Legends & Romances of Brittany Part 25

At these words Morvan drew his great sword.

The old hermit of the wood heard some one knocking on the door of his cell. He opened it quickly and saw the young squire standing before him. He started back at the sight of the youth's blood-stained armour and death-pale countenance.

"Ha, my son," he cried, "you are sorely hurt. Come and wash your wounds at the fountain and repose for a little."

"I may not rest here, good father," replied the squire, shaking his head. "I have come to find water to take to my young master, who has fallen in the fight. Thirty warriors lie slain by his hand. Of these the Chevalier Lorgnez was the first."

"Brave youth!" said the hermit. "Alas that he has fallen!"

"Do not grieve, father. It is true that he has fallen, but it is only from fatigue. He is unwounded and will soon recover himself."

When he was recovered Morvan betook him to the chapel of St Anne and rendered the gifts he had promised her.

"Praise be to Saint Anne," cried he, "for she it is who has gained this victory."

_The King's Blackamoor_

One day the King of the Franks was sitting among his courtiers.

"Would that some one would rid me of this pestilent Morvan, who constantly afflicts the Frankish land and slays my doughtiest warriors," he said, on hearing of a fresh exploit on the part of the Breton chief.

Then the King's blackamoor, who heard these words, arose and stood before his master. He was tall and great of thew and sinew--a giant among men, towering head and shoulders even above the tall Frankish warriors.

"Allow me to fulfil your wishes, sire," he said. "Sir Morvan has sent me his glove, and if to-morrow I do not bring you his head I will willingly part with my own."

On the next morning Morvan's squire came to his master trembling violently.

"Seigneur," he said, with ashy countenance, "the King's Moor is here and bids you defiance."

Morvan rose and took his sword.

"Alas! my dear master," said the squire, "take heed what you do, I pray you, for I a.s.sure you that this Moor is nothing but a demon who practises the most horrible enchantments."

Morvan laughed. "Well, we shall see whether this demon can withstand cold steel or not," he said. "Go and saddle my black horse."

"Saving your grace," said the page, "if you will hearken to my words you will not fight on the black charger. He has been bewitched.

Moreover, you will notice that when you enter the lists to fight the Moor he will cast his mantle to the ground. But do not follow his example, for should your mantle fall beneath his the strength of the black giant will be doubled. When the Moor advances to the attack make the sign of the Cross with the shaft of your lance, and when he rushes upon you in his battle-fury receive him with the steel. If you do this you may be sure that your lance will not break."

The heroes met within the lists. The King of France and his n.o.bles had followed the giant Moor in order to witness the combat, and when all had been seated the trumpets sounded and the two champions rushed together with the utmost fury. They circled round one another like eagles seeking an opening to strike. Now one struck, then the other, and the blood flowed down their bright armour. The Frankish King in high excitement called out:

"Ho! black crow of the sea, pierce me now this merle."

At these words the giant a.s.sailed Morvan most furiously, as a great tempest a.s.sails a ship. The lances crossed, but that of the Moor broke like matchwood. Both leaped to earth, sword in hand, and rushed at each other like lions. Many l.u.s.ty strokes were given and taken, and from their armour flew sparks like those from a smith's anvil. Then the Moor, grasping his sword with both hands, made ready to strike a mighty blow, when swift and trenchantly Morvan thrust his blade far into the arm-pit and the heart and the giant tumbled to the earth like a falling tree. Morvan placed his foot on the dead man's breast, withdrew his sword, and cut off the Moor's head. Then, attaching the bleeding trophy to the pommel of his saddle, he rode home with it and affixed it to the gate of his castle. All men praised him for his doughty deed, but he gave the grace of his victory entirely to St Anne, and declared that he would build a house of prayer in her honour on the heights between Leguer and the Guindy.

_Morvan Fights the King_

One day Morvan sallied forth to encounter the King of the Franks himself. The King brought no fewer than five thousand mounted men-at-arms. As this host was about to set out, a great clap of thunder resounded in the vault of heaven, and the King's n.o.bles perforce regarded it as a bad omen.

"For heaven's sake, sire, go not hence," said one of them, "since the day has begun with such an evil token."

"Impossible," was the royal reply. "I have given the order; we must march."

That morning, on the other hand, the sister of Morvan said to her brother: "My dear brother, if you love me seek not this combat, for if you do you will certainly go to your death, and what will become of me afterward? I see on the sh.o.r.e the white sea-horse, the symbol of Brittany. A monstrous serpent entwines him, seizing him round the hind legs and the body with his enormous coils. The sea-steed turns his head to seize the reptile. The combat is unequal. You are alone; the Franks are legion!"

But Morvan was already beyond ear-shot.

As the hermit of the wood of h.e.l.lean[48] slept three knocks sounded on his door.

"Good hermit," said some one, "open the door. I seek an asylum and help from you."

The wind blew coldly from the country of the Franks. It was the hour when savage beasts wander here and there in search of their prey. The hermit did not rise with alacrity.

"Who are you who knock at my door at this hour of night demanding an entrance?" he asked sulkily; "and by what sign shall I know whether you are a true man or otherwise?"

"Priest, I am well known in this land. I am Morvan Lez-Breiz, the Hatchet of Brittany."

"I will not open my door to you," said the hermit hastily. "You are a rebel; you are the enemy of the good King of the Franks."

"How, priest!" cried Morvan angrily, "I am a Breton and no traitor or rebel. It is the King of the Franks who has been a traitor to this land."

"Silence, recreant!" replied the hermit. "Rail not against the King of the Franks, for he is a man of G.o.d."

"Of G.o.d, say you? Nay, rather of the devil! Has he not ravaged and wasted the Breton land? The gold that he wrings from the Breton folk is expended for the good of Satan. Open, hermit, open!"

"Not so, my son, for should I do so the Franks would surely fix a quarrel upon me."

"You refuse?" shouted Morvan in a voice of thunder. "Good; then I shall burst into your cell," and with these words he threw himself against the door, which creaked ominously.

"Hold, my son, hold!" cried the old hermit in tremulous tones.

"Forbear and I will open to you"; and seizing a torch he lit it at the remains of his fire and went to open the door.

_The Severed Head_

He unlocked it and drew it back, but as he did so he recoiled violently, for he saw advancing upon him a terrible spectre, holding its head in its two hands. Its eyes seemed full of blood and fire, and rolled round and round in a most horrible manner. The hermit was about to shriek in terror when the head of the apparition, after laughing grimly, addressed him:

"Come now, old Christian, do not be afraid. G.o.d permits this thing to be. He has allowed the Franks to decapitate me, but for a time only, and as you see me now I am only a phantom. But He will permit you yourself to replace my head on my shoulders if you will."

The hermit stammered and drew back. This was not his first encounter with the supernatural, which he had good reason to dread, but like all Bretons he had come under the magnetism of Morvan, even although he believed that the King of the Franks was his rightful overlord; so, steeling himself against his natural timidity, he said:

"If G.o.d permits this thing I shall be very willing to replace your head on your shoulders."

"Take it, then," said the decapitated Morvan, and with trembling hands the priest took the gory trophy and replaced it on the Breton chief's shoulders, saying at the same time: "I replace your head, my son, in the name of G.o.d the Father, the Son, and the Spirit."