Of late, however, Bambro’ had been unable to undertake any enterprise, for his reinforcements had failed him, and amid his following he had but three English knights and seventy men. The rest were a mixed crew of Bretons, Hainaulters and a few German mercenary soldiers, brave men individually, as those of that stock have ever been, but lacking interest in the cause, and bound together by no common tie of blood or tradition.
On the other hand, the surrounding castles, and especially that of Josselin, were held by strong forces of enthusiastic Bretons, inflamed by a common patriotism, and full of warlike ardour. Robert of Beaumanoir, the fierce seneschal of the house of Rohan, pushed constant forays and excursions against Ploermel so that town and castle were both in daily dread of being surrounded and besieged. Several small parties of the English faction had been cut off and slain to a man, and so straitened were the others that it was difficult for them to gather provisions from the country round.
Such was the state of Bambro’s garrison when on that March evening Knolles and his men streamed into the bailey-yard of his castle.
In the glare of the torches at the inner gate Bambro’ was waiting to receive them, a dry, hard, wizened man, small and fierce, with beady black eyes and quick, furtive ways. Beside him, a strange contrast, stood his squire, Croquart, a German, whose name and fame as a man-at-arms were widespread, though, like Robert Knolles himself, he had begun as a humble page. He was a very tall man, with an enormous spread of shoulders, and a pair of huge hands with which he could crack a horseshoe. He was slow and lethargic, save in moments of excitement, and his calm blond face, his dreamy blue eyes, and his long fair hair gave him so gentle an appearance that none save those who had seen him in his berserk mood, raging, an iron giant, in the forefront of the battle, could ever guess how terrible a warrior he might be. Little knight and huge squire stood together under the arch of the donjon and gave welcome to the newcomers, while a swarm of soldiers crowded round to embrace their comrades and to lead them off where they might feed and make merry together.
Supper had been set in the hall of Ploermel, wherein the knights and squires assembled. Bambro’ and Croquart were there with Sir Hugh Calverly, an old friend of Knolles and a fellow-townsman, for both were men of Chester. Sir Hugh was a middle-sized flaxen man, with hard gray eyes and fierce, large-nosed face, sliced across with the scar of a sword-cut. There, too, were Geoffrey D’Ardaine, a young Breton seigneur; Sir Thomas Belford, a burly thickset Midland Englishman; Sir Thomas Walton, whose surcoat of scarlet martlets showed that he was of the Surrey Waltons; James Marshall and John Russell, young English squires; and the two brothers, Richard and Hugh Le Galliard, who were of Gascon blood. Besides these were several squires unknown to fame, and of the newcomers, Sir Robert Knolles, Sir Thomas Percy, Nigel Loring, and two other squires, Allington and Parsons. These were the company who gathered in the torchlight round the table of the Seneschal of Ploermel, and kept high revel with joyous hearts because they thought that much honour and noble deeds lay before them.
But one sad face there was at the board, and that belonged to him at the head of it. Sir Robert Bambro’ sat with his chin leaning upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the cloth, whilst all round him rose the merry clatter of voices, everyone planning some fresh enterprise which might now be attempted. Sir Robert Knolles was for an immediate advance upon Josselin. Calverly thought that a raid might be made into the South, where the main French power lay. Others spoke of an attack upon Vannes.
To all these eager opinions Bambro’ listened in a moody silence, which he broke at last by a fierce execration which drew a hushed attention from the company.
“Say no more, fair sirs,” he cried, “for indeed your words are like so many stabs in my heart. All this and more we might indeed have done. But of a truth you are too late.”
“Too late?” cried Knolles. “What mean you, Richard?”
“Alas that I should have to say it, but you and all these fair soldiers might be back in England once more for all the profit that I am like to have from your coming. Saw you a rider on a white horse ere you reached the Castle?”
“Nay, I saw him not.”
“He came by the western road from Hennebon. Would that he had broken his neck ere he came here. Not an hour ago he left his message, and now hath ridden on to warn the garrison of Malestroit. A truce has been proclaimed for a year betwixt the French king and the English, and he who breaks it forfeits life and estate.”
“A truce!” Here was an end to all their fine dreams. They looked blankly at each other all round the table, whilst Croquart brought his great fist down upon the board until the glasses rattled again. Knolles sat with clinched hands as if he were a figure of stone, while Nigel’s heart turned cold and heavy within him. A truce! Where, then, was his third deed, and how might he return without it?
Even as they sat in moody silence there was the call of a bugle from somewhere out in the darkness.
Sir Richard looked up with surprise. “We are not wont to be summoned after once the portcullis is down,” said he. “Truce or no truce, we must let no man within our walls until we have proved him. Croquart, see to it!”
The huge German left the room. The company were still seated in despondent silence when he returned.
“Sir Richard,” said he, “the brave knight Robert of Beaumanoir and his Squire William de Montaubon are without
