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Title: The White Company

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Release Date: May, 1997 [EBook #903]
Last Updated: March 6, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE COMPANY ***




Produced by Charles Keller, Carlo Traverso, Tonya Allen, Samuel S. Johnson,
and David Widger

THE WHITE COMPANY

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

CHAPTER I. HOW THE BLACK SHEEP CAME FORTH FROM THE FOLD.

The great bell of Beaulieu was ringing. Far away through the forest might
be heard its musical clangor and swell. Peat-cutters on Blackdown and
fishers upon the Exe heard the distant throbbing rising and falling upon
the sultry summer air. It was a common sound in those parts—as
common as the chatter of the jays and the booming of the bittern. Yet the
fishers and the peasants raised their heads and looked questions at each
other, for the angelus had already gone and vespers was still far off. Why
should the great bell of Beaulieu toll when the shadows were neither short
nor long?

All round the Abbey the monks were trooping in. Under the long green-paved
avenues of gnarled oaks and of lichened beeches the white-robed brothers
gathered to the sound. From the vine-yard and the vine-press, from the
bouvary or ox-farm, from the marl-pits and salterns, even from the distant
iron-works of Sowley and the outlying grange of St. Leonard’s, they had
all turned their steps homewards. It had been no sudden call. A swift
messenger had the night before sped round to the outlying dependencies of
the Abbey, and had left the summons for every monk to be back in the
cloisters by the third hour after noontide. So urgent a message had not
been issued within the memory of old lay-brother Athanasius, who had
cleaned the Abbey knocker since the year after the Battle of Bannockburn.

A stranger who knew nothing either of the Abbey or of its immense
resources might have gathered from the appearance of the brothers some
conception of the varied duties which they were called upon to perform,
and of the busy, wide-spread life which centred in the old monastery. As
they swept gravely in by twos and by threes, with bended heads and
muttering lips there were few who did not bear upon them some signs of
their daily toil. Here were two with wrists and sleeves all spotted with
the ruddy grape juice. There again was a bearded brother with a
broad-headed axe and a bundle of faggots upon his shoulders, while beside
him walked another with the shears under his arm and the white wool still
clinging to his whiter gown. A long, straggling troop bore spades and
mattocks while the two rearmost of all staggered along under a huge basket
o’ fresh-caught carp, for the morrow was Friday, and there were fifty
platters to be filled and as many sturdy trenchermen behind them. Of all
the throng there was scarce one who was not labor-stained and weary, for
Abbot Berghersh was a hard man to himself and to others.

Meanwhile, in the broad and lofty chamber set apart for occasions of
import, the Abbot himself was pacing impatiently backwards and forwards,
with his long white nervous hands clasped in front of him. His thin,
thought-worn features and sunken, haggard cheeks bespoke one who had
indeed beaten down that inner foe whom every man must face, but had none
the less suffered sorely in the contest. In crushing his passions he had
well-nigh crushed himself. Yet, frail as was his person there gleamed out
ever and anon from under his drooping brows a flash of fierce energy,
which recalled to men’s minds that he came of a fighting stock, and that
even now his twin-brother, Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, was one of the most
famous of those stern warriors who had planted the Cross of St. George
before the gates of Paris. With lips compressed and clouded brow, he
strode up and down the oaken floor, the very genius and impersonation of
asceticism, while the great bell still thundered and clanged above his
head. At last the uproar died away in three last, measured throbs, and ere
their echo had ceased the Abbot struck a small gong which summoned a
lay-brother to his presence.

“Have the brethren come?” he asked, in the Anglo-French dialect used in
religious houses.

“They are here,” the other answered, with his eyes cast down and his hands
crossed upon his chest.

“All?”

“Two and thirty of the seniors and fifteen of the novices, most holy
father. Brother Mark of the Spicarium is sore smitten with a fever and
could not come. He said that—”

“It boots not what he said. Fever or no, he should have come at my call.
His spirit must be chastened, as must that of many more in this Abbey. You
yourself, brother Francis, have twice raised your voice, so it hath come
to my ears, when the reader in the refectory hath been dealing with the
lives of God’s most blessed saints. What hast thou to say?”

The lay-brother stood meek and silent, with his arms still crossed in
front of him.

“One thousand Aves and as many Credos, said standing with arms
outstretched before the shrine of the Virgin, may help thee to remember
that the Creator hath given us two ears and but one mouth, as a token that
there is twice the work for the one as for the other. Where is the master
of the novices?”

“He is without, most holy father.”

“Send him hither.”

The sandalled feet clattered over the wooden floor, and the iron-bound
door creaked upon its hinges. In a few moments it opened again to admit a
short square monk with a heavy, composed face and an authoritative manner.

“You have sent for me, holy father?”

“Yes, brother Jerome, I wish that this matter be disposed of with as
little scandal as may be, and yet it is needful that the example should be
a public one.” The Abbot spoke in Latin now, as a language which was more
fitted by its age and solemnity to convey the thoughts of two high
dignitaries of the order.

“It would, perchance, be best that the novices be not admitted,” suggested
the master. “This mention of a woman may turn their minds from their pious
meditations to worldly and evil thoughts.”

“Woman! woman!” groaned the Abbot. “Well has the holy Chrysostom termed
them radix malorum. From Eve downwards, what good hath come from
any of them? Who brings the plaint?”

“It is brother Ambrose.”

“A holy and devout young man.”

“A light and a pattern to every novice.”

“Let the matter be brought to an issue then according to our old-time
monastic habit. Bid the chancellor and the sub-chancellor lead in the
brothers according to age, together with brother John, the accused, and
brother Ambrose, the accuser.”

“And the novices?”

“Let them bide in the north alley of the cloisters. Stay! Bid the
sub-chancellor send out to them Thomas the lector to read unto them from
the ‘Gesta beati Benedicti.’ It may save them from foolish and pernicious
babbling.”

The Abbot was left to himself once more, and bent his thin gray face over
his illuminated breviary. So he remained while the senior monks filed
slowly and sedately into the chamber seating themselves upon the long
oaken benches which lined the wall on either side. At the further end, in
two high chairs as large as that of the Abbot, though hardly as
elaborately carved, sat the master of the novices and the chancellor, the
latter a broad and portly priest, with dark mirthful eyes and a thick
outgrowth of crisp black hair all round his tonsured head. Between them
stood a lean, white-faced brother who appeared to be ill at ease, shifting
his feet from side to side and tapping his chin nervously with the long
parchment roll which he held in his hand. The Abbot, from his point of
vantage, looked down on the two long lines of faces, placid and
sun-browned for the most part, with the large bovine eyes and unlined
features which told of their easy, unchanging existence. Then he turned
his eager fiery gaze upon the pale-faced monk who faced him.

“This plaint is thine, as I learn, brother Ambrose,” said he. “May the
holy Benedict, patron of our house, be present this day and aid us in our
findings! How many counts are there?”

“Three, most holy father,” the brother answered in a low and quavering
voice.

“Have you set them forth according to rule?”

“They are here set down, most holy father, upon a cantle of sheep-skin.”

“Let the sheep-skin be handed to the chancellor. Bring in brother John,
and let him hear the plaints which have been urged against him.”

At this order a lay-brother swung open the door, and two other
lay-brothers entered leading between them a young novice of the order. He
was a man of huge stature, dark-eyed and red-headed, with a peculiar
half-humorous, half-defiant expression upon his bold, well-marked
features. His cowl was thrown back upon his shoulders, and his gown,
unfastened at the top, disclosed a round, sinewy neck, ruddy and corded
like the bark of the fir. Thick, muscular arms, covered with a reddish
down, protruded from the wide sleeves of his habit, while his white shirt,
looped up upon one side, gave a glimpse of a huge knotty leg, scarred and
torn with the scratches of brambles. With a bow to the Abbot, which had in
it perhaps more pleasantry than reverence, the novice strode across to the
carved prie-dieu which had been set apart for him, and stood silent and
erect with his hand upon the gold bell which was used in the private
orisons of the Abbot’s own household. His dark eyes glanced rapidly over
the assembly, and finally settled with a grim and menacing twinkle upon
the face of his accuser.

The chancellor rose, and having slowly unrolled the parchment-scroll,
proceeded to read it out in a thick and pompous voice, while a subdued
rustle and movement among the brothers bespoke the interest with which
they followed the proceedings.

“Charges brought upon the second Thursday after the Feast of the
Assumption, in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and sixty-six,
against brother John, formerly known as Hordle John, or John of Hordle,
but now a novice in the holy monastic order of the Cistercians. Read upon
the same day at the Abbey of Beaulieu in the presence of the most reverend
Abbot Berghersh and of the assembled order.

“The charges against the said brother John are the following, namely, to
wit:

“First, that on the above-mentioned Feast of the Assumption, small beer
having been served to the novices in the proportion of one quart to each
four, the said brother John did drain the pot at one draught to the
detriment of brother Paul, brother Porphyry and brother Ambrose, who could
scarce eat their none-meat of salted stock-fish on account of their
exceeding dryness.”

At this solemn indictment the novice raised his hand and twitched his lip,
while even the placid senior brothers glanced across at each other and
coughed to cover their amusement. The Abbot alone sat gray and immutable,
with a drawn face and a brooding eye.

“Item, that having been told by the master of the novices that he should
restrict his food for two days to a single three-pound loaf of bran and
beans, for the greater honoring and glorifying of St. Monica, mother of
the holy Augustine, he was heard by brother Ambrose and others to say that
he wished twenty thousand devils would fly away with the said Monica,
mother of the holy Augustine, or any other saint who came between a man
and his meat. Item, that upon brother Ambrose reproving him for this
blasphemous wish, he did hold the said brother face downwards over the
piscatorium or fish-pond for a space during which the said brother was
able to repeat a pater and four aves for the better fortifying of his soul
against impending death.”

There was a buzz and murmur among the white-frocked brethren at this grave
charge; but the Abbot held up his long quivering hand. “What then?” said
he.

“Item, that between nones and vespers on the feast of James the Less the
said brother John was observed upon the Brockenhurst road, near the spot
which is known as Hatchett’s Pond in converse with a person of the other
sex, being a maiden of the name of Mary Sowley, the daughter of the King’s
verderer. Item, that after sundry japes and jokes the said brother John
did lift up the said Mary Sowley and did take, carry, and convey her
across a stream, to the infinite relish of the devil and the exceeding
detriment of his own soul, which scandalous and wilful falling away was
witnessed by three members of our order.”

A dead silence throughout the room, with a rolling of heads and upturning
of eyes, bespoke the pious horror of the community.

The Abbot drew his gray brows low over his fiercely questioning eyes.

“Who can vouch for this thing?” he asked.

“That can I,” answered the accuser. “So too can brother Porphyry, who was
with me, and brother Mark of the Spicarium, who hath been so much stirred
and inwardly troubled by the sight that he now lies in a fever through
it.”

“And the woman?” asked the Abbot. “Did she not break into lamentation and
woe that a brother should so demean himself?”

“Nay, she smiled sweetly upon him and thanked him. I can vouch it and so
can brother Porphyry.”

“Canst thou?” cried the Abbot, in a high, tempestuous tone. “Canst thou
so? Hast forgotten that the five-and-thirtieth rule of the order is that
in the presence of a woman the face should be ever averted and the eyes
cast down? Hast forgot it, I say? If your eyes were upon your sandals, how
came ye to see this smile of which ye prate? A week in your cells, false
brethren, a week of rye-bread and lentils, with double lauds and double
matins, may help ye to remembrance of the laws under which ye live.”

At this sudden outflame of wrath the two witnesses sank their faces on to
their chests, and sat as men crushed. The Abbot turned his angry eyes away
from them and bent them upon the accused, who met his searching gaze with
a firm and composed face.

“What hast thou to say, brother John, upon these weighty things which are
urged against you?”

“Little enough, good father, little enough,” said the novice, speaking
English with a broad West Saxon drawl. The brothers, who were English to a
man, pricked up their ears at the sound of the homely and yet unfamiliar
speech; but the Abbot flushed red with anger, and struck his hand upon the
oaken arm of his chair.

“What talk is this?” he cried. “Is this a tongue to be used within the
walls of an old and well-famed monastery? But grace and learning have ever
gone hand in hand, and when one is lost it is needless to look for the
other.”

“I know not about that,” said brother John. “I know only that the words
come kindly to my mouth, for it was the speech of my fathers before me.
Under your favor, I shall either use it now or hold my peace.”

The Abbot patted his foot and nodded his head, as one who passes a point
but does not forget it.

“For the matter of the ale,” continued brother John, “I had come in hot
from the fields and had scarce got the taste of the thing before mine eye
lit upon the bottom of the pot. It may be, too, that I spoke somewhat
shortly concerning the bran and the beans, the same being poor provender
and unfitted for a man of my inches. It is true also that I did lay my
hands upon this jack-fool of a brother Ambrose, though, as you can see, I
did him little scathe. As regards the maid, too, it is true that I did
heft her over the stream, she having on her hosen and shoon, whilst I had
but my wooden sandals, which could take no hurt from the water. I should
have thought shame upon my manhood, as well as my monkhood, if I had held
back my hand from her.” He glanced around as he spoke with the half-amused
look which he had worn during the whole proceedings.

“There is no need to go further,” said the Abbot. “He has confessed to
all. It only remains for me to portion out the punishment which is due to
his evil conduct.”

He rose, and the two long lines of brothers followed his example, looking
sideways with scared faces at the angry prelate.

“John of Hordle,” he thundered, “you have shown yourself during the two
months of your novitiate to be a recreant monk, and one who is unworthy to
wear the white garb which is the outer symbol of the spotless spirit. That
dress shall therefore be stripped from thee, and thou shalt be cast into
the outer world without benefit of clerkship, and without lot or part in
the graces and blessings of those who dwell under the care of the Blessed
Benedict. Thou shalt come back neither to Beaulieu nor to any of the
granges of Beaulieu, and thy name shall be struck off the scrolls of the
order.”

The sentence appeared a terrible one to the older monks, who had become so
used to the safe and regular life of the Abbey that they would have been
as helpless as children in the outer world. From their pious oasis they
looked dreamily out at the desert of life, a place full of stormings and
strivings—comfortless, restless, and overshadowed by evil. The young
novice, however, appeared to have other thoughts, for his eyes sparkled
and his smile broadened. It needed but that to add fresh fuel to the fiery
mood of the prelate.

“So much for thy spiritual punishment,” he cried. “But it is to thy
grosser feelings that we must turn in such natures as thine, and as thou
art no longer under the shield of holy church there is the less
difficulty. Ho there! lay-brothers—Francis, Naomi, Joseph—seize
him and bind his arms! Drag him forth, and let the foresters and the
porters scourge him from the precincts!”

As these three brothers advanced towards him to carry out the Abbot’s
direction, the smile faded from the novice’s face, and he glanced right
and left with his fierce brown eyes, like a bull at a baiting. Then, with
a sudden deep-chested shout, he tore up the heavy oaken prie-dieu and
poised it to strike, taking two steps backward the while, that none might
take him at a vantage.

“By the black rood of Waltham!” he roared, “if any knave among you lays a
finger-end upon the edge of my gown, I will crush his skull like a
filbert!” With his thick knotted arms, his thundering voice, and his
bristle of red hair, there was something so repellent in the man that the
three brothers flew back at the very glare of him; and the two rows of
white monks strained away from him like poplars in a tempest. The Abbot
only sprang forward with shining eyes; but the chancellor and the master
hung upon either arm and wrested him back out of danger’s way.

“He is possessed of a devil!” they shouted. “Run, brother Ambrose, brother
Joachim! Call Hugh of the Mill, and Woodman Wat, and Raoul with his
arbalest and bolts. Tell them that we are in fear of our lives! Run, run!
for the love of the Virgin!”

But the novice was a strategist as well as a man of action. Springing
forward, he hurled his unwieldy weapon at brother Ambrose, and, as desk
and monk clattered on to the floor together, he sprang through the open
door and down the winding stair. Sleepy old brother Athanasius, at the
porter’s cell, had a fleeting vision of twinkling feet and flying skirts;
but before he had time to rub his eyes the recreant had passed the lodge,
and was speeding as fast as his sandals could patter along the Lyndhurst
Road.

CHAPTER II. HOW ALLEYNE EDRICSON CAME OUT INTO THE WORLD.

Never had the peaceful atmosphere of the old Cistercian house been so
rudely ruffled. Never had there been insurrection so sudden, so short, and
so successful. Yet the Abbot Berghersh was a man of too firm a grain to
allow one bold outbreak to imperil the settled order of his great
household. In a few hot and bitter words, he compared their false
brother’s exit to the expulsion of our first parents from the garden, and
more than hinted that unless a reformation occurred some others of the
community might find themselves in the same evil and perilous case. Having
thus pointed the moral and reduced his flock to a fitting state of
docility, he dismissed them once more to their labors and withdrew himself
to his own private chamber, there to seek spiritual aid in the discharge
of the duties of his high office.

The Abbot was still on his knees, when a gentle tapping at the door of his
cell broke in upon his orisons.

Rising in no very good humor at the interruption, he gave the word to
enter; but his look of impatience softened down into a pleasant and
paternal smile as his eyes fell upon his visitor.

He was a thin-faced, yellow-haired youth, rather above the middle size,
comely and well shapen, with straight, lithe figure and eager, boyish
features. His clear, pensive gray eyes, and quick, delicate expression,
spoke of a nature which had unfolded far from the boisterous joys and
sorrows of the world. Yet there was a set of the mouth and a prominence of
the chin which relieved him of any trace of effeminacy. Impulsive he might
be, enthusiastic, sensitive, with something sympathetic and adaptive in
his disposition; but an observer of nature’s tokens would have confidently
pledged himself that there was native firmness and strength underlying his
gentle, monk-bred ways.

The youth was not clad in monastic garb, but in lay attire, though his
jerkin, cloak and hose were all of a sombre hue, as befitted one who dwelt
in sacred precincts. A broad leather strap hanging from his shoulder
supported a scrip or satchel such as travellers were wont to carry. In one
hand he grasped a thick staff pointed and shod with metal, while in the
other he held his coif or bonnet, which bore in its front a broad pewter
medal stamped with the image of Our Lady of Rocamadour.

“Art ready, then, fair son?” said the Abbot. “This is indeed a day of
comings and of goings. It is strange that in one twelve hours the Abbey
should have cast off its foulest weed and should now lose what we are fain
to look upon as our choicest blossom.”

“You speak too kindly, father,” the youth answered. “If I had my will I
should never go forth, but should end my days here in Beaulieu. It hath
been my home as far back as my mind can carry me, and it is a sore thing
for me to have to leave it.”

“Life brings many a cross,” said the Abbot gently. “Who is without them?
Your going forth is a grief to us as well as to yourself. But there is no
help. I had given my foreword and sacred promise to your father, Edric the
Franklin, that at the age of twenty you should be sent out into the world
to see for yourself how you liked the savor of it. Seat thee upon the
settle, Alleyne, for you may need rest ere long.”

The youth sat down as directed, but reluctantly and with diffidence. The
Abbot stood by the narrow window, and his long black shadow fell slantwise
across the rush-strewn floor.

“Twenty years ago,” he said, “your father, the Franklin of Minstead, died,
leaving to the Abbey three hides of rich land in the hundred of Malwood,
and leaving to us also his infant son on condition that we should rear him
until he came to man’s estate. This he did partly because your mother was
dead, and partly because your elder brother, now Socman of Minstead, had
already given sign of that fierce and rude nature which would make him no
fit companion for you. It was his desire and request, however, that you
should not remain in the cloisters, but should at a ripe age return into
the world.”

“But, father,” interrupted the young man, “it is surely true that I am
already advanced several degrees in clerkship?”

“Yes, fair son, but not so far as to bar you from the garb you now wear or
the life which you must now lead. You have been porter?”

“Yes, father.”

“Exorcist?”

“Yes, father.”

“Reader?”

“Yes, father.”

“Acolyte?”

“Yes, father.”

“But have sworn no vow of constancy or chastity?”

“No, father.”

“Then you are free to follow a worldly life. But let me hear, ere you
start, what gifts you take away with you from Beaulieu? Some I already
know. There is the playing of the citole and the rebeck. Our choir will be
dumb without you. You carve too?”

The youth’s pale face flushed with the pride of the skilled workman. “Yes,
holy father,” he answered. “Thanks to good brother Bartholomew, I carve in
wood and in ivory, and can do something also in silver and in bronze. From
brother Francis I have learned to paint on vellum, on glass, and on metal,
with a knowledge of those pigments and essences which can preserve the
color against damp or a biting air. Brother Luke hath given me some skill
in damask work, and in the enamelling of shrines, tabernacles, diptychs
and triptychs. For the rest, I know a little of the making of covers, the
cutting of precious stones, and the fashioning of instruments.”

“A goodly list, truly,” cried the superior with a smile. “What clerk of
Cambrig or of Oxenford could say as much? But of thy reading—hast
not so much to show there, I fear?”

“No, father, it hath been slight enough. Yet, thanks to our good
chancellor, I am not wholly unlettered. I have read Ockham, Bradwardine,
and other of the schoolmen, together with the learned Duns Scotus and the
book of the holy Aquinas.”

“But of the things of this world, what have you gathered from your
reading? From this high window you may catch a glimpse over the wooden
point and the smoke of Bucklershard of the mouth of the Exe, and the
shining sea. Now, I pray you, Alleyne, if a man were to take a ship and
spread sail across yonder waters, where might he hope to arrive?”

The youth pondered, and drew a plan amongst the rushes with the point of
his staff. “Holy father,” said he, “he would come upon those parts of
France which are held by the King’s Majesty. But if he trended to the
south he might reach Spain and the Barbary States. To his north would be
Flanders and the country of the Eastlanders and of the Muscovites.”

“True. And how if, after reaching the King’s possessions, he still
journeyed on to the eastward?”

“He would then come upon that part of France which is still in dispute,
and he might hope to reach the famous city of Avignon, where dwells our
blessed father, the prop of Christendom.”

“And then?”

“Then he would pass through the land of the Almains and the great Roman
Empire, and so to the country of the Huns and of the Lithuanian pagans,
beyond which lies the great city of Constantine and the kingdom of the
unclean followers of Mahmoud.”

“And beyond that, fair son?”

“Beyond that is Jerusalem and the Holy Land, and the great river which
hath its source in the Garden of Eden.”

“And then?”

“Nay, good father, I cannot tell. Methinks the end of the world is not far
from there.”

“Then we can still find something to teach thee, Alleyne,” said the Abbot
complaisantly. “Know that many strange nations lie betwixt there and the
end of the world. There is the country of the Amazons, and the country of
the dwarfs, and the country of the fair but evil women who slay with
beholding, like the basilisk. Beyond that again is the kingdom of Prester
John and of the great Cham. These things I know for very sooth, for I had
them from that pious Christian and valiant knight, Sir John de Mandeville,
who stopped twice at Beaulieu on his way to and from Southampton, and
discoursed to us concerning what he had seen from the reader’s desk in the
refectory, until there was many a good brother who got neither bit nor
sup, so stricken were they by his strange tales.”

“I would fain know, father,” asked the young man, “what there may be at
the end of the world?”

“There are some things,” replied the Abbot gravely, “into which it was
never intended that we should inquire. But you have a long road before
you. Whither will you first turn?”

“To my brother’s at Minstead. If he be indeed an ungodly and violent man,
there is the more need that I should seek him out and see whether I cannot
turn him to better ways.”

The Abbot shook his head. “The Socman of Minstead hath earned an evil name
over the country side,” he said. “If you must go to him, see at least that
he doth not turn you from the narrow path upon which you have learned to
tread. But you are in God’s keeping, and Godward should you ever look in
danger and in trouble. Above all, shun the snares of women, for they are
ever set for the foolish feet of the young. Kneel down, my child, and take
an old man’s blessing.”

Alleyne Edricson bent his head while the Abbot poured out his heartfelt
supplication that Heaven would watch over this young soul, now going forth
into the darkness and danger of the world. It was no mere form for either
of them. To them the outside life of mankind did indeed seem to be one of
violence and of sin, beset with physical and still more with spiritual
danger. Heaven, too, was very near to them in those days. God’s direct
agency was to be seen in the thunder and the rainbow, the whirlwind and
the lightning. To the believer, clouds of angels and confessors, and
martyrs, armies of the sainted and the saved, were ever stooping over
their struggling brethren upon earth, raising, encouraging, and supporting
them. It was then with a lighter heart and a stouter courage that the
young man turned from the Abbot’s room, while the latter, following him to
the stair-head, finally commended him to the protection of the holy
Julian, patron of travellers.

Underneath, in the porch of the Abbey, the monks had gathered to give him
a last God-speed. Many had brought some parting token by which he should
remember them. There was brother Bartholomew with a crucifix of rare
carved ivory, and brother Luke with a white-backed psalter adorned with
golden bees, and brother Francis with the “Slaying of the Innocents” most
daintily set forth upon vellum. All these were duly packed away deep in
the traveller’s scrip, and above them old pippin-faced brother Athanasius
had placed a parcel of simnel bread and rammel cheese, with a small flask
of the famous blue-sealed Abbey wine. So, amid hand-shakings and laughings
and blessings, Alleyne Edricson turned his back upon Beaulieu.

At the turn of the road he stopped and gazed back. There was the
wide-spread building which he knew so well, the Abbot’s house, the long
church, the cloisters with their line of arches, all bathed and mellowed
in the evening sun. There too was the broad sweep of the river Exe, the
old stone well, the canopied niche of the Virgin, and in the centre of all
the cluster of white-robed figures who waved their hands to him. A sudden
mist swam up before the young man’s eyes, and he turned away upon his
journey with a heavy heart and a choking throat.

CHAPTER III. HOW HORDLE JOHN COZENED THE FULLER OF LYMINGTON.

It is not, however, in the nature of things that a lad of twenty, with
young life glowing in his veins and all the wide world before him, should
spend his first hours of freedom in mourning for what he had left. Long
ere Alleyne was out of sound of the Beaulieu bells he was striding
sturdily along, swinging his staff and whistling as merrily as the birds
in the thicket. It was an evening to raise a man’s heart. The sun shining
slantwise through the trees threw delicate traceries across the road, with
bars of golden light between. Away in the distance before and behind, the
green boughs, now turning in places to a coppery redness, shot their broad
arches across the track. The still summer air was heavy with the resinous
smell of the great forest. Here and there a tawny brook prattled out from
among the underwood and lost itself again in the ferns and brambles upon
the further side. Save the dull piping of insects and the sough of the
leaves, there was silence everywhere—the sweet restful silence of
nature.

And yet there was no want of life—the whole wide wood was full of
it. Now it was a lithe, furtive stoat which shot across the path upon some
fell errand of its own; then it was a wild cat which squatted upon the
outlying branch of an oak and peeped at the traveller with a yellow and
dubious eye. Once it was a wild sow which scuttled out of the bracken,
with two young sounders at her heels, and once a lordly red staggard
walked daintily out from among the tree trunks, and looked around him with
the fearless gaze of one who lived under the King’s own high protection.
Alleyne gave his staff a merry flourish, however, and the red deer
bethought him that the King was far off, so streaked away from whence he
came.

The youth had now journeyed considerably beyond the furthest domains of
the Abbey. He was the more surprised therefore when, on coming round a
turn in the path, he perceived a man clad in the familiar garb of the
order, and seated in a clump of heather by the roadside. Alleyne had known
every brother well, but this was a face which was new to him—a face
which was very red and puffed, working this way and that, as though the
man were sore perplexed in his mind. Once he shook both hands furiously in
the air, and twice he sprang from his seat and hurried down the road. When
he rose, however, Alleyne observed that his robe was much too long and
loose for him in every direction, trailing upon the ground and bagging
about his ankles, so that even with trussed-up skirts he could make little
progress. He ran once, but the long gown clogged him so that he slowed
down into a shambling walk, and finally plumped into the heather once
more.

“Young friend,” said he, when Alleyne was abreast of him, “I fear from thy
garb that thou canst know little of the Abbey of Beaulieu.”

“Then you are in error, friend,” the clerk answered, “for I have spent all
my days within its walls.”

“Hast so indeed?” cried he. “Then perhaps canst tell me the name of a
great loathly lump of a brother wi’ freckled face an’ a hand like a spade.
His eyes were black an’ his hair was red an’ his voice like the parish
bull. I trow that there cannot be two alike in the same cloisters.”

“That surely can be no other than brother John,” said Alleyne. “I trust he
has done you no wrong, that you should be so hot against him.”

“Wrong, quotha?” cried the other, jumping out of the heather. “Wrong! why
he hath stolen every plack of clothing off my back, if that be a wrong,
and hath left me here in this sorry frock of white falding, so that I have
shame to go back to my wife, lest she think that I have donned her old
kirtle. Harrow and alas that ever I should have met him!”

“But how came this?” asked the young clerk, who could scarce keep from
laughter at the sight of the hot little man so swathed in the great white
cloak.

“It came in this way,” he said, sitting down once more: “I was passing
this way, hoping to reach Lymington ere nightfall when I came on this
red-headed knave seated even where we are sitting now. I uncovered and
louted as I passed thinking that he might be a holy man at his orisons,
but he called to me and asked me if I had heard speak of the new
indulgence in favor of the Cistercians. ‘Not I,’ I answered. ‘Then the
worse for thy soul!’ said he; and with that he broke into a long tale how
that on account of the virtues of the Abbot Berghersh it had been decreed
by the Pope that whoever should wear the habit of a monk of Beaulieu for
as long as he might say the seven psalms of David should be assured of the
kingdom of Heaven. When I heard this I prayed him on my knees that he
would give me the use of his gown, which after many contentions he at last
agreed to do, on my paying him three marks towards the regilding of the
image of Laurence the martyr. Having stripped his robe, I had no choice
but to let him have the wearing of my good leathern jerkin and hose, for,
as he said, it was chilling to the blood and unseemly to the eye to stand
frockless whilst I made my orisons. He had scarce got them on, and it was
a sore labor, seeing that my inches will scarce match my girth—he
had scarce got them on, I say, and I not yet at the end of the second
psalm, when he bade me do honor to my new dress, and with that set off
down the road as fast as feet would carry him. For myself, I could no more
run than if I had been sown in a sack; so here I sit, and here I am like
to sit, before I set eyes upon my clothes again.”

“Nay, friend, take it not so sadly,” said Alleyne, clapping the
disconsolate one upon the shoulder. “Canst change thy robe for a jerkin
once more at the Abbey, unless perchance you have a friend near at hand.”

“That have I,” he answered, “and close; but I care not to go nigh him in
this plight, for his wife hath a gibing tongue, and will spread the tale
until I could not show my face in any market from Fordingbridge to
Southampton. But if you, fair sir, out of your kind charity would be
pleased to go a matter of two bow-shots out of your way, you would do me
such a service as I could scarce repay.”

“With all my heart,” said Alleyne readily.

“Then take this pathway on the left, I pray thee, and then the deer-track
which passes on the right. You will then see under a great beech-tree the
hut of a charcoal-burner. Give him my name, good sir, the name of Peter
the fuller, of Lymington, and ask him for a change of raiment, that I may
pursue my journey without delay. There are reasons why he would be loth to
refuse me.”

Alleyne started off along the path indicated, and soon found the log-hut
where the burner dwelt. He was away faggot-cutting in the forest, but his
wife, a ruddy bustling dame, found the needful garments and tied them into
a bundle. While she busied herself in finding and folding them, Alleyne
Edricson stood by the open door looking in at her with much interest and
some distrust, for he had never been so nigh to a woman before. She had
round red arms, a dress of some sober woollen stuff, and a brass brooch
the size of a cheese-cake stuck in the front of it.

“Peter the fuller!” she kept repeating. “Marry come up! if I were Peter
the fuller’s wife I would teach him better than to give his clothes to the
first knave who asks for them. But he was always a poor, fond, silly
creature, was Peter, though we are beholden to him for helping to bury our
second son Wat, who was a ‘prentice to him at Lymington in the year of the
Black Death. But who are you, young sir?”

“I am a clerk on my road from Beaulieu to Minstead.”

“Aye, indeed! Hast been brought up at the Abbey then. I could read it from
thy reddened cheek and downcast eye. Hast learned from the monks, I trow,
to fear a woman as thou wouldst a lazar-house. Out upon them! that they
should dishonor their own mothers by such teaching. A pretty world it
would be with all the women out of it.”

“Heaven forfend that such a thing should come to pass!” said Alleyne.

“Amen and amen! But thou art a pretty lad, and the prettier for thy modest
ways. It is easy to see from thy cheek that thou hast not spent thy days
in the rain and the heat and the wind, as my poor Wat hath been forced to
do.”

“I have indeed seen little of life, good dame.”

“Wilt find nothing in it to pay for the loss of thy own freshness. Here
are the clothes, and Peter can leave them when next he comes this way.
Holy Virgin! see the dust upon thy doublet! It were easy to see that there
is no woman to tend to thee. So!—that is better. Now buss me, boy.”

Alleyne stooped and kissed her, for the kiss was the common salutation of
the age, and, as Erasmus long afterwards remarked, more used in England
than in any other country. Yet it sent the blood to his temples again, and
he wondered, as he turned away, what the Abbot Berghersh would have
answered to so frank an invitation. He was still tingling from this new
experience when he came out upon the high-road and saw a sight which drove
all other thoughts from his mind.

Some way down from where he had left him the unfortunate Peter was
stamping and raving tenfold worse than before. Now, however, instead of
the great white cloak, he had no clothes on at all, save a short woollen
shirt and a pair of leather shoes. Far down the road a long-legged figure
was running, with a bundle under one arm and the other hand to his side,
like a man who laughs until he is sore.

“See him!” yelled Peter. “Look to him! You shall be my witness. He shall
see Winchester jail for this. See where he goes with my cloak under his
arm!”

“Who then?” cried Alleyne.

“Who but that cursed brother John. He hath not left me clothes enough to
make a gallybagger. The double thief hath cozened me out of my gown.”

“Stay though, my friend, it was his gown,” objected Alleyne.

“It boots not. He hath them all—gown, jerkin, hosen and all.
Gramercy to him that he left me the shirt and the shoon. I doubt not that
he will be back for them anon.”

“But how came this?” asked Alleyne, open-eyed with astonishment.

“Are those the clothes? For dear charity’s sake give them to me. Not the
Pope himself shall have these from me, though he sent the whole college of
cardinals to ask it. How came it? Why, you had scarce gone ere this
loathly John came running back again, and, when I oped mouth to reproach
him, he asked me whether it was indeed likely that a man of prayer would
leave his own godly raiment in order to take a layman’s jerkin. He had, he
said, but gone for a while that I might be the freer for my devotions. On
this I plucked off the gown, and he with much show of haste did begin to
undo his points; but when I threw his frock down he clipped it up and ran
off all untrussed, leaving me in this sorry plight. He laughed so the
while, like a great croaking frog, that I might have caught him had my
breath not been as short as his legs were long.”

The young man listened to this tale of wrong with all the seriousness that
he could maintain; but at the sight of the pursy red-faced man and the
dignity with which he bore him, the laughter came so thick upon him that
he had to lean up against a tree-trunk. The fuller looked sadly and
gravely at him; but finding that he still laughed, he bowed with much mock
politeness and stalked onwards in his borrowed clothes. Alleyne watched
him until he was small in the distance, and then, wiping the tears from
his eyes, he set off briskly once more upon his journey.

CHAPTER IV. HOW THE BAILIFF OF SOUTHAMPTON SLEW THE TWO MASTERLESS MEN.

The road along which he travelled was scarce as populous as most other
roads in the kingdom, and far less so than those which lie between the
larger towns. Yet from time to time Alleyne met other wayfarers, and more
than once was overtaken by strings of pack mules and horsemen journeying
in the same direction as himself. Once a begging friar came limping along
in a brown habit, imploring in a most dolorous voice to give him a single
groat to buy bread wherewith to save himself from impending death. Alleyne
passed him swiftly by, for he had learned from the monks to have no love
for the wandering friars, and, besides, there was a great half-gnawed
mutton bone sticking out of his pouch to prove him a liar. Swiftly as he
went, however, he could not escape the curse of the four blessed
evangelists which the mendicant howled behind him. So dreadful are his
execrations that the frightened lad thrust his fingers into his ear-holes,
and ran until the fellow was but a brown smirch upon the yellow road.

Further on, at the edge of the woodland, he came upon a chapman and his
wife, who sat upon a fallen tree. He had put his pack down as a table, and
the two of them were devouring a great pasty, and washing it down with
some drink from a stone jar. The chapman broke a rough jest as he passed,
and the woman called shrilly to Alleyne to come and join them, on which
the man, turning suddenly from mirth to wrath, began to belabor her with
his cudgel. Alleyne hastened on, lest he make more mischief, and his heart
was heavy as lead within him. Look where he would, he seemed to see
nothing but injustice and violence and the hardness of man to man.

But even as he brooded sadly over it and pined for the sweet peace of the
Abbey, he came on an open space dotted with holly bushes, where was the
strangest sight that he had yet chanced upon. Near to the pathway lay a
long clump of greenery, and from behind this there stuck straight up into
the air four human legs clad in parti-colored hosen, yellow and black.
Strangest of all was when a brisk tune struck suddenly up and the four
legs began to kick and twitter in time to the music. Walking on tiptoe
round the bushes, he stood in amazement to see two men bounding about on
their heads, while they played, the one a viol and the other a pipe, as
merrily and as truly as though they were seated in a choir. Alleyne
crossed himself as he gazed at this unnatural sight, and could scarce hold
his ground with a steady face, when the two dancers, catching sight of
him, came bouncing in his direction. A spear’s length from him, they each
threw a somersault into the air, and came down upon their feet with
smirking faces and their hands over their hearts.

“A guerdon—a guerdon, my knight of the staring eyes!” cried one.

“A gift, my prince!” shouted the other. “Any trifle will serve—a
purse of gold, or even a jewelled goblet.”

Alleyne thought of what he had read of demoniac possession—the
jumpings, the twitchings, the wild talk. It was in his mind to repeat over
the exorcism proper to such attacks; but the two burst out a-laughing at
his scared face, and turning on to their heads once more, clapped their
heels in derision.

“Hast never seen tumblers before?” asked the elder, a black-browed,
swarthy man, as brown and supple as a hazel twig. “Why shrink from us,
then, as though we were the spawn of the Evil One?”

“Why shrink, my honey-bird? Why so afeard, my sweet cinnamon?” exclaimed
the other, a loose-jointed lanky youth with a dancing, roguish eye.

“Truly, sirs, it is a new sight to me,” the clerk answered. “When I saw
your four legs above the bush I could scarce credit my own eyes. Why is it
that you do this thing?”

“A dry question to answer,” cried the younger, coming back on to his feet.
“A most husky question, my fair bird! But how? A flask, a flask!—by
all that is wonderful!” He shot out his hand as he spoke, and plucking
Alleyne’s bottle out of his scrip, he deftly knocked the neck off, and
poured the half of it down his throat. The rest he handed to his comrade,
who drank the wine, and then, to the clerk’s increasing amazement, made a
show of swallowing the bottle, with such skill that Alleyne seemed to see
it vanish down his throat. A moment later, however, he flung it over his
head, and caught it bottom downwards upon the calf of his left leg.

“We thank you for the wine, kind sir,” said he, “and for the ready
courtesy wherewith you offered it. Touching your question, we may tell you
that we are strollers and jugglers, who, having performed with much
applause at Winchester fair, are now on our way to the great Michaelmas
market at Ringwood. As our art is a very fine and delicate one, however,
we cannot let a day go by without exercising ourselves in it, to which end
we choose some quiet and sheltered spot where we may break our journey.
Here you find us; and we cannot wonder that you, who are new to tumbling,
should be astounded, since many great barons, earls, marshals and knights,
who have wandered as far as the Holy Land, are of one mind in saying that
they have never seen a more noble or gracious performance. If you will be
pleased to sit upon that stump, we will now continue our exercise.”

Alleyne sat down willingly as directed with two great bundles on either
side of him which contained the strollers’ dresses—doublets of
flame-colored silk and girdles of leather, spangled with brass and tin.
The jugglers were on their heads once more, bounding about with rigid
necks, playing the while in perfect time and tune. It chanced that out of
one of the bundles there stuck the end of what the clerk saw to be a
cittern, so drawing it forth, he tuned it up and twanged a harmony to the
merry lilt which the dancers played. On that they dropped their own
instruments, and putting their hands to the ground they hopped about
faster and faster, ever shouting to him to play more briskly, until at
last for very weariness all three had to stop.

“Well played, sweet poppet!” cried the younger. “Hast a rare touch on the
strings.”

“How knew you the tune?” asked the other.

“I knew it not. I did but follow the notes I heard.”

Both opened their eyes at this, and stared at Alleyne with as much
amazement as he had shown at them.

“You have a fine trick of ear then,” said one. “We have long wished to
meet such a man. Wilt join us and jog on to Ringwood? Thy duties shall be
light, and thou shalt have two-pence a day and meat for supper every
night.”

“With as much beer as you can put away,” said the other, “and a flask of
Gascon wine on Sabbaths.”

“Nay, it may not be. I have other work to do. I have tarried with you over
long,” quoth Alleyne, and resolutely set forth upon his journey once more.
They ran behind him some little way, offering him first fourpence and then
sixpence a day, but he only smiled and shook his head, until at last they
fell away from him. Looking back, he saw that the smaller had mounted on
the younger’s shoulders, and that they stood so, some ten feet high,
waving their adieus to him. He waved back to them, and then hastened on,
the lighter of heart for having fallen in with these strange men of
pleasure.

Alleyne had gone no great distance for all the many small passages that
had befallen him. Yet to him, used as he was to a life of such quiet that
the failure of a brewing or the altering of an anthem had seemed to be of
the deepest import, the quick changing play of the lights and shadows of
life was strangely startling and interesting. A gulf seemed to divide this
brisk uncertain existence from the old steady round of work and of prayer
which he had left behind him. The few hours that had passed since he saw
the Abbey tower stretched out in his memory until they outgrew whole
months of the stagnant life of the cloister. As he walked and munched the
soft bread from his scrip, it seemed strange to him to feel that it was
still warm from the ovens of Beaulieu.

When he passed Penerley, where were three cottages and a barn, he reached
the edge of the tree country, and found the great barren heath of
Blackdown stretching in front of him, all pink with heather and bronzed
with the fading ferns. On the left the woods were still thick, but the
road edged away from them and wound over the open. The sun lay low in the
west upon a purple cloud, whence it threw a mild, chastening light over
the wild moorland and glittered on the fringe of forest turning the
withered leaves into flakes of dead gold, the brighter for the black
depths behind them. To the seeing eye decay is as fair as growth, and
death as life. The thought stole into Alleyne’s heart as he looked upon
the autumnal country side and marvelled at its beauty. He had little time
to dwell upon it however, for there were still six good miles between him
and the nearest inn. He sat down by the roadside to partake of his bread
and cheese, and then with a lighter scrip he hastened upon his way.

There appeared to be more wayfarers on the down than in the forest. First
he passed two Dominicans in their long black dresses, who swept by him
with downcast looks and pattering lips, without so much as a glance at
him. Then there came a gray friar, or minorite, with a good paunch upon
him, walking slowly and looking about him with the air of a man who was at
peace with himself and with all men. He stopped Alleyne to ask him whether
it was not true that there was a hostel somewhere in those parts which was
especially famous for the stewing of eels. The clerk having made answer
that he had heard the eels of Sowley well spoken of, the friar sucked in
his lips and hurried forward. Close at his heels came three laborers
walking abreast, with spade and mattock over their shoulders. They sang
some rude chorus right tunefully as they walked, but their English was so
coarse and rough that to the ears of a cloister-bred man it sounded like a
foreign and barbarous tongue. One of them carried a young bittern which
they had caught upon the moor, and they offered it to Alleyne for a silver
groat. Very glad he was to get safely past them, for, with their bristling
red beards and their fierce blue eyes, they were uneasy men to bargain
with upon a lonely moor.

Yet it is not always the burliest and the wildest who are the most to be
dreaded. The workers looked hungrily at him, and then jogged onwards upon
their way in slow, lumbering Saxon style. A worse man to deal with was a
wooden-legged cripple who came hobbling down the path, so weak and so old
to all appearance that a child need not stand in fear of him. Yet when
Alleyne had passed him, of a sudden, out of pure devilment, he screamed
out a curse at him, and sent a jagged flint stone hurtling past his ear.
So horrid was the causeless rage of the crooked creature, that the clerk
came over a cold thrill, and took to his heels until he was out of shot
from stone or word. It seemed to him that in this country of England there
was no protection for a man save that which lay in the strength of his own
arm and the speed of his own foot. In the cloisters he had heard vague
talk of the law—the mighty law which was higher than prelate or
baron, yet no sign could he see of it. What was the benefit of a law
written fair upon parchment, he wondered, if there were no officers to
enforce it. As it fell out, however, he had that very evening, ere the sun
had set, a chance of seeing how stern was the grip of the English law when
it did happen to seize the offender.

A mile or so out upon the moor the road takes a very sudden dip into a
hollow, with a peat-colored stream running swiftly down the centre of it.
To the right of this stood, and stands to this day, an ancient barrow, or
burying mound, covered deeply in a bristle of heather and bracken. Alleyne
was plodding down the slope upon one side, when he saw an old dame coming
towards him upon the other, limping with weariness and leaning heavily
upon a stick. When she reached the edge of the stream she stood helpless,
looking to right and to left for some ford. Where the path ran down a
great stone had been fixed in the centre of the brook, but it was too far
from the bank for her aged and uncertain feet. Twice she thrust forward at
it, and twice she drew back, until at last, giving up in despair, she sat
herself down by the brink and wrung her hands wearily. There she still sat
when Alleyne reached the crossing.

“Come, mother,” quoth he, “it is not so very perilous a passage.”

“Alas! good youth,” she answered, “I have a humor in the eyes, and though
I can see that there is a stone there I can by no means be sure as to
where it lies.”

“That is easily amended,” said he cheerily, and picking her lightly up,
for she was much worn with time, he passed across with her. He could not
but observe, however, that as he placed her down her knees seemed to fail
her, and she could scarcely prop herself up with her staff.

“You are weak, mother,” said he. “Hast journeyed far, I wot.”

“From Wiltshire, friend,” said she, in a quavering voice; “three days have
I been on the road. I go to my son, who is one of the King’s regarders at
Brockenhurst. He has ever said that he would care for me in mine old age.”

“And rightly too, mother, since you cared for him in his youth. But when
have you broken fast?”

“At Lyndenhurst; but alas! my money is at an end, and I could but get a
dish of bran-porridge from the nunnery. Yet I trust that I may be able to
reach Brockenhurst to-night, where I may have all that heart can desire;
for oh! sir, but my son is a fine man, with a kindly heart of his own, and
it is as good as food to me to think that he should have a doublet of
Lincoln green to his back and be the King’s own paid man.”

“It is a long road yet to Brockenhurst,” said Alleyne; “but here is such
bread and cheese as I have left, and here, too, is a penny which may help
you to supper. May God be with you!”

“May God be with you, young man!” she cried. “May He make your heart as
glad as you have made mine!” She turned away, still mumbling blessings,
and Alleyne saw her short figure and her long shadow stumbling slowly up
the slope.

He was moving away himself, when his eyes lit upon a strange sight, and
one which sent a tingling through his skin. Out of the tangled scrub on
the old overgrown barrow two human faces were looking out at him; the
sinking sun glimmered full upon them, showing up every line and feature.
The one was an oldish man with a thin beard, a crooked nose, and a broad
red smudge from a birth-mark over his temple; the other was a negro, a
thing rarely met in England at that day, and rarer still in the quiet
southland parts. Alleyne had read of such folk, but had never seen one
before, and could scarce take his eyes from the fellow’s broad pouting lip
and shining teeth. Even as he gazed, however, the two came writhing out
from among the heather, and came down towards him with such a guilty,
slinking carriage, that the clerk felt that there was no good in them, and
hastened onwards upon his way.

He had not gained the crown of the slope, when he heard a sudden scuffle
behind him and a feeble voice bleating for help. Looking round, there was
the old dame down upon the roadway, with her red whimple flying on the
breeze, while the two rogues, black and white, stooped over her, wresting
away from her the penny and such other poor trifles as were worth the
taking. At the sight of her thin limbs struggling in weak resistance, such
a glow of fierce anger passed over Alleyne as set his head in a whirl.
Dropping his scrip, he bounded over the stream once more, and made for the
two villains, with his staff whirled over his shoulder and his gray eyes
blazing with fury.

The robbers, however, were not disposed to leave their victim until they
had worked their wicked will upon her. The black man, with the woman’s
crimson scarf tied round his swarthy head, stood forward in the centre of
the path, with a long dull-colored knife in his hand, while the other,
waving a ragged cudgel, cursed at Alleyne and dared him to come on. His
blood was fairly aflame, however, and he needed no such challenge. Dashing
at the black man, he smote at him with such good will that the other let
his knife tinkle into the roadway, and hopped howling to a safer distance.
The second rogue, however, made of sterner stuff, rushed in upon the
clerk, and clipped him round the waist with a grip like a bear, shouting
the while to his comrade to come round and stab him in the back. At this
the negro took heart of grace, and picking up his dagger again he came
stealing with prowling step and murderous eye, while the two swayed
backwards and forwards, staggering this way and that. In the very midst of
the scuffle, however, whilst Alleyne braced himself to feel the cold blade
between his shoulders, there came a sudden scurry of hoofs, and the black
man yelled with terror and ran for his life through the heather. The man
with the birth-mark, too, struggled to break away, and Alleyne heard his
teeth chatter and felt his limbs grow limp to his hand. At this sign of
coming aid the clerk held on the tighter, and at last was able to pin his
man down and glanced behind him to see where all the noise was coming
from.

Down the slanting road there was riding a big, burly man, clad in a tunic
of purple velvet and driving a great black horse as hard as it could
gallop. He leaned well over its neck as he rode, and made a heaving with
his shoulders at every bound as though he were lifting the steed instead
of it carrying him. In the rapid glance Alleyne saw that he had white
doeskin gloves, a curling white feather in his flat velvet cap, and a
broad gold, embroidered baldric across his bosom. Behind him rode six
others, two and two, clad in sober brown jerkins, with the long yellow
staves of their bows thrusting out from behind their right shoulders. Down
the hill they thundered, over the brook and up to the scene of the
contest.

“Here is one!” said the leader, springing down from his reeking horse, and
seizing the white rogue by the edge of his jerkin. “This is one of them. I
know him by that devil’s touch upon his brow. Where are your cords,
Peterkin? So! Bind him hand and foot. His last hour has come. And you,
young man, who may you be?”

“I am a clerk, sir, travelling from Beaulieu.”

“A clerk!” cried the other. “Art from Oxenford or from Cambridge? Hast
thou a letter from the chancellor of thy college giving thee a permit to
beg? Let me see thy letter.” He had a stern, square face, with bushy side
whiskers and a very questioning eye.

“I am from Beaulieu Abbey, and I have no need to beg,” said Alleyne, who
was all of a tremble now that the ruffle was over.

“The better for thee,” the other answered. “Dost know who I am?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“I am the law!”—nodding his head solemnly. “I am the law of England
and the mouthpiece of his most gracious and royal majesty, Edward the
Third.”

Alleyne louted low to the King’s representative. “Truly you came in good
time, honored sir,” said he. “A moment later and they would have slain
me.”

“But there should be another one,” cried the man in the purple coat.
“There should be a black man. A shipman with St. Anthony’s fire, and a
black man who had served him as cook—those are the pair that we are
in chase of.”

“The black man fled over to that side,” said Alleyne, pointing towards the
barrow.

“He could not have gone far, sir bailiff,” cried one of the archers,
unslinging his bow. “He is in hiding somewhere, for he knew well, black
paynim as he is, that our horses’ four legs could outstrip his two.”

“Then we shall have him,” said the other. “It shall never be said, whilst
I am bailiff of Southampton, that any waster, riever, draw-latch or
murtherer came scathless away from me and my posse. Leave that rogue
lying. Now stretch out in line, my merry ones, with arrow on string, and I
shall show you such sport as only the King can give. You on the left,
Howett, and Thomas of Redbridge upon the right. So! Beat high and low
among the heather, and a pot of wine to the lucky marksman.”

As it chanced, however, the searchers had not far to seek. The negro had
burrowed down into his hiding-place upon the barrow, where he might have
lain snug enough, had it not been for the red gear upon his head. As he
raised himself to look over the bracken at his enemies, the staring color
caught the eye of the bailiff, who broke into a long screeching whoop and
spurred forward sword in hand. Seeing himself discovered, the man rushed
out from his hiding-place, and bounded at the top of his speed down the
line of archers, keeping a good hundred paces to the front of them. The
two who were on either side of Alleyne bent their bows as calmly as though
they were shooting at the popinjay at the village fair.

“Seven yards windage, Hal,” said one, whose hair was streaked with gray.

“Five,” replied the other, letting loose his string. Alleyne gave a gulp
in his throat, for the yellow streak seemed to pass through the man; but
he still ran forward.

“Seven, you jack-fool,” growled the first speaker, and his bow twanged
like a harp-string. The black man sprang high up into the air, and shot
out both his arms and his legs, coming down all a-sprawl among the
heather. “Right under the blade bone!” quoth the archer, sauntering
forward for his arrow.

“The old hound is the best when all is said,” quoth the bailiff of
Southampton, as they made back for the roadway. “That means a quart of the
best malmsey in Southampton this very night, Matthew Atwood. Art sure that
he is dead?”

“Dead as Pontius Pilate, worshipful sir.”

“It is well. Now, as to the other knave. There are trees and to spare over
yonder, but we have scarce leisure to make for them. Draw thy sword,
Thomas of Redbridge, and hew me his head from his shoulders.”

“A boon, gracious sir, a boon!” cried the condemned man.

“What then?” asked the bailiff.

“I will confess to my crime. It was indeed I and the black cook, both from
the ship ‘La Rose de Gloire,’ of Southampton, who did set upon the
Flanders merchant and rob him of his spicery and his mercery, for which,
as we well know, you hold a warrant against us.”

“There is little merit in this confession,” quoth the bailiff sternly.
“Thou hast done evil within my bailiwick, and must die.”

“But, sir,” urged Alleyne, who was white to the lips at these bloody
doings, “he hath not yet come to trial.”

“Young clerk,” said the bailiff, “you speak of that of which you know
nothing. It is true that he hath not come to trial, but the trial hath
come to him. He hath fled the law and is beyond its pale. Touch not that
which is no concern of thine. But what is this boon, rogue, which you
would crave?”

“I have in my shoe, most worshipful sir, a strip of wood which belonged
once to the bark wherein the blessed Paul was dashed up against the island
of Melita. I bought it for two rose nobles from a shipman who came from
the Levant. The boon I crave is that you will place it in my hands and let
me die still grasping it. In this manner, not only shall my own eternal
salvation be secured, but thine also, for I shall never cease to intercede
for thee.”

At the command of the bailiff they plucked off the fellow’s shoe, and
there sure enough at the side of the instep, wrapped in a piece of fine
sendall, lay a long, dark splinter of wood. The archers doffed caps at the
sight of it, and the bailiff crossed himself devoutly as he handed it to
the robber.

“If it should chance,” he said, “that through the surpassing merits of the
blessed Paul your sin-stained soul should gain a way into paradise, I
trust that you will not forget that intercession which you have promised.
Bear in mind too, that it is Herward the bailiff for whom you pray, and
not Herward the sheriff, who is my uncle’s son. Now, Thomas, I pray you
dispatch, for we have a long ride before us and sun has already set.”

Alleyne gazed upon the scene—the portly velvet-clad official, the
knot of hard-faced archers with their hands to the bridles of their
horses, the thief with his arms trussed back and his doublet turned down
upon his shoulders. By the side of the track the old dame was standing,
fastening her red whimple once more round her head. Even as he looked one
of the archers drew his sword with a sharp whirr of steel and stept up to
the lost man. The clerk hurried away in horror; but, ere he had gone many
paces, he heard a sudden, sullen thump, with a choking, whistling sound at
the end of it. A minute later the bailiff and four of his men rode past
him on their journey back to Southampton, the other two having been chosen
as grave-diggers. As they passed Alleyne saw that one of the men was
wiping his sword-blade upon the mane of his horse. A deadly sickness came
over him at the sight, and sitting down by the wayside he burst out
weeping, with his nerves all in a jangle. It was a terrible world thought
he, and it was hard to know which were the most to be dreaded, the knaves
or the men of the law.

CHAPTER V. HOW A STRANGE COMPANY GATHERED AT THE “PIED MERLIN.”

The night had already fallen, and the moon was shining between the rifts
of ragged, drifting clouds, before Alleyne Edricson, footsore and weary
from the unwonted exercise, found himself in front of the forest inn which
stood upon the outskirts of Lyndhurst. The building was long and low,
standing back a little from the road, with two flambeaux blazing on either
side of the door as a welcome to the traveller. From one window there
thrust forth a long pole with a bunch of greenery tied to the end of it—a
sign that liquor was to be sold within. As Alleyne walked up to it he
perceived that it was rudely fashioned out of beams of wood, with
twinkling lights all over where the glow from within shone through the
chinks. The roof was poor and thatched; but in strange contrast to it
there ran all along under the eaves a line of wooden shields, most
gorgeously painted with chevron, bend, and saltire, and every heraldic
device. By the door a horse stood tethered, the ruddy glow beating
strongly upon his brown head and patient eyes, while his body stood back
in the shadow.

Alleyne stood still in the roadway for a few minutes reflecting upon what
he should do. It was, he knew, only a few miles further to Minstead, where
his brother dwelt. On the other hand, he had never seen this brother since
childhood, and the reports which had come to his ears concerning him were
seldom to his advantage. By all accounts he was a hard and a bitter man.

It might be an evil start to come to his door so late and claim the
shelter of his roof. Better to sleep here at this inn, and then travel on
to Minstead in the morning. If his brother would take him in, well and
good.

He would bide with him for a time and do what he might to serve him. If,
on the other hand, he should have hardened his heart against him, he could
only go on his way and do the best he might by his skill as a craftsman
and a scrivener. At the end of a year he would be free to return to the
cloisters, for such had been his father’s bequest. A monkish upbringing,
one year in the world after the age of twenty, and then a free selection
one way or the other—it was a strange course which had been marked
out for him. Such as it was, however, he had no choice but to follow it,
and if he were to begin by making a friend of his brother he had best wait
until morning before he knocked at his dwelling.

The rude plank door was ajar, but as Alleyne approached it there came from
within such a gust of rough laughter and clatter of tongues that he stood
irresolute upon the threshold. Summoning courage, however, and reflecting
that it was a public dwelling, in which he had as much right as any other
man, he pushed it open and stepped into the common room.

Though it was an autumn evening and somewhat warm, a huge fire of heaped
billets of wood crackled and sparkled in a broad, open grate, some of the
smoke escaping up a rude chimney, but the greater part rolling out into
the room, so that the air was thick with it, and a man coming from without
could scarce catch his breath. On this fire a great cauldron bubbled and
simmered, giving forth a rich and promising smell. Seated round it were a
dozen or so folk, of all ages and conditions, who set up such a shout as
Alleyne entered that he stood peering at them through the smoke, uncertain
what this riotous greeting might portend.

“A rouse! A rouse!” cried one rough looking fellow in a tattered jerkin.
“One more round of mead or ale and the score to the last comer.”

“’Tis the law of the ‘Pied Merlin,’” shouted another. “Ho there, Dame
Eliza! Here is fresh custom come to the house, and not a drain for the
company.”

“I will take your orders, gentles; I will assuredly take your orders,” the
landlady answered, bustling in with her hands full of leathern
drinking-cups. “What is it that you drink, then? Beer for the lads of the
forest, mead for the gleeman, strong waters for the tinker, and wine for
the rest. It is an old custom of the house, young sir. It has been the use
at the ‘Pied Merlin’ this many a year back that the company should drink
to the health of the last comer. Is it your pleasure to humor it?”

“Why, good dame,” said Alleyne, “I would not offend the customs of your
house, but it is only sooth when I say that my purse is a thin one. As far
as two pence will go, however, I shall be right glad to do my part.”

“Plainly said and bravely spoken, my suckling friar,” roared a deep voice,
and a heavy hand fell upon Alleyne’s shoulder. Looking up, he saw beside
him his former cloister companion the renegade monk, Hordle John.

“By the thorn of Glastonbury! ill days are coming upon Beaulieu,” said he.
“Here they have got rid in one day of the only two men within their walls—for
I have had mine eyes upon thee, youngster, and I know that for all thy
baby-face there is the making of a man in thee. Then there is the Abbot,
too. I am no friend of his, nor he of mine; but he has warm blood in his
veins. He is the only man left among them. The others, what are they?”

“They are holy men,” Alleyne answered gravely.

“Holy men? Holy cabbages! Holy bean-pods! What do they do but live and
suck in sustenance and grow fat? If that be holiness, I could show you
hogs in this forest who are fit to head the calendar. Think you it was for
such a life that this good arm was fixed upon my shoulder, or that head
placed upon your neck? There is work in the world, man, and it is not by
hiding behind stone walls that we shall do it.”

“Why, then, did you join the brothers?” asked Alleyne.

“A fair enough question; but it is as fairly answered. I joined them
because Margery Alspaye, of Bolder, married Crooked Thomas of Ringwood,
and left a certain John of Hordle in the cold, for that he was a ranting,
roving blade who was not to be trusted in wedlock. That was why, being
fond and hot-headed, I left the world; and that is why, having had time to
take thought, I am right glad to find myself back in it once more. Ill
betide the day that ever I took off my yeoman’s jerkin to put on the white
gown!”

Whilst he was speaking the landlady came in again, bearing a broad
platter, upon which stood all the beakers and flagons charged to the brim
with the brown ale or the ruby wine. Behind her came a maid with a high
pile of wooden plates, and a great sheaf of spoons, one of which she
handed round to each of the travellers. Two of the company, who were
dressed in the weather-stained green doublet of foresters, lifted the big
pot off the fire, and a third, with a huge pewter ladle, served out a
portion of steaming collops to each guest. Alleyne bore his share and his
ale-mug away with him to a retired trestle in the corner, where he could
sup in peace and watch the strange scene, which was so different to those
silent and well-ordered meals to which he was accustomed.

The room was not unlike a stable. The low ceiling, smoke-blackened and
dingy, was pierced by several square trap-doors with rough-hewn ladders
leading up to them. The walls of bare unpainted planks were studded here
and there with great wooden pins, placed at irregular intervals and
heights, from which hung over-tunics, wallets, whips, bridles, and
saddles. Over the fireplace were suspended six or seven shields of wood,
with coats-of-arms rudely daubed upon them, which showed by their varying
degrees of smokiness and dirt that they had been placed there at different
periods. There was no furniture, save a single long dresser covered with
coarse crockery, and a number of wooden benches and trestles, the legs of
which sank deeply into the soft clay floor, while the only light, save
that of the fire, was furnished by three torches stuck in sockets on the
wall, which flickered and crackled, giving forth a strong resinous odor.
All this was novel and strange to the cloister-bred youth; but most
interesting of all was the motley circle of guests who sat eating their
collops round the blaze. They were a humble group of wayfarers, such as
might have been found that night in any inn through the length and breadth
of England; but to him they represented that vague world against which he
had been so frequently and so earnestly warned. It did not seem to him
from what he could see of it to be such a very wicked place after all.

Three or four of the men round the fire were evidently underkeepers and
verderers from the forest, sunburned and bearded, with the quick restless
eye and lithe movements of the deer among which they lived. Close to the
corner of the chimney sat a middle-aged gleeman, clad in a faded garb of
Norwich cloth, the tunic of which was so outgrown that it did not fasten
at the neck and at the waist. His face was swollen and coarse, and his
watery protruding eyes spoke of a life which never wandered very far from
the wine-pot. A gilt harp, blotched with many stains and with two of its
strings missing, was tucked under one of his arms, while with the other he
scooped greedily at his platter. Next to him sat two other men of about
the same age, one with a trimming of fur to his coat, which gave him a
dignity which was evidently dearer to him than his comfort, for he still
drew it round him in spite of the hot glare of the faggots. The other,
clad in a dirty russet suit with a long sweeping doublet, had a cunning,
foxy face with keen, twinkling eyes and a peaky beard. Next to him sat
Hordle John, and beside him three other rough unkempt fellows with tangled
beards and matted hair—free laborers from the adjoining farms, where
small patches of freehold property had been suffered to remain scattered
about in the heart of the royal demesne. The company was completed by a
peasant in a rude dress of undyed sheepskin, with the old-fashioned
galligaskins about his legs, and a gayly dressed young man with striped
cloak jagged at the edges and parti-colored hosen, who looked about him
with high disdain upon his face, and held a blue smelling-flask to his
nose with one hand, while he brandished a busy spoon with the other. In
the corner a very fat man was lying all a-sprawl upon a truss, snoring
stertorously, and evidently in the last stage of drunkenness.

“That is Wat the limner,” quoth the landlady, sitting down beside Alleyne,
and pointing with the ladle to the sleeping man. “That is he who paints
the signs and the tokens. Alack and alas that ever I should have been fool
enough to trust him! Now, young man, what manner of a bird would you
suppose a pied merlin to be—that being the proper sign of my
hostel?”

“Why,” said Alleyne, “a merlin is a bird of the same form as an eagle or a
falcon. I can well remember that learned brother Bartholomew, who is deep
in all the secrets of nature, pointed one out to me as we walked together
near Vinney Ridge.”

“A falcon or an eagle, quotha? And pied, that is of two several colors. So
any man would say except this barrel of lies. He came to me, look you,
saying that if I would furnish him with a gallon of ale, wherewith to
strengthen himself as he worked, and also the pigments and a board, he
would paint for me a noble pied merlin which I might hang along with the
blazonry over my door. I, poor simple fool, gave him the ale and all that
he craved, leaving him alone too, because he said that a man’s mind must
be left untroubled when he had great work to do. When I came back the
gallon jar was empty, and he lay as you see him, with the board in front
of him with this sorry device.” She raised up a panel which was leaning
against the wall, and showed a rude painting of a scraggy and angular
fowl, with very long legs and a spotted body.

“Was that,” she asked, “like the bird which thou hast seen?”

Alleyne shook his head, smiling.

“No, nor any other bird that ever wagged a feather. It is most like a
plucked pullet which has died of the spotted fever. And scarlet too! What
would the gentles Sir Nicholas Boarhunte, or Sir Bernard Brocas, of Roche
Court, say if they saw such a thing—or, perhaps, even the King’s own
Majesty himself, who often has ridden past this way, and who loves his
falcons as he loves his sons? It would be the downfall of my house.”

“The matter is not past mending,” said Alleyne. “I pray you, good dame, to
give me those three pigment-pots and the brush, and I shall try whether I
cannot better this painting.”

Dame Eliza looked doubtfully at him, as though fearing some other
stratagem, but, as he made no demand for ale, she finally brought the
paints, and watched him as he smeared on his background, talking the while
about the folk round the fire.

“The four forest lads must be jogging soon,” she said. “They bide at Emery
Down, a mile or more from here. Yeomen prickers they are, who tend to the
King’s hunt. The gleeman is called Floyting Will. He comes from the north
country, but for many years he hath gone the round of the forest from
Southampton to Christchurch. He drinks much and pays little but it would
make your ribs crackle to hear him sing the ‘Jest of Hendy Tobias.’ Mayhap
he will sing it when the ale has warmed him.”

“Who are those next to him?” asked Alleyne, much interested. “He of the
fur mantle has a wise and reverent face.”

“He is a seller of pills and salves, very learned in humors, and rheums,
and fluxes, and all manner of ailments. He wears, as you perceive, the
vernicle of Sainted Luke, the first physician, upon his sleeve. May good
St. Thomas of Kent grant that it may be long before either I or mine need
his help! He is here to-night for herbergage, as are the others except the
foresters. His neighbor is a tooth-drawer. That bag at his girdle is full
of the teeth that he drew at Winchester fair. I warrant that there are
more sound ones than sorry, for he is quick at his work and a trifle dim
in the eye. The lusty man next him with the red head I have not seen
before. The four on this side are all workers, three of them in the
service of the bailiff of Sir Baldwin Redvers, and the other, he with the
sheepskin, is, as I hear, a villein from the midlands who hath run from
his master. His year and day are well-nigh up, when he will be a free
man.”

“And the other?” asked Alleyne in a whisper. “He is surely some very great
man, for he looks as though he scorned those who were about him.”

The landlady looked at him in a motherly way and shook her head. “You have
had no great truck with the world,” she said, “or you would have learned
that it is the small men and not the great who hold their noses in the
air. Look at those shields upon my wall and under my eaves. Each of them
is the device of some noble lord or gallant knight who hath slept under my
roof at one time or another. Yet milder men or easier to please I have
never seen: eating my bacon and drinking my wine with a merry face, and
paying my score with some courteous word or jest which was dearer to me
than my profit. Those are the true gentles. But your chapman or your
bearward will swear that there is a lime in the wine, and water in the
ale, and fling off at the last with a curse instead of a blessing. This
youth is a scholar from Cambrig, where men are wont to be blown out by a
little knowledge, and lose the use of their hands in learning the laws of
the Romans. But I must away to lay down the beds. So may the saints keep
you and prosper you in your undertaking!”

Thus left to himself, Alleyne drew his panel of wood where the light of
one of the torches would strike full upon it, and worked away with all the
pleasure of the trained craftsman, listening the while to the talk which
went on round the fire. The peasant in the sheepskins, who had sat glum
and silent all evening, had been so heated by his flagon of ale that he
was talking loudly and angrily with clenched hands and flashing eyes.

“Sir Humphrey Tennant of Ashby may till his own fields for me,” he cried.
“The castle has thrown its shadow upon the cottage over long. For three
hundred years my folk have swinked and sweated, day in and day out, to
keep the wine on the lord’s table and the harness on the lord’s back. Let
him take off his plates and delve himself, if delving must be done.”

“A proper spirit, my fair son!” said one of the free laborers. “I would
that all men were of thy way of thinking.”

“He would have sold me with his acres,” the other cried, in a voice which
was hoarse with passion. “’The man, the woman and their litter’—so
ran the words of the dotard bailiff. Never a bullock on the farm was sold
more lightly. Ha! he may wake some black night to find the flames licking
about his ears—for fire is a good friend to the poor man, and I have
seen a smoking heap of ashes where over night there stood just such
another castlewick as Ashby.”

“This is a lad of mettle!” shouted another of the laborers. “He dares to
give tongue to what all men think. Are we not all from Adam’s loins, all
with flesh and blood, and with the same mouth that must needs have food
and drink? Where all this difference then between the ermine cloak and the
leathern tunic, if what they cover is the same?”

“Aye, Jenkin,” said another, “our foeman is under the stole and the
vestment as much as under the helmet and plate of proof. We have as much
to fear from the tonsure as from the hauberk. Strike at the noble and the
priest shrieks, strike at priest and the noble lays his hand upon glaive.
They are twin thieves who live upon our labor.”

“It would take a clever man to live upon thy labor, Hugh,” remarked one of
the foresters, “seeing that the half of thy time is spent in swilling mead
at the ‘Pied Merlin.’”

“Better that than stealing the deer that thou art placed to guard, like
some folk I know.”

“If you dare open that swine’s mouth against me,” shouted the woodman,
“I’ll crop your ears for you before the hangman has the doing of it, thou
long-jawed lackbrain.”

“Nay, gentles, gentles!” cried Dame Eliza, in a singsong heedless voice,
which showed that such bickerings were nightly things among her guests.
“No brawling or brabbling, gentles! Take heed to the good name of the
house.”

“Besides, if it comes to the cropping of ears, there are other folk who
may say their say,” quoth the third laborer. “We are all freemen, and I
trow that a yeoman’s cudgel is as good as a forester’s knife. By St.
Anselm! it would be an evil day if we had to bend to our master’s servants
as well as to our masters.”

“No man is my master save the King,” the woodman answered. “Who is there,
save a false traitor, who would refuse to serve the English king?”

“I know not about the English king,” said the man Jenkin. “What sort of
English king is it who cannot lay his tongue to a word of English? You
mind last year when he came down to Malwood, with his inner marshal and
his outer marshal, his justiciar, his seneschal, and his four and twenty
guardsmen. One noontide I was by Franklin Swinton’s gate, when up he rides
with a yeoman pricker at his heels. ‘Ouvre,’ he cried, ‘ouvre,’ or some
such word, making signs for me to open the gate; and then ‘Merci,’ as
though he were adrad of me. And you talk of an English king?”

“I do not marvel at it,” cried the Cambrig scholar, speaking in the high
drawling voice which was common among his class. “It is not a tongue for
men of sweet birth and delicate upbringing. It is a foul, snorting,
snarling manner of speech. For myself, I swear by the learned Polycarp
that I have most ease with Hebrew, and after that perchance with Arabian.”

“I will not hear a word said against old King Ned,” cried Hordle John in a
voice like a bull. “What if he is fond of a bright eye and a saucy face. I
know one of his subjects who could match him at that. If he cannot speak
like an Englishman I trow that he can fight like an Englishman, and he was
hammering at the gates of Paris while ale-house topers were grutching and
grumbling at home.”

This loud speech, coming from a man of so formidable an appearance,
somewhat daunted the disloyal party, and they fell into a sullen silence,
which enabled Alleyne to hear something of the talk which was going on in
the further corner between the physician, the tooth-drawer and the
gleeman.

“A raw rat,” the man of drugs was saying, “that is what it is ever my use
to order for the plague—a raw rat with its paunch cut open.”

“Might it not be broiled, most learned sir?” asked the tooth-drawer. “A
raw rat sounds a most sorry and cheerless dish.”

“Not to be eaten,” cried the physician, in high disdain. “Why should any
man eat such a thing?”

“Why indeed?” asked the gleeman, taking a long drain at his tankard.

“It is to be placed on the sore or swelling. For the rat, mark you, being
a foul-living creature, hath a natural drawing or affinity for all foul
things, so that the noxious humors pass from the man into the unclean
beast.”

“Would that cure the black death, master?” asked Jenkin.

“Aye, truly would it, my fair son.”

“Then I am right glad that there were none who knew of it. The black death
is the best friend that ever the common folk had in England.”

“How that then?” asked Hordle John.

“Why, friend, it is easy to see that you have not worked with your hands
or you would not need to ask. When half the folk in the country were dead
it was then that the other half could pick and choose who they would work
for, and for what wage. That is why I say that the murrain was the best
friend that the borel folk ever had.”

“True, Jenkin,” said another workman; “but it is not all good that is
brought by it either. We well know that through it corn-land has been
turned into pasture, so that flocks of sheep with perchance a single
shepherd wander now where once a hundred men had work and wage.”

“There is no great harm in that,” remarked the tooth-drawer, “for the
sheep give many folk their living. There is not only the herd, but the
shearer and brander, and then the dresser, the curer, the dyer, the
fuller, the webster, the merchant, and a score of others.”

“If it come to that,” said one of the foresters, “the tough meat of them
will wear folks teeth out, and there is a trade for the man who can draw
them.”

A general laugh followed this sally at the dentist’s expense, in the midst
of which the gleeman placed his battered harp upon his knee, and began to
pick out a melody upon the frayed strings.

“Elbow room for Floyting Will!” cried the woodmen. “Twang us a merry
lilt.”

“Aye, aye, the ‘Lasses of Lancaster,’” one suggested.

“Or ‘St. Simeon and the Devil.’”

“Or the ‘Jest of Hendy Tobias.’”

To all these suggestions the jongleur made no response, but sat with his
eye fixed abstractedly upon the ceiling, as one who calls words to his
mind. Then, with a sudden sweep across the strings, he broke out into a
song so gross and so foul that ere he had finished a verse the pure-minded
lad sprang to his feet with the blood tingling in his face.

“How can you sing such things?” he cried. “You, too, an old man who should
be an example to others.”

The wayfarers all gazed in the utmost astonishment at the interruption.

“By the holy Dicon of Hampole! our silent clerk has found his tongue,”
said one of the woodmen. “What is amiss with the song then? How has it
offended your babyship?”

“A milder and better mannered song hath never been heard within these
walls,” cried another. “What sort of talk is this for a public inn?”

“Shall it be a litany, my good clerk?” shouted a third; “or would a hymn
be good enough to serve?”

The jongleur had put down his harp in high dudgeon. “Am I to be preached
to by a child?” he cried, staring across at Alleyne with an inflamed and
angry countenance. “Is a hairless infant to raise his tongue against me,
when I have sung in every fair from Tweed to Trent, and have twice been
named aloud by the High Court of the Minstrels at Beverley? I shall sing
no more to-night.”

“Nay, but you will so,” said one of the laborers. “Hi, Dame Eliza, bring a
stoup of your best to Will to clear his throat. Go forward with thy song,
and if our girl-faced clerk does not love it he can take to the road and
go whence he came.”

“Nay, but not too fast,” broke in Hordle John. “There are two words in
this matter. It may be that my little comrade has been over quick in
reproof, he having gone early into the cloisters and seen little of the
rough ways and words of the world. Yet there is truth in what he says,
for, as you know well, the song was not of the cleanest. I shall stand by
him, therefore, and he shall neither be put out on the road, nor shall his
ears be offended indoors.”

“Indeed, your high and mighty grace,” sneered one of the yeomen, “have you
in sooth so ordained?”

“By the Virgin!” said a second, “I think that you may both chance to find
yourselves upon the road before long.”

“And so belabored as to be scarce able to crawl along it,” cried a third.

“Nay, I shall go! I shall go!” said Alleyne hurriedly, as Hordle John
began to slowly roll up his sleeve, and bare an arm like a leg of mutton.
“I would not have you brawl about me.”

“Hush! lad,” he whispered, “I count them not a fly. They may find they
have more tow on their distaff than they know how to spin. Stand thou
clear and give me space.”

Both the foresters and the laborers had risen from their bench, and Dame
Eliza and the travelling doctor had flung themselves between the two
parties with soft words and soothing gestures, when the door of the “Pied
Merlin” was flung violently open, and the attention of the company was
drawn from their own quarrel to the new-comer who had burst so
unceremoniously upon them.

CHAPTER VI. HOW SAMKIN AYLWARD WAGERED HIS FEATHER-BED.

He was a middle-sized man, of most massive and robust build, with an
arching chest and extraordinary breadth of shoulder. His shaven face was
as brown as a hazel-nut, tanned and dried by the weather, with harsh,
well-marked features, which were not improved by a long white scar which
stretched from the corner of his left nostril to the angle of the jaw. His
eyes were bright and searching, with something of menace and of authority
in their quick glitter, and his mouth was firm-set and hard, as befitted
one who was wont to set his face against danger. A straight sword by his
side and a painted long-bow jutting over his shoulder proclaimed his
profession, while his scarred brigandine of chain-mail and his dinted
steel cap showed that he was no holiday soldier, but one who was even now
fresh from the wars. A white surcoat with the lion of St. George in red
upon the centre covered his broad breast, while a sprig of new-plucked
broom at the side of his head-gear gave a touch of gayety and grace to his
grim, war-worn equipment.

“Ha!” he cried, blinking like an owl in the sudden glare. “Good even to
you, comrades! Hola! a woman, by my soul!” and in an instant he had
clipped Dame Eliza round the waist and was kissing her violently. His eye
happening to wander upon the maid, however, he instantly abandoned the
mistress and danced off after the other, who scurried in confusion up one
of the ladders, and dropped the heavy trap-door upon her pursuer. He then
turned back and saluted the landlady once more with the utmost relish and
satisfaction.

“La petite is frightened,” said he. “Ah, c’est l’amour, l’amour! Curse
this trick of French, which will stick to my throat. I must wash it out
with some good English ale. By my hilt! camarades, there is no drop of
French blood in my body, and I am a true English bowman, Samkin Aylward by
name; and I tell you, mes amis, that it warms my very heart-roots to set
my feet on the dear old land once more. When I came off the galley at
Hythe, this very day, I down on my bones, and I kissed the good brown
earth, as I kiss thee now, ma belle, for it was eight long years since I
had seen it. The very smell of it seemed life to me. But where are my six
rascals? Hola, there! En avant!”

At the order, six men, dressed as common drudges, marched solemnly into
the room, each bearing a huge bundle upon his head. They formed in
military line, while the soldier stood in front of them with stern eyes,
checking off their several packages.

“Number one—a French feather-bed with the two counter-panes of white
sendall,” said he.

“Here, worthy sir,” answered the first of the bearers, laying a great
package down in the corner.

“Number two—seven ells of red Turkey cloth and nine ells of cloth of
gold. Put it down by the other. Good dame, I prythee give each of these
men a bottrine of wine or a jack of ale. Three—a full piece of white
Genoan velvet with twelve ells of purple silk. Thou rascal, there is dirt
on the hem! Thou hast brushed it against some wall, coquin!”

“Not I, most worthy sir,” cried the carrier, shrinking away from the
fierce eyes of the bowman.

“I say yes, dog! By the three kings! I have seen a man gasp out his last
breath for less. Had you gone through the pain and unease that I have done
to earn these things you would be at more care. I swear by my ten
finger-bones that there is not one of them that hath not cost its weight
in French blood! Four—an incense-boat, a ewer of silver, a gold
buckle and a cope worked in pearls. I found them, camarades, at the Church
of St. Denis in the harrying of Narbonne, and I took them away with me
lest they fall into the hands of the wicked. Five—a cloak of fur
turned up with minever, a gold goblet with stand and cover, and a box of
rose-colored sugar. See that you lay them together. Six—a box of
monies, three pounds of Limousine gold-work, a pair of boots, silver
tagged, and, lastly, a store of naping linen. So, the tally is complete!
Here is a groat apiece, and you may go.”

“Go whither, worthy sir?” asked one of the carriers.

“Whither? To the devil if ye will. What is it to me? Now, ma belle, to
supper. A pair of cold capons, a mortress of brawn, or what you will, with
a flask or two of the right Gascony. I have crowns in my pouch, my sweet,
and I mean to spend them. Bring in wine while the food is dressing. Buvons
my brave lads; you shall each empty a stoup with me.”

Here was an offer which the company in an English inn at that or any other
date are slow to refuse. The flagons were re-gathered and came back with
the white foam dripping over their edges. Two of the woodmen and three of
the laborers drank their portions off hurriedly and trooped off together,
for their homes were distant and the hour late. The others, however, drew
closer, leaving the place of honor to the right of the gleeman to the
free-handed new-comer. He had thrown off his steel cap and his brigandine,
and had placed them with his sword, his quiver and his painted long-bow,
on the top of his varied heap of plunder in the corner. Now, with his
thick and somewhat bowed legs stretched in front of the blaze, his green
jerkin thrown open, and a great quart pot held in his corded fist, he
looked the picture of comfort and of good-fellowship. His hard-set face
had softened, and the thick crop of crisp brown curls which had been
hidden by his helmet grew low upon his massive neck. He might have been
forty years of age, though hard toil and harder pleasure had left their
grim marks upon his features. Alleyne had ceased painting his pied merlin,
and sat, brush in hand, staring with open eyes at a type of man so strange
and so unlike any whom he had met. Men had been good or had been bad in
his catalogue, but here was a man who was fierce one instant and gentle
the next, with a curse on his lips and a smile in his eye. What was to be
made of such a man as that?

It chanced that the soldier looked up and saw the questioning glance which
the young clerk threw upon him. He raised his flagon and drank to him,
with a merry flash of his white teeth.

“A toi, mon garcon,” he cried. “Hast surely never seen a man-at-arms, that
thou shouldst stare so?”

“I never have,” said Alleyne frankly, “though I have oft heard talk of
their deeds.”

“By my hilt!” cried the other, “if you were to cross the narrow sea you
would find them as thick as bees at a tee-hole. Couldst not shoot a bolt
down any street of Bordeaux, I warrant, but you would pink archer, squire,
or knight. There are more breastplates than gaberdines to be seen, I
promise you.”

“And where got you all these pretty things?” asked Hordle John, pointing
at the heap in the corner.

“Where there is as much more waiting for any brave lad to pick it up.
Where a good man can always earn a good wage, and where he need look upon
no man as his paymaster, but just reach his hand out and help himself.
Aye, it is a goodly and a proper life. And here I drink to mine old
comrades, and the saints be with them! Arouse all together, mes enfants,
under pain of my displeasure. To Sir Claude Latour and the White Company!”

“Sir Claude Latour and the White Company!” shouted the travellers,
draining off their goblets.

“Well quaffed, mes braves! It is for me to fill your cups again, since you
have drained them to my dear lads of the white jerkin. Hola! mon ange,
bring wine and ale. How runs the old stave?—

        We'll drink all together
        To the gray goose feather
        And the land where the gray goose flew.”
 

He roared out the catch in a harsh, unmusical voice, and ended with a
shout of laughter. “I trust that I am a better bowman than a minstrel,”
said he.

“Methinks I have some remembrance of the lilt,” remarked the gleeman,
running his fingers over the strings. “Hoping that it will give thee no
offence, most holy sir”—with a vicious snap at Alleyne—“and
with the kind permit of the company, I will even venture upon it.”

Many a time in the after days Alleyne Edricson seemed to see that scene,
for all that so many which were stranger and more stirring were soon to
crowd upon him. The fat, red-faced gleeman, the listening group, the
archer with upraised finger beating in time to the music, and the huge
sprawling figure of Hordle John, all thrown into red light and black
shadow by the flickering fire in the centre—memory was to come often
lovingly back to it. At the time he was lost in admiration at the deft way
in which the jongleur disguised the loss of his two missing strings, and
the lusty, hearty fashion in which he trolled out his little ballad of the
outland bowmen, which ran in some such fashion as this:

          What of the bow?
            The bow was made in England:
        Of true wood, of yew wood,
          The wood of English bows;
            So men who are free
            Love the old yew tree
        And the land where the yew tree grows.

          What of the cord?
            The cord was made in England:
        A rough cord, a tough cord,
          A cord that bowmen love;
            So we'll drain our jacks
            To the English flax
        And the land where the hemp was wove.

          What of the shaft?
            The shaft was cut in England:
        A long shaft, a strong shaft,
          Barbed and trim and true;
            So we'll drink all together
            To the gray goose feather
        And the land where the gray goose flew.

          What of the men?
            The men were bred in England:
        The bowman—the yeoman—
          The lads of dale and fell
            Here's to you—and to you;
            To the hearts that are true
        And the land where the true hearts dwell.

“Well sung, by my hilt!” shouted the archer in high delight. “Many a night
have I heard that song, both in the old war-time and after in the days of
the White Company, when Black Simon of Norwich would lead the stave, and
four hundred of the best bowmen that ever drew string would come roaring
in upon the chorus. I have seen old John Hawkwood, the same who has led
half the Company into Italy, stand laughing in his beard as he heard it,
until his plates rattled again. But to get the full smack of it ye must
yourselves be English bowmen, and be far off upon an outland soil.”

Whilst the song had been singing Dame Eliza and the maid had placed a
board across two trestles, and had laid upon it the knife, the spoon, the
salt, the tranchoir of bread, and finally the smoking dish which held the
savory supper. The archer settled himself to it like one who had known
what it was to find good food scarce; but his tongue still went as merrily
as his teeth.

“It passes me,” he cried, “how all you lusty fellows can bide scratching
your backs at home when there are such doings over the seas. Look at me—what
have I to do? It is but the eye to the cord, the cord to the shaft, and
the shaft to the mark. There is the whole song of it. It is but what you
do yourselves for pleasure upon a Sunday evening at the parish village
butts.”

“And the wage?” asked a laborer.

“You see what the wage brings,” he answered. “I eat of the best, and I
drink deep. I treat my friend, and I ask no friend to treat me. I clap a
silk gown on my girl’s back. Never a knight’s lady shall be better
betrimmed and betrinketed. How of all that, mon garcon? And how of the
heap of trifles that you can see for yourselves in yonder corner? They are
from the South French, every one, upon whom I have been making war. By my
hilt! camarades, I think that I may let my plunder speak for itself.”

“It seems indeed to be a goodly service,” said the tooth-drawer.

“Tete bleu! yes, indeed. Then there is the chance of a ransom. Why, look
you, in the affair at Brignais some four years back, when the companies
slew James of Bourbon, and put his army to the sword, there was scarce a
man of ours who had not count, baron, or knight. Peter Karsdale, who was
but a common country lout newly brought over, with the English fleas still
hopping under his doublet, laid his great hands upon the Sieur Amaury de
Chatonville, who owns half Picardy, and had five thousand crowns out of
him, with his horse and harness. ‘Tis true that a French wench took it all
off Peter as quick as the Frenchman paid it; but what then? By the twang
of string! it would be a bad thing if money was not made to be spent; and
how better than on woman—eh, ma belle?”

“It would indeed be a bad thing if we had not our brave archers to bring
wealth and kindly customs into the country,” quoth Dame Eliza, on whom the
soldier’s free and open ways had made a deep impression.

“A toi, ma cherie!” said he, with his hand over his heart. “Hola! there is
la petite peeping from behind the door. A toi, aussi, ma petite! Mon Dieu!
but the lass has a good color!”

“There is one thing, fair sir,” said the Cambridge student in his piping
voice, “which I would fain that you would make more clear. As I understand
it, there was peace made at the town of Bretigny some six years back
between our most gracious monarch and the King of the French. This being
so, it seems most passing strange that you should talk so loudly of war
and of companies when there is no quarrel between the French and us.”

“Meaning that I lie,” said the archer, laying down his knife.

“May heaven forfend!” cried the student hastily. “Magna est veritas sed
rara, which means in the Latin tongue that archers are all honorable
men. I come to you seeking knowledge, for it is my trade to learn.”

“I fear that you are yet a ‘prentice to that trade,” quoth the soldier;
“for there is no child over the water but could answer what you ask. Know
then that though there may be peace between our own provinces and the
French, yet within the marches of France there is always war, for the
country is much divided against itself, and is furthermore harried by
bands of flayers, skinners, Brabacons, tardvenus, and the rest of them.
When every man’s grip is on his neighbor’s throat, and every
five-sous-piece of a baron is marching with tuck of drum to fight whom he
will, it would be a strange thing if five hundred brave English boys could
not pick up a living. Now that Sir John Hawkwood hath gone with the East
Anglian lads and the Nottingham woodmen into the service of the Marquis of
Montferrat to fight against the Lord of Milan, there are but ten score of
us left, yet I trust that I may be able to bring some back with me to fill
the ranks of the White Company. By the tooth of Peter! it would be a bad
thing if I could not muster many a Hamptonshire man who would be ready to
strike in under the red flag of St. George, and the more so if Sir Nigel
Loring, of Christchurch, should don hauberk once more and take the lead of
us.”

“Ah, you would indeed be in luck then,” quoth a woodman; “for it is said
that, setting aside the prince, and mayhap good old Sir John Chandos,
there was not in the whole army a man of such tried courage.”

“It is sooth, every word of it,” the archer answered. “I have seen him
with these two eyes in a stricken field, and never did man carry himself
better. Mon Dieu! yes, ye would not credit it to look at him, or to
hearken to his soft voice, but from the sailing from Orwell down to the
foray to Paris, and that is clear twenty years, there was not a skirmish,
onfall, sally, bushment, escalado or battle, but Sir Nigel was in the
heart of it. I go now to Christchurch with a letter to him from Sir Claude
Latour to ask him if he will take the place of Sir John Hawkwood; and
there is the more chance that he will if I bring one or two likely men at
my heels. What say you, woodman: wilt leave the bucks to loose a shaft at
a nobler mark?”

The forester shook his head. “I have wife and child at Emery Down,” quoth
he; “I would not leave them for such a venture.”

“You, then, young sir?” asked the archer.

“Nay, I am a man of peace,” said Alleyne Edricson. “Besides, I have other
work to do.”

“Peste!” growled the soldier, striking his flagon on the board until the
dishes danced again. “What, in the name of the devil, hath come over the
folk? Why sit ye all moping by the fireside, like crows round a dead
horse, when there is man’s work to be done within a few short leagues of
ye? Out upon you all, as a set of laggards and hang-backs! By my hilt I
believe that the men of England are all in France already, and that what
is left behind are in sooth the women dressed up in their paltocks and
hosen.”

“Archer,” quoth Hordle John, “you have lied more than once and more than
twice; for which, and also because I see much in you to dislike, I am
sorely tempted to lay you upon your back.”

“By my hilt! then, I have found a man at last!” shouted the bowman. “And,
‘fore God, you are a better man than I take you for if you can lay me on
my back, mon garcon. I have won the ram more times than there are toes to
my feet, and for seven long years I have found no man in the Company who
could make my jerkin dusty.”

“We have had enough bobance and boasting,” said Hordle John, rising and
throwing off his doublet. “I will show you that there are better men left
in England than ever went thieving to France.”

“Pasques Dieu!” cried the archer, loosening his jerkin, and eyeing his
foeman over with the keen glance of one who is a judge of manhood. “I have
only once before seen such a body of a man. By your leave, my red-headed
friend, I should be right sorry to exchange buffets with you; and I will
allow that there is no man in the Company who would pull against you on a
rope; so let that be a salve to your pride. On the other hand I should
judge that you have led a life of ease for some months back, and that my
muscle is harder than your own. I am ready to wager upon myself against
you if you are not afeard.”

“Afeard, thou lurden!” growled big John. “I never saw the face yet of the
man that I was afeard of. Come out, and we shall see who is the better
man.”

“But the wager?”

“I have nought to wager. Come out for the love and the lust of the thing.”

“Nought to wager!” cried the soldier. “Why, you have that which I covet
above all things. It is that big body of thine that I am after. See, now,
mon garcon. I have a French feather-bed there, which I have been at pains
to keep these years back. I had it at the sacking of Issodun, and the King
himself hath not such a bed. If you throw me, it is thine; but, if I throw
you, then you are under a vow to take bow and bill and hie with me to
France, there to serve in the White Company as long as we be enrolled.”

“A fair wager!” cried all the travellers, moving back their benches and
trestles, so as to give fair field for the wrestlers.

“Then you may bid farewell to your bed, soldier,” said Hordle John.

“Nay; I shall keep the bed, and I shall have you to France in spite of
your teeth, and you shall live to thank me for it. How shall it be, then,
mon enfant? Collar and elbow, or close-lock, or catch how you can?”

“To the devil with your tricks,” said John, opening and shutting his great
red hands. “Stand forth, and let me clip thee.”

“Shalt clip me as best you can then,” quoth the archer, moving out into
the open space, and keeping a most wary eye upon his opponent. He had
thrown off his green jerkin, and his chest was covered only by a pink silk
jupon, or undershirt, cut low in the neck and sleeveless. Hordle John was
stripped from his waist upwards, and his huge body, with his great muscles
swelling out like the gnarled roots of an oak, towered high above the
soldier. The other, however, though near a foot shorter, was a man of
great strength; and there was a gloss upon his white skin which was
wanting in the heavier limbs of the renegade monk. He was quick on his
feet, too, and skilled at the game; so that it was clear, from the poise
of head and shine of eye, that he counted the chances to be in his favor.
It would have been hard that night, through the whole length of England,
to set up a finer pair in face of each other.

Big John stood waiting in the centre with a sullen, menacing eye, and his
red hair in a bristle, while the archer paced lightly and swiftly to the
right and the left with crooked knee and hands advanced. Then with a
sudden dash, so swift and fierce that the eye could scarce follow it, he
flew in upon his man and locked his leg round him. It was a grip that,
between men of equal strength, would mean a fall; but Hordle John tore him
off from him as he might a rat, and hurled him across the room, so that
his head cracked up against the wooden wall.

“Ma foi!” cried the bowman, passing his fingers through his curls, “you
were not far from the feather-bed then, mon gar. A little more and this
good hostel would have a new window.”

Nothing daunted, he approached his man once more, but this time with more
caution than before. With a quick feint he threw the other off his guard,
and then, bounding upon him, threw his legs round his waist and his arms
round his bull-neck, in the hope of bearing him to the ground with the
sudden shock. With a bellow of rage, Hordle John squeezed him limp in his
huge arms; and then, picking him up, cast him down upon the floor with a
force which might well have splintered a bone or two, had not the archer
with the most perfect coolness clung to the other’s forearms to break his
fall. As it was, he dropped upon his feet and kept his balance, though it
sent a jar through his frame which set every joint a-creaking. He bounded
back from his perilous foeman; but the other, heated by the bout, rushed
madly after him, and so gave the practised wrestler the very vantage for
which he had planned. As big John flung himself upon him, the archer
ducked under the great red hands that clutched for him, and, catching his
man round the thighs, hurled him over his shoulder—helped as much by
his own mad rush as by the trained strength of the heave. To Alleyne’s
eye, it was as if John had taken unto himself wings and flown. As he
hurtled through the air, with giant limbs revolving, the lad’s heart was
in his mouth; for surely no man ever yet had such a fall and came
scathless out of it. In truth, hardy as the man was, his neck had been
assuredly broken had he not pitched head first on the very midriff of the
drunken artist, who was slumbering so peacefully in the corner, all
unaware of these stirring doings. The luckless limner, thus suddenly
brought out from his dreams, sat up with a piercing yell, while Hordle
John bounded back into the circle almost as rapidly as he had left it.

“One more fall, by all the saints!” he cried, throwing out his arms.

“Not I,” quoth the archer, pulling on his clothes, “I have come well out
of the business. I would sooner wrestle with the great bear of Navarre.”

“It was a trick,” cried John.

“Aye was it. By my ten finger-bones! it is a trick that will add a proper
man to the ranks of the Company.”

“Oh, for that,” said the other, “I count it not a fly; for I had promised
myself a good hour ago that I should go with thee, since the life seems to
be a goodly and proper one. Yet I would fain have had the feather-bed.”

“I doubt it not, mon ami,” quoth the archer, going back to his tankard.
“Here is to thee, lad, and may we be good comrades to each other! But,
hola! what is it that ails our friend of the wrathful face?”

The unfortunate limner had been sitting up rubbing himself ruefully and
staring about with a vacant gaze, which showed that he knew neither where
he was nor what had occurred to him. Suddenly, however, a flash of
intelligence had come over his sodden features, and he rose and staggered
for the door. “’Ware the ale!” he said in a hoarse whisper, shaking a
warning finger at the company. “Oh, holy Virgin, ‘ware the ale!” and
slapping his hands to his injury, he flitted off into the darkness, amid a
shout of laughter, in which the vanquished joined as merrily as the
victor. The remaining forester and the two laborers were also ready for
the road, and the rest of the company turned to the blankets which Dame
Eliza and the maid had laid out for them upon the floor. Alleyne, weary
with the unwonted excitements of the day, was soon in a deep slumber
broken only by fleeting visions of twittering legs, cursing beggars, black
robbers, and the many strange folk whom he had met at the “Pied Merlin.”

CHAPTER VII. HOW THE THREE COMRADES JOURNEYED THROUGH THE WOODLANDS.

At early dawn the country inn was all alive, for it was rare indeed that
an hour of daylight would be wasted at a time when lighting was so scarce
and dear. Indeed, early as it was when Dame Eliza began to stir, it seemed
that others could be earlier still, for the door was ajar, and the learned
student of Cambridge had taken himself off, with a mind which was too
intent upon the high things of antiquity to stoop to consider the
four-pence which he owed for bed and board. It was the shrill out-cry of
the landlady when she found her loss, and the clucking of the hens, which
had streamed in through the open door, that first broke in upon the
slumbers of the tired wayfarers.

Once afoot, it was not long before the company began to disperse. A sleek
mule with red trappings was brought round from some neighboring shed for
the physician, and he ambled away with much dignity upon his road to
Southampton. The tooth-drawer and the gleeman called for a cup of small
ale apiece, and started off together for Ringwood fair, the old jongleur
looking very yellow in the eye and swollen in the face after his overnight
potations. The archer, however, who had drunk more than any man in the
room, was as merry as a grig, and having kissed the matron and chased the
maid up the ladder once more, he went out to the brook, and came back with
the water dripping from his face and hair.

“Hola! my man of peace,” he cried to Alleyne, “whither are you bent this
morning?”

“To Minstead,” quoth he. “My brother Simon Edricson is socman there, and I
go to bide with him for a while. I prythee, let me have my score, good
dame.”

“Score, indeed!” cried she, standing with upraised hands in front of the
panel on which Alleyne had worked the night before. “Say, rather what it
is that I owe to thee, good youth. Aye, this is indeed a pied merlin, and
with a leveret under its claws, as I am a living woman. By the rood of
Waltham! but thy touch is deft and dainty.”

“And see the red eye of it!” cried the maid.

“Aye, and the open beak.”

“And the ruffled wing,” added Hordle John.

“By my hilt!” cried the archer, “it is the very bird itself.”

The young clerk flushed with pleasure at this chorus of praise, rude and
indiscriminate indeed, and yet so much heartier and less grudging than any
which he had ever heard from the critical brother Jerome, or the
short-spoken Abbot. There was, it would seem, great kindness as well as
great wickedness in this world, of which he had heard so little that was
good. His hostess would hear nothing of his paying either for bed or for
board, while the archer and Hordle John placed a hand upon either shoulder
and led him off to the board, where some smoking fish, a dish of spinach,
and a jug of milk were laid out for their breakfast.

“I should not be surprised to learn, mon camarade,” said the soldier, as
he heaped a slice of fish upon Alleyne’s tranchoir of bread, “that you
could read written things, since you are so ready with your brushes and
pigments.”

“It would be shame to the good brothers of Beaulieu if I could not,” he
answered, “seeing that I have been their clerk this ten years back.”

The bowman looked at him with great respect. “Think of that!” said he.
“And you with not a hair to your face, and a skin like a girl. I can shoot
three hundred and fifty paces with my little popper there, and four
hundred and twenty with the great war-bow; yet I can make nothing of this,
nor read my own name if you were to set ‘Sam Aylward’ up against me. In
the whole Company there was only one man who could read, and he fell down
a well at the taking of Ventadour, which proves that the thing is not
suited to a soldier, though most needful to a clerk.”

“I can make some show at it,” said big John; “though I was scarce long
enough among the monks to catch the whole trick of it.

“Here, then, is something to try upon,” quoth the archer, pulling a square
of parchment from the inside of his tunic. It was tied securely with a
broad band of purple silk, and firmly sealed at either end with a large
red seal. John pored long and earnestly over the inscription upon the
back, with his brows bent as one who bears up against great mental strain.

“Not having read much of late,” he said, “I am loth to say too much about
what this may be. Some might say one thing and some another, just as one
bowman loves the yew, and a second will not shoot save with the ash. To
me, by the length and the look of it, I should judge this to be a verse
from one of the Psalms.”

The bowman shook his head. “It is scarce likely,” he said, “that Sir
Claude Latour should send me all the way across seas with nought more
weighty than a psalm-verse. You have clean overshot the butts this time,
mon camarade. Give it to the little one. I will wager my feather-bed that
he makes more sense of it.”

“Why, it is written in the French tongue,” said Alleyne, “and in a right
clerkly hand. This is how it runs: ‘A le moult puissant et moult honorable
chevalier, Sir Nigel Loring de Christchurch, de son tres fidele ami Sir
Claude Latour, capitaine de la Compagnie blanche, chatelain de Biscar,
grand seigneur de Montchateau, vavaseur de le renomme Gaston, Comte de
Foix, tenant les droits de la haute justice, de la milieu, et de la
basse.’ Which signifies in our speech: ‘To the very powerful and very
honorable knight, Sir Nigel Loring of Christchurch, from his very faithful
friend Sir Claude Latour, captain of the White Company, chatelain of
Biscar, grand lord of Montchateau and vassal to the renowned Gaston, Count
of Foix, who holds the rights of the high justice, the middle and the
low.’”

“Look at that now!” cried the bowman in triumph. “That is just what he
would have said.”

“I can see now that it is even so,” said John, examining the parchment
again. “Though I scarce understand this high, middle and low.”

“By my hilt! you would understand it if you were Jacques Bonhomme. The low
justice means that you may fleece him, and the middle that you may torture
him, and the high that you may slay him. That is about the truth of it.
But this is the letter which I am to take; and since the platter is clean
it is time that we trussed up and were afoot. You come with me, mon gros
Jean; and as to you, little one, where did you say that you journeyed?”

“To Minstead.”

“Ah, yes. I know this forest country well, though I was born myself in the
Hundred of Easebourne, in the Rape of Chichester, hard by the village of
Midhurst. Yet I have not a word to say against the Hampton men, for there
are no better comrades or truer archers in the whole Company than some who
learned to loose the string in these very parts. We shall travel round
with you to Minstead lad, seeing that it is little out of our way.”

“I am ready,” said Alleyne, right pleased at the thought of such company
upon the road.

“So am not I. I must store my plunder at this inn, since the hostess is an
honest woman. Hola! ma cherie, I wish to leave with you my gold-work, my
velvet, my silk, my feather bed, my incense-boat, my ewer, my naping
linen, and all the rest of it. I take only the money in a linen bag, and
the box of rose colored sugar which is a gift from my captain to the Lady
Loring. Wilt guard my treasure for me?”

“It shall be put in the safest loft, good archer. Come when you may, you
shall find it ready for you.”

“Now, there is a true friend!” cried the bowman, taking her hand. “There
is a bonne amie! English land and English women, say I, and French wine
and French plunder. I shall be back anon, mon ange. I am a lonely man, my
sweeting, and I must settle some day when the wars are over and done.
Mayhap you and I——Ah, mechante, mechante! There is la petite
peeping from behind the door. Now, John, the sun is over the trees; you
must be brisker than this when the bugleman blows ‘Bows and Bills.’”

“I have been waiting this time back,” said Hordle John gruffly.

“Then we must be off. Adieu, ma vie! The two livres shall settle the score
and buy some ribbons against the next kermesse. Do not forget Sam Aylward,
for his heart shall ever be thine alone—and thine, ma petite! So,
marchons, and may St. Julian grant us as good quarters elsewhere!”

The sun had risen over Ashurst and Denny woods, and was shining brightly,
though the eastern wind had a sharp flavor to it, and the leaves were
flickering thickly from the trees. In the High Street of Lyndhurst the
wayfarers had to pick their way, for the little town was crowded with the
guardsmen, grooms, and yeomen prickers who were attached to the King’s
hunt. The King himself was staying at Castle Malwood, but several of his
suite had been compelled to seek such quarters as they might find in the
wooden or wattle-and-daub cottages of the village. Here and there a small
escutcheon, peeping from a glassless window, marked the night’s lodging of
knight or baron. These coats-of-arms could be read, where a scroll would
be meaningless, and the bowman, like most men of his age, was well versed
in the common symbols of heraldry.

“There is the Saracen’s head of Sir Bernard Brocas,” quoth he. “I saw him
last at the ruffle at Poictiers some ten years back, when he bore himself
like a man. He is the master of the King’s horse, and can sing a right
jovial stave, though in that he cannot come nigh to Sir John Chandos, who
is first at the board or in the saddle. Three martlets on a field azure,
that must be one of the Luttrells. By the crescent upon it, it should be
the second son of old Sir Hugh, who had a bolt through his ankle at the
intaking of Romorantin, he having rushed into the fray ere his squire had
time to clasp his solleret to his greave. There too is the hackle which is
the old device of the De Brays. I have served under Sir Thomas de Bray,
who was as jolly as a pie, and a lusty swordsman until he got too fat for
his harness.”

So the archer gossiped as the three wayfarers threaded their way among the
stamping horses, the busy grooms, and the knots of pages and squires who
disputed over the merits of their masters’ horses and deer-hounds. As they
passed the old church, which stood upon a mound at the left-hand side of
the village street the door was flung open, and a stream of worshippers
wound down the sloping path, coming from the morning mass, all chattering
like a cloud of jays. Alleyne bent knee and doffed hat at the sight of the
open door; but ere he had finished an ave his comrades were out of sight
round the curve of the path, and he had to run to overtake them.

“What!” he said, “not one word of prayer before God’s own open house? How
can ye hope for His blessing upon the day?”

“My friend,” said Hordle John, “I have prayed so much during the last two
months, not only during the day, but at matins, lauds, and the like, when
I could scarce keep my head upon my shoulders for nodding, that I feel
that I have somewhat over-prayed myself.”

“How can a man have too much religion?” cried Alleyne earnestly. “It is
the one thing that availeth. A man is but a beast as he lives from day to
day, eating and drinking, breathing and sleeping. It is only when he
raises himself, and concerns himself with the immortal spirit within him,
that he becomes in very truth a man. Bethink ye how sad a thing it would
be that the blood of the Redeemer should be spilled to no purpose.”

“Bless the lad, if he doth not blush like any girl, and yet preach like
the whole College of Cardinals,” cried the archer.

“In truth I blush that any one so weak and so unworthy as I should try to
teach another that which he finds it so passing hard to follow himself.”

“Prettily said, mon garcon. Touching that same slaying of the Redeemer, it
was a bad business. A good padre in France read to us from a scroll the
whole truth of the matter. The soldiers came upon him in the garden. In
truth, these Apostles of His may have been holy men, but they were of no
great account as men-at-arms. There was one, indeed, Sir Peter, who smote
out like a true man; but, unless he is belied, he did but clip a varlet’s
ear, which was no very knightly deed. By these ten finger-bones! had I
been there with Black Simon of Norwich, and but one score picked men of
the Company, we had held them in play. Could we do no more, we had at
least filled the false knight, Sir Judas, so full of English arrows that
he would curse the day that ever he came on such an errand.”

The young clerk smiled at his companion’s earnestness. “Had He wished
help,” he said, “He could have summoned legions of archangels from heaven,
so what need had He of your poor bow and arrow? Besides, bethink you of
His own words—that those who live by the sword shall perish by the
sword.”

“And how could man die better?” asked the archer. “If I had my wish, it
would be to fall so—not, mark you, in any mere skirmish of the
Company, but in a stricken field, with the great lion banner waving over
us and the red oriflamme in front, amid the shouting of my fellows and the
twanging of the strings. But let it be sword, lance, or bolt that strikes
me down: for I should think it shame to die from an iron ball from the
fire-crake or bombard or any such unsoldierly weapon, which is only fitted
to scare babes with its foolish noise and smoke.”

“I have heard much even in the quiet cloisters of these new and dreadful
engines,” quoth Alleyne. “It is said, though I can scarce bring myself to
believe it, that they will send a ball twice as far as a bowman can shoot
his shaft, and with such force as to break through armor of proof.”

“True enough, my lad. But while the armorer is thrusting in his
devil’s-dust, and dropping his ball, and lighting his flambeau, I can very
easily loose six shafts, or eight maybe, so he hath no great vantage after
all. Yet I will not deny that at the intaking of a town it is well to have
good store of bombards. I am told that at Calais they made dints in the
wall that a man might put his head into. But surely, comrades, some one
who is grievously hurt hath passed along this road before us.”

All along the woodland track there did indeed run a scattered straggling
trail of blood-marks, sometimes in single drops, and in other places in
broad, ruddy gouts, smudged over the dead leaves or crimsoning the white
flint stones.

“It must be a stricken deer,” said John.

“Nay, I am woodman enough to see that no deer hath passed this way this
morning; and yet the blood is fresh. But hark to the sound!”

They stood listening all three with sidelong heads. Through the silence of
the great forest there came a swishing, whistling sound, mingled with the
most dolorous groans, and the voice of a man raised in a high quavering
kind of song. The comrades hurried onwards eagerly, and topping the brow
of a small rising they saw upon the other side the source from which these
strange noises arose.

A tall man, much stooped in the shoulders, was walking slowly with bended
head and clasped hands in the centre of the path. He was dressed from head
to foot in a long white linen cloth, and a high white cap with a red cross
printed upon it. His gown was turned back from his shoulders, and the
flesh there was a sight to make a man wince, for it was all beaten to a
pulp, and the blood was soaking into his gown and trickling down upon the
ground. Behind him walked a smaller man with his hair touched with gray,
who was clad in the same white garb. He intoned a long whining rhyme in
the French tongue, and at the end of every line he raised a thick cord,
all jagged with pellets of lead, and smote his companion across the
shoulders until the blood spurted again. Even as the three wayfarers
stared, however, there was a sudden change, for the smaller man, having
finished his song, loosened his own gown and handed the scourge to the
other, who took up the stave once more and lashed his companion with all
the strength of his bare and sinewy arm. So, alternately beating and
beaten, they made their dolorous way through the beautiful woods and under
the amber arches of the fading beech-trees, where the calm strength and
majesty of Nature might serve to rebuke the foolish energies and misspent
strivings of mankind.

Such a spectacle was new to Hordle John or to Alleyne Edricson; but the
archer treated it lightly, as a common matter enough.

“These are the Beating Friars, otherwise called the Flagellants,” quoth
he. “I marvel that ye should have come upon none of them before, for
across the water they are as common as gallybaggers. I have heard that
there are no English among them, but that they are from France, Italy and
Bohemia. En avant, camarades! that we may have speech with them.”

As they came up to them, Alleyne could hear the doleful dirge which the
beater was chanting, bringing down his heavy whip at the end of each line,
while the groans of the sufferer formed a sort of dismal chorus. It was in
old French, and ran somewhat in this way:

        Or avant, entre nous tous freres
        Battons nos charognes bien fort
        En remembrant la grant misere
        De Dieu et sa piteuse mort
        Qui fut pris en la gent amere
        Et vendus et trais a tort
        Et bastu sa chair, vierge et dere
        Au nom de ce battons plus fort.

Then at the end of the verse the scourge changed hands and the chanting
began anew.

“Truly, holy fathers,” said the archer in French as they came abreast of
them, “you have beaten enough for to-day. The road is all spotted like a
shambles at Martinmas. Why should ye mishandle yourselves thus?”

“C’est pour vos peches—pour vos peches,” they droned, looking at the
travellers with sad lack-lustre eyes, and then bent to their bloody work
once more without heed to the prayers and persuasions which were addressed
to them. Finding all remonstrance useless, the three comrades hastened on
their way, leaving these strange travellers to their dreary task.

“Mort Dieu!” cried the bowman, “there is a bucketful or more of my blood
over in France, but it was all spilled in hot fight, and I should think
twice before I drew it drop by drop as these friars are doing. By my hilt!
our young one here is as white as a Picardy cheese. What is amiss then,
mon cher?”

“It is nothing,” Alleyne answered. “My life has been too quiet, I am not
used to such sights.”

“Ma foi!” the other cried, “I have never yet seen a man who was so stout
of speech and yet so weak of heart.”

“Not so, friend,” quoth big John; “it is not weakness of heart for I know
the lad well. His heart is as good as thine or mine but he hath more in
his pate than ever you will carry under that tin pot of thine, and as a
consequence he can see farther into things, so that they weigh upon him
more.”

“Surely to any man it is a sad sight,” said Alleyne, “to see these holy
men, who have done no sin themselves, suffering so for the sins of others.
Saints are they, if in this age any may merit so high a name.”

“I count them not a fly,” cried Hordle John; “for who is the better for
all their whipping and yowling? They are like other friars, I trow, when
all is done. Let them leave their backs alone, and beat the pride out of
their hearts.”

“By the three kings! there is sooth in what you say,” remarked the archer.
“Besides, methinks if I were le bon Dieu, it would bring me little joy to
see a poor devil cutting the flesh off his bones; and I should think that
he had but a small opinion of me, that he should hope to please me by such
provost-marshal work. No, by my hilt! I should look with a more loving eye
upon a jolly archer who never harmed a fallen foe and never feared a hale
one.”

“Doubtless you mean no sin,” said Alleyne. “If your words are wild, it is
not for me to judge them. Can you not see that there are other foes in
this world besides Frenchmen, and as much glory to be gained in conquering
them? Would it not be a proud day for knight or squire if he could
overthrow seven adversaries in the lists? Yet here are we in the lists of
life, and there come the seven black champions against us Sir Pride, Sir
Covetousness, Sir Lust, Sir Anger, Sir Gluttony, Sir Envy, and Sir Sloth.
Let a man lay those seven low, and he shall have the prize of the day,
from the hands of the fairest queen of beauty, even from the Virgin-Mother
herself. It is for this that these men mortify their flesh, and to set us
an example, who would pamper ourselves overmuch. I say again that they are
God’s own saints, and I bow my head to them.”

“And so you shall, mon petit,” replied the archer. “I have not heard a man
speak better since old Dom Bertrand died, who was at one time chaplain to
the White Company. He was a very valiant man, but at the battle of
Brignais he was spitted through the body by a Hainault man-at-arms. For
this we had an excommunication read against the man, when next we saw our
holy father at Avignon; but as we had not his name, and knew nothing of
him, save that he rode a dapple-gray roussin, I have feared sometimes that
the blight may have settled upon the wrong man.”

“Your Company has been, then, to bow knee before our holy father, the Pope
Urban, the prop and centre of Christendom?” asked Alleyne, much
interested. “Perchance you have yourself set eyes upon his august face?”

“Twice I saw him,” said the archer. “He was a lean little rat of a man,
with a scab on his chin. The first time we had five thousand crowns out of
him, though he made much ado about it. The second time we asked ten
thousand, but it was three days before we could come to terms, and I am of
opinion myself that we might have done better by plundering the palace.
His chamberlain and cardinals came forth, as I remember, to ask whether we
would take seven thousand crowns with his blessing and a plenary
absolution, or the ten thousand with his solemn ban by bell, book and
candle. We were all of one mind that it was best to have the ten thousand
with the curse; but in some way they prevailed upon Sir John, so that we
were blest and shriven against our will. Perchance it is as well, for the
Company were in need of it about that time.”

The pious Alleyne was deeply shocked by this reminiscence. Involuntarily
he glanced up and around to see if there were any trace of those opportune
levin-flashes and thunderbolts which, in the “Acta Sanctorum,” were wont
so often to cut short the loose talk of the scoffer. The autumn sun
streamed down as brightly as ever, and the peaceful red path still wound
in front of them through the rustling, yellow-tinted forest, Nature seemed
to be too busy with her own concerns to heed the dignity of an outraged
pontiff. Yet he felt a sense of weight and reproach within his breast, as
though he had sinned himself in giving ear to such words. The teachings of
twenty years cried out against such license. It was not until he had
thrown himself down before one of the many wayside crosses, and had prayed
from his heart both for the archer and for himself, that the dark cloud
rolled back again from his spirit.

CHAPTER VIII. THE THREE FRIENDS.

His companions had passed on whilst he was at his orisons; but his young
blood and the fresh morning air both invited him to a scamper. His staff
in one hand and his scrip in the other, with springy step and floating
locks, he raced along the forest path, as active and as graceful as a
young deer. He had not far to go, however; for, on turning a corner, he
came on a roadside cottage with a wooden fence-work around it, where stood
big John and Aylward the bowman, staring at something within. As he came
up with them, he saw that two little lads, the one about nine years of age
and the other somewhat older, were standing on the plot in front of the
cottage, each holding out a round stick in their left hands, with their
arms stiff and straight from the shoulder, as silent and still as two
small statues. They were pretty, blue-eyed, yellow-haired lads, well made
and sturdy, with bronzed skins, which spoke of a woodland life.

“Here are young chips from an old bow stave!” cried the soldier in great
delight. “This is the proper way to raise children. By my hilt! I could
not have trained them better had I the ordering of it myself.”

“What is it then?” asked Hordle John. “They stand very stiff, and I trust
that they have not been struck so.”

“Nay, they are training their left arms, that they may have a steady grasp
of the bow. So my own father trained me, and six days a week I held out
his walking-staff till my arm was heavy as lead. Hola, mes enfants! how
long will you hold out?”

“Until the sun is over the great lime-tree, good master,” the elder
answered.

“What would ye be, then? Woodmen? Verderers?”

“Nay, soldiers,” they cried both together.

“By the beard of my father! but ye are whelps of the true breed. Why so
keen, then, to be soldiers?”

“That we may fight the Scots,” they answered. “Daddy will send us to fight
the Scots.”

“And why the Scots, my pretty lads? We have seen French and Spanish
galleys no further away than Southampton, but I doubt that it will be some
time before the Scots find their way to these parts.”

“Our business is with the Scots,” quoth the elder; “for it was the Scots
who cut off daddy’s string fingers and his thumbs.”

“Aye, lads, it was that,” said a deep voice from behind Alleyne’s
shoulder. Looking round, the wayfarers saw a gaunt, big-boned man, with
sunken cheeks and a sallow face, who had come up behind them. He held up
his two hands as he spoke, and showed that the thumbs and two first
fingers had been torn away from each of them.

“Ma foi, camarade!” cried Aylward. “Who hath served thee in so shameful a
fashion?”

“It is easy to see, friend, that you were born far from the marches of
Scotland,” quoth the stranger, with a bitter smile. “North of Humber there
is no man who would not know the handiwork of Devil Douglas, the black
Lord James.”

“And how fell you into his hands?” asked John.

“I am a man of the north country, from the town of Beverley and the
wapentake of Holderness,” he answered. “There was a day when, from Trent
to Tweed, there was no better marksman than Robin Heathcot. Yet, as you
see, he hath left me, as he hath left many another poor border archer,
with no grip for bill or bow. Yet the king hath given me a living here in
the southlands, and please God these two lads of mine will pay off a debt
that hath been owing over long. What is the price of daddy’s thumbs,
boys?”

“Twenty Scottish lives,” they answered together.

“And for the fingers?”

“Half a score.”

“When they can bend my war-bow, and bring down a squirrel at a hundred
paces, I send them to take service under Johnny Copeland, the Lord of the
Marches and Governor of Carlisle. By my soul! I would give the rest of my
fingers to see the Douglas within arrow-flight of them.”

“May you live to see it,” quoth the bowman. “And hark ye, mes enfants,
take an old soldier’s rede and lay your bodies to the bow, drawing from
hip and thigh as much as from arm. Learn also, I pray you, to shoot with a
dropping shaft; for though a bowman may at times be called upon to shoot
straight and fast, yet it is more often that he has to do with a
town-guard behind a wall, or an arbalestier with his mantlet raised when
you cannot hope to do him scathe unless your shaft fall straight upon him
from the clouds. I have not drawn string for two weeks, but I may be able
to show ye how such shots should be made.” He loosened his long-bow, slung
his quiver round to the front, and then glanced keenly round for a fitting
mark. There was a yellow and withered stump some way off, seen under the
drooping branches of a lofty oak. The archer measured the distance with
his eye; and then, drawing three shafts, he shot them off with such speed
that the first had not reached the mark ere the last was on the string.
Each arrow passed high over the oak; and, of the three, two stuck fair
into the stump; while the third, caught in some wandering puff of wind,
was driven a foot or two to one side.

“Good!” cried the north countryman. “Hearken to him lads! He is a master
bowman. Your dad says amen to every word he says.”

“By my hilt!” said Aylward, “if I am to preach on bowmanship, the whole
long day would scarce give me time for my sermon. We have marksmen in the
Company who will notch with a shaft every crevice and joint of a
man-at-arm’s harness, from the clasp of his bassinet to the hinge of his
greave. But, with your favor, friend, I must gather my arrows again, for
while a shaft costs a penny a poor man can scarce leave them sticking in
wayside stumps. We must, then, on our road again, and I hope from my heart
that you may train these two young goshawks here until they are ready for
a cast even at such a quarry as you speak of.”

Leaving the thumbless archer and his brood, the wayfarers struck through
the scattered huts of Emery Down, and out on to the broad rolling heath
covered deep in ferns and in heather, where droves of the half-wild black
forest pigs were rooting about amongst the hillocks. The woods about this
point fall away to the left and the right, while the road curves upwards
and the wind sweeps keenly over the swelling uplands. The broad strips of
bracken glowed red and yellow against the black peaty soil, and a queenly
doe who grazed among them turned her white front and her great questioning
eyes towards the wayfarers. Alleyne gazed in admiration at the supple
beauty of the creature; but the archer’s fingers played with his quiver,
and his eyes glistened with the fell instinct which urges a man to
slaughter.

“Tete Dieu!” he growled, “were this France, or even Guienne, we should
have a fresh haunch for our none-meat. Law or no law, I have a mind to
loose a bolt at her.”

“I would break your stave across my knee first,” cried John, laying his
great hand upon the bow. “What! man, I am forest-born, and I know what
comes of it. In our own township of Hordle two have lost their eyes and
one his skin for this very thing. On my troth, I felt no great love when I
first saw you, but since then I have conceived over much regard for you to
wish to see the verderer’s flayer at work upon you.”

“It is my trade to risk my skin,” growled the archer; but none the less he
thrust his quiver over his hip again and turned his face for the west.

As they advanced, the path still tended upwards, running from heath into
copses of holly and yew, and so back into heath again. It was joyful to
hear the merry whistle of blackbirds as they darted from one clump of
greenery to the other. Now and again a peaty amber colored stream rippled
across their way, with ferny over-grown banks, where the blue kingfisher
flitted busily from side to side, or the gray and pensive heron, swollen
with trout and dignity, stood ankle-deep among the sedges. Chattering jays
and loud wood-pigeons flapped thickly overhead, while ever and anon the
measured tapping of Nature’s carpenter, the great green woodpecker,
sounded from each wayside grove. On either side, as the path mounted, the
long sweep of country broadened and expanded, sloping down on the one side
through yellow forest and brown moor to the distant smoke of Lymington and
the blue misty channel which lay alongside the sky-line, while to the
north the woods rolled away, grove topping grove, to where in the furthest
distance the white spire of Salisbury stood out hard and clear against the
cloudless sky. To Alleyne whose days had been spent in the low-lying
coastland, the eager upland air and the wide free country-side gave a
sense of life and of the joy of living which made his young blood tingle
in his veins. Even the heavy John was not unmoved by the beauty of their
road, while the bowman whistled lustily or sang snatches of French love
songs in a voice which might have scared the most stout-hearted maiden
that ever hearkened to serenade.

“I have a liking for that north countryman,” he remarked presently. “He
hath good power of hatred. Couldst see by his cheek and eye that he is as
bitter as verjuice. I warm to a man who hath some gall in his liver.”

“Ah me!” sighed Alleyne. “Would it not be better if he had some love in
his heart?”

“I would not say nay to that. By my hilt! I shall never be said to be
traitor to the little king. Let a man love the sex. Pasques Dieu! they are
made to be loved, les petites, from whimple down to shoe-string! I am
right glad, mon garcon, to see that the good monks have trained thee so
wisely and so well.”

“Nay, I meant not worldly love, but rather that his heart should soften
towards those who have wronged him.”

The archer shook his head. “A man should love those of his own breed,”
said he. “But it is not nature that an English-born man should love a Scot
or a Frenchman. Ma foi! you have not seen a drove of Nithsdale raiders on
their Galloway nags, or you would not speak of loving them. I would as
soon take Beelzebub himself to my arms. I fear, mon gar., that they have
taught thee but badly at Beaulieu, for surely a bishop knows more of what
is right and what is ill than an abbot can do, and I myself with these
very eyes saw the Bishop of Lincoln hew into a Scottish hobeler with a
battle-axe, which was a passing strange way of showing him that he loved
him.”

Alleyne scarce saw his way to argue in the face of so decided an opinion
on the part of a high dignitary of the Church. “You have borne arms
against the Scots, then?” he asked.

“Why, man, I first loosed string in battle when I was but a lad, younger
by two years than you, at Neville’s Cross, under the Lord Mowbray. Later,
I served under the Warden of Berwick, that very John Copeland of whom our
friend spake, the same who held the King of Scots to ransom. Ma foi! it is
rough soldiering, and a good school for one who would learn to be hardy
and war-wise.”

“I have heard that the Scots are good men of war,” said Hordle John.

“For axemen and for spearmen I have not seen their match,” the archer
answered. “They can travel, too, with bag of meal and gridiron slung to
their sword-belt, so that it is ill to follow them. There are scant crops
and few beeves in the borderland, where a man must reap his grain with
sickle in one fist and brown bill in the other. On the other hand, they
are the sorriest archers that I have ever seen, and cannot so much as aim
with the arbalest, to say nought of the long-bow. Again, they are mostly
poor folk, even the nobles among them, so that there are few who can buy
as good a brigandine of chain-mail as that which I am wearing, and it is
ill for them to stand up against our own knights, who carry the price of
five Scotch farms upon their chest and shoulders. Man for man, with equal
weapons, they are as worthy and valiant men as could be found in the whole
of Christendom.”

“And the French?” asked Alleyne, to whom the archer’s light gossip had all
the relish that the words of the man of action have for the recluse.

“The French are also very worthy men. We have had great good fortune in
France, and it hath led to much bobance and camp-fire talk, but I have
ever noticed that those who know the most have the least to say about it.
I have seen Frenchmen fight both in open field, in the intaking and the
defending of towns or castlewicks, in escalados, camisades, night forays,
bushments, sallies, outfalls, and knightly spear-runnings. Their knights
and squires, lad, are every whit as good as ours, and I could pick out a
score of those who ride behind Du Guesclin who would hold the lists with
sharpened lances against the best men in the army of England. On the other
hand, their common folk are so crushed down with gabelle, and poll-tax,
and every manner of cursed tallage, that the spirit has passed right out
of them. It is a fool’s plan to teach a man to be a cur in peace, and
think that he will be a lion in war. Fleece them like sheep and sheep they
will remain. If the nobles had not conquered the poor folk it is like
enough that we should not have conquered the nobles.”

“But they must be sorry folk to bow down to the rich in such a fashion,”
said big John. “I am but a poor commoner of England myself, and yet I know
something of charters, liberties, franchises, usages, privileges, customs,
and the like. If these be broken, then all men know that it is time to buy
arrow-heads.”

“Aye, but the men of the law are strong in France as well as the men of
war. By my hilt! I hold that a man has more to fear there from the ink-pot
of the one than from the iron of the other. There is ever some cursed
sheepskin in their strong boxes to prove that the rich man should be
richer and the poor man poorer. It would scarce pass in England, but they
are quiet folk over the water.”

“And what other nations have you seen in your travels, good sir?” asked
Alleyne Edricson. His young mind hungered for plain facts of life, after
the long course of speculation and of mysticism on which he had been
trained.

“I have seen the low countryman in arms, and I have nought to say against
him. Heavy and slow is he by nature, and is not to be brought into battle
for the sake of a lady’s eyelash or the twang of a minstrel’s string, like
the hotter blood of the south. But ma foi! lay hand on his wool-bales, or
trifle with his velvet of Bruges, and out buzzes every stout burgher, like
bees from the tee-hole, ready to lay on as though it were his one business
in life. By our lady! they have shown the French at Courtrai and elsewhere
that they are as deft in wielding steel as in welding it.”

“And the men of Spain?”

“They too are very hardy soldiers, the more so as for many hundred years
they have had to fight hard against the cursed followers of the black
Mahound, who have pressed upon them from the south, and still, as I
understand, hold the fairer half of the country. I had a turn with them
upon the sea when they came over to Winchelsea and the good queen with her
ladies sat upon the cliffs looking down at us, as if it had been joust or
tourney. By my hilt! it was a sight that was worth the seeing, for all
that was best in England was out on the water that day. We went forth in
little ships and came back in great galleys—for of fifty tall ships
of Spain, over two score flew the Cross of St. George ere the sun had set.
But now, youngster, I have answered you freely, and I trow it is time that
you answered me. Let things be plat and plain between us. I am a man who
shoots straight at his mark. You saw the things I had with me at yonder
hostel: name which you will, save only the box of rose-colored sugar which
I take to the Lady Loring, and you shall have it if you will but come with
me to France.”

“Nay,” said Alleyne, “I would gladly come with ye to France or where else
ye will, just to list to your talk, and because ye are the only two
friends that I have in the whole wide world outside of the cloisters; but,
indeed, it may not be, for my duty is towards my brother, seeing that
father and mother are dead, and he my elder. Besides, when ye talk of
taking me to France, ye do not conceive how useless I should be to you,
seeing that neither by training nor by nature am I fitted for the wars,
and there seems to be nought but strife in those parts.”

“That comes from my fool’s talk,” cried the archer; “for being a man of no
learning myself, my tongue turns to blades and targets, even as my hand
does. Know then that for every parchment in England there are twenty in
France. For every statue, cut gem, shrine, carven screen, or what else
might please the eye of a learned clerk, there are a good hundred to our
one. At the spoiling of Carcasonne I have seen chambers stored with
writing, though not one man in our Company could read them. Again, in
Arles and Nimes, and other towns that I could name, there are the great
arches and fortalices still standing which were built of old by giant men
who came from the south. Can I not see by your brightened eye how you
would love to look upon these things? Come then with me, and, by these ten
finger-bones! there is not one of them which you shall not see.”

“I should indeed love to look upon them,” Alleyne answered; “but I have
come from Beaulieu for a purpose, and I must be true to my service, even
as thou art true to thine.”

“Bethink you again, mon ami,” quoth Aylward, “that you might do much good
yonder, since there are three hundred men in the Company, and none who has
ever a word of grace for them, and yet the Virgin knows that there was
never a set of men who were in more need of it. Sickerly the one duty may
balance the other. Your brother hath done without you this many a year,
and, as I gather, he hath never walked as far as Beaulieu to see you
during all that time, so he cannot be in any great need of you.”

“Besides,” said John, “the Socman of Minstead is a by-word through the
forest, from Bramshaw Hill to Holmesley Walk. He is a drunken, brawling,
perilous churl, as you may find to your cost.”

“The more reason that I should strive to mend him,” quoth Alleyne. “There
is no need to urge me, friends, for my own wishes would draw me to France,
and it would be a joy to me if I could go with you. But indeed and indeed
it cannot be, so here I take my leave of you, for yonder square tower
amongst the trees upon the right must surely be the church of Minstead,
and I may reach it by this path through the woods.”

“Well, God be with thee, lad!” cried the archer, pressing Alleyne to his
heart. “I am quick to love, and quick to hate and ‘fore God I am loth to
part.”

“Would it not be well,” said John, “that we should wait here, and see what
manner of greeting you have from your brother. You may prove to be as
welcome as the king’s purveyor to the village dame.”

“Nay, nay,” he answered; “ye must not bide for me, for where I go I stay.”

“Yet it may be as well that you should know whither we go,” said the
archer. “We shall now journey south through the woods until we come out
upon the Christchurch road, and so onwards, hoping to-night to reach the
castle of Sir William Montacute, Earl of Salisbury, of which Sir Nigel
Loring is constable. There we shall bide, and it is like enough that for a
month or more you may find us there, ere we are ready for our viage back
to France.”

It was hard indeed for Alleyne to break away from these two new but hearty
friends, and so strong was the combat between his conscience and his
inclinations that he dared not look round, lest his resolution should slip
away from him. It was not until he was deep among the tree trunks that he
cast a glance backwards, when he found that he could still see them
through the branches on the road above him. The archer was standing with
folded arms, his bow jutting from over his shoulder, and the sun gleaming
brightly upon his head-piece and the links of his chain-mail. Beside him
stood his giant recruit, still clad in the home-spun and ill-fitting
garments of the fuller of Lymington, with arms and legs shooting out of
his scanty garb. Even as Alleyne watched them they turned upon their heels
and plodded off together upon their way.

CHAPTER IX. HOW STRANGE THINGS BEFELL IN MINSTEAD WOOD.

The path which the young clerk had now to follow lay through a magnificent
forest of the very heaviest timber, where the giant bowls of oak and of
beech formed long aisles in every direction, shooting up their huge
branches to build the majestic arches of Nature’s own cathedral. Beneath
lay a broad carpet of the softest and greenest moss, flecked over with
fallen leaves, but yielding pleasantly to the foot of the traveller. The
track which guided him was one so seldom used that in places it lost
itself entirely among the grass, to reappear as a reddish rut between the
distant tree trunks. It was very still here in the heart of the woodlands.
The gentle rustle of the branches and the distant cooing of pigeons were
the only sounds which broke in upon the silence, save that once Alleyne
heard afar off a merry call upon a hunting bugle and the shrill yapping of
the hounds.

It was not without some emotion that he looked upon the scene around him,
for, in spite of his secluded life, he knew enough of the ancient
greatness of his own family to be aware that the time had been when they
had held undisputed and paramount sway over all that tract of country. His
father could trace his pure Saxon lineage back to that Godfrey Malf who
had held the manors of Bisterne and of Minstead at the time when the
Norman first set mailed foot upon English soil. The afforestation of the
district, however, and its conversion into a royal demesne had clipped off
a large section of his estate, while other parts had been confiscated as a
punishment for his supposed complicity in an abortive Saxon rising. The
fate of the ancestor had been typical of that of his descendants. During
three hundred years their domains had gradually contracted, sometimes
through royal or feudal encroachment, and sometimes through such gifts to
the Church as that with which Alleyne’s father had opened the doors of
Beaulieu Abbey to his younger son. The importance of the family had thus
dwindled, but they still retained the old Saxon manor-house, with a couple
of farms and a grove large enough to afford pannage to a hundred pigs—“sylva
de centum porcis,” as the old family parchments describe it. Above all,
the owner of the soil could still hold his head high as the veritable
Socman of Minstead—that is, as holding the land in free socage, with
no feudal superior, and answerable to no man lower than the king. Knowing
this, Alleyne felt some little glow of worldly pride as he looked for the
first time upon the land with which so many generations of his ancestors
had been associated. He pushed on the quicker, twirling his staff merrily,
and looking out at every turn of the path for some sign of the old Saxon
residence. He was suddenly arrested, however, by the appearance of a
wild-looking fellow armed with a club, who sprang out from behind a tree
and barred his passage. He was a rough, powerful peasant, with cap and
tunic of untanned sheepskin, leather breeches, and galligaskins round legs
and feet.

“Stand!” he shouted, raising his heavy cudgel to enforce the order. “Who
are you who walk so freely through the wood? Whither would you go, and
what is your errand?”

“Why should I answer your questions, my friend?” said Alleyne, standing on
his guard.

“Because your tongue may save your pate. But where have I looked upon your
face before?”

“No longer ago than last night at the ‘Pied Merlin,’” the clerk answered,
recognizing the escaped serf who had been so outspoken as to his wrongs.

“By the Virgin! yes. You were the little clerk who sat so mum in the
corner, and then cried fy on the gleeman. What hast in the scrip?”

“Naught of any price.”

“How can I tell that, clerk? Let me see.”

“Not I.”

“Fool! I could pull you limb from limb like a pullet. What would you have?
Hast forgot that we are alone far from all men? How can your clerkship
help you? Wouldst lose scrip and life too?”

“I will part with neither without fight.”

“A fight, quotha? A fight betwixt spurred cock and new hatched chicken!
Thy fighting days may soon be over.”

“Hadst asked me in the name of charity I would have given freely,” cried
Alleyne. “As it stands, not one farthing shall you have with my free will,
and when I see my brother, the Socman of Minstead, he will raise hue and
cry from vill to vill, from hundred to hundred, until you are taken as a
common robber and a scourge to the country.”

The outlaw sank his club. “The Socman’s brother!” he gasped. “Now, by the
keys of Peter! I had rather that hand withered and tongue was palsied ere
I had struck or miscalled you. If you are the Socman’s brother you are one
of the right side, I warrant, for all your clerkly dress.”

“His brother I am,” said Alleyne. “But if I were not, is that reason why
you should molest me on the king’s ground?”

“I give not the pip of an apple for king or for noble,” cried the serf
passionately. “Ill have I had from them, and ill I shall repay them. I am
a good friend to my friends, and, by the Virgin! an evil foeman to my
foes.”

“And therefore the worst of foemen to thyself,” said Alleyne. “But I pray
you, since you seem to know him, to point out to me the shortest path to
my brother’s house.”

The serf was about to reply, when the clear ringing call of a bugle burst
from the wood close behind them, and Alleyne caught sight for an instant
of the dun side and white breast of a lordly stag glancing swiftly betwixt
the distant tree trunks. A minute later came the shaggy deer-hounds, a
dozen or fourteen of them, running on a hot scent, with nose to earth and
tail in air. As they streamed past the silent forest around broke suddenly
into loud life, with galloping of hoofs, crackling of brushwood, and the
short, sharp cries of the hunters. Close behind the pack rode a fourrier
and a yeoman-pricker, whooping on the laggards and encouraging the
leaders, in the shrill half-French jargon which was the language of venery
and woodcraft. Alleyne was still gazing after them, listening to the loud
“Hyke-a-Bayard! Hyke-a-Pomers! Hyke-a-Lebryt!” with which they called upon
their favorite hounds, when a group of horsemen crashed out through the
underwood at the very spot where the serf and he were standing.

The one who led was a man between fifty and sixty years of age, war-worn
and weather-beaten, with a broad, thoughtful forehead and eyes which shone
brightly from under his fierce and overhung brows. His beard, streaked
thickly with gray, bristled forward from his chin, and spoke of a
passionate nature, while the long, finely cut face and firm mouth marked
the leader of men. His figure was erect and soldierly, and he rode his
horse with the careless grace of a man whose life had been spent in the
saddle. In common garb, his masterful face and flashing eye would have
marked him as one who was born to rule; but now, with his silken tunic
powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his velvet mantle lined with the royal
minever, and the lions of England stamped in silver upon his harness, none
could fail to recognize the noble Edward, most warlike and powerful of all
the long line of fighting monarchs who had ruled the Anglo-Norman race.
Alleyne doffed hat and bowed head at the sight of him, but the serf folded
his hands and leaned them upon his cudgel, looking with little love at the
knot of nobles and knights-in-waiting who rode behind the king.

“Ha!” cried Edward, reining up for an instant his powerful black steed.
“Le cerf est passe? Non? Ici, Brocas; tu parles Anglais.”

“The deer, clowns?” said a hard-visaged, swarthy-faced man, who rode at
the king’s elbow. “If ye have headed it back it is as much as your ears
are worth.”

“It passed by the blighted beech there,” said Alleyne, pointing, “and the
hounds were hard at its heels.”

“It is well,” cried Edward, still speaking in French: for, though he could
understand English, he had never learned to express himself in so
barbarous and unpolished a tongue. “By my faith, sirs,” he continued, half
turning in his saddle to address his escort, “unless my woodcraft is sadly
at fault, it is a stag of six tines and the finest that we have roused
this journey. A golden St. Hubert to the man who is the first to sound the
mort.” He shook his bridle as he spoke, and thundered away, his knights
lying low upon their horses and galloping as hard as whip and spur would
drive them, in the hope of winning the king’s prize. Away they drove down
the long green glade—bay horses, black and gray, riders clad in
every shade of velvet, fur, or silk, with glint of brazen horn and flash
of knife and spear. One only lingered, the black-browed Baron Brocas, who,
making a gambade which brought him within arm-sweep of the serf, slashed
him across the face with his riding-whip. “Doff, dog, doff,” he hissed,
“when a monarch deigns to lower his eyes to such as you!”—then
spurred through the underwood and was gone, with a gleam of steel shoes
and flutter of dead leaves.

The villein took the cruel blow without wince or cry, as one to whom
stripes are a birthright and an inheritance. His eyes flashed, however,
and he shook his bony hand with a fierce wild gesture after the retreating
figure.

“Black hound of Gascony,” he muttered, “evil the day that you and those
like you set foot in free England! I know thy kennel of Rochecourt. The
night will come when I may do to thee and thine what you and your class
have wrought upon mine and me. May God smite me if I fail to smite thee,
thou French robber, with thy wife and thy child and all that is under thy
castle roof!”

“Forbear!” cried Alleyne. “Mix not God’s name with these unhallowed
threats! And yet it was a coward’s blow, and one to stir the blood and
loose the tongue of the most peaceful. Let me find some soothing simples
and lay them on the weal to draw the sting.”

“Nay, there is but one thing that can draw the sting, and that the future
may bring to me. But, clerk, if you would see your brother you must on,
for there is a meeting to-day, and his merry men will await him ere the
shadows turn from west to east. I pray you not to hold him back, for it
would be an evil thing if all the stout lads were there and the leader
a-missing. I would come with you, but sooth to say I am stationed here and
may not move. The path over yonder, betwixt the oak and the thorn, should
bring you out into his nether field.”

Alleyne lost no time in following the directions of the wild, masterless
man, whom he left among the trees where he had found him. His heart was
the heavier for the encounter, not only because all bitterness and wrath
were abhorrent to his gentle nature, but also because it disturbed him to
hear his brother spoken of as though he were a chief of outlaws or the
leader of a party against the state. Indeed, of all the things which he
had seen yet in the world to surprise him there was none more strange than
the hate which class appeared to bear to class. The talk of laborer,
woodman and villein in the inn had all pointed to the wide-spread mutiny,
and now his brother’s name was spoken as though he were the very centre of
the universal discontent. In good truth, the commons throughout the length
and breadth of the land were heart-weary of this fine game of chivalry
which had been played so long at their expense. So long as knight and
baron were a strength and a guard to the kingdom they might be endured,
but now, when all men knew that the great battles in France had been won
by English yeomen and Welsh stabbers, warlike fame, the only fame to which
his class had ever aspired, appeared to have deserted the plate-clad
horsemen. The sports of the lists had done much in days gone by to impress
the minds of the people, but the plumed and unwieldy champion was no
longer an object either of fear or of reverence to men whose fathers and
brothers had shot into the press at Crecy or Poitiers, and seen the
proudest chivalry in the world unable to make head against the weapons of
disciplined peasants. Power had changed hands. The protector had become
the protected, and the whole fabric of the feudal system was tottering to
a fall. Hence the fierce mutterings of the lower classes and the constant
discontent, breaking out into local tumult and outrage, and culminating
some years later in the great rising of Tyler. What Alleyne saw and
wondered at in Hampshire would have appealed equally to the traveller in
any other English county from the Channel to the marches of Scotland.

He was following the track, his misgivings increasing with every step
which took him nearer to that home which he had never seen, when of a
sudden the trees began to thin and the sward to spread out onto a broad,
green lawn, where five cows lay in the sunshine and droves of black swine
wandered unchecked. A brown forest stream swirled down the centre of this
clearing, with a rude bridge flung across it, and on the other side was a
second field sloping up to a long, low-lying wooden house, with thatched
roof and open squares for windows. Alleyne gazed across at it with flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes—for this, he knew, must be the home of his
fathers. A wreath of blue smoke floated up through a hole in the thatch,
and was the only sign of life in the place, save a great black hound which
lay sleeping chained to the door-post. In the yellow shimmer of the autumn
sunshine it lay as peacefully and as still as he had oft pictured it to
himself in his dreams.

He was roused, however, from his pleasant reverie by the sound of voices,
and two people emerged from the forest some little way to his right and
moved across the field in the direction of the bridge. The one was a man
with yellow flowing beard and very long hair of the same tint drooping
over his shoulders; his dress of good Norwich cloth and his assured
bearing marked him as a man of position, while the sombre hue of his
clothes and the absence of all ornament contrasted with the flash and
glitter which had marked the king’s retinue. By his side walked a woman,
tall and slight and dark, with lithe, graceful figure and clear-cut,
composed features. Her jet-black hair was gathered back under a light pink
coif, her head poised proudly upon her neck, and her step long and
springy, like that of some wild, tireless woodland creature. She held her
left hand in front of her, covered with a red velvet glove, and on the
wrist a little brown falcon, very fluffy and bedraggled, which she
smoothed and fondled as she walked. As she came out into the sunshine,
Alleyne noticed that her light gown, slashed with pink, was all stained
with earth and with moss upon one side from shoulder to hem. He stood in
the shadow of an oak staring at her with parted lips, for this woman
seemed to him to be the most beautiful and graceful creature that mind
could conceive of. Such had he imagined the angels, and such he had tried
to paint them in the Beaulieu missals; but here there was something human,
were it only in the battered hawk and discolored dress, which sent a
tingle and thrill through his nerves such as no dream of radiant and
stainless spirit had ever yet been able to conjure up. Good, quiet,
uncomplaining mother Nature, long slighted and miscalled, still bides her
time and draws to her bosom the most errant of her children.

The two walked swiftly across the meadow to the narrow bridge, he in front
and she a pace or two behind. There they paused, and stood for a few
minutes face to face talking earnestly. Alleyne had read and had heard of
love and of lovers. Such were these, doubtless—this golden-bearded
man and the fair damsel with the cold, proud face. Why else should they
wander together in the woods, or be so lost in talk by rustic streams? And
yet as he watched, uncertain whether to advance from the cover or to
choose some other path to the house, he soon came to doubt the truth of
this first conjecture. The man stood, tall and square, blocking the
entrance to the bridge, and throwing out his hands as he spoke in a wild
eager fashion, while the deep tones of his stormy voice rose at times into
accents of menace and of anger. She stood fearlessly in front of him,
still stroking her bird; but twice she threw a swift questioning glance
over her shoulder, as one who is in search of aid. So moved was the young
clerk by these mute appeals, that he came forth from the trees and crossed
the meadow, uncertain what to do, and yet loth to hold back from one who
might need his aid. So intent were they upon each other that neither took
note of his approach; until, when he was close upon them, the man threw
his arm roughly round the damsel’s waist and drew her towards him, she
straining her lithe, supple figure away and striking fiercely at him,
while the hooded hawk screamed with ruffled wings and pecked blindly in
its mistress’s defence. Bird and maid, however, had but little chance
against their assailant who, laughing loudly, caught her wrist in one hand
while he drew her towards him with the other.

“The best rose has ever the longest thorns,” said he. “Quiet, little one,
or you may do yourself a hurt. Must pay Saxon toll on Saxon land, my proud
Maude, for all your airs and graces.”

“You boor!” she hissed. “You base underbred clod! Is this your care and
your hospitality? I would rather wed a branded serf from my father’s
fields. Leave go, I say——Ah! good youth, Heaven has sent you.
Make him loose me! By the honor of your mother, I pray you to stand by me
and to make this knave loose me.”

“Stand by you I will, and that blithely,” said Alleyne. “Surely, sir, you
should take shame to hold the damsel against her will.”

The man turned a face upon him which was lion-like in its strength and in
its wrath. With his tangle of golden hair, his fierce blue eyes, and his
large, well-marked features, he was the most comely man whom Alleyne had
ever seen, and yet there was something so sinister and so fell in his
expression that child or beast might well have shrunk from him. His brows
were drawn, his cheek flushed, and there was a mad sparkle in his eyes
which spoke of a wild, untamable nature.

“Young fool!” he cried, holding the woman still to his side, though every
line of her shrinking figure spoke her abhorrence. “Do you keep your spoon
in your own broth. I rede you to go on your way, lest worse befall you.
This little wench has come with me and with me she shall bide.”

“Liar!” cried the woman; and, stooping her head, she suddenly bit fiercely
into the broad brown hand which held her. He whipped it back with an oath,
while she tore herself free and slipped behind Alleyne, cowering up
against him like the trembling leveret who sees the falcon poising for the
swoop above him.

“Stand off my land!” the man said fiercely, heedless of the blood which
trickled freely from his fingers. “What have you to do here? By your dress
you should be one of those cursed clerks who overrun the land like vile
rats, poking and prying into other men’s concerns, too caitiff to fight
and too lazy to work. By the rood! if I had my will upon ye, I should nail
you upon the abbey doors, as they hang vermin before their holes. Art
neither man nor woman, young shaveling. Get thee back to thy fellows ere I
lay hands upon you: for your foot is on my land, and I may slay you as a
common draw-latch.”

“Is this your land, then?” gasped Alleyne.

“Would you dispute it, dog? Would you wish by trick or quibble to juggle
me out of these last acres? Know, base-born knave, that you have dared
this day to stand in the path of one whose race have been the advisers of
kings and the leaders of hosts, ere ever this vile crew of Norman robbers
came into the land, or such half-blood hounds as you were let loose to
preach that the thief should have his booty and the honest man should sin
if he strove to win back his own.”

“You are the Socman of Minstead?”

“That am I; and the son of Edric the Socman, of the pure blood of Godfrey
the thane, by the only daughter of the house of Aluric, whose forefathers
held the white-horse banner at the fatal fight where our shield was broken
and our sword shivered. I tell you, clerk, that my folk held this land
from Bramshaw Wood to the Ringwood road; and, by the soul of my father! it
will be a strange thing if I am to be bearded upon the little that is left
of it. Begone, I say, and meddle not with my affair.”

“If you leave me now,” whispered the woman, “then shame forever upon your
manhood.”

“Surely, sir,” said Alleyne, speaking in as persuasive and soothing a way
as he could, “if your birth is gentle, there is the more reason that your
manners should be gentle too. I am well persuaded that you did but jest
with this lady, and that you will now permit her to leave your land either
alone or with me as a guide, if she should need one, through the wood. As
to birth, it does not become me to boast, and there is sooth in what you
say as to the unworthiness of clerks, but it is none the less true that I
am as well born as you.”

“Dog!” cried the furious Socman, “there is no man in the south who can say
as much.”

“Yet can I,” said Alleyne smiling; “for indeed I also am the son of Edric
the Socman, of the pure blood of Godfrey the thane, by the only daughter
of Aluric of Brockenhurst. Surely, dear brother,” he continued, holding
out his hand, “you have a warmer greeting than this for me. There are but
two boughs left upon this old, old Saxon trunk.”

His elder brother dashed his hand aside with an oath, while an expression
of malignant hatred passed over his passion-drawn features. “You are the
young cub of Beaulieu, then,” said he. “I might have known it by the sleek
face and the slavish manner too monk-ridden and craven in spirit to answer
back a rough word. Thy father, shaveling, with all his faults, had a man’s
heart; and there were few who could look him in the eyes on the day of his
anger. But you! Look there, rat, on yonder field where the cows graze, and
on that other beyond, and on the orchard hard by the church. Do you know
that all these were squeezed out of your dying father by greedy priests,
to pay for your upbringing in the cloisters? I, the Socman, am shorn of my
lands that you may snivel Latin and eat bread for which you never did
hand’s turn. You rob me first, and now you would come preaching and
whining, in search mayhap of another field or two for your priestly
friends. Knave! my dogs shall be set upon you; but, meanwhile, stand out
of my path, and stop me at your peril!” As he spoke he rushed forward,
and, throwing the lad to one side, caught the woman’s wrist. Alleyne,
however, as active as a young deer-hound, sprang to her aid and seized her
by the other arm, raising his iron-shod staff as he did so.

“You may say what you will to me,” he said between his clenched teeth—“it
may be no better than I deserve; but, brother or no, I swear by my hopes
of salvation that I will break your arm if you do not leave hold of the
maid.”

There was a ring in his voice and a flash in his eyes which promised that
the blow would follow quick at the heels of the word. For a moment the
blood of the long line of hot-headed thanes was too strong for the soft
whisperings of the doctrine of meekness and mercy. He was conscious of a
fierce wild thrill through his nerves and a throb of mad gladness at his
heart, as his real human self burst for an instant the bonds of custom and
of teaching which had held it so long. The socman sprang back, looking to
left and to right for some stick or stone which might serve him for
weapon; but finding none, he turned and ran at the top of his speed for
the house, blowing the while upon a shrill whistle.

“Come!” gasped the woman. “Fly, friend, ere he come back.”

“Nay, let him come!” cried Alleyne. “I shall not budge a foot for him or
his dogs.”

“Come, come!” she cried, tugging at his arm. “I know the man: he will kill
you. Come, for the Virgin’s sake, or for my sake, for I cannot go and
leave you here.”

“Come, then,” said he; and they ran together to the cover of the woods. As
they gained the edge of the brushwood, Alleyne, looking back, saw his
brother come running out of the house again, with the sun gleaming upon
his hair and his beard. He held something which flashed in his right hand,
and he stooped at the threshold to unloose the black hound.

“This way!” the woman whispered, in a low eager voice. “Through the bushes
to that forked ash. Do not heed me; I can run as fast as you, I trow. Now
into the stream—right in, over ankles, to throw the dog off, though
I think it is but a common cur, like its master.” As she spoke, she sprang
herself into the shallow stream and ran swiftly up the centre of it, with
the brown water bubbling over her feet and her hand out-stretched toward
the clinging branches of bramble or sapling. Alleyne followed close at her
heels, with his mind in a whirl at this black welcome and sudden shifting
of all his plans and hopes. Yet, grave as were his thoughts, they would
still turn to wonder as he looked at the twinkling feet of his guide and
saw her lithe figure bend this way and that, dipping under boughs,
springing over stones, with a lightness and ease which made it no small
task for him to keep up with her. At last, when he was almost out of
breath, she suddenly threw herself down upon a mossy bank, between two
holly-bushes, and looked ruefully at her own dripping feet and bedraggled
skirt.

“Holy Mary!” said she, “what shall I do? Mother will keep me to my chamber
for a month, and make me work at the tapestry of the nine bold knights.
She promised as much last week, when I fell into Wilverley bog, and yet
she knows that I cannot abide needle-work.”

Alleyne, still standing in the stream, glanced down at the graceful
pink-and-white figure, the curve of raven-black hair, and the proud,
sensitive face which looked up frankly and confidingly at his own.

“We had best on,” he said. “He may yet overtake us.”

“Not so. We are well off his land now, nor can he tell in this great wood
which way we have taken. But you—you had him at your mercy. Why did
you not kill him?”

“Kill him! My brother!”

“And why not?”—with a quick gleam of her white teeth. “He would have
killed you. I know him, and I read it in his eyes. Had I had your staff I
would have tried—aye, and done it, too.” She shook her clenched
white hand as she spoke, and her lips tightened ominously.

“I am already sad in heart for what I have done,” said he, sitting down on
the bank, and sinking his face into his hands. “God help me!—all
that is worst in me seemed to come uppermost. Another instant, and I had
smitten him: the son of my own mother, the man whom I have longed to take
to my heart. Alas! that I should still be so weak.”

“Weak!” she exclaimed, raising her black eyebrows. “I do not think that
even my father himself, who is a hard judge of manhood, would call you
that. But it is, as you may think, sir, a very pleasant thing for me to
hear that you are grieved at what you have done, and I can but rede that
we should go back together, and you should make your peace with the Socman
by handing back your prisoner. It is a sad thing that so small a thing as
a woman should come between two who are of one blood.”

Simple Alleyne opened his eyes at this little spurt of feminine
bitterness. “Nay, lady,” said he, “that were worst of all. What man would
be so caitiff and thrall as to fail you at your need? I have turned my
brother against me, and now, alas! I appear to have given you offence also
with my clumsy tongue. But, indeed, lady, I am torn both ways, and can
scarce grasp in my mind what it is that has befallen.”

“Nor can I marvel at that,” said she, with a little tinkling laugh. “You
came in as the knight does in the jongleur’s romances, between dragon and
damsel, with small time for the asking of questions. Come,” she went on,
springing to her feet, and smoothing down her rumpled frock, “let us walk
through the shaw together, and we may come upon Bertrand with the horses.
If poor Troubadour had not cast a shoe, we should not have had this
trouble. Nay, I must have your arm: for, though I speak lightly, now that
all is happily over I am as frightened as my brave Roland. See how his
chest heaves, and his dear feathers all awry—the little knight who
would not have his lady mishandled.” So she prattled on to her hawk, while
Alleyne walked by her side, stealing a glance from time to time at this
queenly and wayward woman. In silence they wandered together over the
velvet turf and on through the broad Minstead woods, where the old
lichen-draped beeches threw their circles of black shadow upon the sunlit
sward.

“You have no wish, then, to hear my story?” said she, at last.

“If it pleases you to tell it me,” he answered.

“Oh!” she cried tossing her head, “if it is of so little interest to you,
we had best let it bide.”

“Nay,” said he eagerly, “I would fain hear it.”

“You have a right to know it, if you have lost a brother’s favor through
it. And yet——Ah well, you are, as I understand, a clerk, so I
must think of you as one step further in orders, and make you my
father-confessor. Know then that this man has been a suitor for my hand,
less as I think for my own sweet sake than because he hath ambition and
had it on his mind that he might improve his fortunes by dipping into my
father’s strong box—though the Virgin knows that he would have found
little enough therein. My father, however, is a proud man, a gallant
knight and tried soldier of the oldest blood, to whom this man’s churlish
birth and low descent——Oh, lackaday! I had forgot that he was
of the same strain as yourself.”

“Nay, trouble not for that,” said Alleyne, “we are all from good mother
Eve.”

“Streams may spring from one source, and yet some be clear and some be
foul,” quoth she quickly. “But, to be brief over the matter, my father
would have none of his wooing, nor in sooth would I. On that he swore a
vow against us, and as he is known to be a perilous man, with many outlaws
and others at his back, my father forbade that I should hawk or hunt in
any part of the wood to the north of the Christchurch road. As it chanced,
however, this morning my little Roland here was loosed at a strong-winged
heron, and page Bertrand and I rode on, with no thoughts but for the
sport, until we found ourselves in Minstead woods. Small harm then, but
that my horse Troubadour trod with a tender foot upon a sharp stick,
rearing and throwing me to the ground. See to my gown, the third that I
have befouled within the week. Woe worth me when Agatha the tire-woman
sets eyes upon it!”

“And what then, lady?” asked Alleyne.

“Why, then away ran Troubadour, for belike I spurred him in falling, and
Bertrand rode after him as hard as hoofs could bear him. When I rose there
was the Socman himself by my side, with the news that I was on his land,
but with so many courteous words besides, and such gallant bearing, that
he prevailed upon me to come to his house for shelter, there to wait until
the page return. By the grace of the Virgin and the help of my patron St.
Magdalen, I stopped short ere I reached his door, though, as you saw, he
strove to hale me up to it. And then—ah-h-h-h!”—she shivered
and chattered like one in an ague-fit.

“What is it?” cried Alleyne, looking about in alarm.

“Nothing, friend, nothing! I was but thinking how I bit into his hand.
Sooner would I bite living toad or poisoned snake. Oh, I shall loathe my
lips forever! But you—how brave you were, and how quick! How meek
for yourself, and how bold for a stranger! If I were a man, I should wish
to do what you have done.”

“It was a small thing,” he answered, with a tingle of pleasure at these
sweet words of praise. “But you—what will you do?”

“There is a great oak near here, and I think that Bertrand will bring the
horses there, for it is an old hunting-tryst of ours. Then hey for home,
and no more hawking to-day! A twelve-mile gallop will dry feet and skirt.”

“But your father?”

“Not one word shall I tell him. You do not know him; but I can tell you he
is not a man to disobey as I have disobeyed him. He would avenge me, it is
true, but it is not to him that I shall look for vengeance. Some day,
perchance, in joust or in tourney, knight may wish to wear my colors, and
then I shall tell him that if he does indeed crave my favor there is wrong
unredressed, and the wronger the Socman of Minstead. So my knight shall
find a venture such as bold knights love, and my debt shall be paid, and
my father none the wiser, and one rogue the less in the world. Say, is not
that a brave plan?”

“Nay, lady, it is a thought which is unworthy of you. How can such as you
speak of violence and of vengeance. Are none to be gentle and kind, none
to be piteous and forgiving? Alas! it is a hard, cruel world, and I would
that I had never left my abbey cell. To hear such words from your lips is
as though I heard an angel of grace preaching the devil’s own creed.”

She started from him as a young colt who first feels the bit. “Gramercy
for your rede, young sir!” she said, with a little curtsey. “As I
understand your words, you are grieved that you ever met me, and look upon
me as a preaching devil. Why, my father is a bitter man when he is wroth,
but hath never called me such a name as that. It may be his right and
duty, but certes it is none of thine. So it would be best, since you think
so lowly of me, that you should take this path to the left while I keep on
upon this one; for it is clear that I can be no fit companion for you.” So
saying, with downcast lids and a dignity which was somewhat marred by her
bedraggled skirt, she swept off down the muddy track, leaving Alleyne
standing staring ruefully after her. He waited in vain for some backward
glance or sign of relenting, but she walked on with a rigid neck until her
dress was only a white flutter among the leaves. Then, with a sunken head
and a heavy heart, he plodded wearily down the other path, wroth with
himself for the rude and uncouth tongue which had given offence where so
little was intended.

He had gone some way, lost in doubt and in self-reproach, his mind all
tremulous with a thousand new-found thoughts and fears and wonderments,
when of a sudden there was a light rustle of the leaves behind him, and,
glancing round, there was this graceful, swift-footed creature, treading
in his very shadow, with her proud head bowed, even as his was—the
picture of humility and repentance.

“I shall not vex you, nor even speak,” she said; “but I would fain keep
with you while we are in the wood.”

“Nay, you cannot vex me,” he answered, all warm again at the very sight of
her. “It was my rough words which vexed you; but I have been thrown among
men all my life, and indeed, with all the will, I scarce know how to
temper my speech to a lady’s ear.”

“Then unsay it,” cried she quickly; “say that I was right to wish to have
vengeance on the Socman.”

“Nay, I cannot do that,” he answered gravely.

“Then who is ungentle and unkind now?” she cried in triumph. “How stern
and cold you are for one so young! Art surely no mere clerk, but bishop or
cardinal at the least. Shouldst have crozier for staff and mitre for cap.
Well, well, for your sake I will forgive the Socman and take vengeance on
none but on my own wilful self who must needs run into danger’s path. So
will that please you, sir?”

“There spoke your true self,” said he; “and you will find more pleasure in
such forgiveness than in any vengeance.”

She shook her head, as if by no means assured of it, and then with a
sudden little cry, which had more of surprise than of joy in it, “Here is
Bertrand with the horses!”

Down the glade there came a little green-clad page with laughing eyes, and
long curls floating behind him. He sat perched on a high bay horse, and
held on to the bridle of a spirited black palfrey, the hides of both
glistening from a long run.

“I have sought you everywhere, dear Lady Maude,” said he in a piping
voice, springing down from his horse and holding the stirrup. “Troubadour
galloped as far as Holmhill ere I could catch him. I trust that you have
had no hurt or scath?” He shot a questioning glance at Alleyne as he
spoke.

“No, Bertrand,” said she, “thanks to this courteous stranger. And now,
sir,” she continued, springing into her saddle, “it is not fit that I
leave you without a word more. Clerk or no, you have acted this day as
becomes a true knight. King Arthur and all his table could not have done
more. It may be that, as some small return, my father or his kin may have
power to advance your interest. He is not rich, but he is honored and hath
great friends. Tell me what is your purpose, and see if he may not aid
it.”

“Alas! lady, I have now no purpose. I have but two friends in the world,
and they have gone to Christchurch, where it is likely I shall join them.”

“And where is Christchurch?”

“At the castle which is held by the brave knight, Sir Nigel Loring,
constable to the Earl of Salisbury.”

To his surprise she burst out a-laughing, and, spurring her palfrey,
dashed off down the glade, with her page riding behind her. Not one word
did she say, but as she vanished amid the trees she half turned in her
saddle and waved a last greeting. Long time he stood, half hoping that she
might again come back to him; but the thud of the hoofs had died away, and
there was no sound in all the woods but the gentle rustle and dropping of
the leaves. At last he turned away and made his way back to the high-road—another
person from the light-hearted boy who had left it a short three hours
before.

CHAPTER X. HOW HORDLE JOHN FOUND A MAN WHOM HE MIGHT FOLLOW.

If he might not return to Beaulieu within the year, and if his brother’s
dogs were to be set upon him if he showed face upon Minstead land, then
indeed he was adrift upon earth. North, south, east, and west—he
might turn where he would, but all was equally chill and cheerless. The
Abbot had rolled ten silver crowns in a lettuce-leaf and hid them away in
the bottom of his scrip, but that would be a sorry support for twelve long
months. In all the darkness there was but the one bright spot of the
sturdy comrades whom he had left that morning; if he could find them again
all would be well. The afternoon was not very advanced, for all that had
befallen him. When a man is afoot at cock-crow much may be done in the
day. If he walked fast he might yet overtake his friends ere they reached
their destination. He pushed on therefore, now walking and now running. As
he journeyed he bit into a crust which remained from his Beaulieu bread,
and he washed it down by a draught from a woodland stream.

It was no easy or light thing to journey through this great forest, which
was some twenty miles from east to west and a good sixteen from Bramshaw
Woods in the north to Lymington in the south. Alleyne, however, had the
good fortune to fall in with a woodman, axe upon shoulder, trudging along
in the very direction that he wished to go. With his guidance he passed
the fringe of Bolderwood Walk, famous for old ash and yew, through Mark
Ash with its giant beech-trees, and on through the Knightwood groves,
where the giant oak was already a great tree, but only one of many comely
brothers. They plodded along together, the woodman and Alleyne, with
little talk on either side, for their thoughts were as far asunder as the
poles. The peasant’s gossip had been of the hunt, of the bracken, of the
gray-headed kites that had nested in Wood Fidley, and of the great catch
of herring brought back by the boats of Pitt’s Deep. The clerk’s mind was
on his brother, on his future—above all on this strange, fierce,
melting, beautiful woman who had broken so suddenly into his life, and as
suddenly passed out of it again. So distrait was he and so random
his answers, that the woodman took to whistling, and soon branched off
upon the track to Burley, leaving Alleyne upon the main Christchurch road.

Down this he pushed as fast as he might, hoping at every turn and rise to
catch sight of his companions of the morning. From Vinney Ridge to
Rhinefield Walk the woods grow thick and dense up to the very edges of the
track, but beyond the country opens up into broad dun-colored moors,
flecked with clumps of trees, and topping each other in long, low curves
up to the dark lines of forest in the furthest distance. Clouds of insects
danced and buzzed in the golden autumn light, and the air was full of the
piping of the song-birds. Long, glinting dragonflies shot across the path,
or hung tremulous with gauzy wings and gleaming bodies. Once a
white-necked sea eagle soared screaming high over the traveller’s head,
and again a flock of brown bustards popped up from among the bracken, and
blundered away in their clumsy fashion, half running, half flying, with
strident cry and whirr of wings.

There were folk, too, to be met upon the road—beggars and couriers,
chapmen and tinkers—cheery fellows for the most part, with a rough
jest and homely greeting for each other and for Alleyne. Near Shotwood he
came upon five seamen, on their way from Poole to Southampton—rude
red-faced men, who shouted at him in a jargon which he could scarce
understand, and held out to him a great pot from which they had been
drinking—nor would they let him pass until he had dipped pannikin in
and taken a mouthful, which set him coughing and choking, with the tears
running down his cheeks. Further on he met a sturdy black-bearded man,
mounted on a brown horse, with a rosary in his right hand and a long
two-handed sword jangling against his stirrup-iron. By his black robe and
the eight-pointed cross upon his sleeve, Alleyne recognized him as one of
the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem, whose presbytery was at
Baddesley. He held up two fingers as he passed, with a “Benedic, fili
mi!” whereat Alleyne doffed hat and bent knee, looking with much
reverence at one who had devoted his life to the overthrow of the infidel.
Poor simple lad! he had not learned yet that what men are and what men
profess to be are very wide asunder, and that the Knights of St. John,
having come into large part of the riches of the ill-fated Templars, were
very much too comfortable to think of exchanging their palace for a tent,
or the cellars of England for the thirsty deserts of Syria. Yet ignorance
may be more precious than wisdom, for Alleyne as he walked on braced
himself to a higher life by the thought of this other’s sacrifice, and
strengthened himself by his example which he could scarce have done had he
known that the Hospitaller’s mind ran more upon malmsey than on Mamelukes,
and on venison rather than victories.

As he pressed on the plain turned to woods once more in the region of
Wilverley Walk, and a cloud swept up from the south with the sun shining
through the chinks of it. A few great drops came pattering loudly down,
and then in a moment the steady swish of a brisk shower, with the dripping
and dropping of the leaves. Alleyne, glancing round for shelter, saw a
thick and lofty holly-bush, so hollowed out beneath that no house could
have been drier. Under this canopy of green two men were already squatted,
who waved their hands to Alleyne that he should join them. As he
approached he saw that they had five dried herrings laid out in front of
them, with a great hunch of wheaten bread and a leathern flask full of
milk, but instead of setting to at their food they appeared to have forgot
all about it, and were disputing together with flushed faces and angry
gestures. It was easy to see by their dress and manner that they were two
of those wandering students who formed about this time so enormous a
multitude in every country in Europe. The one was long and thin, with
melancholy features, while the other was fat and sleek, with a loud voice
and the air of a man who is not to be gainsaid.

“Come hither, good youth,” he cried, “come hither! Vultus ingenui puer.
Heed not the face of my good coz here. Foenum habet in cornu, as
Don Horace has it; but I warrant him harmless for all that.”

“Stint your bull’s bellowing!” exclaimed the other. “If it come to Horace,
I have a line in my mind: Loquaces si sapiat——How doth
it run? The English o’t being that a man of sense should ever avoid a
great talker. That being so, if all were men of sense then thou wouldst be
a lonesome man, coz.”

“Alas! Dicon, I fear that your logic is as bad as your philosophy or your
divinity—and God wot it would be hard to say a worse word than that
for it. For, hark ye: granting, propter argumentum, that I am a
talker, then the true reasoning runs that since all men of sense should
avoid me, and thou hast not avoided me, but art at the present moment
eating herrings with me under a holly-bush, ergo you are no man of sense,
which is exactly what I have been dinning into your long ears ever since I
first clapped eyes on your sunken chops.”

“Tut, tut!” cried the other. “Your tongue goes like the clapper of a
mill-wheel. Sit down here, friend, and partake of this herring. Understand
first, however, that there are certain conditions attached to it.”

“I had hoped,” said Alleyne, falling into the humor of the twain, “that a
tranchoir of bread and a draught of milk might be attached to it.”

“Hark to him, hark to him!” cried the little fat man. “It is even thus,
Dicon! Wit, lad, is a catching thing, like the itch or the sweating
sickness. I exude it round me; it is an aura. I tell you, coz, that no man
can come within seventeen feet of me without catching a spark. Look at
your own case. A duller man never stepped, and yet within the week you
have said three things which might pass, and one thing the day we left
Fordingbridge which I should not have been ashamed of myself.”

“Enough, rattle-pate, enough!” said the other. “The milk you shall have
and the bread also, friend, together with the herring, but you must hold
the scales between us.”

“If he hold the herring he holds the scales, my sapient brother,” cried
the fat man. “But I pray you, good youth, to tell us whether you are a
learned clerk, and, if so, whether you have studied at Oxenford or at
Paris.”

“I have some small stock of learning,” Alleyne answered, picking at his
herring, “but I have been at neither of these places. I was bred amongst
the Cistercian monks at Beaulieu Abbey.”

“Pooh, pooh!” they cried both together. “What sort of an upbringing is
that?”

“Non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum,” quoth Alleyne.

“Come, brother Stephen, he hath some tincture of letters,” said the
melancholy man more hopefully. “He may be the better judge, since he hath
no call to side with either of us. Now, attention, friend, and let your
ears work as well as your nether jaw. Judex damnatur—you know
the old saw. Here am I upholding the good fame of the learned Duns Scotus
against the foolish quibblings and poor silly reasonings of Willie
Ockham.”

“While I,” quoth the other loudly, “do maintain the good sense and
extraordinary wisdom of that most learned William against the
crack-brained fantasies of the muddy Scotchman, who hath hid such little
wit as he has under so vast a pile of words, that it is like one drop of
Gascony in a firkin of ditch-water. Solomon his wisdom would not suffice
to say what the rogue means.”

“Certes, Stephen Hapgood, his wisdom doth not suffice,” cried the other.
“It is as though a mole cried out against the morning star, because he
could not see it. But our dispute, friend, is concerning the nature of
that subtle essence which we call thought. For I hold with the learned
Scotus that thought is in very truth a thing, even as vapor or fumes, or
many other substances which our gross bodily eyes are blind to. For, look
you, that which produces a thing must be itself a thing, and if a man’s
thought may produce a written book, then must thought itself be a material
thing, even as the book is. Have I expressed it? Do I make it plain?”

“Whereas I hold,” shouted the other, “with my revered preceptor, doctor,
praeclarus et excellentissimus, that all things are but thought; for
when thought is gone I prythee where are the things then? Here are trees
about us, and I see them because I think I see them, but if I have
swooned, or sleep, or am in wine, then, my thought having gone forth from
me, lo the trees go forth also. How now, coz, have I touched thee on the
raw?”

Alleyne sat between them munching his bread, while the twain disputed
across his knees, leaning forward with flushed faces and darting hands, in
all the heat of argument. Never had he heard such jargon of scholastic
philosophy, such fine-drawn distinctions, such cross-fire of major and
minor, proposition, syllogism, attack and refutation. Question clattered
upon answer like a sword on a buckler. The ancients, the fathers of the
Church, the moderns, the Scriptures, the Arabians, were each sent hurtling
against the other, while the rain still dripped and the dark holly-leaves
glistened with the moisture. At last the fat man seemed to weary of it,
for he set to work quietly upon his meal, while his opponent, as proud as
the rooster who is left unchallenged upon the midden, crowed away in a
last long burst of quotation and deduction. Suddenly, however, his eyes
dropped upon his food, and he gave a howl of dismay.

“You double thief!” he cried, “you have eaten my herrings, and I without
bite or sup since morning.”

“That,” quoth the other complacently, “was my final argument, my crowning
effort, or peroratio, as the orators have it. For, coz, since all
thoughts are things, you have but to think a pair of herrings, and then
conjure up a pottle of milk wherewith to wash them down.”

“A brave piece of reasoning,” cried the other, “and I know of but one
reply to it.” On which, leaning forward, he caught his comrade a rousing
smack across his rosy cheek. “Nay, take it not amiss,” he said, “since all
things are but thoughts, then that also is but a thought and may be
disregarded.”

This last argument, however, by no means commended itself to the pupil of
Ockham, who plucked a great stick from the ground and signified his
dissent by smiting the realist over the pate with it. By good fortune, the
wood was so light and rotten that it went to a thousand splinters, but
Alleyne thought it best to leave the twain to settle the matter at their
leisure, the more so as the sun was shining brightly once more. Looking
back down the pool-strewn road, he saw the two excited philosophers waving
their hands and shouting at each other, but their babble soon became a
mere drone in the distance, and a turn in the road hid them from his
sight.

And now after passing Holmesley Walk and the Wooton Heath, the forest
began to shred out into scattered belts of trees, with gleam of corn-field
and stretch of pasture-land between. Here and there by the wayside stood
little knots of wattle-and-daub huts with shock-haired laborers lounging
by the doors and red-cheeked children sprawling in the roadway. Back among
the groves he could see the high gable ends and thatched roofs of the
franklins’ houses, on whose fields these men found employment, or more
often a thick dark column of smoke marked their position and hinted at the
coarse plenty within. By these signs Alleyne knew that he was on the very
fringe of the forest, and therefore no great way from Christchurch. The
sun was lying low in the west and shooting its level rays across the long
sweep of rich green country, glinting on the white-fleeced sheep and
throwing long shadows from the red kine who waded knee-deep in the juicy
clover. Right glad was the traveller to see the high tower of Christchurch
Priory gleaming in the mellow evening light, and gladder still when, on
rounding a corner, he came upon his comrades of the morning seated
astraddle upon a fallen tree. They had a flat space before them, on which
they alternately threw little square pieces of bone, and were so intent
upon their occupation that they never raised eye as he approached them. He
observed with astonishment, as he drew near, that the archer’s bow was on
John’s back, the archer’s sword by John’s side, and the steel cap laid
upon the tree-trunk between them.

“Mort de ma vie!” Aylward shouted, looking down at the dice. “Never had I
such cursed luck. A murrain on the bones! I have not thrown a good main
since I left Navarre. A one and a three! En avant, camarade!”

“Four and three,” cried Hordle John, counting on his great fingers, “that
makes seven. Ho, archer, I have thy cap! Now have at thee for thy jerkin!”

“Mon Dieu!” he growled, “I am like to reach Christchurch in my shirt.”
Then suddenly glancing up, “Hola, by the splendor of heaven, here is our
cher petit! Now, by my ten finger bones! this is a rare sight to mine
eyes.” He sprang up and threw his arms round Alleyne’s neck, while John,
no less pleased, but more backward and Saxon in his habits, stood grinning
and bobbing by the wayside, with his newly won steel cap stuck wrong side
foremost upon his tangle of red hair.

“Hast come to stop?” cried the bowman, patting Alleyne all over in his
delight. “Shall not get away from us again!”

“I wish no better,” said he, with a pringling in the eyes at this hearty
greeting.

“Well said, lad!” cried big John. “We three shall to the wars together,
and the devil may fly away with the Abbot of Beaulieu! But your feet and
hosen are all besmudged. Hast been in the water, or I am the more
mistaken.”

“I have in good sooth,” Alleyne answered, and then as they journeyed on
their way he told them the many things that had befallen him, his meeting
with the villein, his sight of the king, his coming upon his brother, with
all the tale of the black welcome and of the fair damsel. They strode on
either side, each with an ear slanting towards him, but ere he had come to
the end of his story the bowman had spun round upon his heel, and was
hastening back the way they had come, breathing loudly through his nose.

“What then?” asked Alleyne, trotting after him and gripping at his jerkin.

“I am back for Minstead, lad.”

“And why, in the name of sense?”

“To thrust a handful of steel into the Socman. What! hale a demoiselle
against her will, and then loose dogs at his own brother! Let me go!”

“Nenny, nenny!” cried Alleyne, laughing. “There was no scath done. Come
back, friend”—and so, by mingled pushing and entreaties, they got
his head round for Christchurch once more. Yet he walked with his chin
upon his shoulder, until, catching sight of a maiden by a wayside well,
the smiles came back to his face and peace to his heart.

“But you,” said Alleyne, “there have been changes with you also. Why
should not the workman carry his tools? Where are bow and sword and cap—and
why so warlike, John?”

“It is a game which friend Aylward hath been a-teaching of me.”

“And I found him an over-apt pupil,” grumbled the bowman. “He hath
stripped me as though I had fallen into the hands of the tardvenus. But,
by my hilt! you must render them back to me, camarade, lest you bring
discredit upon my mission, and I will pay you for them at armorers’
prices.”

“Take them back, man, and never heed the pay,” said John. “I did but wish
to learn the feel of them, since I am like to have such trinkets hung to
my own girdle for some years to come.”

“Ma foi, he was born for a free companion!” cried Aylward, “He hath the
very trick of speech and turn of thought. I take them back then, and
indeed it gives me unease not to feel my yew-stave tapping against my leg
bone. But see, mes garcons, on this side of the church rises the square
and darkling tower of Earl Salisbury’s castle, and even from here I seem
to see on yonder banner the red roebuck of the Montacutes.”

“Red upon white,” said Alleyne, shading his eyes; “but whether roebuck or
no is more than I could vouch. How black is the great tower, and how
bright the gleam of arms upon the wall! See below the flag, how it
twinkles like a star!”

“Aye, it is the steel head-piece of the watchman,” remarked the archer.
“But we must on, if we are to be there before the drawbridge rises at the
vespers bugle; for it is likely that Sir Nigel, being so renowned a
soldier, may keep hard discipline within the walls, and let no man enter
after sundown.” So saying, he quickened his pace, and the three comrades
were soon close to the straggling and broad-spread town which centered
round the noble church and the frowning castle.

It chanced on that very evening that Sir Nigel Loring, having supped
before sunset, as was his custom, and having himself seen that Pommers and
Cadsand, his two war-horses, with the thirteen hacks, the five jennets, my
lady’s three palfreys, and the great dapple-gray roussin, had all their
needs supplied, had taken his dogs for an evening breather. Sixty or
seventy of them, large and small, smooth and shaggy—deer-hound,
boar-hound, blood-hound, wolf-hound, mastiff, alaun, talbot, lurcher,
terrier, spaniel—snapping, yelling and whining, with score of
lolling tongues and waving tails, came surging down the narrow lane which
leads from the Twynham kennels to the bank of Avon. Two russet-clad
varlets, with loud halloo and cracking whips, walked thigh-deep amid the
swarm, guiding, controlling, and urging. Behind came Sir Nigel himself,
with Lady Loring upon his arm, the pair walking slowly and sedately, as
befitted both their age and their condition, while they watched with a
smile in their eyes the scrambling crowd in front of them. They paused,
however, at the bridge, and, leaning their elbows upon the stonework, they
stood looking down at their own faces in the glassy stream, and at the
swift flash of speckled trout against the tawny gravel.

Sir Nigel was a slight man of poor stature, with soft lisping voice and
gentle ways. So short was he that his wife, who was no very tall woman,
had the better of him by the breadth of three fingers. His sight having
been injured in his early wars by a basketful of lime which had been
emptied over him when he led the Earl of Derby’s stormers up the breach at
Bergerac, he had contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking, peering
expression of face. His age was six and forty, but the constant practice
of arms, together with a cleanly life, had preserved his activity and
endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he seemed to have the slight
limbs and swift grace of a boy. His face, however, was tanned of a dull
yellow tint, with a leathery, poreless look, which spoke of rough outdoor
doings, and the little pointed beard which he wore, in deference to the
prevailing fashion, was streaked and shot with gray. His features were
small, delicate, and regular, with clear-cut, curving nose, and eyes which
jutted forward from the lids. His dress was simple and yet spruce. A
Flandrish hat of beevor, bearing in the band the token of Our Lady of
Embrun, was drawn low upon the left side to hide that ear which had been
partly shorn from his head by a Flemish man-at-arms in a camp broil before
Tournay. His cote-hardie, or tunic, and trunk-hosen were of a purple plum
color, with long weepers which hung from either sleeve to below his knees.
His shoes were of red leather, daintily pointed at the toes, but not yet
prolonged to the extravagant lengths which the succeeding reign was to
bring into fashion. A gold-embroidered belt of knighthood encircled his
loins, with his arms, five roses gules on a field argent, cunningly worked
upon the clasp. So stood Sir Nigel Loring upon the bridge of Avon, and
talked lightly with his lady.

And, certes, had the two visages alone been seen, and the stranger been
asked which were the more likely to belong to the bold warrior whose name
was loved by the roughest soldiery of Europe, he had assuredly selected
the lady’s. Her face was large and square and red, with fierce, thick
brows, and the eyes of one who was accustomed to rule. Taller and broader
than her husband, her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined tippet, could
not conceal the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her figure. It was the
age of martial women. The deeds of black Agnes of Dunbar, of Lady
Salisbury and of the Countess of Montfort, were still fresh in the public
minds. With such examples before them the wives of the English captains
had become as warlike as their mates, and ordered their castles in their
absence with the prudence and discipline of veteran seneschals. Right easy
were the Montacutes of their Castle of Twynham, and little had they to
dread from roving galley or French squadron, while Lady Mary Loring had
the ordering of it. Yet even in that age it was thought that, though a
lady might have a soldier’s heart, it was scarce as well that she should
have a soldier’s face. There were men who said that of all the stern
passages and daring deeds by which Sir Nigel Loring had proved the true
temper of his courage, not the least was his wooing and winning of so
forbidding a dame.

“I tell you, my fair lord,” she was saying, “that it is no fit training
for a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles singing a French
rondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de Mayence, as I found her
yesternight, pretending sleep, the artful, with the corner of the scroll
thrusting forth from under her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of
the priory, forsooth—that is ever her answer. How shall all this
help her when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all
agape for beef and beer?”

“True, my sweet bird, true,” answered the knight, picking a comfit from
his gold drageoir. “The maid is like the young filly, which kicks heels
and plunges for very lust of life. Give her time, dame, give her time.”

“Well, I know that my father would have given me, not time, but a good
hazel-stick across my shoulders. Ma foi! I know not what the world is
coming to, when young maids may flout their elders. I wonder that you do
not correct her, my fair lord.”

“Nay, my heart’s comfort, I never raised hand to woman yet, and it would
be a passing strange thing if I began on my own flesh and blood. It was a
woman’s hand which cast this lime into mine eyes, and though I saw her
stoop, and might well have stopped her ere she threw, I deemed it unworthy
of my knighthood to hinder or balk one of her sex.”

“The hussy!” cried Lady Loring clenching her broad right hand. “I would I
had been at the side of her!”

“And so would I, since you would have been the nearer me my own. But I
doubt not that you are right, and that Maude’s wings need clipping, which
I may leave in your hands when I am gone, for, in sooth, this peaceful
life is not for me, and were it not for your gracious kindness and loving
care I could not abide it a week. I hear that there is talk of warlike
muster at Bordeaux once more, and by St. Paul! it would be a new thing if
the lions of England and the red pile of Chandos were to be seen in the
field, and the roses of Loring were not waving by their side.”

“Now woe worth me but I feared it!” cried she, with the color all struck
from her face. “I have noted your absent mind, your kindling eye, your
trying and riveting of old harness. Consider my sweet lord, that you have
already won much honor, that we have seen but little of each other, that
you bear upon your body the scar of over twenty wounds received in I know
not how many bloody encounters. Have you not done enough for honor and the
public cause?”

“My lady, when our liege lord, the king, at three score years, and my Lord
Chandos at three-score and ten, are blithe and ready to lay lance in rest
for England’s cause, it would ill be-seem me to prate of service done. It
is sooth that I have received seven and twenty wounds. There is the more
reason that I should be thankful that I am still long of breath and sound
in limb. I have also seen some bickering and scuffling. Six great land
battles I count, with four upon sea, and seven and fifty onfalls,
skirmishes and bushments. I have held two and twenty towns, and I have
been at the intaking of thirty-one. Surely then it would be bitter shame
to me, and also to you, since my fame is yours, that I should now hold
back if a man’s work is to be done. Besides, bethink you how low is our
purse, with bailiff and reeve ever croaking of empty farms and wasting
lands. Were it not for this constableship which the Earl of Salisbury hath
bestowed upon us we could scarce uphold the state which is fitting to our
degree. Therefore, my sweeting, there is the more need that I should turn
to where there is good pay to be earned and brave ransoms to be won.”

“Ah, my dear lord,” quoth she, with sad, weary eyes. “I thought that at
last I had you to mine own self, even though your youth had been spent
afar from my side. Yet my voice, as I know well, should speed you on to
glory and renown, not hold you back when fame is to be won. Yet what can I
say, for all men know that your valor needs the curb and not the spur. It
goes to my heart that you should ride forth now a mere knight bachelor,
when there is no noble in the land who hath so good a claim to the square
pennon, save only that you have not the money to uphold it.”

“And whose fault that, my sweet bird?” said he.

“No fault, my fair lord, but a virtue: for how many rich ransoms have you
won, and yet have scattered the crowns among page and archer and varlet,
until in a week you had not as much as would buy food and forage. It is a
most knightly largesse, and yet withouten money how can man rise?”

“Dirt and dross!” cried he.

“What matter rise or fall, so that duty be done and honor gained. Banneret
or bachelor, square pennon or forked, I would not give a denier for the
difference, and the less since Sir John Chandos, chosen flower of English
chivalry, is himself but a humble knight. But meanwhile fret not thyself,
my heart’s dove, for it is like that there may be no war waged, and we
must await the news. But here are three strangers, and one, as I take it,
a soldier fresh from service. It is likely that he may give us word of
what is stirring over the water.”

Lady Loring, glancing up, saw in the fading light three companions walking
abreast down the road, all gray with dust, and stained with travel, yet
chattering merrily between themselves. He in the midst was young and
comely, with boyish open face and bright gray eyes, which glanced from
right to left as though he found the world around him both new and
pleasing. To his right walked a huge red-headed man, with broad smile and
merry twinkle, whose clothes seemed to be bursting and splitting at every
seam, as though he were some lusty chick who was breaking bravely from his
shell. On the other side, with his knotted hand upon the young man’s
shoulder, came a stout and burly archer, brown and fierce eyed, with sword
at belt and long yellow yew-stave peeping over his shoulder. Hard face,
battered head piece, dinted brigandine, with faded red lion of St. George
ramping on a discolored ground, all proclaimed as plainly as words that he
was indeed from the land of war. He looked keenly at Sir Nigel as he
approached, and then, plunging his hand under his breastplate, he stepped
up to him with a rough, uncouth bow to the lady.

“Your pardon, fair sir,” said he, “but I know you the moment I clap eyes
on you, though in sooth I have seen you oftener in steel than in velvet. I
have drawn string besides you at La Roche-d’Errien, Romorantin,
Maupertuis, Nogent, Auray, and other places.”

“Then, good archer, I am right glad to welcome you to Twynham Castle, and
in the steward’s room you will find provant for yourself and comrades. To
me also your face is known, though mine eyes play such tricks with me that
I can scarce be sure of my own squire. Rest awhile, and you shall come to
the hall anon and tell us what is passing in France, for I have heard that
it is likely that our pennons may flutter to the south of the great
Spanish mountains ere another year be passed.”

“There was talk of it in Bordeaux,” answered the archer, “and I saw myself
that the armorers and smiths were as busy as rats in a wheat-rick. But I
bring you this letter from the valiant Gascon knight, Sir Claude Latour.
And to you, Lady,” he added after a pause, “I bring from him this box of
red sugar of Narbonne, with every courteous and knightly greeting which a
gallant cavalier may make to a fair and noble dame.”

This little speech had cost the blunt bowman much pains and planning; but
he might have spared his breath, for the lady was quite as much absorbed
as her lord in the letter, which they held between them, a hand on either
corner, spelling it out very slowly, with drawn brows and muttering lips.
As they read it, Alleyne, who stood with Hordle John a few paces back from
their comrade, saw the lady catch her breath, while the knight laughed
softly to himself.

“You see, dear heart,” said he, “that they will not leave the old dog in
his kennel when the game is afoot. And what of this White Company,
archer?”

“Ah, sir, you speak of dogs,” cried Aylward; “but there are a pack of
lusty hounds who are ready for any quarry, if they have but a good
huntsman to halloo them on. Sir, we have been in the wars together, and I
have seen many a brave following but never such a set of woodland boys as
this. They do but want you at their head, and who will bar the way to
them!”

“Pardieu!” said Sir Nigel, “if they are all like their messenger, they are
indeed men of whom a leader may be proud. Your name, good archer?”

“Sam Aylward, sir, of the Hundred of Easebourne and the Rape of
Chichester.”

“And this giant behind you?”

“He is big John, of Hordle, a forest man, who hath now taken service in
the Company.”

“A proper figure of a man at-arms,” said the little knight. “Why, man, you
are no chicken, yet I warrant him the stronger man. See to that great
stone from the coping which hath fallen upon the bridge. Four of my lazy
varlets strove this day to carry it hence. I would that you two could put
them to shame by budging it, though I fear that I overtask you, for it is
of a grievous weight.”

He pointed as he spoke to a huge rough-hewn block which lay by the
roadside, deep sunken from its own weight in the reddish earth. The archer
approached it, rolling back the sleeves of his jerkin, but with no very
hopeful countenance, for indeed it was a mighty rock. John, however, put
him aside with his left hand, and, stooping over the stone, he plucked it
single-handed from its soft bed and swung it far into the stream. There it
fell with mighty splash, one jagged end peaking out above the surface,
while the waters bubbled and foamed with far-circling eddy.

“Good lack!” cried Sir Nigel, and “Good lack!” cried his lady, while John
stood laughing and wiping the caked dirt from his fingers.

“I have felt his arms round my ribs,” said the bowman, “and they crackle
yet at the thought of it. This other comrade of mine is a right learned
clerk, for all that he is so young, hight Alleyne, the son of Edric,
brother to the Socman of Minstead.”

“Young man,” quoth Sir Nigel, sternly, “if you are of the same way of
thought as your brother, you may not pass under portcullis of mine.”

“Nay, fair sir,” cried Aylward hastily, “I will be pledge for it that they
have no thought in common; for this very day his brother hath set his dogs
upon him, and driven him from his lands.”

“And are you, too, of the White Company?” asked Sir Nigel. “Hast had small
experience of war, if I may judge by your looks and bearing.”

“I would fain to France with my friends here,” Alleyne answered; “but I am
a man of peace—a reader, exorcist, acolyte, and clerk.”

“That need not hinder,” quoth Sir Nigel.

“No, fair sir,” cried the bowman joyously. “Why, I myself have served two
terms with Arnold de Cervolles, he whom they called the archpriest. By my
hilt! I have seen him ere now, with monk’s gown trussed to his knees, over
his sandals in blood in the fore-front of the battle. Yet, ere the last
string had twanged, he would be down on his four bones among the stricken,
and have them all houseled and shriven, as quick as shelling peas. Ma foi!
there were those who wished that he would have less care for their souls
and a little more for their bodies!”

“It is well to have a learned clerk in every troop,” said Sir Nigel. “By
St. Paul, there are men so caitiff that they think more of a scrivener’s
pen than of their lady’s smile, and do their devoir in hopes that they may
fill a line in a chronicle or make a tag to a jongleur’s romance. I
remember well that, at the siege of Retters, there was a little, sleek,
fat clerk of the name of Chaucer, who was so apt at rondel, sirvente, or
tonson, that no man dare give back a foot from the walls, lest he find it
all set down in his rhymes and sung by every underling and varlet in the
camp. But, my soul’s bird, you hear me prate as though all were decided,
when I have not yet taken counsel either with you or with my lady mother.
Let us to the chamber, while these strangers find such fare as pantry and
cellar may furnish.”

“The night air strikes chill,” said the lady, and turned down the road
with her hand upon her lord’s arm. The three comrades dropped behind and
followed: Aylward much the lighter for having accomplished his mission,
Alleyne full of wonderment at the humble bearing of so renowned a captain,
and John loud with snorts and sneers, which spoke his disappointment and
contempt.

“What ails the man?” asked Aylward in surprise.

“I have been cozened and bejaped,” quoth he gruffly.

“By whom, Sir Samson the strong?”

“By thee, Sir Balaam the false prophet.”

“By my hilt!” cried the archer, “though I be not Balaam, yet I hold
converse with the very creature that spake to him. What is amiss, then,
and how have I played you false?”

“Why, marry, did you not say, and Alleyne here will be my witness, that,
if I would hie to the wars with you, you would place me under a leader who
was second to none in all England for valor? Yet here you bring me to a
shred of a man, peaky and ill-nourished, with eyes like a moulting owl,
who must needs, forsooth, take counsel with his mother ere he buckle sword
to girdle.”

“Is that where the shoe galls?” cried the bowman, and laughed aloud. “I
will ask you what you think of him three months hence, if we be all alive;
for sure I am that——”

Aylward’s words were interrupted by an extraordinary hubbub which broke
out that instant some little way down the street in the direction of the
Priory. There was deep-mouthed shouting of men, frightened shrieks of
women, howling and barking of curs, and over all a sullen, thunderous
rumble, indescribably menacing and terrible. Round the corner of the
narrow street there came rushing a brace of whining dogs with tails tucked
under their legs, and after them a white-faced burgher, with outstretched
hands and wide-spread fingers, his hair all abristle and his eyes glinting
back from one shoulder to the other, as though some great terror were at
his very heels. “Fly, my lady, fly!” he screeched, and whizzed past them
like bolt from bow; while close behind came lumbering a huge black bear,
with red tongue lolling from his mouth, and a broken chain jangling behind
him. To right and left the folk flew for arch and doorway. Hordle John
caught up the Lady Loring as though she had been a feather, and sprang
with her into an open porch; while Aylward, with a whirl of French oaths,
plucked at his quiver and tried to unsling his bow. Alleyne, all unnerved
at so strange and unwonted a sight, shrunk up against the wall with his
eyes fixed upon the frenzied creature, which came bounding along with
ungainly speed, looking the larger in the uncertain light, its huge jaws
agape, with blood and slaver trickling to the ground. Sir Nigel alone,
unconscious to all appearance of the universal panic, walked with
unfaltering step up the centre of the road, a silken handkerchief in one
hand and his gold comfit-box in the other. It sent the blood cold through
Alleyne’s veins to see that as they came together—the man and the
beast—the creature reared up, with eyes ablaze with fear and hate,
and whirled its great paws above the knight to smite him to the earth. He,
however, blinking with puckered eyes, reached up his kerchief, and flicked
the beast twice across the snout with it. “Ah, saucy! saucy,” quoth he,
with gentle chiding; on which the bear, uncertain and puzzled, dropped its
four legs to earth again, and, waddling back, was soon swathed in ropes by
the bear-ward and a crowd of peasants who had been in close pursuit.

A scared man was the keeper; for, having chained the brute to a stake
while he drank a stoup of ale at the inn, it had been baited by stray
curs, until, in wrath and madness, it had plucked loose the chain, and
smitten or bitten all who came in its path. Most scared of all was he to
find that the creature had come nigh to harm the Lord and Lady of the
castle, who had power to place him in the stretch-neck or to have the skin
scourged from his shoulders. Yet, when he came with bowed head and humble
entreaty for forgiveness, he was met with a handful of small silver from
Sir Nigel, whose dame, however, was less charitably disposed, being much
ruffled in her dignity by the manner in which she had been hustled from
her lord’s side.

As they passed through the castle gate, John plucked at Aylward’s sleeve,
and the two fell behind.

“I must crave your pardon, comrade,” said he, bluntly. “I was a fool not
to know that a little rooster may be the gamest. I believe that this man
is indeed a leader whom we may follow.”

CHAPTER XI. HOW A YOUNG SHEPHERD HAD A PERILOUS FLOCK.

Black was the mouth of Twynham Castle, though a pair of torches burning at
the further end of the gateway cast a red glare over the outer bailey, and
sent a dim, ruddy flicker through the rough-hewn arch, rising and falling
with fitful brightness. Over the door the travellers could discern the
escutcheon of the Montacutes, a roebuck gules on a field argent, flanked
on either side by smaller shields which bore the red roses of the veteran
constable. As they passed over the drawbridge, Alleyne marked the gleam of
arms in the embrasures to right and left, and they had scarce set foot
upon the causeway ere a hoarse blare burst from a bugle, and, with screech
of hinge and clank of chain, the ponderous bridge swung up into the air,
drawn by unseen hands. At the same instant the huge portcullis came
rattling down from above, and shut off the last fading light of day. Sir
Nigel and his lady walked on in deep talk, while a fat under-steward took
charge of the three comrades, and led them to the buttery, where beef,
bread, and beer were kept ever in readiness for the wayfarer. After a
hearty meal and a dip in the trough to wash the dust from them, they
strolled forth into the bailey, where the bowman peered about through the
darkness at wall and at keep, with the carping eyes of one who has seen
something of sieges, and is not likely to be satisfied. To Alleyne and to
John, however, it appeared to be as great and as stout a fortress as could
be built by the hands of man.

Erected by Sir Balwin de Redvers in the old fighting days of the twelfth
century, when men thought much of war and little of comfort, Castle
Twynham had been designed as a stronghold pure and simple, unlike those
later and more magnificent structures where warlike strength had been
combined with the magnificence of a palace. From the time of the Edwards
such buildings as Conway or Caernarvon castles, to say nothing of Royal
Windsor, had shown that it was possible to secure luxury in peace as well
as security in times of trouble. Sir Nigel’s trust, however, still frowned
above the smooth-flowing waters of the Avon, very much as the stern race
of early Anglo-Normans had designed it. There were the broad outer and
inner bailies, not paved, but sown with grass to nourish the sheep and
cattle which might be driven in on sign of danger. All round were high and
turreted walls, with at the corner a bare square-faced keep, gaunt and
windowless, rearing up from a lofty mound, which made it almost
inaccessible to an assailant. Against the bailey-walls were rows of frail
wooden houses and leaning sheds, which gave shelter to the archers and
men-at-arms who formed the garrison. The doors of these humble dwellings
were mostly open, and against the yellow glare from within Alleyne could
see the bearded fellows cleaning their harness, while their wives would
come out for a gossip, with their needlework in their hands, and their
long black shadows streaming across the yard. The air was full of the
clack of their voices and the merry prattling of children, in strange
contrast to the flash of arms and constant warlike challenge from the
walls above.

“Methinks a company of school lads could hold this place against an army,”
quoth John.

“And so say I,” said Alleyne.

“Nay, there you are wide of the clout,” the bowman said gravely. “By my
hilt! I have seen a stronger fortalice carried in a summer evening. I
remember such a one in Picardy, with a name as long as a Gascon’s
pedigree. It was when I served under Sir Robert Knolles, before the days
of the Company; and we came by good plunder at the sacking of it. I had
myself a great silver bowl, with two goblets, and a plastron of Spanish
steel. Pasques Dieu! there are some fine women over yonder! Mort de ma
vie! see to that one in the doorway! I will go speak to her. But whom have
we here?”

“Is there an archer here hight Sam Aylward?” asked a gaunt man-at-arms,
clanking up to them across the courtyard.

“My name, friend,” quoth the bowman.

“Then sure I have no need to tell thee mine,” said the other.

“By the rood! if it is not Black Simon of Norwich!” cried Aylward. “A mon
coeur, camarade, a mon coeur! Ah, but I am blithe to see thee!” The two
fell upon each other and hugged like bears.

“And where from, old blood and bones?” asked the bowman.

“I am in service here. Tell me, comrade, is it sooth that we shall have
another fling at these Frenchmen? It is so rumored in the guard-room, and
that Sir Nigel will take the field once more.”

“It is like enough, mon gar., as things go.”

“Now may the Lord be praised!” cried the other. “This very night will I
set apart a golden ouche to be offered on the shrine of my name-saint. I
have pined for this, Aylward, as a young maid pines for her lover.”

“Art so set on plunder then? Is the purse so light that there is not
enough for a rouse? I have a bag at my belt, camarade, and you have but to
put your fist into it for what you want. It was ever share and share
between us.”

“Nay, friend, it is not the Frenchman’s gold, but the Frenchman’s blood
that I would have. I should not rest quiet in the grave, coz, if I had not
another turn at them. For with us in France it has ever been fair and
honest war—a shut fist for the man, but a bended knee for the woman.
But how was it at Winchelsea when their galleys came down upon it some few
years back? I had an old mother there, lad, who had come down thither from
the Midlands to be the nearer her son. They found her afterwards by her
own hearthstone, thrust through by a Frenchman’s bill. My second sister,
my brother’s wife, and her two children, they were but ash-heaps in the
smoking ruins of their house. I will not say that we have not wrought
great scath upon France, but women and children have been safe from us.
And so, old friend, my heart is hot within me, and I long to hear the old
battle-cry again, and, by God’s truth! if Sir Nigel unfurls his pennon,
here is one who will be right glad to feel the saddle-flaps under his
knees.”

“We have seen good work together, old war-dog,” quoth Aylward; “and, by my
hilt! we may hope to see more ere we die. But we are more like to hawk at
the Spanish woodcock than at the French heron, though certes it is rumored
that Du Guesclin with all the best lances of France have taken service
under the lions and towers of Castile. But, comrade, it is in my mind that
there is some small matter of dispute still open between us.”

“’Fore God, it is sooth!” cried the other; “I had forgot it. The
provost-marshal and his men tore us apart when last we met.”

“On which, friend, we vowed that we should settle the point when next we
came together. Hast thy sword, I see, and the moon throws glimmer enough
for such old night-birds as we. On guard, mon gar.! I have not heard clink
of steel this month or more.”

“Out from the shadow then,” said the other, drawing his sword. “A vow is a
vow, and not lightly to be broken.”

“A vow to the saints,” cried Alleyne, “is indeed not to be set aside; but
this is a devil’s vow, and, simple clerk as I am, I am yet the mouthpiece
of the true church when I say that it were mortal sin to fight on such a
quarrel. What! shall two grown men carry malice for years, and fly like
snarling curs at each other’s throats?”

“No malice, my young clerk, no malice,” quoth Black Simon. “I have not a
bitter drop in my heart for mine old comrade; but the quarrel, as he hath
told you, is still open and unsettled. Fall on, Aylward!”

“Not whilst I can stand between you,” cried Alleyne, springing before the
bowman. “It is shame and sin to see two Christian Englishmen turn swords
against each other like the frenzied bloodthirsty paynim.”

“And, what is more,” said Hordle John, suddenly appearing out of the
buttery with the huge board upon which the pastry was rolled, “if either
raise sword I shall flatten him like a Shrovetide pancake. By the black
rood! I shall drive him into the earth, like a nail into a door, rather
than see you do scath to each other.”

“’Fore God, this is a strange way of preaching peace,” cried Black Simon.
“You may find the scath yourself, my lusty friend, if you raise your great
cudgel to me. I had as lief have the castle drawbridge drop upon my pate.”

“Tell me, Aylward,” said Alleyne earnestly, with his hands outstretched to
keep the pair asunder, “what is the cause of quarrel, that we may see
whether honorable settlement may not be arrived at?”

The bowman looked down at his feet and then up at the moon, “Parbleu!” he
cried, “the cause of quarrel? Why, mon petit, it was years ago in
Limousin, and how can I bear in mind what was the cause of it? Simon there
hath it at the end of his tongue.”

“Not I, in troth,” replied the other; “I have had other things to think
of. There was some sort of bickering over dice, or wine, or was it a
woman, coz?”

“Pasques Dieu! but you have nicked it,” cried Aylward. “It was indeed
about a woman; and the quarrel must go forward, for I am still of the same
mind as before.”

“What of the woman, then?” asked Simon. “May the murrain strike me if I
can call to mind aught about her.”

“It was La Blanche Rose, maid at the sign of the ‘Trois Corbeaux’ at
Limoges. Bless her pretty heart! Why, mon gar., I loved her.”

“So did a many,” quoth Simon. “I call her to mind now. On the very day
that we fought over the little hussy, she went off with Evan ap Price, a
long-legged Welsh dagsman. They have a hostel of their own now, somewhere
on the banks of the Garonne, where the landlord drinks so much of the
liquor that there is little left for the customers.”

“So ends our quarrel, then,” said Aylward, sheathing his sword. “A Welsh
dagsman, i’ faith! C’etait mauvais gout, camarade, and the more so when
she had a jolly archer and a lusty man-at-arms to choose from.”

“True, old lad. And it is as well that we can compose our differences
honorably, for Sir Nigel had been out at the first clash of steel; and he
hath sworn that if there be quarrelling in the garrison he would smite the
right hand from the broilers. You know him of old, and that he is like to
be as good as his word.”

“Mort-Dieu! yes. But there are ale, mead, and wine in the buttery, and the
steward a merry rogue, who will not haggle over a quart or two. Buvons,
mon gar., for it is not every day that two old friends come together.”

The old soldiers and Hordle John strode off together in all good
fellowship. Alleyne had turned to follow them, when he felt a touch upon
his shoulder, and found a young page by his side.

“The Lord Loring commands,” said the boy, “that you will follow me to the
great chamber, and await him there.”

“But my comrades?”

“His commands were for you alone.”

Alleyne followed the messenger to the east end of the courtyard, where a
broad flight of steps led up to the doorway of the main hall, the outer
wall of which is washed by the waters of the Avon. As designed at first,
no dwelling had been allotted to the lord of the castle and his family but
the dark and dismal basement story of the keep. A more civilized or more
effeminate generation, however, had refused to be pent up in such a
cellar, and the hall with its neighboring chambers had been added for
their accommodation. Up the broad steps Alleyne went, still following his
boyish guide, until at the folding oak doors the latter paused, and
ushered him into the main hall of the castle.

On entering the room the clerk looked round; but, seeing no one, he
continued to stand, his cap in his hand, examining with the greatest
interest a chamber which was so different to any to which he was
accustomed. The days had gone by when a nobleman’s hall was but a
barn-like, rush-strewn enclosure, the common lounge and eating-room of
every inmate of the castle. The Crusaders had brought back with them
experiences of domestic luxuries, of Damascus carpets and rugs of Aleppo,
which made them impatient of the hideous bareness and want of privacy
which they found in their ancestral strongholds. Still stronger, however,
had been the influence of the great French war; for, however well matched
the nations might be in martial exercises, there could be no question but
that our neighbors were infinitely superior to us in the arts of peace. A
stream of returning knights, of wounded soldiers, and of unransomed French
noblemen, had been for a quarter of a century continually pouring into
England, every one of whom exerted an influence in the direction of
greater domestic refinement, while shiploads of French furniture from
Calais, Rouen, and other plundered towns, had supplied our own artisans
with models on which to shape their work. Hence, in most English castles,
and in Castle Twynham among the rest, chambers were to be found which
would seem to be not wanting either in beauty or in comfort.

In the great stone fireplace a log fire was spurting and crackling,
throwing out a ruddy glare which, with the four bracket-lamps which stood
at each corner of the room, gave a bright and lightsome air to the whole
apartment. Above was a wreath-work of blazonry, extending up to the carved
and corniced oaken roof; while on either side stood the high canopied
chairs placed for the master of the house and for his most honored guest.
The walls were hung all round with most elaborate and brightly colored
tapestry, representing the achievements of Sir Bevis of Hampton, and
behind this convenient screen were stored the tables dormant and benches
which would be needed for banquet or high festivity. The floor was of
polished tiles, with a square of red and black diapered Flemish carpet in
the centre; and many settees, cushions, folding chairs, and carved bancals
littered all over it. At the further end was a long black buffet or
dresser, thickly covered with gold cups, silver salvers, and other such
valuables. All this Alleyne examined with curious eyes; but most
interesting of all to him was a small ebony table at his very side, on
which, by the side of a chess-board and the scattered chessmen, there lay
an open manuscript written in a right clerkly hand, and set forth with
brave flourishes and devices along the margins. In vain Alleyne bethought
him of where he was, and of those laws of good breeding and decorum which
should restrain him: those colored capitals and black even lines drew his
hand down to them, as the loadstone draws the needle, until, almost before
he knew it, he was standing with the romance of Garin de Montglane before
his eyes, so absorbed in its contents as to be completely oblivious both
of where he was and why he had come there.

He was brought back to himself, however, by a sudden little ripple of
quick feminine laughter. Aghast, he dropped the manuscript among the
chessmen and stared in bewilderment round the room. It was as empty and as
still as ever. Again he stretched his hand out to the romance, and again
came that roguish burst of merriment. He looked up at the ceiling, back at
the closed door, and round at the stiff folds of motionless tapestry. Of a
sudden, however, he caught a quick shimmer from the corner of a
high-backed bancal in front of him, and, shifting a pace or two to the
side, saw a white slender hand, which held a mirror of polished silver in
such a way that the concealed observer could see without being seen. He
stood irresolute, uncertain whether to advance or to take no notice; but,
even as he hesitated, the mirror was whipped in, and a tall and stately
young lady swept out from behind the oaken screen, with a dancing light of
mischief in her eyes. Alleyne started with astonishment as he recognized
the very maiden who had suffered from his brother’s violence in the
forest. She no longer wore her gay riding-dress, however, but was attired
in a long sweeping robe of black velvet of Bruges, with delicate tracery
of white lace at neck and at wrist, scarce to be seen against her ivory
skin. Beautiful as she had seemed to him before, the lithe charm of her
figure and the proud, free grace of her bearing were enhanced now by the
rich simplicity of her attire.

“Ah, you start,” said she, with the same sidelong look of mischief, “and I
cannot marvel at it. Didst not look to see the distressed damosel again.
Oh that I were a minstrel, that I might put it into rhyme, with the whole
romance—the luckless maid, the wicked socman, and the virtuous
clerk! So might our fame have gone down together for all time, and you be
numbered with Sir Percival or Sir Galahad, or all the other rescuers of
oppressed ladies.”

“What I did,” said Alleyne, “was too small a thing for thanks; and yet, if
I may say it without offence, it was too grave and near a matter for mirth
and raillery. I had counted on my brother’s love, but God has willed that
it should be otherwise. It is a joy to me to see you again, lady, and to
know that you have reached home in safety, if this be indeed your home.”

“Yes, in sooth, Castle Twynham is my home, and Sir Nigel Loring my father.
I should have told you so this morning, but you said that you were coming
thither, so I bethought me that I might hold it back as a surprise to you.
Oh dear, but it was brave to see you!” she cried, bursting out a-laughing
once more, and standing with her hand pressed to her side, and her
half-closed eyes twinkling with amusement. “You drew back and came forward
with your eyes upon my book there, like the mouse who sniffs the cheese
and yet dreads the trap.”

“I take shame,” said Alleyne, “that I should have touched it.”

“Nay, it warmed my very heart to see it. So glad was I, that I laughed for
very pleasure. My fine preacher can himself be tempted then, thought I; he
is not made of another clay to the rest of us.”

“God help me! I am the weakest of the weak,” groaned Alleyne. “I pray that
I may have more strength.”

“And to what end?” she asked sharply. “If you are, as I understand, to
shut yourself forever in your cell within the four walls of an abbey, then
of what use would it be were your prayer to be answered?”

“The use of my own salvation.”

She turned from him with a pretty shrug and wave. “Is that all?” she said.
“Then you are no better than Father Christopher and the rest of them. Your
own, your own, ever your own! My father is the king’s man, and when he
rides into the press of fight he is not thinking ever of the saving of his
own poor body; he recks little enough if he leave it on the field. Why
then should you, who are soldiers of the Spirit, be ever moping or hiding
in cell or in cave, with minds full of your own concerns, while the world,
which you should be mending, is going on its way, and neither sees nor
hears you? Were ye all as thoughtless of your own souls as the soldier is
of his body, ye would be of more avail to the souls of others.”

“There is sooth in what you say, lady,” Alleyne answered; “and yet I
scarce can see what you would have the clergy and the church to do.”

“I would have them live as others and do men’s work in the world,
preaching by their lives rather than their words. I would have them come
forth from their lonely places, mix with the borel folks, feel the pains
and the pleasures, the cares and the rewards, the temptings and the
stirrings of the common people. Let them toil and swinken, and labor, and
plough the land, and take wives to themselves——”

“Alas! alas!” cried Alleyne aghast, “you have surely sucked this poison
from the man Wicliffe, of whom I have heard such evil things.”

“Nay, I know him not. I have learned it by looking from my own chamber
window and marking these poor monks of the priory, their weary life, their
profitless round. I have asked myself if the best which can be done with
virtue is to shut it within high walls as though it were some savage
creature. If the good will lock themselves up, and if the wicked will
still wander free, then alas for the world!”

Alleyne looked at her in astonishment, for her cheek was flushed, her eyes
gleaming, and her whole pose full of eloquence and conviction. Yet in an
instant she had changed again to her old expression of merriment leavened
with mischief.

“Wilt do what I ask?” said she.

“What is it, lady?”

“Oh, most ungallant clerk! A true knight would never have asked, but would
have vowed upon the instant. ‘Tis but to bear me out in what I say to my
father.”

“In what?”

“In saying, if he ask, that it was south of the Christchurch road that I
met you. I shall be shut up with the tire-women else, and have a week of
spindle and bodkin, when I would fain be galloping Troubadour up Wilverley
Walk, or loosing little Roland at the Vinney Ridge herons.”

“I shall not answer him if he ask.”

“Not answer! But he will have an answer. Nay, but you must not fail me, or
it will go ill with me.”

“But, lady,” cried poor Alleyne in great distress, “how can I say that it
was to the south of the road when I know well that it was four miles to
the north.”

“You will not say it?”

“Surely you will not, too, when you know that it is not so?”

“Oh, I weary of your preaching!” she cried, and swept away with a toss of
her beautiful head, leaving Alleyne as cast down and ashamed as though he
had himself proposed some infamous thing. She was back again in an
instant, however, in another of her varying moods.

“Look at that, my friend!” said she. “If you had been shut up in abbey or
in cell this day you could not have taught a wayward maiden to abide by
the truth. Is it not so? What avail is the shepherd if he leaves his
sheep.”

“A sorry shepherd!” said Alleyne humbly. “But here is your noble father.”

“And you shall see how worthy a pupil I am. Father, I am much beholden to
this young clerk, who was of service to me and helped me this very morning
in Minstead Woods, four miles to the north of the Christchurch road, where
I had no call to be, you having ordered it otherwise.” All this she reeled
off in a loud voice, and then glanced with sidelong, questioning eyes at
Alleyne for his approval.

Sir Nigel, who had entered the room with a silvery-haired old lady upon
his arm, stared aghast at this sudden outburst of candor.

“Maude, Maude!” said he, shaking his head, “it is more hard for me to gain
obedience from you than from the ten score drunken archers who followed me
to Guienne. Yet, hush! little one, for your fair lady-mother will be here
anon, and there is no need that she should know it. We will keep you from
the provost-marshal this journey. Away to your chamber, sweeting, and keep
a blithe face, for she who confesses is shriven. And now, fair mother,” he
continued, when his daughter had gone, “sit you here by the fire, for your
blood runs colder than it did. Alleyne Edricson, I would have a word with
you, for I would fain that you should take service under me. And here in
good time comes my lady, without whose counsel it is not my wont to decide
aught of import; but, indeed, it was her own thought that you should
come.”

“For I have formed a good opinion of you, and can see that you are one who
may be trusted,” said the Lady Loring. “And in good sooth my dear lord
hath need of such a one by his side, for he recks so little of himself
that there should be one there to look to his needs and meet his wants.
You have seen the cloisters; it were well that you should see the world
too, ere you make choice for life between them.”

“It was for that very reason that my father willed that I should come
forth into the world at my twentieth year,” said Alleyne.

“Then your father was a man of good counsel,” said she, “and you cannot
carry out his will better than by going on this path, where all that is
noble and gallant in England will be your companions.”

“You can ride?” asked Sir Nigel, looking at the youth with puckered eyes.

“Yes, I have ridden much at the abbey.”

“Yet there is a difference betwixt a friar’s hack and a warrior’s
destrier. You can sing and play?”

“On citole, flute and rebeck.”

“Good! You can read blazonry?”

“Indifferent well.”

“Then read this,” quoth Sir Nigel, pointing upwards to one of the many
quarterings which adorned the wall over the fireplace.

“Argent,” Alleyne answered, “a fess azure charged with three lozenges
dividing three mullets sable. Over all, on an escutcheon of the first, a
jambe gules.”

“A jambe gules erased,” said Sir Nigel, shaking his head solemnly. “Yet it
is not amiss for a monk-bred man. I trust that you are lowly and
serviceable?”

“I have served all my life, my lord.”

“Canst carve too?”

“I have carved two days a week for the brethren.”

“A model truly! Wilt make a squire of squires. But tell me, I pray, canst
curl hair?”

“No, my lord, but I could learn.”

“It is of import,” said he, “for I love to keep my hair well ordered,
seeing that the weight of my helmet for thirty years hath in some degree
frayed it upon the top.” He pulled off his velvet cap of maintenance as he
spoke, and displayed a pate which was as bald as an egg, and shone bravely
in the firelight. “You see,” said he, whisking round, and showing one
little strip where a line of scattered hairs, like the last survivors in
some fatal field, still barely held their own against the fate which had
fallen upon their comrades; “these locks need some little oiling and
curling, for I doubt not that if you look slantwise at my head, when the
light is good, you will yourself perceive that there are places where the
hair is sparse.”

“It is for you also to bear the purse,” said the lady; “for my sweet lord
is of so free and gracious a temper that he would give it gayly to the
first who asked alms of him. All these things, with some knowledge of
venerie, and of the management of horse, hawk and hound, with the grace
and hardihood and courtesy which are proper to your age, will make you a
fit squire for Sir Nigel Loring.”

“Alas! lady,” Alleyne answered, “I know well the great honor that you have
done me in deeming me worthy to wait upon so renowned a knight, yet I am
so conscious of my own weakness that I scarce dare incur duties which I
might be so ill-fitted to fulfil.”

“Modesty and a humble mind,” said she, “are the very first and rarest
gifts in page or squire. Your words prove that you have these, and all the
rest is but the work of use and time. But there is no call for haste. Rest
upon it for the night, and let your orisons ask for guidance in the
matter. We knew your father well, and would fain help his son, though we
have small cause to love your brother the Socman, who is forever stirring
up strife in the county.”

“We can scarce hope,” said Nigel, “to have all ready for our start before
the feast of St. Luke, for there is much to be done in the time. You will
have leisure, therefore, if it please you to take service under me, in
which to learn your devoir. Bertrand, my daughter’s page, is hot to go;
but in sooth he is over young for such rough work as may be before us.”

“And I have one favor to crave from you,” added the lady of the castle, as
Alleyne turned to leave their presence. “You have, as I understand, much
learning which you have acquired at Beaulieu.”

“Little enough, lady, compared with those who were my teachers.”

“Yet enough for my purpose, I doubt not. For I would have you give an hour
or two a day whilst you are with us in discoursing with my daughter, the
Lady Maude; for she is somewhat backward, I fear, and hath no love for
letters, save for these poor fond romances, which do but fill her empty
head with dreams of enchanted maidens and of errant cavaliers. Father
Christopher comes over after nones from the priory, but he is stricken
with years and slow of speech, so that she gets small profit from his
teaching. I would have you do what you can with her, and with Agatha my
young tire-woman, and with Dorothy Pierpont.”

And so Alleyne found himself not only chosen as squire to a knight but
also as squire to three damosels, which was even further from the part
which he had thought to play in the world. Yet he could but agree to do
what he might, and so went forth from the castle hall with his face
flushed and his head in a whirl at the thought of the strange and perilous
paths which his feet were destined to tread.

CHAPTER XII. HOW ALLEYNE LEARNED MORE THAN HE COULD TEACH.

And now there came a time of stir and bustle, of furbishing of arms and
clang of hammer from all the southland counties. Fast spread the tidings
from thorpe to thorpe and from castle to castle, that the old game was
afoot once more, and the lions and lilies to be in the field with the
early spring. Great news this for that fierce old country, whose trade for
a generation had been war, her exports archers and her imports prisoners.
For six years her sons had chafed under an unwonted peace. Now they flew
to their arms as to their birthright. The old soldiers of Crecy, of
Nogent, and of Poictiers were glad to think that they might hear the
war-trumpet once more, and gladder still were the hot youth who had chafed
for years under the martial tales of their sires. To pierce the great
mountains of the south, to fight the tamers of the fiery Moors, to follow
the greatest captain of the age, to find sunny cornfields and vineyards,
when the marches of Picardy and Normandy were as rare and bleak as the
Jedburgh forests—here was a golden prospect for a race of warriors.
From sea to sea there was stringing of bows in the cottage and clang of
steel in the castle.

Nor did it take long for every stronghold to pour forth its cavalry, and
every hamlet its footmen. Through the late autumn and the early winter
every road and country lane resounded with nakir and trumpet, with the
neigh of the war-horse and the clatter of marching men. From the Wrekin in
the Welsh marches to the Cotswolds in the west or Butser in the south,
there was no hill-top from which the peasant might not have seen the
bright shimmer of arms, the toss and flutter of plume and of pensil. From
bye-path, from woodland clearing, or from winding moor-side track these
little rivulets of steel united in the larger roads to form a broader
stream, growing ever fuller and larger as it approached the nearest or
most commodious seaport. And there all day, and day after day, there was
bustle and crowding and labor, while the great ships loaded up, and one
after the other spread their white pinions and darted off to the open sea,
amid the clash of cymbals and rolling of drums and lusty shouts of those
who went and of those who waited. From Orwell to the Dart there was no
port which did not send forth its little fleet, gay with streamer and
bunting, as for a joyous festival. Thus in the season of the waning days
the might of England put forth on to the waters.

In the ancient and populous county of Hampshire there was no lack of
leaders or of soldiers for a service which promised either honor or
profit. In the north the Saracen’s head of the Brocas and the scarlet fish
of the De Roches were waving over a strong body of archers from Holt,
Woolmer, and Harewood forests. De Borhunte was up in the east, and Sir
John de Montague in the west. Sir Luke de Ponynges, Sir Thomas West, Sir
Maurice de Bruin, Sir Arthur Lipscombe, Sir Walter Ramsey, and stout Sir
Oliver Buttesthorn were all marching south with levies from Andover,
Arlesford, Odiham and Winchester, while from Sussex came Sir John Clinton,
Sir Thomas Cheyne, and Sir John Fallislee, with a troop of picked
men-at-arms, making for their port at Southampton. Greatest of all the
musters, however, was that of Twynham Castle, for the name and the fame of
Sir Nigel Loring drew towards him the keenest and boldest spirits, all
eager to serve under so valiant a leader. Archers from the New Forest and
the Forest of Bere, billmen from the pleasant country which is watered by
the Stour, the Avon, and the Itchen, young cavaliers from the ancient
Hampshire houses, all were pushing for Christchurch to take service under
the banner of the five scarlet roses.

And now, could Sir Nigel have shown the bachelles of land which the laws
of rank required, he might well have cut his forked pennon into a square
banner, and taken such a following into the field as would have supported
the dignity of a banneret. But poverty was heavy upon him, his land was
scant, his coffers empty, and the very castle which covered him the
holding of another. Sore was his heart when he saw rare bowmen and
war-hardened spearmen turned away from his gates, for the lack of the
money which might equip and pay them. Yet the letter which Aylward had
brought him gave him powers which he was not slow to use. In it Sir Claude
Latour, the Gascon lieutenant of the White Company, assured him that there
remained in his keeping enough to fit out a hundred archers and twenty
men-at-arms, which, joined to the three hundred veteran companions already
in France, would make a force which any leader might be proud to command.
Carefully and sagaciously the veteran knight chose out his men from the
swarm of volunteers. Many an anxious consultation he held with Black
Simon, Sam Aylward, and other of his more experienced followers, as to who
should come and who should stay. By All Saints’ day, however ere the last
leaves had fluttered to earth in the Wilverley and Holmesley glades, he
had filled up his full numbers, and mustered under his banner as stout a
following of Hampshire foresters as ever twanged their war-bows. Twenty
men-at-arms, too, well mounted and equipped, formed the cavalry of the
party, while young Peter Terlake of Fareham, and Walter Ford of Botley,
the martial sons of martial sires, came at their own cost to wait upon Sir
Nigel and to share with Alleyne Edricson the duties of his squireship.

Yet, even after the enrolment, there was much to be done ere the party
could proceed upon its way. For armor, swords, and lances, there was no
need to take much forethought, for they were to be had both better and
cheaper in Bordeaux than in England. With the long-bow, however, it was
different. Yew staves indeed might be got in Spain, but it was well to
take enough and to spare with them. Then three spare cords should be
carried for each bow, with a great store of arrow-heads, besides the
brigandines of chain mail, the wadded steel caps, and the brassarts or
arm-guards, which were the proper equipment of the archer. Above all, the
women for miles round were hard at work cutting the white surcoats which
were the badge of the Company, and adorning them with the red lion of St.
George upon the centre of the breast. When all was completed and the
muster called in the castle yard the oldest soldier of the French wars was
fain to confess that he had never looked upon a better equipped or more
warlike body of men, from the old knight with his silk jupon, sitting his
great black war-horse in the front of them, to Hordle John, the giant
recruit, who leaned carelessly upon a huge black bow-stave in the rear. Of
the six score, fully half had seen service before, while a fair sprinkling
were men who had followed the wars all their lives, and had a hand in
those battles which had made the whole world ring with the fame and the
wonder of the island infantry.

Six long weeks were taken in these preparations, and it was close on
Martinmas ere all was ready for a start. Nigh two months had Alleyne
Edricson been in Castle Twynham—months which were fated to turn the
whole current of his life, to divert it from that dark and lonely bourne
towards which it tended, and to guide it into freer and more sunlit
channels. Already he had learned to bless his father for that wise
provision which had made him seek to know the world ere he had ventured to
renounce it.

For it was a different place from that which he had pictured—very
different from that which he had heard described when the master of the
novices held forth to his charges upon the ravening wolves who lurked for
them beyond the peaceful folds of Beaulieu. There was cruelty in it,
doubtless, and lust and sin and sorrow; but were there not virtues to
atone, robust positive virtues which did not shrink from temptation, which
held their own in all the rough blasts of the work-a-day world? How
colorless by contrast appeared the sinlessness which came from inability
to sin, the conquest which was attained by flying from the enemy!
Monk-bred as he was, Alleyne had native shrewdness and a mind which was
young enough to form new conclusions and to outgrow old ones. He could not
fail to see that the men with whom he was thrown in contact,
rough-tongued, fierce and quarrelsome as they were, were yet of deeper
nature and of more service in the world than the ox-eyed brethren who rose
and ate and slept from year’s end to year’s end in their own narrow,
stagnant circle of existence. Abbot Berghersh was a good man, but how was
he better than this kindly knight, who lived as simple a life, held as
lofty and inflexible an ideal of duty, and did with all his fearless heart
whatever came to his hand to do? In turning from the service of the one to
that of the other, Alleyne could not feel that he was lowering his aims in
life. True that his gentle and thoughtful nature recoiled from the grim
work of war, yet in those days of martial orders and militant brotherhoods
there was no gulf fixed betwixt the priest and the soldier. The man of God
and the man of the sword might without scandal be united in the same
individual. Why then should he, a mere clerk, have scruples when so fair a
chance lay in his way of carrying out the spirit as well as the letter of
his father’s provision. Much struggle it cost him, anxious
spirit-questionings and midnight prayings, with many a doubt and a
misgiving; but the issue was that ere he had been three days in Castle
Twynham he had taken service under Sir Nigel, and had accepted horse and
harness, the same to be paid for out of his share of the profits of the
expedition. Henceforth for seven hours a day he strove in the tilt-yard to
qualify himself to be a worthy squire to so worthy a knight. Young, supple
and active, with all the pent energies from years of pure and healthy
living, it was not long before he could manage his horse and his weapon
well enough to earn an approving nod from critical men-at-arms, or to hold
his own against Terlake and Ford, his fellow-servitors.

But were there no other considerations which swayed him from the cloisters
towards the world? So complex is the human spirit that it can itself
scarce discern the deep springs which impel it to action. Yet to Alleyne
had been opened now a side of life of which he had been as innocent as a
child, but one which was of such deep import that it could not fail to
influence him in choosing his path. A woman, in monkish precepts, had been
the embodiment and concentration of what was dangerous and evil—a
focus whence spread all that was to be dreaded and avoided. So defiling
was their presence that a true Cistercian might not raise his eyes to
their face or touch their finger-tips under ban of church and fear of
deadly sin. Yet here, day after day for an hour after nones, and for an
hour before vespers, he found himself in close communion with three
maidens, all young, all fair, and all therefore doubly dangerous from the
monkish standpoint. Yet he found that in their presence he was conscious
of a quick sympathy, a pleasant ease, a ready response to all that was
most gentle and best in himself, which filled his soul with a vague and
new-found joy.

And yet the Lady Maude Loring was no easy pupil to handle. An older and
more world-wise man might have been puzzled by her varying moods, her
sudden prejudices, her quick resentment at all constraint and authority.
Did a subject interest her, was there space in it for either romance or
imagination, she would fly through it with her subtle, active mind,
leaving her two fellow-students and even her teacher toiling behind her.
On the other hand, were there dull patience needed with steady toil and
strain of memory, no single fact could by any driving be fixed in her
mind. Alleyne might talk to her of the stories of old gods and heroes, of
gallant deeds and lofty aims, or he might hold forth upon moon and stars,
and let his fancy wander over the hidden secrets of the universe, and he
would have a rapt listener with flushed cheeks and eloquent eyes, who
could repeat after him the very words which had fallen from his lips. But
when it came to almagest and astrolabe, the counting of figures and
reckoning of epicycles, away would go her thoughts to horse and hound, and
a vacant eye and listless face would warn the teacher that he had lost his
hold upon his scholar. Then he had but to bring out the old romance book
from the priory, with befingered cover of sheepskin and gold letters upon
a purple ground, to entice her wayward mind back to the paths of learning.

At times, too, when the wild fit was upon her, she would break into
pertness and rebel openly against Alleyne’s gentle firmness. Yet he would
jog quietly on with his teachings, taking no heed to her mutiny, until
suddenly she would be conquered by his patience, and break into
self-revilings a hundred times stronger than her fault demanded. It
chanced however that, on one of these mornings when the evil mood was upon
her, Agatha the young tire-woman, thinking to please her mistress, began
also to toss her head and make tart rejoinder to the teacher’s questions.
In an instant the Lady Maude had turned upon her two blazing eyes and a
face which was blanched with anger.

“You would dare!” said she. “You would dare!” The frightened tire-woman
tried to excuse herself. “But my fair lady,” she stammered, “what have I
done? I have said no more than I heard.”

“You would dare!” repeated the lady in a choking voice. “You, a graceless
baggage, a foolish lack-brain, with no thought above the hemming of
shifts. And he so kindly and hendy and long-suffering! You would—ha,
you may well flee the room!”

She had spoken with a rising voice, and a clasping and opening of her long
white fingers, so that it was no marvel that ere the speech was over the
skirts of Agatha were whisking round the door and the click of her sobs to
be heard dying swiftly away down the corridor.

Alleyne stared open-eyed at this tigress who had sprung so suddenly to his
rescue. “There is no need for such anger,” he said mildly. “The maid’s
words have done me no scath. It is you yourself who have erred.”

“I know it,” she cried, “I am a most wicked woman. But it is bad enough
that one should misuse you. Ma foi! I will see that there is not a second
one.”

“Nay, nay, no one has misused me,” he answered. “But the fault lies in
your hot and bitter words. You have called her a baggage and a lack-brain,
and I know not what.”

“And you are he who taught me to speak the truth,” she cried. “Now I have
spoken it, and yet I cannot please you. Lack-brain she is, and lack-brain
I shall call her.”

Such was a sample of the sudden janglings which marred the peace of that
little class. As the weeks passed, however, they became fewer and less
violent, as Alleyne’s firm and constant nature gained sway and influence
over the Lady Maude. And yet, sooth to say, there were times when he had
to ask himself whether it was not the Lady Maude who was gaining sway and
influence over him. If she were changing, so was he. In drawing her up
from the world, he was day by day being himself dragged down towards it.
In vain he strove and reasoned with himself as to the madness of letting
his mind rest upon Sir Nigel’s daughter. What was he—a younger son,
a penniless clerk, a squire unable to pay for his own harness—that
he should dare to raise his eyes to the fairest maid in Hampshire? So
spake reason; but, in spite of all, her voice was ever in his ears and her
image in his heart. Stronger than reason, stronger than cloister
teachings, stronger than all that might hold him back, was that old, old
tyrant who will brook no rival in the kingdom of youth.

And yet it was a surprise and a shock to himself to find how deeply she
had entered into his life; how completely those vague ambitions and
yearnings which had filled his spiritual nature centred themselves now
upon this thing of earth. He had scarce dared to face the change which had
come upon him, when a few sudden chance words showed it all up hard and
clear, like a lightning flash in the darkness.

He had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his fellow-squire,
Peter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from Wat Swathling, the
Dorsetshire armorer. The day for their departure had almost come, and the
two youths spurred it over the lonely downs at the top of their speed on
their homeward course, for evening had fallen and there was much to be
done. Peter was a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad who looked on
the coming war as the schoolboy looks on his holidays. This day, however,
he had been sombre and mute, with scarce a word a mile to bestow upon his
comrade.

“Tell me Alleyne Edricson,” he broke out, suddenly, as they clattered
along the winding track which leads over the Bournemouth hills, “has it
not seemed to you that of late the Lady Maude is paler and more silent
than is her wont?”

“It may be so,” the other answered shortly.

“And would rather sit distrait by her oriel than ride gayly to the chase
as of old. Methinks, Alleyne, it is this learning which you have taught
her that has taken all the life and sap from her. It is more than she can
master, like a heavy spear to a light rider.”

“Her lady-mother has so ordered it,” said Alleyne.

“By our Lady! and withouten disrespect,” quoth Terlake, “it is in my mind
that her lady-mother is more fitted to lead a company to a storming than
to have the upbringing of this tender and milk-white maid. Hark ye, lad
Alleyne, to what I never told man or woman yet. I love the fair Lady
Maude, and would give the last drop of my heart’s blood to serve her.” He
spoke with a gasping voice, and his face flushed crimson in the moonlight.

Alleyne said nothing, but his heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice in his
bosom.

“My father has broad acres,” the other continued, “from Fareham Creek to
the slope of the Portsdown Hill. There is filling of granges, hewing of
wood, malting of grain, and herding of sheep as much as heart could wish,
and I the only son. Sure am I that Sir Nigel would be blithe at such a
match.”

“But how of the lady?” asked Alleyne, with dry lips.

“Ah, lad, there lies my trouble. It is a toss of the head and a droop of
the eyes if I say one word of what is in my mind. ‘Twere as easy to woo
the snow-dame that we shaped last winter in our castle yard. I did but ask
her yesternight for her green veil, that I might bear it as a token or
lambrequin upon my helm; but she flashed out at me that she kept it for a
better man, and then all in a breath asked pardon for that she had spoke
so rudely. Yet she would not take back the words either, nor would she
grant the veil. Has it seemed to thee, Alleyne, that she loves any one?”

“Nay, I cannot say,” said Alleyne, with a wild throb of sudden hope in his
heart.

“I have thought so, and yet I cannot name the man. Indeed, save myself,
and Walter Ford, and you, who are half a clerk, and Father Christopher of
the Priory, and Bertrand the page, who is there whom she sees?”

“I cannot tell,” quoth Alleyne shortly; and the two squires rode on again,
each intent upon his own thoughts.

Next day at morning lesson the teacher observed that his pupil was indeed
looking pale and jaded, with listless eyes and a weary manner. He was
heavy-hearted to note the grievous change in her.

“Your mistress, I fear, is ill, Agatha,” he said to the tire-woman, when
the Lady Maude had sought her chamber.

The maid looked aslant at him with laughing eyes. “It is not an illness
that kills,” quoth she.

“Pray God not!” he cried. “But tell me, Agatha, what it is that ails her?”

“Methinks that I could lay my hand upon another who is smitten with the
same trouble,” said she, with the same sidelong look. “Canst not give a
name to it, and thou so skilled in leech-craft?”

“Nay, save that she seems aweary.”

“Well, bethink you that it is but three days ere you will all be gone, and
Castle Twynham be as dull as the Priory. Is there not enough there to
cloud a lady’s brow?”

“In sooth, yes,” he answered; “I had forgot that she is about to lose her
father.”

“Her father!” cried the tire-woman, with a little trill of laughter. “Oh
simple, simple!” And she was off down the passage like arrow from bow,
while Alleyne stood gazing after her, betwixt hope and doubt, scarce
daring to put faith in the meaning which seemed to underlie her words.

CHAPTER XIII. HOW THE WHITE COMPANY SET FORTH TO THE WARS.

St. Luke’s day had come and had gone, and it was in the season of
Martinmas, when the oxen are driven in to the slaughter, that the White
Company was ready for its journey. Loud shrieked the brazen bugles from
keep and from gateway, and merry was the rattle of the war-drum, as the
men gathered in the outer bailey, with torches to light them, for the morn
had not yet broken. Alleyne, from the window of the armory, looked down
upon the strange scene—the circles of yellow flickering light, the
lines of stern and bearded faces, the quick shimmer of arms, and the lean
heads of the horses. In front stood the bow-men, ten deep, with a fringe
of under-officers, who paced hither and thither marshalling the ranks with
curt precept or short rebuke. Behind were the little clump of steel-clad
horsemen, their lances raised, with long pensils drooping down the oaken
shafts. So silent and still were they, that they might have been
metal-sheathed statues, were it not for the occasional quick, impatient
stamp of their chargers, or the rattle of chamfron against neck-plates as
they tossed and strained. A spear’s length in front of them sat the spare
and long-limbed figure of Black Simon, the Norwich fighting man, his
fierce, deep-lined face framed in steel, and the silk guidon marked with
the five scarlet roses slanting over his right shoulder. All round, in the
edge of the circle of the light, stood the castle servants, the soldiers
who were to form the garrison, and little knots of women, who sobbed in
their aprons and called shrilly to their name-saints to watch over the
Wat, or Will, or Peterkin who had turned his hand to the work of war.

The young squire was leaning forward, gazing at the stirring and martial
scene, when he heard a short, quick gasp at his shoulder, and there was
the Lady Maude, with her hand to her heart, leaning up against the wall,
slender and fair, like a half-plucked lily. Her face was turned away from
him, but he could see, by the sharp intake of her breath, that she was
weeping bitterly.

“Alas! alas!” he cried, all unnerved at the sight, “why is it that you are
so sad, lady?”

“It is the sight of these brave men,” she answered; “and to think how many
of them go and how few are like to find their way back. I have seen it
before, when I was a little maid, in the year of the Prince’s great
battle. I remember then how they mustered in the bailey, even as they do
now, and my lady-mother holding me in her arms at this very window that I
might see the show.”

“Please God, you will see them all back ere another year be out,” said he.

She shook her head, looking round at him with flushed cheeks and eyes that
sparkled in the lamp-light. “Oh, but I hate myself for being a woman!” she
cried, with a stamp of her little foot. “What can I do that is good? Here
I must bide, and talk and sew and spin, and spin and sew and talk. Ever
the same dull round, with nothing at the end of it. And now you are going
too, who could carry my thoughts out of these gray walls, and raise my
mind above tapestry and distaffs. What can I do? I am of no more use or
value than that broken bowstave.”

“You are of such value to me,” he cried, in a whirl of hot, passionate
words, “that all else has become nought. You are my heart, my life, my one
and only thought. Oh, Maude, I cannot live without you, I cannot leave you
without a word of love. All is changed to me since I have known you. I am
poor and lowly and all unworthy of you; but if great love may weigh down
such defects, then mine may do it. Give me but one word of hope to take to
the wars with me—but one. Ah, you shrink, you shudder! My wild words
have frightened you.”

Twice she opened her lips, and twice no sound came from them. At last she
spoke in a hard and measured voice, as one who dare not trust herself to
speak too freely.

“This is over sudden,” she said; “it is not so long since the world was
nothing to you. You have changed once; perchance you may change again.”

“Cruel!” he cried, “who hath changed me?”

“And then your brother,” she continued with a little laugh, disregarding
his question. “Methinks this hath become a family custom amongst the
Edricsons. Nay, I am sorry; I did not mean a jibe. But, indeed, Alleyne,
this hath come suddenly upon me, and I scarce know what to say.”

“Say some word of hope, however distant—some kind word that I may
cherish in my heart.”

“Nay, Alleyne, it were a cruel kindness, and you have been too good and
true a friend to me that I should use you despitefully. There cannot be a
closer link between us. It is madness to think of it. Were there no other
reasons, it is enough that my father and your brother would both cry out
against it.”

“My brother, what has he to do with it? And your father——”

“Come, Alleyne, was it not you who would have me act fairly to all men,
and, certes, to my father amongst them?”

“You say truly,” he cried, “you say truly. But you do not reject me,
Maude? You give me some ray of hope? I do not ask pledge or promise. Say
only that I am not hateful to you—that on some happier day I may
hear kinder words from you.”

Her eyes softened upon him, and a kind answer was on her lips, when a
hoarse shout, with the clatter of arms and stamping of steeds, rose up
from the bailey below. At the sound her face set her eyes sparkled, and
she stood with flushed cheek and head thrown back—a woman’s body,
with a soul of fire.

“My father hath gone down,” she cried. “Your place is by his side. Nay,
look not at me, Alleyne. It is no time for dallying. Win my father’s love,
and all may follow. It is when the brave soldier hath done his devoir that
he hopes for his reward. Farewell, and may God be with you!” She held out
her white, slim hand to him, but as he bent his lips over it she whisked
away and was gone, leaving in his outstretched hand the very green veil
for which poor Peter Terlake had craved in vain. Again the hoarse cheering
burst out from below, and he heard the clang of the rising portcullis.
Pressing the veil to his lips, he thrust it into the bosom of his tunic,
and rushed as fast as feet could bear him to arm himself and join the
muster.

The raw morning had broken ere the hot spiced ale had been served round
and the last farewell spoken. A cold wind blew up from the sea and ragged
clouds drifted swiftly across the sky.

The Christchurch townsfolk stood huddled about the Bridge of Avon, the
women pulling tight their shawls and the men swathing themselves in their
gaberdines, while down the winding path from the castle came the van of
the little army, their feet clanging on the hard, frozen road. First came
Black Simon with his banner, bestriding a lean and powerful dapple-gray
charger, as hard and wiry and warwise as himself. After him, riding three
abreast, were nine men-at-arms, all picked soldiers, who had followed the
French wars before, and knew the marches of Picardy as they knew the downs
of their native Hampshire. They were armed to the teeth with lance, sword,
and mace, with square shields notched at the upper right-hand corner to
serve as a spear-rest. For defence each man wore a coat of interlaced
leathern thongs, strengthened at the shoulder, elbow, and upper arm with
slips of steel. Greaves and knee-pieces were also of leather backed by
steel, and their gauntlets and shoes were of iron plates, craftily
jointed. So, with jingle of arms and clatter of hoofs, they rode across
the Bridge of Avon, while the burghers shouted lustily for the flag of the
five roses and its gallant guard.

Close at the heels of the horses came two-score archers bearded and burly,
their round targets on their backs and their long yellow bows, the most
deadly weapon that the wit of man had yet devised, thrusting forth from
behind their shoulders. From each man’s girdle hung sword or axe,
according to his humor, and over the right hip there jutted out the
leathern quiver with its bristle of goose, pigeon, and peacock feathers.
Behind the bowmen strode two trumpeters blowing upon nakirs, and two
drummers in parti-colored clothes. After them came twenty-seven sumpter
horses carrying tent-poles, cloth, spare arms, spurs, wedges, cooking
kettles, horse-shoes, bags of nails and the hundred other things which
experience had shown to be needful in a harried and hostile country. A
white mule with red trappings, led by a varlet, carried Sir Nigel’s own
napery and table comforts. Then came two-score more archers, ten more
men-at-arms, and finally a rear guard of twenty bowmen, with big John
towering in the front rank and the veteran Aylward marching by the side,
his battered harness and faded surcoat in strange contrast with the
snow-white jupons and shining brigandines of his companions. A quick
cross-fire of greetings and questions and rough West Saxon jests flew from
rank to rank, or were bandied about betwixt the marching archers and the
gazing crowd.

“Hola, Gaffer Higginson!” cried Aylward, as he spied the portly figure of
the village innkeeper. “No more of thy nut-brown, mon gar. We leave it
behind us.”

“By St. Paul, no!” cried the other. “You take it with you. Devil a drop
have you left in the great kilderkin. It was time for you to go.”

“If your cask is leer, I warrant your purse is full, gaffer,” shouted
Hordle John. “See that you lay in good store of the best for our
home-coming.”

“See that you keep your throat whole for the drinking of it archer,” cried
a voice, and the crowd laughed at the rough pleasantry.

“If you will warrant the beer, I will warrant the throat,” said John
composedly.

“Close up the ranks!” cried Aylward. “En avant, mes enfants! Ah, by my
finger bones, there is my sweet Mary from the Priory Mill! Ma foi, but she
is beautiful! Adieu, Mary ma cherie! Mon coeur est toujours a toi. Brace
your belt, Watkins, man, and swing your shoulders as a free companion
should. By my hilt! your jerkins will be as dirty as mine ere you clap
eyes on Hengistbury Head again.”

The Company had marched to the turn of the road ere Sir Nigel Loring rode
out from the gateway, mounted on Pommers, his great black war-horse, whose
ponderous footfall on the wooden drawbridge echoed loudly from the gloomy
arch which spanned it. Sir Nigel was still in his velvet dress of peace,
with flat velvet cap of maintenance, and curling ostrich feather clasped
in a golden brooch. To his three squires riding behind him it looked as
though he bore the bird’s egg as well as its feather, for the back of his
bald pate shone like a globe of ivory. He bore no arms save the long and
heavy sword which hung at his saddle-bow; but Terlake carried in front of
him the high wivern-crested bassinet, Ford the heavy ash spear with
swallow-tail pennon, while Alleyne was entrusted with the emblazoned
shield. The Lady Loring rode her palfrey at her lord’s bridle-arm, for she
would see him as far as the edge of the forest, and ever and anon she
turned her hard-lined face up wistfully to him and ran a questioning eye
over his apparel and appointments.

“I trust that there is nothing forgot,” she said, beckoning to Alleyne to
ride on her further side. “I trust him to you, Edricson. Hosen, shirts,
cyclas, and under-jupons are in the brown basket on the left side of the
mule. His wine he takes hot when the nights are cold, malvoisie or
vernage, with as much spice as would cover the thumb-nail. See that he
hath a change if he come back hot from the tilting. There is goose-grease
in a box, if the old scars ache at the turn of the weather. Let his
blankets be dry and——”

“Nay, my heart’s life,” the little knight interrupted, “trouble not now
about such matters. Why so pale and wan, Edricson? Is it not enow to make
a man’s heart dance to see this noble Company, such valiant men-at-arms,
such lusty archers? By St. Paul! I would be ill to please if I were not
blithe to see the red roses flying at the head of so noble a following!”

“The purse I have already given you, Edricson,” continued the lady. “There
are in it twenty-three marks, one noble, three shillings and fourpence,
which is a great treasure for one man to carry. And I pray you to bear in
mind, Edricson, that he hath two pair of shoes, those of red leather for
common use, and the others with golden toe-chains, which he may wear
should he chance to drink wine with the Prince or with Chandos.”

“My sweet bird,” said Sir Nigel, “I am right loth to part from you, but we
are now at the fringe of the forest, and it is not right that I should
take the chatelaine too far from her trust.”

“But oh, my dear lord,” she cried with a trembling lip, “let me bide with
you for one furlong further—or one and a half perhaps. You may spare
me this out of the weary miles that you will journey along.”

“Come, then, my heart’s comfort,” he answered. “But I must crave a gage
from thee. It is my custom, dearling, and hath been since I have first
known thee, to proclaim by herald in such camps, townships, or fortalices
as I may chance to visit, that my lady-love, being beyond compare the
fairest and sweetest in Christendom, I should deem it great honor and
kindly condescension if any cavalier would run three courses against me
with sharpened lances, should he chance to have a lady whose claim he was
willing to advance. I pray you then my fair dove, that you will vouchsafe
to me one of those doeskin gloves, that I may wear it as the badge of her
whose servant I shall ever be.”

“Alack and alas for the fairest and sweetest!” she cried. “Fair and sweet
I would fain be for your dear sake, my lord, but old I am and ugly, and
the knights would laugh should you lay lance in rest in such a cause.”

“Edricson,” quoth Sir Nigel, “you have young eyes, and mine are somewhat
bedimmed. Should you chance to see a knight laugh, or smile, or even, look
you, arch his brows, or purse his mouth, or in any way show surprise that
I should uphold the Lady Mary, you will take particular note of his name,
his coat-armor, and his lodging. Your glove, my life’s desire!”

The Lady Mary Loring slipped her hand from her yellow leather gauntlet,
and he, lifting it with dainty reverence, bound it to the front of his
velvet cap.

“It is with mine other guardian angels,” quoth he, pointing at the saints’
medals which hung beside it. “And now, my dearest, you have come far enow.
May the Virgin guard and prosper thee! One kiss!” He bent down from his
saddle, and then, striking spurs into his horse’s sides, he galloped at
top speed after his men, with his three squires at his heels. Half a mile
further, where the road topped a hill, they looked back, and the Lady Mary
on her white palfrey was still where they had left her. A moment later
they were on the downward slope, and she had vanished from their view.

CHAPTER XIV. HOW SIR NIGEL SOUGHT FOR A WAYSIDE VENTURE.

For a time Sir Nigel was very moody and downcast, with bent brows and eyes
upon the pommel of his saddle. Edricson and Terlake rode behind him in
little better case, while Ford, a careless and light-hearted youth,
grinned at the melancholy of his companions, and flourished his lord’s
heavy spear, making a point to right and a point to left, as though he
were a paladin contending against a host of assailants. Sir Nigel
happened, however, to turn himself in his saddle—Ford instantly became as
stiff and as rigid as though he had been struck with a palsy. The four
rode alone, for the archers had passed a curve in the road, though Alleyne
could still hear the heavy clump, clump of their marching, or catch a
glimpse of the sparkle of steel through the tangle of leafless branches.

“Ride by my side, friends, I entreat of you,” said the knight, reining in
his steed that they might come abreast of him. “For, since it hath pleased
you to follow me to the wars, it were well that you should know how you
may best serve me. I doubt not, Terlake, that you will show yourself a
worthy son of a valiant father; and you, Ford, of yours; and you,
Edricson, that you are mindful of the old-time house from which all men
know that you are sprung. And first I would have you bear very steadfastly
in mind that our setting forth is by no means for the purpose of gaining
spoil or exacting ransom, though it may well happen that such may come to
us also. We go to France, and from thence I trust to Spain, in humble
search of a field in which we may win advancement and perchance some small
share of glory. For this purpose I would have you know that it is not my
wont to let any occasion pass where it is in any way possible that honor
may be gained. I would have you bear this in mind, and give great heed to
it that you may bring me word of all cartels, challenges, wrongs,
tyrannies, infamies, and wronging of damsels. Nor is any occasion too
small to take note of, for I have known such trifles as the dropping of a
gauntlet, or the flicking of a breadcrumb, when well and properly followed
up, lead to a most noble spear-running. But, Edricson, do I not see a
cavalier who rides down yonder road amongst the nether shaw? It would be
well, perchance, that you should give him greeting from me. And, should he
be of gentle blood it may be that he would care to exchange thrusts with
me.”

“Why, my lord,” quoth Ford, standing in his stirrups and shading his eyes,
“it is old Hob Davidson, the fat miller of Milton!”

“Ah, so it is, indeed,” said Sir Nigel, puckering his cheeks; “but wayside
ventures are not to be scorned, for I have seen no finer passages than are
to be had from such chance meetings, when cavaliers are willing to advance
themselves. I can well remember that two leagues from the town of Rheims I
met a very valiant and courteous cavalier of France, with whom I had
gentle and most honorable contention for upwards of an hour. It hath ever
grieved me that I had not his name, for he smote upon me with a mace and
went upon his way ere I was in condition to have much speech with him; but
his arms were an allurion in chief above a fess azure. I was also on such
an occasion thrust through the shoulder by Lyon de Montcourt, whom I met
on the high road betwixt Libourne and Bordeaux. I met him but the once,
but I have never seen a man for whom I bear a greater love and esteem. And
so also with the squire Le Bourg Capillet, who would have been a very
valiant captain had he lived.”

“He is dead then?” asked Alleyne Edricson.

“Alas! it was my ill fate to slay him in a bickering which broke out in a
field near the township of Tarbes. I cannot call to mind how the thing
came about, for it was in the year of the Prince’s ride through Languedoc,
when there was much fine skirmishing to be had at barriers. By St. Paul! I
do not think that any honorable cavalier could ask for better chance of
advancement than might be had by spurring forth before the army and riding
to the gateways of Narbonne, or Bergerac or Mont Giscar, where some
courteous gentleman would ever be at wait to do what he might to meet your
wish or ease you of your vow. Such a one at Ventadour ran three courses
with me betwixt daybreak and sunrise, to the great exaltation of his
lady.”

“And did you slay him also, my lord?” asked Ford with reverence.

“I could never learn, for he was carried within the barrier, and as I had
chanced to break the bone of my leg it was a great unease for me to ride
or even to stand. Yet, by the goodness of heaven and the pious
intercession of the valiant St. George, I was able to sit my charger in
the ruffle of Poictiers, which was no very long time afterwards. But what
have we here? A very fair and courtly maiden, or I mistake.”

It was indeed a tall and buxom country lass, with a basket of
spinach-leaves upon her head, and a great slab of bacon tucked under one
arm. She bobbed a frightened curtsey as Sir Nigel swept his velvet hat
from his head and reined up his great charger.

“God be with thee, fair maiden!” said he.

“God guard thee, my lord!” she answered, speaking in the broadest West
Saxon speech, and balancing herself first on one foot and then on the
other in her bashfulness.

“Fear not, my fair damsel,” said Sir Nigel, “but tell me if perchance a
poor and most unworthy knight can in any wise be of service to you. Should
it chance that you have been used despitefully, it may be that I may
obtain justice for you.”

“Lawk no, kind sir,” she answered, clutching her bacon the tighter, as
though some design upon it might be hid under this knightly offer. “I be
the milking wench o’ fairmer Arnold, and he be as kind a maister as heart
could wish.”

“It is well,” said he, and with a shake of the bridle rode on down the
woodland path. “I would have you bear in mind,” he continued to his
squires, “that gentle courtesy is not, as is the base use of so many false
knights, to be shown only to maidens of high degree, for there is no woman
so humble that a true knight may not listen to her tale of wrong. But here
comes a cavalier who is indeed in haste. Perchance it would be well that
we should ask him whither he rides, for it may be that he is one who
desires to advance himself in chivalry.”

The bleak, hard, wind-swept road dipped down in front of them into a
little valley, and then, writhing up the heathy slope upon the other side,
lost itself among the gaunt pine-trees. Far away between the black lines
of trunks the quick glitter of steel marked where the Company pursued its
way. To the north stretched the tree country, but to the south, between
two swelling downs, a glimpse might be caught of the cold gray shimmer of
the sea, with the white fleck of a galley sail upon the distant sky-line.
Just in front of the travellers a horseman was urging his steed up the
slope, driving it on with whip and spur as one who rides for a set
purpose. As he clattered up, Alleyne could see that the roan horse was
gray with dust and flecked with foam, as though it had left many a mile
behind it. The rider was a stern-faced man, hard of mouth and dry of eye,
with a heavy sword clanking at his side, and a stiff white bundle swathed
in linen balanced across the pommel of his saddle.

“The king’s messenger,” he bawled as he came up to them. “The messenger of
the king. Clear the causeway for the king’s own man.”

“Not so loudly, friend,” quoth the little knight, reining his horse half
round to bar the path. “I have myself been the king’s man for thirty years
or more, but I have not been wont to halloo about it on a peaceful
highway.”

“I ride in his service,” cried the other, “and I carry that which belongs
to him. You bar my path at your peril.”

“Yet I have known the king’s enemies claim to ride in his same,” said Sir
Nigel. “The foul fiend may lurk beneath a garment of light. We must have
some sign or warrant of your mission.”

“Then must I hew a passage,” cried the stranger, with his shoulder braced
round and his hand upon his hilt. “I am not to be stopped on the king’s
service by every gadabout.”

“Should you be a gentleman of quarterings and coat-armor,” lisped Sir
Nigel, “I shall be very blithe to go further into the matter with you. If
not, I have three very worthy squires, any one of whom would take the
thing upon himself, and debate it with you in a very honorable way.”

The man scowled from one to the other, and his hand stole away from his
sword.

“You ask me for a sign,” he said. “Here is a sign for you, since you must
have one.” As he spoke he whirled the covering from the object in front of
him and showed to their horror that it was a newly-severed human leg. “By
God’s tooth!” he continued, with a brutal laugh, “you ask me if I am a man
of quarterings, and it is even so, for I am officer to the verderer’s
court at Lyndhurst. This thievish leg is to hang at Milton, and the other
is already at Brockenhurst, as a sign to all men of what comes of being
over-fond of venison pasty.”

“Faugh!” cried Sir Nigel. “Pass on the other side of the road, fellow, and
let us have the wind of you. We shall trot our horses, my friends, across
this pleasant valley, for, by Our Lady! a breath of God’s fresh air is
right welcome after such a sight.”

“We hoped to snare a falcon,” said he presently, “but we netted a
carrion-crow. Ma foi! but there are men whose hearts are tougher than a
boar’s hide. For me, I have played the old game of war since ever I had
hair on my chin, and I have seen ten thousand brave men in one day with
their faces to the sky, but I swear by Him who made me that I cannot abide
the work of the butcher.”

“And yet, my fair lord,” said Edricson, “there has, from what I hear, been
much of such devil’s work in France.”

“Too much, too much,” he answered. “But I have ever observed that the
foremost in the field are they who would scorn to mishandle a prisoner. By
St. Paul! it is not they who carry the breach who are wont to sack the
town, but the laggard knaves who come crowding in when a way has been
cleared for them. But what is this among the trees?”

“It is a shrine of Our Lady,” said Terlake, “and a blind beggar who lives
by the alms of those who worship there.”

“A shrine!” cried the knight. “Then let us put up an orison.” Pulling off
his cap, and clasping his hands, he chanted in a shrill voice: “Benedictus
dominus Deus meus, qui docet manus meas ad proelium, et digitos meos ad
bellum.” A strange figure he seemed to his three squires, perched on his
huge horse, with his eyes upturned and the wintry sun shimmering upon his
bald head. “It is a noble prayer,” he remarked, putting on his hat again,
“and it was taught to me by the noble Chandos himself. But how fares it
with you, father? Methinks that I should have ruth upon you, seeing that I
am myself like one who looks through a horn window while his neighbors
have the clear crystal. Yet, by St. Paul! there is a long stride between
the man who hath a horn casement and him who is walled in on every hand.”

“Alas! fair sir,” cried the blind old man, “I have not seen the blessed
blue of heaven this two-score years, since a levin flash burned the sight
out of my head.”

“You have been blind to much that is goodly and fair,” quoth Sir Nigel,
“but you have also been spared much that is sorry and foul. This very hour
our eyes have been shocked with that which would have left you unmoved.
But, by St. Paul! we must on, or our Company will think that they have
lost their captain somewhat early in the venture. Throw the man my purse,
Edricson, and let us go.”

Alleyne, lingering behind, bethought him of the Lady Loring’s counsel, and
reduced the noble gift which the knight had so freely bestowed to a single
penny, which the beggar with many mumbled blessings thrust away into his
wallet. Then, spurring his steed, the young squire rode at the top of his
speed after his companions, and overtook them just at the spot where the
trees fringe off into the moor and the straggling hamlet of Hordle lies
scattered on either side of the winding and deeply-rutted track. The
Company was already well-nigh through the village; but, as the knight and
his squires closed up upon them, they heard the clamor of a strident
voice, followed by a roar of deep-chested laughter from the ranks of the
archers. Another minute brought them up with the rear-guard, where every
man marched with his beard on his shoulder and a face which was agrin with
merriment. By the side of the column walked a huge red-headed bowman, with
his hands thrown out in argument and expostulation, while close at his
heels followed a little wrinkled woman who poured forth a shrill volley of
abuse, varied by an occasional thwack from her stick, given with all the
force of her body, though she might have been beating one of the forest
trees for all the effect that she seemed likely to produce.

“I trust, Aylward,” said Sir Nigel gravely, as he rode up, “that this doth
not mean that any violence hath been offered to women. If such a thing
happened, I tell you that the man shall hang, though he were the best
archer that ever wore brassart.”

“Nay, my fair lord,” Aylward answered with a grin, “it is violence which
is offered to a man. He comes from Hordle, and this is his mother who hath
come forth to welcome him.”

“You rammucky lurden,” she was howling, with a blow between each catch of
her breath, “you shammocking, yaping, over-long good-for-nought. I will
teach thee! I will baste thee! Aye, by my faith!”

“Whist, mother,” said John, looking back at her from the tail of his eye,
“I go to France as an archer to give blows and to take them.”

“To France, quotha?” cried the old dame. “Bide here with me, and I shall
warrant you more blows than you are like to get in France. If blows be
what you seek, you need not go further than Hordle.”

“By my hilt! the good dame speaks truth,” said Aylward. “It seems to be
the very home of them.”

“What have you to say, you clean-shaved galley-beggar?” cried the fiery
dame, turning upon the archer. “Can I not speak with my own son but you
must let your tongue clack? A soldier, quotha, and never a hair on his
face. I have seen a better soldier with pap for food and swaddling clothes
for harness.”

“Stand to it, Aylward,” cried the archers, amid a fresh burst of laughter.

“Do not thwart her, comrade,” said big John. “She hath a proper spirit for
her years and cannot abide to be thwarted. It is kindly and homely to me
to hear her voice and to feel that she is behind me. But I must leave you
now, mother, for the way is over-rough for your feet; but I will bring you
back a silken gown, if there be one in France or Spain, and I will bring
Jinny a silver penny; so good-bye to you, and God have you in His
keeping!” Whipping up the little woman, he lifted her lightly to his lips,
and then, taking his place in the ranks again, marched on with the
laughing Company.

“That was ever his way,” she cried, appealing to Sir Nigel, who reined up
his horse and listened with the greatest courtesy. “He would jog on his
own road for all that I could do to change him. First he must be a monk
forsooth, and all because a wench was wise enough to turn her back on him.
Then he joins a rascally crew and must needs trapse off to the wars, and
me with no one to bait the fire if I be out, or tend the cow if I be home.
Yet I have been a good mother to him. Three hazel switches a day have I
broke across his shoulders, and he takes no more notice than you have seen
him to-day.”

“Doubt not that he will come back to you both safe and prosperous, my fair
dame,” quoth Sir Nigel. “Meanwhile it grieves me that as I have already
given my purse to a beggar up the road I——”

“Nay, my lord,” said Alleyne, “I still have some moneys remaining.”

“Then I pray you to give them to this very worthy woman.” He cantered on
as he spoke, while Alleyne, having dispensed two more pence, left the old
dame standing by the furthest cottage of Hordle, with her shrill voice
raised in blessings instead of revilings.

There were two cross-roads before they reached the Lymington Ford, and at
each of then Sir Nigel pulled up his horse, and waited with many a curvet
and gambade, craning his neck this way and that to see if fortune would
send him a venture. Crossroads had, as he explained, been rare places for
knightly spear-runnings, and in his youth it was no uncommon thing for a
cavalier to abide for weeks at such a point, holding gentle debate with
all comers, to his own advancement and the great honor of his lady. The
times were changed, however, and the forest tracks wound away from them
deserted and silent, with no trample of war-horse or clang of armor which
might herald the approach of an adversary—so that Sir Nigel rode on
his way disconsolate. At the Lymington River they splashed through the
ford, and lay in the meadows on the further side to eat the bread and salt
meat which they carried upon the sumpter horses. Then, ere the sun was on
the slope of the heavens, they had deftly trussed up again, and were
swinging merrily upon their way, two hundred feet moving like two.

There is a third cross-road where the track from Boldre runs down to the
old fishing village of Pitt’s Deep. Down this, as they came abreast of it,
there walked two men, the one a pace or two behind the other. The
cavaliers could not but pull up their horses to look at them, for a
stranger pair were never seen journeying together. The first was a
misshapen, squalid man with cruel, cunning eyes and a shock of tangled red
hair, bearing in his hands a small unpainted cross, which he held high so
that all men might see it. He seemed to be in the last extremity of
fright, with a face the color of clay and his limbs all ashake as one who
hath an ague. Behind him, with his toe ever rasping upon the other’s
heels, there walked a very stern, black-bearded man with a hard eye and a
set mouth. He bore over his shoulder a great knotted stick with three
jagged nails stuck in the head of it, and from time to time he whirled it
up in the air with a quivering arm, as though he could scarce hold back
from dashing his companion’s brains out. So in silence they walked under
the spread of the branches on the grass-grown path from Boldre.

“By St. Paul!” quoth the knight, “but this is a passing strange sight, and
perchance some very perilous and honorable venture may arise from it. I
pray you, Edricson, to ride up to them and to ask them the cause of it.”

There was no need, however, for him to move, for the twain came swiftly
towards them until they were within a spear’s length, when the man with
the cross sat himself down sullenly upon a tussock of grass by the
wayside, while the other stood beside him with his great cudgel still
hanging over his head. So intent was he that he raised his eyes neither to
knight nor squires, but kept them ever fixed with a savage glare upon his
comrade.

“I pray you, friend,” said Sir Nigel, “to tell us truthfully who you are,
and why you follow this man with such bitter enmity?”

“So long as I am within the pale of the king’s law,” the stranger
answered, “I cannot see why I should render account to every passing
wayfarer.”

“You are no very shrewd reasoner, fellow,” quoth the knight; “for if it be
within the law for you to threaten him with your club, then it is also
lawful for me to threaten you with my sword.”

The man with the cross was down in an instant on his knees upon the
ground, with hands clasped above him and his face shining with hope. “For
dear Christ’s sake, my fair lord,” he cried in a crackling voice, “I have
at my belt a bag with a hundred rose nobles, and I will give it to you
freely if you will but pass your sword through this man’s body.”

“How, you foul knave?” exclaimed Sir Nigel hotly. “Do you think that a
cavalier’s arm is to be bought like a packman’s ware. By St. Paul! I have
little doubt that this fellow hath some very good cause to hold you in
hatred.”

“Indeed, my fair sir, you speak sooth,” quoth he with the club, while the
other seated himself once more by the wayside. “For this man is Peter
Peterson, a very noted rieve, draw-latch, and murtherer, who has wrought
much evil for many years in the parts about Winchester. It was but the
other day, upon the feasts of the blessed Simon and Jude, that he slew my
younger brother William in Bere Forest—for which, by the black thorn
of Glastonbury! I shall have his heart’s blood, though I walk behind him
to the further end of earth.”

“But if this be indeed so,” asked Sir Nigel, “why is it that you have come
with him so far through the forest?”

“Because I am an honest Englishman, and will take no more than the law
allows. For when the deed was done this foul and base wretch fled to
sanctuary at St. Cross, and I, as you may think, after him with all the
posse. The prior, however, hath so ordered that while he holds this cross
no man may lay hand upon him without the ban of church, which heaven
forfend from me or mine. Yet, if for an instant he lay the cross aside, or
if he fail to journey to Pitt’s Deep, where it is ordered that he shall
take ship to outland parts, or if he take not the first ship, or if until
the ship be ready he walk not every day into the sea as far as his loins,
then he becomes outlaw, and I shall forthwith dash out his brains.”

At this the man on the ground snarled up at him like a rat, while the
other clenched his teeth, and shook his club, and looked down at him with
murder in his eyes. Knight and squire gazed from rogue to avenger, but as
it was a matter which none could mend they tarried no longer, but rode
upon their way. Alleyne, looking back, saw that the murderer had drawn
bread and cheese from his scrip, and was silently munching it, with the
protecting cross still hugged to his breast, while the other, black and
grim, stood in the sunlit road and threw his dark shadow athwart him.

CHAPTER XV. HOW THE YELLOW COG SAILED FORTH FROM LEPE.

That night the Company slept at St. Leonard’s, in the great monastic barns
and spicarium—ground well known both to Alleyne and to John, for
they were almost within sight of the Abbey of Beaulieu. A strange thrill
it gave to the young squire to see the well-remembered white dress once
more, and to hear the measured tolling of the deep vespers bell. At early
dawn they passed across the broad, sluggish, reed-girt stream—men,
horses, and baggage in the flat ferry barges—and so journeyed on
through the fresh morning air past Exbury to Lepe. Topping the heathy
down, they came of a sudden full in sight of the old sea-port—a
cluster of houses, a trail of blue smoke, and a bristle of masts. To right
and left the long blue curve of the Solent lapped in a fringe of foam upon
the yellow beach. Some way out from the town a line of pessoners, creyers,
and other small craft were rolling lazily on the gentle swell. Further out
still lay a great merchant-ship, high ended, deep waisted, painted of a
canary yellow, and towering above the fishing-boats like a swan among
ducklings.

“By St. Paul!” said the knight, “our good merchant of Southampton hath not
played us false, for methinks I can see our ship down yonder. He said that
she would be of great size and of a yellow shade.”

“By my hilt, yes!” muttered Aylward; “she is yellow as a kite’s claw, and
would carry as many men as there are pips in a pomegranate.”

“It is as well,” remarked Terlake; “for methinks, my fair lord, that we
are not the only ones who are waiting a passage to Gascony. Mine eye
catches at times a flash and sparkle among yonder houses which assuredly
never came from shipman’s jacket or the gaberdine of a burgher.”

“I can also see it,” said Alleyne, shading his eyes with his hand. “And I
can see men-at-arms in yonder boats which ply betwixt the vessel and the
shore. But methinks that we are very welcome here, for already they come
forth to meet us.”

A tumultuous crowd of fishermen, citizens, and women had indeed swarmed
out from the northern gate, and approached them up the side of the moor,
waving their hands and dancing with joy, as though a great fear had been
rolled back from their minds. At their head rode a very large and solemn
man with a long chin and a drooping lip. He wore a fur tippet round his
neck and a heavy gold chain over it, with a medallion which dangled in
front of him.

“Welcome, most puissant and noble lord,” he cried, doffing his bonnet to
Black Simon. “I have heard of your lordship’s valiant deeds, and in sooth
they might be expected from your lordship’s face and bearing. Is there any
small matter in which I may oblige you?”

“Since you ask me,” said the man-at-arms, “I would take it kindly if you
could spare a link or two of the chain which hangs round your neck.”

“What, the corporation chain!” cried the other in horror. “The ancient
chain of the township of Lepe! This is but a sorry jest, Sir Nigel.”

“What the plague did you ask me for then?” said Simon. “But if it is Sir
Nigel Loring with whom you would speak, that is he upon the black horse.”

The Mayor of Lepe gazed with amazement on the mild face and slender frame
of the famous warrior.

“Your pardon, my gracious lord,” he cried. “You see in me the mayor and
chief magistrate of the ancient and powerful town of Lepe. I bid you very
heartily welcome, and the more so as you are come at a moment when we are
sore put to it for means of defence.”

“Ha!” cried Sir Nigel, pricking up his ears.

“Yes, my lord, for the town being very ancient and the walls as old as the
town, it follows that they are very ancient too. But there is a certain
villainous and bloodthirsty Norman pirate hight Tete-noire, who, with a
Genoan called Tito Caracci, commonly known as Spade-beard, hath been a
mighty scourge upon these coasts. Indeed, my lord, they are very cruel and
black-hearted men, graceless and ruthless, and if they should come to the
ancient and powerful town of Lepe then—”

“Then good-bye to the ancient and powerful town of Lepe,” quoth Ford,
whose lightness of tongue could at times rise above his awe of Sir Nigel.

The knight, however, was too much intent upon the matter in hand to give
heed to the flippancy of his squire. “Have you then cause,” he asked, “to
think that these men are about to venture an attempt upon you?”

“They have come in two great galleys,” answered the mayor, “with two bank
of oars on either side, and great store of engines of war and of
men-at-arms. At Weymouth and at Portland they have murdered and ravished.
Yesterday morning they were at Cowes, and we saw the smoke from the
burning crofts. To-day they lie at their ease near Freshwater, and we fear
much lest they come upon us and do us a mischief.”

“We cannot tarry,” said Sir Nigel, riding towards the town, with the mayor
upon his left side; “the Prince awaits us at Bordeaux, and we may not be
behind the general muster. Yet I will promise you that on our way we shall
find time to pass Freshwater and to prevail upon these rovers to leave you
in peace.”

“We are much beholden to you!” cried the mayor “But I cannot see, my lord,
how, without a war-ship, you may venture against these men. With your
archers, however, you might well hold the town and do them great scath if
they attempt to land.”

“There is a very proper cog out yonder,” said Sir Nigel, “it would be a
very strange thing if any ship were not a war-ship when it had such men as
these upon her decks. Certes, we shall do as I say, and that no later than
this very day.”

“My lord,” said a rough-haired, dark-faced man, who walked by the knight’s
other stirrup, with his head sloped to catch all that he was saying. “By
your leave, I have no doubt that you are skilled in land fighting and the
marshalling of lances, but, by my soul! you will find it another thing
upon the sea. I am the master-shipman of this yellow cog, and my name is
Goodwin Hawtayne. I have sailed since I was as high as this staff, and I
have fought against these Normans and against the Genoese, as well as the
Scotch, the Bretons, the Spanish, and the Moors. I tell you, sir, that my
ship is over light and over frail for such work, and it will but end in
our having our throats cut, or being sold as slaves to the Barbary
heathen.”

“I also have experienced one or two gentle and honorable ventures upon the
sea,” quoth Sir Nigel, “and I am right blithe to have so fair a task
before us. I think, good master-shipman, that you and I may win great
honor in this matter, and I can see very readily that you are a brave and
stout man.”

“I like it not,” said the other sturdily. “In God’s name, I like it not.
And yet Goodwin Hawtayne is not the man to stand back when his fellows are
for pressing forward. By my soul! be it sink or swim, I shall turn her
beak into Freshwater Bay, and if good Master Witherton, of Southampton,
like not my handling of his ship then he may find another master-shipman.”

They were close by the old north gate of the little town, and Alleyne,
half turning in his saddle, looked back at the motley crowd who followed.
The bowmen and men-at-arms had broken their ranks and were intermingled
with the fishermen and citizens, whose laughing faces and hearty gestures
bespoke the weight of care from which this welcome arrival had relieved
them. Here and there among the moving throng of dark jerkins and of white
surcoats were scattered dashes of scarlet and blue, the whimples or shawls
of the women. Aylward, with a fishing lass on either arm, was vowing
constancy alternately to her on the right and her on the left, while big
John towered in the rear with a little chubby maiden enthroned upon his
great shoulder, her soft white arm curled round his shining headpiece. So
the throng moved on, until at the very gate it was brought to a stand by a
wondrously fat man, who came darting forth from the town with rage in
every feature of his rubicund face.

“How now, Sir Mayor?” he roared, in a voice like a bull. “How now, Sir
Mayor? How of the clams and the scallops?”

“By Our Lady! my sweet Sir Oliver,” cried the mayor. “I have had so much
to think of, with these wicked villains so close upon us, that it had
quite gone out of my head.”

“Words, words!” shouted the other furiously. “Am I to be put off with
words? I say to you again, how of the clams and scallops?”

“My fair sir, you flatter me,” cried the mayor. “I am a peaceful trader,
and I am not wont to be so shouted at upon so small a matter.”

“Small!” shrieked the other. “Small! Clams and scallops! Ask me to your
table to partake of the dainty of the town, and when I come a barren
welcome and a bare board! Where is my spear-bearer?”

“Nay, Sir Oliver, Sir Oliver!” cried Sir Nigel, laughing.

“Let your anger be appeased, since instead of this dish you come upon an
old friend and comrade.”

“By St. Martin of Tours!” shouted the fat knight, his wrath all changed in
an instant to joy, “if it is not my dear little game rooster of the
Garonne. Ah, my sweet coz, I am right glad to see you. What days we have
seen together!”

“Aye, by my faith,” cried Sir Nigel, with sparkling eyes, “we have seen
some valiant men, and we have shown our pennons in some noble skirmishes.
By St. Paul! we have had great joys in France.”

“And sorrows also,” quoth the other. “I have some sad memories of the
land. Can you recall that which befell us at Libourne?”

“Nay, I cannot call to mind that we ever so much as drew sword at the
place.”

“Man, man,” cried Sir Oliver, “your mind still runs on nought but blades
and bassinets. Hast no space in thy frame for the softer joys. Ah, even
now I can scarce speak of it unmoved. So noble a pie, such tender pigeons,
and sugar in the gravy instead of salt! You were by my side that day, as
were Sir Claude Latour and the Lord of Pommers.”

“I remember it,” said Sir Nigel, laughing, “and how you harried the cook
down the street, and spoke of setting fire to the inn. By St. Paul! most
worthy mayor, my old friend is a perilous man, and I rede you that you
compose your difference with him on such terms as you may.”

“The clams and scallops shall be ready within the hour,” the mayor
answered. “I had asked Sir Oliver Buttesthorn to do my humble board the
honor to partake at it of the dainty upon which we take some little pride,
but in sooth this alarm of pirates hath cast such a shadow on my wits that
I am like one distrait. But I trust, Sir Nigel, that you will also partake
of none-meat with me?”

“I have overmuch to do,” Sir Nigel answered, “for we must be aboard, horse
and man, as early as we may. How many do you muster, Sir Oliver?”

“Three and forty. The forty are drunk, and the three are but indifferent
sober. I have them all safe upon the ship.”

“They had best find their wits again, for I shall have work for every man
of them ere the sun set. It is my intention, if it seems good to you, to
try a venture against these Norman and Genoese rovers.”

“They carry caviare and certain very noble spices from the Levant aboard
of ships from Genoa,” quoth Sir Oliver. “We may come to great profit
through the business. I pray you, master-shipman, that when you go on
board you pour a helmetful of sea-water over any of my rogues whom you may
see there.”

Leaving the lusty knight and the Mayor of Lepe, Sir Nigel led the Company
straight down to the water’s edge, where long lines of flat lighters
swiftly bore them to their vessel. Horse after horse was slung by main
force up from the barges, and after kicking and plunging in empty air was
dropped into the deep waist of the yellow cog, where rows of stalls stood
ready for their safe keeping. Englishmen in those days were skilled and
prompt in such matters, for it was so not long before that Edward had
embarked as many as fifty thousand men in the port of Orwell, with their
horses and their baggage, all in the space of four-and-twenty hours. So
urgent was Sir Nigel on the shore, and so prompt was Goodwin Hawtayne on
the cog, that Sir Oliver Buttesthorn had scarce swallowed his last scallop
ere the peal of the trumpet and clang of nakir announced that all was
ready and the anchor drawn. In the last boat which left the shore the two
commanders sat together in the sheets, a strange contrast to one another,
while under the feet of the rowers was a litter of huge stones which Sir
Nigel had ordered to be carried to the cog. These once aboard, the ship
set her broad mainsail, purple in color, and with a golden St. Christopher
bearing Christ upon his shoulder in the centre of it. The breeze blew, the
sail bellied, over heeled the portly vessel, and away she plunged through
the smooth blue rollers, amid the clang of the minstrels on her poop and
the shouting of the black crowd who fringed the yellow beach. To the left
lay the green Island of Wight, with its long, low, curving hills peeping
over each other’s shoulders to the sky-line; to the right the wooded
Hampshire coast as far as eye could reach; above a steel-blue heaven, with
a wintry sun shimmering down upon them, and enough of frost to set the
breath a-smoking.

“By St. Paul!” said Sir Nigel gayly, as he stood upon the poop and looked
on either side of him, “it is a land which is very well worth fighting
for, and it were pity to go to France for what may be had at home. Did you
not spy a crooked man upon the beach?”

“Nay, I spied nothing,” grumbled Sir Oliver, “for I was hurried down with
a clam stuck in my gizzard and an untasted goblet of Cyprus on the board
behind me.”

“I saw him, my fair lord,” said Terlake, “an old man with one shoulder
higher than the other.”

“’Tis a sign of good fortune,” quoth Sir Nigel. “Our path was also crossed
by a woman and by a priest, so all should be well with us. What say you,
Edricson?”

“I cannot tell, my fair lord. The Romans of old were a very wise people,
yet, certes, they placed their faith in such matters. So, too, did the
Greeks, and divers other ancient peoples who were famed for their
learning. Yet of the moderns there are many who scoff at all omens.”

“There can be no manner of doubt about it,” said Sir Oliver Buttesthorn.
“I can well remember that in Navarre one day it thundered on the left out
of a cloudless sky. We knew that ill would come of it, nor had we long to
wait. Only thirteen days after, a haunch of prime venison was carried from
my very tent door by the wolves, and on the same day two flasks of old
vernage turned sour and muddy.”

“You may bring my harness from below,” said Sir Nigel to his squires, “and
also, I pray you, bring up Sir Oliver’s and we shall don it here. Ye may
then see to your own gear; for this day you will, I hope, make a very
honorable entrance into the field of chivalry, and prove yourselves to be
very worthy and valiant squires. And now, Sir Oliver, as to our
dispositions: would it please you that I should order them or will you?”

“You, my cockerel, you. By Our Lady! I am no chicken, but I cannot claim
to know as much of war as the squire of Sir Walter Manny. Settle the
matter to your own liking.”

“You shall fly your pennon upon the fore part, then, and I upon the poop.
For foreguard I shall give you your own forty men, with two-score archers.
Two-score men, with my own men-at-arms and squires, will serve as a
poop-guard. Ten archers, with thirty shipmen, under the master, may hold
the waist while ten lie aloft with stones and arbalests. How like you
that?”

“Good, by my faith, good! But here comes my harness, and I must to work,
for I cannot slip into it as I was wont when first I set my face to the
wars.”

Meanwhile there had been bustle and preparation in all parts of the great
vessel. The archers stood in groups about the decks, new-stringing their
bows, and testing that they were firm at the nocks. Among them moved
Aylward and other of the older soldiers, with a few whispered words of
precept here and of warning there.

“Stand to it, my hearts of gold,” said the old bowman as he passed from
knot to knot. “By my hilt! we are in luck this journey. Bear in mind the
old saying of the Company.”

“What is that, Aylward?” cried several, leaning on their bows and laughing
at him.

“’Tis the master-bowyer’s rede: ‘Every bow well bent. Every shaft well
sent. Every stave well nocked. Every string well locked.’ There, with that
jingle in his head, a bracer on his left hand, a shooting glove on his
right, and a farthing’s-worth of wax in his girdle, what more doth a
bowman need?”

“It would not be amiss,” said Hordle John, “if under his girdle he had
four farthings’-worth of wine.”

“Work first, wine afterwards, mon camarade. But it is time that we took
our order, for methinks that between the Needle rocks and the Alum cliffs
yonder I can catch a glimpse of the topmasts of the galleys. Hewett, Cook,
Johnson, Cunningham, your men are of the poop-guard. Thornbury, Walters,
Hackett, Baddlesmere, you are with Sir Oliver on the forecastle. Simon,
you bide with your lord’s banner; but ten men must go forward.”

Quietly and promptly the men took their places, lying flat upon their
faces on the deck, for such was Sir Nigel’s order. Near the prow was
planted Sir Oliver’s spear, with his arms—a boar’s head gules upon a
field of gold. Close by the stern stood Black Simon with the pennon of the
house of Loring. In the waist gathered the Southampton mariners, hairy and
burly men, with their jerkins thrown off, their waists braced tight,
swords, mallets, and pole-axes in their hands. Their leader, Goodwin
Hawtayne, stood upon the poop and talked with Sir Nigel, casting his eye
up sometimes at the swelling sail, and then glancing back at the two
seamen who held the tiller.

“Pass the word,” said Sir Nigel, “that no man shall stand to arms or draw
his bow-string until my trumpeter shall sound. It would be well that we
should seem to be a merchant-ship from Southampton and appear to flee from
them.”

“We shall see them anon,” said the master-shipman. “Ha, said I not so?
There they lie, the water-snakes, in Freshwater Bay; and mark the reek of
smoke from yonder point, where they have been at their devil’s work. See
how their shallops pull from the land! They have seen us and called their
men aboard. Now they draw upon the anchor. See them like ants upon the
forecastle! They stoop and heave like handy ship men. But, my fair lord,
these are no niefs. I doubt but we have taken in hand more than we can do.
Each of these ships is a galeasse, and of the largest and swiftest make.”

“I would I had your eyes,” said Sir Nigel, blinking at the pirate galleys.
“They seem very gallant ships, and I trust that we shall have much
pleasance from our meeting with them. It would be well to pass the word
that we should neither give nor take quarter this day. Have you perchance
a priest or friar aboard this ship, Master Hawtayne?”

“No, my fair lord.”

“Well, well, it is no great matter for my Company, for they were all
houseled and shriven ere we left Twynham Castle; and Father Christopher of
the Priory gave me his word that they were as fit to march to heaven as to
Gascony. But my mind misdoubts me as to these Winchester men who have come
with Sir Oliver, for they appear to be a very ungodly crew. Pass the word
that the men kneel, and that the under-officers repeat to them the pater,
the ave, and the credo.”

With a clank of arms, the rough archers and seamen took to their knees,
with bent heads and crossed hands, listening to the hoarse mutter from the
file-leaders. It was strange to mark the hush; so that the lapping of the
water, the straining of the sail, and the creaking of the timbers grew
louder of a sudden upon the ear. Many of the bowmen had drawn amulets and
relics from their bosoms, while he who possessed some more than usually
sanctified treasure passed it down the line of his comrades, that all
might kiss and reap the virtue.

The yellow cog had now shot out from the narrow waters of the Solent, and
was plunging and rolling on the long heave of the open channel. The wind
blew freshly from the east, with a very keen edge to it; and the great
sail bellied roundly out, laying the vessel over until the water hissed
beneath her lee bulwarks. Broad and ungainly, she floundered from wave to
wave, dipping her round bows deeply into the blue rollers, and sending the
white flakes of foam in a spatter over her decks. On her larboard quarter
lay the two dark galleys, which had already hoisted sail, and were
shooting out from Freshwater Bay in swift pursuit, their double line of
oars giving them a vantage which could not fail to bring them up with any
vessel which trusted to sails alone. High and bluff the English cog; long,
black and swift the pirate galleys, like two fierce lean wolves which have
seen a lordly and unsuspecting stag walk past their forest lair.

“Shall we turn, my fair lord, or shall we carry on?” asked the
master-shipman, looking behind him with anxious eyes.

“Nay, we must carry on and play the part of the helpless merchant.”

“But your pennons? They will see that we have two knights with us.”

“Yet it would not be to a knight’s honor or good name to lower his pennon.
Let them be, and they will think that we are a wine-ship for Gascony, or
that we bear the wool-bales of some mercer of the Staple. Ma foi, but they
are very swift! They swoop upon us like two goshawks on a heron. Is there
not some symbol or device upon their sails?”

“That on the right,” said Edricson, “appears to have the head of an Ethiop
upon it.”

“’Tis the badge of Tete-noire, the Norman,” cried a seaman-mariner. “I
have seen it before, when he harried us at Winchelsea. He is a wondrous
large and strong man, with no ruth for man, woman, or beast. They say that
he hath the strength of six; and, certes, he hath the crimes of six upon
his soul. See, now, to the poor souls who swing at either end of his
yard-arm!”

At each end of the yard there did indeed hang the dark figure of a man,
jolting and lurching with hideous jerkings of its limbs at every plunge
and swoop of the galley.

“By St. Paul!” said Sir Nigel, “and by the help of St. George and Our
Lady, it will be a very strange thing if our black-headed friend does not
himself swing thence ere he be many hours older. But what is that upon the
other galley?”

“It is the red cross of Genoa. This Spade-beard is a very noted captain,
and it is his boast that there are no seamen and no archers in the world
who can compare with those who serve the Doge Boccanegra.”

“That we shall prove,” said Goodwin Hawtayne; “but it would be well, ere
they close with us, to raise up the mantlets and pavises as a screen
against their bolts.” He shouted a hoarse order, and his seamen worked
swiftly and silently, heightening the bulwarks and strengthening them. The
three ship’s anchors were at Sir Nigel’s command carried into the waist,
and tied to the mast, with twenty feet of cable between, each under the
care of four seamen. Eight others were stationed with leather water-bags
to quench any fire-arrows which might come aboard, while others were sent
up the mast, to lie along the yard and drop stones or shoot arrows as the
occasion served.

“Let them be supplied with all that is heavy and weighty in the ship,”
said Sir Nigel.

“Then we must send them up Sir Oliver Buttesthorn,” quoth Ford.

The knight looked at him with a face which struck the smile from his lips.
“No squire of mine,” he said, “shall ever make jest of a belted knight.
And yet,” he added, his eyes softening, “I know that it is but a boy’s
mirth, with no sting in it. Yet I should ill do my part towards your
father if I did not teach you to curb your tongue-play.”

“They will lay us aboard on either quarter, my lord,” cried the master.
“See how they stretch out from each other! The Norman hath a mangonel or a
trabuch upon the forecastle. See, they bend to the levers! They are about
to loose it.”

“Aylward,” cried the knight, “pick your three trustiest archers, and see
if you cannot do something to hinder their aim. Methinks they are within
long arrow flight.”

“Seventeen score paces,” said the archer, running his eye backwards and
forwards. “By my ten finger-bones! it would be a strange thing if we could
not notch a mark at that distance. Here, Watkin of Sowley, Arnold, Long
Williams, let us show the rogues that they have English bowmen to deal
with.”

The three archers named stood at the further end of the poop, balancing
themselves with feet widely spread and bows drawn, until the heads of the
cloth-yard arrows were level with the centre of the stave. “You are the
surer, Watkin,” said Aylward, standing by them with shaft upon string. “Do
you take the rogue with the red coif. You two bring down the man with the
head-piece, and I will hold myself ready if you miss. Ma foi! they are
about to loose her. Shoot, mes garcons, or you will be too late.”

The throng of pirates had cleared away from the great wooden catapult,
leaving two of their number to discharge it. One in a scarlet cap bent
over it, steadying the jagged rock which was balanced on the spoon-shaped
end of the long wooden lever. The other held the loop of the rope which
would release the catch and send the unwieldy missile hurtling through the
air. So for an instant they stood, showing hard and clear against the
white sail behind them. The next, redcap had fallen across the stone with
an arrow between his ribs; and the other, struck in the leg and in the
throat, was writhing and spluttering upon the ground. As he toppled
backwards he had loosed the spring, and the huge beam of wood, swinging
round with tremendous force, cast the corpse of his comrade so close to
the English ship that its mangled and distorted limbs grazed their very
stern. As to the stone, it glanced off obliquely and fell midway between
the vessels. A roar of cheering and of laughter broke from the rough
archers and seamen at the sight, answered by a yell of rage from their
pursuers.

“Lie low, mes enfants,” cried Aylward, motioning with his left hand. “They
will learn wisdom. They are bringing forward shield and mantlet. We shall
have some pebbles about our ears ere long.”

CHAPTER XVI. HOW THE YELLOW COG FOUGHT THE TWO ROVER GALLEYS.

The three vessels had been sweeping swiftly westwards, the cog still well
to the front, although the galleys were slowly drawing in upon either
quarter. To the left was a hard skyline unbroken by a sail. The island
already lay like a cloud behind them, while right in front was St. Alban’s
Head, with Portland looming mistily in the farthest distance. Alleyne
stood by the tiller, looking backwards, the fresh wind full in his teeth,
the crisp winter air tingling on his face and blowing his yellow curls
from under his bassinet. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes shining, for
the blood of a hundred fighting Saxon ancestors was beginning to stir in
his veins.

“What was that?” he asked, as a hissing, sharp-drawn voice seemed to
whisper in his ear. The steersman smiled, and pointed with his foot to
where a short heavy cross-bow quarrel stuck quivering in the boards. At
the same instant the man stumbled forward upon his knees, and lay lifeless
upon the deck, a blood-stained feather jutting out from his back. As
Alleyne stooped to raise him, the air seemed to be alive with the sharp
zip-zip of the bolts, and he could hear them pattering on the deck like
apples at a tree-shaking.

“Raise two more mantlets by the poop-lanthorn,” said Sir Nigel quietly.

“And another man to the tiller,” cried the master-shipman.

“Keep them in play, Aylward, with ten of your men,” the knight continued.
“And let ten of Sir Oliver’s bowmen do as much for the Genoese. I have no
mind as yet to show them how much they have to fear from us.”

Ten picked shots under Aylward stood in line across the broad deck, and it
was a lesson to the young squires who had seen nothing of war to note how
orderly and how cool were these old soldiers, how quick the command, and
how prompt the carrying out, ten moving like one. Their comrades crouched
beneath the bulwarks, with many a rough jest and many a scrap of criticism
or advice. “Higher, Wat, higher!” “Put thy body into it, Will!” “Forget
not the wind, Hal!” So ran the muttered chorus, while high above it rose
the sharp twanging of the strings, the hiss of the shafts, and the short
“Draw your arrow! Nick your arrow! Shoot wholly together!” from the
master-bowman.

And now both mangonels were at work from the galleys, but so covered and
protected that, save at the moment of discharge, no glimpse could be
caught of them. A huge brown rock from the Genoese sang over their heads,
and plunged sullenly into the slope of a wave. Another from the Norman
whizzed into the waist, broke the back of a horse, and crashed its way
through the side of the vessel. Two others, flying together, tore a great
gap in the St. Christopher upon the sail, and brushed three of Sir
Oliver’s men-at-arms from the forecastle. The master-shipman looked at the
knight with a troubled face.

“They keep their distance from us,” said he. “Our archery is over-good,
and they will not close. What defence can we make against the stones?”

“I think I may trick them,” the knight answered cheerfully, and passed his
order to the archers. Instantly five of them threw up their hands and fell
prostrate upon the deck. One had already been slain by a bolt, so that
there were but four upon their feet.

“That should give them heart,” said Sir Nigel, eyeing the galleys, which
crept along on either side, with a slow, measured swing of their great
oars, the water swirling and foaming under their sharp stems.

“They still hold aloof,” cried Hawtayne.

“Then down with two more,” shouted their leader. “That will do. Ma foi!
but they come to our lure like chicks to the fowler. To your arms, men!
The pennon behind me, and the squires round the pennon. Stand fast with
the anchors in the waist, and be ready for a cast. Now blow out the
trumpets, and may God’s benison be with the honest men!”

As he spoke a roar of voices and a roll of drums came from either galley,
and the water was lashed into spray by the hurried beat of a hundred oars.
Down they swooped, one on the right, one on the left, the sides and
shrouds black with men and bristling with weapons. In heavy clusters they
hung upon the forecastle all ready for a spring—faces white, faces brown,
faces yellow, and faces black, fair Norsemen, swarthy Italians, fierce
rovers from the Levant, and fiery Moors from the Barbary States, of all
hues and countries, and marked solely by the common stamp of a wild-beast
ferocity. Rasping up on either side, with oars trailing to save them from
snapping, they poured in a living torrent with horrid yell and shrill
whoop upon the defenceless merchantman.

But wilder yet was the cry, and shriller still the scream, when there rose
up from the shadow of those silent bulwarks the long lines of the English
bowmen, and the arrows whizzed in a deadly sleet among the unprepared
masses upon the pirate decks. From the higher sides of the cog the bowmen
could shoot straight down, at a range which was so short as to enable a
cloth-yard shaft to pierce through mail-coats or to transfix a shield,
though it were an inch thick of toughened wood. One moment Alleyne saw the
galley’s poop crowded with rushing figures, waving arms, exultant faces;
the next it was a blood-smeared shambles, with bodies piled three deep
upon each other, the living cowering behind the dead to shelter themselves
from that sudden storm-blast of death. On either side the seamen whom Sir
Nigel had chosen for the purpose had cast their anchors over the side of
the galleys, so that the three vessels, locked in an iron grip, lurched
heavily forward upon the swell.

And now set in a fell and fierce fight, one of a thousand of which no
chronicler has spoken and no poet sung. Through all the centuries and over
all those southern waters nameless men have fought in nameless places,
their sole monuments a protected coast and an unravaged country-side.

Fore and aft the archers had cleared the galleys’ decks, but from either
side the rovers had poured down into the waist, where the seamen and
bowmen were pushed back and so mingled with their foes that it was
impossible for their comrades above to draw string to help them. It was a
wild chaos where axe and sword rose and fell, while Englishman, Norman,
and Italian staggered and reeled on a deck which was cumbered with bodies
and slippery with blood. The clang of blows, the cries of the stricken,
the short, deep shout of the islanders, and the fierce whoops of the
rovers, rose together in a deafening tumult, while the breath of the
panting men went up in the wintry air like the smoke from a furnace. The
giant Tete-noire, towering above his fellows and clad from head to foot in
plate of proof, led on his boarders, waving a huge mace in the air, with
which he struck to the deck every man who approached him. On the other
side, Spade-beard, a dwarf in height, but of great breadth of shoulder and
length of arm, had cut a road almost to the mast, with three-score Genoese
men-at-arms close at his heels. Between these two formidable assailants
the seamen were being slowly wedged more closely together, until they
stood back to back under the mast with the rovers raging upon every side
of them.

But help was close at hand. Sir Oliver Buttesthorn with his men-at-arms
had swarmed down from the forecastle, while Sir Nigel, with his three
squires, Black Simon, Aylward, Hordle John, and a score more, threw
themselves from the poop and hurled themselves into the thickest of the
fight. Alleyne, as in duty bound, kept his eyes fixed ever on his lord and
pressed forward close at his heels. Often had he heard of Sir Nigel’s
prowess and skill with all knightly weapons, but all the tales that had
reached his ears fell far short of the real quickness and coolness of the
man. It was as if the devil was in him, for he sprang here and sprang
there, now thrusting and now cutting, catching blows on his shield,
turning them with his blade, stooping under the swing of an axe, springing
over the sweep of a sword, so swift and so erratic that the man who braced
himself for a blow at him might find him six paces off ere he could bring
it down. Three pirates had fallen before him, and he had wounded
Spade-beard in the neck, when the Norman giant sprang at him from the side
with a slashing blow from his deadly mace. Sir Nigel stooped to avoid it,
and at the same instant turned a thrust from the Genoese swordsman, but,
his foot slipping in a pool of blood, he fell heavily to the ground.
Alleyne sprang in front of the Norman, but his sword was shattered and he
himself beaten to the ground by a second blow from the ponderous weapon.
Ere the pirate chief could repeat it, however, John’s iron grip fell upon
his wrist, and he found that for once he was in the hands of a stronger
man than himself.

Fiercely he strove to disengage his weapon, but Hordle John bent his arm
slowly back until, with a sharp crack, like a breaking stave, it turned
limp in his grasp, and the mace dropped from the nerveless fingers. In
vain he tried to pluck it up with the other hand. Back and back still his
foeman bent him, until, with a roar of pain and of fury, the giant clanged
his full length upon the boards, while the glimmer of a knife before the
bars of his helmet warned him that short would be his shrift if he moved.

Cowed and disheartened by the loss of their leader, the Normans had given
back and were now streaming over the bulwarks on to their own galley,
dropping a dozen at a time on to her deck. But the anchor still held them
in its crooked claw, and Sir Oliver with fifty men was hard upon their
heels. Now, too, the archers had room to draw their bows once more, and
great stones from the yard of the cog came thundering and crashing among
the flying rovers. Here and there they rushed with wild screams and
curses, diving under the sail, crouching behind booms, huddling into
corners like rabbits when the ferrets are upon them, as helpless and as
hopeless. They were stern days, and if the honest soldier, too poor for a
ransom, had no prospect of mercy upon the battle-field, what ruth was
there for sea robbers, the enemies of humankind, taken in the very deed,
with proofs of their crimes still swinging upon their yard-arm.

But the fight had taken a new and a strange turn upon the other side.
Spade-beard and his men had given slowly back, hard pressed by Sir Nigel,
Aylward, Black Simon, and the poop-guard. Foot by foot the Italian had
retreated, his armor running blood at every joint, his shield split, his
crest shorn, his voice fallen away to a mere gasping and croaking. Yet he
faced his foemen with dauntless courage, dashing in, springing back,
sure-footed, steady-handed, with a point which seemed to menace three at
once. Beaten back on to the deck of his own vessel, and closely followed
by a dozen Englishmen, he disengaged himself from them, ran swiftly down
the deck, sprang back into the cog once more, cut the rope which held the
anchor, and was back in an instant among his crossbow-men. At the same
time the Genoese sailors thrust with their oars against the side of the
cog, and a rapidly widening rift appeared between the two vessels.

“By St. George!” cried Ford, “we are cut off from Sir Nigel.”

“He is lost,” gasped Terlake. “Come, let us spring for it.” The two youths
jumped with all their strength to reach the departing galley. Ford’s feet
reached the edge of the bulwarks, and his hand clutching a rope he swung
himself on board. Terlake fell short, crashed in among the oars, and
bounded off into the sea. Alleyne, staggering to the side, was about to
hurl himself after him, but Hordle John dragged him back by the girdle.

“You can scarce stand, lad, far less jump,” said he. “See how the blood
rips from your bassinet.”

“My place is by the flag,” cried Alleyne, vainly struggling to break from
the other’s hold.

“Bide here, man. You would need wings ere you could reach Sir Nigel’s
side.”

The vessels were indeed so far apart now that the Genoese could use the
full sweep of their oars, and draw away rapidly from the cog.

“My God, but it is a noble fight!” shouted big John, clapping his hands.
“They have cleared the poop, and they spring into the waist. Well struck,
my lord! Well struck, Aylward! See to Black Simon, how he storms among the
shipmen! But this Spade-beard is a gallant warrior. He rallies his men
upon the forecastle. He hath slain an archer. Ha! my lord is upon him.
Look to it, Alleyne! See to the whirl and glitter of it!”

“By heaven, Sir Nigel is down!” cried the squire.

“Up!” roared John. “It was but a feint. He bears him back. He drives him
to the side. Ah, by Our Lady, his sword is through him! They cry for
mercy. Down goes the red cross, and up springs Simon with the scarlet
roses!”

The death of the Genoese leader did indeed bring the resistance to an end.
Amid a thunder of cheering from cog and from galleys the forked pennon
fluttered upon the forecastle, and the galley, sweeping round, came slowly
back, as the slaves who rowed it learned the wishes of their new masters.

The two knights had come aboard the cog, and the grapplings having been
thrown off, the three vessels now moved abreast. Through all the storm and
rush of the fight Alleyne had been aware of the voice of Goodwin Hawtayne,
the master-shipman, with his constant “Hale the bowline! Veer the sheet!”
and strange it was to him to see how swiftly the blood-stained sailors
turned from the strife to the ropes and back. Now the cog’s head was
turned Francewards, and the shipman walked the deck, a peaceful
master-mariner once more.

“There is sad scath done to the cog, Sir Nigel,” said he. “Here is a hole
in the side two ells across, the sail split through the centre, and the
wood as bare as a friar’s poll. In good sooth, I know not what I shall say
to Master Witherton when I see the Itchen once more.”

“By St. Paul! it would be a very sorry thing if we suffered you to be the
worse of this day’s work,” said Sir Nigel. “You shall take these galleys
back with you, and Master Witherton may sell them. Then from the moneys he
shall take as much as may make good the damage, and the rest he shall keep
until our home-coming, when every man shall have his share. An image of
silver fifteen inches high I have vowed to the Virgin, to be placed in her
chapel within the Priory, for that she was pleased to allow me to come
upon this Spade-beard, who seemed to me from what I have seen of him to be
a very sprightly and valiant gentleman. But how fares it with you,
Edricson?”

“It is nothing, my fair lord,” said Alleyne, who had now loosened his
bassinet, which was cracked across by the Norman’s blow. Even as he spoke,
however, his head swirled round, and he fell to the deck with the blood
gushing from his nose and mouth.

“He will come to anon,” said the knight, stooping over him and passing his
fingers through his hair. “I have lost one very valiant and gentle squire
this day. I can ill afford to lose another. How many men have fallen?”

“I have pricked off the tally,” said Aylward, who had come aboard with his
lord. “There are seven of the Winchester men, eleven seamen, your squire,
young Master Terlake, and nine archers.”

“And of the others?”

“They are all dead—save only the Norman knight who stands behind
you. What would you that we should do with him?”

“He must hang on his own yard,” said Sir Nigel. “It was my vow and must be
done.”

The pirate leader had stood by the bulwarks, a cord round his arms, and
two stout archers on either side. At Sir Nigel’s words he started
violently, and his swarthy features blanched to a livid gray.

“How, Sir Knight?” he cried in broken English. “Que dites vous? To hang,
le mort du chien! To hang!”

“It is my vow,” said Sir Nigel shortly. “From what I hear, you thought
little enough of hanging others.”

“Peasants, base roturiers,” cried the other. “It is their fitting death.
Mais Le Seigneur d’Andelys, avec le sang des rois dans ses veins! C’est
incroyable!”

Sir Nigel turned upon his heel, while two seamen cast a noose over the
pirate’s neck. At the touch of the cord he snapped the bonds which bound
him, dashed one of the archers to the deck, and seizing the other round
the waist sprang with him into the sea.

“By my hilt, he is gone!” cried Aylward, rushing to the side. “They have
sunk together like a stone.”

“I am right glad of it,” answered Sir Nigel; “for though it was against my
vow to loose him, I deem that he has carried himself like a very gentle
and debonnaire cavalier.”

CHAPTER XVII. HOW THE YELLOW COG CROSSED THE BAR OF GIRONDE.

For two days the yellow cog ran swiftly before a northeasterly wind, and
on the dawn of the third the high land of Ushant lay like a mist upon the
shimmering sky-line. There came a plump of rain towards mid-day and the
breeze died down, but it freshened again before nightfall, and Goodwin
Hawtayne veered his sheet and held head for the south. Next morning they
had passed Belle Isle, and ran through the midst of a fleet of transports
returning from Guienne. Sir Nigel Loring and Sir Oliver Buttesthorn at
once hung their shields over the side, and displayed their pennons as was
the custom, noting with the keenest interest the answering symbols which
told the names of the cavaliers who had been constrained by ill health or
wounds to leave the prince at so critical a time.

That evening a great dun-colored cloud banked up in the west, and an
anxious man was Goodwin Hawtayne, for a third part of his crew had been
slain, and half the remainder were aboard the galleys, so that, with an
injured ship, he was little fit to meet such a storm as sweeps over those
waters. All night it blew in short fitful puffs, heeling the great cog
over until the water curled over her lee bulwarks. As the wind still
freshened the yard was lowered half way down the mast in the morning.
Alleyne, wretchedly ill and weak, with his head still ringing from the
blow which he had received, crawled up upon deck. Water-swept and aslant,
it was preferable to the noisome, rat-haunted dungeons which served as
cabins. There, clinging to the stout halliards of the sheet, he gazed with
amazement at the long lines of black waves, each with its curling ridge of
foam, racing in endless succession from out the inexhaustible west. A huge
sombre cloud, flecked with livid blotches, stretched over the whole
seaward sky-line, with long ragged streamers whirled out in front of it.
Far behind them the two galleys labored heavily, now sinking between the
rollers until their yards were level with the waves, and again shooting up
with a reeling, scooping motion until every spar and rope stood out hard
against the sky. On the left the low-lying land stretched in a dim haze,
rising here and there into a darker blur which marked the higher capes and
headlands. The land of France! Alleyne’s eyes shone as he gazed upon it.
The land of France!—the very words sounded as the call of a bugle in
the ears of the youth of England. The land where their fathers had bled,
the home of chivalry and of knightly deeds, the country of gallant men, of
courtly women, of princely buildings, of the wise, the polished and the
sainted. There it lay, so still and gray beneath the drifting wrack—the
home of things noble and of things shameful—the theatre where a new
name might be made or an old one marred. From his bosom to his lips came
the crumpled veil, and he breathed a vow that if valor and goodwill could
raise him to his lady’s side, then death alone should hold him back from
her. His thoughts were still in the woods of Minstead and the old armory
of Twynham Castle, when the hoarse voice of the master-shipman brought
them back once more to the Bay of Biscay.

“By my troth, young sir,” he said, “you are as long in the face as the
devil at a christening, and I cannot marvel at it, for I have sailed these
waters since I was as high as this whinyard, and yet I never saw more sure
promise of an evil night.”

“Nay, I had other things upon my mind,” the squire answered.

“And so has every man,” cried Hawtayne in an injured voice. “Let the
shipman see to it. It is the master-shipman’s affair. Put it all upon good
Master Hawtayne! Never had I so much care since first I blew trumpet and
showed cartel at the west gate of Southampton.”

“What is amiss then?” asked Alleyne, for the man’s words were as gusty as
the weather.

“Amiss, quotha? Here am I with but half my mariners, and a hole in the
ship where that twenty-devil stone struck us big enough to fit the fat
widow of Northam through. It is well enough on this tack, but I would have
you tell me what I am to do on the other. We are like to have salt water
upon us until we be found pickled like the herrings in an Easterling’s
barrels.”

“What says Sir Nigel to it?”

“He is below pricking out the coat-armor of his mother’s uncle. ‘Pester me
not with such small matters!’ was all that I could get from him. Then
there is Sir Oliver. ‘Fry them in oil with a dressing of Gascony,’ quoth
he, and then swore at me because I had not been the cook. ‘Walawa,’
thought I, ‘mad master, sober man’—so away forward to the archers.
Harrow and alas! but they were worse than the others.”

“Would they not help you then?”

“Nay, they sat tway and tway at a board, him that they call Aylward and
the great red-headed man who snapped the Norman’s arm-bone, and the black
man from Norwich, and a score of others, rattling their dice in an
archer’s gauntlet for want of a box. ‘The ship can scarce last much
longer, my masters,’ quoth I. ‘That is your business, old swine’s-head,’
cried the black galliard. ‘Le diable t’emporte,’ says Aylward. ‘A five, a
four and the main,’ shouted the big man, with a voice like the flap of a
sail. Hark to them now, young sir, and say if I speak not sooth.”

As he spoke, there sounded high above the shriek of the gale and the
straining of the timbers a gust of oaths with a roar of deep-chested mirth
from the gamblers in the forecastle.

“Can I be of avail?” asked Alleyne. “Say the word and the thing is done,
if two hands may do it.”

“Nay, nay, your head I can see is still totty, and i’ faith little head
would you have, had your bassinet not stood your friend. All that may be
done is already carried out, for we have stuffed the gape with sails and
corded it without and within. Yet when we bale our bowline and veer the
sheet our lives will hang upon the breach remaining blocked. See how
yonder headland looms upon us through the mist! We must tack within three
arrow flights, or we may find a rock through our timbers. Now, St.
Christopher be praised! here is Sir Nigel, with whom I may confer.”

“I prythee that you will pardon me,” said the knight, clutching his way
along the bulwark. “I would not show lack of courtesy toward a worthy man,
but I was deep in a matter of some weight, concerning which, Alleyne, I
should be glad of your rede. It touches the question of dimidiation or
impalement in the coat of mine uncle, Sir John Leighton of Shropshire, who
took unto wife the widow of Sir Henry Oglander of Nunwell. The case has
been much debated by pursuivants and kings-of-arms. But how is it with
you, master shipman?”

“Ill enough, my fair lord. The cog must go about anon, and I know not how
we may keep the water out of her.”

“Go call Sir Oliver!” said Sir Nigel, and presently the portly knight made
his way all astraddle down the slippery deck.

“By my soul, master-shipman, this passes all patience!” he cried
wrathfully. “If this ship of yours must needs dance and skip like a clown
at a kermesse, then I pray you that you will put me into one of these
galeasses. I had but sat down to a flask of malvoisie and a mortress of
brawn, as is my use about this hour, when there comes a cherking, and I
find my wine over my legs and the flask in my lap, and then as I stoop to
clip it there comes another cursed cherk, and there is a mortress of brawn
stuck fast to the nape of my neck. At this moment I have two pages
coursing after it from side to side, like hounds behind a leveret. Never
did living pig gambol more lightly. But you have sent for me, Sir Nigel?”

“I would fain have your rede, Sir Oliver, for Master Hawtayne hath fears
that when we veer there may come danger from the hole in our side.”

“Then do not veer,” quoth Sir Oliver hastily. “And now, fair sir, I must
hasten back to see how my rogues have fared with the brawn.”

“Nay, but this will scarce suffice,” cried the shipman. “If we do not veer
we will be upon the rocks within the hour.”

“Then veer,” said Sir Oliver. “There is my rede; and now, Sir Nigel, I
must crave——”

At this instant, however, a startled shout rang out from two seamen upon
the forecastle. “Rocks!” they yelled, stabbing into the air with their
forefingers. “Rocks beneath our very bows!” Through the belly of a great
black wave, not one hundred paces to the front of them, there thrust forth
a huge jagged mass of brown stone, which spouted spray as though it were
some crouching monster, while a dull menacing boom and roar filled the
air.

“Yare! yare!” screamed Goodwin Hawtayne, flinging himself upon the long
pole which served as a tiller. “Cut the halliard! Haul her over! Lay her
two courses to the wind!”

Over swung the great boom, and the cog trembled and quivered within five
spear-lengths of the breakers.

“She can scarce draw clear,” cried Hawtayne, with his eyes from the sail
to the seething line of foam. “May the holy Julian stand by us and the
thrice-sainted Christopher!”

“If there be such peril, Sir Oliver,” quoth Sir Nigel, “it would be very
knightly and fitting that we should show our pennons. I pray you,
Edricson, that you will command my guidon-bearer to put forward my
banner.”

“And sound the trumpets!” cried Sir Oliver. “In manus tuas, Domine! I am
in the keeping of James of Compostella, to whose shrine I shall make
pilgrimage, and in whose honor I vow that I will eat a carp each year upon
his feast-day. Mon Dieu, but the waves roar! How is it with us now,
master-shipman?”

“We draw! We draw!” cried Hawtayne, with his eyes still fixed upon the
foam which hissed under the very bulge of the side. “Ah, Holy Mother, be
with us now!”

As he spoke the cog rasped along the edge of the reef, and a long white
curling sheet of wood was planed off from her side from waist to poop by a
jutting horn of the rock. At the same instant she lay suddenly over, the
sail drew full, and she plunged seawards amid the shoutings of the seamen
and the archers.

“The Virgin be praised!” cried the shipman, wiping his brow. “For this
shall bell swing and candle burn when I see Southampton Water once more.
Cheerily, my hearts! Pull yarely on the bowline!”

“By my soul! I would rather have a dry death,” quoth Sir Oliver. “Though,
Mort Dieu! I have eaten so many fish that it were but justice that the
fish should eat me. Now I must back to the cabin, for I have matters there
which crave my attention.”

“Nay, Sir Oliver, you had best bide with us, and still show your ensign,”
Sir Nigel answered; “for, if I understand the matter aright, we have but
turned from one danger to the other.”

“Good Master Hawtayne,” cried the boatswain, rushing aft, “the water comes
in upon us apace. The waves have driven in the sail wherewith we strove to
stop the hole.” As he spoke the seamen came swarming on to the poop and
the forecastle to avoid the torrent which poured through the huge leak
into the waist. High above the roar of the wind and the clash of the sea
rose the shrill half-human cries of the horses, as they found the water
rising rapidly around them.

“Stop it from without!” cried Hawtayne, seizing the end of the wet sail
with which the gap had been plugged. “Speedily, my hearts, or we are
gone!” Swiftly they rove ropes to the corners, and then, rushing forward
to the bows, they lowered them under the keel, and drew them tight in such
a way that the sail should cover the outer face of the gap. The force of
the rush of water was checked by this obstacle, but it still squirted
plentifully from every side of it. At the sides the horses were above the
belly, and in the centre a man from the poop could scarce touch the deck
with a seven-foot spear. The cog lay lower in the water and the waves
splashed freely over the weather bulwark.

“I fear that we can scarce bide upon this tack,” cried Hawtayne; “and yet
the other will drive us on the rocks.”

“Might we not haul down sail and wait for better times?” suggested Sir
Nigel.

“Nay, we should drift upon the rocks. Thirty years have I been on the sea,
and never yet in greater straits. Yet we are in the hands of the Saints.”

“Of whom,” cried Sir Oliver, “I look more particularly to St. James of
Compostella, who hath already befriended us this day, and on whose feast I
hereby vow that I shall eat a second carp, if he will but interpose a
second time.”

The wrack had thickened to seaward, and the coast was but a blurred line.
Two vague shadows in the offing showed where the galeasses rolled and
tossed upon the great Atlantic rollers. Hawtayne looked wistfully in their
direction.

“If they would but lie closer we might find safety, even should the cog
founder. You will bear me out with good Master Witherton of Southampton
that I have done all that a shipman might. It would be well that you
should doff camail and greaves, Sir Nigel, for, by the black rood! it is
like enough that we shall have to swim for it.”

“Nay,” said the little knight, “it would be scarce fitting that a cavalier
should throw off his harness for the fear of every puff of wind and puddle
of water. I would rather that my Company should gather round me here on
the poop, where we might abide together whatever God may be pleased to
send. But, certes, Master Hawtayne, for all that my sight is none of the
best, it is not the first time that I have seen that headland upon the
left.”

The seaman shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed earnestly through the
haze and spray. Suddenly he threw up his arms and shouted aloud in his
joy.

“’Tis the point of La Tremblade!” he cried. “I had not thought that we
were as far as Oleron. The Gironde lies before us, and once over the bar,
and under shelter of the Tour de Cordouan, all will be well with us. Veer
again, my hearts, and bring her to try with the main course!”

The sail swung round once more, and the cog, battered and torn and
well-nigh water-logged, staggered in for this haven of refuge. A bluff
cape to the north and a long spit to the south marked the mouth of the
noble river, with a low-lying island of silted sand in the centre, all
shrouded and curtained by the spume of the breakers. A line of broken
water traced the dangerous bar, which in clear day and balmy weather has
cracked the back of many a tall ship.

“There is a channel,” said Hawtayne, “which was shown to me by the
Prince’s own pilot. Mark yonder tree upon the bank, and see the tower
which rises behind it. If these two be held in a line, even as we hold
them now, it may be done, though our ship draws two good ells more than
when she put forth.”

“God speed you, Master Hawtayne!” cried Sir Oliver. “Twice have we come
scathless out of peril, and now for the third time I commend me to the
blessed James of Compostella, to whom I vow——”

“Nay, nay, old friend,” whispered Sir Nigel. “You are like to bring a
judgment upon us with these vows, which no living man could accomplish.
Have I not already heard you vow to eat two carp in one day, and now you
would venture upon a third?”

“I pray you that you will order the Company to lie down,” cried Hawtayne,
who had taken the tiller and was gazing ahead with a fixed eye. “In three
minutes we shall either be lost or in safety.”

Archers and seamen lay flat upon the deck, waiting in stolid silence for
whatever fate might come. Hawtayne bent his weight upon the tiller, and
crouched to see under the bellying sail. Sir Oliver and Sir Nigel stood
erect with hands crossed in front of the poop. Down swooped the great cog
into the narrow channel which was the portal to safety. On either bow
roared the shallow bar. Right ahead one small lane of black swirling water
marked the pilot’s course. But true was the eye and firm the hand which
guided. A dull scraping came from beneath, the vessel quivered and shook,
at the waist, at the quarter, and behind sounded that grim roaring of the
waters, and with a plunge the yellow cog was over the bar and speeding
swiftly up the broad and tranquil estuary of the Gironde.

CHAPTER XVIII. HOW SIR NIGEL LORING PUT A PATCH UPON HIS EYE.

It was on the morning of Friday, the eight-and-twentieth day of November,
two days before the feast of St. Andrew, that the cog and her two
prisoners, after a weary tacking up the Gironde and the Garonne, dropped
anchor at last in front of the noble city of Bordeaux. With wonder and
admiration, Alleyne, leaning over the bulwarks, gazed at the forest of
masts, the swarm of boats darting hither and thither on the bosom of the
broad curving stream, and the gray crescent-shaped city which stretched
with many a tower and minaret along the western shore. Never had he in his
quiet life seen so great a town, nor was there in the whole of England,
save London alone, one which might match it in size or in wealth. Here
came the merchandise of all the fair countries which are watered by the
Garonne and the Dordogne—the cloths of the south, the skins of
Guienne, the wines of the Medoc—to be borne away to Hull, Exeter,
Dartmouth, Bristol or Chester, in exchange for the wools and woolfels of
England. Here too dwelt those famous smelters and welders who had made the
Bordeaux steel the most trusty upon earth, and could give a temper to
lance or to sword which might mean dear life to its owner. Alleyne could
see the smoke of their forges reeking up in the clear morning air. The
storm had died down now to a gentle breeze, which wafted to his ears the
long-drawn stirring bugle-calls which sounded from the ancient ramparts.

“Hola, mon petit!” said Aylward, coming up to where he stood. “Thou art a
squire now, and like enough to win the golden spurs, while I am still the
master-bowman, and master-bowman I shall bide. I dare scarce wag my tongue
so freely with you as when we tramped together past Wilverley Chase, else
I might be your guide now, for indeed I know every house in Bordeaux as a
friar knows the beads on his rosary.”

“Nay, Aylward,” said Alleyne, laying his hand upon the sleeve of his
companion’s frayed jerkin, “you cannot think me so thrall as to throw
aside an old friend because I have had some small share of good fortune. I
take it unkind that you should have thought such evil of me.”

“Nay, mon gar. ‘Twas but a flight shot to see if the wind blew steady,
though I were a rogue to doubt it.”

“Why, had I not met you, Aylward, at the Lynhurst inn, who can say where I
had now been! Certes, I had not gone to Twynham Castle, nor become squire
to Sir Nigel, nor met——” He paused abruptly and flushed to his
hair, but the bowman was too busy with his own thoughts to notice his
young companion’s embarrassment.

“It was a good hostel, that of the ‘Pied Merlin,’” he remarked. “By my ten
finger bones! when I hang bow on nail and change my brigandine for a
tunic, I might do worse than take over the dame and her business.”

“I thought,” said Alleyne, “that you were betrothed to some one at
Christchurch.”

“To three,” Aylward answered moodily, “to three. I fear I may not go back
to Christchurch. I might chance to see hotter service in Hampshire than I
have ever done in Gascony. But mark you now yonder lofty turret in the
centre, which stands back from the river and hath a broad banner upon the
summit. See the rising sun flashes full upon it and sparkles on the golden
lions. ‘Tis the royal banner of England, crossed by the prince’s label.
There he dwells in the Abbey of St. Andrew, where he hath kept his court
these years back. Beside it is the minster of the same saint, who hath the
town under his very special care.”

“And how of yon gray turret on the left?”

“’Tis the fane of St. Michael, as that upon the right is of St. Remi.
There, too, above the poop of yonder nief, you see the towers of Saint
Croix and of Pey Berland. Mark also the mighty ramparts which are pierced
by the three water-gates, and sixteen others to the landward side.”

“And how is it, good Aylward, that there comes so much music from the
town? I seem to hear a hundred trumpets, all calling in chorus.”

“It would be strange else, seeing that all the great lords of England and
of Gascony are within the walls, and each would have his trumpeter blow as
loud as his neighbor, lest it might be thought that his dignity had been
abated. Ma foi! they make as much louster as a Scotch army, where every
man fills himself with girdle-cakes, and sits up all night to blow upon
the toodle-pipe. See all along the banks how the pages water the horses,
and there beyond the town how they gallop them over the plain! For every
horse you see a belted knight hath herbergage in the town, for, as I
learn, the men-at-arms and archers have already gone forward to Dax.”

“I trust, Aylward,” said Sir Nigel, coming upon deck, “that the men are
ready for the land. Go tell them that the boats will be for them within
the hour.”

The archer raised his hand in salute, and hastened forward. In the
meantime Sir Oliver had followed his brother knight, and the two paced the
poop together, Sir Nigel in his plum-colored velvet suit with flat cap of
the same, adorned in front with the Lady Loring’s glove and girt round
with a curling ostrich feather. The lusty knight, on the other hand, was
clad in the very latest mode, with cote-hardie, doublet, pourpoint,
court-pie, and paltock of olive-green, picked out with pink and jagged at
the edges. A red chaperon or cap, with long hanging cornette, sat daintily
on the back of his black-curled head, while his gold-hued shoes were
twisted up a la poulaine, as though the toes were shooting forth a
tendril which might hope in time to entwine itself around his massive leg.

“Once more, Sir Oliver,” said Sir Nigel, looking shorewards with sparkling
eyes, “do we find ourselves at the gate of honor, the door which hath so
often led us to all that is knightly and worthy. There flies the prince’s
banner, and it would be well that we haste ashore and pay our obeisance to
him. The boats already swarm from the bank.”

“There is a goodly hostel near the west gate, which is famed for the
stewing of spiced pullets,” remarked Sir Oliver. “We might take the edge
of our hunger off ere we seek the prince, for though his tables are gay
with damask and silver he is no trencherman himself, and hath no sympathy
for those who are his betters.”

“His betters!”

“His betters before the tranchoir, lad. Sniff not treason where none is
meant. I have seen him smile in his quiet way because I had looked for the
fourth time towards the carving squire. And indeed to watch him dallying
with a little gobbet of bread, or sipping his cup of thrice-watered wine,
is enough to make a man feel shame at his own hunger. Yet war and glory,
my good friend, though well enough in their way, will not serve to tighten
such a belt as clasps my waist.”

“How read you that coat which hangs over yonder galley, Alleyne?” asked
Sir Nigel.

“Argent, a bend vert between cotises dancette gules.”

“It is a northern coat. I have seen it in the train of the Percies. From
the shields, there is not one of these vessels which hath not knight or
baron aboard. I would mine eyes were better. How read you this upon the
left?”

“Argent and azure, a barry wavy of six.”

“Ha, it is the sign of the Wiltshire Stourtons! And there beyond I see the
red and silver of the Worsleys of Apuldercombe, who like myself are of
Hampshire lineage. Close behind us is the moline cross of the gallant
William Molyneux, and beside it the bloody chevrons of the Norfork
Woodhouses, with the amulets of the Musgraves of Westmoreland. By St.
Paul! it would be a very strange thing if so noble a company were to
gather without some notable deed of arms arising from it. And here is our
boat, Sir Oliver, so it seems best to me that we should go to the abbey
with our squires, leaving Master Hawtayne to have his own way in the
unloading.”

The horses both of knights and squires were speedily lowered into a broad
lighter, and reached the shore almost as soon as their masters. Sir Nigel
bent his knee devoutly as he put foot on land, and taking a small black
patch from his bosom he bound it tightly over his left eye.

“May the blessed George and the memory of my sweet lady-love raise high my
heart!” quoth he. “And as a token I vow that I will not take this patch
from my eye until I have seen something of this country of Spain, and done
such a small deed as it lies in me to do. And this I swear upon the cross
of my sword and upon the glove of my lady.”

“In truth, you take me back twenty years, Nigel,” quoth Sir Oliver, as
they mounted and rode slowly through the water-gate. “After Cadsand, I
deem that the French thought that we were an army of the blind, for there
was scarce a man who had not closed an eye for the greater love and honor
of his lady. Yet it goes hard with you that you should darken one side,
when with both open you can scarce tell a horse from a mule. In truth,
friend, I think that you step over the line of reason in this matter.”

“Sir Oliver Buttesthorn,” said the little knight shortly, “I would have
you to understand that, blind as I am, I can yet see the path of honor
very clearly, and that that is the road upon which I do not crave another
man’s guidance.”

“By my soul,” said Sir Oliver, “you are as tart as verjuice this morning!
If you are bent upon a quarrel with me I must leave you to your humor and
drop into the ‘Tete d’Or’ here, for I marked a varlet pass the door who
bare a smoking dish, which had, methought, a most excellent smell.”

“Nenny, nenny,” cried his comrade, laying his hand upon his knee; “we have
known each other over long to fall out, Oliver, like two raw pages at
their first epreuves. You must come with me first to the prince, and then
back to the hostel; though sure I am that it would grieve his heart that
any gentle cavalier should turn from his board to a common tavern. But is
not that my Lord Delewar who waves to us? Ha! my fair lord, God and Our
Lady be with you! And there is Sir Robert Cheney. Good-morrow, Robert! I
am right glad to see you.”

The two knights walked their horses abreast, while Alleyne and Ford, with
John Norbury, who was squire to Sir Oliver, kept some paces behind them, a
spear’s-length in front of Black Simon and of the Winchester
guidon-bearer. Norbury, a lean, silent man, had been to those parts
before, and sat his horse with a rigid neck; but the two young squires
gazed eagerly to right or left, and plucked each other’s sleeves to call
attention to the many strange things on every side of them.

“See to the brave stalls!” cried Alleyne. “See to the noble armor set
forth, and the costly taffeta—and oh, Ford, see to where the
scrivener sits with the pigments and the ink-horns, and the rolls of
sheepskin as white as the Beaulieu napery! Saw man ever the like before?”

“Nay, man, there are finer stalls in Cheapside,” answered Ford, whose
father had taken him to London on occasion of one of the Smithfield
joustings. “I have seen a silversmith’s booth there which would serve to
buy either side of this street. But mark these houses, Alleyne, how they
thrust forth upon the top. And see to the coats-of-arms at every window,
and banner or pensil on the roof.”

“And the churches!” cried Alleyne. “The Priory at Christchurch was a
noble pile, but it was cold and bare, methinks, by one of these, with
their frettings, and their carvings, and their traceries, as though some
great ivy-plant of stone had curled and wantoned over the walls.”

“And hark to the speech of the folk!” said Ford. “Was ever such a hissing
and clacking? I wonder that they have not wit to learn English now that
they have come under the English crown. By Richard of Hampole! there are
fair faces amongst them. See the wench with the brown whimple! Out on you,
Alleyne, that you would rather gaze upon dead stone than on living flesh!”

It was little wonder that the richness and ornament, not only of church
and of stall, but of every private house as well, should have impressed
itself upon the young squires. The town was now at the height of its
fortunes. Besides its trade and its armorers, other causes had combined to
pour wealth into it. War, which had wrought evil upon so many fair cities
around, had brought nought but good to this one. As her French sisters
decayed she increased, for here, from north, and from east, and from
south, came the plunder to be sold and the ransom money to be spent.
Through all her sixteen landward gates there had set for many years a
double tide of empty-handed soldiers hurrying Francewards, and of enriched
and laden bands who brought their spoils home. The prince’s court, too,
with its swarm of noble barons and wealthy knights, many of whom, in
imitation of their master, had brought their ladies and their children
from England, all helped to swell the coffers of the burghers. Now, with
this fresh influx of noblemen and cavaliers, food and lodging were scarce
to be had, and the prince was hurrying forward his forces to Dax in
Gascony to relieve the overcrowding of his capital.

In front of the minster and abbey of St. Andrew’s was a large square
crowded with priests, soldiers, women, friars, and burghers, who made it
their common centre for sight-seeing and gossip. Amid the knot of noisy
and gesticulating townsfolk, many small parties of mounted knights and
squires threaded their way towards the prince’s quarters, where the huge
iron-clamped doors were thrown back to show that he held audience within.
Two-score archers stood about the gateway, and beat back from time to time
with their bow-staves the inquisitive and chattering crowd who swarmed
round the portal. Two knights in full armor, with lances raised and closed
visors, sat their horses on either side, while in the centre, with two
pages to tend upon him, there stood a noble-faced man in flowing purple
gown, who pricked off upon a sheet of parchment the style and title of
each applicant, marshalling them in their due order, and giving to each
the place and facility which his rank demanded. His long white beard and
searching eyes imparted to him an air of masterful dignity, which was
increased by his tabardlike vesture and the heraldic barret cap with
triple plume which bespoke his office.

“It is Sir William de Pakington, the prince’s own herald and scrivener,”
whispered Sir Nigel, as they pulled up amid the line of knights who waited
admission. “Ill fares it with the man who would venture to deceive him. He
hath by rote the name of every knight of France or of England; and all the
tree of his family, with his kinships, coat-armor, marriages,
augmentations, abatements, and I know not what beside. We may leave our
horses here with the varlets, and push forward with our squires.”

Following Sir Nigel’s counsel, they pressed on upon foot until they were
close to the prince’s secretary, who was in high debate with a young and
foppish knight, who was bent upon making his way past him.

“Mackworth!” said the king-at-arms. “It is in my mind, young sir, that you
have not been presented before.”

“Nay, it is but a day since I set foot in Bordeaux, but I feared lest the
prince should think it strange that I had not waited upon him.”

“The prince hath other things to think upon,” quoth Sir William de
Pakington; “but if you be a Mackworth you must be a Mackworth of
Normanton, and indeed I see now that your coat is sable and ermine.”

“I am a Mackworth of Normanton,” the other answered, with some uneasiness
of manner.

“Then you must be Sir Stephen Mackworth, for I learn that when old Sir Guy
died he came in for the arms and the name, the war-cry and the profit.”

“Sir Stephen is my elder brother, and I am Arthur, the second son,” said
the youth.

“In sooth and in sooth!” cried the king-at-arms with scornful eyes. “And
pray, sir second son, where is the cadency mark which should mark your
rank. Dare you to wear your brother’s coat without the crescent which
should stamp you as his cadet. Away to your lodgings, and come not nigh
the prince until the armorer hath placed the true charge upon your
shield.” As the youth withdrew in confusion, Sir William’s keen eye
singled out the five red roses from amid the overlapping shields and cloud
of pennons which faced him.

“Ha!” he cried, “there are charges here which are above counterfeit. The
roses of Loring and the boar’s head of Buttesthorn may stand back in
peace, but by my faith! they are not to be held back in war. Welcome, Sir
Oliver, Sir Nigel! Chandos will be glad to his very heart-roots when he
sees you. This way, my fair sirs. Your squires are doubtless worthy the
fame of their masters. Down this passage, Sir Oliver! Edricson! Ha! one of
the old strain of Hampshire Edricsons, I doubt not. And Ford, they are of
a south Saxon stock, and of good repute. There are Norburys in Cheshire
and in Wiltshire, and also, as I have heard, upon the borders. So, my fair
sirs, and I shall see that you are shortly admitted.”

He had finished his professional commentary by flinging open a folding
door, and ushering the party into a broad hall, which was filled with a
great number of people who were waiting, like themselves, for an audience.
The room was very spacious, lighted on one side by three arched and
mullioned windows, while opposite was a huge fireplace in which a pile of
faggots was blazing merrily. Many of the company had crowded round the
flames, for the weather was bitterly cold; but the two knights seated
themselves upon a bancal, with their squires standing behind them. Looking
down the room, Alleyne marked that both floor and ceiling were of the
richest oak, the latter spanned by twelve arching beams, which were
adorned at either end by the lilies and the lions of the royal arms. On
the further side was a small door, on each side of which stood
men-at-arms. From time to time an elderly man in black with rounded
shoulders and a long white wand in his hand came softly forth from this
inner room, and beckoned to one or other of the company, who doffed cap
and followed him.

The two knights were deep in talk, when Alleyne became aware of a
remarkable individual who was walking round the room in their direction.
As he passed each knot of cavaliers every head turned to look after him,
and it was evident, from the bows and respectful salutations on all sides,
that the interest which he excited was not due merely to his strange
personal appearance. He was tall and straight as a lance, though of a
great age, for his hair, which curled from under his velvet cap of
maintenance, was as white as the new-fallen snow. Yet, from the swing of
his stride and the spring of his step, it was clear that he had not yet
lost the fire and activity of his youth. His fierce hawk-like face was
clean shaven like that of a priest, save for a long thin wisp of white
moustache which drooped down half way to his shoulder. That he had been
handsome might be easily judged from his high aquiline nose and clear-cut
chin; but his features had been so distorted by the seams and scars of old
wounds, and by the loss of one eye which had been torn from the socket,
that there was little left to remind one of the dashing young knight who
had been fifty years ago the fairest as well as the boldest of the English
chivalry. Yet what knight was there in that hall of St. Andrew’s who would
not have gladly laid down youth, beauty, and all that he possessed to win
the fame of this man? For who could be named with Chandos, the stainless
knight, the wise councillor, the valiant warrior, the hero of Crecy, of
Winchelsea, of Poictiers, of Auray, and of as many other battles as there
were years to his life?

“Ha, my little heart of gold!” he cried, darting forward suddenly and
throwing his arms round Sir Nigel. “I heard that you were here and have
been seeking you.”

“My fair and dear lord,” said the knight, returning the warrior’s embrace,
“I have indeed come back to you, for where else shall I go that I may
learn to be a gentle and a hardy knight?”

“By my troth!” said Chandos with a smile, “it is very fitting that we
should be companions, Nigel, for since you have tied up one of your eyes,
and I have had the mischance to lose one of mine, we have but a pair
between us. Ah, Sir Oliver! you were on the blind side of me and I saw you
not. A wise woman hath made prophecy that this blind side will one day be
the death of me. We shall go in to the prince anon; but in truth he hath
much upon his hands, for what with Pedro, and the King of Majorca, and the
King of Navarre, who is no two days of the same mind, and the Gascon
barons who are all chaffering for terms like so many hucksters, he hath an
uneasy part to play. But how left you the Lady Loring?”

“She was well, my fair lord, and sent her service and greetings to you.”

“I am ever her knight and slave. And your journey, I trust that it was
pleasant?”

“As heart could wish. We had sight of two rover galleys, and even came to
have some slight bickering with them.”

“Ever in luck’s way, Nigel!” quoth Sir John. “We must hear the tale anon.
But I deem it best that ye should leave your squires and come with me,
for, howsoe’er pressed the prince may be, I am very sure that he would be
loth to keep two old comrades-in-arms upon the further side of the door.
Follow close behind me, and I will forestall old Sir William, though I can
scarce promise to roll forth your style and rank as is his wont.” So
saying, he led the way to the inner chamber, the two companions treading
close at his heels, and nodding to right and left as they caught sight of
familiar faces among the crowd.

CHAPTER XIX. HOW THERE WAS STIR AT THE ABBEY OF ST. ANDREW’S.

The prince’s reception-room, although of no great size, was fitted up with
all the state and luxury which the fame and power of its owner demanded. A
high dais at the further end was roofed in by a broad canopy of scarlet
velvet spangled with silver fleurs-de-lis, and supported at either corner
by silver rods. This was approached by four steps carpeted with the same
material, while all round were scattered rich cushions, oriental mats and
costly rugs of fur. The choicest tapestries which the looms of Arras could
furnish draped the walls, whereon the battles of Judas Maccabaeus were set
forth, with the Jewish warriors in plate of proof, with crest and lance
and banderole, as the naive artists of the day were wont to depict them. A
few rich settles and bancals, choicely carved and decorated with glazed
leather hangings of the sort termed or basane, completed the
furniture of the apartment, save that at one side of the dais there stood
a lofty perch, upon which a cast of three solemn Prussian gerfalcons sat,
hooded and jesseled, as silent and motionless as the royal fowler who
stood beside them.

In the centre of the dais were two very high chairs with dorserets, which
arched forwards over the heads of the occupants, the whole covered with
light-blue silk thickly powdered with golden stars. On that to the right
sat a very tall and well formed man with red hair, a livid face, and a
cold blue eye, which had in it something peculiarly sinister and menacing.
He lounged back in a careless position, and yawned repeatedly as though
heartily weary of the proceedings, stooping from time to time to fondle a
shaggy Spanish greyhound which lay stretched at his feet. On the other
throne there was perched bolt upright, with prim demeanor, as though he
felt himself to be upon his good behavior, a little, round, pippin faced
person, who smiled and bobbed to every one whose eye he chanced to meet.
Between and a little in front of them on a humble charette or stool, sat a
slim, dark young man, whose quiet attire and modest manner would scarce
proclaim him to be the most noted prince in Europe. A jupon of dark blue
cloth, tagged with buckles and pendants of gold, seemed but a sombre and
plain attire amidst the wealth of silk and ermine and gilt tissue of
fustian with which he was surrounded. He sat with his two hands clasped
round his knee, his head slightly bent, and an expression of impatience
and of trouble upon his clear, well-chiselled features. Behind the thrones
there stood two men in purple gowns, with ascetic, clean-shaven faces, and
half a dozen other high dignitaries and office-holders of Aquitaine. Below
on either side of the steps were forty or fifty barons, knights, and
courtiers, ranged in a triple row to the right and the left, with a clear
passage in the centre.

“There sits the prince,” whispered Sir John Chandos, as they entered. “He
on the right is Pedro, whom we are about to put upon the Spanish throne.
The other is Don James, whom we purpose with the aid of God to help to his
throne in Majorca. Now follow me, and take it not to heart if he be a
little short in his speech, for indeed his mind is full of many very
weighty concerns.”

The prince, however, had already observed their entrance, and, springing
to his feet, he had advanced with a winning smile and the light of welcome
in his eyes.

“We do not need your good offices as herald here, Sir John,” said he in a
low but clear voice; “these valiant knights are very well known to me.
Welcome to Aquitaine, Sir Nigel Loring and Sir Oliver Buttesthorn. Nay,
keep your knee for my sweet father at Windsor. I would have your hands, my
friends. We are like to give you some work to do ere you see the downs of
Hampshire once more. Know you aught of Spain, Sir Oliver?”

“Nought, my sire, save that I have heard men say that there is a dish
named an olla which is prepared there, though I have never been clear in
my mind as to whether it was but a ragout such as is to be found in the
south, or whether there is some seasoning such as fennel or garlic which
is peculiar to Spain.”

“Your doubts, Sir Oliver, shall soon be resolved,” answered the prince,
laughing heartily, as did many of the barons who surrounded them. “His
majesty here will doubtless order that you have this dish hotly seasoned
when we are all safely in Castile.”

“I will have a hotly seasoned dish for some folk I know of,” answered Don
Pedro with a cold smile.

“But my friend Sir Oliver can fight right hardily without either bite or
sup,” remarked the prince. “Did I not see him at Poictiers, when for two
days we had not more than a crust of bread and a cup of foul water, yet
carrying himself most valiantly. With my own eyes I saw him in the rout
sweep the head from a knight of Picardy with one blow of his sword.”

“The rogue got between me and the nearest French victual wain,” muttered
Sir Oliver, amid a fresh titter from those who were near enough to catch
his words.

“How many have you in your train?” asked the prince, assuming a graver
mien.

“I have forty men-at-arms, sire,” said Sir Oliver.

“And I have one hundred archers and a score of lancers, but there are two
hundred men who wait for me on this side of the water upon the borders of
Navarre.”

“And who are they, Sir Nigel?”

“They are a free company, sire, and they are called the White Company.”

To the astonishment of the knight, his words provoked a burst of merriment
from the barons round, in which the two kings and the prince were fain to
join. Sir Nigel blinked mildly from one to the other, until at last
perceiving a stout black-bearded knight at his elbow, whose laugh rang
somewhat louder than the others, he touched him lightly upon the sleeve.

“Perchance, my fair sir,” he whispered, “there is some small vow of which
I may relieve you. Might we not have some honorable debate upon the
matter. Your gentle courtesy may perhaps grant me an exchange of thrusts.”

“Nay, nay, Sir Nigel,” cried the prince, “fasten not the offence upon Sir
Robert Briquet, for we are one and all bogged in the same mire. Truth to
say, our ears have just been vexed by the doings of the same company, and
I have even now made vow to hang the man who held the rank of captain over
it. I little thought to find him among the bravest of my own chosen
chieftains. But the vow is now nought, for, as you have never seen your
company, it would be a fool’s act to blame you for their doings.”

“My liege,” said Sir Nigel, “it is a very small matter that I should be
hanged, albeit the manner of death is somewhat more ignoble than I had
hoped for. On the other hand, it would be a very grievous thing that you,
the Prince of England and the flower of knighthood, should make a vow,
whether in ignorance or no, and fail to bring it to fulfilment.”

“Vex not your mind on that,” the prince answered, smiling. “We have had a
citizen from Montauban here this very day, who told us such a tale of sack
and murder and pillage that it moved our blood; but our wrath was turned
upon the man who was in authority over them.”

“My dear and honored master,” cried Nigel, in great anxiety, “I fear me
much that in your gentleness of heart you are straining this vow which you
have taken. If there be so much as a shadow of a doubt as to the form of
it, it were a thousand times best——”

“Peace! peace!” cried the prince impatiently. “I am very well able to look
to my own vows and their performance. We hope to see you both in the
banquet-hall anon. Meanwhile you will attend upon us with our train.” He
bowed, and Chandos, plucking Sir Oliver by the sleeve, led them both away
to the back of the press of courtiers.

“Why, little coz,” he whispered, “you are very eager to have your neck in
a noose. By my soul! had you asked as much from our new ally Don Pedro, he
had not baulked you. Between friends, there is overmuch of the hangman in
him, and too little of the prince. But indeed this White Company is a
rough band, and may take some handling ere you find yourself safe in your
captaincy.”

“I doubt not, with the help of St. Paul, that I shall bring them to some
order,” Sir Nigel answered. “But there are many faces here which are new
to me, though others have been before me since first I waited upon my dear
master, Sir Walter. I pray you to tell me, Sir John, who are these priests
upon the dais?”

“The one is the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Nigel, and the other the Bishop of
Agen.”

“And the dark knight with gray-streaked beard? By my troth, he seems to be
a man of much wisdom and valor.”

“He is Sir William Felton, who, with my unworthy self, is the chief
counsellor of the prince, he being high steward and I the seneschal of
Aquitaine.”

“And the knights upon the right, beside Don Pedro?”

“They are cavaliers of Spain who have followed him in his exile. The one
at his elbow is Fernando de Castro, who is as brave and true a man as
heart could wish. In front to the right are the Gascon lords. You may well
tell them by their clouded brows, for there hath been some ill-will of
late betwixt the prince and them. The tall and burly man is the Captal de
Buch, whom I doubt not that you know, for a braver knight never laid lance
in rest. That heavy-faced cavalier who plucks his skirts and whispers in
his ear is Lord Oliver de Clisson, known also as the butcher. He it is who
stirs up strife, and forever blows the dying embers into flame. The man
with the mole upon his cheek is the Lord Pommers, and his two brothers
stand behind him, with the Lord Lesparre, Lord de Rosem, Lord de Mucident,
Sir Perducas d’Albret, the Souldich de la Trane, and others. Further back
are knights from Quercy, Limousin, Saintonge, Poitou, and Aquitaine, with
the valiant Sir Guiscard d’Angle. That is he in the rose-colored doublet
with the ermine.”

“And the knights upon this side?”

“They are all Englishmen, some of the household and others who like
yourself, are captains of companies. There is Lord Neville, Sir Stephen
Cossington, and Sir Matthew Gourney, with Sir Walter Huet, Sir Thomas
Banaster, and Sir Thomas Felton, who is the brother of the high steward.
Mark well the man with the high nose and flaxen beard who hath placed his
hand upon the shoulder of the dark hard-faced cavalier in the rust-stained
jupon.”

“Aye, by St. Paul!” observed Sir Nigel, “they both bear the print of their
armor upon their cotes-hardies. Methinks they are men who breathe freer in
a camp than a court.”

“There are many of us who do that, Nigel,” said Chandos, “and the head of
the court is, I dare warrant, among them. But of these two men the one is
Sir Hugh Calverley, and the other is Sir Robert Knolles.”

Sir Nigel and Sir Oliver craned their necks to have the clearer view of
these famous warriors, the one a chosen leader of free companies, the
other a man who by his fierce valor and energy had raised himself from the
lowest ranks until he was second only to Chandos himself in the esteem of
the army.

“He hath no light hand in war, hath Sir Robert,” said Chandos. “If he
passes through a country you may tell it for some years to come. I have
heard that in the north it is still the use to call a house which hath but
the two gable ends left, without walls or roof, a Knolles’ mitre.”

“I have often heard of him,” said Nigel, “and I have hoped to be so far
honored as to run a course with him. But hark, Sir John, what is amiss
with the prince?”

Whilst Chandos had been conversing with the two knights a continuous
stream of suitors had been ushered in, adventurers seeking to sell their
swords and merchants clamoring over some grievance, a ship detained for
the carriage of troops, or a tun of sweet wine which had the bottom
knocked out by a troop of thirsty archers. A few words from the prince
disposed of each case, and, if the applicant liked not the judgment, a
quick glance from the prince’s dark eyes sent him to the door with the
grievance all gone out of him. The younger ruler had sat listlessly upon
his stool with the two puppet monarchs enthroned behind him, but of a
sudden a dark shadow passed over his face, and he sprang to his feet in
one of those gusts of passion which were the single blot upon his noble
and generous character.

“How now, Don Martin de la Carra?” he cried. “How now, sirrah? What
message do you bring to us from our brother of Navarre?”

The new-comer to whom this abrupt query had been addressed was a tall and
exceedingly handsome cavalier who had just been ushered into the
apartment. His swarthy cheek and raven black hair spoke of the fiery
south, and he wore his long black cloak swathed across his chest and over
his shoulders in a graceful sweeping fashion, which was neither English
nor French. With stately steps and many profound bows, he advanced to the
foot of the dais before replying to the prince’s question.

“My powerful and illustrious master,” he began, “Charles, King of Navarre,
Earl of Evreux, Count of Champagne, who also writeth himself Overlord of
Bearn, hereby sends his love and greetings to his dear cousin Edward, the
Prince of Wales, Governor of Aquitaine, Grand Commander of——”

“Tush! tush! Don Martin!” interrupted the prince, who had been beating the
ground with his foot impatiently during this stately preamble. “We already
know our cousin’s titles and style, and, certes, we know our own. To the
point, man, and at once. Are the passes open to us, or does your master go
back from his word pledged to me at Libourne no later than last
Michaelmas?”

“It would ill become my gracious master, sire, to go back from promise
given. He does but ask some delay and certain conditions and hostages——”

“Conditions! Hostages! Is he speaking to the Prince of England, or is it
to the bourgeois provost of some half-captured town! Conditions, quotha?
He may find much to mend in his own condition ere long. The passes are,
then, closed to us?”

“Nay, sire——”

“They are open, then?”

“Nay, sire, if you would but——”

“Enough, enough, Don Martin,” cried the prince. “It is a sorry sight to
see so true a knight pleading in so false a cause. We know the doings of
our cousin Charles. We know that while with the right hand he takes our
fifty thousand crowns for the holding of the passes open, he hath his left
outstretched to Henry of Trastamare, or to the King of France, all ready
to take as many more for the keeping them closed. I know our good Charles,
and, by my blessed name-saint the Confessor, he shall learn that I know
him. He sets his kingdom up to the best bidder, like some scullion farrier
selling a glandered horse. He is——”

“My lord,” cried Don Martin, “I cannot stand there to hear such words of
my master. Did they come from other lips, I should know better how to
answer them.”

Don Pedro frowned and curled his lip, but the prince smiled and nodded his
approbation.

“Your bearing and your words, Don Martin, are such I should have looked
for in you,” he remarked. “You will tell the king, your master, that he
hath been paid his price and that if he holds to his promise he hath my
word for it that no scath shall come to his people, nor to their houses or
gear. If, however, we have not his leave, I shall come close at the heels
of this message without his leave, and bearing a key with me which shall
open all that he may close.” He stooped and whispered to Sir Robert
Knolles and Sir Huge Calverley, who smiled as men well pleased, and
hastened from the room.

“Our cousin Charles has had experience of our friendship,” the prince
continued, “and now, by the Saints! he shall feel a touch of our
displeasure. I send now a message to our cousin Charles which his whole
kingdom may read. Let him take heed lest worse befall him. Where is my
Lord Chandos? Ha, Sir John, I commend this worthy knight to your care. You
will see that he hath refection, and such a purse of gold as may defray
his charges, for indeed it is great honor to any court to have within it
so noble and gentle a cavalier. How say you, sire?” he asked, turning to
the Spanish refugee, while the herald of Navarre was conducted from the
chamber by the old warrior.

“It is not our custom in Spain to reward pertness in a messenger,” Don
Pedro answered, patting the head of his greyhound. “Yet we have all heard
the lengths to which your royal generosity runs.”

“In sooth, yes,” cried the King of Majorca.

“Who should know it better than we?” said Don Pedro bitterly, “since we
have had to fly to you in our trouble as to the natural protector of all
who are weak.”

“Nay, nay, as brothers to a brother,” cried the prince, with sparkling
eyes. “We doubt not, with the help of God, to see you very soon restored
to those thrones from which you have been so traitorously thrust.”

“When that happy day comes,” said Pedro, “then Spain shall be to you as
Aquitaine, and, be your project what it may, you may ever count on every
troop and every ship over which flies the banner of Castile.”

“And,” added the other, “upon every aid which the wealth and power of
Majorca can bestow.”

“Touching the hundred thousand crowns in which I stand your debtor,”
continued Pedro carelessly, “it can no doubt——”

“Not a word, sire, not a word!” cried the prince. “It is not now when you
are in grief that I would vex your mind with such base and sordid matters.
I have said once and forever that I am yours with every bow-string of my
army and every florin in my coffers.”

“Ah! here is indeed a mirror of chivalry,” said Don Pedro. “I think, Sir
Fernando, since the prince’s bounty is stretched so far, that we may make
further use of his gracious goodness to the extent of fifty thousand
crowns. Good Sir William Felton, here, will doubtless settle the matter
with you.”

The stout old English counsellor looked somewhat blank at this prompt
acceptance of his master’s bounty.

“If it please you, sire,” he said, “the public funds are at their lowest,
seeing that I have paid twelve thousand men of the companies, and the new
taxes—the hearth-tax and the wine-tax—not yet come in. If you
could wait until the promised help from England comes——”

“Nay, nay, my sweet cousin,” cried Don Pedro. “Had we known that your own
coffers were so low, or that this sorry sum could have weighed one way or
the other, we had been loth indeed——”

“Enough, sire, enough!” said the prince, flushing with vexation. “If the
public funds be, indeed, so backward, Sir William, there is still, I
trust, my own private credit, which hath never been drawn upon for my own
uses, but is now ready in the cause of a friend in adversity. Go, raise
this money upon our own jewels, if nought else may serve, and see that it
be paid over to Don Fernando.”

“In security I offer——” cried Don Pedro.

“Tush! tush!” said the prince. “I am not a Lombard, sire. Your kingly
pledge is my security, without bond or seal. But I have tidings for you,
my lords and lieges, that our brother of Lancaster is on his way for our
capital with four hundred lances and as many archers to aid us in our
venture. When he hath come, and when our fair consort is recovered in her
health, which I trust by the grace of God may be ere many weeks be past,
we shall then join the army at Dax, and set our banners to the breeze once
more.”

A buzz of joy at the prospect of immediate action rose up from the group
of warriors. The prince smiled at the martial ardor which shone upon every
face around him.

“It will hearten you to know,” he continued, “that I have sure advices
that this Henry is a very valiant leader, and that he has it in his power
to make such a stand against us as promises to give us much honor and
pleasure. Of his own people he hath brought together, as I learn, some
fifty thousand, with twelve thousand of the French free companies, who
are, as you know very valiant and expert men-at-arms. It is certain also,
that the brave and worthy Bertrand de Guesclin hath ridden into France to
the Duke of Anjou, and purposes to take back with him great levies from
Picardy and Brittany. We hold Bertrand in high esteem, for he has oft
before been at great pains to furnish us with an honorable encounter. What
think you of it, my worthy Captal? He took you at Cocherel, and, by my
soul! you will have the chance now to pay that score.”

The Gascon warrior winced a little at the allusion, nor were his
countrymen around him better pleased, for on the only occasion when they
had encountered the arms of France without English aid they had met with a
heavy defeat.

“There are some who say, sire,” said the burly De Clisson, “that the score
is already overpaid, for that without Gascon help Bertrand had not been
taken at Auray, nor had King John been overborne at Poictiers.”

“By heaven! but this is too much,” cried an English nobleman. “Methinks
that Gascony is too small a cock to crow so lustily.”

“The smaller cock, my Lord Audley, may have the longer spur,” remarked the
Captal de Buch.

“May have its comb clipped if it make over-much noise,” broke in an
Englishman.

“By our Lady of Rocamadour!” cried the Lord of Mucident, “this is more
than I can abide. Sir John Charnell, you shall answer to me for those
words!”

“Freely, my lord, and when you will,” returned the Englishman carelessly.

“My Lord de Clisson,” cried Lord Audley, “you look somewhat fixedly in
my direction. By God’s soul! I should be right glad to go further into the
matter with you.”

“And you, my Lord of Pommers,” said Sir Nigel, pushing his way to the
front, “it is in my mind that we might break a lance in gentle and
honorable debate over the question.”

For a moment a dozen challenges flashed backwards and forwards at this
sudden bursting of the cloud which had lowered so long between the knights
of the two nations. Furious and gesticulating the Gascons, white and cold
and sneering the English, while the prince with a half smile glanced from
one party to the other, like a man who loved to dwell upon a fiery scene,
and yet dreaded least the mischief go so far that he might find it beyond
his control.

“Friends, friends!” he cried at last, “this quarrel must go no further.
The man shall answer to me, be he Gascon or English, who carries it beyond
this room. I have overmuch need for your swords that you should turn them
upon each other. Sir John Charnell, Lord Audley, you do not doubt the
courage of our friends of Gascony?”

“Not I, sire,” Lord Audley answered. “I have seen them fight too often not
to know that they are very hardy and valiant gentlemen.”

“And so say I,” quoth the other Englishman; “but, certes, there is no fear
of our forgetting it while they have a tongue in their heads.”

“Nay, Sir John,” said the prince reprovingly, “all peoples have their own
use and customs. There are some who might call us cold and dull and
silent. But you hear, my lords of Gascony, that these gentlemen had no
thought to throw a slur upon your honor or your valor, so let all anger
fade from your mind. Clisson, Captal, De Pommers, I have your word?”

“We are your subjects, sire,” said the Gascon barons, though with no very
good grace. “Your words are our law.”

“Then shall we bury all cause of unkindness in a flagon of Malvoisie,”
said the prince, cheerily. “Ho, there! the doors of the banquet-hall! I
have been over long from my sweet spouse but I shall be back with you
anon. Let the sewers serve and the minstrels play, while we drain a cup to
the brave days that are before us in the south!” He turned away,
accompanied by the two monarchs, while the rest of the company, with many
a compressed lip and menacing eye, filed slowly through the side-door to
the great chamber in which the royal tables were set forth.

CHAPTER XX. HOW ALLEYNE WON HIS PLACE IN AN HONORABLE GUILD.

Whilst the prince’s council was sitting, Alleyne and Ford had remained in
the outer hall, where they were soon surrounded by a noisy group of young
Englishmen of their own rank, all eager to hear the latest news from
England.

“How is it with the old man at Windsor?” asked one.

“And how with the good Queen Philippa?”

“And how with Dame Alice Perrers?” cried a third.

“The devil take your tongue, Wat!” shouted a tall young man, seizing the
last speaker by the collar and giving him an admonitory shake. “The prince
would take your head off for those words.”

“By God’s coif! Wat would miss it but little,” said another. “It is as
empty as a beggar’s wallet.”

“As empty as an English squire, coz,” cried the first speaker. “What a
devil has become of the maitre-des-tables and his sewers? They have not
put forth the trestles yet.”

“Mon Dieu! if a man could eat himself into knighthood, Humphrey, you had
been a banneret at the least,” observed another, amid a burst of laughter.

“And if you could drink yourself in, old leather-head, you had been first
baron of the realm,” cried the aggrieved Humphrey. “But how of England, my
lads of Loring?”

“I take it,” said Ford, “that it is much as it was when you were there
last, save that perchance there is a little less noise there.”

“And why less noise, young Solomon?”

“Ah, that is for your wit to discover.”

“Pardieu! here is a paladin come over, with the Hampshire mud still
sticking to his shoes. He means that the noise is less for our being out
of the country.”

“They are very quick in these parts,” said Ford, turning to Alleyne.

“How are we to take this, sir?” asked the ruffling squire.

“You may take it as it comes,” said Ford carelessly.

“Here is pertness!” cried the other.

“Sir, I honor your truthfulness,” said Ford.

“Stint it, Humphrey,” said the tall squire, with a burst of laughter. “You
will have little credit from this gentleman, I perceive. Tongues are sharp
in Hampshire, sir.”

“And swords?”

“Hum! we may prove that. In two days’ time is the vepres du tournoi, when
we may see if your lance is as quick as your wit.”

“All very well, Roger Harcomb,” cried a burly, bull-necked young man,
whose square shoulders and massive limbs told of exceptional personal
strength. “You pass too lightly over the matter. We are not to be so
easily overcrowed. The Lord Loring hath given his proofs; but we know
nothing of his squires, save that one of them hath a railing tongue. And
how of you, young sir?” bringing his heavy hand down on Alleyne’s
shoulder.

“And what of me, young sir?”

“Ma foi! this is my lady’s page come over. Your cheek will be browner and
your hand harder ere you see your mother again.”

“If my hand is not hard, it is ready.”

“Ready? Ready for what? For the hem of my lady’s train?”

“Ready to chastise insolence, sir,” cried Alleyne with flashing eyes.

“Sweet little coz!” answered the burly squire. “Such a dainty color! Such
a mellow voice! Eyes of a bashful maid, and hair like a three years’ babe!
Voila!” He passed his thick fingers roughly through the youth’s crisp
golden curls.

“You seek to force a quarrel, sir,” said the young man, white with anger.

“And what then?”

“Why, you do it like a country boor, and not like a gentle squire. Hast
been ill bred and as ill taught. I serve a master who could show you how
such things should be done.”

“And how would he do it, O pink of squires?”

“He would neither be loud nor would he be unmannerly, but rather more
gentle than is his wont. He would say, ‘Sir, I should take it as an honor
to do some small deed of arms against you, not for mine own glory or
advancement, but rather for the fame of my lady and for the upholding of
chivalry.’ Then he would draw his glove, thus, and throw it on the ground;
or, if he had cause to think that he had to deal with a churl, he might
throw it in his face—as I do now!”

A buzz of excitement went up from the knot of squires as Alleyne, his
gentle nature turned by this causeless attack into fiery resolution,
dashed his glove with all his strength into the sneering face of his
antagonist. From all parts of the hall squires and pages came running,
until a dense, swaying crowd surrounded the disputants.

“Your life for this!” said the bully, with a face which was distorted with
rage.

“If you can take it,” returned Alleyne.

“Good lad!” whispered Ford. “Stick to it close as wax.”

“I shall see justice,” cried Norbury, Sir Oliver’s silent attendant.

“You brought it upon yourself, John Tranter,” said the tall squire, who
had been addressed as Roger Harcomb. “You must ever plague the new-comers.
But it were shame if this went further. The lad hath shown a proper
spirit.”

“But a blow! a blow!” cried several of the older squires. “There must be a
finish to this.”

“Nay; Tranter first laid hand upon his head,” said Harcomb. “How say you,
Tranter? The matter may rest where it stands?”

“My name is known in these parts,” said Tranter, proudly, “I can let pass
what might leave a stain upon another. Let him pick up his glove and say
that he has done amiss.”

“I would see him in the claws of the devil first,” whispered Ford.

“You hear, young sir?” said the peacemaker. “Our friend will overlook the
matter if you do but say that you have acted in heat and haste.”

“I cannot say that,” answered Alleyne.

“It is our custom, young sir, when new squires come amongst us from
England, to test them in some such way. Bethink you that if a man have a
destrier or a new lance he will ever try it in time of peace, lest in days
of need it may fail him. How much more then is it proper to test those who
are our comrades in arms.”

“I would draw out if it may honorably be done,” murmured Norbury in
Alleyne’s ear. “The man is a noted swordsman and far above your strength.”

Edricson came, however, of that sturdy Saxon blood which is very slowly
heated, but once up not easily to be cooled. The hint of danger which
Norbury threw out was the one thing needed to harden his resolution.

“I came here at the back of my master,” he said, “and I looked on every
man here as an Englishman and a friend. This gentleman hath shown me a
rough welcome, and if I have answered him in the same spirit he has but
himself to thank. I will pick the glove up; but, certes, I shall abide
what I have done unless he first crave my pardon for what he hath said and
done.”

Tranter shrugged his shoulders. “You have done what you could to save him,
Harcomb,” said he. “We had best settle at once.”

“So say I,” cried Alleyne.

“The council will not break up until the banquet,” remarked a gray-haired
squire. “You have a clear two hours.”

“And the place?”

“The tilting-yard is empty at this hour.”

“Nay; it must not be within the grounds of the court, or it may go hard
with all concerned if it come to the ears of the prince.”

“But there is a quiet spot near the river,” said one youth. “We have but
to pass through the abbey grounds, along the armory wall, past the church
of St. Remi, and so down the Rue des Apotres.”

“En avant, then!” cried Tranter shortly, and the whole assembly flocked
out into the open air, save only those whom the special orders of their
masters held to their posts. These unfortunates crowded to the small
casements, and craned their necks after the throng as far as they could
catch a glimpse of them.

Close to the banks of the Garonne there lay a little tract of green sward,
with the high wall of a prior’s garden upon one side and an orchard with a
thick bristle of leafless apple-trees upon the other. The river ran deep
and swift up to the steep bank; but there were few boats upon it, and the
ships were moored far out in the centre of the stream. Here the two
combatants drew their swords and threw off their doublets, for neither had
any defensive armor. The duello with its stately etiquette had not yet
come into vogue, but rough and sudden encounters were as common as they
must ever be when hot-headed youth goes abroad with a weapon strapped to
its waist. In such combats, as well as in the more formal sports of the
tilting-yard, Tranter had won a name for strength and dexterity which had
caused Norbury to utter his well-meant warning. On the other hand, Alleyne
had used his weapons in constant exercise and practice on every day for
many months, and being by nature quick of eye and prompt of hand, he might
pass now as no mean swordsman. A strangely opposed pair they appeared as
they approached each other: Tranter dark and stout and stiff, with hairy
chest and corded arms, Alleyne a model of comeliness and grace, with his
golden hair and his skin as fair as a woman’s. An unequal fight it seemed
to most; but there were a few, and they the most experienced, who saw
something in the youth’s steady gray eye and wary step which left the
issue open to doubt.

“Hold, sirs, hold!” cried Norbury, ere a blow had been struck. “This
gentleman hath a two-handed sword, a good foot longer than that of our
friend.”

“Take mine, Alleyne,” said Ford.

“Nay, friends,” he answered, “I understand the weight and balance of mine
own. To work, sir, for our lord may need us at the abbey!”

Tranter’s great sword was indeed a mighty vantage in his favor. He stood
with his feet close together, his knees bent outwards, ready for a dash
inwards or a spring out. The weapon he held straight up in front of him
with blade erect, so that he might either bring it down with a swinging
blow, or by a turn of the heavy blade he might guard his own head and
body. A further protection lay in the broad and powerful guard which
crossed the hilt, and which was furnished with a deep and narrow notch, in
which an expert swordsman might catch his foeman’s blade, and by a quick
turn of his wrist might snap it across. Alleyne, on the other hand, must
trust for his defence to his quick eye and active foot—for his
sword, though keen as a whetstone could make it, was of a light and
graceful build with a narrow, sloping pommel and a tapering steel.

Tranter well knew his advantage and lost no time in putting it to use. As
his opponent walked towards him he suddenly bounded forward and sent in a
whistling cut which would have severed the other in twain had he not
sprung lightly back from it. So close was it that the point ripped a gash
in the jutting edge of his linen cyclas. Quick as a panther, Alleyne
sprang in with a thrust, but Tranter, who was as active as he was strong,
had already recovered himself and turned it aside with a movement of his
heavy blade. Again he whizzed in a blow which made the spectators hold
their breath, and again Alleyne very quickly and swiftly slipped from
under it, and sent back two lightning thrusts which the other could scarce
parry. So close were they to each other that Alleyne had no time to spring
back from the next cut, which beat down his sword and grazed his forehead,
sending the blood streaming into his eyes and down his cheeks. He sprang
out beyond sword sweep, and the pair stood breathing heavily, while the
crowd of young squires buzzed their applause.

“Bravely struck on both sides!” cried Roger Harcomb. “You have both won
honor from this meeting, and it would be sin and shame to let it go
further.”

“You have done enough, Edricson,” said Norbury.

“You have carried yourself well,” cried several of the older squires.

“For my part, I have no wish to slay this young man,” said Tranter, wiping
his heated brow.

“Does this gentleman crave my pardon for having used me despitefully?”
asked Alleyne.

“Nay, not I.”

“Then stand on your guard, sir!” With a clatter and dash the two blades
met once more, Alleyne pressing in so as to keep within the full sweep of
the heavy blade, while Tranter as continually sprang back to have space
for one of his fatal cuts. A three-parts-parried blow drew blood from
Alleyne’s left shoulder, but at the same moment he wounded Tranter
slightly upon the thigh. Next instant, however, his blade had slipped into
the fatal notch, there was a sharp cracking sound with a tinkling upon the
ground, and he found a splintered piece of steel fifteen inches long was
all that remained to him of his weapon.

“Your life is in my hands!” cried Tranter, with a bitter smile.

“Nay, nay, he makes submission!” broke in several squires.

“Another sword!” cried Ford.

“Nay, sir,” said Harcomb, “that is not the custom.”

“Throw down your hilt, Edricson,” cried Norbury.

“Never!” said Alleyne. “Do you crave my pardon, sir?”

“You are mad to ask it.”

“Then on guard again!” cried the young squire, and sprang in with a fire
and a fury which more than made up for the shortness of his weapon. It had
not escaped him that his opponent was breathing in short, hoarse gasps,
like a man who is dizzy with fatigue. Now was the time for the purer
living and the more agile limb to show their value. Back and back gave
Tranter, ever seeking time for a last cut. On and on came Alleyne, his
jagged point now at his foeman’s face, now at his throat, now at his
chest, still stabbing and thrusting to pass the line of steel which
covered him. Yet his experienced foeman knew well that such efforts could
not be long sustained. Let him relax for one instant, and his death-blow
had come. Relax he must! Flesh and blood could not stand the strain.
Already the thrusts were less fierce, the foot less ready, although there
was no abatement of the spirit in the steady gray eyes. Tranter, cunning
and wary from years of fighting, knew that his chance had come. He brushed
aside the frail weapon which was opposed to him, whirled up his great
blade, sprang back to get the fairer sweep—and vanished into the
waters of the Garonne.

So intent had the squires, both combatants and spectators, been on the
matter in hand, that all thought of the steep bank and swift still stream
had gone from their minds. It was not until Tranter, giving back before
the other’s fiery rush, was upon the very brink, that a general cry warned
him of his danger. That last spring, which he hoped would have brought the
fight to a bloody end, carried him clear of the edge, and he found himself
in an instant eight feet deep in the ice-cold stream. Once and twice his
gasping face and clutching fingers broke up through the still green water,
sweeping outwards in the swirl of the current. In vain were sword-sheaths,
apple-branches and belts linked together thrown out to him by his
companions. Alleyne had dropped his shattered sword and was standing,
trembling in every limb, with his rage all changed in an instant to pity.
For the third time the drowning man came to the surface, his hands full of
green slimy water-plants, his eyes turned in despair to the shore. Their
glance fell upon Alleyne, and he could not withstand the mute appeal which
he read in them. In an instant he, too, was in the Garonne, striking out
with powerful strokes for his late foeman.

Yet the current was swift and strong, and, good swimmer as he was, it was
no easy task which Alleyne had set himself. To clutch at Tranter and to
seize him by the hair was the work of a few seconds, but to hold his head
above water and to make their way out of the current was another matter.
For a hundred strokes he did not seem to gain an inch. Then at last, amid
a shout of joy and praise from the bank, they slowly drew clear into more
stagnant water, at the instant that a rope, made of a dozen sword-belts
linked together by the buckles, was thrown by Ford into their very hands.
Three pulls from eager arms, and the two combatants, dripping and pale,
were dragged up the bank, and lay panting upon the grass.

John Tranter was the first to come to himself, for although he had been
longer in the water, he had done nothing during that fierce battle with
the current. He staggered to his feet and looked down upon his rescuer,
who had raised himself upon his elbow, and was smiling faintly at the buzz
of congratulation and of praise which broke from the squires around him.

“I am much beholden to you, sir,” said Tranter, though in no very friendly
voice. “Certes, I should have been in the river now but for you, for I was
born in Warwickshire, which is but a dry county, and there are few who
swim in those parts.”

“I ask no thanks,” Alleyne answered shortly. “Give me your hand to rise,
Ford.”

“The river has been my enemy,” said Tranter, “but it hath been a good
friend to you, for it has saved your life this day.”

“That is as it may be,” returned Alleyne.

“But all is now well over,” quoth Harcomb, “and no scath come of it, which
is more than I had at one time hoped for. Our young friend here hath very
fairly and honestly earned his right to be craftsman of the Honorable
Guild of the Squires of Bordeaux. Here is your doublet, Tranter.”

“Alas for my poor sword which lies at the bottom of the Garonne!” said the
squire.

“Here is your pourpoint, Edricson,” cried Norbury. “Throw it over your
shoulders, that you may have at least one dry garment.”

“And now away back to the abbey!” said several.

“One moment, sirs,” cried Alleyne, who was leaning on Ford’s shoulder,
with the broken sword, which he had picked up, still clutched in his right
hand. “My ears may be somewhat dulled by the water, and perchance what has
been said has escaped me, but I have not yet heard this gentleman crave
pardon for the insults which he put upon me in the hall.”

“What! do you still pursue the quarrel?” asked Tranter.

“And why not, sir? I am slow to take up such things, but once afoot I
shall follow it while I have life or breath.”

“Ma foi! you have not too much of either, for you are as white as marble,”
said Harcomb bluntly. “Take my rede, sir, and let it drop, for you have
come very well out from it.”

“Nay,” said Alleyne, “this quarrel is none of my making; but, now that I
am here, I swear to you that I shall never leave this spot until I have
that which I have come for: so ask my pardon, sir, or choose another
glaive and to it again.”

The young squire was deadly white from his exertions, both on the land and
in the water. Soaking and stained, with a smear of blood on his white
shoulder and another on his brow, there was still in his whole pose and
set of face the trace of an inflexible resolution. His opponent’s duller
and more material mind quailed before the fire and intensity of a higher
spiritual nature.

“I had not thought that you had taken it so amiss,” said he awkwardly. “It
was but such a jest as we play upon each other, and, if you must have it
so, I am sorry for it.”

“Then I am sorry too,” quoth Alleyne warmly, “and here is my hand upon
it.”

“And the none-meat horn has blown three times,” quoth Harcomb, as they all
streamed in chattering groups from the ground. “I know not what the
prince’s maitre-de-cuisine will say or think. By my troth! master Ford,
your friend here is in need of a cup of wine, for he hath drunk deeply of
Garonne water. I had not thought from his fair face that he had stood to
this matter so shrewdly.”

“Faith,” said Ford, “this air of Bordeaux hath turned our turtle-dove into
a game-cock. A milder or more courteous youth never came out of
Hampshire.”

“His master also, as I understand, is a very mild and courteous
gentleman,” remarked Harcomb; “yet I do not think that they are either of
them men with whom it is very safe to trifle.”

CHAPTER XXI. HOW AGOSTINO PISANO RISKED HIS HEAD.

Even the squires’ table at the Abbey of St. Andrew’s at Bordeaux was on a
very sumptuous scale while the prince held his court there. Here first,
after the meagre fare of Beaulieu and the stinted board of the Lady
Loring, Alleyne learned the lengths to which luxury and refinement might
be pushed. Roasted peacocks, with the feathers all carefully replaced, so
that the bird lay upon the dish even as it had strutted in life, boars’
heads with the tusks gilded and the mouth lined with silver foil, jellies
in the shape of the Twelve Apostles, and a great pasty which formed an
exact model of the king’s new castle at Windsor—these were a few of
the strange dishes which faced him. An archer had brought him a change of
clothes from the cog, and he had already, with the elasticity of youth,
shaken off the troubles and fatigues of the morning. A page from the inner
banqueting-hall had come with word that their master intended to drink
wine at the lodgings of the Lord Chandos that night, and that he desired
his squires to sleep at the hotel of the “Half Moon” on the Rue des
Apotres. Thither then they both set out in the twilight after the long
course of juggling tricks and glee-singing with which the principal meal
was concluded.

A thin rain was falling as the two youths, with their cloaks over their
heads, made their way on foot through the streets of the old town, leaving
their horses in the royal stables. An occasional oil lamp at the corner of
a street, or in the portico of some wealthy burgher, threw a faint glimmer
over the shining cobblestones, and the varied motley crowd who, in spite
of the weather, ebbed and flowed along every highway. In those scattered
circles of dim radiance might be seen the whole busy panorama of life in a
wealthy and martial city. Here passed the round-faced burgher, swollen
with prosperity, his sweeping dark-clothed gaberdine, flat velvet cap,
broad leather belt and dangling pouch all speaking of comfort and of
wealth. Behind him his serving wench, her blue whimple over her head, and
one hand thrust forth to bear the lanthorn which threw a golden bar of
light along her master’s path. Behind them a group of swaggering,
half-drunken Yorkshire dalesmen, speaking a dialect which their own
southland countrymen could scarce comprehend, their jerkins marked with
the pelican, which showed that they had come over in the train of the
north-country Stapletons. The burgher glanced back at their fierce faces
and quickened his step, while the girl pulled her whimple closer round
her, for there was a meaning in their wild eyes, as they stared at the
purse and the maiden, which men of all tongues could understand. Then came archers of the guard,
shrill-voiced women of the camp, English pages with their fair skins and
blue wondering eyes, dark-robed friars, lounging men-at-arms, swarthy
loud-tongued Gascon serving-men, seamen from the river, rude peasants
of the Medoc, and becloaked and befeathered squires of the court, all
jostling and pushing in an ever-changing, many-colored stream, while
English, French, Welsh, Basque, and the varied dialects of Gascony and
Guienne filled the air with their babel. From time to time the throng
would be burst asunder and a lady’s horse-litter would trot past towards
the abbey, or there would come a knot of torch-bearing archers walking
in front of Gascon baron or English knight, as he sought his lodgings after
the palace revels. Clatter of hoofs, clinking of weapons, shouts from the
drunken brawlers, and high laughter of women, they all rose up, like
the mist from a marsh, out of the crowded streets of the dim-lit city.

One couple out of the moving throng especially engaged the attention of
the two young squires, the more so as they were going in their own
direction and immediately in front of them. They consisted of a man and a
girl, the former very tall with rounded shoulders, a limp of one foot, and
a large flat object covered with dark cloth under his arm. His companion
was young and straight, with a quick, elastic step and graceful bearing,
though so swathed in a black mantle that little could be seen of her face
save a flash of dark eyes and a curve of raven hair. The tall man leaned
heavily upon her to take the weight off his tender foot, while he held his
burden betwixt himself and the wall, cuddling it jealously to his side,
and thrusting forward his young companion to act as a buttress whenever
the pressure of the crowd threatened to bear him away. The evident anxiety
of the man, the appearance of his attendant, and the joint care with which
they defended their concealed possession, excited the interest of the two
young Englishmen who walked within hand-touch of them.

“Courage, child!” they heard the tall man exclaim in strange hybrid
French. “If we can win another sixty paces we are safe.”

“Hold it safe, father,” the other answered, in the same soft, mincing
dialect. “We have no cause for fear.”

“Verily, they are heathens and barbarians,” cried the man; “mad, howling,
drunken barbarians! Forty more paces, Tita mia, and I swear to the holy
Eloi, patron of all learned craftsmen, that I will never set foot over my
door again until the whole swarm are safely hived in their camp of Dax, or
wherever else they curse with their presence. Twenty more paces, my
treasure! Ah, my God! how they push and brawl! Get in their way, Tita mia!
Put your little elbow bravely out! Set your shoulders squarely against
them, girl! Why should you give way to these mad islanders? Ah, cospetto!
we are ruined and destroyed!”

The crowd had thickened in front, so that the lame man and the girl had
come to a stand. Several half-drunken English archers, attracted, as the
squires had been, by their singular appearance, were facing towards them,
and peering at them through the dim light.

“By the three kings!” cried one, “here is an old dotard shrew to have so
goodly a crutch! Use the leg that God hath given you, man, and do not bear
so heavily upon the wench.”

“Twenty devils fly away with him!” shouted another. “What, how, man! are
brave archers to go maidless while an old man uses one as a
walking-staff?”

“Come with me, my honey-bird!” cried a third, plucking at the girl’s
mantle.

“Nay, with me, my heart’s desire!” said the first. “By St. George! our
life is short, and we should be merry while we may. May I never see
Chester Bridge again, if she is not a right winsome lass!”

“What hath the old toad under his arm?” cried one of the others. “He hugs
it to him as the devil hugged the pardoner.”

“Let us see, old bag of bones; let us see what it is that you have under
your arm!” They crowded in upon him, while he, ignorant of their language,
could but clutch the girl with one hand and the parcel with the other,
looking wildly about in search of help.

“Nay, lads, nay!” cried Ford, pushing back the nearest archer. “This is
but scurvy conduct. Keep your hands off, or it will be the worse for you.”

“Keep your tongue still, or it will be the worse for you,” shouted the
most drunken of the archers. “Who are you to spoil sport?”

“A raw squire, new landed,” said another. “By St. Thomas of Kent! we are
at the beck of our master, but we are not to be ordered by every babe
whose mother hath sent him as far as Aquitaine.”

“Oh, gentlemen,” cried the girl in broken French, “for dear Christ’s sake
stand by us, and do not let these terrible men do us an injury.”

“Have no fears, lady,” Alleyne answered. “We shall see that all is well
with you. Take your hand from the girl’s wrist, you north-country rogue!”

“Hold to her, Wat!” said a great black-bearded man-at-arms, whose steel
breast-plate glimmered in the dusk. “Keep your hands from your bodkins,
you two, for that was my trade before you were born, and, by God’s soul! I
will drive a handful of steel through you if you move a finger.”

“Thank God!” said Alleyne suddenly, as he spied in the lamp-light a shock
of blazing red hair which fringed a steel cap high above the heads of the
crowd. “Here is John, and Aylward, too! Help us, comrades, for there is
wrong being done to this maid and to the old man.”

“Hola, mon petit,” said the old bowman, pushing his way through the crowd,
with the huge forester at his heels. “What is all this, then? By the twang
of string! I think that you will have some work upon your hands if you are
to right all the wrongs that you may see upon this side of the water. It
is not to be thought that a troop of bowmen, with the wine buzzing in
their ears, will be as soft-spoken as so many young clerks in an orchard.
When you have been a year with the Company you will think less of such
matters. But what is amiss here? The provost-marshal with his archers is
coming this way, and some of you may find yourselves in the stretch-neck,
if you take not heed.”

“Why, it is old Sam Aylward of the White Company!” shouted the
man-at-arms. “Why, Samkin, what hath come upon thee? I can call to mind
the day when you were as roaring a blade as ever called himself a free
companion. By my soul! from Limoges to Navarre, who was there who would
kiss a wench or cut a throat as readily as bowman Aylward of Hawkwood’s
company?”

“Like enough, Peter,” said Aylward, “and, by my hilt! I may not have
changed so much. But it was ever a fair loose and a clear mark with me.
The wench must be willing, or the man must be standing up against me,
else, by these ten finger bones! either were safe enough for me.”

A glance at Aylward’s resolute face, and at the huge shoulders of Hordle
John, had convinced the archers that there was little to be got by
violence. The girl and the old man began to shuffle on in the crowd
without their tormentors venturing to stop them. Ford and Alleyne followed
slowly behind them, but Aylward caught the latter by the shoulder.

“By my hilt! camarade,” said he, “I hear that you have done great things
at the Abbey to-day, but I pray you to have a care, for it was I who
brought you into the Company, and it would be a black day for me if aught
were to befall you.”

“Nay, Aylward, I will have a care.”

“Thrust not forward into danger too much, mon petit. In a little time your
wrist will be stronger and your cut more shrewd. There will be some of us
at the ‘Rose de Guienne’ to-night, which is two doors from the hotel of
the ‘Half Moon,’ so if you would drain a cup with a few simple archers you
will be right welcome.”

Alleyne promised to be there if his duties would allow, and then, slipping
through the crowd, he rejoined Ford, who was standing in talk with the two
strangers, who had now reached their own doorstep.

“Brave young signor,” cried the tall man, throwing his arms round Alleyne,
“how can we thank you enough for taking our parts against those horrible
drunken barbarians. What should we have done without you? My Tita would
have been dragged away, and my head would have been shivered into a
thousand fragments.”

“Nay, I scarce think that they would have mishandled you so,” said Alleyne
in surprise.

“Ho, ho!” cried he with a high crowing laugh, “it is not the head upon my
shoulders that I think of. Cospetto! no. It is the head under my arm which
you have preserved.”

“Perhaps the signori would deign to come under our roof, father,” said the
maiden. “If we bide here, who knows that some fresh tumult may not break
out.”

“Well said, Tita! Well said, my girl! I pray you, sirs, to honor my
unworthy roof so far. A light, Giacomo! There are five steps up. Now two
more. So! Here we are at last in safety. Corpo di Bacco! I would not have
given ten maravedi for my head when those children of the devil were
pushing us against the wall. Tita mia, you have been a brave girl, and it
was better that you should be pulled and pushed than that my head should
be broken.”

“Yes indeed, father,” said she earnestly.

“But those English! Ach! Take a Goth, a Hun, and a Vandal, mix them
together and add a Barbary rover; then take this creature and make him
drunk—and you have an Englishman. My God! were ever such people
upon earth! What place is free from them? I hear that they swarm in Italy
even as they swarm here. Everywhere you will find them, except in heaven.”

“Dear father,” cried Tita, still supporting the angry old man, as he
limped up the curved oaken stair. “You must not forget that these good
signori who have preserved us are also English.”

“Ah, yes. My pardon, sirs! Come into my rooms here. There are some who
might find some pleasure in these paintings, but I learn the art of war is
the only art which is held in honor in your island.”

The low-roofed, oak-panelled room into which he conducted them was
brilliantly lit by four scented oil lamps. Against the walls, upon the
table, on the floor, and in every part of the chamber were great sheets of
glass painted in the most brilliant colors. Ford and Edricson gazed around
them in amazement, for never had they seen such magnificent works of art.

“You like them then,” the lame artist cried, in answer to the look of
pleasure and of surprise in their faces. “There are then some of you who
have a taste for such trifling.”

“I could not have believed it,” exclaimed Alleyne. “What color! What
outlines! See to this martyrdom of the holy Stephen, Ford. Could you not
yourself pick up one of these stones which lie to the hand of the wicked
murtherers?”

“And see this stag, Alleyne, with the cross betwixt its horns. By my
faith! I have never seen a better one at the Forest of Bere.”

“And the green of this grass—how bright and clear! Why all the
painting that I have seen is but child’s play beside this. This worthy
gentleman must be one of those great painters of whom I have oft heard
brother Bartholomew speak in the old days at Beaulieu.”

The dark mobile face of the artist shone with pleasure at the unaffected
delight of the two young Englishmen. His daughter had thrown off her
mantle and disclosed a face of the finest and most delicate Italian
beauty, which soon drew Ford’s eyes from the pictures in front of him.
Alleyne, however, continued with little cries of admiration and of
wonderment to turn from the walls to the table and yet again to the walls.

“What think you of this, young sir?” asked the painter, tearing off the
cloth which concealed the flat object which he had borne beneath his arm.
It was a leaf-shaped sheet of glass bearing upon it a face with a halo
round it, so delicately outlined, and of so perfect a tint, that it might
have been indeed a human face which gazed with sad and thoughtful eyes
upon the young squire. He clapped his hands, with that thrill of joy which
true art will ever give to a true artist.

“It is great!” he cried. “It is wonderful! But I marvel, sir, that you
should have risked a work of such beauty and value by bearing it at night
through so unruly a crowd.”

“I have indeed been rash,” said the artist. “Some wine, Tita, from the
Florence flask! Had it not been for you, I tremble to think of what might
have come of it. See to the skin tint: it is not to be replaced, for paint
as you will, it is not once in a hundred times that it is not either
burned too brown in the furnace or else the color will not hold, and you
get but a sickly white. There you can see the very veins and the throb of
the blood. Yes, diavolo! if it had broken, my heart would have broken
too. It is for the choir window in the church of St. Remi, and we had
gone, my little helper and I, to see if it was indeed of the size for the
stonework. Night had fallen ere we finished, and what could we do save
carry it home as best we might? But you, young sir, you speak as if you
too knew something of the art.”

“So little that I scarce dare speak of it in your presence,” Alleyne
answered. “I have been cloister-bred, and it was no very great matter to
handle the brush better than my brother novices.”

“There are pigments, brush, and paper,” said the old artist. “I do not
give you glass, for that is another matter, and takes much skill in the
mixing of colors. Now I pray you to show me a touch of your art. I thank
you, Tita! The Venetian glasses, cara mia, and fill them to the brim. A
seat, signor!”

While Ford, in his English-French, was conversing with Tita in her Italian-French,
the old man was carefully examining his precious head to see that
no scratch had been left upon its surface. When he glanced up again,
Alleyne had, with a few bold strokes of the brush, tinted in a woman’s
face and neck upon the white sheet in front of him.

“Diavolo!” exclaimed the old artist, standing with his head on one side,
“you have power; yes, cospetto! you have power, it is the face of an
angel!”

“It is the face of the Lady Maude Loring!” cried Ford, even more
astonished.

“Why, on my faith, it is not unlike her!” said Alleyne, in some confusion.

“Ah! a portrait! So much the better. Young man, I am Agostino Pisano, the
son of Andrea Pisano, and I say again that you have power. Further, I say,
that, if you will stay with me, I will teach you all the secrets of the
glass-stainers’ mystery: the pigments and their thickening, which will
fuse into the glass and which will not, the furnace and the glazing—every
trick and method you shall know.”

“I would be right glad to study under such a master,” said Alleyne; “but I
am sworn to follow my lord whilst this war lasts.”

“War! war!” cried the old Italian. “Ever this talk of war. And the men
that you hold to be great—what are they? Have I not heard their
names? Soldiers, butchers, destroyers! Ah, per Bacco! we have men in Italy
who are in very truth great. You pull down, you despoil; but they build
up, they restore. Ah, if you could but see my own dear Pisa, the Duomo,
the cloisters of Campo Santo, the high Campanile, with the mellow throb of
her bells upon the warm Italian air! Those are the works of great men. And
I have seen them with my own eyes, these very eyes which look upon you. I
have seen Andrea Orcagna, Taddeo Gaddi, Giottino, Stefano, Simone Memmi—men
whose very colors I am not worthy to mix. And I have seen the aged Giotto,
and he in turn was pupil to Cimabue, before whom there was no art in
Italy, for the Greeks were brought to paint the chapel of the Gondi at
Florence. Ah, signori, there are the real great men whose names will be
held in honor when your soldiers are shown to have been the enemies of
humankind.”

“Faith, sir,” said Ford, “there is something to say for the soldiers also,
for, unless they be defended, how are all these gentlemen whom you have
mentioned to preserve the pictures which they have painted?”

“And all these!” said Alleyne. “Have you indeed done them all?—and
where are they to go?”

“Yes, signor, they are all from my hand. Some are, as you see, upon one
sheet, and some are in many pieces which may fasten together. There are
some who do but paint upon the glass, and then, by placing another sheet
of glass upon the top and fastening it, they keep the air from their
painting. Yet I hold that the true art of my craft lies as much in the
furnace as in the brush. See this rose window, which is from the model of
the Church of the Holy Trinity at Vendome, and this other of the ‘Finding
of the Grail,’ which is for the apse of the Abbey church. Time was when
none but my countrymen could do these things; but there is Clement of
Chartres and others in France who are very worthy workmen. But, ah! there
is that ever shrieking brazen tongue which will not let us forget for one
short hour that it is the arm of the savage, and not the hand of the
master, which rules over the world.”

A stern, clear bugle call had sounded close at hand to summon some
following together for the night.

“It is a sign to us as well,” said Ford. “I would fain stay here forever
amid all these beautiful things—” staring hard at the blushing Tita
as he spoke—“but we must be back at our lord’s hostel ere he reach
it.” Amid renewed thanks and with promises to come again, the two squires
bade their leave of the old Italian glass-stainer and his daughter. The
streets were clearer now, and the rain had stopped, so they made their way
quickly from the Rue du Roi, in which their new friends dwelt, to the Rue
des Apotres, where the hostel of the “Half Moon” was situated.

CHAPTER XXII. HOW THE BOWMEN HELD WASSAIL AT THE “ROSE DE GUIENNE.”

“Mon Dieu! Alleyne, saw you ever so lovely a face?” cried Ford as they
hurried along together. “So pure, so peaceful, and so beautiful!”

“In sooth, yes. And the hue of the skin the most perfect that ever I saw.
Marked you also how the hair curled round the brow? It was wonder fine.”

“Those eyes, too!” cried Ford. “How clear and how tender—simple, and
yet so full of thought!”

“If there was a weakness it was in the chin,” said Alleyne.

“Nay. I saw none.”

“It was well curved, it is true.”

“Most daintily so.”

“And yet——”

“What then, Alleyne? Wouldst find flaw in the sun?”

“Well, bethink you, Ford, would not more power and expression have been
put into the face by a long and noble beard?”

“Holy Virgin!” cried Ford, “the man is mad. A beard on the face of little
Tita!”

“Tita! Who spoke of Tita?”

“Who spoke of aught else?”

“It was the picture of St. Remi, man, of which I have been discoursing.”

“You are indeed,” cried Ford, laughing, “a Goth, Hun, and Vandal, with all
the other hard names which the old man called us. How could you think so
much of a smear of pigments, when there was such a picture painted by the
good God himself in the very room with you? But who is this?”

“If it please you, sirs,” said an archer, running across to them, “Aylward
and others would be right glad to see you. They are within here. He bade
me say to you that the Lord Loring will not need your service to-night, as
he sleeps with the Lord Chandos.”

“By my faith!” said Ford, “we do not need a guide to lead us to their
presence.” As he spoke there came a roar of singing from the tavern upon
the right, with shouts of laughter and stamping of feet. Passing under a
low door, and down a stone-flagged passage, they found themselves in a
long narrow hall lit up by a pair of blazing torches, one at either end.
Trusses of straw had been thrown down along the walls, and reclining on
them were some twenty or thirty archers, all of the Company, their steel
caps and jacks thrown off, their tunics open and their great limbs
sprawling upon the clay floor. At every man’s elbow stood his leathern
blackjack of beer, while at the further end a hogshead with its end
knocked in promised an abundant supply for the future. Behind the
hogshead, on a half circle of kegs, boxes, and rude settles, sat Aylward,
John, Black Simon and three or four other leading men of the archers,
together with Goodwin Hawtayne, the master-shipman, who had left his
yellow cog in the river to have a last rouse with his friends of the
Company. Ford and Alleyne took their seats between Aylward and Black
Simon, without their entrance checking in any degree the hubbub which was
going on.

“Ale, mes camarades?” cried the bowman, “or shall it be wine? Nay, but ye
must have the one or the other. Here, Jacques, thou limb of the devil,
bring a bottrine of the oldest vernage, and see that you do not shake it.
Hast heard the news?”

“Nay,” cried both the squires.

“That we are to have a brave tourney.”

“A tourney?”

“Aye, lads. For the Captal du Buch hath sworn that he will find five
knights from this side of the water who will ride over any five Englishmen
who ever threw leg over saddle; and Chandos hath taken up the challenge,
and the prince hath promised a golden vase for the man who carries himself
best, and all the court is in a buzz over it.”

“Why should the knights have all the sport?” growled Hordle John. “Could
they not set up five archers for the honor of Aquitaine and of Gascony?”

“Or five men-at-arms,” said Black Simon.

“But who are the English knights?” asked Hawtayne.

“There are three hundred and forty-one in the town,” said Aylward, “and I
hear that three hundred and forty cartels and defiances have already been
sent in, the only one missing being Sir John Ravensholme, who is in his
bed with the sweating sickness, and cannot set foot to ground.”

“I have heard of it from one of the archers of the guard,” cried a bowman
from among the straw; “I hear that the prince wished to break a lance, but
that Chandos would not hear of it, for the game is likely to be a rough
one.”

“Then there is Chandos.”

“Nay, the prince would not permit it. He is to be marshal of the lists,
with Sir William Felton and the Duc d’Armagnac. The English will be the
Lord Audley, Sir Thomas Percy, Sir Thomas Wake, Sir William Beauchamp, and
our own very good lord and leader.”

“Hurrah for him, and God be with him!” cried several. “It is honor to draw
string in his service.”

“So you may well say,” said Aylward. “By my ten finger-bones! if you march
behind the pennon of the five roses you are like to see all that a good
bowman would wish to see. Ha! yes, mes garcons, you laugh, but, by my
hilt! you may not laugh when you find yourselves where he will take you,
for you can never tell what strange vow he may not have sworn to. I see
that he has a patch over his eye, even as he had at Poictiers. There will
come bloodshed of that patch, or I am the more mistaken.”

“How chanced it at Poictiers, good Master Aylward?” asked one of the young
archers, leaning upon his elbows, with his eyes fixed respectfully upon
the old bowman’s rugged face.

“Aye, Aylward, tell us of it,” cried Hordle John.

“Here is to old Samkin Aylward!” shouted several at the further end of the
room, waving their blackjacks in the air.

“Ask him!” said Aylward modestly, nodding towards Black Simon. “He saw
more than I did. And yet, by the holy nails! there was not very much that
I did not see either.”

“Ah, yes,” said Simon, shaking his head, “it was a great day. I never hope
to see such another. There were some fine archers who drew their last
shaft that day. We shall never see better men, Aylward.”

“By my hilt! no. There was little Robby Withstaff, and Andrew Salblaster,
and Wat Alspaye, who broke the neck of the German. Mon Dieu! what men they
were! Take them how you would, at long butts or short, hoyles, rounds, or
rovers, better bowmen never twirled a shaft over their thumb-nails.”

“But the fight, Aylward, the fight!” cried several impatiently.

“Let me fill my jack first, boys, for it is a thirsty tale. It was at the
first fall of the leaf that the prince set forth, and he passed through
Auvergne, and Berry, and Anjou, and Touraine. In Auvergne the maids are
kind, but the wines are sour. In Berry it is the women that are sour, but
the wines are rich. Anjou, however, is a very good land for bowmen, for
wine and women are all that heart could wish. In Touraine I got nothing
save a broken pate, but at Vierzon I had a great good fortune, for I had a
golden pyx from the minster, for which I afterwards got nine Genoan janes
from the goldsmith in the Rue Mont Olive. From thence we went to Bourges,
where I had a tunic of flame-colored silk and a very fine pair of shoes
with tassels of silk and drops of silver.”

“From a stall, Aylward?” asked one of the young archers.

“Nay, from a man’s feet, lad. I had reason to think that he might not need
them again, seeing that a thirty-inch shaft had feathered in his back.”

“And what then, Aylward?”

“On we went, coz, some six thousand of us, until we came to Issodun, and
there again a very great thing befell.”

“A battle, Aylward?”

“Nay, nay; a greater thing than that. There is little to be gained out of
a battle, unless one have the fortune to win a ransom. At Issodun I and
three Welshmen came upon a house which all others had passed, and we had
the profit of it to ourselves. For myself, I had a fine feather-bed—a
thing which you will not see in a long day’s journey in England. You have
seen it, Alleyne, and you, John. You will bear me out that it is a noble
bed. We put it on a sutler’s mule, and bore it after the army. It was on
my mind that I would lay it by until I came to start house of mine own,
and I have it now in a very safe place near Lyndhurst.”

“And what then, master-bowman?” asked Hawtayne. “By St. Christopher! it is
indeed a fair and goodly life which you have chosen, for you gather up the
spoil as a Warsash man gathers lobsters, without grace or favor from any
man.”

“You are right, master-shipman,” said another of the older archers. “It is
an old bowyer’s rede that the second feather of a fenny goose is better
than the pinion of a tame one. Draw on old lad, for I have come between
you and the clout.”

“On we went then,” said Aylward, after a long pull at his blackjack.
“There were some six thousand of us, with the prince and his knights, and
the feather-bed upon a sutler’s mule in the centre. We made great havoc in
Touraine, until we came into Romorantin, where I chanced upon a gold chain
and two bracelets of jasper, which were stolen from me the same day by a
black-eyed wench from the Ardennes. Mon Dieu! there are some folk who have
no fear of Domesday in them, and no sign of grace in their souls, for ever
clutching and clawing at another man’s chattels.”

“But the battle, Aylward, the battle!” cried several, amid a burst of
laughter.

“I come to it, my young war-pups. Well, then, the King of France had
followed us with fifty thousand men, and he made great haste to catch us,
but when he had us he scarce knew what to do with us, for we were so drawn
up among hedges and vineyards that they could not come nigh us, save by
one lane. On both sides were archers, men-at-arms and knights behind, and
in the centre the baggage, with my feather-bed upon a sutler’s mule. Three
hundred chosen knights came straight for it, and, indeed, they were very
brave men, but such a drift of arrows met them that few came back. Then
came the Germans, and they also fought very bravely, so that one or two
broke through the archers and came as far as the feather-bed, but all to
no purpose. Then out rides our own little hothead with the patch over his
eye, and my Lord Audley with his four Cheshire squires, and a few others
of like kidney, and after them went the prince and Chandos, and then the
whole throng of us, with axe and sword, for we had shot away our arrows.
Ma foi! it was a foolish thing, for we came forth from the hedges, and
there was naught to guard the baggage had they ridden round behind us. But
all went well with us, and the king was taken, and little Robby Withstaff
and I fell in with a wain with twelve firkins of wine for the king’s own
table, and, by my hilt! if you ask me what happened after that, I cannot
answer you, nor can little Robby Withstaff either.”

“And next day?”

“By my faith! we did not tarry long, but we hied back to Bordeaux, where
we came in safety with the King of France and also the feather-bed. I sold
my spoil, mes garcons, for as many gold-pieces as I could hold in my
hufken, and for seven days I lit twelve wax candles upon the altar of St.
Andrew; for if you forget the blessed when things are well with you, they
are very likely to forget you when you have need of them. I have a score
of one hundred and nineteen pounds of wax against the holy Andrew, and, as
he was a very just man, I doubt not that I shall have full weigh and
measure when I have most need of it.”

“Tell me, master Aylward,” cried a young fresh-faced archer at the further
end of the room, “what was this great battle about?”

“Why, you jack-fool, what would it be about save who should wear the crown
of France?”

“I thought that mayhap it might be as to who should have this feather-bed
of thine.”

“If I come down to you, Silas, I may lay my belt across your shoulders,”
Aylward answered, amid a general shout of laughter. “But it is time young
chickens went to roost when they dare cackle against their elders. It is
late, Simon.”

“Nay, let us have another song.”

“Here is Arnold of Sowley will troll as good a stave as any man in the
Company.”

“Nay, we have one here who is second to none,” said Hawtayne, laying his
hand upon big John’s shoulder. “I have heard him on the cog with a voice
like the wave upon the shore. I pray you, friend, to give us ‘The Bells of
Milton,’ or, if you will, ‘The Franklin’s Maid.’”

Hordle John drew the back of his hand across his mouth, fixed his eyes
upon the corner of the ceiling, and bellowed forth, in a voice which made
the torches flicker, the southland ballad for which he had been asked:—

        The franklin he hath gone to roam,
        The franklin's maid she bides at home,
        But she is cold and coy and staid,
        And who may win the franklin's maid?

        There came a knight of high renown
        In bassinet and ciclatoun;
        On bended knee full long he prayed,
        He might not win the franklin's maid.

        There came a squire so debonair
        His dress was rich, his words were fair,
        He sweetly sang, he deftly played:
        He could not win the franklin's maid.

        There came a mercer wonder-fine
        With velvet cap and gaberdine;
        For all his ships, for all his trade
        He could not buy the franklin's maid.

        There came an archer bold and true,
        With bracer guard and stave of yew;
        His purse was light, his jerkin frayed;
        Haro, alas! the franklin's maid!

        Oh, some have laughed and some have cried
        And some have scoured the country-side!
        But off they ride through wood and glade,
        The bowman and the franklin's maid.

A roar of delight from his audience, with stamping of feet and beating of
blackjacks against the ground, showed how thoroughly the song was to their
taste, while John modestly retired into a quart pot, which he drained in
four giant gulps. “I sang that ditty in Hordle ale-house ere I ever
thought to be an archer myself,” quoth he.

“Fill up your stoups!” cried Black Simon, thrusting his own goblet into
the open hogshead in front of him. “Here is a last cup to the White
Company, and every brave boy who walks behind the roses of Loring!”

“To the wood, the flax, and the gander’s wing!” said an old gray-headed
archer on the right.

“To a gentle loose, and the King of Spain for a mark at fourteen score!”
cried another.

“To a bloody war!” shouted a fourth. “Many to go and few to come!”

“With the most gold to the best steel!” added a fifth.

“And a last cup to the maids of our heart!” cried Aylward. “A steady hand
and a true eye, boys; so let two quarts be a bowman’s portion.” With shout
and jest and snatch of song they streamed from the room, and all was
peaceful once more in the “Rose de Guienne.”

CHAPTER XXIII. HOW ENGLAND HELD THE LISTS AT BORDEAUX.

So used were the good burghers of Bordeaux to martial display and knightly
sport, that an ordinary joust or tournament was an everyday matter with
them. The fame and brilliancy of the prince’s court had drawn the
knights-errant and pursuivants-of-arms from every part of Europe. In the
long lists by the Garonne on the landward side of the northern gate there
had been many a strange combat, when the Teutonic knight, fresh from the
conquest of the Prussian heathen, ran a course against the knight of
Calatrava, hardened by continual struggle against the Moors, or cavaliers
from Portugal broke a lance with Scandinavian warriors from the further
shore of the great Northern Ocean. Here fluttered many an outland pennon,
bearing symbol and blazonry from the banks of the Danube, the wilds of
Lithuania and the mountain strongholds of Hungary; for chivalry was of no
clime and of no race, nor was any land so wild that the fame and name of
the prince had not sounded through it from border to border.

Great, however, was the excitement through town and district when it was
learned that on the third Wednesday in Advent there would be held a
passage-at-arms in which five knights of England would hold the lists
against all comers. The great concourse of noblemen and famous soldiers,
the national character of the contest, and the fact that this was a last
trial of arms before what promised to be an arduous and bloody war, all
united to make the event one of the most notable and brilliant that
Bordeaux had ever seen. On the eve of the contest the peasants flocked in
from the whole district of the Medoc, and the fields beyond the walls were
whitened with the tents of those who could find no warmer lodging. From
the distant camp of Dax, too, and from Blaye, Bourge, Libourne, St.
Emilion, Castillon, St. Macaire, Cardillac, Ryons, and all the cluster of
flourishing towns which look upon Bordeaux as their mother, there thronged
an unceasing stream of horsemen and of footmen, all converging upon the
great city. By the morning of the day on which the courses were to be run,
not less than eighty people had assembled round the lists and along the
low grassy ridge which looks down upon the scene of the encounter.

It was, as may well be imagined, no easy matter among so many noted
cavaliers to choose out five on either side who should have precedence
over their fellows. A score of secondary combats had nearly arisen from
the rivalries and bad blood created by the selection, and it was only the
influence of the prince and the efforts of the older barons which kept the
peace among so many eager and fiery soldiers. Not till the day before the
courses were the shields finally hung out for the inspection of the ladies
and the heralds, so that all men might know the names of the champions and
have the opportunity to prefer any charge against them, should there be
stain upon them which should disqualify them from taking part in so noble
and honorable a ceremony.

Sir Hugh Calverley and Sir Robert Knolles had not yet returned from their
raid into the marches of the Navarre, so that the English party were
deprived of two of their most famous lances. Yet there remained so many
good names that Chandos and Felton, to whom the selection had been
referred, had many an earnest consultation, in which every feat of arms
and failure or success of each candidate was weighed and balanced against
the rival claims of his companions. Lord Audley of Cheshire, the hero of
Poictiers, and Loring of Hampshire, who was held to be the second lance in
the army, were easily fixed upon. Then, of the younger men, Sir Thomas
Percy of Northumberland, Sir Thomas Wake of Yorkshire, and Sir William
Beauchamp of Gloucestershire, were finally selected to uphold the honor of
England. On the other side were the veteran Captal de Buch and the brawny
Olivier de Clisson, with the free companion Sir Perducas d’Albret, the
valiant Lord of Mucident, and Sigismond von Altenstadt, of the Teutonic
Order. The older soldiers among the English shook their heads as they
looked upon the escutcheons of these famous warriors, for they were all
men who had spent their lives upon the saddle, and bravery and strength
can avail little against experience and wisdom of war.

“By my faith! Sir John,” said the prince as he rode through the winding
streets on his way to the list, “I should have been glad to have
splintered a lance to-day. You have seen me hold a spear since I had
strength to lift one, and should know best whether I do not merit a place
among this honorable company.”

“There is no better seat and no truer lance, sire,” said Chandos; “but, if
I may say so without fear of offence, it were not fitting that you should
join in this debate.”

“And why, Sir John?”

“Because, sire, it is not for you to take part with Gascons against
English, or with English against Gascons, seeing that you are lord of
both. We are not too well loved by the Gascons now, and it is but the
golden link of your princely coronet which holds us together. If that be
snapped I know not what would follow.”

“Snapped, Sir John!” cried the prince, with an angry sparkle in his dark
eyes. “What manner of talk is this? You speak as though the allegiance of
our people were a thing which might be thrown off or on like a falcon’s
jessel.”

“With a sorry hack one uses whip and spur, sire,” said Chandos; “but with
a horse of blood and spirit a good cavalier is gentle and soothing,
coaxing rather than forcing. These folk are strange people, and you must
hold their love, even as you have it now, for you will get from their
kindness what all the pennons in your army could not wring from them.”

“You are over-grave to-day, John,” the prince answered. “We may keep such
questions for our council-chamber. But how now, my brothers of Spain, and
of Majorca, what think you of this challenge?”

“I look to see some handsome joisting,” said Don Pedro, who rode with the
King of Majorca upon the right of the prince, while Chandos was on the
left. “By St. James of Compostella! but these burghers would bear some
taxing. See to the broadcloth and velvet that the rogues bear upon their
backs! By my troth! if they were my subjects they would be glad enough to
wear falding and leather ere I had done with them. But mayhap it is best
to let the wool grow long ere you clip it.”

“It is our pride,” the prince answered coldly, “that we rule over freemen
and not slaves.”

“Every man to his own humor,” said Pedro carelessly. “Carajo! there is a
sweet face at yonder window! Don Fernando, I pray you to mark the house,
and to have the maid brought to us at the abbey.”

“Nay, brother, nay!” cried the prince impatiently. “I have had occasion to
tell you more than once that things are not ordered in this way in
Aquitaine.”

“A thousand pardons, dear friend,” the Spaniard answered quickly, for a
flush of anger had sprung to the dark cheek of the English prince. “You
make my exile so like a home that I forget at times that I am not in very
truth back in Castile. Every land hath indeed its ways and manners; but I
promise you, Edward, that when you are my guest in Toledo or Madrid you
shall not yearn in vain for any commoner’s daughter on whom you may deign
to cast your eye.”

“Your talk, sire,” said the prince still more coldly, “is not such as I
love to hear from your lips. I have no taste for such amours as you speak
of, and I have sworn that my name shall be coupled with that of no woman
save my ever dear wife.”

“Ever the mirror of true chivalry!” exclaimed Pedro, while James of
Majorca, frightened at the stern countenance of their all-powerful
protector, plucked hard at the mantle of his brother exile.

“Have a care, cousin,” he whispered; “for the sake of the Virgin have a
care, for you have angered him.”

“Pshaw! fear not,” the other answered in the same low tone. “If I miss one
stoop I will strike him on the next. Mark me else. Fair cousin,” he
continued, turning to the prince, “these be rare men-at-arms and lusty
bowmen. It would be hard indeed to match them.”

“They have journeyed far, sire, but they have never yet found their
match.”

“Nor ever will, I doubt not. I feel myself to be back upon my throne when
I look at them. But tell me, dear coz, what shall we do next, when we have
driven this bastard Henry from the kingdom which he hath filched?”

“We shall then compel the King of Aragon to place our good friend and
brother James of Majorca upon the throne.”

“Noble and generous prince!” cried the little monarch.

“That done,” said King Pedro, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at
the young conqueror, “we shall unite the forces of England, of Aquitaine,
of Spain and of Majorca. It would be shame to us if we did not do some
great deed with such forces ready to our hand.”

“You say truly, brother,” cried the prince, his eyes kindling at the
thought. “Methinks that we could not do anything more pleasing to Our Lady
than to drive the heathen Moors out of the country.”

“I am with you, Edward, as true as hilt to blade. But, by St. James! we
shall not let these Moors make mock at us from over the sea. We must take
ship and thrust them from Africa.”

“By heaven, yes!” cried the prince. “And it is the dream of my heart that
our English pennons shall wave upon the Mount of Olives, and the lions and
lilies float over the holy city.”

“And why not, dear coz? Your bowmen have cleared a path to Paris, and why
not to Jerusalem? Once there, your arms might rest.”

“Nay, there is more to be done,” cried the prince, carried away by the
ambitious dream. “There is still the city of Constantine to be taken, and
war to be waged against the Soldan of Damascus. And beyond him again there
is tribute to be levied from the Cham of Tartary and from the kingdom of
Cathay. Ha! John, what say you? Can we not go as far eastward as Richard
of the Lion Heart?”

“Old John will bide at home, sire,” said the rugged soldier. “By my soul!
as long as I am seneschal of Aquitaine I will find enough to do in
guarding the marches which you have entrusted to me. It would be a blithe
day for the King of France when he heard that the seas lay between him and
us.”

“By my soul! John,” said the prince, “I have never known you turn laggard
before.”

“The babbling hound, sire, is not always the first at the mort,” the old
knight answered.

“Nay, my true-heart! I have tried you too often not to know. But, by my
soul! I have not seen so dense a throng since the day that we brought King
John down Cheapside.”

It was indeed an enormous crowd which covered the whole vast plain from
the line of vineyards to the river bank. From the northern gate the prince
and his companions looked down at a dark sea of heads, brightened here and
there by the colored hoods of the women, or by the sparkling head-pieces
of archers and men-at-arms. In the centre of this vast assemblage the
lists seemed but a narrow strip of green marked out with banners and
streamers, while a gleam of white with a flutter of pennons at either end
showed where the marquees were pitched which served as the dressing-rooms
of the combatants. A path had been staked off from the city gate to the
stands which had been erected for the court and the nobility. Down this,
amid the shouts of the enormous multitude, the prince cantered with his
two attendant kings, his high officers of state, and his long train of
lords and ladies, courtiers, counsellors, and soldiers, with toss of plume
and flash of jewel, sheen of silk and glint of gold—as rich and
gallant a show as heart could wish. The head of the cavalcade had reached
the lists ere the rear had come clear of the city gate, for the fairest
and the bravest had assembled from all the broad lands which are watered
by the Dordogne and the Garonne. Here rode dark-browed cavaliers from the
sunny south, fiery soldiers from Gascony, graceful courtiers of Limousin
or Saintonge, and gallant young Englishmen from beyond the seas. Here too
were the beautiful brunettes of the Gironde, with eyes which out-flashed
their jewels, while beside them rode their blonde sisters of England,
clear cut and aquiline, swathed in swans’-down and in ermine, for the air
was biting though the sun was bright. Slowly the long and glittering train
wound into the lists, until every horse had been tethered by the varlets
in waiting, and every lord and lady seated in the long stands which
stretched, rich in tapestry and velvet and blazoned arms, on either side
of the centre of the arena.

The holders of the lists occupied the end which was nearest to the city
gate. There, in front of their respective pavilions, flew the martlets of
Audley, the roses of Loring, the scarlet bars of Wake, the lion of the
Percies and the silver wings of the Beauchamps, each supported by a squire
clad in hanging green stuff to represent so many Tritons, and bearing a
huge conch-shell in their left hands. Behind the tents the great
war-horses, armed at all points, champed and reared, while their masters
sat at the doors of their pavilions, with their helmets upon their knees,
chatting as to the order of the day’s doings. The English archers and
men-at-arms had mustered at that end of the lists, but the vast majority
of the spectators were in favor of the attacking party, for the English
had declined in popularity ever since the bitter dispute as to the
disposal of the royal captive after the battle of Poictiers. Hence the
applause was by no means general when the herald-at-arms proclaimed, after
a flourish of trumpets, the names and styles of the knights who were
prepared, for the honor of their country and for the love of their ladies,
to hold the field against all who might do them the favor to run a course
with them. On the other hand, a deafening burst of cheering greeted the
rival herald, who, advancing from the other end of the lists, rolled forth
the well-known titles of the five famous warriors who had accepted the
defiance.

“Faith, John,” said the prince, “it sounds as though you were right. Ha!
my grace D’Armagnac, it seems that our friends on this side will not
grieve if our English champions lose the day.”

“It may be so, sire,” the Gascon nobleman answered. “I have little doubt
that in Smithfield or at Windsor an English crowd would favor their own
countrymen.”

“By my faith! that’s easily seen,” said the prince, laughing, “for a few
score English archers at yonder end are bellowing as though they would
out-shout the mighty multitude. I fear that they will have little to shout
over this tourney, for my gold vase has small prospect of crossing the
water. What are the conditions, John?”

“They are to tilt singly not less than three courses, sire, and the
victory to rest with that party which shall have won the greater number of
courses, each pair continuing till one or other have the vantage. He who
carries himself best of the victors hath the prize, and he who is judged
best of the other party hath a jewelled clasp. Shall I order that the
nakirs sound, sire?”

The prince nodded, and the trumpets rang out, while the champions rode
forth one after the other, each meeting his opponent in the centre of the
lists. Sir William Beauchamp went down before the practiced lance of the
Captal de Buch. Sir Thomas Percy won the vantage over the Lord of
Mucident, and the Lord Audley struck Sir Perducas d’Albret from the
saddle. The burly De Clisson, however, restored the hopes of the attackers
by beating to the ground Sir Thomas Wake of Yorkshire. So far, there was
little to choose betwixt challengers and challenged.

“By Saint James of Santiago!” cried Don Pedro, with a tinge of color upon
his pale cheeks, “win who will, this has been a most notable contest.”

“Who comes next for England, John?” asked the prince in a voice which
quivered with excitement.

“Sir Nigel Loring of Hampshire, sire.”

“Ha! he is a man of good courage, and skilled in the use of all weapons.”

“He is indeed, sire. But his eyes, like my own, are the worse for wars.
Yet he can tilt or play his part at hand-strokes as merrily as ever. It
was he, sire, who won the golden crown which Queen Philippa, your royal
mother, gave to be jousted for by all the knights of England after the
harrying of Calais. I have heard that at Twynham Castle there is a buffet
which groans beneath the weight of his prizes.”

“I pray that my vase may join them,” said the prince. “But here is the
cavalier of Germany, and by my soul! he looks like a man of great valor
and hardiness. Let them run their full three courses, for the issue is
over-great to hang upon one.”

As the prince spoke, amid a loud flourish of trumpets and the shouting of
the Gascon party, the last of the assailants rode gallantly into the
lists. He was a man of great size, clad in black armor without blazonry or
ornament of any kind, for all worldly display was forbidden by the rules
of the military brotherhood to which he belonged. No plume or nobloy
fluttered from his plain tilting salade, and even his lance was devoid of
the customary banderole. A white mantle fluttered behind him, upon the
left side of which was marked the broad black cross picked out with silver
which was the well-known badge of the Teutonic Order. Mounted upon a horse
as large, as black, and as forbidding as himself, he cantered slowly
forward, with none of those prancings and gambades with which a cavalier
was accustomed to show his command over his charger. Gravely and sternly
he inclined his head to the prince, and took his place at the further end
of the arena.

He had scarce done so before Sir Nigel rode out from the holders’
enclosure, and galloping at full speed down the lists, drew his charger up
before the prince’s stand with a jerk which threw it back upon its
haunches. With white armor, blazoned shield, and plume of ostrich-feathers
from his helmet, he carried himself in so jaunty and joyous a fashion,
with tossing pennon and curveting charger, that a shout of applause ran
the full circle of the arena. With the air of a man who hastes to a joyous
festival, he waved his lance in salute, and reining the pawing horse round
without permitting its fore-feet to touch the ground, he hastened back to
his station.

A great hush fell over the huge multitude as the two last champions faced
each other. A double issue seemed to rest upon their contest, for their
personal fame was at stake as well as their party’s honor. Both were
famous warriors, but as their exploits had been performed in widely
sundered countries, they had never before been able to cross lances. A
course between such men would have been enough in itself to cause the
keenest interest, apart from its being the crisis which would decide who
should be the victors of the day. For a moment they waited—the
German sombre and collected, Sir Nigel quivering in every fibre with
eagerness and fiery resolution. Then, amid a long-drawn breath from the
spectators, the glove fell from the marshal’s hand, and the two steel-clad
horsemen met like a thunderclap in front of the royal stand. The German,
though he reeled for an instant before the thrust of the Englishman,
struck his opponent so fairly upon the vizor that the laces burst, the
plumed helmet flew to pieces, and Sir Nigel galloped on down the lists
with his bald head shimmering in the sunshine. A thousand waving scarves
and tossing caps announced that the first bout had fallen to the popular
party.

The Hampshire knight was not a man to be disheartened by a reverse. He
spurred back to the pavilion, and was out in a few instants with another
helmet. The second course was so equal that the keenest judges could not
discern any vantage. Each struck fire from the other’s shield, and each
endured the jarring shock as though welded to the horse beneath him. In
the final bout, however, Sir Nigel struck his opponent with so true an aim
that the point of the lance caught between the bars of his vizor and tore
the front of his helmet out, while the German, aiming somewhat low, and
half stunned by the shock, had the misfortune to strike his adversary upon
the thigh, a breach of the rules of the tilting-yard, by which he not only
sacrificed his chances of success, but would also have forfeited his horse
and his armor, had the English knight chosen to claim them. A roar of
applause from the English soldiers, with an ominous silence from the vast
crowd who pressed round the barriers, announced that the balance of
victory lay with the holders. Already the ten champions had assembled in
front of the prince to receive his award, when a harsh bugle call from the
further end of the lists drew all eyes to a new and unexpected arrival.

CHAPTER XXIV. HOW A CHAMPION CAME FORTH FROM THE EAST.

The Bordeaux lists were, as has already been explained, situated upon the
plain near the river upon those great occasions when the tilting-ground in
front of the Abbey of St. Andrew’s was deemed to be too small to contain
the crowd. On the eastern side of this plain the country-side sloped
upwards, thick with vines in summer, but now ridged with the brown bare
enclosures. Over the gently rising plain curved the white road which leads
inland, usually flecked with travellers, but now with scarce a living form
upon it, so completely had the lists drained all the district of its
inhabitants. Strange it was to see such a vast concourse of people, and
then to look upon that broad, white, empty highway which wound away, bleak
and deserted, until it narrowed itself to a bare streak against the
distant uplands.

Shortly after the contest had begun, any one looking from the lists along
this road might have remarked, far away in the extreme distance, two
brilliant and sparkling points which glittered and twinkled in the bright
shimmer of the winter sun. Within an hour these had become clearer and
nearer, until they might be seen to come from the reflection from the
head-pieces of two horsemen who were riding at the top of their speed in
the direction of Bordeaux. Another half-hour had brought them so close
that every point of their bearing and equipment could be discerned. The
first was a knight in full armor, mounted upon a brown horse with a white
blaze upon breast and forehead. He was a short man of great breadth of
shoulder, with vizor closed, and no blazonry upon his simple white surcoat
or plain black shield. The other, who was evidently his squire and
attendant, was unarmed save for the helmet upon his head, but bore in his
right hand a very long and heavy oaken spear which belonged to his master.
In his left hand the squire held not only the reins of his own horse but
those of a great black war-horse, fully harnessed, which trotted along at
his side. Thus the three horses and their two riders rode swiftly to the
lists, and it was the blare of the trumpet sounded by the squire as his
lord rode into the arena which had broken in upon the prize-giving and
drawn away the attention and interest of the spectators.

“Ha, John!” cried the prince, craning his neck, “who is this cavalier, and
what is it that he desires?”

“On my word, sire,” replied Chandos, with the utmost surprise upon his
face, “it is my opinion that he is a Frenchman.”

“A Frenchman!” repeated Don Pedro. “And how can you tell that, my Lord
Chandos, when he has neither coat-armor, crest, or blazonry?”

“By his armor, sire, which is rounder at elbow and at shoulder than any of
Bordeaux or of England. Italian he might be were his bassinet more sloped,
but I will swear that those plates were welded betwixt this and Rhine.
Here comes his squire, however, and we shall hear what strange fortune
hath brought him over the marches.”

As he spoke the attendant cantered up the grassy enclosure, and pulling up
his steed in front of the royal stand, blew a second fanfare upon his
bugle. He was a raw-boned, swarthy-cheeked man, with black bristling beard
and a swaggering bearing.

Having sounded his call, he thrust the bugle into his belt, and, pushing
his way betwixt the groups of English and of Gascon knights, he reined up
within a spear’s length of the royal party.

“I come,” he shouted in a hoarse, thick voice, with a strong Breton
accent, “as squire and herald from my master, who is a very valiant
pursuivant-of-arms, and a liegeman to the great and powerful monarch,
Charles, king of the French. My master has heard that there is jousting
here, and prospect of honorable advancement, so he has come to ask that
some English cavalier will vouchsafe for the love of his lady to run a
course with sharpened lances with him, or to meet him with sword, mace,
battle-axe, or dagger. He bade me say, however, that he would fight only
with a true Englishman, and not with any mongrel who is neither English
nor French, but speaks with the tongue of the one, and fights under the
banner of the other.”

“Sir!” cried De Clisson, with a voice of thunder, while his countrymen
clapped their hands to their swords. The squire, however, took no notice
of their angry faces, but continued with his master’s message.

“He is now ready, sire,” he said, “albeit his destrier has travelled many
miles this day, and fast, for we were in fear lest we come too late for
the jousting.”

“Ye have indeed come too late,” said the prince, “seeing that the prize is
about to be awarded; yet I doubt not that one of these gentlemen will run
a course for the sake of honor with this cavalier of France.”

“And as to the prize, sire,” quoth Sir Nigel, “I am sure that I speak for
all when I say this French knight hath our leave to bear it away with him
if he can fairly win it.”

“Bear word of this to your master,” said the prince, “and ask him which of
these five Englishmen he would desire to meet. But stay; your master bears
no coat-armor, and we have not yet heard his name.”

“My master, sire, is under vow to the Virgin neither to reveal his name
nor to open his vizor until he is back upon French ground once more.”

“Yet what assurance have we,” said the prince, “that this is not some
varlet masquerading in his master’s harness, or some caitiff knight, the
very touch of whose lance might bring infamy upon an honorable gentleman?”

“It is not so, sire,” cried the squire earnestly. “There is no man upon
earth who would demean himself by breaking a lance with my master.”

“You speak out boldly, squire,” the prince answered; “but unless I have
some further assurance of your master’s noble birth and gentle name I
cannot match the choicest lances of my court against him.”

“You refuse, sire?”

“I do refuse.”

“Then, sire, I was bidden to ask you from my master whether you would
consent if Sir John Chandos, upon hearing my master’s name, should assure
you that he was indeed a man with whom you might yourself cross swords
without indignity.”

“I ask no better,” said the prince.

“Then I must ask, Lord Chandos, that you will step forth. I have your
pledge that the name shall remain ever a secret, and that you will neither
say nor write one word which might betray it. The name is——”
He stooped down from his horse and whispered something into the old
knight’s ear which made him start with surprise, and stare with much
curiosity at the distant Knight, who was sitting his charger at the
further end of the arena.

“Is this indeed sooth?” he exclaimed.

“It is, my lord, and I swear it by St. Ives of Brittany.”

“I might have known it,” said Chandos, twisting his moustache, and still
looking thoughtfully at the cavalier.

“What then, Sir John?” asked the prince.

“Sire, this is a knight whom it is indeed great honor to meet, and I would
that your grace would grant me leave to send my squire for my harness, for
I would dearly love to run a course with him.”

“Nay, nay, Sir John, you have gained as much honor as one man can bear,
and it were hard if you could not rest now. But I pray you, squire, to
tell your master that he is very welcome to our court, and that wines and
spices will be served him, if he would refresh himself before jousting.”

“My master will not drink,” said the squire.

“Let him then name the gentleman with whom he would break a spear.”

“He would contend with these five knights, each to choose such weapons as
suit him best.”

“I perceive,” said the prince, “that your master is a man of great heart
and high of enterprise. But the sun already is low in the west, and there
will scarce be light for these courses. I pray you, gentlemen, to take
your places, that we may see whether this stranger’s deeds are as bold as
his words.”

The unknown knight had sat like a statue of steel, looking neither to the
right nor to the left during these preliminaries. He had changed from the
horse upon which he had ridden, and bestrode the black charger which his
squire had led beside him. His immense breadth, his stern composed
appearance, and the mode in which he handled his shield and his lance,
were enough in themselves to convince the thousands of critical spectators
that he was a dangerous opponent. Aylward, who stood in the front row of
the archers with Simon, big John, and others of the Company, had been
criticising the proceedings from the commencement with the ease and
freedom of a man who had spent his life under arms and had learned in a
hard school to know at a glance the points of a horse and his rider. He
stared now at the stranger with a wrinkled brow and the air of a man who
is striving to stir his memory.

“By my hilt! I have seen the thick body of him before to-day. Yet I cannot
call to mind where it could have been. At Nogent belike, or was it at
Auray? Mark me, lads, this man will prove to be one of the best lances of
France, and there are no better in the world.”

“It is but child’s play, this poking game,” said John. “I would fain try
my hand at it, for, by the black rood! I think that it might be amended.”

“What then would you do, John?” asked several.

“There are many things which might be done,” said the forester
thoughtfully. “Methinks that I would begin by breaking my spear.”

“So they all strive to do.”

“Nay, but not upon another man’s shield. I would break it over my own
knee.”

“And what the better for that, old beef and bones?” asked Black Simon.

“So I would turn what is but a lady’s bodkin of a weapon into a very
handsome club.”

“And then, John?”

“Then I would take the other’s spear into my arm or my leg, or where it
pleased him best to put it, and I would dash out his brains with my club.”

“By my ten finger-bones! old John,” said Aylward, “I would give my
feather-bed to see you at a spear-running. This is a most courtly and
gentle sport which you have devised.”

“So it seems to me,” said John seriously. “Or, again, one might seize the
other round the middle, pluck him off his horse and bear him to the
pavilion, there to hold him to ransom.”

“Good!” cried Simon, amid a roar of laughter from all the archers round.
“By Thomas of Kent! we shall make a camp-marshal of thee, and thou shalt
draw up rules for our jousting. But, John, who is it that you would uphold
in this knightly and pleasing fashion?”

“What mean you?”

“Why, John, so strong and strange a tilter must fight for the brightness
of his lady’s eyes or the curve of her eyelash, even as Sir Nigel does for
the Lady Loring.”

“I know not about that,” said the big archer, scratching his head in
perplexity. “Since Mary hath played me false, I can scarce fight for her.”

“Yet any woman will serve.”

“There is my mother then,” said John. “She was at much pains at my
upbringing, and, by my soul! I will uphold the curve of her eyelashes, for
it tickleth my very heart-root to think of her. But who is here?”

“It is Sir William Beauchamp. He is a valiant man, but I fear that he is
scarce firm enough upon the saddle to bear the thrust of such a tilter as
this stranger promises to be.”

Aylward’s words were speedily justified, for even as he spoke the two
knights met in the centre of the lists. Beauchamp struck his opponent a
shrewd blow upon the helmet, but was met with so frightful a thrust that
he whirled out of his saddle and rolled over and over upon the ground. Sir
Thomas Percy met with little better success, for his shield was split, his
vambrace torn and he himself wounded slightly in the side. Lord Audley and
the unknown knight struck each other fairly upon the helmet; but, while
the stranger sat as firm and rigid as ever upon his charger, the
Englishman was bent back to his horse’s cropper by the weight of the blow,
and had galloped half-way down the lists ere he could recover himself. Sir
Thomas Wake was beaten to the ground with a battle-axe—that being
the weapon which he had selected—and had to be carried to his
pavilion. These rapid successes, gained one after the other over four
celebrated warriors, worked the crowd up to a pitch of wonder and
admiration. Thunders of applause from the English soldiers, as well as
from the citizens and peasants, showed how far the love of brave and
knightly deeds could rise above the rivalries of race.

“By my soul! John,” cried the prince, with his cheek flushed and his eyes
shining, “this is a man of good courage and great hardiness. I could not
have thought that there was any single arm upon earth which could have
overthrown these four champions.”

“He is indeed, as I have said, sire, a knight from whom much honor is to
be gained. But the lower edge of the sun is wet, and it will be beneath
the sea ere long.”

“Here is Sir Nigel Loring, on foot and with his sword,” said the prince.
“I have heard that he is a fine swordsman.”

“The finest in your army, sire,” Chandos answered. “Yet I doubt not that
he will need all his skill this day.”

As he spoke, the two combatants advanced from either end in full armor
with their two-handed swords sloping over their shoulders. The stranger
walked heavily and with a measured stride, while the English knight
advanced as briskly as though there was no iron shell to weigh down the
freedom of his limbs. At four paces distance they stopped, eyed each other
for a moment, and then in an instant fell to work with a clatter and clang
as though two sturdy smiths were busy upon their anvils. Up and down went
the long, shining blades, round and round they circled in curves of
glimmering light, crossing, meeting, disengaging, with flash of sparks at
every parry. Here and there bounded Sir Nigel, his head erect, his jaunty
plume fluttering in the air, while his dark opponent sent in crashing blow
upon blow, following fiercely up with cut and with thrust, but never once
getting past the practised blade of the skilled swordsman. The crowd
roared with delight as Sir Nigel would stoop his head to avoid a blow, or
by some slight movement of his body allow some terrible thrust to glance
harmlessly past him. Suddenly, however, his time came. The Frenchman,
whirling up his sword, showed for an instant a chink betwixt his shoulder
piece and the rerebrace which guarded his upper arm. In dashed Sir Nigel,
and out again so swiftly that the eye could not follow the quick play of
his blade, but a trickle of blood from the stranger’s shoulder, and a
rapidly widening red smudge upon his white surcoat, showed where the
thrust had taken effect. The wound was, however, but a slight one, and the
Frenchman was about to renew his onset, when, at a sign from the prince,
Chandos threw down his baton, and the marshals of the lists struck up the
weapons and brought the contest to an end.

“It were time to check it,” said the prince, smiling, “for Sir Nigel is
too good a man for me to lose, and, by the five holy wounds! if one of
those cuts came home I should have fears for our champion. What think you,
Pedro?”

“I think, Edward, that the little man was very well able to take care of
himself. For my part, I should wish to see so well matched a pair fight on
while a drop of blood remained in their veins.”

“We must have speech with him. Such a man must not go from my court
without rest or sup. Bring him hither, Chandos, and, certes, if the Lord
Loring hath resigned his claim upon this goblet, it is right and proper
that this cavalier should carry it to France with him as a sign of the
prowess that he has shown this day.”

As he spoke, the knight-errant, who had remounted his warhorse, galloped
forward to the royal stand, with a silken kerchief bound round his wounded
arm. The setting sun cast a ruddy glare upon his burnished arms, and sent
his long black shadow streaming behind him up the level clearing. Pulling
up his steed, he slightly inclined his head, and sat in the stern and
composed fashion with which he had borne himself throughout, heedless of
the applauding shouts and the flutter of kerchiefs from the long lines of
brave men and of fair women who were looking down upon him.

“Sir knight,” said the prince, “we have all marvelled this day at this
great skill and valor with which God has been pleased to endow you. I
would fain that you should tarry at our court, for a time at least, until
your hurt is healed and your horses rested.”

“My hurt is nothing, sire, nor are my horses weary,” returned the stranger
in a deep, stern voice.

“Will you not at least hie back to Bordeaux with us, that you may drain a
cup of muscadine and sup at our table?”

“I will neither drink your wine nor sit at your table,” returned the
other. “I bear no love for you or for your race, and there is nought that
I wish at your hands until the day when I see the last sail which bears
you back to your island vanishing away against the western sky.”

“These are bitter words, sir knight,” said Prince Edward, with an angry
frown.

“And they come from a bitter heart,” answered the unknown knight. “How
long is it since there has been peace in my hapless country? Where are the
steadings, and orchards, and vineyards, which made France fair? Where are
the cities which made her great? From Providence to Burgundy we are beset
by every prowling hireling in Christendom, who rend and tear the country
which you have left too weak to guard her own marches. Is it not a by-word
that a man may ride all day in that unhappy land without seeing thatch
upon roof or hearing the crow of cock? Does not one fair kingdom content
you, that you should strive so for this other one which has no love for
you? Pardieu! a true Frenchman’s words may well be bitter, for bitter is
his lot and bitter his thoughts as he rides through his thrice unhappy
country.”

“Sir knight,” said the prince, “you speak like a brave man, and our cousin
of France is happy in having a cavalier who is so fit to uphold his cause
either with tongue or with sword. But if you think such evil of us, how
comes it that you have trusted yourselves to us without warranty or
safe-conduct?”

“Because I knew that you would be here, sire. Had the man who sits upon
your right been ruler of this land, I had indeed thought twice before I
looked to him for aught that was knightly or generous.” With a soldierly
salute, he wheeled round his horse, and, galloping down the lists,
disappeared amid the dense crowd of footmen and of horsemen who were
streaming away from the scene of the tournament.

“The insolent villain!” cried Pedro, glaring furiously after him. “I have
seen a man’s tongue torn from his jaws for less. Would it not be well even
now, Edward, to send horsemen to hale him back? Bethink you that it may be
one of the royal house of France, or at least some knight whose loss would
be a heavy blow to his master. Sir William Felton, you are well mounted,
gallop after the caitiff, I pray you.”

“Do so, Sir William,” said the prince, “and give him this purse of a
hundred nobles as a sign of the respect which I bear for him; for, by St.
George! he has served his master this day even as I would wish liegeman of
mine to serve me.” So saying, the prince turned his back upon the King of
Spain, and springing upon his horse, rode slowly homewards to the Abbey of
Saint Andrew’s.

CHAPTER XXV. HOW SIR NIGEL WROTE TO TWYNHAM CASTLE.

On the morning after the jousting, when Alleyne Edricson went, as was his
custom, into his master’s chamber to wait upon him in his dressing and to
curl his hair, he found him already up and very busily at work. He sat at
a table by the window, a deer-hound on one side of him and a lurcher on
the other, his feet tucked away under the trestle on which he sat, and his
tongue in his cheek, with the air of a man who is much perplexed. A sheet
of vellum lay upon the board in front of him, and he held a pen in his
hand, with which he had been scribbling in a rude schoolboy hand. So many
were the blots, however, and so numerous the scratches and erasures, that
he had at last given it up in despair, and sat with his single uncovered
eye cocked upwards at the ceiling, as one who waits upon inspiration.

“By Saint Paul!” he cried, as Alleyne entered, “you are the man who will
stand by me in this matter. I have been in sore need of you, Alleyne.”

“God be with you, my fair lord!” the squire answered. “I trust that you
have taken no hurt from all that you have gone through yesterday.”

“Nay; I feel the fresher for it, Alleyne. It has eased my joints, which
were somewhat stiff from these years of peace. I trust, Alleyne, that thou
didst very carefully note and mark the bearing and carriage of this knight
of France; for it is time, now when you are young, that you should see all
that is best, and mould your own actions in accordance. This was a man
from whom much honor might be gained, and I have seldom met any one for
whom I have conceived so much love and esteem. Could I but learn his name,
I should send you to him with my cartel, that we might have further
occasion to watch his goodly feats of arms.”

“It is said, my fair lord, that none know his name save only the Lord
Chandos, and that he is under vow not to speak it. So ran the gossip at
the squires’ table.”

“Be he who he might, he was a very hardy gentleman. But I have a task
here, Alleyne, which is harder to me than aught that was set before me
yesterday.”

“Can I help you, my lord?”

“That indeed you can. I have been writing my greetings to my sweet wife;
for I hear that a messenger goes from the prince to Southampton within the
week, and he would gladly take a packet for me. I pray you, Alleyne, to
cast your eyes upon what I have written, and see it they are such words as
my lady will understand. My fingers, as you can see, are more used to iron
and leather than to the drawing of strokes and turning of letters. What
then? Is there aught amiss, that you should stare so?”

“It is this first word, my lord. In what tongue were you pleased to
write?”

“In English; for my lady talks it more than she doth French.

“Yet this is no English word, my sweet lord. Here are four t’s and never a
letter betwixt them.”

“By St. Paul! it seemed strange to my eye when I wrote it,” said Sir
Nigel. “They bristle up together like a clump of lances. We must break
their ranks and set them farther apart. The word is ‘that.’ Now I will
read it to you, Alleyne, and you shall write it out fair; for we leave
Bordeaux this day, and it would be great joy to me to think that the Lady
Loring had word from me.”

Alleyne sat down as ordered, with a pen in his hand and a fresh sheet of
parchment before him, while Sir Nigel slowly spelled out his letter,
running his forefinger on from word to word.

“That my heart is with thee, my dear sweeting, is what thine own heart
will assure thee of. All is well with us here, save that Pepin hath the
mange on his back, and Pommers hath scarce yet got clear of his stiffness
from being four days on ship-board, and the more so because the sea was
very high, and we were like to founder on account of a hole in her side,
which was made by a stone cast at us by certain sea-rovers, who may the
saints have in their keeping, for they have gone from amongst us, as has
young Terlake, and two-score mariners and archers, who would be the more
welcome here as there is like to be a very fine war, with much honor and
all hopes of advancement, for which I go to gather my Company together,
who are now at Montaubon, where they pillage and destroy; yet I hope that,
by God’s help, I may be able to show that I am their master, even as, my
sweet lady, I am thy servant.”

“How of that, Alleyne?” continued Sir Nigel, blinking at his squire, with
an expression of some pride upon his face. “Have I not told her all that
hath befallen us?”

“You have said much, my fair lord; and yet, if I may say so, it is
somewhat crowded together, so that my Lady Loring can, mayhap, scarce
follow it. Were it in shorter periods——”

“Nay, it boots me not how you marshal them, as long as they are all there
at the muster. Let my lady have the words, and she will place them in such
order as pleases her best. But I would have you add what it would please
her to know.”

“That will I,” said Alleyne, blithely, and bent to the task.

“My fair lady and mistress,” he wrote, “God hath had us in His keeping,
and my lord is well and in good cheer. He hath won much honor at the
jousting before the prince, when he alone was able to make it good against
a very valiant man from France. Touching the moneys, there is enough and
to spare until we reach Montaubon. Herewith, my fair lady, I send my humble
regards, entreating you that you will give the same to your daughter, the
Lady Maude. May the holy saints have you both in their keeping is ever the
prayer of thy servant,

        “ALLEYNE EDRICSON.”
 

“That is very fairly set forth,” said Sir Nigel, nodding his bald head as
each sentence was read to him. “And for thyself, Alleyne, if there be any
dear friend to whom you would fain give greeting, I can send it for thee
within this packet.”

“There is none,” said Alleyne, sadly.

“Have you no kinsfolk, then?”

“None, save my brother.”

“Ha! I had forgotten that there was ill blood betwixt you. But are there
none in all England who love thee?”

“None that I dare say so.”

“And none whom you love?”

“Nay, I will not say that,” said Alleyne.

Sir Nigel shook his head and laughed softly to himself, “I see how it is
with you,” he said. “Have I not noted your frequent sighs and vacant eye?
Is she fair?”

“She is indeed,” cried Alleyne from his heart, all tingling at this sudden
turn of the talk.

“And good?”

“As an angel.”

“And yet she loves you not?”

“Nay, I cannot say that she loves another.”

“Then you have hopes?”

“I could not live else.”

“Then must you strive to be worthy of her love. Be brave and pure,
fearless to the strong and humble to the weak; and so, whether this love
prosper or no, you will have fitted yourself to be honored by a maiden’s
love, which is, in sooth, the highest guerdon which a true knight can hope
for.”

“Indeed, my lord, I do so strive,” said Alleyne; “but she is so sweet, so
dainty, and of so noble a spirit, that I fear me that I shall never be
worthy of her.”

“By thinking so you become worthy. Is she then of noble birth?”

“She is, my lord,” faltered Alleyne.

“Of a knightly house?”

“Yes.”

“Have a care, Alleyne, have a care!” said Sir Nigel, kindly. “The higher
the steed the greater the fall. Hawk not at that which may be beyond thy
flight.”

“My lord, I know little of the ways and usages of the world,” cried
Alleyne, “but I would fain ask your rede upon the matter. You have known
my father and my kin: is not my family one of good standing and repute?”

“Beyond all question.”

“And yet you warn me that I must not place my love too high.”

“Were Minstead yours, Alleyne, then, by St. Paul! I cannot think that any
family in the land would not be proud to take you among them, seeing that
you come of so old a strain. But while the Socman lives——Ha,
by my soul! if this is not Sir Oliver’s step I am the more mistaken.”

As he spoke, a heavy footfall was heard without, and the portly knight
flung open the door and strode into the room.

“Why, my little coz,” said he, “I have come across to tell you that I live
above the barber’s in the Rue de la Tour, and that there is a venison
pasty in the oven and two flasks of the right vintage on the table. By St.
James! a blind man might find the place, for one has but to get in the
wind from it, and follow the savory smell. Put on your cloak, then, and
come, for Sir Walter Hewett and Sir Robert Briquet, with one or two
others, are awaiting us.”

“Nay, Oliver, I cannot be with you, for I must to Montaubon this day.”

“To Montaubon? But I have heard that your Company is to come with my forty
Winchester rascals to Dax.”

“If you will take charge of them, Oliver. For I will go to Montaubon with
none save my two squires and two archers. Then, when I have found the rest
of my Company I shall lead them to Dax. We set forth this morning.”

“Then I must back to my pasty,” said Sir Oliver. “You will find us at Dax,
I doubt not, unless the prince throw me into prison, for he is very wroth
against me.”

“And why, Oliver?”

“Pardieu! because I have sent my cartel, gauntlet, and defiance to Sir
John Chandos and to Sir William Felton.”

“To Chandos? In God’s name, Oliver, why have you done this?”

“Because he and the other have used me despitefully.”

“And how?”

“Because they have passed me over in choosing those who should joust for
England. Yourself and Audley I could pass, coz, for you are mature men;
but who are Wake, and Percy, and Beauchamp? By my soul! I was prodding for
my food into a camp-kettle when they were howling for their pap. Is a man
of my weight and substance to be thrown aside for the first three
half-grown lads who have learned the trick of the tilt-yard? But hark ye,
coz, I think of sending my cartel also to the prince.”

“Oliver! Oliver! You are mad!”

“Not I, i’ faith! I care not a denier whether he be prince or no. By Saint
James! I see that your squire’s eyes are starting from his head like a
trussed crab. Well, friend, we are all three men of Hampshire, and not
lightly to be jeered at.”

“Has he jeered at you than?”

“Pardieu! yes, ‘Old Sir Oliver’s heart is still stout,’ said one of his
court. ‘Else had it been out of keeping with the rest of him,’ quoth the
prince. ‘And his arm is strong,’ said another. ‘So is the backbone of his
horse,’ quoth the prince. This very day I will send him my cartel and
defiance.”

“Nay, nay, my dear Oliver,” said Sir Nigel, laying his hand upon his angry
friend’s arm. “There is naught in this, for it was but saying that you
were a strong and robust man, who had need of a good destrier. And as to
Chandos and Felton, bethink you that if when you yourself were young the
older lances had ever been preferred, how would you then have had the
chance to earn the good name and fame which you now bear? You do not ride
as light as you did, Oliver, and I ride lighter by the weight of my hair,
but it would be an ill thing if in the evening of our lives we showed that
our hearts were less true and loyal than of old. If such a knight as Sir
Oliver Buttesthorn may turn against his own prince for the sake of a light
word, then where are we to look for steadfast faith and constancy?”

“Ah! my dear little coz, it is easy to sit in the sunshine and preach to
the man in the shadow. Yet you could ever win me over to your side with
that soft voice of yours. Let us think no more of it then. But, holy
Mother! I had forgot the pasty, and it will be as scorched as Judas
Iscariot! Come, Nigel, lest the foul fiend get the better of me again.”

“For one hour, then; for we march at mid-day. Tell Aylward, Alleyne, that
he is to come with me to Montaubon, and to choose one archer for his
comrade. The rest will to Dax when the prince starts, which will be before
the feast of the Epiphany. Have Pommers ready at mid-day with my sycamore
lance, and place my harness on the sumpter mule.”

With these brief directions, the two old soldiers strode off together,
while Alleyne hastened to get all in order for their journey.

CHAPTER XXVI. HOW THE THREE COMRADES GAINED A MIGHTY TREASURE

It was a bright, crisp winter’s day when the little party set off from
Bordeaux on their journey to Montaubon, where the missing half of their
Company had last been heard of. Sir Nigel and Ford had ridden on in
advance, the knight upon his hackney, while his great war-horse trotted
beside his squire. Two hours later Alleyne Edricson followed; for he had
the tavern reckoning to settle, and many other duties which fell to him as
squire of the body. With him came Aylward and Hordle John, armed as of
old, but mounted for their journey upon a pair of clumsy Landes horses,
heavy-headed and shambling, but of great endurance, and capable of jogging
along all day, even when between the knees of the huge archer, who turned
the scale at two hundred and seventy pounds. They took with them the
sumpter mules, which carried in panniers the wardrobe and table furniture
of Sir Nigel; for the knight, though neither fop nor epicure, was very
dainty in small matters, and loved, however bare the board or hard the
life, that his napery should still be white and his spoon of silver.

There had been frost during the night, and the white hard road rang loud
under their horses’ irons as they spurred through the east gate of the
town, along the same broad highway which the unknown French champion had
traversed on the day of the jousts. The three rode abreast, Alleyne
Edricson with his eyes cast down and his mind distrait, for his thoughts
were busy with the conversation which he had had with Sir Nigel in the
morning. Had he done well to say so much, or had he not done better to
have said more? What would the knight have said had he confessed to his
love for the Lady Maude? Would he cast him off in disgrace, or might he
chide him as having abused the shelter of his roof? It had been ready upon
his tongue to tell him all when Sir Oliver had broken in upon them.
Perchance Sir Nigel, with his love of all the dying usages of chivalry,
might have contrived some strange ordeal or feat of arms by which his love
should be put to the test. Alleyne smiled as he wondered what fantastic
and wondrous deed would be exacted from him. Whatever it was, he was ready
for it, whether it were to hold the lists in the court of the King of
Tartary, to carry a cartel to the Sultan of Baghdad, or to serve a term
against the wild heathen of Prussia. Sir Nigel had said that his birth was
high enough for any lady, if his fortune could but be amended. Often had
Alleyne curled his lip at the beggarly craving for land or for gold which
blinded man to the higher and more lasting issues of life. Now it seemed
as though it were only by this same land and gold that he might hope to
reach his heart’s desire. But then, again, the Socman of Minstead was no
friend to the Constable of Twynham Castle. It might happen that, should he
amass riches by some happy fortune of war, this feud might hold the two
families aloof. Even if Maude loved him, he knew her too well to think
that she would wed him without the blessing of her father. Dark and murky
was it all, but hope mounts high in youth, and it ever fluttered over all
the turmoil of his thoughts like a white plume amid the shock of horsemen.

If Alleyne Edricson had enough to ponder over as he rode through the bare
plains of Guienne, his two companions were more busy with the present and
less thoughtful of the future. Aylward rode for half a mile with his chin
upon his shoulder, looking back at a white kerchief which fluttered out of
the gable window of a high house which peeped over the corner of the
battlements. When at last a dip of the road hid it from his view, he
cocked his steel cap, shrugged his broad shoulders, and rode on with
laughter in his eyes, and his weather-beaten face all ashine with pleasant
memories. John also rode in silence, but his eyes wandered slowly from one
side of the road to the other, and he stared and pondered and nodded his
head like a traveller who makes his notes and saves them up for the
re-telling.

“By the rood!” he broke out suddenly, slapping his thigh with his great
red hand, “I knew that there was something a-missing, but I could not
bring to my mind what it was.”

“What was it then?” asked Alleyne, coming with a start out of his reverie.

“Why, it is the hedgerows,” roared John, with a shout of laughter. “The
country is all scraped as clear as a friar’s poll. But indeed I cannot
think much of the folk in these parts. Why do they not get to work and dig
up these long rows of black and crooked stumps which I see on every hand?
A franklin of Hampshire would think shame to have such litter upon his
soil.”

“Thou foolish old John!” quoth Aylward. “You should know better, since I
have heard that the monks of Beaulieu could squeeze a good cup of wine
from their own grapes. Know then that if these rows were dug up the wealth
of the country would be gone, and mayhap there would be dry throats and
gaping mouths in England, for in three months’ time these black roots will
blossom and shoot and burgeon, and from them will come many a good
ship-load of Medoc and Gascony which will cross the narrow seas. But see
the church in the hollow, and the folk who cluster in the churchyard! By
my hilt! it is a burial, and there is a passing bell!” He pulled off his
steel cap as he spoke and crossed himself, with a muttered prayer for the
repose of the dead.

“There too,” remarked Alleyne, as they rode on again, “that which seems to
the eye to be dead is still full of the sap of life, even as the vines
were. Thus God hath written Himself and His laws very broadly on all that
is around us, if our poor dull eyes and duller souls could but read what
He hath set before us.”

“Ha! mon petit,” cried the bowman, “you take me back to the days when you
were new fledged, as sweet a little chick as ever pecked his way out of a
monkish egg. I had feared that in gaining our debonair young man-at-arms
we had lost our soft-spoken clerk. In truth, I have noted much change in
you since we came from Twynham Castle.”

“Surely it would be strange else, seeing that I have lived in a world so
new to me. Yet I trust that there are many things in which I have not
changed. If I have turned to serve an earthly master, and to carry arms
for an earthly king, it would be an ill thing if I were to lose all
thought of the great high King and Master of all, whose humble and
unworthy servant I was ere ever I left Beaulieu. You, John, are also from
the cloisters, but I trow that you do not feel that you have deserted the
old service in taking on the new.”

“I am a slow-witted man,” said John, “and, in sooth, when I try to think
about such matters it casts a gloom upon me. Yet I do not look upon myself
as a worse man in an archer’s jerkin than I was in a white cowl, if that
be what you mean.”

“You have but changed from one white company to the other,” quoth Aylward.
“But, by these ten finger-bones! it is a passing strange thing to me to
think that it was but in the last fall of the leaf that we walked from
Lyndhurst together, he so gentle and maidenly, and you, John, like a great
red-limbed overgrown moon-calf; and now here you are as sprack a squire
and as lusty an archer as ever passed down the highway from Bordeaux,
while I am still the same old Samkin Aylward, with never a change, save
that I have a few more sins on my soul and a few less crowns in my pouch.
But I have never yet heard, John, what the reason was why you should come
out of Beaulieu.”

“There were seven reasons,” said John thoughtfully. “The first of them was
that they threw me out.”

“Ma foi! camarade, to the devil with the other six! That is enough for me
and for thee also. I can see that they are very wise and discreet folk at
Beaulieu. Ah! mon ange, what have you in the pipkin?”

“It is milk, worthy sir,” answered the peasant-maid, who stood by the door
of a cottage with a jug in her hand. “Would it please you, gentles, that I
should bring you out three horns of it?”

“Nay, ma petite, but here is a two-sous piece for thy kindly tongue and
for the sight of thy pretty face. Ma foi! but she has a bonne mine. I have
a mind to bide and speak with her.”

“Nay, nay, Aylward,” cried Alleyne. “Sir Nigel will await us, and he in
haste.”

“True, true, camarade! Adieu, ma cherie! mon coeur est toujours a toi. Her
mother is a well-grown woman also. See where she digs by the wayside. Ma
foi! the riper fruit is ever the sweeter. Bon jour, ma belle dame! God
have you in his keeping! Said Sir Nigel where he would await us?”

“At Marmande or Aiguillon. He said that we could not pass him, seeing that
there is but the one road.”

“Aye, and it is a road that I know as I know the Midhurst parish butts,”
quoth the bowman. “Thirty times have I journeyed it, forward and backward,
and, by the twang of string! I am wont to come back this way more laden
than I went. I have carried all that I had into France in a wallet, and it
hath taken four sumpter-mules to carry it back again. God’s benison on the
man who first turned his hand to the making of war! But there, down in the
dingle, is the church of Cardillac, and you may see the inn where three
poplars grow beyond the village. Let us on, for a stoup of wine would
hearten us upon our way.”

The highway had lain through the swelling vineyard country, which
stretched away to the north and east in gentle curves, with many a peeping
spire and feudal tower, and cluster of village houses, all clear cut and
hard in the bright wintry air. To their right stretched the blue Garonne,
running swiftly seawards, with boats and barges dotted over its broad
bosom. On the other side lay a strip of vineyard, and beyond it the
desolate and sandy region of the Landes, all tangled with faded gorse and
heath and broom, stretching away in unbroken gloom to the blue hills which
lay low upon the furthest sky-line. Behind them might still be seen the
broad estuary of the Gironde, with the high towers of Saint Andre and
Saint Remi shooting up from the plain. In front, amid radiating lines of
poplars, lay the riverside townlet of Cardillac—gray walls, white
houses, and a feather of blue smoke.

“This is the ‘Mouton d’Or,’” said Aylward, as they pulled up their horses
at a whitewashed straggling hostel. “What ho there!” he continued, beating
upon the door with the hilt of his sword. “Tapster, ostler, varlet, hark
hither, and a wannion on your lazy limbs! Ha! Michel, as red in the nose
as ever! Three jacks of the wine of the country, Michel—for the air
bites shrewdly. I pray you, Alleyne, to take note of this door, for I have
a tale concerning it.”

“Tell me, friend,” said Alleyne to the portly red-faced inn-keeper, “has a
knight and a squire passed this way within the hour?”

“Nay, sir, it would be two hours back. Was he a small man, weak in the
eyes, with a want of hair, and speaks very quiet when he is most to be
feared?”

“The same,” the squire answered. “But I marvel how you should know how he
speaks when he is in wrath, for he is very gentle-minded with those who
are beneath him.”

“Praise to the saints! it was not I who angered him,” said the fat Michel.

“Who, then?”

“It was young Sieur de Crespigny of Saintonge, who chanced to be here, and
made game of the Englishman, seeing that he was but a small man and hath a
face which is full of peace. But indeed this good knight was a very quiet
and patient man, for he saw that the Sieur de Crespigny was still young
and spoke from an empty head, so he sat his horse and quaffed his wine,
even as you are doing now, all heedless of the clacking tongue.”

“And what then, Michel?”

“Well, messieurs, it chanced that the Sieur de Crespigny, having said this
and that, for the laughter of the varlets, cried out at last about the
glove that the knight wore in his coif, asking if it was the custom in
England for a man to wear a great archer’s glove in his cap. Pardieu! I
have never seen a man get off his horse as quick as did that stranger
Englishman. Ere the words were past the other’s lips he was beside him,
his face nigh touching, and his breath hot upon his cheeks. ‘I think,
young sir,’ quoth he softly, looking into the other’s eyes, ‘that now that
I am nearer you will very clearly see that the glove is not an archer’s
glove.’ ‘Perchance not,’ said the Sieur de Crespigny with a twitching lip.
‘Nor is it large, but very small,’ quoth the Englishman. ‘Less large than
I had thought,’ said the other, looking down, for the knight’s gaze was
heavy upon his eyelids. ‘And in every way such a glove as might be worn by
the fairest and sweetest lady in England,’ quoth the Englishman. ‘It may
be so,’ said the Sieur de Crespigny, turning his face from him. ‘I am
myself weak in the eyes, and have often taken one thing for another,’
quoth the knight, as he sprang back into his saddle and rode off, leaving
the Sieur de Crespigny biting his nails before the door. Ha! by the five
wounds, many men of war have drunk my wine, but never one was more to my
fancy than this little Englishman.”

“By my hilt! he is our master, Michel,” quoth Aylward, “and such men as we
do not serve under a laggart. But here are four deniers, Michel, and God
be with you! En avant, camarades! for we have a long road before us.”

At a brisk trot the three friends left Cardillac and its wine-house behind
them, riding without a halt past St. Macaire, and on by ferry over the
river Dorpt. At the further side the road winds through La Reolle,
Bazaille, and Marmande, with the sunlit river still gleaming upon the
right, and the bare poplars bristling up upon either side. John and
Alleyne rode silent on either side, but every inn, farm-steading, or
castle brought back to Aylward some remembrance of love, foray, or
plunder, with which to beguile the way.

“There is the smoke from Bazas, on the further side of Garonne,” quoth he.
“There were three sisters yonder, the daughters of a farrier, and, by
these ten finger-bones! a man might ride for a long June day and never set
eyes upon such maidens. There was Marie, tall and grave, and Blanche
petite and gay, and the dark Agnes, with eyes that went through you like a
waxed arrow. I lingered there as long as four days, and was betrothed to
them all; for it seemed shame to set one above her sisters, and might make
ill blood in the family. Yet, for all my care, things were not merry in
the house, and I thought it well to come away. There, too, is the mill of
Le Souris. Old Pierre Le Caron, who owned it, was a right good comrade,
and had ever a seat and a crust for a weary archer. He was a man who
wrought hard at all that he turned his hand to; but he heated himself in
grinding bones to mix with his flour, and so through over-diligence he
brought a fever upon himself and died.”

“Tell me, Aylward,” said Alleyne, “what was amiss with the door of yonder
inn that you should ask me to observe it.”

“Pardieu! yes, I had well-nigh forgot. What saw you on yonder door?”

“I saw a square hole, through which doubtless the host may peep when he is
not too sure of those who knock.”

“And saw you naught else?”

“I marked that beneath this hole there was a deep cut in the door, as
though a great nail had been driven in.”

“And naught else?”

“No.”

“Had you looked more closely you might have seen that there was a stain
upon the wood. The first time that I ever heard my comrade Black Simon
laugh was in front of that door. I heard him once again when he slew a
French squire with his teeth, he being unarmed and the Frenchman having a
dagger.”

“And why did Simon laugh in front of the inn-door!” asked John.

“Simon is a hard and perilous man when he hath the bitter drop in him;
and, by my hilt! he was born for war, for there is little sweetness or
rest in him. This inn, the ‘Mouton d’Or,’ was kept in the old days by one
Francois Gourval, who had a hard fist and a harder heart. It was said that
many and many an archer coming from the wars had been served with wine
with simples in it, until he slept, and had then been stripped of all by
this Gourval. Then on the morrow, if he made complaint, this wicked
Gourval would throw him out upon the road or beat him, for he was a very
lusty man, and had many stout varlets in his service. This chanced to come
to Simon’s ears when we were at Bordeaux together, and he would have it
that we should ride to Cardillac with a good hempen cord, and give this
Gourval such a scourging as he merited. Forth we rode then, but when we
came to the ‘Mouton d’Or,’ Gourval had had word of our coming and its
purpose, so that the door was barred, nor was there any way into the
house. ‘Let us in, good Master Gourval!’ cried Simon, and ‘Let us in, good
Master Gourval!’ cried I, but no word could we get through the hole in the
door, save that he would draw an arrow upon us unless we went on our way.
‘Well, Master Gourval,’ quoth Simon at last, ‘this is but a sorry welcome,
seeing that we have ridden so far just to shake you by the hand.’ ‘Canst
shake me by the hand without coming in,’ said Gourval. ‘And how that?’
asked Simon. ‘By passing in your hand through the hole,’ said he. ‘Nay, my
hand is wounded,’ quoth Simon, ‘and of such a size that I cannot pass it
in.’ ‘That need not hinder,’ said Gourval, who was hot to be rid of us,
‘pass in your left hand.’ ‘But I have something for thee, Gourval,’ said
Simon. ‘What then?’ he asked. ‘There was an English archer who slept here
last week of the name of Hugh of Nutbourne.’ ‘We have had many rogues
here,’ said Gourval. ‘His conscience hath been heavy within him because he
owes you a debt of fourteen deniers, having drunk wine for which he hath
never paid. For the easing of his soul, he asked me to pay the money to
you as I passed.’ Now this Gourval was very greedy for money, so he thrust
forth his hand for the fourteen deniers, but Simon had his dagger ready
and he pinned his hand to the door. ‘I have paid the Englishman’s debt,
Gourval!’ quoth he, and so rode away, laughing so that he could scarce sit
his horse, leaving mine host still nailed to his door. Such is the story
of the hole which you have marked, and of the smudge upon the wood. I have
heard that from that time English archers have been better treated in the
auberge of Cardillac. But what have we here by the wayside?”

“It appears to be a very holy man,” said Alleyne.

“And, by the rood! he hath some strange wares,” cried John. “What are
these bits of stone, and of wood, and rusted nails, which are set out in
front of him?”

The man whom they had remarked sat with his back against a cherry-tree,
and his legs shooting out in front of him, like one who is greatly at his
ease. Across his thighs was a wooden board, and scattered over it all
manner of slips of wood and knobs of brick and stone, each laid separate
from the other, as a huckster places his wares. He was dressed in a long
gray gown, and wore a broad hat of the same color, much weather-stained,
with three scallop-shells dangling from the brim. As they approached, the
travellers observed that he was advanced in years, and that his eyes were
upturned and yellow.

“Dear knights and gentlemen,” he cried in a high crackling voice, “worthy
Christian cavaliers, will ye ride past and leave an aged pilgrim to die of
hunger? The sight hast been burned from mine eyes by the sands of the Holy
Land, and I have had neither crust of bread nor cup of wine these two days
past.”

“By my hilt! father,” said Aylward, looking keenly at him, “it is a marvel
to me that thy girdle should have so goodly a span and clip thee so
closely, if you have in sooth had so little to place within it.”

“Kind stranger,” answered the pilgrim, “you have unwittingly spoken words
which are very grievous to me to listen to. Yet I should be loth to blame
you, for I doubt not that what you said was not meant to sadden me, nor to
bring my sore affliction back to my mind. It ill becomes me to prate too
much of what I have endured for the faith, and yet, since you have
observed it, I must tell you that this thickness and roundness of the
waist is caused by a dropsy brought on by over-haste in journeying from
the house of Pilate to the Mount of Olives.”

“There, Aylward,” said Alleyne, with a reddened cheek, “let that curb your
blunt tongue. How could you bring a fresh pang to this holy man, who hath
endured so much and hath journeyed as far as Christ’s own blessed tomb?”

“May the foul fiend strike me dumb!” cried the bowman in hot repentance;
but both the palmer and Alleyne threw up their hands to stop him.

“I forgive thee from my heart, dear brother,” piped the blind man. “But,
oh, these wild words of thine are worse to mine ears than aught which you
could say of me.”

“Not another word shall I speak,” said Aylward; “but here is a franc for
thee and I crave thy blessing.”

“And here is another,” said Alleyne.

“And another,” cried Hordle John.

But the blind palmer would have none of their alms. “Foolish, foolish
pride!” he cried, beating upon his chest with his large brown hand.
“Foolish, foolish pride! How long then will it be ere I can scourge it
forth? Am I then never to conquer it? Oh, strong, strong are the ties of
flesh, and hard it is to subdue the spirit! I come, friends, of a noble
house, and I cannot bring myself to touch this money, even though it be to
save me from the grave.”

“Alas! father,” said Alleyne, “how then can we be of help to thee?”

“I had sat down here to die,” quoth the palmer; “but for many years I have
carried in my wallet these precious things which you see set forth now
before me. It were sin, thought I, that my secret should perish with me. I
shall therefore sell these things to the first worthy passers-by, and from
them I shall have money enough to take me to the shrine of Our Lady at
Rocamadour, where I hope to lay these old bones.”

“What are these treasures, then, father?” asked Hordle John. “I can but
see an old rusty nail, with bits of stone and slips of wood.”

“My friend,” answered the palmer, “not all the money that is in this
country could pay a just price for these wares of mine. This nail,” he
continued, pulling off his hat and turning up his sightless orbs, “is one
of those wherewith man’s salvation was secured. I had it, together with
this piece of the true rood, from the five-and-twentieth descendant of
Joseph of Arimathea, who still lives in Jerusalem alive and well, though
latterly much afflicted by boils. Aye, you may well cross yourselves, and
I beg that you will not breathe upon it or touch it with your fingers.”

“And the wood and stone, holy father?” asked Alleyne, with bated breath,
as he stared awe-struck at his precious relics.

“This cantle of wood is from the true cross, this other from Noah his ark,
and the third is from the door-post of the temple of the wise King
Solomon. This stone was thrown at the sainted Stephen, and the other two
are from the Tower of Babel. Here, too, is part of Aaron’s rod, and a lock
of hair from Elisha the prophet.”

“But, father,” quoth Alleyne, “the holy Elisha was bald, which brought
down upon him the revilements of the wicked children.”

“It is very true that he had not much hair,” said the palmer quickly, “and
it is this which makes this relic so exceeding precious. Take now your
choice of these, my worthy gentlemen, and pay such a price as your
consciences will suffer you to offer; for I am not a chapman nor a
huckster, and I would never part with them, did I not know that I am very
near to my reward.”

“Aylward,” said Alleyne excitedly, “this is such a chance as few folk have
twice in one life. The nail I must have, and I will give it to the abbey
of Beaulieu, so that all the folk in England may go thither to wonder and
to pray.”

“And I will have the stone from the temple,” cried Hordle John. “What
would not my old mother give to have it hung over her bed?”

“And I will have Aaron’s rod,” quoth Aylward. “I have but five florins in
the world, and here are four of them.”

“Here are three more,” said John.

“And here are five more,” added Alleyne. “Holy father, I hand you twelve
florins, which is all that we can give, though we well know how poor a pay
it is for the wondrous things which you sell us.”

“Down, pride, down!” cried the pilgrim, still beating upon his chest. “Can
I not bend myself then to take this sorry sum which is offered me for that
which has cost me the labors of a life. Give me the dross! Here are the
precious relics, and, oh, I pray you that you will handle them softly and
with reverence, else had I rather left my unworthy bones here by the
wayside.”

With doffed caps and eager hands, the comrades took their new and precious
possessions, and pressed onwards upon their journey, leaving the aged
palmer still seated under the cherry-tree. They rode in silence, each with
his treasure in his hand, glancing at it from time to time, and scarce
able to believe that chance had made them sole owners of relics of such
holiness and worth that every abbey and church in Christendom would have
bid eagerly for their possession. So they journeyed, full of this good
fortune, until opposite the town of Le Mas, where John’s horse cast a
shoe, and they were glad to find a wayside smith who might set the matter
to rights. To him Aylward narrated the good hap which had befallen them;
but the smith, when his eyes lit upon the relics, leaned up against his
anvil and laughed, with his hand to his side, until the tears hopped down
his sooty cheeks.

“Why, masters,” quoth he, “this man is a coquillart, or seller of false
relics, and was here in the smithy not two hours ago. This nail that he
hath sold you was taken from my nail-box, and as to the wood and the
stones, you will see a heap of both outside from which he hath filled his
scrip.”

“Nay, nay,” cried Alleyne, “this was a holy man who had journeyed to
Jerusalem, and acquired a dropsy by running from the house of Pilate to
the Mount of Olives.”

“I know not about that,” said the smith; “but I know that a man with a
gray palmer’s hat and gown was here no very long time ago, and that he sat
on yonder stump and ate a cold pullet and drank a flask of wine. Then he
begged from me one of my nails, and filling his scrip with stones, he went
upon his way. Look at these nails, and see if they are not the same as
that which he has sold you.”

“Now may God save us!” cried Alleyne, all aghast. “Is there no end then to
the wickedness of humankind? He so humble, so aged, so loth to take our
money—and yet a villain and a cheat. Whom can we trust or believe
in?”

“I will after him,” said Aylward, flinging himself into the saddle. “Come,
Alleyne, we may catch him ere John’s horse be shod.”

Away they galloped together, and ere long they saw the old gray palmer
walking slowly along in front of them. He turned, however, at the sound of
their hoofs, and it was clear that his blindness was a cheat like all the
rest of him, for he ran swiftly through a field and so into a wood, where
none could follow him. They hurled their relics after him, and so rode
back to the blacksmith’s the poorer both in pocket and in faith.

CHAPTER XXVII. HOW ROGER CLUB-FOOT WAS PASSED INTO PARADISE.

It was evening before the three comrades came into Aiguillon. There they
found Sir Nigel Loring and Ford safely lodged at the sign of the “Baton
Rouge,” where they supped on good fare and slept between lavender-scented
sheets. It chanced, however, that a knight of Poitou, Sir Gaston
d’Estelle, was staying there on his way back from Lithuania, where he had
served a term with the Teutonic knights under the land-master of the
presbytery of Marienberg. He and Sir Nigel sat late in high converse as to
bushments, outfalls, and the intaking of cities, with many tales of
warlike men and valiant deeds. Then their talk turned to minstrelsy, and
the stranger knight drew forth a cittern, upon which he played the
minne-lieder of the north, singing the while in a high cracked voice of
Hildebrand and Brunhild and Siegfried, and all the strength and beauty of
the land of Almain. To this Sir Nigel answered with the romances of Sir
Eglamour, and of Sir Isumbras, and so through the long winter night they
sat by the crackling wood-fire answering each other’s songs until the
crowing cocks joined in their concert. Yet, with scarce an hour of rest,
Sir Nigel was as blithe and bright as ever as they set forth after
breakfast upon their way.

“This Sir Gaston is a very worthy man,” said he to his squires as they
rode from the “Baton Rouge.” “He hath a very strong desire to advance
himself, and would have entered upon some small knightly debate with me,
had he not chanced to have his arm-bone broken by the kick of a horse. I
have conceived a great love for him, and I have promised him that when his
bone is mended I will exchange thrusts with him. But we must keep to this
road upon the left.”

“Nay, my fair lord,” quoth Aylward. “The road to Montaubon is over the
river, and so through Quercy and the Agenois.”

“True, my good Aylward; but I have learned from this worthy knight, who
hath come over the French marches, that there is a company of Englishmen
who are burning and plundering in the country round Villefranche. I have
little doubt, from what he says, that they are those whom we seek.”

“By my hilt! it is like enough,” said Aylward. “By all accounts they had
been so long at Montaubon, that there would be little there worth the
taking. Then as they have already been in the south, they would come north
to the country of the Aveyron.”

“We shall follow the Lot until we come to Cahors, and then cross the
marches into Villefranche,” said Sir Nigel. “By St. Paul! as we are but a
small band, it is very likely that we may have some very honorable and
pleasing adventure, for I hear that there is little peace upon the French
border.”

All morning they rode down a broad and winding road, barred with the
shadows of poplars. Sir Nigel rode in front with his squires, while the
two archers followed behind with the sumpter mule between them. They had
left Aiguillon and the Garonne far to the south, and rode now by the
tranquil Lot, which curves blue and placid through a gently rolling
country. Alleyne could not but mark that, whereas in Guienne there had
been many townlets and few castles, there were now many castles and few
houses. On either hand gray walls and square grim keeps peeped out at
every few miles from amid the forests while the few villages which they
passed were all ringed round with rude walls, which spoke of the constant
fear and sudden foray of a wild frontier land. Twice during the morning
there came bands of horsemen swooping down upon them from the black
gateways of wayside strongholds, with short, stern questions as to whence
they came and what their errand. Bands of armed men clanked along the
highway, and the few lines of laden mules which carried the merchandise of
the trader were guarded by armed varlets, or by archers hired for the
service.

“The peace of Bretigny hath not made much change in these parts,” quoth
Sir Nigel, “for the country is overrun with free companions and masterless
men. Yonder towers, between the wood and the hill, mark the town of
Cahors, and beyond it is the land of France. But here is a man by the
wayside, and as he hath two horses and a squire I make little doubt that
he is a knight. I pray you, Alleyne, to give him greeting from me, and to
ask him for his titles and coat-armor. It may be that I can relieve him of
some vow, or perchance he hath a lady whom he would wish to advance.”

“Nay, my fair lord,” said Alleyne, “these are not horses and a squire, but
mules and a varlet. The man is a mercer, for he hath a great bundle beside
him.”

“Now, God’s blessing on your honest English voice!” cried the stranger,
pricking up his ears at the sound of Alleyne’s words. “Never have I heard
music that was so sweet to mine ear. Come, Watkin lad, throw the bales
over Laura’s back! My heart was nigh broke, for it seemed that I had left
all that was English behind me, and that I would never set eyes upon
Norwich market square again.” He was a tall, lusty, middle-aged man with a
ruddy face, a brown forked beard shot with gray, and a broad Flanders hat
set at the back of his head. His servant, as tall as himself, but gaunt
and raw-boned, had swung the bales on the back of one mule, while the
merchant mounted upon the other and rode to join the party. It was easy to
see, as he approached, from the quality of his dress and the richness of
his trappings, that he was a man of some wealth and position.

“Sir knight,” said he, “my name is David Micheldene, and I am a burgher
and alderman of the good town of Norwich, where I live five doors from the
church of Our Lady, as all men know on the banks of Yare. I have here my
bales of cloth which I carry to Cahors—woe worth the day that ever I
started on such an errand! I crave your gracious protection upon the way
for me, my servant, and my mercery; for I have already had many perilous
passages, and have now learned that Roger Club-foot, the robber-knight of
Quercy, is out upon the road in front of me. I hereby agree to give you
one rose-noble if you bring me safe to the inn of the ‘Angel’ in Cahors,
the same to be repaid to me or my heirs if any harm come to me or my
goods.”

“By Saint Paul!” answered Sir Nigel, “I should be a sorry knight if I ask
pay for standing by a countryman in a strange land. You may ride with me
and welcome, Master Micheldene, and your varlet may follow with my
archers.”

“God’s benison upon thy bounty!” cried the stranger. “Should you come to
Norwich you may have cause to remember that you have been of service to
Alderman Micheldene. It is not very far to Cahors, for surely I see the
cathedral towers against the sky-line; but I have heard much of this Roger
Clubfoot, and the more I hear the less do I wish to look upon his face.
Oh, but I am sick and weary of it all, and I would give half that I am
worth to see my good dame sitting in peace beside me, and to hear the
bells of Norwich town.”

“Your words are strange to me,” quoth Sir Nigel, “for you have the
appearance of a stout man, and I see that you wear a sword by your side.”

“Yet it is not my trade,” answered the merchant. “I doubt not that if I
set you down in my shop at Norwich you might scarce tell fustian from
falding, and know little difference between the velvet of Genoa and the
three-piled cloth of Bruges. There you might well turn to me for help. But
here on a lone roadside, with thick woods and robber-knights, I turn to
you, for it is the business to which you have been reared.”

“There is sooth in what you say, Master Micheldene,” said Sir Nigel, “and
I trust that we may come upon this Roger Clubfoot, for I have heard that
he is a very stout and skilful soldier, and a man from whom much honor is
to be gained.”

“He is a bloody robber,” said the trader, curtly, “and I wish I saw him
kicking at the end of a halter.”

“It is such men as he,” Sir Nigel remarked, “who give the true knight
honorable deeds to do, whereby he may advance himself.”

“It is such men as he,” retorted Micheldene, “who are like rats in a
wheat-rick or moths in a woolfels, a harm and a hindrance to all peaceful
and honest men.”

“Yet, if the dangers of the road weigh so heavily upon you, master
alderman, it is a great marvel to me that you should venture so far from
home.”

“And sometimes, sir knight, it is a marvel to myself. But I am a man who
may grutch and grumble, but when I have set my face to do a thing I will
not turn my back upon it until it be done. There is one, Francois Villet,
at Cahors, who will send me wine-casks for my cloth-bales, so to Cahors I
will go, though all the robber-knights of Christendom were to line the
roads like yonder poplars.”

“Stoutly spoken, master alderman! But how have you fared hitherto?”

“As a lamb fares in a land of wolves. Five times we have had to beg and
pray ere we could pass. Twice I have paid toll to the wardens of the road.
Three times we have had to draw, and once at La Reolle we stood over our
wool-bales, Watkin and I, and we laid about us for as long as a man might
chant a litany, slaying one rogue and wounding two others. By God’s coif!
we are men of peace, but we are free English burghers, not to be
mishandled either in our country or abroad. Neither lord, baron, knight,
or commoner shall have as much as a strike of flax of mine whilst I have
strength to wag this sword.”

“And a passing strange sword it is,” quoth Sir Nigel. “What make you,
Alleyne, of these black lines which are drawn across the sheath?”

“I cannot tell what they are, my fair lord.”

“Nor can I,” said Ford.

The merchant chuckled to himself. “It was a thought of mine own,” said he;
“for the sword was made by Thomas Wilson, the armorer, who is betrothed to
my second daughter Margery. Know then that the sheath is one cloth-yard,
in length, marked off according to feet and inches to serve me as a
measuring wand. It is also of the exact weight of two pounds, so that I
may use it in the balance.”

“By Saint Paul!” quoth Sir Nigel, “it is very clear to me that the sword
is like thyself, good alderman, apt either for war or for peace. But I
doubt not that even in England you have had much to suffer from the hands
of robbers and outlaws.”

“It was only last Lammastide, sir knight, that I was left for dead near
Reading as I journeyed to Winchester fair. Yet I had the rogues up at the
court of pie-powder, and they will harm no more peaceful traders.”

“You travel much then!”

“To Winchester, Linn mart, Bristol fair, Stourbridge, and Bartholomew’s in
London Town. The rest of the year you may ever find me five doors from the
church of Our Lady, where I would from my heart that I was at this moment,
for there is no air like Norwich air, and no water like the Yare, nor can
all the wines of France compare with the beer of old Sam Yelverton who
keeps the ‘Dun Cow.’ But, out and alack, here is an evil fruit which hangs
upon this chestnut-tree!”

As he spoke they had ridden round a curve of the road and come upon a
great tree which shot one strong brown branch across their path. From the
centre of this branch there hung a man, with his head at a horrid slant to
his body and his toes just touching the ground. He was naked save for a
linen under shirt and pair of woollen drawers. Beside him on a green bank
there sat a small man with a solemn face, and a great bundle of papers of
all colors thrusting forth from the scrip which lay beside him. He was
very richly dressed, with furred robes, a scarlet hood, and wide hanging
sleeves lined with flame-colored silk. A great gold chain hung round his
neck, and rings glittered from every finger of his hands. On his lap he
had a little pile of gold and of silver, which he was dropping, coin by
coin, into a plump pouch which hung from his girdle.

“May the saints be with you, good travellers!” he shouted, as the party
rode up. “May the four Evangelists watch over you! May the twelve Apostles
bear you up! May the blessed army of martyrs direct your feet and lead you
to eternal bliss!”

“Gramercy for these good wishes!” said Sir Nigel. “But I perceive, master
alderman, that this man who hangs here is, by mark of foot, the very
robber-knight of whom we have spoken. But there is a cartel pinned upon
his breast, and I pray you, Alleyne, to read it to me.”

The dead robber swung slowly to and fro in the wintry wind, a fixed smile
upon his swarthy face, and his bulging eyes still glaring down the highway
of which he had so long been the terror; on a sheet of parchment upon his
breast was printed in rude characters;

                    ROGER PIED-BOT.

              Par l'ordre du Senechal de
              Castelnau, et de l'Echevin de
              Cahors, servantes fideles du
              tres vaillant et tres puissant
              Edouard, Prince de Galles et
              d'Aquitaine.
              Ne touchez pas,
              Ne coutez pas,
              Ne depechez pas.

“He took a sorry time in dying,” said the man who sat beside him. “He
could stretch one toe to the ground and bear himself up, so that I
thought he would never have done. Now at last, however, he is safely in
paradise, and so I may jog on upon my earthly way.” He mounted, as he
spoke, a white mule which had been grazing by the wayside, all gay with
fustian of gold and silver bells, and rode onward with Sir Nigel’s party.

“How know you then that he is in paradise?” asked Sir Nigel. “All things
are possible to God, but, certes, without a miracle, I should scarce
expect to find the soul of Roger Clubfoot amongst the just.”

“I know that he is there because I have just passed him in there,”
answered the stranger, rubbing his bejewelled hands together in placid
satisfaction. “It is my holy mission to be a sompnour or pardoner. I am
the unworthy servant and delegate of him who holds the keys. A contrite
heart and ten nobles to holy mother Church may stave off perdition; but he
hath a pardon of the first degree, with a twenty-five livre benison, so
that I doubt if he will so much as feel a twinge of purgatory. I came up
even as the seneschal’s archers were tying him up, and I gave him my
fore-word that I would bide with him until he had passed. There were two
leaden crowns among the silver, but I would not for that stand in the way
of his salvation.”

“By Saint Paul!” said Sir Nigel, “if you have indeed this power to open
and to shut the gates of hope, then indeed you stand high above mankind.
But if you do but claim to have it, and yet have it not, then it seems to
me, master clerk, that you may yourself find the gate barred when you
shall ask admittance.”

“Small of faith! Small of faith!” cried the sompnour. “Ah, Sir Didymus yet
walks upon earth! And yet no words of doubt can bring anger to mine heart,
or a bitter word to my lip, for am I not a poor unworthy worker in the
cause of gentleness and peace? Of all these pardons which I bear every one
is stamped and signed by our holy father, the prop and centre of
Christendom.”

“Which of them?” asked Sir Nigel.

“Ha, ha!” cried the pardoner, shaking a jewelled forefinger. “Thou wouldst
be deep in the secrets of mother Church? Know then that I have both in my
scrip. Those who hold with Urban shall have Urban’s pardon, while I have
Clement’s for the Clementist—or he who is in doubt may have both, so
that come what may he shall be secure. I pray you that you will buy one,
for war is bloody work, and the end is sudden with little time for thought
or shrift. Or you, sir, for you seem to me to be a man who would do ill to
trust to your own merits.” This to the alderman of Norwich, who had
listened to him with a frowning brow and a sneering lip.

“When I sell my cloth,” quoth he, “he who buys may weigh and feel and
handle. These goods which you sell are not to be seen, nor is there any
proof that you hold them. Certes, if mortal man might control God’s mercy,
it would be one of a lofty and God-like life, and not one who is decked
out with rings and chains and silks, like a pleasure-wench at a kermesse.

“Thou wicked and shameless man!” cried the clerk. “Dost thou dare to raise
thy voice against the unworthy servant of mother Church?”

“Unworthy enough!” quoth David Micheldene. “I would have you to know,
clerk, that I am a free English burgher, and that I dare say my mind to
our father the Pope himself, let alone such a lacquey’s lacquey as you!”

“Base-born and foul-mouthed knave!” cried the sompnour. “You prate of holy
things, to which your hog’s mind can never rise. Keep silence, lest I call
a curse upon you!”

“Silence yourself!” roared the other. “Foul bird! we found thee by the
gallows like a carrion-crow. A fine life thou hast of it with thy silks
and thy baubles, cozening the last few shillings from the pouches of dying
men. A fig for thy curse! Bide here, if you will take my rede, for we will
make England too hot for such as you, when Master Wicliff has the ordering
of it. Thou vile thief! it is you, and such as you, who bring an evil name
upon the many churchmen who lead a pure and a holy life. Thou outside the
door of heaven! Art more like to be inside the door of hell.”

At this crowning insult the sompnour, with a face ashen with rage, raised
up a quivering hand and began pouring Latin imprecations upon the angry
alderman. The latter, however, was not a man to be quelled by words, for
he caught up his ell-measure sword-sheath and belabored the cursing clerk
with it. The latter, unable to escape from the shower of blows, set spurs
to his mule and rode for his life, with his enemy thundering behind him.
At sight of his master’s sudden departure, the varlet Watkin set off after
him, with the pack-mule beside him, so that the four clattered away down
the road together, until they swept round a curve and their babble was but
a drone in the distance. Sir Nigel and Alleyne gazed in astonishment at
one another, while Ford burst out a-laughing.

“Pardieu!” said the knight, “this David Micheldene must be one of those
Lollards about whom Father Christopher of the priory had so much to say.
Yet he seemed to be no bad man from what I have seen of him.”

“I have heard that Wicliff hath many followers in Norwich,” answered
Alleyne.

“By St. Paul! I have no great love for them,” quoth Sir Nigel. “I am a man
who am slow to change; and, if you take away from me the faith that I have
been taught, it would be long ere I could learn one to set in its place.
It is but a chip here and a chip there, yet it may bring the tree down in
time. Yet, on the other hand, I cannot but think it shame that a man
should turn God’s mercy on and off, as a cellarman doth wine with a
spigot.”

“Nor is it,” said Alleyne, “part of the teachings of that mother Church of
which he had so much to say. There was sooth in what the alderman said of
it.”

“Then, by St. Paul! they may settle it betwixt them,” quoth Sir Nigel.
“For me, I serve God, the king and my lady; and so long as I can keep the
path of honor I am well content. My creed shall ever be that of Chandos:

        “Fais ce que dois—adviegne que peut,
         C'est commande au chevalier.”
 

CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW THE COMRADES CAME OVER THE MARCHES OF FRANCE

After passing Cahors, the party branched away from the main road, and
leaving the river to the north of them, followed a smaller track which
wound over a vast and desolate plain. This path led them amid marshes and
woods, until it brought them out into a glade with a broad stream swirling
swiftly down the centre of it. Through this the horses splashed their way,
and on the farther shore Sir Nigel announced to them that they were now
within the borders of the land of France. For some miles they still
followed the same lonely track, which led them through a dense wood, and
then widening out, curved down to an open rolling country, such as they
had traversed between Aiguillon and Cahors.

If it were grim and desolate upon the English border, however, what can
describe the hideous barrenness of this ten times harried tract of France?
The whole face of the country was scarred and disfigured, mottled over
with the black blotches of burned farm-steadings, and the gray, gaunt
gable-ends of what had been chateaux. Broken fences, crumbling walls,
vineyards littered with stones, the shattered arches of bridges—look
where you might, the signs of ruin and rapine met the eye. Here and there
only, on the farthest sky-line, the gnarled turrets of a castle, or the
graceful pinnacles of church or of monastery showed where the forces of
the sword or of the spirit had preserved some small islet of security in
this universal flood of misery. Moodily and in silence the little party
rode along the narrow and irregular track, their hearts weighed down by
this far-stretching land of despair. It was indeed a stricken and a
blighted country, and a man might have ridden from Auvergne in the north
to the marches of Foix, nor ever seen a smiling village or a thriving
homestead.

From time to time as they advanced they saw strange lean figures scraping
and scratching amid the weeds and thistles, who, on sight of the band of
horsemen, threw up their arms and dived in among the brushwood, as shy and
as swift as wild animals. More than once, however, they came on families
by the wayside, who were too weak from hunger and disease to fly, so that
they could but sit like hares on a tussock, with panting chests and terror
in their eyes. So gaunt were these poor folk, so worn and spent—with
bent and knotted frames, and sullen, hopeless, mutinous faces—that
it made the young Englishman heart-sick to look upon them. Indeed, it
seemed as though all hope and light had gone so far from them that it was
not to be brought back; for when Sir Nigel threw down a handful of silver
among them there came no softening of their lined faces, but they clutched
greedily at the coins, peering questioningly at him, and champing with
their animal jaws. Here and there amid the brushwood the travellers saw
the rude bundle of sticks which served them as a home—more like a
fowl’s nest than the dwelling-place of man. Yet why should they build and
strive, when the first adventurer who passed would set torch to their
thatch, and when their own feudal lord would wring from them with blows
and curses the last fruits of their toil? They sat at the lowest depth of
human misery, and hugged a bitter comfort to their souls as they realized
that they could go no lower. Yet they had still the human gift of speech,
and would take council among themselves in their brushwood hovels, glaring
with bleared eyes and pointing with thin fingers at the great widespread
chateaux which ate like a cancer into the life of the country-side. When
such men, who are beyond hope and fear, begin in their dim minds to see
the source of their woes, it may be an evil time for those who have wronged
them. The weak man becomes strong when he has nothing, for then only can
he feel the wild, mad thrill of despair. High and strong the chateaux,
lowly and weak the brushwood hut; but God help the seigneur and his lady
when the men of the brushwood set their hands to the work of revenge!

Through such country did the party ride for eight or it might be nine
miles, until the sun began to slope down in the west and their shadows to
stream down the road in front of them. Wary and careful they must be, with
watchful eyes to the right and the left, for this was no man’s land, and
their only passports were those which hung from their belts. Frenchmen and
Englishmen, Gascon and Provencal, Brabanter, Tardvenu, Scorcher, Flayer,
and Free Companion, wandered and struggled over the whole of this accursed
district. So bare and cheerless was the outlook, and so few and poor the
dwellings, that Sir Nigel began to have fears as to whether he might find
food and quarters for his little troop. It was a relief to him, therefore,
when their narrow track opened out upon a larger road, and they saw some
little way down it a square white house with a great bunch of holly hung
out at the end of a stick from one of the upper windows.

“By St. Paul!” said he, “I am right glad; for I had feared that we might
have neither provant nor herbergage. Ride on, Alleyne, and tell this
inn-keeper that an English knight with his party will lodge with him this
night.”

Alleyne set spurs to his horse and reached the inn door a long bow-shot
before his companions. Neither varlet nor ostler could be seen, so he
pushed open the door and called loudly for the landlord. Three times he
shouted, but, receiving no reply, he opened an inner door and advanced
into the chief guest-room of the hostel.

A very cheerful wood-fire was sputtering and cracking in an open grate at
the further end of the apartment. At one side of this fire, in a
high-backed oak chair, sat a lady, her face turned towards the door. The
firelight played over her features, and Alleyne thought that he had never
seen such queenly power, such dignity and strength, upon a woman’s face.
She might have been five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline nose, firm
yet sensitive mouth, dark curving brows, and deep-set eyes which shone and
sparkled with a shifting brilliancy. Beautiful as she was, it was not her
beauty which impressed itself upon the beholder; it was her strength, her
power, the sense of wisdom which hung over the broad white brow, the
decision which lay in the square jaw and delicately moulded chin. A
chaplet of pearls sparkled amid her black hair, with a gauze of silver
network flowing back from it over her shoulders; a black mantle was
swathed round her, and she leaned back in her chair as one who is fresh
from a journey.

In the opposite corner there sat a very burly and broad-shouldered man,
clad in a black jerkin trimmed with sable, with a black velvet cap with
curling white feather cocked upon the side of his head. A flask of red
wine stood at his elbow, and he seemed to be very much at his ease, for
his feet were stuck up on a stool, and between his thighs he held a dish
full of nuts. These he cracked between his strong white teeth and chewed
in a leisurely way, casting the shells into the blaze. As Alleyne gazed in
at him he turned his face half round and cocked an eye at him over his
shoulder. It seemed to the young Englishman that he had never seen so
hideous a face, for the eyes were of the lightest green, the nose was
broken and driven inwards, while the whole countenance was seared and
puckered with wounds. The voice, too, when he spoke, was as deep and as
fierce as the growl of a beast of prey.

“Young man,” said he, “I know not who you may be, and I am not much
inclined to bestir myself, but if it were not that I am bent upon taking
my ease, I swear, by the sword of Joshua! that I would lay my dog-whip
across your shoulders for daring to fill the air with these discordant
bellowings.”

Taken aback at this ungentle speech, and scarce knowing how to answer it
fitly in the presence of the lady, Alleyne stood with his hand upon the
handle of the door, while Sir Nigel and his companions dismounted. At the
sound of these fresh voices, and of the tongue in which they spoke, the
stranger crashed his dish of nuts down upon the floor, and began himself
to call for the landlord until the whole house re-echoed with his
roarings. With an ashen face the white-aproned host came running at his
call, his hands shaking and his very hair bristling with apprehension.
“For the sake of God, sirs,” he whispered as he passed, “speak him fair
and do not rouse him! For the love of the Virgin, be mild with him!”

“Who is this, then?” asked Sir Nigel.

Alleyne was about to explain, when a fresh roar from the stranger
interrupted him.

“Thou villain inn-keeper,” he shouted, “did I not ask you when I brought
my lady here whether your inn was clean?”

“You did, sire.”

“Did I not very particularly ask you whether there were any vermin in it?”

“You did, sire.”

“And you answered me?”

“That there were not, sire.”

“And yet ere I have been here an hour I find Englishmen crawling about
within it. Where are we to be free from this pestilent race? Can a
Frenchman upon French land not sit down in a French auberge without having
his ears pained by the clack of their hideous talk? Send them packing,
inn-keeper, or it may be the worse for them and for you.”

“I will, sire, I will!” cried the frightened host, and bustled from the
room, while the soft, soothing voice of the woman was heard remonstrating
with her furious companion.

“Indeed, gentlemen, you had best go,” said mine host. “It is but six miles
to Villefranche, where there are very good quarters at the sign of the
‘Lion Rouge.’”

“Nay,” answered Sir Nigel, “I cannot go until I have seen more of this
person, for he appears to be a man from whom much is to be hoped. What is
his name and title?”

“It is not for my lips to name it unless by his desire. But I beg and pray
you, gentlemen, that you will go from my house, for I know not what may
come of it if his rage should gain the mastery of him.”

“By Saint Paul!” lisped Sir Nigel, “this is certainly a man whom it is
worth journeying far to know. Go tell him that a humble knight of England
would make his further honorable acquaintance, not from any presumption,
pride, or ill-will, but for the advancement of chivalry and the glory of
our ladies. Give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring, and say that the
glove which I bear in my cap belongs to the most peerless and lovely of
her sex, whom I am now ready to uphold against any lady whose claim he
might be desirous of advancing.”

The landlord was hesitating whether to carry this message or no, when the
door of the inner room was flung open, and the stranger bounded out like a
panther from its den, his hair bristling and his deformed face convulsed
with anger.

“Still here!” he snarled. “Dogs of England, must ye be lashed hence?
Tiphaine, my sword!” He turned to seize his weapon, but as he did so his
gaze fell upon the blazonry of sir Nigel’s shield, and he stood staring,
while the fire in his strange green eyes softened into a sly and humorous
twinkle.

“Mort Dieu!” cried he, “it is my little swordsman of Bordeaux. I should
remember that coat-armor, seeing that it is but three days since I looked
upon it in the lists by Garonne. Ah! Sir Nigel, Sir Nigel! you owe me a
return for this,” and he touched his right arm, which was girt round just
under the shoulder with a silken kerchief.

But the surprise of the stranger at the sight of Sir Nigel was as nothing
compared with the astonishment and the delight which shone upon the face
of the knight of Hampshire as he looked upon the strange face of the
Frenchman. Twice he opened his mouth and twice he peered again, as though
to assure himself that his eyes had not played him a trick.

“Bertrand!” he gasped at last. “Bertrand du Guesclin!”

“By Saint Ives!” shouted the French soldier, with a hoarse roar of
laughter, “it is well that I should ride with my vizor down, for he that
has once seen my face does not need to be told my name. It is indeed I,
Sir Nigel, and here is my hand! I give you my word that there are but
three Englishmen in this world whom I would touch save with the sharp edge
of the sword: the prince is one, Chandos the second, and you the third;
for I have heard much that is good of you.”

“I am growing aged, and am somewhat spent in the wars,” quoth Sir Nigel;
“but I can lay by my sword now with an easy mind, for I can say that I
have crossed swords with him who hath the bravest heart and the strongest
arm of all this great kingdom of France. I have longed for it, I have
dreamed of it, and now I can scarce bring my mind to understand that this
great honor hath indeed been mine.”

“By the Virgin of Rennes! you have given me cause to be very certain of
it,” said Du Guesclin, with a gleam of his broad white teeth.

“And perhaps, most honored sir, it would please you to continue the
debate. Perhaps you would condescend to go farther into the matter. God He
knows that I am unworthy of such honor, yet I can show my four-and-sixty
quarterings, and I have been present at some bickerings and scufflings
during these twenty years.”

“Your fame is very well known to me, and I shall ask my lady to enter your
name upon my tablets,” said Sir Bertrand. “There are many who wish to
advance themselves, and who bide their turn, for I refuse no man who comes
on such an errand. At present it may not be, for mine arm is stiff from
this small touch, and I would fain do you full honor when we cross swords
again. Come in with me, and let your squires come also, that my sweet
spouse, the Lady Tiphaine, may say that she hath seen so famed and gentle
a knight.”

Into the chamber they went in all peace and concord, where the Lady
Tiphaine sat like queen on throne for each in turn to be presented to her.
Sooth to say, the stout heart of Sir Nigel, which cared little for the
wrath of her lion-like spouse, was somewhat shaken by the calm, cold face
of this stately dame, for twenty years of camp-life had left him more at
ease in the lists than in a lady’s boudoir. He bethought him, too, as he
looked at her set lips and deep-set questioning eyes, that he had heard
strange tales of this same Lady Tiphaine du Guesclin. Was it not she who
was said to lay hands upon the sick and raise them from their couches when
the leeches had spent their last nostrums? Had she not forecast the
future, and were there not times when in the loneliness of her chamber she
was heard to hold converse with some being upon whom mortal eye never
rested—some dark familiar who passed where doors were barred and
windows high? Sir Nigel sunk his eye and marked a cross on the side of his
leg as he greeted this dangerous dame, and yet ere five minutes had passed
he was hers, and not he only but his two young squires as well. The mind
had gone out of them, and they could but look at this woman and listen to
the words which fell from her lips—words which thrilled through
their nerves and stirred their souls like the battle-call of a bugle.

Often in peaceful after-days was Alleyne to think of that scene of the
wayside inn of Auvergne. The shadows of evening had fallen, and the
corners of the long, low, wood-panelled room were draped in darkness. The
sputtering wood fire threw out a circle of red flickering light which
played over the little group of wayfarers, and showed up every line and
shadow upon their faces. Sir Nigel sat with elbows upon knees, and chin
upon hands, his patch still covering one eye, but his other shining like a
star, while the ruddy light gleamed upon his smooth white head. Ford was
seated at his left, his lips parted, his eyes staring, and a fleck of deep
color on either cheek, his limbs all rigid as one who fears to move. On
the other side the famous French captain leaned back in his chair, a
litter of nut-shells upon his lap, his huge head half buried in a cushion,
while his eyes wandered with an amused gleam from his dame to the staring,
enraptured Englishmen. Then, last of all, that pale clear-cut face, that
sweet clear voice, with its high thrilling talk of the deathlessness of
glory, of the worthlessness of life, of the pain of ignoble joys, and of
the joy which lies in all pains which lead to a noble end. Still, as the
shadows deepened, she spoke of valor and virtue, of loyalty, honor, and
fame, and still they sat drinking in her words while the fire burned down
and the red ash turned to gray.

“By the sainted Ives!” cried Du Guesclin at last, “it is time that we
spoke of what we are to do this night, for I cannot think that in this
wayside auberge there are fit quarters for an honorable company.”

Sir Nigel gave a long sigh as he came back from the dreams of chivalry and
hardihood into which this strange woman’s words had wafted him. “I care
not where I sleep,” said he; “but these are indeed somewhat rude lodgings
for this fair lady.”

“What contents my lord contents me,” quoth she. “I perceive, Sir Nigel,
that you are under vow,” she added, glancing at his covered eye.

“It is my purpose to attempt some small deed,” he answered.

“And the glove—is it your lady’s?”

“It is indeed my sweet wife’s.”

“Who is doubtless proud of you.”

“Say rather I of her,” quoth he quickly. “God He knows that I am not
worthy to be her humble servant. It is easy, lady, for a man to ride forth
in the light of day, and do his devoir when all men have eyes for him. But
in a woman’s heart there is a strength and truth which asks no praise, and
can but be known to him whose treasure it is.”

The Lady Tiphaine smiled across at her husband. “You have often told me,
Bertrand, that there were very gentle knights amongst the English,” quoth
she.

“Aye, aye,” said he moodily. “But to horse, Sir Nigel, you and yours and
we shall seek the chateau of Sir Tristram de Rochefort, which is two miles
on this side of Villefranche. He is Seneschal of Auvergne, and mine old
war companion.”

“Certes, he would have a welcome for you,” quoth Sir Nigel; “but indeed he
might look askance at one who comes without permit over the marches.”

“By the Virgin! when he learns that you have come to draw away these
rascals he will be very blithe to look upon your face. Inn-keeper, here
are ten gold pieces. What is over and above your reckoning you may take
off from your charges to the next needy knight who comes this way. Come
then, for it grows late and the horses are stamping in the roadway.”

The Lady Tiphaine and her spouse sprang upon their steeds without setting
feet to stirrup, and away they jingled down the white moonlit highway,
with Sir Nigel at the lady’s bridle-arm, and Ford a spear’s length behind
them. Alleyne had lingered for an instant in the passage, and as he did so
there came a wild outcry from a chamber upon the left, and out there ran
Aylward and John, laughing together like two schoolboys who are bent upon
a prank. At sight of Alleyne they slunk past him with somewhat of a
shame-faced air, and springing upon their horses galloped after their
party. The hubbub within the chamber did not cease, however, but rather
increased, with yells of: “A moi, mes amis! A moi, camarades! A moi,
l’honorable champion de l’Eveque de Montaubon! A la recousse de l’eglise
sainte!” So shrill was the outcry that both the inn-keeper and Alleyne,
with every varlet within hearing, rushed wildly to the scene of the
uproar.

It was indeed a singular scene which met their eyes. The room was a long
and lofty one, stone floored and bare, with a fire at the further end upon
which a great pot was boiling. A deal table ran down the centre, with a
wooden wine-pitcher upon it and two horn cups. Some way from it was a
smaller table with a single beaker and a broken wine-bottle. From the
heavy wooden rafters which formed the roof there hung rows of hooks which
held up sides of bacon, joints of smoked beef, and strings of onions for
winter use. In the very centre of all these, upon the largest hook of all,
there hung a fat little red-faced man with enormous whiskers, kicking
madly in the air and clawing at rafters, hams, and all else that was
within hand-grasp. The huge steel hook had been passed through the collar
of his leather jerkin, and there he hung like a fish on a line, writhing,
twisting, and screaming, but utterly unable to free himself from his
extraordinary position. It was not until Alleyne and the landlord had
mounted on the table that they were able to lift him down, when he sank
gasping with rage into a seat, and rolled his eyes round in every
direction.

“Has he gone?” quoth he.

“Gone? Who?”

“He, the man with the red head, the giant man.”

“Yes,” said Alleyne, “he hath gone.”

“And comes not back?”

“No.”

“The better for him!” cried the little man, with a long sigh of relief.
“Mon Dieu! What! am I not the champion of the Bishop of Montaubon? Ah,
could I have descended, could I have come down, ere he fled! Then you
would have seen. You would have beheld a spectacle then. There would have
been one rascal the less upon earth. Ma foi, yes!”

“Good master Pelligny,” said the landlord, “these gentlemen have not gone
very fast, and I have a horse in the stable at your disposal, for I would
rather have such bloody doings as you threaten outside the four walls of
mine auberge.”

“I hurt my leg and cannot ride,” quoth the bishop’s champion. “I strained
a sinew on the day that I slew the three men at Castelnau.”

“God save you, master Pelligny!” cried the landlord. “It must be an
awesome thing to have so much blood upon one’s soul. And yet I do not wish
to see so valiant a man mishandled, and so I will, for friendship’s sake,
ride after this Englishman and bring him back to you.”

“You shall not stir,” cried the champion, seizing the inn-keeper in a
convulsive grasp. “I have a love for you, Gaston, and I would not bring
your house into ill repute, nor do such scath to these walls and chattels
as must befall if two such men as this Englishman and I fall to work
here.”

“Nay, think not of me!” cried the inn-keeper. “What are my walls when set
against the honor of Francois Poursuivant d’Amour Pelligny, champion of
the Bishop of Montaubon. My horse, Andre!”

“By the saints, no! Gaston, I will not have it! You have said truly that
it is an awesome thing to have such rough work upon one’s soul. I am but a
rude soldier, yet I have a mind. Mon Dieu! I reflect, I weigh, I balance.
Shall I not meet this man again? Shall I not bear him in mind? Shall I not
know him by his great paws and his red head? Ma foi, yes!”

“And may I ask, sir,” said Alleyne, “why it is that you call yourself
champion of the Bishop of Montaubon?”

“You may ask aught which it is becoming to me to answer. The bishop hath
need of a champion, because, if any cause be set to test of combat, it
would scarce become his office to go down into the lists with leather and
shield and cudgel to exchange blows with any varlet. He looks around him
then for some tried fighting man, some honest smiter who can give a blow
or take one. It is not for me to say how far he hath succeeded, but it is
sooth that he who thinks that he hath but to do with the Bishop of
Montaubon, finds himself face to face with Francois Poursuivant d’Amour
Pelligny.”

At this moment there was a clatter of hoofs upon the road, and a varlet by
the door cried out that one of the Englishmen was coming back. The
champion looked wildly about for some corner of safety, and was clambering
up towards the window, when Ford’s voice sounded from without, calling
upon Alleyne to hasten, or he might scarce find his way. Bidding adieu to
landlord and to champion, therefore, he set off at a gallop, and soon
overtook the two archers.

“A pretty thing this, John,” said he. “Thou wilt have holy Church upon you
if you hang her champions upon iron hooks in an inn kitchen.”

“It was done without thinking,” he answered apologetically, while Aylward
burst into a shout of laughter.

“By my hilt! mon petit,” said he, “you would have laughed also could you
have seen it. For this man was so swollen with pride that he would neither
drink with us, nor sit at the same table with us, nor as much as answer a
question, but must needs talk to the varlet all the time that it was well
there was peace, and that he had slain more Englishmen than there were
tags to his doublet. Our good old John could scarce lay his tongue to
French enough to answer him, so he must needs reach out his great hand to
him and place him very gently where you saw him. But we must on, for I can
scarce hear their hoofs upon the road.”

“I think that I can see them yet,” said Ford, peering down the moonlit
road.

“Pardieu! yes. Now they ride forth from the shadow. And yonder dark clump
is the Castle of Villefranche. En avant camarades! or Sir Nigel may reach
the gates before us. But hark, mes amis, what sound is that?”

As he spoke the hoarse blast of a horn was heard from some woods upon the
right. An answering call rung forth upon their left, and hard upon it two
others from behind them.

“They are the horns of swine-herds,” quoth Aylward. “Though why they blow
them so late I cannot tell.”

“Let us on, then,” said Ford, and the whole party, setting their spurs to
their horses, soon found themselves at the Castle of Villefranche, where
the drawbridge had already been lowered and the portcullis raised in
response to the summons of Du Guesclin.

CHAPTER XXIX. HOW THE BLESSED HOUR OF SIGHT CAME TO THE LADY TIPHAINE.

Sir Tristram de Rochefort, Seneschal of Auvergne and Lord of Villefranche,
was a fierce and renowned soldier who had grown gray in the English wars.
As lord of the marches and guardian of an exposed country-side, there was
little rest for him even in times of so-called peace, and his whole life
was spent in raids and outfalls upon the Brabanters, late-comers, flayers,
free companions, and roving archers who wandered over his province. At
times he would come back in triumph, and a dozen corpses swinging from the
summit of his keep would warn evil-doers that there was still a law in the
land. At others his ventures were not so happy, and he and his troop would
spur it over the drawbridge with clatter of hoofs hard at their heels and
whistle of arrows about their ears. Hard he was of hand and harder of
heart, hated by his foes, and yet not loved by those whom he protected,
for twice he had been taken prisoner, and twice his ransom had been wrung
by dint of blows and tortures out of the starving peasants and ruined
farmers. Wolves or watch-dogs, it was hard to say from which the sheep had
most to fear.

The Castle of Villefranche was harsh and stern as its master. A broad
moat, a high outer wall turreted at the corners, with a great black keep
towering above all—so it lay before them in the moonlight. By the
light of two flambeaux, protruded through the narrow slit-shaped openings
at either side of the ponderous gate, they caught a glimpse of the glitter
of fierce eyes and of the gleam of the weapons of the guard. The sight of
the two-headed eagle of Du Guesclin, however, was a passport into any
fortalice in France, and ere they had passed the gate the old border
knight came running forwards with hands out-thrown to greet his famous
countryman. Nor was he less glad to see Sir Nigel, when the Englishman’s
errand was explained to him, for these archers had been a sore thorn in
his side and had routed two expeditions which he had sent against them. A
happy day it would be for the Seneschal of Auvergne when they should learn
that the last yew bow was over the marches.

The material for a feast was ever at hand in days when, if there was grim
want in the cottage, there was at least rude plenty in the castle. Within
an hour the guests were seated around a board which creaked under the
great pasties and joints of meat, varied by those more dainty dishes in
which the French excelled, the spiced ortolan and the truffled
beccaficoes. The Lady Rochefort, a bright and laughter-loving dame, sat
upon the left of her warlike spouse, with Lady Tiphaine upon the right.
Beneath sat Du Guesclin and Sir Nigel, with Sir Amory Monticourt, of the
order of the Hospitallers, and Sir Otto Harnit, a wandering knight from
the kingdom of Bohemia. These with Alleyne and Ford, four French squires,
and the castle chaplain, made the company who sat together that night and
made good cheer in the Castle of Villefranche. The great fire crackled in
the grate, the hooded hawks slept upon their perches, the rough
deer-hounds with expectant eyes crouched upon the tiled floor; close at
the elbows of the guests stood the dapper little lilac-coated pages; the
laugh and jest circled round and all was harmony and comfort. Little they
recked of the brushwood men who crouched in their rags along the fringe of
the forest and looked with wild and haggard eyes at the rich, warm glow
which shot a golden bar of light from the high arched windows of the
castle.

Supper over, the tables dormant were cleared away as by magic and trestles
and bancals arranged around the blazing fire, for there was a bitter nip
in the air. The Lady Tiphaine had sunk back in her cushioned chair, and
her long dark lashes drooped low over her sparkling eyes. Alleyne,
glancing at her, noted that her breath came quick and short, and that her
cheeks had blanched to a lily white. Du Guesclin eyed her keenly from time
to time, and passed his broad brown fingers through his crisp, curly black
hair with the air of a man who is perplexed in his mind.

“These folk here,” said the knight of Bohemia, “they do not seem too well
fed.”

“Ah, canaille!” cried the Lord of Villefranche. “You would scarce credit
it, and yet it is sooth that when I was taken at Poictiers it was all that
my wife and foster-brother could do to raise the money from them for my
ransom. The sulky dogs would rather have three twists of a rack, or the
thumbikins for an hour, than pay out a denier for their own feudal father
and liege lord. Yet there is not one of them but hath an old stocking full
of gold pieces hid away in a snug corner.”

“Why do they not buy food then?” asked Sir Nigel. “By St. Paul! it seemed
to me their bones were breaking through their skin.”

“It is their grutching and grumbling which makes them thin. We have a
saying here, Sir Nigel, that if you pummel Jacques Bonhomme he will pat
you, but if you pat him he will pummel you. Doubtless you find it so in
England.”

“Ma foi, no!” said Sir Nigel. “I have two Englishmen of this class in my
train, who are at this instant, I make little doubt, as full of your wine
as any cask in your cellar. He who pummelled them might come by such a pat
as he would be likely to remember.”

“I cannot understand it,” quoth the seneschal, “for the English knights
and nobles whom I have met were not men to brook the insolence of the base
born.”

“Perchance, my fair lord, the poor folk are sweeter and of a better
countenance in England,” laughed the Lady Rochefort. “Mon Dieu! you cannot
conceive to yourself how ugly they are! Without hair, without teeth, all
twisted and bent; for me, I cannot think how the good God ever came to
make such people. I cannot bear it, I, and so my trusty Raoul goes ever
before me with a cudgel to drive them from my path.”

“Yet they have souls, fair lady, they have souls!” murmured the chaplain,
a white-haired man with a weary, patient face.

“So I have heard you tell them,” said the lord of the castle; “and for
myself, father, though I am a true son of holy Church, yet I think that
you were better employed in saying your mass and in teaching the children
of my men-at-arms, than in going over the country-side to put ideas in
these folks’ heads which would never have been there but for you. I have
heard that you have said to them that their souls are as good as ours, and
that it is likely that in another life they may stand as high as the
oldest blood of Auvergne. For my part, I believe that there are so many
worthy knights and gallant gentlemen in heaven who know how such things
should be arranged, that there is little fear that we shall find ourselves
mixed up with base roturiers and swine-herds. Tell your beads, father, and
con your psalter, but do not come between me and those whom the king has
given to me!”

“God help them!” cried the old priest. “A higher King than yours has given
them to me, and I tell you here in your own castle hall, Sir Tristram de
Rochefort, that you have sinned deeply in your dealings with these poor
folk, and that the hour will come, and may even now be at hand, when God’s
hand will be heavy upon you for what you have done.” He rose as he spoke,
and walked slowly from the room.

“Pest take him!” cried the French knight. “Now, what is a man to do with a
priest, Sir Bertrand?—for one can neither fight him like a man nor
coax him like a woman.”

“Ah, Sir Bertrand knows, the naughty one!” cried the Lady Rochefort. “Have
we not all heard how he went to Avignon and squeezed fifty thousand crowns
out of the Pope.”

“Ma foi!” said Sir Nigel, looking with a mixture of horror and admiration
at Du Guesclin. “Did not your heart sink within you? Were you not smitten
with fears? Have you not felt a curse hang over you?”

“I have not observed it,” said the Frenchman carelessly. “But by Saint
Ives! Tristram, this chaplain of yours seems to me to be a worthy man, and
you should give heed to his words, for though I care nothing for the curse
of a bad pope, it would be a grief to me to have aught but a blessing from
a good priest.”

“Hark to that, my fair lord,” cried the Lady Rochefort. “Take heed, I pray
thee, for I do not wish to have a blight cast over me, nor a palsy of the
limbs. I remember that once before you angered Father Stephen, and my
tire-woman said that I lost more hair in seven days than ever before in a
month.”

“If that be sign of sin, then, by Saint Paul! I have much upon my soul,”
said Sir Nigel, amid a general laugh. “But in very truth, Sir Tristram, if
I may venture a word of counsel, I should advise that you make your peace
with this good man.”

“He shall have four silver candlesticks,” said the seneschal moodily. “And
yet I would that he would leave the folk alone. You cannot conceive in
your mind how stubborn and brainless they are. Mules and pigs are full of
reason beside them. God He knows that I have had great patience with them.
It was but last week that, having to raise some money, I called up to the
castle Jean Goubert, who, as all men know, has a casketful of gold pieces
hidden away in some hollow tree. I give you my word that I did not so much
as lay a stripe upon his fool’s back, but after speaking with him, and
telling him how needful the money was to me, I left him for the night to
think over the matter in my dungeon. What think you that the dog did? Why,
in the morning we found that he had made a rope from strips of his
leathern jerkin, and had hung himself to the bar of the window.”

“For me, I cannot conceive such wickedness!” cried the lady.

“And there was Gertrude Le Boeuf, as fair a maiden as eye could see, but
as bad and bitter as the rest of them. When young Amory de Valance was
here last Lammastide he looked kindly upon the girl, and even spoke of
taking her into his service. What does she do, with her dog of a father?
Why, they tie themselves together and leap into the Linden Pool, where the
water is five spears’-lengths deep. I give you my word that it was a great
grief to young Amory, and it was days ere he could cast it from his mind.
But how can one serve people who are so foolish and so ungrateful?”

Whilst the Seneschal of Villefranche had been detailing the evil doings of
his tenants, Alleyne had been unable to take his eyes from the face of
Lady Tiphaine. She had lain back in her chair, with drooping eyelids and
bloodless face, so that he had feared at first her journey had weighed
heavily upon her, and that the strength was ebbing out of her. Of a
sudden, however, there came a change, for a dash of bright color flickered
up on to either cheek, and her lids were slowly raised again upon eyes
which sparkled with such lustre as Alleyne had never seen in human eyes
before, while their gaze was fixed intently, not on the company, but on
the dark tapestry which draped the wall. So transformed and so ethereal
was her expression, that Alleyne, in his loftiest dream of archangel or of
seraph, had never pictured so sweet, so womanly, and yet so wise a face.
Glancing at Du Guesclin, Alleyne saw that he also was watching his wife
closely, and from the twitching of his features, and the beads upon his
brick-colored brow, it was easy to see that he was deeply agitated by the
change which he marked in her.

“How is it with you, lady?” he asked at last, in a tremulous voice.

Her eyes remained fixed intently upon the wall, and there was a long pause
ere she answered him. Her voice, too, which had been so clear and ringing,
was now low and muffled as that of one who speaks from a distance.

“All is very well with me, Bertrand,” said she. “The blessed hour of sight
has come round to me again.”

“I could see it come! I could see it come!” he exclaimed, passing his
fingers through his hair with the same perplexed expression as before.

“This is untoward, Sir Tristram,” he said at last. “And I scarce know in
what words to make it clear to you, and to your fair wife, and to Sir
Nigel Loring, and to these other stranger knights. My tongue is a blunt
one, and fitter to shout word of command than to clear up such a matter as
this, of which I can myself understand little. This, however, I know, that
my wife is come of a very sainted race, whom God hath in His wisdom
endowed with wondrous powers, so that Tiphaine Raquenel was known
throughout Brittany ere ever I first saw her at Dinan. Yet these powers
are ever used for good, and they are the gift of God and not of the devil,
which is the difference betwixt white magic and black.”

“Perchance it would be as well that we should send for Father Stephen,”
said Sir Tristram.

“It would be best that he should come,” cried the Hospitaller.

“And bring with him a flask of holy water,” added the knight of Bohemia.

“Not so, gentlemen,” answered Sir Bertrand. “It is not needful that this
priest should be called, and it is in my mind that in asking for this ye
cast some slight shadow or slur upon the good name of my wife, as though
it were still doubtful whether her power came to her from above or below.
If ye have indeed such a doubt I pray that you will say so, that we may
discuss the matter in a fitting way.”

“For myself,” said Sir Nigel, “I have heard such words fall from the lips
of this lady that I am of the opinion that there is no woman, save only
one, who can be in any way compared to her in beauty and in goodness.
Should any gentleman think otherwise, I should deem it great honor to run
a small course with him, or debate the matter in whatever way might be
most pleasing to him.”

“Nay, it would ill become me to cast a slur upon a lady who is both my
guest and the wife of my comrade-in-arms,” said the Seneschal of
Villefranche. “I have perceived also that on her mantle there is marked a
silver cross, which is surely sign enough that there is nought of evil in
these strange powers which you say that she possesses.”

This argument of the seneschal’s appealed so powerfully to the Bohemian
and to the Hospitaller that they at once intimated that their objections
had been entirely overcome, while even the Lady Rochefort, who had sat
shivering and crossing herself, ceased to cast glances at the door, and
allowed her fears to turn to curiosity.

“Among the gifts which have been vouchsafed to my wife,” said Du Guesclin,
“there is the wondrous one of seeing into the future; but it comes very
seldom upon her, and goes as quickly, for none can command it. The blessed
hour of sight, as she hath named it, has come but twice since I have known
her, and I can vouch for it that all that she hath told me was true, for
on the evening of the Battle of Auray she said that the morrow would be an
ill day for me and for Charles of Blois. Ere the sun had sunk again he was
dead, and I the prisoner of Sir John Chandos. Yet it is not every question
that she can answer, but only those——”

“Bertrand, Bertrand!” cried the lady in the same muttering far-away
voice, “the blessed hour passes. Use it, Bertrand, while you may.”

“I will, my sweet. Tell me, then, what fortune comes upon me?”

“Danger, Bertrand—deadly, pressing danger—which creeps upon
you and you know it not.”

The French soldier burst into a thunderous laugh, and his green eyes
twinkled with amusement. “At what time during these twenty years would not
that have been a true word?” he cried. “Danger is in the air that I
breathe. But is this so very close, Tiphaine?”

“Here—now—close upon you!” The words came out in broken,
strenuous speech, while the lady’s fair face was writhed and drawn like
that of one who looks upon a horror which strikes the words from her
lips. Du Guesclin gazed round the tapestried room, at the screens, the
tables, the abace, the credence, the buffet with its silver salver, and
the half-circle of friendly, wondering faces. There was an utter
stillness, save for the sharp breathing of the Lady Tiphaine and for the
gentle soughing of the wind outside, which wafted to their ears the
distant call upon a swine-herd’s horn.

“The danger may bide,” said he, shrugging his broad shoulders. “And now,
Tiphaine, tell us what will come of this war in Spain.”

“I can see little,” she answered, straining her eyes and puckering her
brow, as one who would fain clear her sight. “There are mountains, and dry
plains, and flash of arms and shouting of battle-cries. Yet it is
whispered to me that by failure you will succeed.”

“Ha! Sir Nigel, how like you that?” quoth Bertrand, shaking his head. “It
is like mead and vinegar, half sweet, half sour. And is there no question
which you would ask my lady?”

“Certes there is. I would fain know, fair lady, how all things are at
Twynham Castle, and above all how my sweet lady employs herself.”

“To answer this I would fain lay hand upon one whose thoughts turn
strongly to this castle which you have named. Nay, my Lord Loring, it is
whispered to me that there is another here who hath thought more deeply of
it than you.”

“Thought more of mine own home?” cried Sir Nigel. “Lady, I fear that in
this matter at least you are mistaken.”

“Not so, Sir Nigel. Come hither, young man, young English squire with the
gray eyes! Now give me your hand, and place it here across my brow, that I
may see that which you have seen. What is this that rises before me? Mist,
mist, rolling mist with a square black tower above it. See it shreds out,
it thins, it rises, and there lies a castle in green plain, with the sea
beneath it, and a great church within a bow-shot. There are two rivers
which run through the meadows, and between them lie the tents of the
besiegers.”

“The besiegers!” cried Alleyne, Ford, and Sir Nigel, all three in a
breath.

“Yes, truly, and they press hard upon the castle, for they are an
exceeding multitude and full of courage. See how they storm and rage
against the gate, while some rear ladders, and others, line after line,
sweep the walls with their arrows. There are many leaders who shout and
beckon, and one, a tall man with a golden beard, who stands before the
gate stamping his foot and hallooing them on, as a pricker doth the
hounds. But those in the castle fight bravely. There is a woman, two
women, who stand upon the walls, and give heart to the men-at-arms. They
shower down arrows, darts and great stones. Ah! they have struck down the
tall leader, and the others give back. The mist thickens and I can see no
more.”

“By Saint Paul!” said Sir Nigel, “I do not think that there can be any
such doings at Christchurch, and I am very easy of the fortalice so long
as my sweet wife hangs the key of the outer bailey at the head of her bed.
Yet I will not deny that you have pictured the castle as well as I could
have done myself, and I am full of wonderment at all that I have heard and
seen.”

“I would, Lady Tiphaine,” cried the Lady Rochefort, “that you would use
your power to tell me what hath befallen my golden bracelet which I wore
when hawking upon the second Sunday of Advent, and have never set eyes
upon since.”

“Nay, lady,” said du Guesclin, “it does not befit so great and wondrous a
power to pry and search and play the varlet even to the beautiful
chatelaine of Villefranche. Ask a worthy question, and, with the blessing
of God, you shall have a worthy answer.”

“Then I would fain ask,” cried one of the French squires, “as to which may
hope to conquer in these wars betwixt the English and ourselves.”

“Both will conquer and each will hold its own,” answered the Lady
Tiphaine.

“Then we shall still hold Gascony and Guienne?” cried Sir Nigel.

The lady shook her head. “French land, French blood, French speech,” she
answered. “They are French, and France shall have them.”

“But not Bordeaux?” cried Sir Nigel excitedly.

“Bordeaux also is for France.”

“But Calais?”

“Calais too.”

“Woe worth me then, and ill hail to these evil words! If Bordeaux and
Calais be gone, then what is left for England?”

“It seems indeed that there are evil times coming upon your country,” said
Du Guesclin. “In our fondest hopes we never thought to hold Bordeaux. By
Saint Ives! this news hath warmed the heart within me. Our dear country
will then be very great in the future, Tiphaine?”

“Great, and rich, and beautiful,” she cried. “Far down the course of time
I can see her still leading the nations, a wayward queen among the
peoples, great in war, but greater in peace, quick in thought, deft in
action, with her people’s will for her sole monarch, from the sands of
Calais to the blue seas of the south.”

“Ha!” cried Du Guesclin, with his eyes flashing in triumph, “you hear her,
Sir Nigel?—and she never yet said word which was not sooth.”

The English knight shook his head moodily. “What of my own poor country?”
said he. “I fear, lady, that what you have said bodes but small good for
her.”

The lady sat with parted lips, and her breath came quick and fast. “My
God!” she cried, “what is this that is shown me? Whence come they, these
peoples, these lordly nations, these mighty countries which rise up before
me? I look beyond, and others rise, and yet others, far and farther to the
shores of the uttermost waters. They crowd! They swarm! The world is given
to them, and it resounds with the clang of their hammers and the ringing
of their church bells. They call them many names, and they rule them this
way or that but they are all English, for I can hear the voices of the
people. On I go, and onwards over seas where man hath never yet sailed,
and I see a great land under new stars and a stranger sky, and still the
land is England. Where have her children not gone? What have they not
done? Her banner is planted on ice. Her banner is scorched in the sun. She
lies athwart the lands, and her shadow is over the seas. Bertrand,
Bertrand! we are undone for the buds of her bud are even as our choicest
flower!” Her voice rose into a wild cry, and throwing up her arms she sank
back white and nerveless into the deep oaken chair.

“It is over,” said Du Guesclin moodily, as he raised her drooping head
with his strong brown hand. “Wine for the lady, squire! The blessed hour
of sight hath passed.”

CHAPTER XXX. HOW THE BRUSHWOOD MEN CAME TO THE CHATEAU OF VILLEFRANCHE.

It was late ere Alleyne Edricson, having carried Sir Nigel the goblet of
spiced wine which it was his custom to drink after the curling of his
hair, was able at last to seek his chamber. It was a stone-flagged room
upon the second floor, with a bed in a recess for him, and two smaller
pallets on the other side, on which Aylward and Hordle John were already
snoring. Alleyne had knelt down to his evening orisons, when there came a
tap at his door, and Ford entered with a small lamp in his hand. His face
was deadly pale, and his hand shook until the shadows flickered up and
down the wall.

“What is it, Ford?” cried Alleyne, springing to his feet.

“I can scarce tell you,” said he, sitting down on the side of the couch,
and resting his chin upon his hand. “I know not what to say or what to
think.”

“Has aught befallen you, then?”

“Yes, or I have been slave to my own fancy. I tell you, lad, that I am all
undone, like a fretted bow-string. Hark hither, Alleyne! it cannot be that
you have forgotten little Tita, the daughter of the old glass-stainer at
Bordeaux?”

“I remember her well.”

“She and I, Alleyne, broke the lucky groat together ere we parted, and she
wears my ring upon her finger. ‘Caro mio,’ quoth she when last we parted,
‘I shall be near thee in the wars, and thy danger will be my danger.’
Alleyne, as God is my help, as I came up the stairs this night I saw her
stand before me, her face in tears, her hands out as though in warning—I
saw it, Alleyne, even as I see those two archers upon their couches. Our
very finger-tips seemed to meet, ere she thinned away like a mist in the
sunshine.”

“I would not give overmuch thought to it,” answered Alleyne. “Our minds
will play us strange pranks, and bethink you that these words of the Lady
Tiphaine Du Guesclin have wrought upon us and shaken us.”

Ford shook his head. “I saw little Tita as clearly as though I were back
at the Rue des Apotres at Bordeaux,” said he. “But the hour is late,
and I must go.”

“Where do you sleep, then?”

“In the chamber above you. May the saints be with us all!” He rose from
the couch and left the chamber, while Alleyne could hear his feet sounding
upon the winding stair. The young squire walked across to the window and
gazed out at the moonlit landscape, his mind absorbed by the thought of
the Lady Tiphaine, and of the strange words that she had spoken as to what
was going forward at Castle Twynham. Leaning his elbows upon the
stonework, he was deeply plunged in reverie, when in a moment his thoughts
were brought back to Villefranche and to the scene before him.

The window at which he stood was in the second floor of that portion of
the castle which was nearest to the keep. In front lay the broad moat,
with the moon lying upon its surface, now clear and round, now drawn
lengthwise as the breeze stirred the waters. Beyond, the plain sloped down
to a thick wood, while further to the left a second wood shut out the
view. Between the two an open glade stretched, silvered in the moonshine,
with the river curving across the lower end of it.

As he gazed, he saw of a sudden a man steal forth from the wood into the
open clearing. He walked with his head sunk, his shoulders curved, and his
knees bent, as one who strives hard to remain unseen. Ten paces from the
fringe of trees he glanced around, and waving his hand he crouched down,
and was lost to sight among a belt of furze-bushes. After him there came a
second man, and after him a third, a fourth, and a fifth stealing across
the narrow open space and darting into the shelter of the brushwood.
Nine-and-seventy Alleyne counted of these dark figures flitting across the
line of the moonlight. Many bore huge burdens upon their backs, though
what it was that they carried he could not tell at the distance. Out of
the one wood and into the other they passed, all with the same crouching,
furtive gait, until the black bristle of trees had swallowed up the last
of them.

For a moment Alleyne stood in the window, still staring down at the silent
forest, uncertain as to what he should think of these midnight walkers.
Then he bethought him that there was one beside him who was fitter to
judge on such a matter. His fingers had scarce rested upon Aylward’s
shoulder ere the bowman was on his feet, with his hand outstretched to his
sword.

“Qui va?” he cried. “Hola! mon petit. By my hilt! I thought there had been
a camisade. What then, mon gar.?”

“Come hither by the window, Aylward,” said Alleyne. “I have seen
four-score men pass from yonder shaw across the glade, and nigh every man
of them had a great burden on his back. What think you of it?”

“I think nothing of it, mon camarade! There are as many masterless folk in
this country as there are rabbits on Cowdray Down, and there are many who
show their faces by night but would dance in a hempen collar if they
stirred forth in the day. On all the French marches are droves of
outcasts, reivers, spoilers, and draw-latches, of whom I judge that these
are some, though I marvel that they should dare to come so nigh to the
castle of the seneschal. All seems very quiet now,” he added, peering out
of the window.

“They are in the further wood,” said Alleyne.

“And there they may bide. Back to rest, mon petit; for, by my hilt! each
day now will bring its own work. Yet it would be well to shoot the bolt in
yonder door when one is in strange quarters. So!” He threw himself down
upon his pallet and in an instant was fast asleep.

It might have been about three o’clock in the morning when Alleyne was
aroused from a troubled sleep by a low cry or exclamation. He listened,
but, as he heard no more, he set it down as the challenge of the guard
upon the walls, and dropped off to sleep once more. A few minutes later he
was disturbed by a gentle creaking of his own door, as though some one
were pushing cautiously against it, and immediately afterwards he heard
the soft thud of cautious footsteps upon the stair which led to the room
above, followed by a confused noise and a muffled groan. Alleyne sat up on
his couch with all his nerves in a tingle, uncertain whether these sounds
might come from a simple cause—some sick archer and visiting leech
perhaps—or whether they might have a more sinister meaning. But what
danger could threaten them here in this strong castle, under the care of
famous warriors, with high walls and a broad moat around them? Who was
there that could injure them? He had well-nigh persuaded himself that his
fears were a foolish fancy, when his eyes fell upon that which sent the
blood cold to his heart and left him gasping, with hands clutching at the
counterpane.

Right in front of him was the broad window of the chamber, with the moon
shining brightly through it. For an instant something had obscured the
light, and now a head was bobbing up and down outside, the face looking in
at him, and swinging slowly from one side of the window to the other. Even
in that dim light there could be no mistaking those features. Drawn,
distorted and blood-stained, they were still those of the young
fellow-squire who had sat so recently upon his own couch. With a cry of
horror Alleyne sprang from his bed and rushed to the casement, while the
two archers, aroused by the sound, seized their weapons and stared about
them in bewilderment. One glance was enough to show Edricson that his
fears were but too true. Foully murdered, with a score of wounds upon him
and a rope round his neck, his poor friend had been cast from the upper
window and swung slowly in the night wind, his body rasping against the
wall and his disfigured face upon a level with the casement.

“My God!” cried Alleyne, shaking in every limb. “What has come upon us?
What devil’s deed is this?”

“Here is flint and steel,” said John stolidly. “The lamp, Aylward! This
moonshine softens a man’s heart. Now we may use the eyes which God hath
given us.”

“By my hilt!” cried Aylward, as the yellow flame flickered up, “it is
indeed young master Ford, and I think that this seneschal is a black
villain, who dare not face us in the day but would murther us in our
sleep. By the twang of string! if I do not soak a goose’s feather with his
heart’s blood, it will be no fault of Samkin Aylward of the White
Company.”

“But, Aylward, think of the men whom I saw yesternight,” said Alleyne. “It
may not be the seneschal. It may be that others have come into the castle.
I must to Sir Nigel ere it be too late. Let me go, Aylward, for my place
is by his side.”

“One moment, mon gar. Put that steel head-piece on the end of my
yew-stave. So! I will put it first through the door; for it is ill to come
out when you can neither see nor guard yourself. Now, camarades, out
swords and stand ready! Hola, by my hilt! it is time that we were
stirring!”

As he spoke, a sudden shouting broke forth in the castle, with the scream
of a woman and the rush of many feet. Then came the sharp clink of
clashing steel, and a roar like that of an angry lion—“Notre Dame Du
Guesclin! St. Ives! St. Ives!” The bow-man pulled back the bolt of the
door, and thrust out the headpiece at the end of the bow. A clash, the
clatter of the steel-cap upon the ground, and, ere the man who struck
could heave up for another blow, the archer had passed his sword through
his body. “On, camarades, on!” he cried; and, breaking fiercely past two
men who threw themselves in his way, he sped down the broad corridor in
the direction of the shouting.

A sharp turning, and then a second one, brought them to the head of a
short stair, from which they looked straight down upon the scene of the
uproar. A square oak-floored hall lay beneath them, from which opened the
doors of the principal guest-chambers. This hall was as light as day, for
torches burned in numerous sconces upon the walls, throwing strange
shadows from the tusked or antlered heads which ornamented them. At the
very foot of the stair, close to the open door of their chamber, lay the
seneschal and his wife: she with her head shorn from her shoulders, he
thrust through with a sharpened stake, which still protruded from either
side of his body. Three servants of the castle lay dead beside them, all
torn and draggled, as though a pack of wolves had been upon them. In front
of the central guest-chamber stood Du Guesclin and Sir Nigel, half-clad
and unarmored, with the mad joy of battle gleaming in their eyes. Their
heads were thrown back, their lips compressed, their blood-stained swords
poised over their right shoulders, and their left feet thrown out. Three
dead men lay huddled together in front of them: while a fourth, with the
blood squirting from a severed vessel, lay back with updrawn knees,
breathing in wheezy gasps. Further back—all panting together, like
the wind in a tree—there stood a group of fierce, wild creatures,
bare-armed and bare-legged, gaunt, unshaven, with deep-set murderous eyes
and wild beast faces. With their flashing teeth, their bristling hair,
their mad leapings and screamings, they seemed to Alleyne more like fiends
from the pit than men of flesh and blood. Even as he looked, they broke
into a hoarse yell and dashed once more upon the two knights, hurling
themselves madly upon their sword-points; clutching, scrambling, biting,
tearing, careless of wounds if they could but drag the two soldiers to
earth. Sir Nigel was thrown down by the sheer weight of them, and Sir
Bertrand with his thunderous war-cry was swinging round his heavy sword to
clear a space for him to rise, when the whistle of two long English
arrows, and the rush of the squire and the two English archers down the
stairs, turned the tide of the combat. The assailants gave back, the
knights rushed forward, and in a very few moments the hall was cleared,
and Hordle John had hurled the last of the wild men down the steep steps
which led from the end of it.

“Do not follow them,” cried Du Guesclin. “We are lost if we scatter. For
myself I care not a denier, though it is a poor thing to meet one’s end at
the hands of such scum; but I have my dear lady here, who must by no means
be risked. We have breathing-space now, and I would ask you, Sir Nigel,
what it is that you would counsel?”

“By St. Paul!” answered Sir Nigel, “I can by no means understand what hath
befallen us, save that I have been woken up by your battle-cry, and,
rushing forth, found myself in the midst of this small bickering. Harrow
and alas for the lady and the seneschal! What dogs are they who have done
this bloody deed?”

“They are the Jacks, the men of the brushwood. They have the castle,
though I know not how it hath come to pass. Look from this window into the
bailey.”

“By heaven!” cried Sir Nigel, “it is as bright as day with the torches.
The gates stand open, and there are three thousand of them within the
walls. See how they rush and scream and wave! What is it that they thrust
out through the postern door? My God! it is a man-at-arms, and they pluck
him limb from limb like hounds on a wolf. Now another, and yet another.
They hold the whole castle, for I see their faces at the windows. See,
there are some with great bundles on their backs.”

“It is dried wood from the forest. They pile them against the walls and
set them in a blaze. Who is this who tries to check them? By St. Ives! it
is the good priest who spake for them in the hall. He kneels, he prays, he
implores! What! villains, would ye raise hands against those who have
befriended you? Ah, the butcher has struck him! He is down! They stamp him
under their feet! They tear off his gown and wave it in the air! See now,
how the flames lick up the walls! Are there none left to rally round us?
With a hundred men we might hold our own.”

“Oh, for my Company!” cried Sir Nigel. “But where is Ford, Alleyne?”

“He is foully murdered, my fair lord.”

“The saints receive him! May he rest in peace! But here come some at last
who may give us counsel, for amid these passages it is ill to stir without
a guide.”

As he spoke, a French squire and the Bohemian knight came rushing down the
steps, the latter bleeding from a slash across his forehead.

“All is lost!” he cried. “The castle is taken and on fire, the seneschal
is slain, and there is nought left for us.”

“On the contrary,” quoth Sir Nigel, “there is much left to us, for there
is a very honorable contention before us, and a fair lady for whom to give
our lives. There are many ways in which a man might die, but none better
than this.”

“You can tell us, Godfrey,” said Du Guesclin to the French squire: “how
came these men into the castle, and what succors can we count upon? By St.
Ives! if we come not quickly to some counsel we shall be burned like young
rooks in a nest.”

The squire, a dark, slender stripling, spoke firmly and quickly, as one
who was trained to swift action. “There is a passage under the earth into
the castle,” said he, “and through it some of the Jacks made their way,
casting open the gates for the others. They have had help from within the
walls, and the men-at-arms were heavy with wine: they must have been slain
in their beds, for these devils crept from room to room with soft step and
ready knife. Sir Amory the Hospitaller was struck down with an axe as he
rushed before us from his sleeping-chamber. Save only ourselves, I do not
think that there are any left alive.”

“What, then, would you counsel?”

“That we make for the keep. It is unused, save in time of war, and the key
hangs from my poor lord and master’s belt.”

“There are two keys there.”

“It is the larger. Once there, we might hold the narrow stair; and at
least, as the walls are of a greater thickness, it would be longer ere
they could burn them. Could we but carry the lady across the bailey, all
might be well with us.”

“Nay; the lady hath seen something of the work of war,” said Tiphaine
coming forth, as white, as grave, and as unmoved as ever. “I would not be
a hamper to you, my dear spouse and gallant friend. Rest assured of this,
that if all else fail I have always a safeguard here”—drawing a
small silver-hilted poniard from her bosom—“which sets me beyond the
fear of these vile and blood-stained wretches.”

“Tiphaine,” cried Du Guesclin, “I have always loved you; and now, by Our
Lady of Rennes! I love you more than ever. Did I not know that your hand
will be as ready as your words I would myself turn my last blow upon you,
ere you should fall into their hands. Lead on, Godfrey! A new golden pyx
will shine in the minster of Dinan if we come safely through with it.”

The attention of the insurgents had been drawn away from murder to
plunder, and all over the castle might be heard their cries and whoops of
delight as they dragged forth the rich tapestries, the silver flagons, and
the carved furniture. Down in the courtyard half-clad wretches, their bare
limbs all mottled with blood-stains, strutted about with plumed helmets
upon their heads, or with the Lady Rochefort’s silken gowns girt round
their loins and trailing on the ground behind them. Casks of choice wine
had been rolled out from the cellars, and starving peasants squatted,
goblet in hand, draining off vintages which De Rochefort had set aside for
noble and royal guests. Others, with slabs of bacon and joints of dried
meat upon the ends of their pikes, held them up to the blaze or tore at
them ravenously with their teeth. Yet all order had not been lost amongst
them, for some hundreds of the better armed stood together in a silent
group, leaning upon their rude weapons and looking up at the fire, which
had spread so rapidly as to involve one whole side of the castle. Already
Alleyne could hear the crackling and roaring of the flames, while the air
was heavy with heat and full of the pungent whiff of burning wood.

CHAPTER XXXI. HOW FIVE MEN HELD THE KEEP OF VILLEFRANCHE

Under the guidance of the French squire the party passed down two narrow
corridors. The first was empty, but at the head of the second stood a
peasant sentry, who started off at the sight of them, yelling loudly to
his comrades. “Stop him, or we are undone!” cried Du Guesclin, and had
started to run, when Aylward’s great war-bow twanged like a harp-string,
and the man fell forward upon his face, with twitching limbs and clutching
fingers. Within five paces of where he lay a narrow and little-used door
led out into the bailey. From beyond it came such a Babel of hooting and
screaming, horrible oaths and yet more horrible laughter, that the
stoutest heart might have shrunk from casting down the frail barrier which
faced them.

“Make straight for the keep!” said Du Guesclin, in a sharp, stern whisper.
“The two archers in front, the lady in the centre, a squire on either
side, while we three knights shall bide behind and beat back those who
press upon us. So! Now open the door, and God have us in his holy
keeping!”

For a few moments it seemed that their object would be attained without
danger, so swift and so silent had been their movements. They were
half-way across the bailey ere the frantic, howling peasants made a
movement to stop them. The few who threw themselves in their way were
overpowered or brushed aside, while the pursuers were beaten back by the
ready weapons of the three cavaliers. Unscathed they fought their way to
the door of the keep, and faced round upon the swarming mob, while the
squire thrust the great key into the lock.

“My God!” he cried, “it is the wrong key.”

“The wrong key!”

“Dolt, fool that I am! This is the key of the castle gate; the other opens
the keep. I must back for it!” He turned, with some wild intention of
retracing his steps, but at the instant a great jagged rock, hurled by a
brawny peasant, struck him full upon the ear, and he dropped senseless to
the ground.

“This is key enough for me!” quoth Hordle John, picking up the huge stone,
and hurling it against the door with all the strength of his enormous
body. The lock shivered, the wood smashed, the stone flew into five
pieces, but the iron clamps still held the door in its position. Bending
down, he thrust his great fingers under it, and with a heave raised the
whole mass of wood and iron from its hinges. For a moment it tottered and
swayed, and then, falling outward, buried him in its ruin, while his
comrades rushed into the dark archway which led to safety.

“Up the steps, Tiphaine!” cried Du Guesclin. “Now round, friends, and beat
them back!” The mob of peasants had surged in upon their heels, but the
two trustiest blades in Europe gleamed upon that narrow stair, and four of
their number dropped upon the threshold. The others gave back, and
gathered in a half circle round the open door, gnashing their teeth and
shaking their clenched hands at the defenders. The body of the French
squire had been dragged out by them and hacked to pieces. Three or four
others had pulled John from under the door, when he suddenly bounded to
his feet, and clutching one in either hand dashed them together with such
force that they fell senseless across each other upon the ground. With a
kick and a blow he freed himself from two others who clung to him, and in
a moment he was within the portal with his comrades.

Yet their position was a desperate one. The peasants from far and near had
been assembled for this deed of vengeance, and not less than six thousand
were within or around the walls of the Chateau of Villefranche. Ill armed
and half starved, they were still desperate men, to whom danger had lost
all fears: for what was death that they should shun it to cling to such a
life as theirs? The castle was theirs, and the roaring flames were
spurting through the windows and flickering high above the turrets on two
sides of the quadrangle. From either side they were sweeping down from
room to room and from bastion to bastion in the direction of the keep.
Faced by an army, and girt in by fire, were six men and one woman; but
some of them were men so trained to danger and so wise in war that even
now the combat was less unequal than it seemed. Courage and resource were
penned in by desperation and numbers, while the great yellow sheets of
flame threw their lurid glare over the scene of death.

“There is but space for two upon a step to give free play to our
sword-arms,” said Du Guesclin. “Do you stand with me, Nigel, upon the
lowest. France and England will fight together this night. Sir Otto, I
pray you to stand behind us with this young squire. The archers may go
higher yet and shoot over our heads. I would that we had our harness,
Nigel.”

“Often have I heard my dear Sir John Chandos say that a knight should
never, even when a guest, be parted from it. Yet it will be more honor to
us if we come well out of it. We have a vantage, since we see them against
the light and they can scarce see us. It seems to me that they muster for
an onslaught.”

“If we can but keep them in play,” said the Bohemian, “it is likely that
these flames may bring us succor if there be any true men in the country.”

“Bethink you, my fair lord,” said Alleyne to Sir Nigel, “that we have
never injured these men, nor have we cause of quarrel against them. Would
it not be well, if but for the lady’s sake, to speak them fair and see if
we may not come to honorable terms with them?”

“Not so, by St. Paul!” cried Sir Nigel. “It does not accord with mine
honor, nor shall it ever be said that I, a knight of England, was ready to
hold parley with men who have slain a fair lady and a holy priest.”

“As well hold parley with a pack of ravening wolves,” said the French
captain. “Ha! Notre Dame Du Guesclin! Saint Ives! Saint Ives!”

As he thundered forth his war-cry, the Jacks who had been gathering before
the black arch of the gateway rushed in madly in a desperate effort to
carry the staircase. Their leaders were a small man, dark in the face,
with his beard done up in two plaits, and another larger man, very bowed
in the shoulders, with a huge club studded with sharp nails in his hand.
The first had not taken three steps ere an arrow from Aylward’s bow struck
him full in the chest, and he fell coughing and spluttering across the
threshold. The other rushed onwards, and breaking between Du Guesclin and
Sir Nigel he dashed out the brains of the Bohemian with a single blow of
his clumsy weapon. With three swords through him he still struggled on,
and had almost won his way through them ere he fell dead upon the stair.
Close at his heels came a hundred furious peasants, who flung themselves
again and again against the five swords which confronted them. It was cut
and parry and stab as quick as eye could see or hand act. The door was
piled with bodies, and the stone floor was slippery with blood. The deep
shout of Du Guesclin, the hard, hissing breath of the pressing multitude,
the clatter of steel, the thud of falling bodies, and the screams of the
stricken, made up such a medley as came often in after years to break upon
Alleyne’s sleep. Slowly and sullenly at last the throng drew off, with
many a fierce backward glance, while eleven of their number lay huddled in
front of the stair which they had failed to win.

“The dogs have had enough,” said Du Guesclin.

“By Saint Paul! there appear to be some very worthy and valiant persons
among them,” observed Sir Nigel. “They are men from whom, had they been of
better birth, much honor and advancement might be gained. Even as it is,
it is a great pleasure to have seen them. But what is this that they are
bringing forward?”

“It is as I feared,” growled Du Guesclin. “They will burn us out, since
they cannot win their way past us. Shoot straight and hard, archers; for,
by St. Ives! our good swords are of little use to us.”

As he spoke, a dozen men rushed forward, each screening himself behind a
huge fardel of brushwood. Hurling their burdens in one vast heap within
the portal, they threw burning torches upon the top of it. The wood had
been soaked in oil, for in an instant it was ablaze, and a long, hissing,
yellow flame licked over the heads of the defenders, and drove them
further up to the first floor of the keep. They had scarce reached it,
however, ere they found that the wooden joists and planks of the flooring
were already on fire. Dry and worm-eaten, a spark upon them became a
smoulder, and a smoulder a blaze. A choking smoke filled the air, and the
five could scarce grope their way to the staircase which led up to the
very summit of the square tower.

Strange was the scene which met their eyes from this eminence. Beneath
them on every side stretched the long sweep of peaceful country, rolling
plain, and tangled wood, all softened and mellowed in the silver
moonshine. No light, nor movement, nor any sign of human aid could be
seen, but far away the hoarse clangor of a heavy bell rose and fell upon
the wintry air. Beneath and around them blazed the huge fire, roaring and
crackling on every side of the bailey, and even as they looked the two
corner turrets fell in with a deafening crash, and the whole castle was
but a shapeless mass, spouting flames and smoke from every window and
embrasure. The great black tower upon which they stood rose like a last
island of refuge amid this sea of fire but the ominous crackling and
roaring below showed that it would not be long ere it was engulfed also in
the common ruin. At their very feet was the square courtyard, crowded with
the howling and dancing peasants, their fierce faces upturned, their
clenched hands waving, all drunk with bloodshed and with vengeance. A yell
of execration and a scream of hideous laughter burst from the vast throng,
as they saw the faces of the last survivors of their enemies peering down
at them from the height of the keep. They still piled the brushwood round
the base of the tower, and gambolled hand in hand around the blaze,
screaming out the doggerel lines which had long been the watchword of the
Jacquerie:

        Cessez, cessez, gens d'armes et pietons,
        De piller et manger le bonhomme
        Qui de longtemps Jacques Bonhomme
          Se nomme.

Their thin, shrill voices rose high above the roar of the flames and the
crash of the masonry, like the yelping of a pack of wolves who see their
quarry before them and know that they have well-nigh run him down.

“By my hilt!” said Aylward to John, “it is in my mind that we shall not
see Spain this journey. It is a great joy to me that I have placed my
feather-bed and other things of price with that worthy woman at Lyndhurst,
who will now have the use of them. I have thirteen arrows yet, and if one
of them fly unfleshed, then, by the twang of string! I shall deserve my
doom. First at him who flaunts with my lady’s silken frock. Clap in the
clout, by God! though a hand’s-breadth lower than I had meant. Now for the
rogue with the head upon his pike. Ha! to the inch, John. When my eye is
true, I am better at rovers than at long-butts or hoyles. A good shoot for
you also, John! The villain hath fallen forward into the fire. But I pray
you, John, to loose gently, and not to pluck with the drawing-hand, for it
is a trick that hath marred many a fine bowman.”

Whilst the two archers were keeping up a brisk fire upon the mob beneath
them, Du Guesclin and his lady were consulting with Sir Nigel upon their
desperate situation.

“’Tis a strange end for one who has seen so many stricken fields,” said
the French chieftain. “For me one death is as another, but it is the
thought of my sweet lady which goes to my heart.”

“Nay, Bertrand, I fear it as little as you,” said she. “Had I my dearest
wish, it would be that we should go together.”

“Well answered, fair lady!” cried Sir Nigel. “And very sure I am that my
own sweet wife would have said the same. If the end be now come, I have
had great good fortune in having lived in times when so much glory was to
be won, and in knowing so many valiant gentlemen and knights. But why do
you pluck my sleeve, Alleyne?”

“If it please you, my fair lord, there are in this corner two great tubes
of iron, with many heavy balls, which may perchance be those bombards and
shot of which I have heard.”

“By Saint Ives! it is true,” cried Sir Bertrand, striding across to the
recess where the ungainly, funnel-shaped, thick-ribbed engines were
standing. “Bombards they are, and of good size. We may shoot down upon
them.”

“Shoot with them, quotha?” cried Aylward in high disdain, for pressing
danger is the great leveller of classes. “How is a man to take aim with
these fool’s toys, and how can he hope to do scath with them?”

“I will show you,” answered Sir Nigel; “for here is the great box of
powder, and if you will raise it for me, John, I will show you how it may
be used. Come hither, where the folk are thickest round the fire. Now,
Aylward, crane thy neck and see what would have been deemed an old wife’s
tale when we first turned our faces to the wars. Throw back the lid, John,
and drop the box into the fire!”

A deafening roar, a fluff of bluish light, and the great square tower
rocked and trembled from its very foundations, swaying this way and that
like a reed in the wind. Amazed and dizzy, the defenders, clutching at the
cracking parapets for support, saw great stones, burning beams of wood,
and mangled bodies hurtling past them through the air. When they staggered
to their feet once more, the whole keep had settled down upon one side, so
that they could scarce keep their footing upon the sloping platform.
Gazing over the edge, they looked down upon the horrible destruction which
had been caused by the explosion. For forty yards round the portal the
ground was black with writhing, screaming figures, who struggled up and
hurled themselves down again, tossing this way and that, sightless,
scorched, with fire bursting from their tattered clothing. Beyond this
circle of death their comrades, bewildered and amazed, cowered away from
this black tower and from these invincible men, who were most to be
dreaded when hope was furthest from their hearts.

“A sally, Du Guesclin, a sally!” cried Sir Nigel. “By Saint Paul! they are
in two minds, and a bold rush may turn them.” He drew his sword as he
spoke and darted down the winding stairs, closely followed by his four
comrades. Ere he was at the first floor, however, he threw up his arms and
stopped. “Mon Dieu!” he said, “we are lost men!”

“What then?” cried those behind him.

“The wall hath fallen in, the stair is blocked, and the fire still rages
below. By Saint Paul! friends, we have fought a very honorable fight, and
may say in all humbleness that we have done our devoir, but I think that
we may now go back to the Lady Tiphaine and say our orisons, for we have
played our parts in this world, and it is time that we made ready for
another.”

The narrow pass was blocked by huge stones littered in wild confusion over
each other, with the blue choking smoke reeking up through the crevices.
The explosion had blown in the wall and cut off the only path by which
they could descend. Pent in, a hundred feet from earth, with a furnace
raging under them and a ravening multitude all round who thirsted for
their blood, it seemed indeed as though no men had ever come through such
peril with their lives. Slowly they made their way back to the summit, but
as they came out upon it the Lady Tiphaine darted forward and caught her
husband by the wrist.

“Bertrand,” said she, “hush and listen! I have heard the voices of men all
singing together in a strange tongue.”

Breathless they stood and silent, but no sound came up to them, save the
roar of the flames and the clamor of their enemies.

“It cannot be, lady,” said Du Guesclin. “This night hath over wrought you,
and your senses play you false. What men are there in this country who
would sing in a strange tongue?”

“Hola!” yelled Aylward, leaping suddenly into the air with waving hands
and joyous face. “I thought I heard it ere we went down, and now I hear it
again. We are saved, comrades! By these ten finger-bones, we are saved! It
is the marching song of the White Company. Hush!”

With upraised forefinger and slanting head, he stood listening. Suddenly
there came swelling up a deep-voiced, rollicking chorus from somewhere out
of the darkness. Never did choice or dainty ditty of Provence or Languedoc
sound more sweetly in the ears than did the rough-tongued Saxon to the six
who strained their ears from the blazing keep:

        We'll drink all together
        To the gray goose feather
          And the land where the gray goose flew.

“Ha, by my hilt!” shouted Aylward, “it is the dear old bow song of the
Company. Here come two hundred as tight lads as ever twirled a shaft over
their thumbnails. Hark to the dogs, how lustily they sing!”

Nearer and clearer, swelling up out of the night, came the gay marching
lilt:

        What of the bow?
           The bow was made in England.
        Of true wood, of yew wood,
           The wood of English bows;
        For men who are free
        Love the old yew-tree
           And the land where the yew tree grows.

        What of the men?
           The men were bred in England,
        The bowmen, the yeomen,
           The lads of the dale and fell,
        Here's to you and to you,
        To the hearts that are true,
           And the land where the true hearts dwell.

“They sing very joyfully,” said Du Guesclin, “as though they were going to
a festival.”

“It is their wont when there is work to be done.”

“By Saint Paul!” quoth Sir Nigel, “it is in my mind that they come too
late, for I cannot see how we are to come down from this tower.”

“There they come, the hearts of gold!” cried Aylward. “See, they move out
from the shadow. Now they cross the meadow. They are on the further side
of the moat. Hola camarades, hola! Johnston, Eccles, Cooke, Harward,
Bligh! Would ye see a fair lady and two gallant knights done foully to
death?”

“Who is there?” shouted a deep voice from below. “Who is this who speaks
with an English tongue?”

“It is I, old lad. It is Sam Aylward of the Company; and here is your
captain, Sir Nigel Loring, and four others, all laid out to be grilled
like an Easterling’s herrings.”

“Curse me if I did not think that it was the style of speech of old Samkin
Aylward,” said the voice, amid a buzz from the ranks. “Wherever there are
knocks going there is Sammy in the heart of it. But who are these
ill-faced rogues who block the path? To your kennels, canaille! What! you
dare look us in the eyes? Out swords, lads, and give them the flat of
them! Waste not your shafts upon such runagate knaves.”

There was little fight left in the peasants, however, still dazed by the
explosion, amazed at their own losses and disheartened by the arrival of
the disciplined archers. In a very few minutes they were in full flight
for their brushwood homes, leaving the morning sun to rise upon a
blackened and blood-stained ruin, where it had left the night before the
magnificent castle of the Seneschal of Auvergne. Already the white lines
in the east were deepening into pink as the archers gathered round the
keep and took counsel how to rescue the survivors.

“Had we a rope,” said Alleyne, “there is one side which is not yet on
fire, down which we might slip.”

“But how to get a rope?”

“It is an old trick,” quoth Aylward. “Hola! Johnston, cast me up a rope,
even as you did at Maupertuis in the war time.”

The grizzled archer thus addressed took several lengths of rope from his
comrades, and knotting them firmly together, he stretched them out in the
long shadow which the rising sun threw from the frowning keep. Then he
fixed the yew-stave of his bow upon end and measured the long, thin, black
line which it threw upon the turf.

“A six-foot stave throws a twelve-foot shadow,” he muttered. “The keep
throws a shadow of sixty paces. Thirty paces of rope will be enow and to
spare. Another strand, Watkin! Now pull at the end that all may be safe.
So! It is ready for them.”

“But how are they to reach it?” asked the young archer beside him.

“Watch and see, young fool’s-head,” growled the old bowman. He took a long
string from his pouch and fastened one end to an arrow.

“All ready, Samkin?”

“Ready, camarade.”

“Close to your hand then.” With an easy pull he sent the shaft flickering
gently up, falling upon the stonework within a foot of where Aylward was
standing. The other end was secured to the rope, so that in a minute a
good strong cord was dangling from the only sound side of the blazing and
shattered tower. The Lady Tiphaine was lowered with a noose drawn fast
under the arms, and the other five slid swiftly down, amid the cheers and
joyous outcry of their rescuers.

CHAPTER XXXII. HOW THE COMPANY TOOK COUNSEL ROUND THE FALLEN TREE.

“Where is Sir Claude Latour?” asked Sir Nigel, as his feet touched ground.

“He is in camp, near Montpezat, two hours’ march from here, my fair lord,”
said Johnston, the grizzled bowman who commanded the archers.

“Then we shall march thither, for I would fain have you all back at Dax in
time to be in the prince’s vanguard.”

“My lord,” cried Alleyne, joyfully, “here are our chargers in the field,
and I see your harness amid the plunder which these rogues have left
behind them.”

“By Saint Ives! you speak sooth, young squire,” said Du Guesclin. “There
is my horse and my lady’s jennet. The knaves led them from the stables,
but fled without them. Now, Nigel, it is great joy to me to have seen one
of whom I have often heard. Yet we must leave you now, for I must be with
the King of Spain ere your army crosses the mountains.”

“I had thought that you were in Spain with the valiant Henry of
Trastamare.”

“I have been there, but I came to France to raise succor for him. I shall
ride back, Nigel, with four thousand of the best lances of France at my
back, so that your prince may find he hath a task which is worthy of him.
God be with you, friend, and may we meet again in better times!”

“I do not think,” said Sir Nigel, as he stood by Alleyne’s side looking
after the French knight and his lady, “that in all Christendom you will
meet with a more stout-hearted man or a fairer and sweeter dame. But your
face is pale and sad, Alleyne! Have you perchance met with some hurt
during the ruffle?”

“Nay, my fair lord, I was but thinking of my friend Ford, and how he sat
upon my couch no later than yesternight.”

Sir Nigel shook his head sadly. “Two brave squires have I lost,” said he.
“I know not why the young shoots should be plucked, and an old weed left
standing, yet certes there must be some good reason, since God hath so
planned it. Did you not note, Alleyne, that the Lady Tiphaine did give us
warning last night that danger was coming upon us?”

“She did, my lord.”

“By Saint Paul! my mind misgives me as to what she saw at Twynham Castle.
And yet I cannot think that any Scottish or French rovers could land in
such force as to beleaguer the fortalice. Call the Company together,
Aylward; and let us on, for it will be shame to us if we are not at Dax
upon the trysting day.”

The archers had spread themselves over the ruins, but a blast upon a bugle
brought them all back to muster, with such booty as they could bear with
them stuffed into their pouches or slung over their shoulders. As they
formed into ranks, each man dropping silently into his place, Sir Nigel
ran a questioning eye over them, and a smile of pleasure played over his
face. Tall and sinewy, and brown, clear-eyed, hard-featured, with the
stern and prompt bearing of experienced soldiers, it would be hard indeed
for a leader to seek for a choicer following. Here and there in the ranks
were old soldiers of the French wars, grizzled and lean, with fierce,
puckered features and shaggy, bristling brows. The most, however, were
young and dandy archers, with fresh English faces, their beards combed
out, their hair curling from under their close steel hufkens, with gold or
jewelled earrings gleaming in their ears, while their gold-spangled
baldrics, their silken belts, and the chains which many of them wore round
their thick brown necks, all spoke of the brave times which they had had
as free companions. Each had a yew or hazel stave slung over his shoulder,
plain and serviceable with the older men, but gaudily painted and carved
at either end with the others. Steel caps, mail brigandines, white
surcoats with the red lion of St. George, and sword or battle-axe swinging
from their belts, completed this equipment, while in some cases the
murderous maule or five-foot mallet was hung across the bowstave, being
fastened to their leathern shoulder-belt by a hook in the centre of the
handle. Sir Nigel’s heart beat high as he looked upon their free bearing
and fearless faces.

For two hours they marched through forest and marshland, along the left
bank of the river Aveyron; Sir Nigel riding behind his Company, with
Alleyne at his right hand, and Johnston, the old master bowman, walking by
his left stirrup. Ere they had reached their journey’s end the knight had
learned all that he would know of his men, their doings and their
intentions. Once, as they marched, they saw upon the further bank of the
river a body of French men-at-arms, riding very swiftly in the direction
of Villefranche.

“It is the Seneschal of Toulouse, with his following,” said Johnston,
shading his eyes with his hand. “Had he been on this side of the water he
might have attempted something upon us.”

“I think that it would be well that we should cross,” said Sir Nigel. “It
were pity to balk this worthy seneschal, should he desire to try some
small feat of arms.”

“Nay, there is no ford nearer than Tourville,” answered the old archer.
“He is on his way to Villefranche, and short will be the shrift of any
Jacks who come into his hands, for he is a man of short speech. It was he
and the Seneschal of Beaucaire who hung Peter Wilkins, of the Company,
last Lammastide; for which, by the black rood of Waltham! they shall hang
themselves, if ever they come into our power. But here are our comrades,
Sir Nigel, and here is our camp.”

As he spoke, the forest pathway along which they marched opened out into a
green glade, which sloped down towards the river. High, leafless trees
girt it in on three sides, with a thick undergrowth of holly between their
trunks. At the farther end of this forest clearing there stood forty or
fifty huts, built very neatly from wood and clay, with the blue smoke
curling out from the roofs. A dozen tethered horses and mules grazed
around the encampment, while a number of archers lounged about: some
shooting at marks, while others built up great wooden fires in the open,
and hung their cooking kettles above them. At the sight of their returning
comrades there was a shout of welcome, and a horseman, who had been
exercising his charger behind the camp, came cantering down to them. He
was a dapper, brisk man, very richly clad, with a round, clean-shaven
face, and very bright black eyes, which danced and sparkled with
excitement.

“Sir Nigel!” he cried. “Sir Nigel Loring, at last! By my soul we have
awaited you this month past. Right welcome, Sir Nigel! You have had my
letter?”

“It was that which brought me here,” said Sir Nigel. “But indeed, Sir
Claude Latour, it is a great wonder to me that you did not yourself lead
these bowmen, for surely they could have found no better leader?”

“None, none, by the Virgin of L’Esparre!” he cried, speaking in the
strange, thick Gascon speech which turns every v into a b.
“But you know what these islanders of yours are, Sir Nigel. They will not
be led by any save their own blood and race. There is no persuading them.
Not even I, Claude Latour Seigneur of Montchateau, master of the high
justice, the middle and the low, could gain their favor. They must needs
hold a council and put their two hundred thick heads together, and then
there comes this fellow Aylward and another, as their spokesmen, to say
that they will disband unless an Englishman of good name be set over them.
There are many of them, as I understand, who come from some great forest
which lies in Hampi, or Hampti—I cannot lay my tongue to the name.
Your dwelling is in those parts, and so their thoughts turned to you as
their leader. But we had hoped that you would bring a hundred men with
you.”

“They are already at Dax, where we shall join them,” said Sir Nigel. “But
let the men break their fast, and we shall then take counsel what to do.”

“Come into my hut,” said Sir Claude. “It is but poor fare that I can lay
before you—milk, cheese, wine, and bacon—yet your squire and
yourself will doubtless excuse it. This is my house where the pennon flies
before the door—a small residence to contain the Lord of
Montchateau.”

Sir Nigel sat silent and distrait at his meal, while Alleyne hearkened to
the clattering tongue of the Gascon, and to his talk of the glories of his
own estate, his successes in love, and his triumphs in war.

“And now that you are here, Sir Nigel,” he said at last, “I have many fine
ventures all ready for us. I have heard that Montpezat is of no great
strength, and that there are two hundred thousand crowns in the castle. At
Castelnau also there is a cobbler who is in my pay, and who will throw us
a rope any dark night from his house by the town wall. I promise you that
you shall thrust your arms elbow-deep among good silver pieces ere the
nights are moonless again; for on every hand of us are fair women, rich
wine, and good plunder, as much as heart could wish.”

“I have other plans,” answered Sir Nigel curtly; “for I have come hither
to lead these bowmen to the help of the prince, our master, who may have
sore need of them ere he set Pedro upon the throne of Spain. It is my
purpose to start this very day for Dax upon the Adour, where he hath now
pitched his camp.”

The face of the Gascon darkened, and his eyes flashed with resentment.
“For me,” he said, “I care little for this war, and I find the life which
I lead a very joyous and pleasant one. I will not go to Dax.”

“Nay, think again, Sir Claude,” said Sir Nigel gently; “for you have ever
had the name of a true and loyal knight. Surely you will not hold back now
when your master hath need of you.”

“I will not go to Dax,” the other shouted.

“But your devoir—your oath of fealty?”

“I say that I will not go.”

“Then, Sir Claude, I must lead the Company without you.”

“If they will follow,” cried the Gascon with a sneer. “These are not hired
slaves, but free companions, who will do nothing save by their own good
wills. In very sooth, my Lord Loring, they are ill men to trifle with, and
it were easier to pluck a bone from a hungry bear than to lead a bowman
out of a land of plenty and of pleasure.”

“Then I pray you to gather them together,” said Sir Nigel, “and I will
tell them what is in my mind; for if I am their leader they must to Dax,
and if I am not then I know not what I am doing in Auvergne. Have my horse
ready, Alleyne; for, by St. Paul! come what may, I must be upon the
homeward road ere mid-day.”

A blast upon the bugle summoned the bowmen to counsel, and they gathered
in little knots and groups around a great fallen tree which lay athwart
the glade. Sir Nigel sprang lightly upon the trunk, and stood with
blinking eye and firm lips looking down at the ring of upturned warlike
faces.

“They tell me, bowmen,” said he, “that ye have grown so fond of ease and
plunder and high living that ye are not to be moved from this pleasant
country. But, by Saint Paul! I will believe no such thing of you, for I
can readily see that you are all very valiant men, who would scorn to live
here in peace when your prince hath so great a venture before him. Ye have
chosen me as a leader, and a leader I will be if ye come with me to Spain;
and I vow to you that my pennon of the five roses shall, if God give me
strength and life, be ever where there is most honor to be gained. But if
it be your wish to loll and loiter in these glades, bartering glory and
renown for vile gold and ill-gotten riches, then ye must find another
leader; for I have lived in honor, and in honor I trust that I shall die.
If there be forest men or Hampshire men amongst ye, I call upon them to
say whether they will follow the banner of Loring.”

“Here’s a Romsey man for you!” cried a young bowman with a sprig of
evergreen set in his helmet.

“And a lad from Alresford!” shouted another.

“And from Milton!”

“And from Burley!”

“And from Lymington!”

“And a little one from Brockenhurst!” shouted a huge-limbed fellow who
sprawled beneath a tree.

“By my hilt! lads,” cried Aylward, jumping upon the fallen trunk, “I think
that we could not look the girls in the eyes if we let the prince cross
the mountains and did not pull string to clear a path for him. It is very
well in time of peace to lead such a life as we have had together, but now
the war-banner is in the wind once more, and, by these ten finger-bones!
if he go alone, old Samkin Aylward will walk beside it.”

These words from a man as popular as Aylward decided many of the waverers,
and a shout of approval burst from his audience.

“Far be it from me,” said Sir Claude Latour suavely, “to persuade you
against this worthy archer, or against Sir Nigel Loring; yet we have been
together in many ventures, and perchance it may not be amiss if I say to
you what I think upon the matter.”

“Peace for the little Gascon!” cried the archers. “Let every man have his
word. Shoot straight for the mark, lad, and fair play for all.”

“Bethink you, then,” said Sir Claude, “that you go under a hard rule, with
neither freedom nor pleasure—and for what? For sixpence a day, at
the most; while now you may walk across the country and stretch out either
hand to gather in whatever you have a mind for. What do we not hear of our
comrades who have gone with Sir John Hawkwood to Italy? In one night they
have held to ransom six hundred of the richest noblemen of Mantua. They
camp before a great city, and the base burghers come forth with the keys,
and then they make great spoil; or, if it please them better, they take so
many horse-loads of silver as a composition; and so they journey on from
state to state, rich and free and feared by all. Now, is not that the
proper life for a soldier?”

“The proper life for a robber!” roared Hordle John, in his thundering
voice.

“And yet there is much in what the Gascon says,” said a swarthy fellow in
a weather-stained doublet; “and I for one would rather prosper in Italy
than starve in Spain.”

“You were always a cur and a traitor, Mark Shaw,” cried Aylward. “By my
hilt! if you will stand forth and draw your sword I will warrant you that
you will see neither one nor the other.”

“Nay, Aylward,” said Sir Nigel, “we cannot mend the matter by broiling.
Sir Claude, I think that what you have said does you little honor, and if
my words aggrieve you I am ever ready to go deeper into the matter with
you. But you shall have such men as will follow you, and you may go where
you will, so that you come not with us. Let all who love their prince and
country stand fast, while those who think more of a well-lined purse step
forth upon the farther side.”

Thirteen bowmen, with hung heads and sheepish faces, stepped forward with
Mark Shaw and ranged themselves behind Sir Claude. Amid the hootings and
hissings of their comrades, they marched off together to the Gascon’s hut,
while the main body broke up their meeting and set cheerily to work
packing their possessions, furbishing their weapons, and preparing for the
march which lay before them. Over the Tarn and the Garonne, through the
vast quagmires of Armagnac, past the swift-flowing Losse, and so down the
long valley of the Adour, there was many a long league to be crossed ere
they could join themselves to that dark war-cloud which was drifting
slowly southwards to the line of the snowy peaks, beyond which the banner
of England had never yet been seen.

CHAPTER XXXIII. HOW THE ARMY MADE THE PASSAGE OF RONCESVALLES.

The whole vast plain of Gascony and of Languedoc is an arid and profitless
expanse in winter save where the swift-flowing Adour and her snow-fed
tributaries, the Louts, the Oloron and the Pau, run down to the sea of
Biscay. South of the Adour the jagged line of mountains which fringe the
sky-line send out long granite claws, running down into the lowlands and
dividing them into “gaves” or stretches of valley. Hillocks grow into
hills, and hills into mountains, each range overlying its neighbor, until
they soar up in the giant chain which raises its spotless and untrodden
peaks, white and dazzling, against the pale blue wintry sky.

A quiet land is this—a land where the slow-moving Basque, with his
flat biretta-cap, his red sash and his hempen sandals, tills his scanty
farm or drives his lean flock to their hill-side pastures. It is the
country of the wolf and the isard, of the brown bear and the
mountain-goat, a land of bare rock and of rushing water. Yet here it was
that the will of a great prince had now assembled a gallant army; so that
from the Adour to the passes of Navarre the barren valleys and wind-swept
wastes were populous with soldiers and loud with the shouting of orders
and the neighing of horses. For the banners of war had been flung to the
wind once more, and over those glistening peaks was the highway along
which Honor pointed in an age when men had chosen her as their guide.

And now all was ready for the enterprise. From Dax to St. Jean
Pied-du-Port the country was mottled with the white tents of Gascons,
Aquitanians and English, all eager for the advance. From all sides the
free companions had trooped in, until not less than twelve thousand of
these veteran troops were cantoned along the frontiers of Navarre. From
England had arrived the prince’s brother, the Duke of Lancaster, with four
hundred knights in his train and a strong company of archers. Above all,
an heir to the throne had been born in Bordeaux, and the prince might
leave his spouse with an easy mind, for all was well with mother and with
child.

The keys of the mountain passes still lay in the hands of the shifty and
ignoble Charles of Navarre, who had chaffered and bargained both with the
English and with the Spanish, taking money from the one side to hold them
open and from the other to keep them sealed. The mallet hand of Edward,
however, had shattered all the schemes and wiles of the plotter. Neither
entreaty nor courtly remonstrance came from the English prince; but Sir
Hugh Calverley passed silently over the border with his company, and the
blazing walls of the two cities of Miranda and Puenta de la Reyna warned
the unfaithful monarch that there were other metals besides gold, and that
he was dealing with a man to whom it was unsafe to lie. His price was
paid, his objections silenced, and the mountain gorges lay open to the
invaders. From the Feast of the Epiphany there was mustering and massing,
until, in the first week of February—three days after the White
Company joined the army—the word was given for a general advance
through the defile of Roncesvalles. At five in the cold winter’s morning
the bugles were blowing in the hamlet of St. Jean Pied-du-Port, and by six
Sir Nigel’s Company, three hundred strong, were on their way for the
defile, pushing swiftly in the dim light up the steep curving road; for it
was the prince’s order that they should be the first to pass through, and
that they should remain on guard at the further end until the whole army
had emerged from the mountains. Day was already breaking in the east, and
the summits of the great peaks had turned rosy red, while the valleys
still lay in the shadow, when they found themselves with the cliffs on
either hand and the long, rugged pass stretching away before them.

Sir Nigel rode his great black war-horse at the head of his archers,
dressed in full armor, with Black Simon bearing his banner behind him,
while Alleyne at his bridle-arm carried his blazoned shield and his
well-steeled ashen spear. A proud and happy man was the knight, and many a
time he turned in his saddle to look at the long column of bowmen who
swung swiftly along behind him.

“By Saint Paul! Alleyne,” said he, “this pass is a very perilous place,
and I would that the King of Navarre had held it against us, for it would
have been a very honorable venture had it fallen to us to win a passage. I
have heard the minstrels sing of one Sir Roland who was slain by the
infidels in these very parts.”

“If it please you, my fair lord,” said Black Simon, “I know something of
these parts, for I have twice served a term with the King of Navarre.
There is a hospice of monks yonder, where you may see the roof among the
trees, and there it was that Sir Roland was slain. The village upon the
left is Orbaiceta, and I know a house therein where the right wine of
Jurancon is to be bought, if it would please you to quaff a morning cup.”

“There is smoke yonder upon the right.”

“That is a village named Les Aldudes, and I know a hostel there also where
the wine is of the best. It is said that the inn-keeper hath a buried
treasure, and I doubt not, my fair lord, that if you grant me leave I
could prevail upon him to tell us where he hath hid it.”

“Nay, nay, Simon,” said Sir Nigel curtly, “I pray you to forget these free
companion tricks. Ha! Edricson, I see that you stare about you, and in
good sooth these mountains must seem wondrous indeed to one who hath but
seen Butser or the Portsdown hill.”

The broken and rugged road had wound along the crests of low hills, with
wooded ridges on either side of it over which peeped the loftier
mountains, the distant Peak of the South and the vast Altabisca, which
towered high above them and cast its black shadow from left to right
across the valley. From where they now stood they could look forward down
a long vista of beech woods and jagged rock-strewn wilderness, all white
with snow, to where the pass opened out upon the uplands beyond. Behind
them they could still catch a glimpse of the gray plains of Gascony, and
could see her rivers gleaming like coils of silver in the sunshine. As far
as eye could see from among the rocky gorges and the bristles of the pine
woods there came the quick twinkle and glitter of steel, while the wind
brought with it sudden distant bursts of martial music from the great host
which rolled by every road and by-path towards the narrow pass of
Roncesvalles. On the cliffs on either side might also be seen the flash of
arms and the waving of pennons where the force of Navarre looked down upon
the army of strangers who passed through their territories.

“By Saint Paul!” said Sir Nigel, blinking up at them, “I think that we
have much to hope for from these cavaliers, for they cluster very thickly
upon our flanks. Pass word to the men, Aylward, that they unsling their
bows, for I have no doubt that there are some very worthy gentlemen yonder
who may give us some opportunity for honorable advancement.”

“I hear that the prince hath the King of Navarre as hostage,” said
Alleyne, “and it is said that he hath sworn to put him to death if there
be any attack upon us.”

“It was not so that war was made when good King Edward first turned his
hand to it,” said Sir Nigel sadly. “Ah! Alleyne, I fear that you will
never live to see such things, for the minds of men are more set upon
money and gain than of old. By Saint Paul! it was a noble sight when two
great armies would draw together upon a certain day, and all who had a vow
would ride forth to discharge themselves of it. What noble spear-runnings
have I not seen, and even in an humble way had a part in, when cavaliers
would run a course for the easing of their souls and for the love of their
ladies! Never a bad word have I for the French, for, though I have ridden
twenty times up to their array, I have never yet failed to find some very
gentle and worthy knight or squire who was willing to do what he might to
enable me to attempt some small feat of arms. Then, when all cavaliers had
been satisfied, the two armies would come to hand-strokes, and fight right
merrily until one or other had the vantage. By Saint Paul! it was not our
wont in those days to pay gold for the opening of passes, nor would we
hold a king as hostage lest his people come to thrusts with us. In good
sooth, if the war is to be carried out in such a fashion, then it is grief
to me that I ever came away from Castle Twynham, for I would not have left
my sweet lady had I not thought that there were deeds of arms to be done.”

“But surely, my fair lord,” said Alleyne, “you have done some great feats
of arms since we left the Lady Loring.”

“I cannot call any to mind,” answered Sir Nigel.

“There was the taking of the sea-rovers, and the holding of the keep
against the Jacks.”

“Nay, nay,” said the knight, “these were not feats of arms, but mere
wayside ventures and the chances of travel. By Saint Paul! if it were not
that these hills are over-steep for Pommers, I would ride to these
cavaliers of Navarre and see if there were not some among them who would
help me to take this patch from mine eye. It is a sad sight to see this
very fine pass, which my own Company here could hold against an army, and
yet to ride through it with as little profit as though it were the lane
from my kennels to the Avon.”

All morning Sir Nigel rode in a very ill-humor, with his Company tramping
behind him. It was a toilsome march over broken ground and through snow,
which came often as high as the knee, yet ere the sun had begun to sink
they had reached the spot where the gorge opens out on to the uplands of
Navarre, and could see the towers of Pampeluna jutting up against the
southern sky-line. Here the Company were quartered in a scattered mountain
hamlet, and Alleyne spent the day looking down upon the swarming army
which poured with gleam of spears and flaunt of standards through the
narrow pass.

“Hola, mon gar.,” said Aylward, seating himself upon a boulder by his
side. “This is indeed a fine sight upon which it is good to look, and a
man might go far ere he would see so many brave men and fine horses. By my
hilt! our little lord is wroth because we have come peacefully through the
passes, but I will warrant him that we have fighting enow ere we turn our
faces northward again. It is said that there are four-score thousand men
behind the King of Spain, with Du Guesclin and all the best lances of
France, who have sworn to shed their heart’s blood ere this Pedro come
again to the throne.”

“Yet our own army is a great one,” said Alleyne.

“Nay, there are but seven-and-twenty thousand men. Chandos hath persuaded
the prince to leave many behind, and indeed I think that he is right, for
there is little food and less water in these parts for which we are bound.
A man without his meat or a horse without his fodder is like a wet
bow-string, fit for little. But voila, mon petit, here comes Chandos and
his company, and there is many a pensil and banderole among yonder
squadrons which show that the best blood of England is riding under his
banners.”

Whilst Aylward had been speaking, a strong column of archers had defiled
through the pass beneath them. They were followed by a banner-bearer who
held high the scarlet wedge upon a silver field which proclaimed the
presence of the famous warrior. He rode himself within a spear’s-length of
his standard, clad from neck to foot in steel, but draped in the long
linen gown or parement which was destined to be the cause of his death.
His plumed helmet was carried behind him by his body-squire, and his head
was covered by a small purple cap, from under which his snow-white hair
curled downwards to his shoulders. With his long beak-like nose and his
single gleaming eye, which shone brightly from under a thick tuft of
grizzled brow, he seemed to Alleyne to have something of the look of some
fierce old bird of prey. For a moment he smiled, as his eye lit upon the
banner of the five roses waving from the hamlet; but his course lay for
Pampeluna, and he rode on after the archers.

Close at his heels came sixteen squires, all chosen from the highest
families, and behind them rode twelve hundred English knights, with gleam
of steel and tossing of plumes, their harness jingling, their long
straight swords clanking against their stirrup-irons, and the beat of
their chargers’ hoofs like the low deep roar of the sea upon the shore.
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 Hawkestone 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 Molineaux, 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’Albret, 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 Aylward, and one or two others who are
still with us, shoot as well as the best. Was it not you, Johnston, who
took the fat ox at Finsbury butts against the pick of London town?”

A sunburnt and black-eyed Brabanter had stood near the old archers,
leaning upon a large crossbow and listening to their talk, which had been
carried on in that hybrid camp dialect which both nations could
understand. He was a squat, bull-necked man, clad in the iron helmet, mail
tunic, and woollen gambesson of his class. A jacket with hanging sleeves,
slashed with velvet at the neck and wrists, showed that he was a man of
some consideration, an under-officer, or file-leader of his company.

“I cannot think,” said he, “why you English should be so fond of your
six-foot stick. If it amuse you to bend it, well and good; but why should
I strain and pull, when my little moulinet will do all for me, and better
than I can do it for myself?”

“I have seen good shooting with the prod and with the latch,” said
Aylward, “but, by my hilt! camarade, with all respect to you and to your
bow, I think that is but a woman’s weapon, which a woman can point and
loose as easily as a man.”

“I know not about that,” answered the Brabanter, “but this I know, that
though I have served for fourteen years, I have never yet seen an
Englishman do aught with the long-bow which I could not do better with my
arbalest. By the three kings! I would even go further, and say that I have
done things with my arbalest which no Englishman could do with his
long-bow.”

“Well said, mon gar.,” cried Aylward. “A good cock has ever a brave call.
Now, I have shot little of late, but there is Johnston here who will try a
round with you for the honor of the Company.”

“And I will lay a gallon of Jurancon wine upon the long-bow,” said Black
Simon, “though I had rather, for my own drinking, that it were a quart of
Twynham ale.”

“I take both your challenge and your wager,” said the man of Brabant,
throwing off his jacket and glancing keenly about him with his black,
twinkling eyes. “I cannot see any fitting mark, for I care not to waste a
bolt upon these shields, which a drunken boor could not miss at a village
kermesse.”

“This is a perilous man,” whispered an English man-at-arms, plucking at
Aylward’s sleeve. “He is the best marksman of all the crossbow companies
and it was he who brought down the Constable de Bourbon at Brignais. I
fear that your man will come by little honor with him.”

“Yet I have seen Johnston shoot these twenty years, and I will not flinch
from it. How say you, old war-hound, will you not have a flight shot or
two with this springald?”

“Tut, tut, Aylward,” said the old bowman. “My day is past, and it is for
the younger ones to hold what we have gained. I take it unkindly of thee,
Samkin, that thou shouldst call all eyes thus upon a broken bowman who
could once shoot a fair shaft. Let me feel that bow, Wilkins! It is a
Scotch bow, I see, for the upper nock is without and the lower within. By
the black rood! it is a good piece of yew, well nocked, well strung, well
waxed, and very joyful to the feel. I think even now that I might hit any
large and goodly mark with a bow like this. Turn thy quiver to me,
Aylward. I love an ash arrow pierced with cornel-wood for a roving shaft.”

“By my hilt! and so do I,” cried Aylward. “These three gander-winged
shafts are such.”

“So I see, comrade. It has been my wont to choose a saddle-backed feather
for a dead shaft, and a swine-backed for a smooth flier. I will take the
two of them. Ah! Samkin, lad, the eye grows dim and the hand less firm as
the years pass.”

“Come then, are you not ready?” said the Brabanter, who had watched with
ill-concealed impatience the slow and methodic movements of his
antagonist.

“I will venture a rover with you, or try long-butts or hoyles,” said old
Johnston. “To my mind the long-bow is a better weapon than the arbalest,
but it may be ill for me to prove it.”

“So I think,” quoth the other with a sneer. He drew his moulinet from his
girdle, and fixing it to the windlass, he drew back the powerful double
cord until it had clicked into the catch. Then from his quiver he drew a
short, thick quarrel, which he placed with the utmost care upon the
groove. Word had spread of what was going forward, and the rivals were
already surrounded, not only by the English archers of the Company, but by
hundreds of arbalestiers and men-at-arms from the bands of Ortingo and La
Nuit, to the latter of which the Brabanter belonged.

“There is a mark yonder on the hill,” said he; “mayhap you can discern
it.”

“I see something,” answered Johnston, shading his eyes with his hand; “but
it is a very long shoot.”

“A fair shoot—a fair shoot! Stand aside, Arnaud, lest you find a
bolt through your gizzard. Now, comrade, I take no flight shot, and I give
you the vantage of watching my shaft.”

As he spoke he raised his arbalest to his shoulder and was about to pull
the trigger, when a large gray stork flapped heavily into view skimming
over the brow of the hill, and then soaring up into the air to pass the
valley. Its shrill and piercing cries drew all eyes upon it, and, as it
came nearer, a dark spot which circled above it resolved itself into a
peregrine falcon, which hovered over its head, poising itself from time to
time, and watching its chance of closing with its clumsy quarry. Nearer
and nearer came the two birds, all absorbed in their own contest, the
stork wheeling upwards, the hawk still fluttering above it, until they
were not a hundred paces from the camp. The Brabanter raised his weapon to
the sky, and there came the short, deep twang of his powerful string. His
bolt struck the stork just where its wing meets the body, and the bird
whirled aloft in a last convulsive flutter before falling wounded and
flapping to the earth. A roar of applause burst from the crossbowmen; but
at the instant that the bolt struck its mark old Johnston, who had stood
listlessly with arrow on string, bent his bow and sped a shaft through the
body of the falcon. Whipping the other from his belt, he sent it skimming
some few feet from the earth with so true an aim that it struck and
transfixed the stork for the second time ere it could reach the ground. A
deep-chested shout of delight burst from the archers at the sight of this
double feat, and Aylward, dancing with joy, threw his arms round the old
marksman and embraced him with such vigor that their mail tunics clanged
again.

“Ah! camarade,” he cried, “you shall have a stoup with me for this! What
then, old dog, would not the hawk please thee, but thou must have the
stork as well. Oh, to my heart again!”

“It is a pretty piece of yew, and well strung,” said Johnston with a
twinkle in his deep-set gray eyes. “Even an old broken bowman might find
the clout with a bow like this.”

“You have done very well,” remarked the Brabanter in a surly voice. “But
it seems to me that you have not yet shown yourself to be a better
marksman than I, for I have struck that at which I aimed, and, by the
three kings! no man can do more.”

“It would ill beseem me to claim to be a better marksman,” answered
Johnston, “for I have heard great things of your skill. I did but wish to
show that the long-bow could do that which an arbalest could not do, for
you could not with your moulinet have your string ready to speed another
shaft ere the bird drop to the earth.”

“In that you have vantage,” said the crossbowman. “By Saint James! it is
now my turn to show you where my weapon has the better of you. I pray you
to draw a flight shaft with all your strength down the valley, that we may
see the length of your shoot.”

“That is a very strong prod of yours,” said Johnston, shaking his grizzled
head as he glanced at the thick arch and powerful strings of his rival’s
arbalest. “I have little doubt that you can overshoot me, and yet I have
seen bowmen who could send a cloth-yard arrow further than you could speed
a quarrel.”

“So I have heard,” remarked the Brabanter; “and yet it is a strange thing
that these wondrous bowmen are never where I chance to be. Pace out the
distances with a wand at every five score, and do you, Arnaud, stand at
the fifth wand to carry back my bolts to me.”

A line was measured down the valley, and Johnston, drawing an arrow to the
very head, sent it whistling over the row of wands.

“Bravely drawn! A rare shoot!” shouted the bystanders.

“It is well up to the fourth mark.”

“By my hilt! it is over it,” cried Aylward. “I can see where they have
stooped to gather up the shaft.”

“We shall hear anon,” said Johnston quietly, and presently a young archer
came running to say that the arrow had fallen twenty paces beyond the
fourth wand.

“Four hundred paces and a score,” cried Black Simon. “I’ faith, it is a
very long flight. Yet wood and steel may do more than flesh and blood.”

The Brabanter stepped forward with a smile of conscious triumph, and
loosed the cord of his weapon. A shout burst from his comrades as they
watched the swift and lofty flight of the heavy bolt.

“Over the fourth!” groaned Aylward. “By my hilt! I think that it is well
up to the fifth.”

“It is over the fifth!” cried a Gascon loudly, and a comrade came running
with waving arms to say that the bolt had pitched eight paces beyond the
mark of the five hundred.

“Which weapon hath the vantage now?” cried the Brabanter, strutting
proudly about with shouldered arbalest, amid the applause of his
companions.

“You can overshoot me,” said Johnston gently.

“Or any other man who ever bent a long-bow,” cried his victorious
adversary.

“Nay, not so fast,” said a huge archer, whose mighty shoulders and red
head towered high above the throng of his comrades. “I must have a word
with you ere you crow so loudly. Where is my little popper? By sainted
Dick of Hampole! it will be a strange thing if I cannot outshoot that
thing of thine, which to my eyes is more like a rat-trap than a bow. Will
you try another flight, or do you stand by your last?”

“Five hundred and eight paces will serve my turn,” answered the Brabanter,
looking askance at this new opponent.

“Tut, John,” whispered Aylward, “you never were a marksman. Why must you
thrust your spoon into this dish?”

“Easy and slow, Aylward. There are very many things which I cannot do, but
there are also one or two which I have the trick of. It is in my mind that
I can beat this shoot, if my bow will but hold together.”

“Go on, old babe of the woods!” “Have at it, Hampshire!” cried the archers
laughing.

“By my soul! you may grin,” cried John. “But I learned how to make the
long shoot from old Hob Miller of Milford.” He took up a great black bow,
as he spoke, and sitting down upon the ground he placed his two feet on
either end of the stave. With an arrow fitted, he then pulled the string
towards him with both hands until the head of the shaft was level with the
wood. The great bow creaked and groaned and the cord vibrated with the
tension.

“Who is this fool’s-head who stands in the way of my shoot?” said he,
craning up his neck from the ground.

“He stands on the further side of my mark,” answered the Brabanter, “so he
has little to fear from you.”

“Well, the saints assoil him!” cried John. “Though I think he is over-near
to be scathed.” As he spoke he raised his two feet, with the bow-stave
upon their soles, and his cord twanged with a deep rich hum which might be
heard across the valley. The measurer in the distance fell flat upon his
face, and then jumping up again, he began to run in the opposite
direction.

“Well shot, old lad! It is indeed over his head,” cried the bowmen.

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Brabanter, “who ever saw such a shoot?”

“It is but a trick,” quoth John. “Many a time have I won a gallon of ale
by covering a mile in three flights down Wilverley Chase.”

“It fell a hundred and thirty paces beyond the fifth mark,” shouted an
archer in the distance.

“Six hundred and thirty paces! Mon Dieu! but that is a shoot! And yet it
says nothing for your weapon, mon gros camarade, for it was by turning
yourself into a crossbow that you did it.”

“By my hilt! there is truth in that,” cried Aylward. “And now, friend, I
will myself show you a vantage of the long-bow. I pray you to speed a bolt
against yonder shield with all your force. It is an inch of elm with
bull’s hide over it.”

“I scarce shot as many shafts at Brignais,” growled the man of Brabant;
“though I found a better mark there than a cantle of bull’s hide. But what
is this, Englishman? The shield hangs not one hundred paces from me, and a
blind man could strike it.” He screwed up his string to the furthest
pitch, and shot his quarrel at the dangling shield. Aylward, who had drawn
an arrow from his quiver, carefully greased the head of it, and sped it at
the same mark.

“Run, Wilkins,” quoth he, “and fetch me the shield.”

Long were the faces of the Englishmen and broad the laugh of the
crossbowmen as the heavy mantlet was carried towards them, for there in
the centre was the thick Brabant bolt driven deeply into the wood, while
there was neither sign nor trace of the cloth-yard shaft.

“By the three kings!” cried the Brabanter, “this time at least there is no
gainsaying which is the better weapon, or which the truer hand that held
it. You have missed the shield, Englishman.”

“Tarry a bit! tarry a bit, mon gar.!” quoth Aylward, and turning round the
shield he showed a round clear hole in the wood at the back of it. “My
shaft has passed through it, camarade, and I trow the one which goes
through is more to be feared than that which bides on the way.”

The Brabanter stamped his foot with mortification, and was about to make
some angry reply, when Alleyne Edricson came riding up to the crowds of
archers.

“Sir Nigel will be here anon,” said he, “and it is his wish to speak with
the Company.”

In an instant order and method took the place of general confusion. Bows,
steel caps, and jacks were caught up from the grass. A long cordon cleared
the camp of all strangers, while the main body fell into four lines with
under-officers and file-leaders in front and on either flank. So they
stood, silent and motionless, when their leader came riding towards them,
his face shining and his whole small figure swelling with the news which
he bore.

“Great honor has been done to us, men,” cried he: “for, of all the army,
the prince has chosen us out that we should ride onwards into the lands of
Spain to spy upon our enemies. Yet, as there are many of us, and as the
service may not be to the liking of all, I pray that those will step
forward from the ranks who have the will to follow me.”

There was a rustle among the bowmen, but when Sir Nigel looked up at them
no man stood forward from his fellows, but the four lines of men stretched
unbroken as before. Sir Nigel blinked at them in amazement, and a look of
the deepest sorrow shadowed his face.

“That I should live to see the day!” he cried. “What! not one——”

“My fair lord,” whispered Alleyne, “they have all stepped forward.”

“Ah, by Saint Paul! I see how it is with them. I could not think that they
would desert me. We start at dawn to-morrow, and ye are to have the horses
of Sir Robert Cheney’s company. Be ready, I pray ye, at early cock-crow.”

A buzz of delight burst from the archers, as they broke their ranks and
ran hither and thither, whooping and cheering like boys who have news of a
holiday. Sir Nigel gazed after them with a smiling face, when a heavy hand
fell upon his shoulder.

“What ho! my knight-errant of Twynham!” said a voice, “You are off to
Ebro, I hear; and, by the holy fish of Tobias! you must take me under your
banner.”

“What! Sir Oliver Buttesthorn!” cried Sir Nigel. “I had heard that you
were come into camp, and had hoped to see you. Glad and proud shall I be
to have you with me.”

“I have a most particular and weighty reason for wishing to go,” said the
sturdy knight.

“I can well believe it,” returned Sir Nigel; “I have met no man who is
quicker to follow where honor leads.”

“Nay, it is not for honor that I go, Nigel.”

“For what then?”

“For pullets.”

“Pullets?”

“Yes, for the rascal vanguard have cleared every hen from the
country-side. It was this very morning that Norbury, my squire, lamed his
horse in riding round in quest of one, for we have a bag of truffles, and
nought to eat with them. Never have I seen such locusts as this vanguard
of ours. Not a pullet shall we see until we are in front of them; so I
shall leave my Winchester runagates to the care of the provost-marshal,
and I shall hie south with you, Nigel, with my truffles at my saddle-bow.”

“Oliver, Oliver, I know you over-well,” said Sir Nigel, shaking his head,
and the two old soldiers rode off together to their pavilion.

CHAPTER XXXV. HOW SIR NIGEL HAWKED AT AN EAGLE.

To the south of Pampeluna in the kingdom of Navarre there stretched a high
table-land, rising into bare, sterile hills, brown or gray in color, and
strewn with huge boulders of granite. On the Gascon side of the great
mountains there had been running streams, meadows, forests, and little
nestling villages. Here, on the contrary, were nothing but naked rocks,
poor pasture, and savage, stone-strewn wastes. Gloomy defiles or barrancas
intersected this wild country with mountain torrents dashing and foaming
between their rugged sides. The clatter of waters, the scream of the
eagle, and the howling of wolves the only sounds which broke upon the
silence in that dreary and inhospitable region.

Through this wild country it was that Sir Nigel and his Company pushed
their way, riding at times through vast defiles where the brown, gnarled
cliffs shot up on either side of them, and the sky was but a long winding
blue slit between the clustering lines of box which fringed the lips of
the precipices; or, again leading their horses along the narrow and rocky
paths worn by the muleteers upon the edges of the chasm, where under their
very elbows they could see the white streak which marked the gave
which foamed a thousand feet below them. So for two days they pushed their
way through the wild places of Navarre, past Fuente, over the rapid Ega,
through Estella, until upon a winter’s evening the mountains fell away
from in front of them, and they saw the broad blue Ebro curving betwixt
its double line of homesteads and of villages. The fishers of Viana were
aroused that night by rough voices speaking in a strange tongue, and ere
morning Sir Nigel and his men had ferried the river and were safe upon the
land of Spain.

All the next day they lay in a pine wood near to the town of Logrono,
resting their horses and taking counsel as to what they should do. Sir
Nigel had with him Sir William Felton, Sir Oliver Buttesthorn, stout old
Sir Simon Burley, the Scotch knight-errant, the Earl of Angus, and Sir
Richard Causton, all accounted among the bravest knights in the army,
together with sixty veteran men-at-arms, and three hundred and twenty
archers. Spies had been sent out in the morning, and returned after
nightfall to say that the King of Spain was encamped some fourteen miles
off in the direction of Burgos, having with him twenty thousand horse and
forty-five thousand foot.

A dry-wood fire had been lit, and round this the leaders crouched, the
glare beating upon their rugged faces, while the hardy archers lounged and
chatted amid the tethered horses, while they munched their scanty
provisions.

“For my part,” said Sir Simon Burley, “I am of opinion that we have
already done that which we have come for. For do we not now know where the
king is, and how great a following he hath, which was the end of our
journey.”

“True,” answered Sir William Felton, “but I have come on this venture
because it is a long time since I have broken a spear in war, and, certes,
I shall not go back until I have run a course with some cavalier of Spain.
Let those go back who will, but I must see more of these Spaniards ere I
turn.”

“I will not leave you, Sir William,” returned Sir Simon Burley; “and yet,
as an old soldier and one who hath seen much of war, I cannot but think
that it is an ill thing for four hundred men to find themselves between an
army of sixty thousand on the one side and a broad river on the other.”

“Yet,” said Sir Richard Causton, “we cannot for the honor of England go
back without a blow struck.”

“Nor for the honor of Scotland either,” cried the Earl of Angus. “By Saint
Andrew! I wish that I may never set eyes upon the water of Leith again, if
I pluck my horse’s bridle ere I have seen this camp of theirs.”

“By Saint Paul! you have spoken very well,” said Sir Nigel, “and I have
always heard that there were very worthy gentlemen among the Scots, and
fine skirmishing to be had upon their border. Bethink you, Sir Simon, that
we have this news from the lips of common spies, who can scarce tell us as
much of the enemy and of his forces as the prince would wish to hear.”

“You are the leader in this venture, Sir Nigel,” the other answered, “and
I do but ride under your banner.”

“Yet I would fain have your rede and counsel, Sir Simon. But, touching
what you say of the river, we can take heed that we shall not have it at
the back of us, for the prince hath now advanced to Salvatierra, and
thence to Vittoria, so that if we come upon their camp from the further
side we can make good our retreat.”

“What then would you propose?” asked Sir Simon, shaking his grizzled head
as one who is but half convinced.

“That we ride forward ere the news reach them that we have crossed the
river. In this way we may have sight of their army, and perchance even
find occasion for some small deed against them.”

“So be it, then,” said Sir Simon Burley; and the rest of the council
having approved, a scanty meal was hurriedly snatched, and the advance
resumed under the cover of the darkness. All night they led their horses,
stumbling and groping through wild defiles and rugged valleys, following
the guidance of a frightened peasant who was strapped by the wrist to
Black Simon’s stirrup-leather. With the early dawn they found themselves
in a black ravine, with others sloping away from it on either side, and
the bare brown crags rising in long bleak terraces all round them.

“If it please you, fair lord,” said Black Simon, “this man hath misled us,
and since there is no tree upon which we may hang him, it might be well to
hurl him over yonder cliff.”

The peasant, reading the soldier’s meaning in his fierce eyes and harsh
accents dropped upon his knees, screaming loudly for mercy.

“How comes it, dog?” asked Sir William Felton in Spanish. “Where is this
camp to which you swore that you would lead us?”

“By the sweet Virgin! By the blessed Mother of God!” cried the trembling
peasant, “I swear to you that in the darkness I have myself lost the
path.”

“Over the cliff with him!” shouted half a dozen voices; but ere the
archers could drag him from the rocks to which he clung Sir Nigel had
ridden up and called upon them to stop.

“How is this, sirs?” said he. “As long as the prince doth me the honor to
entrust this venture to me, it is for me only to give orders; and, by
Saint Paul! I shall be right blithe to go very deeply into the matter with
any one to whom my words may give offence. How say you, Sir William? Or
you, my Lord of Angus? Or you, Sir Richard?”

“Nay, nay, Nigel!” cried Sir William. “This base peasant is too small a
matter for old comrades to quarrel over. But he hath betrayed us, and
certes he hath merited a dog’s death.”

“Hark ye, fellow,” said Sir Nigel. “We give you one more chance to find
the path. We are about to gain much honor, Sir William, in this
enterprise, and it would be a sorry thing if the first blood shed were
that of an unworthy boor. Let us say our morning orisons, and it may
chance that ere we finish he may strike upon the track.”

With bowed heads and steel caps in hand, the archers stood at their
horse’s heads, while Sir Simon Burley repeated the Pater, the Ave, and the
Credo. Long did Alleyne bear the scene in mind—the knot of knights
in their dull leaden-hued armor, the ruddy visage of Sir Oliver, the
craggy features of the Scottish earl, the shining scalp of Sir Nigel, with
the dense ring of hard, bearded faces and the long brown heads of the
horses, all topped and circled by the beetling cliffs. Scarce had the last
deep “amen” broken from the Company, when, in an instant, there rose the
scream of a hundred bugles, with the deep rolling of drums and the
clashing of cymbals, all sounding together in one deafening uproar.
Knights and archers sprang to arms, convinced that some great host was
upon them; but the guide dropped upon his knees and thanked Heaven for its
mercies.

“We have found them, caballeros!” he cried. “This is their morning call.
If ye will but deign to follow me, I will set them before you ere a man
might tell his beads.”

As he spoke he scrambled down one of the narrow ravines, and, climbing
over a low ridge at the further end, he led them into a short valley with
a stream purling down the centre of it and a very thick growth of elder
and of box upon either side. Pushing their way through the dense
brushwood, they looked out upon a scene which made their hearts beat
harder and their breath come faster.

In front of them there lay a broad plain, watered by two winding streams
and covered with grass, stretching away to where, in the furthest
distance, the towers of Burgos bristled up against the light blue morning
sky. Over all this vast meadow there lay a great city of tents—thousands
upon thousands of them, laid out in streets and in squares like a
well-ordered town. High silken pavilions or colored marquees, shooting up
from among the crowd of meaner dwellings, marked where the great lords and
barons of Leon and Castile displayed their standards, while over the white
roofs, as far as eye could reach, the waving of ancients, pavons, pensils,
and banderoles, with flash of gold and glow of colors, proclaimed that all
the chivalry of Iberia were mustered in the plain beneath them. Far off,
in the centre of the camp, a huge palace of red and white silk, with the
royal arms of Castile waiving from the summit, announced that the gallant
Henry lay there in the midst of his warriors.

As the English adventurers, peeping out from behind their brushwood
screen, looked down upon this wondrous sight they could see that the vast
army in front of them was already afoot. The first pink light of the
rising sun glittered upon the steel caps and breastplates of dense masses
of slingers and of crossbowmen, who drilled and marched in the spaces
which had been left for their exercise. A thousand columns of smoke reeked
up into the pure morning air where the faggots were piled and the
camp-kettles already simmering. In the open plain clouds of light horse
galloped and swooped with swaying bodies and waving javelins, after the
fashion which the Spanish had adopted from their Moorish enemies. All
along by the sedgy banks of the rivers long lines of pages led their
masters’ chargers down to water, while the knights themselves lounged in
gayly-dressed groups about the doors of their pavilions, or rode out, with
their falcons upon their wrists and their greyhounds behind them, in quest
of quail or of leveret.

“By my hilt! mon gar.!” whispered Aylward to Alleyne, as the young squire
stood with parted lips and wondering eyes, gazing down at the novel scene
before him, “we have been seeking them all night, but now that we have
found them I know not what we are to do with them.”

“You say sooth, Samkin,” quoth old Johnston. “I would that we were upon
the far side of Ebro again, for there is neither honor nor profit to be
gained here. What say you, Simon?”

“By the rood!” cried the fierce man-at-arms, “I will see the color of
their blood ere I turn my mare’s head for the mountains. Am I a child,
that I should ride for three days and nought but words at the end of it?”

“Well said, my sweet honeysuckle!” cried Hordle John. “I am with you, like
hilt to blade. Could I but lay hands upon one of those gay prancers
yonder, I doubt not that I should have ransom enough from him to buy my
mother a new cow.”

“A cow!” said Aylward. “Say rather ten acres and a homestead on the banks
of Avon.”

“Say you so? Then, by our Lady! here is for yonder one in the red jerkin!”

He was about to push recklessly forward into the open, when Sir Nigel
himself darted in front of him, with his hand upon his breast.

“Back!” said he. “Our time is not yet come, and we must lie here until
evening. Throw off your jacks and headpieces, least their eyes catch the
shine, and tether the horses among the rocks.”

The order was swiftly obeyed, and in ten minutes the archers were
stretched along by the side of the brook, munching the bread and the bacon
which they had brought in their bags, and craning their necks to watch the
ever-changing scene beneath them. Very quiet and still they lay, save for
a muttered jest or whispered order, for twice during the long morning they
heard bugle-calls from amid the hills on either side of them, which showed
that they had thrust themselves in between the outposts of the enemy. The
leaders sat amongst the box-wood, and took counsel together as to what
they should do; while from below there surged up the buzz of voices, the
shouting, the neighing of horses, and all the uproar of a great camp.

“What boots it to wait?” said Sir William Felton. “Let us ride down upon
their camp ere they discover us.”

“And so say I,” cried the Scottish earl; “for they do not know that there
is any enemy within thirty long leagues of them.”

“For my part,” said Sir Simon Burley, “I think that it is madness, for you
cannot hope to rout this great army; and where are you to go and what are
you to do when they have turned upon you? How say you, Sir Oliver
Buttesthorn?”

“By the apple of Eve!” cried the fat knight, “it appears to me that this
wind brings a very savory smell of garlic and of onions from their
cooking-kettles. I am in favor of riding down upon them at once, if my old
friend and comrade here is of the same mind.”

“Nay,” said Sir Nigel, “I have a plan by which we may attempt some small
deed upon them, and yet, by the help of God, may be able to draw off
again; which, as Sir Simon Burley hath said, would be scarce possible in
any other way.”

“How then, Sir Nigel?” asked several voices.

“We shall lie here all day; for amid this brushwood it is ill for them to
see us. Then when evening comes we shall sally out upon them and see if we
may not gain some honorable advancement from them.”

“But why then rather than now?”

“Because we shall have nightfall to cover us when we draw off, so that we
may make our way back through the mountains. I would station a score of
archers here in the pass, with all our pennons jutting forth from the
rocks, and as many nakirs and drums and bugles as we have with us, so that
those who follow us in the fading light may think that the whole army of
the prince is upon them, and fear to go further. What think you of my
plan, Sir Simon?”

“By my troth! I think very well of it,” cried the prudent old commander.
“If four hundred men must needs run a tilt against sixty thousand, I
cannot see how they can do it better or more safely.”

“And so say I,” cried Felton, heartily. “But I wish the day were over, for
it will be an ill thing for us if they chance to light upon us.”

The words were scarce out of his mouth when there came a clatter of loose
stones, the sharp clink of trotting hoofs, and a dark-faced cavalier,
mounted upon a white horse, burst through the bushes and rode swiftly down
the valley from the end which was farthest from the Spanish camp. Lightly
armed, with his vizor open and a hawk perched upon his left wrist, he
looked about him with the careless air of a man who is bent wholly upon
pleasure, and unconscious of the possibility of danger. Suddenly, however,
his eyes lit upon the fierce faces which glared out at him from the
brushwood. With a cry of terror, he thrust his spurs into his horse’s
sides and dashed for the narrow opening of the gorge. For a moment it
seemed as though he would have reached it, for he had trampled over or
dashed aside the archers who threw themselves in his way; but Hordle John
seized him by the foot in his grasp of iron and dragged him from the
saddle, while two others caught the frightened horse.

“Ho, ho!” roared the great archer. “How many cows wilt buy my mother, if I
set thee free?”

“Hush that bull’s bellowing!” cried Sir Nigel impatiently. “Bring the man
here. By St. Paul! it is not the first time that we have met; for, if I
mistake not, it is Don Diego Alvarez, who was once at the prince’s court.”

“It is indeed I,” said the Spanish knight, speaking in the French tongue,
“and I pray you to pass your sword through my heart, for how can I live—I,
a caballero of Castile—after being dragged from my horse by the base
hands of a common archer?”

“Fret not for that,” answered Sir Nigel. “For, in sooth, had he not pulled
you down, a dozen cloth-yard shafts had crossed each other in your body.”

“By St. James! it were better so than to be polluted by his touch,”
answered the Spaniard, with his black eyes sparkling with rage and hatred.
“I trust that I am now the prisoner of some honorable knight or
gentleman.”

“You are the prisoner of the man who took you, Sir Diego,” answered Sir
Nigel. “And I may tell you that better men than either you or I have found
themselves before now prisoners in the hands of archers of England.”

“What ransom, then, does he demand?” asked the Spaniard.

Big John scratched his red head and grinned in high delight when the
question was propounded to him. “Tell him,” said he, “that I shall have
ten cows and a bull too, if it be but a little one. Also a dress of blue
sendall for mother and a red one for Joan; with five acres of
pasture-land, two scythes, and a fine new grindstone. Likewise a small
house, with stalls for the cows, and thirty-six gallons of beer for the
thirsty weather.”

“Tut, tut!” cried Sir Nigel, laughing. “All these things may be had for
money; and I think, Don Diego, that five thousand crowns is not too much
for so renowned a knight.”

“It shall be duly paid him.”

“For some days we must keep you with us; and I must crave leave also to
use your shield, your armor, and your horse.”

“My harness is yours by the law of arms,” said the Spaniard, gloomily.

“I do but ask the loan of it. I have need of it this day, but it shall be
duly returned to you. Set guards, Aylward, with arrow on string, at either
end of the pass; for it may happen that some other cavaliers may visit us
ere the time be come.” All day the little band of Englishmen lay in the
sheltered gorge, looking down upon the vast host of their unconscious
enemies. Shortly after mid-day, a great uproar of shouting and cheering
broke out in the camp, with mustering of men and calling of bugles.
Clambering up among the rocks, the companions saw a long rolling cloud of
dust along the whole eastern sky-line, with the glint of spears and the
flutter of pennons, which announced the approach of a large body of
cavalry. For a moment a wild hope came upon them that perhaps the prince
had moved more swiftly than had been planned, that he had crossed the
Ebro, and that this was his vanguard sweeping to the attack.

“Surely I see the red pile of Chandos at the head of yonder squadron!”
cried Sir Richard Causton, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Not so,” answered Sir Simon Burley, who had watched the approaching host
with a darkening face. “It is even as I feared. That is the double eagle
of Du Guesclin.”

“You say very truly,” cried the Earl of Angus. “These are the levies of
France, for I can see the ensigns of the Marshal d’Andreghen, with that of
the Lord of Antoing and of Briseuil, and of many another from Brittany and
Anjou.”

“By St. Paul! I am very glad of it,” said Sir Nigel. “Of these Spaniards I
know nothing; but the French are very worthy gentlemen, and will do what
they can for our advancement.”

“There are at the least four thousand of them, and all men-at-arms,” cried
Sir William Felton. “See, there is Bertrand himself, beside his banner,
and there is King Henry, who rides to welcome him. Now they all turn and
come into the camp together.”

As he spoke, the vast throng of Spaniards and of Frenchmen trooped across
the plain, with brandished arms and tossing banners. All day long the
sound of revelry and of rejoicing from the crowded camp swelled up to the
ears of the Englishmen, and they could see the soldiers of the two nations
throwing themselves into each other’s arms and dancing hand-in-hand round
the blazing fires. The sun had sunk behind a cloud-bank in the west before
Sir Nigel at last gave word that the men should resume their arms and have
their horses ready. He had himself thrown off his armor, and had dressed
himself from head to foot in the harness of the captured Spaniard.

“Sir William,” said he, “it is my intention to attempt a small deed, and I
ask you therefore that you will lead this outfall upon the camp. For me, I
will ride into their camp with my squire and two archers. I pray you to
watch me, and to ride forth when I am come among the tents. You will leave
twenty men behind here, as we planned this morning, and you will ride back
here after you have ventured as far as seems good to you.”

“I will do as you order, Nigel; but what is it that you propose to do?”

“You will see anon, and indeed it is but a trifling matter. Alleyne, you
will come with me, and lead a spare horse by the bridle. I will have the
two archers who rode with us through France, for they are trusty men and
of stout heart. Let them ride behind us, and let them leave their bows
here among the bushes for it is not my wish that they should know that we
are Englishmen. Say no word to any whom we may meet, and, if any speak to
you, pass on as though you heard them not. Are you ready?”

“I am ready, my fair lord,” said Alleyne.

“And I,” “And I,” cried Aylward and John.

“Then the rest I leave to your wisdom, Sir William; and if God sends us
fortune we shall meet you again in this gorge ere it be dark.”

So saying, Sir Nigel mounted the white horse of the Spanish cavalier, and
rode quietly forth from his concealment with his three companions behind
him, Alleyne leading his master’s own steed by the bridle. So many small
parties of French and Spanish horse were sweeping hither and thither that
the small band attracted little notice, and making its way at a gentle
trot across the plain, they came as far as the camp without challenge or
hindrance. On and on they pushed past the endless lines of tents, amid the
dense swarms of horsemen and of footmen, until the huge royal pavilion
stretched in front of them. They were close upon it when of a sudden there
broke out a wild hubbub from a distant portion of the camp, with screams
and war-cries and all the wild tumult of battle. At the sound soldiers
came rushing from their tents, knights shouted loudly for their squires,
and there was mad turmoil on every hand of bewildered men and plunging
horses. At the royal tent a crowd of gorgeously dressed servants ran
hither and thither in helpless panic for the guard of soldiers who were
stationed there had already ridden off in the direction of the alarm. A
man-at-arms on either side of the doorway were the sole protectors of the
royal dwelling.

“I have come for the king,” whispered Sir Nigel; “and, by Saint Paul! he
must back with us or I must bide here.”

Alleyne and Aylward sprang from their horses, and flew at the two
sentries, who were disarmed and beaten down in an instant by so furious
and unexpected an attack. Sir Nigel dashed into the royal tent, and was
followed by Hordle John as soon as the horses had been secured. From
within came wild screamings and the clash of steel, and then the two
emerged once more, their swords and forearms reddened with blood, while
John bore over his shoulder the senseless body of a man whose gay surcoat,
adorned with the lions and towers of Castile, proclaimed him to belong to
the royal house. A crowd of white-faced sewers and pages swarmed at their
heels, those behind pushing forwards, while the foremost shrank back from
the fierce faces and reeking weapons of the adventurers. The senseless
body was thrown across the spare horse, the four sprang to their saddles,
and away they thundered with loose reins and busy spurs through the
swarming camp.

But confusion and disorder still reigned among the Spaniards for Sir
William Felton and his men had swept through half their camp, leaving a
long litter of the dead and the dying to mark their course. Uncertain who
were their attackers, and unable to tell their English enemies from their
newly-arrived Breton allies, the Spanish knights rode wildly hither and
thither in aimless fury. The mad turmoil, the mixture of races, and the
fading light, were all in favor of the four who alone knew their own
purpose among the vast uncertain multitude. Twice ere they reached open
ground they had to break their way through small bodies of horses, and
once there came a whistle of arrows and singing of stones about their
ears; but, still dashing onwards, they shot out from among the tents and
found their own comrades retreating for the mountains at no very great
distance from them. Another five minutes of wild galloping over the plain,
and they were all back in their gorge, while their pursuers fell back
before the rolling of drums and blare of trumpets, which seemed to
proclaim that the whole army of the prince was about to emerge from the
mountain passes.

“By my soul! Nigel,” cried Sir Oliver, waving a great boiled ham over his
head, “I have come by something which I may eat with my truffles! I had a
hard fight for it, for there were three of them with their mouths open and
the knives in their hands, all sitting agape round the table, when I
rushed in upon them. How say you, Sir William, will you not try the smack
of the famed Spanish swine, though we have but the brook water to wash it
down?”

“Later, Sir Oliver,” answered the old soldier, wiping his grimed face. “We
must further into the mountains ere we be in safety. But what have we
here, Nigel?”

“It is a prisoner whom I have taken, and in sooth, as he came from the
royal tent and wears the royal arms upon his jupon, I trust that he is the
King of Spain.”

“The King of Spain!” cried the companions, crowding round in amazement.

“Nay, Sir Nigel,” said Felton, peering at the prisoner through the
uncertain light, “I have twice seen Henry of Transtamare, and certes this
man in no way resembles him.”

“Then, by the light of heaven! I will ride back for him,” cried Sir Nigel.

“Nay, nay, the camp is in arms, and it would be rank madness. Who are you,
fellow?” he added in Spanish, “and how is it that you dare to wear the
arms of Castile?”

The prisoner was bent recovering the consciousness which had been squeezed
from him by the grip of Hordle John. “If it please you,” he answered, “I
and nine others are the body-squires of the king, and must ever wear his
arms, so as to shield him from even such perils as have threatened him
this night. The king is at the tent of the brave Du Guesclin, where he
will sup to night. But I am a caballero of Aragon, Don Sancho Penelosa,
and, though I be no king, I am yet ready to pay a fitting price for my
ransom.”

“By Saint Paul! I will not touch your gold,” cried Sir Nigel. “Go back to
your master and give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring of Twynham Castle,
telling him that I had hoped to make his better acquaintance this night,
and that, if I have disordered his tent, it was but in my eagerness to
know so famed and courteous a knight. Spur on, comrades! for we must cover
many a league ere we can venture to light fire or to loosen girth. I had
hoped to ride without this patch to-night, but it seems that I must carry
it yet a little longer.”

CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW SIR NIGEL TOOK THE PATCH FROM HIS EYE.

It was a cold, bleak morning in the beginning of March, and the mist was
drifting in dense rolling clouds through the passes of the Cantabrian
mountains. The Company, who had passed the night in a sheltered gully,
were already astir, some crowding round the blazing fires and others
romping or leaping over each other’s backs for their limbs were chilled
and the air biting. Here and there, through the dense haze which
surrounded them, there loomed out huge pinnacles and jutting boulders of
rock: while high above the sea of vapor there towered up one gigantic
peak, with the pink glow of the early sunshine upon its snow-capped head.
The ground was wet, the rocks dripping, the grass and ever-greens
sparkling with beads of moisture; yet the camp was loud with laughter and
merriment, for a messenger had ridden in from the prince with words of
heart-stirring praise for what they had done, and with orders that they
should still abide in the forefront of the army.

Round one of the fires were clustered four or five of the leading men of
the archers, cleaning the rust from their weapons, and glancing
impatiently from time to time at a great pot which smoked over the blaze.
There was Aylward squatting cross-legged in his shirt, while he scrubbed
away at his chain-mail brigandine, whistling loudly the while. On one side
of him sat old Johnston, who was busy in trimming the feathers of some
arrows to his liking; and on the other Hordle John, who lay with his great
limbs all asprawl, and his headpiece balanced upon his uplifted foot.
Black Simon of Norwich crouched amid the rocks, crooning an Eastland
ballad to himself, while he whetted his sword upon a flat stone which lay
across his knees; while beside him sat Alleyne Edricson, and Norbury, the
silent squire of Sir Oliver, holding out their chilled hands towards the
crackling faggots.

“Cast on another culpon, John, and stir the broth with thy sword-sheath,”
growled Johnston, looking anxiously for the twentieth time at the reeking
pot.

“By my hilt!” cried Aylward, “now that John hath come by this great
ransom, he will scarce abide the fare of poor archer lads. How say you,
camarade? When you see Hordle once more, there will be no penny ale and
fat bacon, but Gascon wines and baked meats every day of the seven.”

“I know not about that,” said John, kicking his helmet up into the air and
catching it in his hand. “I do but know that whether the broth be ready or
no, I am about to dip this into it.”

“It simmers and it boils,” cried Johnston, pushing his hard-lined face
through the smoke. In an instant the pot had been plucked from the blaze,
and its contents had been scooped up in half a dozen steel head-pieces,
which were balanced betwixt their owners’ knees, while, with spoon and
gobbet of bread, they devoured their morning meal.

“It is ill weather for bows,” remarked John at last, when, with a long
sigh, he drained the last drop from his helmet. “My strings are as limp as
a cow’s tail this morning.”

“You should rub them with water glue,” quoth Johnston. “You remember,
Samkin, that it was wetter than this on the morning of Crecy, and yet I
cannot call to mind that there was aught amiss with our strings.”

“It is in my thoughts,” said Black Simon, still pensively grinding his
sword, “that we may have need of your strings ere sundown. I dreamed of
the red cow last night.”

“And what is this red cow, Simon?” asked Alleyne.

“I know not, young sir; but I can only say that on the eve of Cadsand, and
on the eve of Crecy, and on the eve of Nogent, I dreamed of a red cow; and
now the dream has come upon me again, so I am now setting a very keen edge
to my blade.”

“Well said, old war-dog!” cried Aylward. “By my hilt! I pray that your
dream may come true, for the prince hath not set us out here to drink
broth or to gather whortle-berries. One more fight, and I am ready to hang
up my bow, marry a wife, and take to the fire corner. But how now, Robin?
Whom is it that you seek?”

“The Lord Loring craves your attendance in his tent,” said a young archer
to Alleyne.

The squire rose and proceeded to the pavilion, where he found the knight
seated upon a cushion, with his legs crossed in front of him and a broad
ribbon of parchment laid across his knees, over which he was poring with
frowning brows and pursed lips.

“It came this morning by the prince’s messenger,” said he, “and was
brought from England by Sir John Fallislee, who is new come from Sussex.
What make you of this upon the outer side?”

“It is fairly and clearly written,” Alleyne answered, “and it signifies To
Sir Nigel Loring, Knight Constable of Twynham Castle, by the hand of
Christopher, the servant of God at the Priory of Christchurch.”

“So I read it,” said Sir Nigel. “Now I pray you to read what is set forth
within.”

Alleyne turned to the letter, and, as his eyes rested upon it, his face
turned pale and a cry of surprise and grief burst from his lips.

“What then?” asked the knight, peering up at him anxiously. “There is
nought amiss with the Lady Mary or with the Lady Maude?”

“It is my brother—my poor unhappy brother!” cried Alleyne, with his
hand to his brow. “He is dead.”

“By Saint Paul! I have never heard that he had shown so much love for you
that you should mourn him so.”

“Yet he was my brother—the only kith or kin that I had upon earth.
Mayhap he had cause to be bitter against me, for his land was given to the
abbey for my upbringing. Alas! alas! and I raised my staff against him
when last we met! He has been slain—and slain, I fear, amidst crime
and violence.”

“Ha!” said Sir Nigel. “Read on, I pray you.”

“’God be with thee, my honored lord, and have thee in his holy keeping.
The Lady Loring hath asked me to set down in writing what hath befallen at
Twynham, and all that concerns the death of thy ill neighbor the Socman of
Minstead. For when ye had left us, this evil man gathered around him all
outlaws, villeins, and masterless men, until they were come to such a
force that they slew and scattered the king’s men who went against them.
Then, coming forth from the woods, they laid siege to thy castle, and for
two days they girt us in and shot hard against us, with such numbers as
were a marvel to see. Yet the Lady Loring held the place stoutly, and on
the second day the Socman was slain—by his own men, as some think—so
that we were delivered from their hands; for which praise be to all the
saints, and more especially to the holy Anselm, upon whose feast it came
to pass. The Lady Loring, and the Lady Maude, thy fair daughter, are in
good health; and so also am I, save for an imposthume of the toe-joint,
which hath been sent me for my sins. May all the saints preserve thee!’”

“It was the vision of the Lady Tiphaine,” said Sir Nigel, after a pause.
“Marked you not how she said that the leader was one with a yellow beard,
and how he fell before the gate. But how came it, Alleyne, that this
woman, to whom all things are as crystal, and who hath not said one word
which has not come to pass, was yet so led astray as to say that your
thoughts turned to Twynham Castle even more than my own?”

“My fair lord,” said Alleyne, with a flush on his weather-stained cheeks,
“the Lady Tiphaine may have spoken sooth when she said it; for Twynham
Castle is in my heart by day and in my dreams by night.”

“Ha!” cried Sir Nigel, with a sidelong glance.

“Yes, my fair lord; for indeed I love your daughter, the Lady Maude; and,
unworthy as I am, I would give my heart’s blood to serve her.”

“By St. Paul! Edricson,” said the knight coldly, arching his eyebrows,
“you aim high in this matter. Our blood is very old.”

“And mine also is very old,” answered the squire.

“And the Lady Maude is our single child. All our name and lands centre
upon her.”

“Alas! that I should say it, but I also am now the only Edricson.”

“And why have I not heard this from you before, Alleyne? In sooth, I think
that you have used me ill.”

“Nay, my fair lord, say not so; for I know not whether your daughter loves
me, and there is no pledge between us.”

Sir Nigel pondered for a few moments, and then burst out a-laughing. “By
St. Paul!” said he, “I know not why I should mix in the matter; for I have
ever found that the Lady Maud was very well able to look to her own
affairs. Since first she could stamp her little foot, she hath ever been
able to get that for which she craved; and if she set her heart on thee,
Alleyne, and thou on her, I do not think that this Spanish king, with his
three-score thousand men, could hold you apart. Yet this I will say, that
I would see you a full knight ere you go to my daughter with words of
love. I have ever said that a brave lance should wed her; and, by my soul!
Edricson, if God spare you, I think that you will acquit yourself well.
But enough of such trifles, for we have our work before us, and it will be
time to speak of this matter when we see the white cliffs of England once
more. Go to Sir William Felton, I pray you, and ask him to come hither,
for it is time that we were marching. There is no pass at the further end
of the valley, and it is a perilous place should an enemy come upon us.”

Alleyne delivered his message, and then wandered forth from the camp, for
his mind was all in a whirl with this unexpected news, and with his talk
with Sir Nigel. Sitting upon a rock, with his burning brow resting upon
his hands, he thought of his brother, of their quarrel, of the Lady Maude
in her bedraggled riding-dress, of the gray old castle, of the proud pale
face in the armory, and of the last fiery words with which she had sped
him on his way. Then he was but a penniless, monk-bred lad, unknown and
unfriended. Now he was himself Socman of Minstead, the head of an old
stock, and the lord of an estate which, if reduced from its former size,
was still ample to preserve the dignity of his family. Further, he had
become a man of experience, was counted brave among brave men, had won the
esteem and confidence of her father, and, above all, had been listened to
by him when he told him the secret of his love. As to the gaining of
knighthood, in such stirring times it was no great matter for a brave
squire of gentle birth to aspire to that honor. He would leave his bones
among these Spanish ravines, or he would do some deed which would call the
eyes of men upon him.

Alleyne was still seated on the rock, his griefs and his joys drifting
swiftly over his mind like the shadow of clouds upon a sunlit meadow, when
of a sudden he became conscious of a low, deep sound which came booming up
to him through the fog. Close behind him he could hear the murmur of the
bowmen, the occasional bursts of hoarse laughter, and the champing and
stamping of their horses. Behind it all, however, came that low-pitched,
deep-toned hum, which seemed to come from every quarter and to fill the
whole air. In the old monastic days he remembered to have heard such a
sound when he had walked out one windy night at Bucklershard, and had
listened to the long waves breaking upon the shingly shore. Here, however,
was neither wind nor sea, and yet the dull murmur rose ever louder and
stronger out of the heart of the rolling sea of vapor. He turned and ran
to the camp, shouting an alarm at the top of his voice.

It was but a hundred paces, and yet ere he had crossed it every bowman was
ready at his horse’s head, and the group of knights were out and listening
intently to the ominous sound.

“It is a great body of horse,” said Sir William Felton, “and they are
riding very swiftly hitherwards.”

“Yet they must be from the prince’s army,” remarked Sir Richard Causton,
“for they come from the north.”

“Nay,” said the Earl of Angus, “it is not so certain; for the peasant with
whom we spoke last night said that it was rumored that Don Tello, the
Spanish king’s brother, had ridden with six thousand chosen men to beat up
the prince’s camp. It may be that on their backward road they have come
this way.”

“By St. Paul!” cried Sir Nigel, “I think that it is even as you say, for
that same peasant had a sour face and a shifting eye, as one who bore us
little good will. I doubt not that he has brought these cavaliers upon
us.”

“But the mist covers us,” said Sir Simon Burley. “We have yet time to ride
through the further end of the pass.”

“Were we a troop of mountain goats we might do so,” answered Sir William
Felton, “but it is not to be passed by a company of horsemen. If these be
indeed Don Tello and his men, then we must bide where we are, and do what
we can to make them rue the day that they found us in their path.”

“Well spoken, William!” cried Sir Nigel, in high delight. “If there be so
many as has been said, then there will be much honor to be gained from
them and every hope of advancement. But the sound has ceased, and I fear
that they have gone some other way.”

“Or mayhap they have come to the mouth of the gorge, and are marshalling
their ranks. Hush and hearken! for they are no great way from us.”

The Company stood peering into the dense fog-wreath, amidst a silence so
profound that the dripping of the water from the rocks and the breathing
of the horses grew loud upon the ear. Suddenly from out the sea of mist
came the shrill sound of a neigh, followed by a long blast upon a bugle.

“It is a Spanish call, my fair lord,” said Black Simon. “It is used by
their prickers and huntsmen when the beast hath not fled, but is still in
its lair.”

“By my faith!” said Sir Nigel, smiling, “if they are in a humor for
venerie we may promise them some sport ere they sound the mort over us.
But there is a hill in the centre of the gorge on which we might take our
stand.”

“I marked it yester-night,” said Felton, “and no better spot could be
found for our purpose, for it is very steep at the back. It is but a
bow-shot to the left, and, indeed, I can see the shadow of it.”

The whole Company, leading their horses, passed across to the small hill
which loomed in front of them out of the mist. It was indeed admirably
designed for defence, for it sloped down in front, all jagged and
boulder-strewn, while it fell away in a sheer cliff of a hundred feet or
more. On the summit was a small uneven plateau, with a stretch across of a
hundred paces, and a depth of half as much again.

“Unloose the horses!” said Sir Nigel. “We have no space for them, and if
we hold our own we shall have horses and to spare when this day’s work is
done. Nay, keep yours, my fair sirs, for we may have work for them.
Aylward, Johnston, let your men form a harrow on either side of the ridge.
Sir Oliver and you, my Lord Angus, I give you the right wing, and the left
to you, Sir Simon, and to you, Sir Richard Causton. I and Sir William
Felton will hold the centre with our men-at-arms. Now order the ranks, and
fling wide the banners, for our souls are God’s and our bodies the king’s,
and our swords for Saint George and for England!”

Sir Nigel had scarcely spoken when the mist seemed to thin in the valley,
and to shred away into long ragged clouds which trailed from the edges of
the cliffs. The gorge in which they had camped was a mere wedge-shaped
cleft among the hills, three-quarters of a mile deep, with the small
rugged rising upon which they stood at the further end, and the brown
crags walling it in on three sides. As the mist parted, and the sun broke
through, it gleamed and shimmered with dazzling brightness upon the armor
and headpieces of a vast body of horsemen who stretched across the
barranca from one cliff to the other, and extended backwards until their
rear guard were far out upon the plain beyond. Line after line, and rank
after rank, they choked the neck of the valley with a long vista of
tossing pennons, twinkling lances, waving plumes and streaming banderoles,
while the curvets and gambades of the chargers lent a constant motion and
shimmer to the glittering, many-colored mass. A yell of exultation, and a
forest of waving steel through the length and breadth of their column,
announced that they could at last see their entrapped enemies, while the
swelling notes of a hundred bugles and drums, mixed with the clash of
Moorish cymbals, broke forth into a proud peal of martial triumph. Strange
it was to these gallant and sparkling cavaliers of Spain to look upon this
handful of men upon the hill, the thin lines of bowmen, the knots of
knights and men-at-arms with armor rusted and discolored from long
service, and to learn that these were indeed the soldiers whose fame and
prowess had been the camp-fire talk of every army in Christendom. Very
still and silent they stood, leaning upon their bows, while their leaders
took counsel together in front of them. No clang of bugle rose from their
stern ranks, but in the centre waved the leopards of England, on the right
the ensign of their Company with the roses of Loring, and on the left,
over three score of Welsh bowmen, there floated the red banner of Merlin
with the boars’-heads of the Buttesthorns. Gravely and sedately they stood
beneath the morning sun waiting for the onslaught of their foemen.

“By Saint Paul!” said Sir Nigel, gazing with puckered eye down the valley,
“there appear to be some very worthy people among them. What is this
golden banner which waves upon the left?”

“It is the ensign of the Knights of Calatrava,” answered Felton.

“And the other upon the right?”

“It marks the Knights of Santiago, and I see by his flag that their
grand-master rides at their head. There too is the banner of Castile amid
yonder sparkling squadron which heads the main battle. There are six
thousand men-at-arms with ten squadrons of slingers as far as I may judge
their numbers.”

“There are Frenchmen among them, my fair lord,” remarked Black Simon. “I
can see the pennons of De Couvette, De Brieux, Saint Pol, and many others
who struck in against us for Charles of Blois.”

“You are right,” said Sir William, “for I can also see them. There is much
Spanish blazonry also, if I could but read it. Don Diego, you know the
arms of your own land. Who are they who have done us this honor?”

The Spanish prisoner looked with exultant eyes upon the deep and serried
ranks of his countrymen.

“By Saint James!” said he, “if ye fall this day ye fall by no mean hands,
for the flower of the knighthood of Castile ride under the banner of Don
Tello, with the chivalry of Asturias, Toledo, Leon, Cordova, Galicia, and
Seville. I see the guidons of Albornez, Cacorla, Rodriguez, Tavora, with
the two great orders, and the knights of France and of Aragon. If you will
take my rede you will come to a composition with them, for they will give
you such terms as you have given me.”

“Nay, by Saint Paul! it were pity if so many brave men were drawn
together, and no little deed of arms to come of it. Ha! William, they
advance upon us; and, by my soul! it is a sight that is worth coming over
the seas to see.”

As he spoke, the two wings of the Spanish host, consisting of the Knights
of Calatrava on the one side and of Santiago upon the other, came swooping
swiftly down the valley, while the main body followed more slowly behind.
Five hundred paces from the English the two great bodies of horse crossed
each other, and, sweeping round in a curve, retired in feigned confusion
towards their centre. Often in bygone wars had the Moors tempted the
hot-blooded Spaniards from their places of strength by such pretended
flights, but there were men upon the hill to whom every ruse and trick of
war were as their daily trade and practice. Again and even nearer came the
rallying Spaniards, and again with cry of fear and stooping bodies they
swerved off to right and left, but the English still stood stolid and
observant among their rocks. The vanguard halted a long bow shot from the
hill, and with waving spears and vaunting shouts challenged their enemies
to come forth, while two cavaliers, pricking forward from the glittering
ranks, walked their horses slowly between the two arrays with targets
braced and lances in rest like the challengers in a tourney.

“By Saint Paul!” cried Sir Nigel, with his one eye glowing like an ember,
“these appear to be two very worthy and debonair gentlemen. I do not call
to mind when I have seen any people who seemed of so great a heart and so
high of enterprise. We have our horses, Sir William: shall we not relieve
them of any vow which they may have upon their souls?”

Felton’s reply was to bound upon his charger, and to urge it down the
slope, while Sir Nigel followed not three spears’-lengths behind him. It
was a rugged course, rocky and uneven, yet the two knights, choosing their
men, dashed onwards at the top of their speed, while the gallant Spaniards
flew as swiftly to meet them. The one to whom Felton found himself opposed
was a tall stripling with a stag’s head upon his shield, while Sir Nigel’s
man was broad and squat with plain steel harness, and a pink and white
torse bound round his helmet. The first struck Felton on the target with
such force as to split it from side to side, but Sir William’s lance
crashed through the camail which shielded the Spaniard’s throat, and he
fell, screaming hoarsely, to the ground. Carried away by the heat and
madness of fight, the English knight never drew rein, but charged straight
on into the array of the knights of Calatrava. Long time the silent ranks
upon the hill could see a swirl and eddy deep down in the heart of the
Spanish column, with a circle of rearing chargers and flashing blades.
Here and there tossed the white plume of the English helmet, rising and
falling like the foam upon a wave, with the fierce gleam and sparkle ever
circling round it until at last it had sunk from view, and another brave
man had turned from war to peace.

Sir Nigel, meanwhile, had found a foeman worthy of his steel for his
opponent was none other than Sebastian Gomez, the picked lance of the
monkish Knights of Santiago, who had won fame in a hundred bloody combats
with the Moors of Andalusia. So fierce was their meeting that their spears
shivered up to the very grasp, and the horses reared backwards until it
seemed that they must crash down upon their riders. Yet with consummate
horsemanship they both swung round in a long curvet, and then plucking out
their swords they lashed at each other like two lusty smiths hammering
upon an anvil. The chargers spun round each other, biting and striking,
while the two blades wheeled and whizzed and circled in gleams of dazzling
light. Cut, parry, and thrust followed so swiftly upon each other that the
eye could not follow them, until at last coming thigh to thigh, they cast
their arms around each other and rolled off their saddles to the ground.
The heavier Spaniard threw himself upon his enemy, and pinning him down
beneath him raised his sword to slay him, while a shout of triumph rose
from the ranks of his countrymen. But the fatal blow never fell, for even
as his arm quivered before descending, the Spaniard gave a shudder, and
stiffening himself rolled heavily over upon his side, with the blood
gushing from his armpit and from the slit of his vizor. Sir Nigel sprang
to his feet with his bloody dagger in his left hand and gazed down upon
his adversary, but that fatal and sudden stab in the vital spot, which the
Spaniard had exposed by raising his arm, had proved instantly mortal. The
Englishman leaped upon his horse and made for the hill, at the very
instant that a yell of rage from a thousand voices and the clang of a
score of bugles announced the Spanish onset.

But the islanders were ready and eager for the encounter. With feet firmly
planted, their sleeves rolled back to give free play to their muscles,
their long yellow bow-staves in their left hands, and their quivers slung
to the front, they had waited in the four-deep harrow formation which gave
strength to their array, and yet permitted every man to draw his arrow
freely without harm to those in front. Aylward and Johnston had been
engaged in throwing light tufts of grass into the air to gauge the wind
force, and a hoarse whisper passed down the ranks from the file-leaders to
the men, with scraps of advice and admonition.

“Do not shoot outside the fifteen-score paces,” cried Johnston. “We may
need all our shafts ere we have done with them.”

“Better to overshoot than to undershoot,” added Aylward. “Better to strike
the rear guard than to feather a shaft in the earth.”

“Loose quick and sharp when they come,” added another. “Let it be the eye
to the string, the string to the shaft, and the shaft to the mark. By Our
Lady! their banners advance, and we must hold our ground now if ever we
are to see Southampton Water again.”

Alleyne, standing with his sword drawn amidst the archers, saw a long toss
and heave of the glittering squadrons. Then the front ranks began to surge
slowly forward, to trot, to canter, to gallop, and in an instant the whole
vast array was hurtling onward, line after line, the air full of the
thunder of their cries, the ground shaking with the beat of their hoofs,
the valley choked with the rushing torrent of steel, topped by the waving
plumes, the slanting spears and the fluttering banderoles. On they swept
over the level and up to the slope, ere they met the blinding storm of the
English arrows. Down went the whole ranks in a whirl of mad confusion,
horses plunging and kicking, bewildered men falling, rising, staggering on
or back, while ever new lines of horsemen came spurring through the gaps
and urged their chargers up the fatal slope. All around him Alleyne could
hear the stern, short orders of the master-bowmen, while the air was
filled with the keen twanging of the strings and the swish and patter of
the shafts. Right across the foot of the hill there had sprung up a long
wall of struggling horses and stricken men, which ever grew and heightened
as fresh squadrons poured on the attack. One young knight on a gray jennet
leaped over his fallen comrades and galloped swiftly up the hill,
shrieking loudly upon Saint James, ere he fell within a spear-length of
the English line, with the feathers of arrows thrusting out from every
crevice and joint of his armor. So for five long minutes the gallant
horsemen of Spain and of France strove ever and again to force a passage,
until the wailing note of a bugle called them back, and they rode slowly
out of bow-shot, leaving their best and their bravest in the ghastly,
blood-mottled heap behind them.

But there was little rest for the victors. Whilst the knights had charged
them in front the slingers had crept round upon either flank and had
gained a footing upon the cliffs and behind the outlying rocks. A storm of
stones broke suddenly upon the defenders, who, drawn up in lines upon the
exposed summit, offered a fair mark to their hidden foes. Johnston, the
old archer, was struck upon the temple and fell dead without a groan,
while fifteen of his bowmen and six of the men-at-arms were struck down at
the same moment. The others lay on their faces to avoid the deadly hail,
while at each side of the plateau a fringe of bowmen exchanged shots with
the slingers and crossbowmen among the rocks, aiming mainly at those who
had swarmed up the cliffs, and bursting into laughter and cheers when a
well-aimed shaft brought one of their opponents toppling down from his
lofty perch.

“I think, Nigel,” said Sir Oliver, striding across to the little knight,
“that we should all acquit ourselves better had we our none-meat, for the
sun is high in the heaven.”

“By Saint Paul!” quoth Sir Nigel, plucking the patch from his eye, “I
think that I am now clear of my vow, for this Spanish knight was a person
from whom much honor might be won. Indeed, he was a very worthy gentleman,
of good courage, and great hardiness, and it grieves me that he should
have come by such a hurt. As to what you say of food, Oliver, it is not to
be thought of, for we have nothing with us upon the hill.”

“Nigel!” cried Sir Simon Burley, hurrying up with consternation upon his
face, “Aylward tells me that there are not ten-score arrows left in all
their sheaves. See! they are springing from their horses, and cutting
their sollerets that they may rush upon us. Might we not even now make a
retreat?”

“My soul will retreat from my body first!” cried the little knight. “Here
I am, and here I bide, while God gives me strength to lift a sword.”

“And so say I!” shouted Sir Oliver, throwing his mace high into the air
and catching it again by the handle.

“To your arms, men!” roared Sir Nigel. “Shoot while you may, and then out
sword, and let us live or die together!”

CHAPTER XXXVII. HOW THE WHITE COMPANY CAME TO BE DISBANDED.

Then up rose from the hill in the rugged Cantabrian valley a sound such as
had not been heard in those parts before, nor was again, until the streams
which rippled amid the rocks had been frozen by over four hundred winters
and thawed by as many returning springs. Deep and full and strong it
thundered down the ravine, the fierce battle-call of a warrior race, the
last stern welcome to whoso should join with them in that world-old game
where the stake is death. Thrice it swelled forth and thrice it sank away,
echoing and reverberating amidst the crags. Then, with set faces, the
Company rose up among the storm of stones, and looked down upon the
thousands who sped swiftly up the slope against them. Horse and spear had
been set aside, but on foot, with sword and battle-axe, their broad
shields slung in front of them, the chivalry of Spain rushed to the
attack.

And now arose a struggle so fell, so long, so evenly sustained, that even
now the memory of it is handed down amongst the Cantabrian mountaineers
and the ill-omened knoll is still pointed out by fathers to their children
as the “Altura de los Inglesos,” where the men from across the sea fought
the great fight with the knights of the south. The last arrow was quickly
shot, nor could the slingers hurl their stones, so close were friend and
foe. From side to side stretched the thin line of the English, lightly
armed and quick-footed, while against it stormed and raged the pressing
throng of fiery Spaniards and of gallant Bretons. The clink of crossing
sword-blades, the dull thudding of heavy blows, the panting and gasping of
weary and wounded men, all rose together in a wild, long-drawn note, which
swelled upwards to the ears of the wondering peasants who looked down from
the edges of the cliffs upon the swaying turmoil of the battle beneath
them. Back and forward reeled the leopard banner, now borne up the slope
by the rush and weight of the onslaught, now pushing downwards again as
Sir Nigel, Burley, and Black Simon with their veteran men-at arms, flung
themselves madly into the fray. Alleyne, at his lord’s right hand, found
himself swept hither and thither in the desperate struggle, exchanging
savage thrusts one instant with a Spanish cavalier, and the next torn away
by the whirl of men and dashed up against some new antagonist. To the
right Sir Oliver, Aylward, Hordle John, and the bowmen of the Company
fought furiously against the monkish Knights of Santiago, who were led up
the hill by their prior—a great, deep-chested man, who wore a brown
monastic habit over his suit of mail. Three archers he slew in three giant
strokes, but Sir Oliver flung his arms round him, and the two, staggering
and straining, reeled backwards and fell, locked in each other’s grasp,
over the edge of the steep cliff which flanked the hill. In vain his
knights stormed and raved against the thin line which barred their path:
the sword of Aylward and the great axe of John gleamed in the forefront of
the battle and huge jagged pieces of rock, hurled by the strong arms of
the bowmen, crashed and hurtled amid their ranks. Slowly they gave back
down the hill, the archers still hanging upon their skirts, with a long
litter of writhing and twisted figures to mark the course which they had
taken. At the same instant the Welshmen upon the left, led on by the
Scotch earl, had charged out from among the rocks which sheltered them,
and by the fury of their outfall had driven the Spaniards in front of them
in headlong flight down the hill. In the centre only things seemed to be
going ill with the defenders. Black Simon was down—dying, as he
would wish to have died, like a grim old wolf in its lair with a ring of
his slain around him. Twice Sir Nigel had been overborne, and twice
Alleyne had fought over him until he had staggered to his feet once more.
Burley lay senseless, stunned by a blow from a mace, and half of the
men-at-arms lay littered upon the ground around him. Sir Nigel’s shield
was broken, his crest shorn, his armor cut and smashed, and the vizor torn
from his helmet; yet he sprang hither and thither with light foot and
ready hand, engaging two Bretons and a Spaniard at the same instant—thrusting,
stooping, dashing in, springing out—while Alleyne still fought by
his side, stemming with a handful of men the fierce tide which surged up
against them. Yet it would have fared ill with them had not the archers
from either side closed in upon the flanks of the attackers, and pressed
them very slowly and foot by foot down the long slope, until they were on
the plain once more, where their fellows were already rallying for a fresh
assault.

But terrible indeed was the cost at which the last had been repelled. Of
the three hundred and seventy men who had held the crest, one hundred and
seventy-two were left standing, many of whom were sorely wounded and weak
from loss of blood. Sir Oliver Buttesthorn, Sir Richard Causton, Sir Simon
Burley, Black Simon, Johnston, a hundred and fifty archers, and
forty-seven men-at-arms had fallen, while the pitiless hail of stones was
already whizzing and piping once more about their ears, threatening every
instant to further reduce their numbers.

Sir Nigel looked about him at his shattered ranks, and his face flushed
with a soldier’s pride.

“By St. Paul!” he cried, “I have fought in many a little bickering, but
never one that I would be more loth to have missed than this. But you are
wounded, Alleyne?”

“It is nought,” answered his squire, stanching the blood which dripped
from a sword-cut across his forehead.

“These gentlemen of Spain seem to be most courteous and worthy people. I
see that they are already forming to continue this debate with us. Form up
the bowmen two deep instead of four. By my faith! some very brave men have
gone from among us. Aylward, you are a trusty soldier, for all that your
shoulder has never felt accolade, nor your heels worn the gold spurs. Do
you take charge of the right; I will hold the centre, and you, my Lord of
Angus, the left.”

“Ho! for Sir Samkin Aylward!” cried a rough voice among the archers, and a
roar of laughter greeted their new leader.

“By my hilt!” said the old bowman, “I never thought to lead a wing in a
stricken field. Stand close, camarades, for, by these finger-bones! we
must play the man this day.”

“Come hither, Alleyne,” said Sir Nigel, walking back to the edge of the
cliff which formed the rear of their position. “And you, Norbury,” he
continued, beckoning to the squire of Sir Oliver, “do you also come here.”

The two squires hurried across to him, and the three stood looking down
into the rocky ravine which lay a hundred and fifty feet beneath them.

“The prince must hear of how things are with us,” said the knight.
“Another onfall we may withstand, but they are many and we are few, so
that the time must come when we can no longer form line across the hill.
Yet if help were brought us we might hold the crest until it comes. See
yonder horses which stray among the rocks beneath us?”

“I see them, my fair lord.”

“And see yonder path which winds along the hill upon the further end of
the valley?”

“I see it.”

“Were you on those horses, and riding up yonder track, steep and rough as
it is, I think that ye might gain the valley beyond. Then on to the
prince, and tell him how we fare.”

“But, my fair lord, how can we hope to reach the horses?” asked Norbury.

“Ye cannot go round to them, for they would be upon ye ere ye could come
to them. Think ye that ye have heart enough to clamber down this cliff?”

“Had we but a rope.”

“There is one here. It is but one hundred feet long, and for the rest ye
must trust to God and to your fingers. Can you try it, Alleyne?”

“With all my heart, my dear lord, but how can I leave you in such a
strait?”

“Nay, it is to serve me that ye go. And you, Norbury?”

The silent squire said nothing, but he took up the rope, and, having
examined it, he tied one end firmly round a projecting rock. Then he cast
off his breast-plate, thigh pieces, and greaves, while Alleyne followed
his example.

“Tell Chandos, or Calverley, or Knolles, should the prince have gone
forward,” cried Sir Nigel. “Now may God speed ye, for ye are brave and
worthy men.”

It was, indeed, a task which might make the heart of the bravest sink
within him. The thin cord dangling down the face of the brown cliff seemed
from above to reach little more than half-way down it. Beyond stretched
the rugged rock, wet and shining, with a green tuft here and there
thrusting out from it, but little sign of ridge or foothold. Far below the
jagged points of the boulders bristled up, dark and menacing. Norbury
tugged thrice with all his strength upon the cord, and then lowered
himself over the edge, while a hundred anxious faces peered over at him as
he slowly clambered downwards to the end of the rope. Twice he stretched
out his foot, and twice he failed to reach the point at which he aimed,
but even as he swung himself for a third effort a stone from a sling
buzzed like a wasp from amid the rocks and struck him full upon the side
of his head. His grasp relaxed, his feet slipped, and in an instant he was
a crushed and mangled corpse upon the sharp ridges beneath him.

“If I have no better fortune,” said Alleyne, leading Sir Nigel aside. “I
pray you, my dear lord, that you will give my humble service to the Lady
Maude, and say to her that I was ever her true servant and most unworthy
cavalier.”

The old knight said no word, but he put a hand on either shoulder, and
kissed his squire, with the tears shining in his eyes. Alleyne sprang to
the rope, and sliding swiftly down, soon found himself at its extremity.
From above it seemed as though rope and cliff were well-nigh touching, but
now, when swinging a hundred feet down, the squire found that he could
scarce reach the face of the rock with his foot, and that it was as smooth
as glass, with no resting-place where a mouse could stand. Some three feet
lower, however, his eye lit upon a long jagged crack which slanted
downwards, and this he must reach if he would save not only his own poor
life, but that of the eight-score men above him. Yet it were madness to
spring for that narrow slit with nought but the wet, smooth rock to cling
to. He swung for a moment, full of thought, and even as he hung there
another of the hellish stones sang through his curls, and struck a chip
from the face of the cliff. Up he clambered a few feet, drew up the loose
end after him, unslung his belt, held on with knee and with elbow while he
spliced the long, tough leathern belt to the end of the cord: then
lowering himself as far as he could go, he swung backwards and forwards
until his hand reached the crack, when he left the rope and clung to the
face of the cliff. Another stone struck him on the side, and he heard a
sound like a breaking stick, with a keen stabbing pain which shot through
his chest. Yet it was no time now to think of pain or ache. There was his
lord and his eight-score comrades, and they must be plucked from the jaws
of death. On he clambered, with his hand shuffling down the long sloping
crack, sometimes bearing all his weight upon his arms, at others finding
some small shelf or tuft on which to rest his foot. Would he never pass
over that fifty feet? He dared not look down and could but grope slowly
onwards, his face to the cliff, his fingers clutching, his feet scraping
and feeling for a support. Every vein and crack and mottling of that face
of rock remained forever stamped upon his memory. At last, however, his
foot came upon a broad resting-place and he ventured to cast a glance
downwards. Thank God! he had reached the highest of those fatal pinnacles
upon which his comrade had fallen. Quickly now he sprang from rock to rock
until his feet were on the ground, and he had his hand stretched out for
the horse’s rein, when a sling-stone struck him on the head, and he
dropped senseless upon the ground.

An evil blow it was for Alleyne, but a worse one still for him who struck
it. The Spanish slinger, seeing the youth lie slain, and judging from his
dress that he was no common man, rushed forward to plunder him, knowing
well that the bowmen above him had expended their last shaft. He was still
three paces, however, from his victim’s side when John upon the cliff
above plucked up a huge boulder, and, poising it for an instant, dropped
it with fatal aim upon the slinger beneath him. It struck upon his
shoulder, and hurled him, crushed and screaming, to the ground, while
Alleyne, recalled to his senses by these shrill cries in his very ear,
staggered on to his feet, and gazed wildly about him. His eyes fell upon
the horses, grazing upon the scanty pasture, and in an instant all had
come back to him—his mission, his comrades, the need for haste. He
was dizzy, sick, faint, but he must not die, and he must not tarry, for
his life meant many lives that day. In an instant he was in his saddle and
spurring down the valley. Loud rang the swift charger’s hoofs over rock
and reef, while the fire flew from the stroke of iron, and the loose
stones showered up behind him. But his head was whirling round, the blood
was gushing from his brow, his temple, his mouth. Ever keener and sharper
was the deadly pain which shot like a red-hot arrow through his side. He
felt that his eye was glazing, his senses slipping from him, his grasp
upon the reins relaxing. Then with one mighty effort, he called up all his
strength for a single minute. Stooping down, he loosened the
stirrup-straps, bound his knees tightly to his saddle-flaps, twisted his
hands in the bridle, and then, putting the gallant horse’s head for the
mountain path, he dashed the spurs in and fell forward fainting with his
face buried in the coarse, black mane.

Little could he ever remember of that wild ride. Half conscious, but ever
with the one thought beating in his mind, he goaded the horse onwards,
rushing swiftly down steep ravines over huge boulders, along the edges of
black abysses. Dim memories he had of beetling cliffs, of a group of huts
with wondering faces at the doors, of foaming, clattering water, and of a
bristle of mountain beeches. Once, ere he had ridden far, he heard behind
him three deep, sullen shouts, which told him that his comrades had set
their faces to the foe once more. Then all was blank, until he woke to
find kindly blue English eyes peering down upon him and to hear the
blessed sound of his country’s speech. They were but a foraging party—a
hundred archers and as many men-at-arms—but their leader was Sir
Hugh Calverley, and he was not a man to bide idle when good blows were to
be had not three leagues from him. A scout was sent flying with a message
to the camp, and Sir Hugh, with his two hundred men, thundered off to the
rescue. With them went Alleyne, still bound to his saddle, still dripping
with blood, and swooning and recovering, and swooning once again. On they
rode, and on, until, at last, topping a ridge, they looked down upon the
fateful valley. Alas! and alas! for the sight that met their eyes.

There, beneath them, was the blood-bathed hill, and from the highest
pinnacle there flaunted the yellow and white banner with the lions and the
towers of the royal house of Castile. Up the long slope rushed ranks and
ranks of men exultant, shouting, with waving pennons and brandished arms.
Over the whole summit were dense throngs of knights, with no enemy that
could be seen to face them, save only that at one corner of the plateau an
eddy and swirl amid the crowded mass seemed to show that all resistance
was not yet at an end. At the sight a deep groan of rage and of despair
went up from the baffled rescuers, and, spurring on their horses, they
clattered down the long and winding path which led to the valley beneath.

But they were too late to avenge, as they had been too late to save. Long
ere they could gain the level ground, the Spaniards, seeing them riding
swiftly amid the rocks, and being ignorant of their numbers, drew off from
the captured hill, and, having secured their few prisoners, rode slowly in
a long column, with drum-beating and cymbal-clashing, out of the valley.
Their rear ranks were already passing out of sight ere the new-comers were
urging their panting, foaming horses up the slope which had been the scene
of that long drawn and bloody fight.

And a fearsome sight it was that met their eyes! Across the lower end lay
the dense heap of men and horses where the first arrow-storm had burst.
Above, the bodies of the dead and the dying—French, Spanish, and
Aragonese—lay thick and thicker, until they covered the whole ground
two and three deep in one dreadful tangle of slaughter. Above them lay the
Englishmen in their lines, even as they had stood, and higher yet upon the
plateau a wild medley of the dead of all nations, where the last deadly
grapple had left them. In the further corner, under the shadow of a great
rock, there crouched seven bowmen, with great John in the centre of them—all
wounded, weary, and in sorry case, but still unconquered, with their
blood-stained weapons waving and their voices ringing a welcome to their
countrymen. Alleyne rode across to John, while Sir Hugh Calverley followed
close behind him.

“By Saint George!” cried Sir Hugh, “I have never seen signs of so stern a
fight, and I am right glad that we have been in time to save you.”

“You have saved more than us,” said John, pointing to the banner which
leaned against the rock behind him.

“You have done nobly,” cried the old free companion, gazing with a
soldier’s admiration at the huge frame and bold face of the archer. “But
why is it, my good fellow, that you sit upon this man.”

“By the rood! I had forgot him,” John answered, rising and dragging from
under him no less a person than the Spanish caballero, Don Diego Alvarez.
“This man, my fair lord, means to me a new house, ten cows, one bull—if
it be but a little one—a grindstone, and I know not what besides; so
that I thought it well to sit upon him, lest he should take a fancy to
leave me.”

“Tell me, John,” cried Alleyne faintly: “where is my dear lord, Sir Nigel
Loring?”

“He is dead, I fear. I saw them throw his body across a horse and ride
away with it, but I fear the life had gone from him.”

“Now woe worth me! And where is Aylward?”

“He sprang upon a riderless horse and rode after Sir Nigel to save him. I
saw them throng around him, and he is either taken or slain.”

“Blow the bugles!” cried Sir Hugh, with a scowling brow. “We must back to
camp, and ere three days I trust that we may see these Spaniards again. I
would fain have ye all in my company.”

“We are of the White Company, my fair lord,” said John.

“Nay, the White Company is here disbanded,” answered Sir Hugh solemnly,
looking round him at the lines of silent figures. “Look to the brave
squire, for I fear that he will never see the sun rise again.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII. OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.

It was a bright July morning four months after that fatal fight in the
Spanish barranca. A blue heaven stretched above, a green rolling plain
undulated below, intersected with hedge-rows and flecked with grazing
sheep. The sun was yet low in the heaven, and the red cows stood in the
long shadow of the elms, chewing the cud and gazing with great vacant eyes
at two horsemen who were spurring it down the long white road which dipped
and curved away back to where the towers and pinnacles beneath the
flat-topped hill marked the old town of Winchester.

Of the riders one was young, graceful, and fair, clad in plain doublet and
hosen of blue Brussels cloth, which served to show his active and
well-knit figure. A flat velvet cap was drawn forward to keep the glare
from his eyes, and he rode with lips compressed and anxious face, as one
who has much care upon his mind. Young as he was, and peaceful as was his
dress, the dainty golden spurs which twinkled upon his heels proclaimed
his knighthood, while a long seam upon his brow and a scar upon his temple
gave a manly grace to his refined and delicate countenance. His comrade
was a large, red-headed man upon a great black horse, with a huge canvas
bag slung from his saddle-bow, which jingled and clinked with every
movement of his steed. His broad, brown face was lighted up by a continual
smile, and he looked slowly from side to side with eyes which twinkled and
shone with delight. Well might John rejoice, for was he not back in his
native Hampshire, had he not Don Diego’s five thousand crowns rasping
against his knee, and above all was he not himself squire now to Sir
Alleyne Edricson, the young Socman of Minstead lately knighted by the
sword of the Black Prince himself, and esteemed by the whole army as one
of the most rising of the soldiers of England.

For the last stand of the Company had been told throughout Christendom
wherever a brave deed of arms was loved, and honors had flowed in upon the
few who had survived it. For two months Alleyne had wavered betwixt death
and life, with a broken rib and a shattered head; yet youth and strength
and a cleanly life were all upon his side, and he awoke from his long
delirium to find that the war was over, that the Spaniards and their
allies had been crushed at Navaretta, and that the prince had himself
heard the tale of his ride for succor and had come in person to his
bedside to touch his shoulder with his sword and to insure that so brave
and true a man should die, if he could not live, within the order of
chivalry. The instant that he could set foot to ground Alleyne had started
in search of his lord, but no word could he hear of him, dead or alive,
and he had come home now sad-hearted, in the hope of raising money upon
his estates and so starting upon his quest once more. Landing at London,
he had hurried on with a mind full of care, for he had heard no word from
Hampshire since the short note which had announced his brother’s death.

“By the rood!” cried John, looking around him exultantly, “where have we
seen since we left such noble cows, such fleecy sheep, grass so green, or
a man so drunk as yonder rogue who lies in the gap of the hedge?”

“Ah, John,” Alleyne answered wearily, “it is well for you, but I never
thought that my home-coming would be so sad a one. My heart is heavy for
my dear lord and for Aylward, and I know not how I may break the news to
the Lady Mary and to the Lady Maude, if they have not yet had tidings of
it.”

John gave a groan which made the horses shy. “It is indeed a black
business,” said he. “But be not sad, for I shall give half these crowns to
my old mother, and half will I add to the money which you may have, and so
we shall buy that yellow cog wherein we sailed to Bordeaux, and in it we
shall go forth and seek Sir Nigel.”

Alleyne smiled, but shook his head. “Were he alive we should have had word
of him ere now,” said he. “But what is this town before us?”

“Why, it is Romsey!” cried John. “See the tower of the old gray church,
and the long stretch of the nunnery. But here sits a very holy man, and I
shall give him a crown for his prayers.”

Three large stones formed a rough cot by the roadside, and beside it,
basking in the sun, sat the hermit, with clay-colored face, dull eyes, and
long withered hands. With crossed ankles and sunken head, he sat as though
all his life had passed out of him, with the beads slipping slowly through
his thin, yellow fingers. Behind him lay the narrow cell, clay-floored and
damp, comfortless, profitless and sordid. Beyond it there lay amid the
trees the wattle-and-daub hut of a laborer, the door open, and the single
room exposed to the view. The man ruddy and yellow-haired, stood leaning
upon the spade wherewith he had been at work upon the garden patch. From
behind him came the ripple of a happy woman’s laughter, and two young
urchins darted forth from the hut, bare-legged and towsy, while the
mother, stepping out, laid her hand upon her husband’s arm and watched the
gambols of the children. The hermit frowned at the untoward noise which
broke upon his prayers, but his brow relaxed as he looked upon the broad
silver piece which John held out to him.

“There lies the image of our past and of our future,” cried Alleyne, as
they rode on upon their way. “Now, which is better, to till God’s earth,
to have happy faces round one’s knee, and to love and be loved, or to sit
forever moaning over one’s own soul, like a mother over a sick babe?”

“I know not about that,” said John, “for it casts a great cloud over me
when I think of such matters. But I know that my crown was well spent, for
the man had the look of a very holy person. As to the other, there was
nought holy about him that I could see, and it would be cheaper for me to
pray for myself than to give a crown to one who spent his days in digging
for lettuces.”

Ere Alleyne could answer there swung round the curve of the road a lady’s
carriage drawn by three horses abreast with a postilion upon the outer
one. Very fine and rich it was, with beams painted and gilt, wheels and
spokes carved in strange figures, and over all an arched cover of red and
white tapestry. Beneath its shade there sat a stout and elderly lady in a
pink cote-hardie, leaning back among a pile of cushions, and plucking out
her eyebrows with a small pair of silver tweezers. None could seem more
safe and secure and at her ease than this lady, yet here also was a symbol
of human life, for in an instant, even as Alleyne reined aside to let the
carriage pass, a wheel flew out from among its fellows, and over it all
toppled—carving, tapestry and gilt—in one wild heap, with the
horses plunging, the postilion shouting, and the lady screaming from
within. In an instant Alleyne and John were on foot, and had lifted her
forth all in a shake with fear, but little the worse for her mischance.

“Now woe worth me!” she cried, “and ill fall on Michael Easover of Romsey!
for I told him that the pin was loose, and yet he must needs gainsay me,
like the foolish daffe that he is.”

“I trust that you have taken no hurt, my fair lady,” said Alleyne,
conducting her to the bank, upon which John had already placed a cushion.

“Nay, I have had no scath, though I have lost my silver tweezers. Now,
lack-a-day! did God ever put breath into such a fool as Michael Easover of
Romsey? But I am much beholden to you, gentle sirs. Soldiers ye are, as
one may readily see. I am myself a soldier’s daughter,” she added, casting
a somewhat languishing glance at John, “and my heart ever goes out to a
brave man.”

“We are indeed fresh from Spain,” quoth Alleyne.

“From Spain, say you? Ah! it was an ill and sorry thing that so many
should throw away the lives that Heaven gave them. In sooth, it is bad for
those who fall, but worse for those who bide behind. I have but now bid
farewell to one who hath lost all in this cruel war.”

“And how that, lady?”

“She is a young damsel of these parts, and she goes now into a nunnery.
Alack! it is not a year since she was the fairest maid from Avon to
Itchen, and now it was more than I could abide to wait at Romsey Nunnery
to see her put the white veil upon her face, for she was made for a wife
and not for the cloister. Did you ever, gentle sir, hear of a body of men
called ‘The White Company’ over yonder?”

“Surely so,” cried both the comrades.

“Her father was the leader of it, and her lover served under him as
squire. News hath come that not one of the Company was left alive, and so,
poor lamb, she hath——”

“Lady!” cried Alleyne, with catching breath, “is it the Lady Maude Loring
of whom you speak?”

“It is, in sooth.”

“Maude! And in a nunnery! Did, then, the thought of her father’s death so
move her?”

“Her father!” cried the lady, smiling. “Nay; Maude is a good daughter, but
I think it was this young golden-haired squire of whom I have heard who
has made her turn her back upon the world.”

“And I stand talking here!” cried Alleyne wildly. “Come, John, come!”

Rushing to his horse, he swung himself into the saddle, and was off down
the road in a rolling cloud of dust as fast as his good steed could bear
him.

Great had been the rejoicing amid the Romsey nuns when the Lady Maude
Loring had craved admission into their order—for was she not sole
child and heiress of the old knight, with farms and fiefs which she could
bring to the great nunnery? Long and earnest had been the talks of the
gaunt lady abbess, in which she had conjured the young novice to turn
forever from the world, and to rest her bruised heart under the broad and
peaceful shelter of the church. And now, when all was settled, and when
abbess and lady superior had had their will, it was but fitting that some
pomp and show should mark the glad occasion. Hence was it that the good
burghers of Romsey were all in the streets, that gay flags and flowers
brightened the path from the nunnery to the church, and that a long
procession wound up to the old arched door leading up the bride to these
spiritual nuptials. There was lay-sister Agatha with the high gold
crucifix, and the three incense-bearers, and the two-and-twenty garbed in
white, who cast flowers upon either side of them and sang sweetly the
while. Then, with four attendants, came the novice, her drooping head
wreathed with white blossoms, and, behind, the abbess and her council of
older nuns, who were already counting in their minds whether their own
bailiff could manage the farms of Twynham, or whether a reeve would be
needed beneath him, to draw the utmost from these new possessions which
this young novice was about to bring them.

But alas! for plots and plans when love and youth and nature, and above
all, fortune are arrayed against them. Who is this travel-stained youth
who dares to ride so madly through the lines of staring burghers? Why does
he fling himself from his horse and stare so strangely about him? See how
he has rushed through the incense-bearers, thrust aside lay-sister Agatha,
scattered the two-and-twenty damosels who sang so sweetly—and he
stands before the novice with his hands out-stretched, and his face
shining, and the light of love in his gray eyes. Her foot is on the very
lintel of the church, and yet he bars the way—and she, she thinks no
more of the wise words and holy rede of the lady abbess, but she hath
given a sobbing cry and hath fallen forward with his arms around her
drooping body and her wet cheek upon his breast. A sorry sight this for
the gaunt abbess, an ill lesson too for the stainless two-and-twenty who
have ever been taught that the way of nature is the way of sin. But Maude
and Alleyne care little for this. A dank, cold air comes out from the
black arch before them. Without, the sun shines bright and the birds are
singing amid the ivy on the drooping beeches. Their choice is made, and
they turn away hand-in-hand, with their backs to the darkness and their
faces to the light.

Very quiet was the wedding in the old priory church at Christchurch, where
Father Christopher read the service, and there were few to see save the
Lady Loring and John, and a dozen bowmen from the castle. The Lady of
Twynham had drooped and pined for weary months, so that her face was
harsher and less comely than before, yet she still hoped on, for her lord
had come through so many dangers that she could scarce believe that he
might be stricken down at last. It had been her wish to start for Spain
and to search for him, but Alleyne had persuaded her to let him go in her
place. There was much to look after, now that the lands of Minstead were
joined to those of Twynham, and Alleyne had promised her that if she would
but bide with his wife he would never come back to Hampshire again until
he had gained some news, good or ill, of her lord and lover.

The yellow cog had been engaged, with Goodwin Hawtayne in command, and a
month after the wedding Alleyne rode down to Bucklershard to see if she
had come round yet from Southampton. On the way he passed the fishing
village of Pitt’s Deep, and marked that a little creyer or brig was
tacking off the land, as though about to anchor there. On his way back, as
he rode towards the village, he saw that she had indeed anchored, and that
many boats were round her, bearing cargo to the shore.

A bow-shot from Pitt’s Deep there was an inn a little back from the road,
very large and wide-spread, with a great green bush hung upon a pole from
one of the upper windows. At this window he marked, as he rode up, that a
man was seated who appeared to be craning his neck in his direction.
Alleyne was still looking up at him, when a woman came rushing from the
open door of the inn, and made as though she would climb a tree, looking
back the while with a laughing face. Wondering what these doings might
mean, Alleyne tied his horse to a tree, and was walking amid the trunks
towards the inn, when there shot from the entrance a second woman who made
also for the trees. Close at her heels came a burly, brown-faced man, who
leaned against the door-post and laughed loudly with his hand to his side,
“Ah, mes belles!” he cried, “and is it thus you treat me? Ah, mes petites!
I swear by these finger-bones that I would not hurt a hair of your pretty
heads; but I have been among the black paynim, and, by my hilt! it does me
good to look at your English cheeks. Come, drink a stoup of muscadine with
me, mes anges, for my heart is warm to be among ye again.”

At the sight of the man Alleyne had stood staring, but at the sound of his
voice such a thrill of joy bubbled up in his heart that he had to bite his
lip to keep himself from shouting outright. But a deeper pleasure yet was
in store. Even as he looked, the window above was pushed outwards, and the
voice of the man whom he had seen there came out from it. “Aylward,” cried
the voice, “I have seen just now a very worthy person come down the road,
though my eyes could scarce discern whether he carried coat-armor. I pray
you to wait upon him and tell him that a very humble knight of England
abides here, so that if he be in need of advancement, or have any small
vow upon his soul, or desire to exalt his lady, I may help him to
accomplish it.”

Aylward at this order came shuffling forward amid the trees, and in an
instant the two men were clinging in each other’s arms, laughing and
shouting and patting each other in their delight; while old Sir Nigel came
running with his sword, under the impression that some small bickering had
broken out, only to embrace and be embraced himself, until all three were
hoarse with their questions and outcries and congratulations.

On their journey home through the woods Alleyne learnt their wondrous
story: how, when Sir Nigel came to his senses, he with his fellow-captive
had been hurried to the coast, and conveyed by sea to their captor’s
castle; how upon the way they had been taken by a Barbary rover, and how
they exchanged their light captivity for a seat on a galley bench and hard
labor at the pirate’s oars; how, in the port at Barbary, Sir Nigel had
slain the Moorish captain, and had swum with Aylward to a small coaster
which they had taken, and so made their way to England with a rich cargo
to reward them for their toils. All this Alleyne listened to, until the
dark keep of Twynham towered above them in the gloaming, and they saw the
red sun lying athwart the rippling Avon. No need to speak of the glad
hearts at Twynham Castle that night, nor of the rich offerings from out
that Moorish cargo which found their way to the chapel of Father
Christopher.

Sir Nigel Loring lived for many years, full of honor and laden with every
blessing. He rode no more to the wars, but he found his way to every
jousting within thirty miles; and the Hampshire youth treasured it as the
highest honor when a word of praise fell from him as to their management
of their horses, or their breaking of their lances. So he lived and so he
died, the most revered and the happiest man in all his native shire.

For Sir Alleyne Edricson and for his beautiful bride the future had also
naught but what was good. Twice he fought in France, and came back each
time laden with honors. A high place at court was given to him, and he
spent many years at Windsor under the second Richard and the fourth Henry—where
he received the honor of the Garter, and won the name of being a brave
soldier, a true-hearted gentleman, and a great lover and patron of every
art and science which refines or ennobles life.

As to John, he took unto himself a village maid, and settled in Lyndhurst,
where his five thousand crowns made him the richest franklin for many
miles around. For many years he drank his ale every night at the “Pied
Merlin,” which was now kept by his friend Aylward, who had wedded the good
widow to whom he had committed his plunder. The strong men and the bowmen
of the country round used to drop in there of an evening to wrestle a fall
with John or to shoot a round with Aylward; but, though a silver shilling
was to be the prize of the victory, it has never been reported that any
man earned much money in that fashion. So they lived, these men, in their
own lusty, cheery fashion—rude and rough, but honest, kindly and
true. Let us thank God if we have outgrown their vices. Let us pray to God
that we may ever hold their virtues. The sky may darken, and the clouds
may gather, and again the day may come when Britain may have sore need of
her children, on whatever shore of the sea they be found. Shall they not
muster at her call?

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