It was upon the second morning after the memorable festival of Castell-Coch, that the tempest broke on the Norman frontier. At first a single, long, and keen bugle-blast, announced the approach of the enemy; presently the signals of alarm were echoed from every castle and tower on the borders of Shropshire, where every place of habitation was then a fortress. Beacons were lighted upon crags and eminences, the bells were rung backward in the churches and towns, while the general and earnest summons to arms announced an extremity of danger which even the inhabitants of that unsettled country had not hitherto experienced.
Amid this general alarm, Raymond Berenger, having busied himself in arranging his few but gallant followers and adherents, and taken such modes of procuring intelligence of the enemy’s strength and motions as were in his power, at length ascended the watchtower of the castle, to observe in person the country around, already obscured in several places by the clouds of smoke, which announced the progress and the ravages of the invaders. He was speedily joined by his favourite squire, to whom the unusual heaviness of his master’s looks was cause of much surprise, for till now they had ever been blithest at the hour of battle. The squire held in his hand his master’s helmet, for Sir Raymond was all armed, saving the head.
“Dennis Morolt,” said the veteran soldier, “are our vassals and liegemen all mustered?”
“All, noble sir, but the Flemings, who are not yet come in.”
“The lazy hounds, why tarry they?” said Raymond. “Ill policy it is to plant such sluggish natures in our borders. They are like their own steers, fitter to tug a plough than for aught that requires mettle.”
“With your favour,” said Dennis, “the knaves can do good service notwithstanding. That Wilkin Flammock of the Green can strike like the hammers of his own fulling-mill.”
“He will fight, I believe, when he cannot help it,” said Raymond; “but he has no stomach for such exercise, and is as slow and as stubborn as a mule.”
“And therefore are his countrymen rightly matched against the Welsh,” replied Dennis Morolt, “that their solid and unyielding temper may be a fit foil to the fiery and headlong dispositions of our dangerous neighbours, just as restless waves are best opposed by steadfast rocks.—Hark, sir, I hear Wilkin Flammock’s step ascending the turret-stair, as deliberately as ever monk mounted to matins.”
Step by step the heavy sound approached, until the form of the huge and substantial Fleming at length issued from the turret-door to the platform where they “were conversing. Wilkin Flammock was cased in bright armour, of unusual weight and thickness, and cleaned with exceeding care, which marked the neatness of his nation; but, contrary to the custom of the Normans, entirely plain, and void of carving, gilding, or any sort of ornament. The basenet, or steel-cap, had no visor, and left exposed a broad countenance, with heavy and unpliable features, which announced the character of his temper and understanding. He carried in his hand a heavy mace.
“So, Sir Fleming,” said the Castellane, “you are in no hurry, methinks, to repair to the rendezvous.”
“So please you,” answered the Fleming, “we were compelled to tarry, that we might load our wains with our bales of cloth and other property.”
“Ha! wains?—how many wains have you brought with you?”
“Six, noble sir,” replied Wilkin.
“And how many men?” demanded Raymond Berenger.
“Twelve, valiant sir,” answered Flammock.
“Only two men to each baggage-wain? I wonder you would thus encumber yourself,” said Berenger.
“Under your favour, sir, once more,” replied Wilkin, “it is only the value which I and my comrades set upon our goods, that inclines us to defend them with our bodies; and, had we been obliged to leave our cloth to the plundering clutches of yonder vagabonds, I should have seen small policy in stopping here to give them the opportunity of adding murder to robbery. Gloucester should have been my first halting-place.”
The Norman knight gazed on the Flemish artisan, for such was Wilkin Flammock, with such a mixture of surprise and contempt, as excluded indignation. “I have heard much,” he said, “but this is the first time that I have heard one with a beard on his lip avouch himself a coward.”
“Nor do you hear it now,” answered Flammock, with the utmost composure—”I am always ready to fight for life and property; and my coming to this country, where they are both in constant danger, shows that I care not much how often I do so. But a sound skin is better than a slashed one, for all that.”
“Well,” said Raymond Berenger, “fight after thine own fashion, so thou wilt but fight stoutly with that long body of thine. We are like to have need for all that we can do.—Saw you aught of these rascaille Welsh?—have they Gwenwyn’s banner amongst them?”
“I saw it with the white dragon displayed,” replied Wilkin; “I could not but know it, since it was broidered in my own loom.”
Raymond looked so grave upon this intelligence, that Dennis Morolt, unwilling the Fleming should mark it, thought it necessary to withdraw his attention. “I can tell thee,” he said to Flammock, “that when the Constable of Chester joins us with his lances, you shall see your handiwork, the dragon, fly faster homeward than ever flew the shuttle which wove it.”
“It must fly before the Constable comes up, Dennis Morolt,” said Berenger, “else it will fly triumphant over all our bodies.”
“In the name of God and the Holy Virgin!” said Dennis, “what may you mean, Sir Knight?—not that we should fight with the Welsh before the Constable joins us?”—He paused, and then, well understanding the firm, yet melancholy glance, with which his master answered the question, he proceeded, with yet more vehement earnestness—”You cannot mean it—you cannot intend that we shall quit this castle, which we have so often made good against them, and contend in the field with two hundred men against thousands?— Think better of it, my beloved master, and let not the rashness of your old age blemish that character for wisdom and warlike skill, which your former life has so nobly won.”
“I am not angry with you for blaming my purpose, Dennis,” answered the Norman, “for I know you do it in love to me and mine. But, Dennis Morolt, this thing must be—we must fight the Welshmen within these three hours, or the name of Raymond Berenger must be blotted from the genealogy of his house.”
“And so we will—we will fight them, my noble master,” said the esquire; “fear not cold counsel from Dennis Morolt, where battle is the theme. But we will fight them under the walls of the castle, with honest Wilkin Flammock and his crossbows on the wall to protect our flanks, and afford us some balance against the numerous odds.”
“Not so, Dennis,” answered his master—”In the open field we must fight them, or thy master must rank but as a mansworn knight. Know, that when I feasted yonder wily savage in my halls at Christmas, and when the wine was flowing fastest around, Gwenwyn threw out some praises of the fastness and strength of my castle, in a manner which intimated it was these advantages alone that had secured me in former wars from defeat and captivity. I spoke in answer, when I had far better been silent; for what availed my idle boast, but as a fetter to bind me to a deed next to madness? If, I said, a prince of the Cymry shall come in hostile fashion before the Garde Doloureuse, let him pitch his standard down in yonder plain by the bridge, and, by the word of a good knight, and the faith of a Christian man, Raymond Berenger will meet him as willingly, be he many or be he few, as ever Welshman was met withal.”
Dennis was struck speechless when he heard of a promise so rash, so fatal; but his was not the casuistry which could release his master from the fetters with which his unwary confidence had bound him. It was otherwise with Wilkin Flammock.