For the next ten days the weather was so bad that no operations could
be carried on. Every little stream was swollen to a raging torrent.
Horses, carrying men in full armour, could scarce keep their feet on
the slippery moor; and even the footmen had the greatest difficulty in
getting about; and all excursions were given up, for the Welsh,
barefooted and unweighted with armour, would have been able to fall
upon them to great advantage, and could then evade pursuit, with ease.
The number of sick increased rapidly, and it became necessary to send
another convoy back to Llanidloes; where the guard were to join the
force that had gone there, ten days before, and to escort some waggons
of flour and a number of cattle, that had been brought there from
Welshpool by a strong levy from Shropshire.
Ten knights, a hundred mounted men-at-arms, as many on foot, and fifty
archers were considered sufficient to escort the sick; who, to the
number of two hundred, were closely packed in the ten waggons that were
to return with flour. Three of Lord Talbot's knights were to form part
of the escort, and among these Oswald was chosen by the earl.
It was hoped that the convoy would reach the town without being
attacked, for great pains had been taken to prevent the news of its
approaching departure getting about; for there were many Welshmen in
the camp, employed in looking after the baggage animals, and in other
offices. They had all been hired for the service on the other side of
the border; but it was believed that some of them, at least, must be in
communication with the enemy; who were thereby enabled to gather in
force, to oppose any parties who sallied out from the camp.
The consequence was that, until half an hour before it left, none save
a few of the leaders were aware of the starting of the convoy. Then
orders were rapidly issued. The knights and men-at-arms who had been
selected for the service had but a few minutes to prepare themselves.
The horses were harnessed to the waggons, and the sick and wounded
carried out and placed in them, with the greatest expedition, and the
party set out in less than half an hour after the first order had been
given. It had gone but a quarter of a mile when the shouts among the
woods, on either side, showed that the Welsh were vigilant. Horns were
blown in all directions, the sound growing fainter and fainter, in the
hills.
"We shall not get through undisturbed," one of the knights said to
Oswald, who was riding next to him.
"No, I think we shall have fighting. It would have been better had we
and the men-at-arms been told to leave our horses behind. In this deep
soil they will be of little use in a fight, and we should do better on
foot."
"It would be terrible, marching in our heavy armour."
"Doubtless it would have been so, but I should not have minded that.
The distance is but six miles; and although, in this slippery plain,
the toil would have been great, methinks that we could have made a
better fight than on horseback; and as these waggons travel but slowly,
we could have kept up with them."
"We can dismount, if necessary," the knight said; "but, for my part, I
would rather ride than tramp through this deep mud."
Their progress was indeed slow, the waggons frequently sank almost up
to their axles in the mud, and it needed all the efforts of the
dismounted men to get them out. A deep silence had succeeded the outcry
in the woods.
"I like not this silence, Sir Oswald," the knight said; when, after an
hour's hard work, they were still but two miles from the camp.
"Nor do I," Oswald said. "It seems unnatural. Do you not think, Sir
William, that it would be well if all were to take the picket ropes
from their horses' necks, and knot them two and two, fastening one end
to a waggon and the other to a horse's girth. In that way fifty
men-at-arms might be roped on to the waggons, and would aid those
drawing them, greatly."
"The idea is a very good one," the knight said.
He rode forward to Sir Eustace de Bohun, who was in command, and
informed him of Oswald's suggestion, which was at once adopted. As soon
as it was carried out, the dismounted men were ordered to push behind
the waggons, which now proceeded at a much faster rate than before.
They were just half-way to the town, and beginning to entertain hopes
that they should get through without being attacked, when a horn
sounded; and from the forest on both sides, a crowd of men rushed out,
and poured a volley of arrows into the convoy. Hasty orders were
shouted by Sir Eustace, the ropes were thrown off, and the troops
formed up in a double line on each side of the waggons.
The knights and mounted men formed the outside line, and the footmen
stood a pace or two behind them; so as to cover them from attack,
should the Welsh break through. Oswald's esquire was on one side of
him, Roger on the other.
The waggons continued to move forward, for at this point the road was
better, running across a bare rock, and the horses were therefore able
to draw them along without any assistance. Sir Eustace therefore gave
the order for the escort to continue their way, marching on each side
of the train.
"We must fight our way through, men," he shouted; "every minute will
doubtless add to their numbers."
For a short time the arrows flew fast. But the Welsh bows were not to
be compared, in point of strength, with those used by the English
archers; and the arrows fell harmlessly upon the armour of the
men-at-arms, while on the other hand, the English archers shot so
strongly and truly that, after a short time, the Welsh bowmen fell
back. As they did so, however, a crowd of footmen poured out from the
forest; and, with loud shouts and yells, rushed forward.
"Halt the waggons!" Sir Eustace cried. "Keep good order, men, and we
shall soon drive this rabble off."
The archers had time but to send three flights of arrows among their
assailants, when these threw themselves upon the line. They were armed
with short axes, heavy clubs, and other rough weapons; and for a time,
the horsemen kept their order and beat them back; but as the horns
continued to sound, the Welsh swarmed down in such numbers that they
broke in between their mounted foes; some trying to tear them from
their saddles, while others crept beneath the horses and drove their
long knives into their stomachs, or tried to hamstring them with their
axes.
Then the dismounted men-at-arms joined in the fight, and drove the
enemy back beyond the line. Many of the horsemen were, however,
dismounted. These joined their mounted comrades when Sir Eustace gave
the word to charge the multitude, before they could rally for a fresh
attack.
The Welsh went down in numbers before their lances, but so close was
the throng that the horsemen were brought to a stand and, slinging
their spears behind them, betook themselves to sword and mace. Great
was the slaughter of their opponents, but these pursued their former
tactics. Horse after horse rolled over in mortal agony and, as they
fell, the riders were stabbed before they could recover their feet.
Soon they were broken up into knots; and their dismounted companions,
with one accord, left the waggons and rushed into the fray, for a time
beating back the Welsh.
"It were best to dismount," Oswald cried, and he swung himself from the
saddle, just as one of the enemy hamstrung his horse. Roger and the
squire did the same, and joined the ranks of the footmen.
"Keep together!" Oswald shouted, to those within hearing; "we can cut
ourselves a passage through, in that way, while separately we shall
perish."
Ten or twelve men followed his orders and, gathering in a ring, for a
time beat off every attack. Looking round, Oswald saw that scarce a man
remained mounted. The shouts of the English, and the wild war cries of
the Welsh, rang through the air. In a dozen places fierce contests were
raging--swords and axes rose and fell, on helmet and steel cap.
In obedience to the shouts of Sir Eustace, who, with three or four
men-at-arms around him, was still mounted, the English bands tried to
join each other, and in several cases succeeded. Oswald had been near
the rear of the convoy when the fight began, and the party with whom he
fought were separated by some distance from the others, and the
prospect became more and more hopeless. His squire had fallen, and
fully half the men who had joined him; and although the loss of the
Welsh had been many times as great, the number of their assailants had
in no way diminished.
He and Roger strove, in vain, to cut a way through; and their height
and strength enabled them to maintain a forward movement, their
opponents shrinking from the terrible blows of Roger's mace, and the no
less destructive fall of Oswald's sword; but the men-at-arms behind
them fared worse, having to retreat with their face to the foe; and
more than one, falling over the bodies of those slain by their leaders,
were stabbed before they could rise. Several times the two men turned
and covered the rear, but at last they stood alone.
"Now, make one effort to break through, Roger;" and they flung
themselves with such fury upon the Welsh that, for some twenty yards,
they cut their way through them.
Then Roger exclaimed, "I am done for, master," and fell.
Oswald stood over him and, for a time, kept a clear circle; then he
received a tremendous blow on the back of his helmet, with a heavy
club, and fell prostrate over Roger.
When he recovered his senses, the din of battle had moved far away. The
other groups had gathered together and, moving down, had joined those
who still resisted on the other side of the road; and, keeping in a
close body, were fighting their way steadily along.
A number of the Welsh were going over the battlefield, stabbing all
whom they found to be still living. The sick men in the waggons had
already been murdered.
A Welshman, whose appearance denoted a higher rank than the others,
approached Oswald, as soon as he sat up, and called to four or five of
his countrymen. Oswald, with difficulty, rose to his feet. He still
wore, round his wrist, the chain that Glendower's daughter had given
him; and he now pulled this off and held it up, loudly calling out the
name of Glendower, several times. The Welsh leader waved his followers
back.
Oswald was unarmed, and evidently incapable of defending himself. He
came up to him. Oswald held out the chain:
"Glendower, Glendower," he repeated.
The man took the chain, and examined it carefully. Some Welsh words
were engraved upon the clasp. Oswald was unaware what they were, but
the words were, "Jane Glendower, from her father."
The Welshman looked much surprised, and presently called to another,
some distance away. The man came up, and he spoke to him in Welsh.
"How did you obtain this?" the man asked Oswald, in English.
"It was given in token of service, rendered by me and my squire here,
to Glendower's daughter. She told me that it would be of service if, at
any time, I were taken prisoner by her father's followers."
This was translated to the Welshman, who said:
"These men must be taken to Glendower. The story may be true, or not.
The chain may have been stolen. At any rate, the prince must decide as
to their fate."
He now bade the men round him take off Oswald's armour. As soon as this
was done, the latter knelt down by Roger's side, and removed his
helmet.
An arrow, shot from behind, had struck Roger just above the back
piece--which, being short for him, did not reach to his helmet--and had
gone through the fleshy part of his neck; while, at the same moment, a
blow with an axe had cleft the helmet in sunder, and inflicted a deep
gash on the back of the head.
At a word from their leader, the men at once aided Oswald, who drew out
the arrow. The wound bled but slightly, and one of the Welshmen,
tearing off a portion of his garment, bandaged it up. Water was fetched
from the stream below, and a pad of wet cloth laid on the wound at the
back of the head, and kept in its place by bandages. As this was done
Roger gave a faint groan and, a minute after, opened his eyes.
"Do not try to move, Roger," Oswald said. "You are wounded; but not, I
trust, to death. We are prisoners in the hands of the Welsh, but that
chain Glendower's daughter gave me has saved our lives."
A rough litter was constructed of boughs. On this Roger, after his
armour had been taken off, was laid. At their leader's orders six
Welshmen took it up, while two placed themselves, one on each side of
Oswald. Then the leader took the head of the party, and moved away into
the forest.
Oswald's head still swam from the effects of the blow, but as they went
on the feeling gradually ceased, and he was able to keep up with his
captors. Their course was ever uphill, and after an hour's walking they
arrived at a farmhouse, situated just at the upper edge of the forest.
The litter was laid down outside the house. The Welshman went in,
saying something to his men, who at once sat down on the ground; for
the journey, with Roger's weight, had been a toilsome one. He made
signs for Oswald to seat himself by the side of Roger. The latter was
now perfectly sensible.
"What has happened, master?" he asked.
"We have been badly beaten, Roger; but when I last saw them our men had
got together, and were fighting their way along the road. I fancy more
than half have been killed; but, as far as I could see of the field, I
should say that three or four times as many Welsh had fallen."
"That was a lucky thought of yours, Sir Oswald, about that chain."
"I had always an idea that it might be found useful; and it at once
occurred to me, as soon as I recovered my senses."
"Are you wounded, too?" Roger asked anxiously.
"No. I was beaten down by a heavy club, and my head still rings from
the blow. Otherwise, I am uninjured."
"What has happened to me, master?"
"You had an arrow through your neck, Roger; but fortunately it was on
one side. An inch to the right, and it would have struck your spine, or
perhaps gone through your windpipe. As it is, it does not seem to have
done much harm. Very little blood flowed when I pulled the arrow out.
You have got a bad gash on the back of the head, but your head piece
broke the force of the blow. It has laid your skull bare, but has not,
so far as I can see, penetrated it."
"Then we need think no more about it," Roger said.
"Well, that was a fight! The one we had at Knighton was as nothing to
it."
"Yes, I think that even you could not want a harder one, Roger."
"No; this was quite enough for one day's work. I should like a drink of
water, if I could get one."
Oswald made signs to one of the men, who went into the house and
returned with a large jug of water, of which Roger took a deep draught;
and Oswald then finished the contents, for he, too, was parched with
thirst.
Half an hour later a tall man, in full armour, followed by a number of
Welsh chiefs, issued from the forest. He was some five-and-forty years
old, and of noble presence. The leader of the party who had brought
Oswald up advanced to meet him; and, saluting him most respectfully,
spoke to him for a moment, and then produced the chain. Glendower--for
it was the prince--examined it, and then at once walked up to Oswald,
who had risen to his feet.
"How became you possessed of this, Sir Knight?"
"It was given me by one of your daughters, sir. I and my squire, here,
were on guard round your house, on the night after the Earl of Talbot
took it. We were at some distance from the other guards, when two
figures rose from the bushes near us. We pursued them and, coming up to
them, found they were two ladies; and they at once avowed that they
were your daughters. My instructions were to watch and see that no
Welshmen approached the house; and nought had been said to me of
arresting any leaving it, seeing that it was not supposed that any were
there.
"I war not with women. Being myself from Northumbria, I have no enmity
with your people. Therefore I let them proceed on their way--a breach
of duty for which, doubtless, I should have suffered, had it been
known. Happily, none but my follower here, who was then but a
man-at-arms, and I a squire, knew of it; and to this moment I have
spoken of it to no one. As they left us, one of the ladies gave me this
chain, saying that some day it might be of use to me, should I ever
fall into the hands of their people. I have carried it on my wrist,
ever since; and when your follower came up, and I saw the necessity had
arisen, I showed it to him."
"I have heard the story from my daughters," Glendower said warmly,
holding out his hand. "They told me how courteously you had treated
them, and that you had refused to accept the jewels they offered you.
They said that you had also declined to tell them your name, as it
might do you injury, should it become known; and I have often regretted
that I did not know the name of the gentleman who had behaved so nobly
to them, and had saved them from an English prison. Had they been
captured, it would have been a sore blow to me, not only in my
affections but to my cause; for, had he held them in his power, Henry
could have put a heavy pressure upon me. May I ask, now, what is your
name, Sir Knight?"
"Sir Oswald Forster. I was, at that time, a squire of Sir Henry
Percy's."
"Of Hotspur!" Glendower said, in surprise. "I did not know that we had
levies from the north fighting against us."
"You have not, sir. I had simply been sent, with twenty men-at-arms, by
Sir Henry to Sir Edmund Mortimer--who is, as you are doubtless aware,
of kin to Sir Henry, who had married his sister--and was sent by Sir
Edmund to join the Earl of Talbot and Lord Grey, when they made that
foray upon your house. After that I returned to the north; but was,
some months since, again sent to Ludlow, to keep Sir Henry informed of
the doings on this border."
"But I had heard that Mortimer had sent no troops to Henry's army."
"That is so, sir. I am here by an accident. A despatch came from London
to Ludlow for the king, and as there was no other way of forwarding it,
I volunteered to carry it here, and succeeded in doing so: for which
service the king conferred knighthood upon me, upon my arrival, ten
days since."
"Ah, then, it was you that I heard of! I was told that two great men
had been seen in the woods, some distance south of the camp; and that
they had succeeded in making their escape, after slaying five of my
followers; and that, though none knew for certain, it was supposed they
had reached Henry's camp."
"You are right, sir. The two men were my companion, here, and myself."
"It was a notable feat. I think not that any other messenger has got
through my scouts, since the king left Welshpool. You must be swift of
foot, as well as brave and courteous; for I heard that you had outrun
the greatest part of those who followed you."
"We in the north have to be swift of foot," Oswald said, with a smile,
"for the Scots keep us in practice; either in escaping them, when they
come in too great a force to be resisted; or in following them, when it
is our turn to pursue.
"I trust, sir, that you will put myself and my squire to ransom, and
will take my word for the payment; for, until I go north, I have no
means of satisfying it."
"That will I not," Glendower said. "Or rather, I will take a ransom;
since, were I to release you without one, it might cause surprise and
inquiry; and it were well that your noble conduct to my daughters
should not be known, for Henry would not be likely to regard it
favourably. Therefore we will put you to ransom at the sum of a crown
for yourself, and a penny for your squire."
"I thank you, indeed, sir, and shall ever feel beholden to you; and I
will, moreover, give you my knightly word that, whatever service I may
have to perform, I will never again war with the Welsh.
"May I ask if any of our party succeeded in reaching Llanidloes?"
"Yes, some sixty or seventy of them got in. They fought very well; and
indeed, in close combat my Welshmen cannot, at present, hold their own
against your armour-clad men. Still, though it would have pleased me
better had we annihilated the force, our success has been sufficient to
give Henry another lesson that, though he may march through Wales, he
holds only the ground on which he has encamped.
"Now, Sir Oswald, I pray you to enter my abode. 'Tis a poor place,
indeed, after my house in the Vale of the Bards; but it suffices for my
needs."
Before entering, he gave orders that Roger should be carried to an
upper room, and despatched a messenger to order his own leech, as soon
as he had done with the wounded, to come up and attend to him. Then he
led the way into a room, where a meal was prepared. In a few words in
Welsh he explained to his chiefs, who had been much surprised at the
manner in which he had received Oswald, that the young knight had, at
one time, rendered a great service to his daughters, Jane and Margaret;
but without mentioning its precise nature. His experience had taught
him that even those most attached to his cause might yet turn against
him; and were they to relate the story, it might do serious injury to
Oswald.
"You must, on your way back," he said presently to the young knight,
"call and see my daughters; who are at present staying with their
sister, who is married to Adda ap Iorwerth Ddu. They would be
aggrieved, indeed, if they heard that you had been here, and that I had
not given them the opportunity of thanking you, in person."
Oswald remained for a fortnight with Glendower, while Roger's wound was
healing. At the end of that time he learned that Henry, having marched
into Cardigan and ravaged the country there, was already retiring; his
army having suffered terribly from the effects of the weather, the
impossibility of obtaining supplies, and the constant and harassing
attacks by the Welsh.
Glendower was often absent, but when at the house he conversed freely
with Oswald, who was no longer surprised at the influence that he had
obtained over his countrymen. His manners were courteous in the
extreme, and his authority over his followers absolute. They not only
reverenced him as their prince, the representative of their ancient
kings, and their leader in war, but as one endowed with supernatural
power.
The bards had fanned this feeling to the utmost, by their songs of
marvels and portents at his birth, and by attributing to him a control
even over the elements. This belief was not only of great importance to
him, as binding his adherents closer to him; but it undoubtedly
contributed to his success, from the fact of its being fully shared in
by the English soldiery; who assigned it as the cause of the
exceptionally bad weather that had been experienced, in each of the
three expeditions into the country, and of the failure to accomplish
anything of importance against him.
This side of the character of Glendower puzzled Oswald. Several times,
when talking to him, he distinctly claimed supernatural powers; and
from the tone in which he spoke, and the strange expression his face at
this time assumed, Oswald was convinced that he sincerely believed that
he did possess these powers. Whether he originally did so; or whether
it had arisen from the adulation of the bards, the general belief in
it, and the successes he had gained; Oswald could not determine. Later,
when Glendower sullied his fair fame by the most atrocious massacres,
similar to that which had already taken place at the storming of New
Radnor--atrocities that seemed not only purposeless, but at utter
variance with the courtesy and gentleness of his bearing--Oswald came
to believe that his brain had, to some extent, become unhinged by
excitement, flattery, and superstition.
At the end of the fortnight Roger's wound, although not completely
healed, was in such a state that it permitted his sitting on horseback,
and Oswald became anxious to be off. Glendower, who was about to set
out to harass the rear of the army, as it retired from Cardiganshire,
at once offered to send a strong escort with him; as it would have been
dangerous, in the extreme, to have attempted to traverse the country
without such a protection. Two excellent horses, that had been captured
in the engagement with the English, were handed over to him, for his
own use and that of Roger. Oswald's own armour was returned to him, and
he was pleased to find that it had been carefully attended to, and was
as brightly burnished as when it came into his possession.
When Glendower bid them adieu, he presented each of them with rings,
similar to those he himself wore.
"You have promised that you will not fight against me again; but it may
be that, on some errand or other, you may ride into Wales; or that you
may be staying, as you did before, at some castle or town near the
border, when we attack it. You have but to show these rings to any
Welshman you may come across, and you may be sure of being well
treated, as one of my friends.
"I trust that, when we meet again, the war will be over; and that my
title to the kingdom of Wales may be recognized, by your king and
people, as it is on this side of the border."
"Well, Sir Oswald," Roger said, as they rode away, accompanied by
twenty of Glendower's followers, under the orders of an officer; "we
have got out of that scrape better than could have been expected. When
you and I were alone, in the midst of that crowd of Welshmen, I thought
that it was all over with us."
"So did I, Roger. You see, that matter of our getting Glendower's
daughters away, uninjured, has borne good fruit."
"It has indeed," Roger agreed. "I thought it much more likely, too,
that it would have gone the other way."
"Be sure you keep a silent tongue as to that, Roger; and remember that
our story is, that I have been put at knightly ransom, and on the
condition that I will never serve in Wales again. When we once get
across the border we will ride straight for Northumberland, without
going near Ludlow. I observed that the king much doubted the Mortimers,
and were we to return there, and the news came to his ears, he might
take it as a proof that there was an understanding between Glendower
and Mortimer; and that it was to this that leniency, such as had been
shown to no other prisoners, was due; whereas, if we go straight to
Percy, 'tis not likely that the matter will ever come to his hearing,
and at any rate, if it did so, he would scarce connect Mortimer with
our escape."
"I understand, Sir Oswald; and will, you may be sure, keep silent as to
aught beyond what you have bade me say."
Two days' journey brought them to the house of Glendower's married
daughter. On the officer stating that the knight with him had been
sent, under his escort, by Glendower himself, she requested that he
should be shown in. Her husband was away.
"What is the knight's name?" she asked.
"Sir Oswald Forster, Lady."
"I have never, so far as I know, heard it before. Methought that he
might be one whom I may have met, in the houses of my two sisters
married to Englishmen, in Hereford; but I have no memory of the name.
Show him in, sir."
Roger had removed Oswald's helmet, while the officer was away.
"Come with me, Roger," he said, "since we were both concerned in this
affair."
He bowed deeply to the Lady Isabel; who, as she returned his salute,
saw with surprise that his face was quite strange to her.
"It seems, Sir Oswald," she said, "from the tenor of the message given
me by the officer, that you have come to me as a visitor; and that 'tis
as an escort, only, that he has been sent with you?"
"That is so, Lady; but 'tis as a visitor rather to your sisters, the
Ladies Jane and Margaret, that I am here. I had, once, the pleasure of
meeting them."
Glendower's daughter at once told a maid, who was working with her when
the officer had entered, to request her sisters to come to her; and
these entered the room a minute later.
Isabel, seeing that they did not appear to recognize the young knight,
said:
"Our father has sent this gentleman, Sir Oswald Forster, whom you know,
to visit you."
The two girls looked with surprise at Oswald.
"Do you not know this gentleman?" their sister asked, in equal
surprise.
"He is not known to us," Jane replied. "I have never seen him
before--at least, that I can remember."
"We have met before, nevertheless, Lady," Oswald said, with a smile;
"though it may well be that you do not remember my face, or that of my
squire there; seeing that we were together but a few minutes, and that
in the moonlight."
The girls looked up at him puzzled, and then their eyes fell upon
Roger.
"Now I know!" Margaret exclaimed. "Look at the squire's height. Surely,
Jane, these are the two soldiers who allowed us to pass them, that
night when we fled from Sycharth."
"That is so," Oswald said. "I thought that you were more likely to
recognize my squire than myself, seeing that I have grown several
inches since then, and have but lately assumed this knightly armour in
which you see me."
"Oh, sir," Jane said, going swiftly up to him and holding out her hand,
which he raised to his lips; as he did that of Margaret, as she
followed her sister; "we have thought of you so often, and have prayed
that you should both be rewarded for your kindness to us! How glad I am
to see you again, and have an opportunity of thanking you!
"You have heard, Isabel, of our adventure, and how we escaped, by the
kindness of two Englishmen on guard near the edge of the forest, from
being carried as prisoners to London; where, but for them, we should
now be lodged in some dungeon of the usurper; but till now, I have
never known the name of our preserver.
"Thanks also to you, good squire," she said, turning to Roger.
"I but carried out the orders of my master," Roger said, colouring like
a boy, as she held out her hand to him. "There is no credit due to me."
"But how came you here?" Lady Isabel asked Oswald.
"Your sisters have, although they know it not, more than repaid their
obligations to me; for while they may perhaps owe their liberty to me,
I owe my life to them.
"See, ladies," and he turned to Jane, "there is the chain you gave me.
I have worn it, always, on my wrist. I and my squire were beaten down
by, your father's followers; my squire grievously wounded and
insensible, while I had been left for dead, though but stunned from a
blow. I luckily recovered my senses, just as those employed in
despatching the wounded came up; and, happily remembering your
bracelet, I took it off and held it up, calling out your father's name.
"Struck, I suppose, by the action and words, an officer examined the
bracelet closely; and, making out the inscription on the clasp, had my
squire and myself taken to the house where your father lodged, so that
the manner of my being possessed of the trinket might be explained. On
your father's return he recognized it; and, having heard from you the
circumstances of our meeting, treated us with the greatest kindness and
hospitality; and freed us without ransom, save a nominal one in order
that, on my return, I could say that I had been put to ransom. On the
recovery of my squire from his wounds, he restored our armour to us,
presented us with horses, and sent us here under escort, deeming that
you might be glad to see us."
"There he was indeed right," Jane said. "We have oft regretted that you
would not accept a more valuable jewel than that little chain, which
was given to me by my father, when I was but a child. But 'tis well,
indeed, that you so withstood us; for had it been any other of our
jewels but this, it would not have been recognized."
"That is so, Lady and, since my capture, I often thought that it was
strange it so happened."
After staying a day there, Oswald continued his journey; to the regret
of the ladies, who were glad to hear that he would never again fight
against the Welsh. His escort accompanied him, as near the border as it
was safe for them to go. The next day they rode into Chester, and then,
by easy stages, up to Alnwick.
Oswald went to Hotspur's apartments, as soon as he entered the castle.
"I congratulate you heartily," Hotspur said, as he entered. "I see that
you have won your spurs. I said to myself, when I received your letter,
saying that you were starting to carry a letter to the king, that your
enterprise would bring you either death or a pair of gold spurs. I am
glad, indeed, to see that it was the latter.
"I hear that the king's army is falling back. A messenger brought me
news from my kinsman. He said that it was but a rumour that had reached
him; but that it seemed likely enough, for it was said that they had
suffered terribly, both from the weather and the attacks of the Welsh."
"That rumour is true, Sir Henry, and also that the army is retiring."
"And they have done no more than they did before?"
"No more, indeed, Sir Henry. They have burnt many villages, and slain
many Welshmen; but they have done nothing, whatever, towards subduing
Glendower."