Behind them marched six hundred Cheshire and Lancashire archers, bearing the badge of the Audleys, followed by the famous Lord Audley himself, with the four valiant squires, Dutton of Dutton, Delves of Doddington, Fowlehurst of Crewe, and Hawkstone of Wainehill, who had all won such glory at Poictiers.
Two hundred heavily-armed cavalry rode behind the Audley standard, while close at their heels came the Duke of Lancaster with a glittering train, heralds tabarded with the royal arms riding three deep upon cream-colored chargers in front of him.
On either side of the young prince rode the two seneschals of Aquitaine, Sir Guiscard d'Angle and Sir Stephen Cossington, the one bearing the banner of the province and the other that of Saint George.
Away behind him as far as eye could reach rolled the far-stretching, unbroken river of steel-rank after rank and column after column, with waving of plumes, glitter of arms, tossing of guidons, and flash and flutter of countless armorial devices.
All day Alleyne looked down upon the changing scene, and all day the old bowman stood by his elbow, pointing out the crests of famous warriors and the arms of noble houses.
Here were the gold mullets of the Pakingtons, the sable and ermine of the Mackworths, the scarlet bars of the Wakes, the gold and blue of the Grosvenors, the cinque-foils of the Cliftons, the annulets of the Musgraves, the silver pinions of the Beauchamps, the crosses of the Molineux the bloody chevron of the Woodhouses, the red and silver of the Worsleys, the swords of the Clarks, the boars'-heads of the Lucies, the crescents of the Boyntons, and the wolf and dagger of the Lipscombs.
So through the sunny winter day the chivalry of England poured down through the dark pass of Roncesvalles to the plains of Spain.
It was on a Monday that the Duke of Lancaster's division passed safely through the Pyrenees.
On the Tuesday there was a bitter frost, and the ground rung like iron beneath the feet of the horses; yet ere evening the prince himself, with the main battle of his army, had passed the gorge and united with his vanguard at Pampeluna.
With him rode the King of Majorca, the hostage King of Navarre, and the fierce Don Pedro of Spain, whose pale blue eyes gleamed with a sinister light as they rested once more upon the distant peaks of the land which had disowned him.
Under the royal banners rode many a bold Gascon baron and many a hot- blooded islander.
Here were the high stewards of Aquitaine, of Saintonge, of La Rochelle, of Quercy, of Limousin, of Agenois, of Poitou, and of Bigorre, with the banners and musters of their provinces.
Here also were the valiant Earl of Angus, Sir Thomas Banaster with his garter over his greave, Sir Nele Loring, second cousin to Sir Nigel, and a long column of Welsh footmen who marched under the red banner of Merlin.
From dawn to sundown the long train wound through the pass, their breath reeking up upon the frosty air like the steam from a cauldron.
The weather was less keen upon the Wednesday, and the rear-guard made good their passage, with the bombards and the wagon-train.
Free companions and Gascons made up this portion of the army to the number of ten thousand men.
The fierce Sir Hugh Calverley, with his yellow mane, and the rugged Sir Robert Knolles, with their war-hardened and veteran companies of English bowmen, headed the long column; while behind them came the turbulent bands of the Bastard of Breteuil Nandon de Bagerant, one-eyed Camus, Black Ortingo, La Nuit and others whose very names seem to smack of hard hands and ruthless deeds.
With them also were the pick of the Gascon chivalry--the old Duc d'Armagnac, his nephew Lord d'Albret, brooding and scowling over his wrongs, the giant Oliver de Clisson, the Captal de Buch, pink of knighthood, the sprightly Sir Perducas d'Albert, the red-bearded Lord d'Esparre, and a long train of needy and grasping border nobles, with long pedigrees and short purses, who had come down from their hill- side strongholds, all hungering for the spoils and the ransoms of Spain.
By the Thursday morning the whole army was encamped in the Vale of Pampeluna, and the prince had called his council to meet him in the old palace of the ancient city of Navarre.
Chapter XXXIV.
HOW THE COMPANY MADE SPORT IN THE VALE OF PAMPELUNA.
WHILST the council was sitting in Pampeluna the White Company, having encamped in a neighboring valley, close to the companies of La Nuit and of Black Ortingo, were amusing themselves with sword-play, wrestling, and shooting at the shields, which they had placed upon the hillside to serve them as butts.
The younger archers, with their coats of mail thrown aside, their brown or flaxen hair tossing in the wind, and their jerkins turned back to give free play to their brawny chests and arms, stood in lines, each loosing his shaft in turn, while Johnston, Aylward, Black Simon, and half-a-score of the elders lounged up and down with critical eyes, and a word of rough praise or of curt censure for the marksmen.
Behind stood knots of Gascon and Brabant crossbowmen from the companies of Ortingo and of La Nuit, leaning upon their unsightly weapons and watching the practice of the Englishmen.
"A good shot, Hewett, a good shot!" said old Johnston to a young bowman, who stood with his bow in his left hand, gazing with parted lips after his flying shaft.
"You see, she finds the ring, as I knew she would from the moment that your string twanged."
"Loose it easy, steady, and yet sharp," said Aylward.
"By my hilt! mon gar., it is very well when you do but shoot at a shield. but when there is a man behind the shield, and he rides at you with wave of sword and glint of eyes from behind his vizor, you may find him a less easy mark."
"It is a mark that I have found before now," answered the young bowman.
"And shall again, camarade, I doubt not.
But hola! Johnston, who is this who holds his bow like a crow-keeper?"
"It is Silas Peterson, of Horsham.
Do not wink with one eye and look with the other, Silas, and do not hop and dance after you shoot, with your tongue out, for that will not speed it upon its way.
Stand straight and firm, as God made you.
Move not the bow arm, and steady with the drawing hand!"
"I' faith," said Black Simon,
"I am a spearman myself, and am more fitted for hand-strokes than for such work as this.
Yet I have spent my days among bowmen, and I have seen many a brave shaft sped. I will not say but that we have some good marksmen here, and that this Company would be accounted a fine body of archers at any time or place.
Yet I do not see any men who bend so strong a bow or shoot as true a shaft as those whom I have known."
"You say sooth," said Johnston, turning his seamed and grizzled face upon the man-at-arms.
"See yonder," he added, pointing to a bombard which lay within the camp: "there is what hath done scath to good bowmanship, with its filthy soot and foolish roaring mouth.
I wonder that a true knight, like our prince, should carry such a scurvy thing in his train.
Robin, thou red-headed lurden, how oft must I tell thee not to shoot straight with a quarter-wind blowing across the mark?"
"By these ten finger-bones! there were some fine bowmen at the intaking of Calais," said Aylward.
"I well remember that, on occasion of an outfall, a Genoan raised his arm over his mantlet, and shook it at us, a hundred paces from our line.
There were twenty who loosed shafts at him, and when the man was afterwards slain it was found that he had taken eighteen through his forearm."
"And I can call to mind," remarked Johnston, "that when the great cog
'Christopher,' which the French had taken from us, was moored two hundred paces from the shore, two archers, little Robin Withstaff and Elias Baddlesmere, in four shots each cut every strand of her hempen anchor-cord, so that she well-nigh came upon the rocks."
"Good shooting, i' faith rare shooting!" said Black Simon.
"But I have seen you, Johnston, and you, Samkin Aylwart, and one or two others who are still with us, shoot as well as the best.