Bertrand of Brittany

“ The eagle must look to his claws!”
In came the servants, shouting and elbowing beneath a flare of torches, old Jean, the butler, flourishing his staff and trying to keep order and clear a passage. Hopart and Guicheaux were treading on the toes of Olivier’s men, spreading their fingers and grinning from ear to ear. Bertrand saw the flashing of a bassinet, the gay colors of a herald’s jupon, the Sieur de Beaumanoir’s arms quartered with those of Brittany. Some dozen men-at-arms followed in full harness, shouldering back the cook-boys and scullions. ”

“ He drew back slowly from under the hazels, and, crawling through the gorse and underwood, reached the place where he had left his horse. A dead tree lay there that had fallen in a winter gale, and Bertrand sat down on the trunk with his drawn sword across his knees. He was humbled, but the struggle was not over with him yet. His heart was still full of the bitterness of the man who covets what he imagines another man to possess. ”

“ Bertrand’s hands gripped the blade of his sword as he lay with it crosswise under his throat. He saw Tiphaïne rise, draw aside, her face hidden by her hands. Bertrand felt numb at the sight of it, yet very humble. If she wept for Tinteniac, then Tinteniac was of all men the most to be honored. Honored? And Bertrand’s face burned with the hot memories of many unclean years—years when he had bartered his manhood for harlots’ kisses. ”

“ The brown thickets swam by them as they cantered on through shadow and through sunlight. The sun sank low, hurling his slanting showers of gold over the bosom of Broceliande. Every forest monarch seemed afire, touched with a glory that was not of earth. The pungent scent of the rotting leaves rose up like invisible incense before the reddening altar of the west. Another league and they would be on the brink of the valley, and near the tower that Arletta hated.
Bertrand called a halt. He was a man who never racked his wits for strategy or battle craft. ”

“ From amid the jumble of roofs, sharp-peaked, like waves in a choppy sea, Bertrand could hear the shouting of the soldiery who idled in the streets. In the east a full moon was rising, a huge buckler of burnished bronze, its light glimmering on the little river that wound about the town, and making the roofs and steeples white like glass. Between two houses Bertrand could get a glimpse of the market square and of the hostel where Croquart had his quarters. The fretted windows were red with torchlight, and Bertrand could see figures moving to and fro in the rooms within. ”

“ Bertrand never flinched, but looked the peasant straight in the face.
“That is old news to me, friend,” he said.
The man grinned, and nodded his head mysteriously, with quaint sententiousness.
“Maybe, lording, you have not heard that the devil is loose again.”
“There are many devils in Brittany, father; we are possessed like the pigs in the Bible.”
“Eh, yes, but none so bad as Croquart. He has broken out of Josselin, they tell me, and is at Pontivy, with his free lances, swearing blood and burnings for Bamborough’s death.” ”

“ Bertrand had broken fast alone in the hall, after keeping a vigil in the chapel with his sword and shield before him on the altar steps. He was to ride towards Dinan that day, for Xaintré had told him that Robin Raguenel had been chosen among the thirty, and Bertrand rode to seek him at La Bellière, and perhaps win a glimpse of Tiphaïne herself. His heart felt full of joy that morning, the joy of a man to whom life offers stirring days again. ”

“ Away they went across the bridge with the breath of the May morning sweeping over the meadows. Bertrand had lifted Tiphaïne into the saddle, and shouted to Dame Jake, who lay asleep in the court-yard with her nose on her paws. Bertrand ran with his hand on the bridle, looking up into the child’s face, laughing when she laughed, delighted with her delight. Youth was in the air, youth and the joy thereof. Bertrand forgot his ugliness and his shabby clothes as the palfrey cantered along the road with Dame Jake barking and bounding under her nose. ”

“ He rode alone, with the bird belled and hooded on his wrist, more intent, perhaps, in gaining solitude than on seeing the falcon make a flight. For the heart of a man in love is a world within itself, where the green pastures and deep woods are tinged with a melancholy like the perfume of wild thyme in the green deeps of June.
But there was more than mere melancholy in Bertrand’s heart that morning, for the truth was plain to him as the blue sweep of the summer sky that the old man at La Bellière lived in the spirit on the eyes and lips of Tiphaïne, his child. ”

“ Yet all the gentry knew that Olivier de Manny stood in the gallery making love to Yolande of Vitré. He alone knew the secret of the borrowed arms, and would confess nothing, even to Yolande when she smiled at him.
Bertrand had broken two spears. His heart was beating like a bell, and he was drunk with delight, yet very grim for all his glory. Again the trumpets were screaming and another falcon ready to fly in the face of the young eagle of the Breton moors. Bertrand wheeled his horse into position, put forward his battered shield, set his teeth, and feutred his spear. ”

“ Bertrand mounted his rough pony and rode homeward that March day with the sun going down amid a mass of burning clouds. His heart was tranquil in him despite the wailing of the wind, the moaning of the trees, and the bleak stretch of moorland and of waste. He saw the peasants returning from their labor, and smiled at the sight. The patience of these lowly tillers of the fields seemed to comfort him. He had begun to think more of them of late than the mere pomp of chivalry and the glamour of arms. ”

“ He caught her meaning, and understood—to his own cost—the significance of the thing she wished.
“You strike hard, but the blows are true,” he said. “I have lost what once was mine; I acknowledge it; a man can do no more.”
He sheathed his sword and took the swan from Tiphaïne, looking at her hands and nothing else. For Bertrand there was a bitter symbolism in the scene. The few pure memories he had given to the past were flung back to him like the dry petals of a cherished flower.
He thrust the silver swan under his surcoat, so that it was held there by his belt. ”

“ All Josselin was in an uproar as Bertrand trotted through the streets. Mounted men had come in from Mivoie, cheering and waving branches of broom. Bells were pealing, townsfolk and peasantry shouting and crowding in the narrow streets. They thronged round Bertrand and nearly dragged him from his horse, striving to touch even his surcoat and armor, and shouting their blessings on Sir Robin of Dinan. Bertrand, facing the mockery of it all, won through them patiently, and came to the gate that led towards Loudeac. ”

“ She seemed to hear the whimpering of this poor wretch, caged like an animal awaiting the butcher’s knife. What though he was “a common thief,” a rogue, an outcast, her soul had found something on which to pour the divine dew that God gives to those who suffer. The purpose came to her as she wandered slowly over the fields. One man’s life should be spared that day; she would beg it of Dubois before the sword could spill more blood.
As for Bertrand, he had heard Tiphaïne’s voice, and sat shaking as with an ague, his eyes staring vacantly at the wattled wall of the hovel. ”

“ But this mishap, so far from daunting him, seemed to goad him to fury. With a cry of rage he hurled the broken weapon far away, and, springing like a tiger on Du Guesclin, seized him in a clutch that made every joint of his armour crackle.
But this mode of attack was not likely to take by surprise the best wrestler in Brittany. Quick as thought Bertrand dropped his axe, and, in turn, seized his foe in a hug worthy of a Polar bear, and the grapplers swayed to and fro, stamping, struggling, gasping, now one and now the other seeming to have the mastery. ”

“ He found that the peasant folk had covered him with an old cloak, and that simple touch of sympathy went to Bertrand’s heart.
The girl Marie came out of the woods singing a Breton song and carrying a bundle of sticks in her bosom. She threw them on the fire, and looked at Bertrand as he sat up and felt his wounded thigh. The night’s rest had put new strength and courage into him. He was no longer the fatalist drugged with the opiate of despair. The golden splendor of the woods, the blue sky, the glistening dew gave a sparkle to life and stirred the joy of being in him. ”

“ Bertrand sat stolidly on his stool, staring into the fire and snapping his fingers at Dame Jake.
“Tiphaïne, you must come back to the high table. Bertrand hates girls; they always laugh at his crooked legs.”
He shot a sneer at his brother and held out his hand to the child, who was still seated on the floor. Bertrand was grinding his teeth together, and striving to master the great yearning in him to swing his fist in the little fop’s face.
“I do not want you, Messire Olivier du Guesclin.”
“Ho, but you cannot sit among the grooms and servants. Bertrand does not matter.” ”

“ Yet of such stubborn stuff was Bertrand’s soul that the fight was fought and won in him before his black horse had carried him a furlong. Like some old pagan martyr, he would rather drink the poison than confess himself a fool and recant from a philosophy that the world might class as madness. ”

“ Arletta looked at Bertrand’s face, and slunk away as though he had smitten her. Tiphaïne of the tower had all his tenderness. She only cumbered him, and his passionate impatience hurt her heart.
“Off! I can look to myself,” she said, as one of the men came to take her bridle. “Go forward and fight; I’ll be a clog on none of you.”
Another furlong and they neared the valley, pushing on cautiously under the trees. Bertrand and Guicheaux rode ahead, speaking not a word, but keeping their eyes fixed on the woodways before them. Soon the sky broadened into a pillared arch of gold. ”

“ Bertrand stood by in Robin’s armor, grinding his teeth as he listened to all they said. How ready they were to damn him as a traitor, these proud ones who had never known how long he had waited for such a chance as this! Even his doggedness could hardly take their taunts in silence; he longed to throw his visor up and give Charrual and Bodegat the lie. Only one lord spoke up for him before the rest, the Sieur de Tinteniac, asking why a brave man should be slandered without full knowledge of the truth. ”

“ Of all this by-play Bertrand had a distant view as he followed Tiphaïne through the green mystery of May. What were the golden meads to him, the winding woodways wonderful with spring, the dawn song of the birds, the scent of the wild flowers rising like incense out of the grass? To Bertrand that silent and unseen journey towards Morlaix seemed like a pilgrimage for the humbling of his heart. He followed, watched, planned, yet felt himself forgotten, reading into every incident that passed a woman’s tenderness for a man whom he himself could easily have loved. ”

“ She loved Bertrand—loved him with the zeal of a wild thing for its mate. She loved him because he was stronger than other men, because his strength had made him her master. Many a night she had lain awake, smiling over some bold trick of his, the plunder he had taken, the devil-may-care courage dear to the heart of such a woman as Arletta. She had never thought that she was holding him back from nobler things, and that her hands were strangling the ambitions of his manhood. ”

“ Bertrand went and stood by the prayer-desk, and, looking like a boy half fearful of being caught in mischief, opened the missal and turned over the pages. The book was beautifully illuminated, the vermilions, golds, and greens glowing with the freshness of young flowers, the quaint pictures and grotesque letters making the book a thing of beauty and of strangeness. Bertrand knew naught of Latin, save the few prayers he had been taught by Father Isidore at Motte Broon. ”

“ Bertrand stretched his arms and yawned.
“Food puts new courage into a man.”
She bent towards him with a sinuous gliding of the body, pouted out her lips, and put her face close to his.
“You are yourself again, lording.”
Bertrand kissed her, thinking of Tiphaïne, and swearing stoutly in his heart that he was beyond her scorn and pity. Arletta, red and happy, started up, and began to pile leaves and bracken into a bed beneath the tree. She made a pillow by rolling leaves up in an old tunic, and threw more wood upon the fire. ”

“ He winced, and looked at his mother sulkily under his heavy brows.
“How can such as you mix with the lords and ladies of France and Brittany—you, who herd with ploughboys and scuffle with scullions? Bah, you fool! they would only laugh at you at Rennes, and take you for a groom who had sneaked in from the stables! Go to Rennes, indeed—to Jeanne de Penthièvre’s wedding! Who ever heard such nonsense! Where are your manners, Messire Bertrand? Where are your fine clothes, your airs and graces? Where are you going to find a horse? No, no; the honor and fortune of the family must be remembered.” ”

“ The long grass was wet with dew. Bertrand shivered, stretched himself, sat up, and listened. He was hungry, but then he had no stomach for the great hall where no one wished for him, and where the very guests might take him for a servant. He would sneak round to the pantry and get some bread and a mug of ale from the butler’s hatch.
There was a sudden rustling of the grass under the tree, a low whimpering, and a wet nose thrust itself against Bertrand’s hand. Then a pair of paws hooked themselves upon his knee, and a cold snout made a loving dab at the lad’s mouth. ”