux clattered on the floor of the daïs.

Both antagonists started at the signal. Sir Denis urged his charger down the lists at its utmost speed, while with sharpened lance held firmly in rest he sought to transfix his adversary, or at least to sweep him from the saddle. On his part Sir Oliver rode more cautiously, keeping a firmer hold upon the bridle than on his lance.

The spectators held their breath. Surely the ill-armed Englishman must go down before the impetuous rush of the burly, powerful Frenchman? But ere their lance-points crossed Sir Oliver pulled in his steed, dropped swiftly forward across the animal's mane, and raised his shield obliquely above his head, his lance falling from his grasp as he did so.

Ere Sir Denis could lower his lance-point the steel glided from the oblique surface of his antagonist's shield. The next instant the Englishman's sinewy arm was around the Frenchman's waist, and, throwing all the power of his half-starved frame into one mighty heave, Sir Oliver lifted his steel-clad opponent clean out of his tilting saddle. With a dull clang the brother of the Tyrant fell upon the turf, helpless and beaten by one whom he had regarded as an easy victim to his prowess.

Already some of the squires and pages of Sir Denis were running to their master's aid, while others attempted to seize the bridle of his riderless horse. But urging his steed into a gallop, Sir Oliver ranged alongside the masterless animal, and before the astonished crowd could realize his action he was in the saddle but recently occupied by Sir Denis, while his borrowed charger was trotting back to its lawful owner.

"Seize me yon English knight," shouted Sir Yves with an oath. "What! Why tarry? Dost think 'tis the Prince of Darkness?" For feelings either of surprise or repugnance towards the man who had already shown his intention of breaking his plighted promise restrained the servants of the Lord of Malevereux. Not a hand was raised to apprehend the knight who had held his own against such fearful odds.

Sir Yves' perjurous utterance was his death warrant. Goaded to fury by this breach of faith, Sir Oliver spurred his horse up to the foot of the daïs, and, mace in hand, dealt a crashing blow at the recreant knight.

Hemmed in by the high-backed chair, the Lord of Malevereux was unable to avoid the stroke. With warder raised he strove to parry the ponderous weapon, but death came to him far more mercifully than he had brought it to others. Sir Yves de Valadour, of the high, of the middle, and the low, lay a corpse in the midst of the assembly that had gathered to witness his triumph over his captive.

Wheeling, Sir Oliver rode straight for the gateway of the castle. Not one of the knights stirred a hand to hinder him, though several of the garrison of Malevereux attempted to bar his way. Two men-at-arms went down under his charger's hoofs, but before the portcullis could be dropped or a cross-bowman had levelled his cumbersome weapon the English knight was spurring across the drawbridge, well on his way to freedom.