The stream ran through a glen;and above the road I had long noted the towers of a castle.But as I drew closer,I saw first that the walls were black with fire and roofless,and that carrion birds were hovering over them,some enemy having fallen upon the place:and next,behold,the bridge was broken,and there was neither ford nor ferry!All the ruin was fresh,the castle still smouldering,the kites flocking and yelling above the trees,the planks of the bridge showing that the destruction was but of yesterday.
This matter of the broken bridge cost me little thought,for I could swim like an otter.But there was another traveller down by the stream who seemed more nearly concerned.When I came close to him,I found him standing up to his waist in the water,taking soundings with a long and heavy staff.His cordelier's frock was tucked up into his belt,his long brown legs,with black hairs thick on them,were naked.He was a huge,dark man,and when he turned and stared at me,I thought that,among all men of the Church and in religion whom I had ever beheld,he was the foulest and most fierce to look upon.He had an ugly,murderous visage,fell eyes and keen,and a right long nose,hooked like a falcon's.The eyes in his head shone like swords,and of all eyes of man I ever saw,his were the most piercing and most terrible.On his back he carried,as I noticed at the first,what I never saw on a cordelier's back before,or on any but his since--an arbalest,and he had bolts enough in his bag,the feathers showing above.
"Pax vobiscum,"he cried,in a loud,grating voice,as he saw me,and scrambled out to shore.
"Et cum anima tua,"I answered.
"Nom de Dieu!"he said,"you have bottomed my Latin already,that is scarce so deep as the river here.My malison on them that broke the bridge!"Then he looked me over fiercely.
"Burgundy or Armagnac?"he asked.
I thought the question strange,as a traveller would scarce care to pronounce for Burgundy in that country.But this was a man who would dare anything,so I deemed it better to answer that I was a Scot,and,so far,of neither party.
"Tug-mutton,wine-sack!"he said,these being two of many ill names which the French gave our countrymen;for,of all men,the French are least grateful to us,who,under Heaven and the Maid,have set their King on his throne again.
The English knew this,if the French did not;and their great King,Harry the Fifth,when he fell ill of St.Fiacre's sickness,after plundering that Scots saint's shrine of certain horse-shoes,silver-gilt,said well that,"go where he would,he was bearded by Scots,dead or alive."But the French are not a thankful people.
I had no answer very ready to my tongue,so stepped down silent to the water-edge,and was about taking off my doublet and hose,meaning to carry them on my head and swim across.But he barred the way with his staff,and,for me,I gripped to my whinger,and watched my chance to run in under his guard.For this cordelier was not to be respected,I deemed,like others of the Order of St.
Francis,and all men of Holy Church.
"Answer a civil question,"he said,"before it comes to worse:
Armagnac or Burgundy?"
"Armagnac,"I answered,"or anything else that is not English.
Clear the causeway,mad friar!"
At that he threw down his staff.
"I go north also,"he said,"to Orleans,if I may,for the foul "manants"and peasant dogs of this country have burned the castle of Alfonse Rodigo,a good knight that held them in right good order this year past.He was worthy,indeed,to ride with that excellent captain,Don Rodrigo de Villandradas.King's captain or village labourer,all was fish that came to his net,and but two days ago Iwas his honourable chaplain.But he made the people mad,and a great carouse that we kept gave them their opportunity.They have roasted the good knight Alfonse,and would have done as much for me,his almoner,frock and all,if wine had any mastery over me.But Igave them the slip.Heaven helps its own!Natheless,I would that this river were between me and their vengeance,and,for once,Idread the smell of roast meat that is still in my nostrils--pah!"And here he spat on the ground.
"But one door closes,"he went on,"and another opens,and to Orleans am I now bound,in the service of my holy calling.""There is,indeed,cause enough for the shriving of souls of sinners,Father,in that country,as I hear,and a holy man like you will be right welcome to many.""They need little shriving that are opposite my culverin,"said this strange priest."Though now I carry but an arbalest,the gun is my mistress,and my patron is the gunner's saint,St.Barbara.And even with this toy,methinks I have the lives of a score of goddams in my bolt-pouch."I knew that in these wild days many clerics were careless as to that which the Church enjoins concerning the effusion of blood--nay,Ihave named John Kirkmichael,Bishop of Orleans,as having himself broken a spear on the body of the Duke of Clarence.The Abbe of Cerquenceaux,also,was a valiant man in religion,and a good captain,and,all over France,clerics were gripping to sword and spear.But such a priest as this I did not expect to see.
"Your name?"he asked suddenly,the words coming out with a sound like the first grating of a saw on stone.
