Bertrand

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ The grass in the garden was crisped with fallen leaves and dusted with dew that twinkled, thousand-eyed, under the sheen of the dawn. All the pungent freshness of autumn was in the air. Bertrand chose his ground—a clean stretch of turf close to the steam of a great apple-tree, and far from the mounds the Black Death had built. He set to work with the look of a man who feels his heart helped by physical effort. ”

“ For Bertrand that season of the world’s awakening had been a season of storm, of weary nights and troubled dawns. He had slain his own self, to find his manhood reincarnated in the second life that had risen for him like a gold cloud out of the east. He was as a man who had much to remember, and much more to foreshadow. The woods and moors had a sudden awe for him, an awe that played like sacred fire upon the solemn summits of the hills.
As a man’s life is, so are his desires. ”

“ 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. ”

“ To any man of that age, the voice of a Churchman was as that of God; and Bertrand no more thought of doubting the monk’s words than if they had come down to him from heaven. His heart bounded at the thought that he, the ill-favoured, the mocked, the despised—he, on whom his own parents looked down as a shame to them—should be chosen by Heaven itself for so glorious a task; and it was no disbelief, but sheer astonishment, that fettered his tongue when he tried to answer.
“I the champion of France?” said he at last, with a look and tone of joyful amazement. ”

“ And at one point, sprawling across a table, with head lost between outstretched arms, a figure, apparently asleep, perhaps dead.
Bertrand, now nothing but a bundle of nerves, could hardly suppress a cry of terror. It seemed to him as if his life depended on whether that sprawling figure was alive or dead. But he dared not approach in order to make sure. For awhile he waited, sinking more and more deeply into the shadows, watching that motionless form on which his life depended.
The figure did not move, and gradually Bertrand nerved himself up to confidence and then to action. ”

“ At that moment a pear drops and falls just beside Fenice's ear. She starts, awakes, sees Bertrand and cries aloud: "Friend, friend, we are lost! Here is Bertrand! If he escapes you, we have fallen into an evil trap. He will tell folk that he has seen us." Then has Bertrand perceived that it is the empress beyond all doubt. Need is there for him to depart, for Cliges had brought his sword with him into the orchard, and had laid it beside the couch. He springs up and has taken his sword, and Bertrand flees swiftly. ”

“ The servants were trooping into supper when Bertrand rode into the old court-yard and saw the hall windows warm with torch-light. He stabled his pony, fed the beast with his own hands, and washed at the laver in the screens before going in to supper. Sieur Robert and his wife were already at the high table, with Olivier, the young fop, lolling against the wall. His lips curled as he saw Bertrand enter, for he hated his brother, and feared him in his heart. ”

“ The great grid came jerking down; they were to fight it out like cats in a cage. Hanotin bluffed beyond his powers when he thought to frighten Bertrand into a surrender.
“Steady, steady. Keep close together, and follow when I give the word. Let them drop the grid. They are stopping their own bolting-hole.”
Bertrand’s coolness heartened his men on the instant. They could see that he was smiling—smiling one of those grim and quiet smiles they had learned to treasure. Messire Bertrand knew his business. Guicheaux and Hopart watched him in silence, ready for the spring they knew was coming. ”

“ Bertrand rose with none of his customary impetuosity and stood in front of Mordaunt, meeting the steady eyes with equal steadiness.
"I tell you the truth," he said. "We understand each other, and we love each other. But you—you are even now more to her than I have ever been. She has need of you as she has never had of me. You are the reality in her life. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Guicheaux approached them again, carrying a slice of steaming pork on his poniard, a loaf of bread, and a stone flask of cider. Arletta took the food from him and nodded him back towards the fire, where the free companions were making a brave battle over their meal. She knelt down again beside Bertrand, and pressed him to eat, coaxing him half-playfully, half-wistfully, till she won her way. Food, drink, and the cheerfulness of the fire worked their spell on Bertrand’s spirits. He began to feel comforted in the inner man, warmer about the body, less befogged about the brain. ”

“ The senseless man was carefully undressed and laid in a small upper room, where Bertrand watched by his side all that night, still uncertain if the crazed, haggard, ghastly sufferer before him could really be the same man whom he had last seen in the pride of youth and vigour and beauty, with all the fairest gifts of life within his reach. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Pierre stood shaking before Bertrand. Then he dropped on his knees and began to snivel, his poltrooning drawing laughter and taunts from Hopart and the rest.
“Get up, man, get up!”
By way of being wisely foolish, the Poitevin grovelled the more, and tried to take Bertrand by the knees.
“Mercy, lording, mercy! I was tired, devilish tired—”
Bertrand looked at him, and then rolled the fellow backward with a thrust of the foot.
“Stand up, fool!” he said, sharply. “Stand up—like a man! Guicheaux, give him twenty cuts with your belt. We will let him off easily. Next time it shall be the rope.” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ Bertrand, white with fury, glared from one to another as they laughed and jeered at him. He could not fight the whole crowd, much less the women, who were more malicious than the men. Ridicule is not an easy yoke to be borne by the shoulders of youth, and more so when the victim has learned to hate his own grotesqueness with the sensitive fierceness of a proud nature. Bertrand ground his teeth, and fumbled with the dagger that hung at his girdle, tempted to let blood in answer to their insolence. ”