A Village Festival
“Dickon, take that long body of thine out of the way, and let us pass!
Think’st thou, Long-shanks, we have need of a Maypole in September?”
“Stint thy prate, Master Lack-beard. Think’st thou we need a new
clapper to our church bell, that thou set’st thy twopenny clapper
wagging so?”
“Ha, pretty Gillian! ever sweet and blooming as a rose!”
“As a tuft of marsh-grass, thou mean’st, Gaffer Thickset, else would
not a fat goose admire me thus.”
“How now, Hal? What, man, thou art gay as a courtier whose tailor hath
given him long credit! With all these bright ribbons and gauds on thee,
thou’lt dazzle our eyes!”
“If thine be dazzled, Gaffer Green, it is with looking at thine own
foolish face in a duck-pond, or mayhap with a pot of strong ale drained
at another man’s cost.”
These and other scraps of rough wit flew thick and fast amid the crowd
gathered on the village green of the little hamlet of Deerham, which,
as usual, had grown up under the protection of the great feudal castle
held by the lord of the manor himself.
A gay and goodly picture was that blithe crowd of merry-makers in the
bright autumn sunshine—one of those pictures that half redeemed the
gloom of that iron age, and made many who ought to have known better
mistake the so-called “good old times” for an age of gold, instead of a
riot of useless bloodshed, reckless waste, cruel oppression, brutal
ignorance, and grinding misery.
In the centre of the green a dozen “morrice-dancers,” with tiny bells
hung to every part of their fantastic garb, were keeping up a constant
jangling aptly compared by a local wag to the tongue of Dame Cicely
Prate, a noted scold, who looked daggers at him in return. On the
right, a juggler was swallowing ribbons by the yard, or breathing out
fire and smoke, to the amazement of the gaping clowns who jostled
around him. On the left, a strolling minstrel was singing the old comic
ballad of “The Felon Sow,” the success of which was shown by the loud
laughter that greeted every verse, and the shower of copper coins that
clinked ceaselessly into his well-worn green cap.
A little farther off, a quack was vaunting a new and potent medicine,
as able to “cure all ills, from a smoky chimney to a scolding wife.”
Just beyond him, a pretended pilgrim was selling as relics from the
Holy Land some rusty nails and pot-sherds picked up at the next
village, while a huge brown dancing-bear, led by a swarthy, gipsy-like
man in a slouched hat, was performing some clumsy antics hard by, to
the mingled delight and terror of the shock-headed village boys. In the
background, a big fire was blazing, and preparations were being made to
roast an ox whole, without which, in those days, no English
merry-making could go off properly.
Every moment swelled the noise and bustle, as new arrivals joined the
throng. Ruddy, stalwart farmers in holiday garb, on horses as broad and
sturdy as themselves, with their buxom dames perched behind them;
hard-faced, bare-armed workmen in leather jerkins, from the town of
Winchester; rosy village lasses in short skirts and broad hats,
be-ribboned in all the colours of the rainbow; threadbare students from
Oxford and Cambridge, begging their way (according to the strange
custom of the age) from one market-town to another; bare-footed friars
in their long, dark robes; tanned, round-shouldered peasants in coarse
woollen jackets or rough frocks of grey frieze, with the mud of the
Hampshire lowlands clinging to their heavy, clouted shoes; and war-worn
soldiers in dinted steel caps and frayed buff coats, just home from the
French wars, watching the scene with an air of grand, indulgent
contempt, like men who had already seen everything worth seeing.
All at once there was a cry that the lords of the castle were coming
down to watch the sports, and this news broke up the most popular
exhibition of the day—the rescue of Princess Sabra from the dragon by
St. George, who, with an iron pan for a helmet, and a spit for a spear,
made quite as queer a figure as the monster itself, while the princess,
represented by a freckled, red-haired boy of twelve, did small justice
to the praises of her beauty in old romances. But at the first glimpse
of the two stately forms that came riding slowly down the steep,
winding path from Claremont Castle, dragon, princess, and champion were
alike forgotten, and all heads turned at once toward Sir Alured and his
twin-brother Sir Hugo.
The ten years that had passed over those two handsome faces since that
morning on the ramparts of conquered Tormas, had touched both very
lightly; and they received with a frank, hearty smile the boisterous
welcome of the crowd, which greeted them not only with shouts and
throwing-up of caps, but also with a universal and evidently sincere
brightening of faces, very pleasant to see.
In truth, the two brave men had well earned it. The lull in the
age-long duel between France and England caused by the truce of 1358,
and the treaty of Bretigny two years later, had enabled them to make
good their vow of dwelling henceforth on their own lands, and caring
for their long-neglected tenantry, as they had done, and were still
doing, with all their heart and soul.
“God bless ’em both!” cried a sturdy yeoman, warmly. “When my father
lay a-dying, Sir Alured was at his bedside as soon as either priest or
physician.”
“And when my child was sick,” added a woman’s voice, “scarce could I
tell the tale to Sir Hugo as he passed, when lo! away he flew to
Winchester town as if riding for his life—ay, he went his own
self—and brought back the most skilled leech in the town, who saved my
little lass’s life.”
“And when yon great storm tore down our cottage, and left me and mine
no place to lay our heads, who came first to our aid?—Why, who but our
young lords themselves? They housed us in their own castle, no less;
and they sent men to build up our dwelling again, better than before;
and all at their own cost, lads! God bless them for it!”
“Amen! for whereas many knights and barons do but wring from their
vassals what little they have, to maintain their own state, have not
our lords given up all the wealth they won in the French wars, to keep
us in peace and comfort? May God repay them a thousand-fold! Would Sir
Simon Harcourt, had he lived, have done the like? I trow not! He would
have stripped us as bare as a beech in December. Long life to the good
lords of Claremont!”
Such speeches came ceaselessly to the ears of the twins, as they took
their places on a raised seat at the end of the green; and their noble
faces grew radiant with joy.
“Are we not well repaid, Alured, for all the storms and sorrows of
former years?”
“That are we indeed, Hugo; and now we lack but one thing to complete
our happiness—that our good friend Du Guesclin were here to share it.”
“Right, brother. Truly I owe him much, for, but for him, we two had
never met again.”
“And I,” said Alured, “owe him yet more—mine own life, and it may be
mine own soul likewise. I would we had some tidings of the good knight;
we have heard nought since yon wandering minstrel brought word, two
years agone, how he was made prisoner at Auray by old John Chandos, and
how, when it was noised abroad that he was taken, every old wife in
Brittany spun a double portion daily, that she might in some sort aid
to pay his ransom.”
“God keep him, wherever he be. But see, the archery is about to begin.”
It was, and the brothers had seldom seen better practice, even among
the Moorish bowmen of Spain; for in those days every English yeoman was
a crack shot, and had often to aim at other marks than a harmless
target. More than one of those present had seen the glittering chivalry
of France fall like autumn leaves before their arrows on the fatal
field of Crecy, and King John the Good led captive by English archers
amid the heaped-up slain of Poitiers; and the best competitors were so
evenly matched, that even the two practised warriors who adjudged the
prize took some time to decide.
“May Old England’s grey-goose shafts ever fly as strongly and truly!”
said Alured, as he handed the prize to the winner.
“And may they be ever loosed by hands as deft and loyal!” added Hugo.
Next came the leaping, in which two local athletes ran each other so
close that the match seemed a drawn one; but in the last trial, one of
the two just touched the bar with his toes, and came down on his face
with such a whack that Gaffer Green said with an unfeeling chuckle—
“He’ve took after his own pigs, he have; he be a-rooting up the earth
with his nose!”
The winner was young Will Wade, who had been one of the loudest in
praise of his young lords; and Will made so good a start for the
foot-race (which came next) that he seemed likely to win that too. But
just when close to the goal, he glanced aside a moment at the pretty
face of his betrothed, Gillian Gray, who was watching him breathlessly;
and in that moment his foot slipped, and down he came!
He was up again at once, but too late. The next man had reached the
goal, and poor Will was but second-best!
“Vex not thyself for that, lad,” said Sir Hugo, kindly; “it was but an
ill chance. Hadst thou been chasing the foes of our king and Old
England, I warrant thy foot would have been steady enow; and thou hast
shown how quickly a true Englishman can start up from a fall.”
“On that matter your worships should be well able to judge,” said the
young athlete, bluntly, as he pouched the two gold pieces handed him by
way of consolation, “being yourselves as true Englishmen as ever
breathed!”
“Hear’st thou that, Hugo?” laughed Alured. “Times are changed,
methinks, since our great-grandsire was wont to say, as the worst
penalty he could invoke on his own head, ‘May I become an Englishman!’”
In hurling the bar, the best man was the brawny village smith, who
received the prize from Alured’s own hand, with a kind word that he
valued even more; and now but two “events” remained—the
sword-and-buckler play, and the wrestling.
Just then the twins’ keen eyes took note of two tall, sturdy men in
half-armour, who had pushed their way forward with small ceremony into
the front rank of the crowd.
Both wore the silver spurs of esquires, but their behaviour did not at
all befit their rank; for they seemed bent on showing their contempt
for the sports and all connected with them as offensively as possible.
At first they were content with scornful looks and muttered words of
disdain; but when the sword-play commenced, the self-constituted
critics began to utter their sneers aloud, so insolently that had not
the lords of the manor been present, the sturdy villagers would soon
have made these swaggerers change their tune.
“Did I not tell thee so, Gilbert?” cried the taller of the two. “This
is what comes of rusting at home, and seeing nought of the world.
Belike these yokels think they are very St. Georges; but we could teach
them another tale.”
“Thou art right, Humphrey. Cared we to cumber us with such gear, I trow
we could give them a wholesome lesson, had the thick-skulled churls but
the wit to profit by it!”
This was too much for young Will Wade, who, having just won the
sword-and-buckler contest, turned short round, and said hotly—
“With your tongues ye are doughty champions, in truth; but if ye would
try other weapons, come on!”
“And I,” cried the stout smith (victor in the wrestling-match), “will
gladly try a fall with these big talkers, and let ’em feel how a
smith’s vice can pinch!”
Gilbert, with a scornful laugh, threw off his upper garment, and closed
with the smith; and Humphrey, furnished with sword and buckler, faced
Will Wade.
This time the village champions had met their match. Brave Will stood
to it as stoutly as man could do, but he had no chance with one whose
sword had been daily in his hand for years, and who added to this long
practice the coolness learned in actual battle. The bout ended in his
utter defeat; and at the same moment Ned Smith (who, with all his
strength, was no match for his opponent’s cool science) was sent
sprawling by a dexterous back-trip.
“Now,” cried Humphrey, boastfully, “I will stake the prize I have won,
and five gold nobles to boot, if any man here will try a bout with me.
Who takes my proffer?”
“With good St. George’s aid, that do I!” said a calm voice behind him;
and Sir Alured himself rose and stepped down into the ring.
The downcast faces all brightened at once, and a shout rent the air;
for it was the firm belief of all Deerham village that there was no
feat at which “the good lords of Claremont” were not a match for any
man living; and the villagers were as confident of seeing these bullies
humbled, as if both were conquered already.
Even the vaunting Humphrey felt a momentary chill, which (as usual with
such base natures) he strove to cover with extra insolence.
“Gramercy for thy condescension, my good lord,” cried he, mockingly;
“it is but too much honour for a poor esquire like me!”
“It is too much honour for thee!” said Alured, sternly, “not because
thou art a poor esquire, but because thou art a malapert and
ill-mannered cub. Look well to thyself, for thou hast deserved no
mercy!”
Taking up the sword and buckler used by Wade (who flushed with pleasure
at the implied compliment), the knight faced the esquire.
Humphrey was no mean swordsman; but he had to do with one who had
overcome the flashing strokes of Moorish scimitars wielded by the best
warriors of Grenada. Slash and hew as he might, he could find no
opening: some of his blows were wasted on the air, and others parried
with a force that made his arm tingle to the shoulder.
Thrice did he dash at his foe, and thrice was he driven back, foiled
and panting; and at every repulse the cheers of the lookers-on grew
louder and more joyous, till the hot-headed challenger lost his temper
outright.
All at once Alured attacked in turn, enveloping the bewildered bully in
a whirlwind of blows against which no guard could avail. Two crushing
strokes beat down his buckler, and a wrench that seemed almost to twist
his sword-arm out of joint sent his blade flying half across the ring,
and he stood defenceless, while a roar of delight hailed his
discomfiture.
“Holy father,” said Alured, handing the gold he had won to a good
priest in the crowd, “take this for thy poor; for, if gotten from an
ill source, the more cause is there to apply it to good.”
Just then Sir Hugo said quietly, “Enough, brother; it is now my turn.
If this other gallant, who is so keen to instruct us poor ignorant
country-folk, will graciously teach me to wrestle a fall, I am ready.”
The general laugh that greeted this well-merited sarcasm swept away
what little patience Gilbert had. His comrade’s defeat had somewhat
startled him; but, at sight of the challenger’s slender frame, his
native insolence revived.
“Loth were I,” he sneered, “to soil your worship’s gay clothes with
dust.”
“If thou canst so soil them, I give thee full leave,” retorted Hugo,
with a cutting emphasis that drew a fresh laugh from the admiring crowd.
Without a word more on either side the two men grappled.
Gilbert was a strong and skilful wrestler; but he was no match for one
who had overthrown the best wrestler in Morocco. Slight as he seemed
beside the bulky esquire, Hugo’s sinews had been toughened by a
thousand struggles and hardships, and his skill had never met its match.
In vain did Gilbert try every trip and fall he knew; in vain did he
compress the light form in his strong arms, as if to crush it by main
force; in vain did he swing Hugo off his feet again and again, and put
forth his full strength to dash him to the earth. Do what he would, the
knight stood firm as ever; and at last Gilbert paused, fairly spent
with his own exertions.
Then the scores of watching eyes saw Hugo’s arms tighten suddenly, and
his foe’s huge broad back bend slowly in. So quietly was it done, that
few guessed what strength was put forth to do it; but all at once (no
one could see how) the big man’s feet flew from under him, and down he
went on his back with stunning force.
Then broke forth a cheer that shook the air; for, apart from John
Bull’s natural pleasure at seeing a bully “taken down,” the chivalrous
frankness with which the twin nobles had waived the privileges of their
rank to meet such formidable foes was what the roughest peasant could
appreciate.
The crestfallen boasters were glad to slink away, not without fears of
further rough handling; and, in fact, had either of the Claremont
brothers but held up his finger, the crowd would have broken the heads
of both swaggerers on the spot, or even (for men did not stick at
trifles in those days) pitched them neck-and-crop into the river. But
sorrow and suffering had taught the two brave men a lesson of mercy,
and the bullies were allowed to sneak off unharmed.
Hardly were they gone, when a trumpet-blast awoke all the echoes of the
hills, and a single rider, in the rich livery of the king’s household,
came dashing up to the spot, and, putting into Alured’s hand a big,
important-looking letter, encircled with a silk thread and sealed with
the royal seal, clattered away as quickly as he had come.
“Brother,” said Alured, “my mind misgives me that this means war, of
which we have had enow already. God’s will be done!”
He guessed but too truly. It was a summons from “Edward, by the grace
of God Prince of Wales and Aquitaine, to his trusty and well-beloved
liegemen, Sir Alured and Sir Hugo de Claremont,” to meet him at
Bordeaux before Christmas with as many men as they could muster, to
join the army he was leading into Spain, to restore to the dethroned
king, Pedro of Castile, the crown wrested from him by his half-brother,
Henry of Transtamare.
To such a summons there could be but one answer; and, in as few days as
sufficed to muster and equip their followers, the twin nobles, with
heavy hearts at the thought of how few of the brave fellows around them
would ever see their homes again, were on their way to the most
shameful and disastrous victory won by England during the whole of the
Hundred Years’ War.