Some distance from it towered a great dark castle, as massive
as the rocks on which it stood, with one strong keep at the
corner, and four long lines of machicolated walls. Above, a great
banner flew proudly in the wind, with some device which glowed red
in the setting sun. Nigel shaded his eyes and stared with
wrinkled brow.
"It is not the arms of England, nor yet the lilies of France, nor
is it the ermine of Brittany," said he. "He who holds this castle
fights for his own hand, since his own device flies above it.
Surely it is a head gules on an argent field."
"The bloody head on a silver tray!" cried the Frenchman. "Was I
not warned against him? This is not a man, friend Nigel. It is a
monster who wars upon English, French and all Christendom. Have
you not heard of the Butcher of La Brohiniere?"
"Nay, I have not heard of him."
"His name is accursed in France. Have I not been told also that
he put to death this very year Gilles de St. Pol, a friend of the
English King?"
"Yes, in very truth it comes back to my mind now that I heard
something of this matter in Calais before we started."
"Then there he dwells, and God guard you if ever you pass under
yonder portal, for no prisoner has ever come forth alive! Since
these wars began he hath been a king to himself, and the plunder
of eleven years lies in yonder cellars. How can justice come to
him, when no man knows who owns the land? But when we have packed
you all back to your island, by the Blessed Mother of God, we have
a heavy debt to pay to the man who dwells in yonder pile!"
But even as they watched, the trumpet-call burst forth once more.
Pages:
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367