Ma foi, yes!"
"And may I ask, sir," said Alleyne, "why it is that you call yourself champion of the Bishop of Montaubon?"
"You may ask aught which it is becoming to me to answer.
The bishop hath need of a champion, because, if any cause be set to test of combat, it would scarce become his office to go down into the lists with leather and shield and cudgel to exchange blows with any varlet.
He looks around him then for some tried fighting man, some honest smiter who can give a blow or take one.
It is not for me to say how far he hath succeeded, but it is sooth that he who thinks that he hath but to do with the Bishop of Montaubon, finds himself face to face with Francois Poursuivant d'Amour Pelligny."
At this moment there was a clatter of hoofs upon the road, and a varlet by the door cried out that one of the Englishmen was coming back.
The champion looked wildly about for some corner of safety, and was clambering up towards the window, when Ford's voice sounded from without, calling upon Alleyne to hasten, or he might scarce find his way.
Bidding adieu to landlord and to champion, therefore, he set off at a gallop, and soon overtook the two archers.
"A pretty thing this, John," said he.
"Thou wilt have holy Church upon you if you hang her champions upon iron hooks in an inn kitchen."
"It was done without thinking," he answered apologetically, while Aylward burst into a shout of laughter.
"By my hilt! mon petit," said he, "you would have laughed also could you have seen it.
For this man was so swollen with pride that he would neither drink with us, nor sit at the same table with us, nor as much as answer a question, but must needs talk to the varlet all the time that it was well there was peace, and that he had slain more Englishmen than there were tags to his doublet.
Our good old John could scarce lay his tongue to French enough to answer him, so he must needs reach out his great hand to him and place him very gently where you saw him.
But we must on, for I can scarce hear their hoofs upon the road."
"I think that I can see them yet," said Ford, peering down the moonlit road.
"Pardieu! yes.
Now they ride forth from the shadow.
And yonder dark clump is the Castle of Villefranche.
En avant camarades! or Sir Nigel may reach the gates before us.
But hark, mes amis, what sound is that?"
As he spoke the hoarse blast of a horn was heard from some woods upon the right.
An answering call rung forth upon their left, and hard upon it two others from behind them.
"They are the horns of swine-herds," quoth Aylward. "Though why they blow them so late I cannot tell."
"Let us on, then," said Ford, and the whole party, setting their spurs to their horses, soon found themselves at the Castle of Villefranche, where the drawbridge had already been lowered and the portcullis raised in response to the summons of Du Guesclin.
Chapter XXIX.
HOW THE BLESSED HOUR OF SIGHT CAME TO THE LADY TIPHAINE.
SIR TRISTRAM DE ROCHEFORT, Seneschal of Auvergne and Lord of Villefranche, was a fierce and renowned soldier who had grown gray in the English wars.
As lord of the marches and guardian of an exposed country-side, there was little rest for him even in times of so-called peace, and his whole life was spent in raids and outfalls upon the Brabanters, late-comers, flayers free companions, and roving archers who wandered over his province.
At times he would come back in triumph, and a dozen corpses swinging from the summit of his keep would warn evil-doers that there was still a law in the land.
At others his ventures were not so happy, and he and his troop would spur it over the drawbridge with clatter of hoofs hard at their heels and whistle of arrows about their ears.
Hard he was of hand and harder of heart, hated by his foes, and yet not loved by those whom he protected, for twice he had been taken prisoner, and twice his ransom had been wrung by dint of blows and tortures out of the starving peasants and ruined farmers.
Wolves or watch-dogs, it was hard to say from which the sheep had most to fear.
The Castle of Villefranche was harsh and stern as its master.
A broad moat, a high outer wall turreted at the corners, with a great black keep towering above all--so it lay before them in the moonlight.
By the light of two flambeaux, protruded through the narrow slit-shaped openings at either side of the ponderous gate, they caught a glimpse of the glitter of fierce eyes and of the gleam of the weapons of the guard.
The sight of the two-headed eagle of Du Guesclin, however, was a passport into any fortalice in France, and ere they had passed the gate the old border knight came running forwards with hands out-thrown to greet his famous countryman.
Nor was he less glad to see Sir Nigel, when the Englishman's errand was explained to him, for these archers had been a sore thorn in his side and had routed two expeditions which he had sent against them.
A happy day it would be for the Seneschal of Auvergne when they should learn that the last yew bow was over the marches.
The material for a feast was ever at hand in days when, if there was grim want in the cottage, there was at least rude plenty in the castle.
Within an hour the guests were seated around a board which creaked under the great pasties and joints of meat, varied by those more dainty dishes in which the French excelled, the spiced ortolan and the truffled beccaficoes.
The Lady Rochefort, a bright and laughter-loving dame, sat upon the left of her warlike spouse, with Lady Tiphaine upon the right.
Beneath sat Du Guesclin and Sir Nigel, with Sir Amory Monticourt, of the order of the Hospitallers, and Sir Otto Harnit, a wandering knight from the kingdom of Bohemia.
These with Alleyne and Ford, four French squires, and the castle chaplain, made the company who sat together that night and made good cheer in the (Castle of Villefranche.
The great fire crackled in the grate, the hooded hawks slept upon their perches, the rough deer-hounds with expectant eyes crouched upon the tiled floor; close at the elbows of the guests stood the dapper little lilac-coated pages; the laugh and jest circled round and all was harmony and comfort.
Little they recked of the brushwood men who crouched in their rags along the fringe of the forest and looked with wild and haggard eyes at the rich, warm glow which shot a golden bar of light from the high arched windows of the castle.
Supper over, the tables dormant were cleared away as by magic and trestles and bancals arranged around the blazing fire, for there was a bitter nip in the air.
The Lady Tiphaine had sunk back in her cushioned chair, and her long dark lashes drooped low over her sparkling eyes.
Alleyne, glancing at her, noted that her breath came quick and short, and that her cheeks had blanched to a lily white.