[Illustration: THE WINNING OF THE
GOLDEN SPURS]
[Illustration: RAYMOND SAVES THE BLACK PRINCE]
THE WINNING OF
THE GOLDEN SPURS
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF "A LAD OF GRIT," "THE SEA MONARCH,"
"THE TREASURE OF THE SAN PHILIPO," ETC.
LONDON
JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
22 BERNERS STREET, W.
1911
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
CONTENTS
CHAP.
PROLOGUE
I. THE ARCHER, REDWARD BUCKLAND
II. THE SHADOW OF WAR
III. OF THE MIDNIGHT DESCENT OF THE FRENCH INVADERS
IV. OF THE GALLANT STAND OF THE NINE ARCHERS
V. THE MEN OF HAMPSHIRE AND THE GENOESE GALLEY
VI. AT THE ABBEY
VII. THE SACK OF SOUTHAMPTON
VIII. OF THE ASSAULT ON ST. BARBARA'S TOWER
IX. ON THE HEELS OF THE ENEMY
X. FATHER AND SON SET OUT FOR HENNEBON
XI. THE CHIRURGEON OF LÉGUÉ
XII. THE JOURNEY PERILOUS
XIII. THE RELIEF OF HENNEBON
XIV. RAYMOND'S ERRAND
XV. TRAPPED!
XVI. THE TABLES TURNED
XVII. THE FALL OF THE COUNT'S STRONGHOLD
XVIII. REDWARD'S CONFESSION
XIX. CRÉCY
XX. HIS LIFE FOR HIS FOE
XXI. THE REJECTED GUERDON
XXII. SIR RAYMOND
XXIII. THE ADVENTURE AT THE RUINED MILL
XXIV. THE HOMECOMING
THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN SPURS
PROLOGUE
IT was early morning on the 5th day of August, 1303, the Royal City
of Winchester. The sun had not yet risen, but a cold grey light
filtered in through a narrow window and dimly illumined a small,
scantily-furnished room overlooking the city walls.
Seated on a rough wooden stool, his face buried in his hands, was a
young fellow of about twenty years of age. His body swayed with
uncontrollable grief, and, though dry-eyed, deep sobs of mingled
remorse and despair showed the anguish that rent his body and
distracted his mind.
In a corner of the room a torch, burnt low in its iron socket, threw
a yellow light that was fast being overmastered by the growing dawn,
yet the glimmer was sufficient to play upon the naked blade of a
sword, the steel of which was discoloured towards its point by a
dull, rust-coloured stain.
Suddenly the sound of a heavy footstep was heard on the stairs. The
youth started to his feet and gazed wildly around, as if seeking a
place of concealment or some means of escape. He was tall, well
formed, and, in spite of his haggard looks, comely of face, and his
clothes, though rent and covered with chalk and dust, showed that he
was of no mean position.
Realising the impossibility of hiding himself, he stood erect and
alert, awaiting the arrival of what he took to be his fate; but,
instead of a thundering summons of the officers of the law, there
came a gentle rap, and the door was slowly pushed ajar.
"Hist! Art there, Master Revyngton? 'Tis I, Nicholas Hobbes!"
"Enter, Nicholas! Certes I thought 'twas the watch."
The new arrival was a man some few years older than the fugitive. He
was clad in a rough leather suit, frayed at elbows and knees, and to
which shavings and feathers still clung--a silent witness to his
trade of fletcher.
"'Tis a sorry pass, Master Revyngton. How came it about?"
"Ay, that I will say right willingly; but first tell me--how
knowest
thou that I am here?"
"Easily said! Dick Ford told me that thou wert a fugitive in his
house, and asked me to use my scatterbrain wits to find a way to
smuggle thee out of the city. That being so, 'twere best I saw thee,
and to that purpose I am here. But, again, how came it to pass?"
"Faith! I can scarce say. 'Twas in the meads, yestereven. Young
Stephen Scarsdale and Reginald, his brother, were on this side of the
stream, I on the nether bank, with Wulf, my favourite hound. 'Ho
there!' cried Stephen. 'What meanst thou by trespassing on the ground
of my Lord Bishop?' 'I do not trespass,' I replied. 'The Mead hath
ever been free to the men of this city, and no one hath yet said me
nay.' 'I'll warrant thou art after my Lord Bishop's trout. By the
rood, I'll send a bolt through the head of thy lurcher.' 'Thy aim
must be more sure than when I beat thee at the butts,' I replied,
little thinking but that he spoke in jest, but in answer he levelled
his crossbow, and ere I was aware of it poor Wulf was lying
transfixed on the ground."
"Then I was seized by a thousand devils, and sprang across the narrow
plank bridge to hurl the slayer of my hound into the river, but
Stephen, whipping out his blade, bade me do likewise. In less time
than it takes to tell our swords crossed, though, mark ye, I meant
not to harm him; yet, like a fool, he ran in upon my blade, and 'twas
all over in an instant."
"And then?"
"The younger Scarsdale, who is a worthy gentleman compared with his
witless brother, tried to stop me as I fled. There was no help for
it, so he, too, went down, though I trow he is not much hurt. Hast
heard aught of Stephen?"
"Naught save that he is as dead as a door-nail. But, Master
Revyngton, 'tis, as I said, a sorry pass. What wilt thou do?"
"Do? Give myself into the hands of the law. What else wouldst thou
have me do?"
"Anything but that. Consider! Thou art young and full of life. Why
shouldst thou grace a halter if it can be avoided, for, mark well,
the Scarsdales are a powerful family, and moreover Stephen was of the
Bishop's household. How thinkst thou to make good thy case before thy
peers when the weight of title and position is set against thee? Be
sober, young master, and think on't."
"Ay, 'tis hard to die thus."
"No need to die at all--at any rate, just yet. Flee the country.
France or the States of the Rhine ever offer an attraction for a
roving blade, and peradventure in a few years the affair will have
blown over."
"But how can I escape?"
"There thou hast me. Where is Dick Ford?"
"Gone to gather tidings. He will be here anon."
Both men relapsed into silence, staring moodily at the narrow window,
through which could be seen the battlements of the city gilded by the
rising sun, while ever and again came the sweet strains of a lark as
it soared heavenwards from the dew-sodden meadows without the walls.
Again came the sound of footsteps, and Dick Ford, the bowyer,
entered. He was a short, red-complexioned man, with a cheerful
countenance, as if nothing could upset his good nature, though at
times his looks belied him, and the worthy citizens of Winchester oft
had cause to remember his tongue when it ran riot. Like the fletcher,
his appearance betrayed him, for the sharp wittle that hung from his
girdle, the daubs of beeswax, and the faint reek of varnish marked
his calling as a maker of the famous English longbows.
"A pretty hornet's nest thou hast raised, Master Revyngton," he
exclaimed, shaking his head. "Yesternight the city crier called thee
at the market-cross, and on the Soke Bridge. The Bishop's Court hath
claimed thee, and in default of thy appearance thou wilt be declared
outlaw. Furthermore, the gates are doubly guarded, and men are even
now in ambush on the road to the sanctuary at St. Cross if so be thou
seekest refuge therein. By the saintly Swithun, I trow thou art the
most sought-for man in Winton."
"He hath made up his mind, Dick," exclaimed Hobbes. "Better an outlaw
with a heavy conscience than a corpse with none at all."
"Ay, let me but get once clear of the city and I'll reck not what I
become."
"Bravely spoken, Master Revyngton! And now, how canst thou make good
thine escape? Thou canst count on us to a surety, for 'twould ill
requite thy father's kindness to us in times past if we let thee fall
into the hands of the Bishop's men. Where is thine arrow-wain, Dick?"
"Below, in the barn."
"And laden?"
"Nay, but it soon could be. Wherefore?"
"Place Master Revyngton in the cart and cover him with arrows. 'Tis
the day thou journeyest to Bishopstoke and Botley. He would then be
well on his way to the abbey at Netley."
"Steady, Dick, steady! Should the guard at Kingsgate search the wain
my neck is as good as if fitted with a halter. Yet I'll take the
risk; but see to it, young master, if the plan goeth amiss, thou'lt
bear me witness that I wot not of thy presence?"
"Ay, good Nicholas. But if they question thee and search the cart I
must make a bid for freedom, so stand in the way, and I'll warrant
I'll knock thee down just to give colour to the deceit."
"But strike not too hard, Master Revyngton, neither on the face, for
I am in no mind to go home to my good wife with my nose awry or mine
eyes closed up. A gentle tap, I pray thee--like this--and I'll
warrant I'll fall as surely as if I were smitten with the club of the
Southampton giant Ascupart."
"After all's said and done," remarked the fletcher, "there may be no
need to smite thee, Nick, for 'tis unlikely that they will search thy
cart. But the day groweth apace. If it is to be done, the sooner the
better, say I."
"Then make a good meal, Master Revyngton," said Hobbes, setting a
loaf of brown bread, some cheese, and a jack of ale, "for if not
thou'lt feel the want of it ere long. Now set to like a good
trencherman, though, being but plain men, our fare is likewise plain.
Thou knowest the road?"
"Passably well, save the latter part."
"Then keep close, but not on it if perchance thou art pursued, for it
is to Southampton that they'll think thou art bound. Take the by-road
to Botley, whence the abbey lies but a league or so away."
While the fletcher and the bowyer were giving advice the younger man
did justice to the food; then, at a sign from Ford, his companion
stole softly down the rough ladder that did duty as a staircase, and
peered cautiously up and down the street. Another moment, and the
three men had darted across the narrow road to a small barn, the
mutual property of several of the inhabitants of that quarter, and
shortly afterwards a rough cart, laden with bundles of
newly-feathered arrows, was jolting over the rough stones towards
Kingsgate, Nicholas Hobbes leading the sorry nag and whistling a
lively air as well as the anticipation of being floored would permit.
"Thou art early abroad, Nick," quoth one of the guards, as he made
ready to throw open the heavy door. "There's naught but arrows in thy
wain, I take it?"
"What meanest thou?"
"Why, hast heard naught of the slaying of Master Scarsdale, that tall
youth belonging to the Bishop's household? Surely thou hast him in
mind?"
"Ay, I knew him; is he dead?"
"Where hath been thine eyes and thine ears since yesternoon?"
"I have but small time for gossip, Tom, above all towards the end of
the week, when my stock hath to be renewed. But I'll hear the story
anon, for time is precious."
The heavy gate swung slowly open, the fletcher called to his horse,
and the cart with its living burden moved towards the open country
and safety.
"Hold!" cried a hoarse voice. "Tom, thou arrant rascal, wouldst let
the cart through unsearched What were thine orders from the captain
of the gate?"
And, to the fletcher's terror, a burly man-at-arms came down a flight
of steps at the side of the gate, and advanced towards him.
The first soldier sullenly strolled over to the back of the cart,
but, suddenly recovering himself, Nicholas Hobbes backed his horse,
causing the man to be pinned between the wheel and the stonework of
the arch. There was a sudden scattering of the arrows, an indistinct
mass hurtling through the air, and the fletcher found himself, as he
had foretold, lying prone in the dust. When he sat up the soldiers
were calling wildly to the rest of the guard, while a fleeing figure,
already growing small in the distance, showed that the fugitive
Revyngton was well on his way to freedom.
With the din of the soldiers' shouts still ringing in his ears,
Revyngton ran steadily onwards with a long, steady swing, his elbows
pressed against his sides, and breathing easily, for he was no mean
runner.
Away in front rose the gaunt outline of St. Catherine's Hill, with
the square tower of the Hospital of St. Cross, which sanctuary he
knew was denied him, slightly to the right. Between ran the
swift-flowing river Itchen, and the fugitive realised that he would
have to run the gauntlet of the watchers before the sanctuary ere he
could reach the ford where the river swept the base of the hill. His
way lay through the meadows where, but a few hours ago, he had
wandered in blissful, though then unappreciated, freedom, and
shudderingly, and with averted face, he raced past the scene of the
fatal encounter. Fortunately his local knowledge prevented him from
crossing the narrow plank bridge that led solely to a marshy meadow
enclosed by two arms of the river, so, keeping close to the shadow of
the pollard willows, he held steadily on his way, the babbling of the
river as it flowed with sparkling eddies in the bright sunshine
sounding like soothing music to the hunted man.
Just as he reached the ford his movements were observed by a party of
the officers of the law who had been keeping a toilsome vigil around
the outer wall of St. Cross, and a crossbow bolt, shot at a high
angle, boomed through the air and buried itself less than twenty
yards from him.
There was a general scene of confusion, some of the men running after
him afoot, others rushing off to where their horses stood tethered in
a clump of trees.
It being the hot season, the river was but ankle-deep at the ford,
and, refreshed by the coldness of the water, Revyngton hastened his
pace up the long, dusty road towards the hamlet of Twyford. As he ran
he could not resist the inclination to look back, and from the
elevated position of the highway he could see the whole of the
distance betwixt him and the cathedral city.
To his satisfaction he saw that he was more than holding his own with
those who pursued afoot, and even now they were giving up the pursuit
and the horsemen of the party had not yet started, but away along the
city road a number of dark, swiftly-moving objects showed that a
troop of mounted soldiers and retainers of the episcopal authorities
were rapidly covering the distance between them and their quarry.
The sun, though the morning was yet young, smote down upon him with
relentless strength, and there was not the faintest zephyr to cool
his heated frame, yet onwards he sped, though the strain of the
pursuit was gradually yet surely telling upon him.
Through the almost deserted village of Twyford he ran, one or two of
the earlier risers looking with open-mouthed astonishment at the
fugitive, while a little way further a black-robed monk gazed
amazedly at the approaching man, till, fearing violence, he gathered
up his ragged gown and fled across a field at the roadside, his
sandals clattering as he ran.
At length, worn out by his exertions, Revyngton reached a spot where
a road branched off to his left, while between it and the highway he
was following lay a large pond, surrounded by trees and fringed with
clusters of reeds. Here he threw himself down on the spongy turf,
thrust his head and arms in the limpid water, and lay panting on the
grass, oblivious of his danger, till the regular thud of horses'
hoofs roused his jaded energies.
Quickly he looked around, and to his joy he perceived the gnarled
trunk of a tree that had fallen into a horizontal position over the
pond, its branches forming a dark, shady shelter. Silently and
swiftly as an eel he plunged into the water, and a few powerful
strokes brought him to the friendly refuge. Secure from observation,
he drew himself upon a branch and waited the arrival of the horsemen.
In a cloud of dust they appeared--five bronzed men-at-arms, with
long, straight swords strapped against their thighs; four lay
servants of the Bishop, with hard-set mouths and scowling faces that
ill-matched their calling as members of an ecclesiastical house; and
three of the city watch, more lightly armed than their companions,
carrying crossbows across their backs. Revyngton realised that scant
mercy could be expected at their hands.
At a word from their leader the party halted, there was a hurried
consultation, and two of the men trotted their horses to the edge of
the pond, while the rest resumed their headlong pursuit.
Then Revyngton felt that he stared death in the face, for less than
five paces from him were the two soldiers, sitting motionless on
their steeds and staring fixedly at the spot where he lay concealed,
their reflections being clearly mirrored in the still water. To the
fugitive it seemed as if his leafy bower were rent asunder, and that
he lay exposed to his pursuers in utter helplessness; but at length,
to his great relief, one of the men spoke.
"Why this fool's errand for the sake of a hot-blooded youth? Faith, I
am not averse to earning the five marks reward, yet 'tis a useless
quest. Far rather would I be in a snug inn, for my throat is as dry
as a friar's sermon."
"There's drink for thee," replied the other, indicating the pond with
a nod of his steel-capped head.
"Water!" exclaimed the first with an oath; "I like it not, neither
inside nor out, to be plain-spoken. Art game to return to Twyford,
where the ale is of the best?"
"Give them time to get out of hearing, thou dolt. Why doth the
sheriff keep bloodhounds and use them not, eh, Giles?"
"'Twould have been the better way. But now, comrade, let's away!"
Revyngton waited till the sound of their horses' hoofs had died away,
then, swimming softly back to the bank, he emerged and resumed his
way.
Now the dangers were doubled, for not only had his pursuers placed
themselves between him and his refuge, but he knew not but that every
bush or hedge concealed a foe. Thus he was compelled to forsake the
high road and follow it at some distance away, keeping as close as
possible to the shelter of the coppices and dells that formed the
chief features of the district.
As he neared the village of Fair Oak he struck the highway between
Bishopstoke and the Bishop's hunting lodge at Waltham, and for a long
time he lay hidden in the bracken ere the road was free from the
seemingly endless cavalcade of huntsmen that journeyed towards the
famous Waltham Chase, while hucksters from Southampton and Romsey,
intent on doing a good business, were hurrying in the same direction.
At length the opportunity came, and the fugitive darted across the
road and gained the fields beyond. Here the nature of the country
changed, the ground offering less shelter, but away to the south rose
the dark, fir-clad hills that lay close to his goal.
He had now left the Botley road well on his left, and he could
perceive the haze of smoke that marked the hollow where the village
lay. His clothes were long dried, and the heat was well-nigh
unbearable, so, overcoming his fears, he turned aside to a cottage,
the thatched roof of which rose amid a thicket. Here he found that
another by-road or lane crossed his path, but there was no sign of
any one passing; the cottage itself looked deserted.
As the fugitive approached a dog barked, and there was a sound of
some one moving about in an outhouse, and to the tortured man the
sight of several pails of milk was irresistible. The yelping of the
cur brought a woman to the door of the shed, a strong-limbed,
coarse-featured creature, with a face lined with innumerable wrinkles
and a back bent with years of toil in the fields.
"What lack ye?" she demanded sourly.
"Am I on the right road for the abbey at Netley?"
"Yea. Turn to thy left hand at the cross-roads."
"Also, I prithee, give me a draught of milk."
"Begone, for a worthless clown! Begone, I say, or the dog shall fly
at thee," she shrieked, wild with fury; but Revyngton heeded her not,
and seizing a small earthenware pitcher, drained its contents, then
turning on his heel, he resumed his fearsome journey.
"Haste, Tom, run up to the village and get help!" shouted the woman.
"'Tis a gadabout churl, or a riever, or worse," and as the fugitive
ran he heard the farm-servant making off towards Botley, while the
woman unloosed the dog.
Ere Revyngton had gone a bowshot from the cottage the cur was barking
and yelping at his heels, showing its teeth, but fearing to close,
till at length it drew off, leaving the man to wonder at the
churlishness of the hard-faced woman compared with the reception of
wayfarers on his father's manor in Devon, where meat and drink were
ever at the disposal of even the most humble stranger.
At the brow of the hill he saw the tower of the abbey amid the trees
a mile or more away, with the beautiful expanse of Southampton Water
as a fitting background to the peaceful scene. Yet the fugitive had
neither time nor inclination to appreciate the natural surroundings;
to him the abbey meant rest and safety, and with renewed hope he sped
towards the monastic buildings.
Weary and footsore he reached the outer door, his senses reeling with
the effects of his exertions. Seeing his plight the porter gave him
wine, and sent a lay brother to summon the abbot.
As the venerable head of the establishment appeared, Revyngton raised
himself with an effort and knelt before him.
"Thy blessing, father."
"_Benedicite_, my son; what wouldst thou?"
"Sanctuary, father."
The abbot shook his head sorrowfully.
"'Tis not permitted, my son; such blessed privileges belong only to
our parent abbey at Beaulieu and to the Hospital of St. Cross. I
trow there is no other within the jurisdiction of the Lord Bishop of
Winchester. What crime bast thou committed?"
"I slew a man in anger, and even now my pursuers are hard at my
heels."
The abbot turned to a lay brother.
"Tell Brother Balthazar to repair to the tower and to quickly bring
me word if any soldiers appear." Then to the fugitive he added,
"Confess thy sin and seek God's pardon; then perchance the means of
thy earthly salvation may be vouchsafed to thee. Follow me, my son."
To the venerable abbot Revyngton told the whole of the circumstances
of the case; then, having eased his soul, the abbot took care to
relieve his body, causing food and drink to be set before him, while
a brother washed his cut and travel-worn feet.
"Thou must make for the Abbey of the Blessed Mary at Beaulieu, where
thou shalt find sanctuary. Knowest thou the way?"
"Nay, father," replied the man, sad at heart at the prospect of
another journey at the peril of his life.
"Then listen, my son. Two of the brethren will take thee across the
arm of the sea that thou canst see yonder. Thence it is but an hour's
sharp travel across the heath to the abbey, the path being well worn
by reason of many of the brethren who travel thereby. There are three
ways from the spot where thou wilt land the one on the left hand
goeth towards Fawley and the town of Lepe, the one on the right to
the village of Hythe, but the way thou must take goeth neither right
nor left, but leads towards the sun just before the hour of
vespers----Ah! What is thy message, my son?"
The last question was addressed to a novice, who, panting
breathlessly, was standing in the doorway with folded arms and bent
head, awaiting the abbot's pleasure.
"Horsemen, father; a score or more have appeared on the hill and are
making towards the abbey."
"Then summon Brother Angelique and Brother Petrox. Hasten, for 'tis
no season for leisure."
Quickly the two brethren--tall, gaunt, yet sinewy men, with faces and
arms tanned a deep red by reason of their calling as boatmen of the
abbey--answered the behest, and with the reverence due to their
superior awaited his commands.
"Take this man across and put him fairly on his way to our parent
abbey. Tarry not on thy journey, for the matter is urgent."
"Is it thy wish, father, to land him at Ashlett or Cadland?" asked
one of the monks.
"At Cadland, should the tide prove aright. Now, my son," he added to
the refugee, "take mine earnest blessing and go, and may the blessed
Saints Mary and Edward, the patrons of our abbey, be with thee."
There was little time to lose, for already the horsemen were within
two bow-shots of the abbey, and with a loud clatter of sandals the
two monks led the way, Revyngton following closely at their heels,
the brethren of the abbey speeding him on his way with prayers and
cries of encouragement.
At the end of a little causeway a boat, broadbeamed and lofty of head
and stem, rode on the little wavelets. With a sign Brother Petrox
motioned the fugitive to step aboard, then unfastening the rope that
held the craft to the quay, he followed Brother Angelique and pushed
off.
Both monks rolled the sleeves of their gowns above their elbows,
seized the two heavy ash oars, and rowed with a will, Revyngton
sitting on a rough fishing-tray at the stern of the boat and drinking
in the cool sea breezes. The rush of events had well-nigh bewildered
him, and listlessly he watched the rhythmical motion of the sinewy
arms as the rowers urged the boat towards the opposite shore.
Suddenly his reveries were broken by an exclamation from one of the
monks. "They follow us; pull thy hardest!"
Revyngton turned and looked astern. From the place they had left but
a quarter of an hour before half a score of men were dragging a heavy
boat down the steep beach.
"By the blessed Peter, my holy namesake," groaned one of the monks,
"I had overlooked that, and the oars are in the boat. See, already
they have launched it."
"'Tis after all but a crare."
"With a crew of lusty fellows to make amends for its weight. The
saints forfend them!"
"Let us trust that they cannot handle the sails, for, mark well, the
wind bloweth fair."
The rowers relapsed into silence, and with long, heavy strokes, that
seemed far too slow to the hunted fugitive, they resolutely and
unfalteringly lessened the distance betwixt them and the nether
shore. The hour of noon had already passed, and the sun's rays
attained a greater strength than they had previously in the day, yet,
though streaming with moisture, the monks laboured in their efforts
to shake off their pursuers.
"We hold our own," muttered one over his shoulder.
"Nay, I doubt it; but we must needs make for Ashlett Creek, for the
other channel is yet uncovered."
Accordingly the boat's head was turned towards a distant opening in
the mud-fringed shore, and the pursuing craft followed suit, thereby
gaining considerably on the fugitive, who could now distinguish the
dress of the men.
"They overtake us," quoth he, speaking for the first time since the
abbey gates had closed behind him. "See, a bowman makes ready!"
Gradually the distance between the boats lessened, but the monks'
craft was now close to the creek, and Revyngton saw in front an
apparently closed-in basin surrounded by a high bank of slimy mud. A
few more strokes and the boat was within the creek, which wound its
sinuous way up to the shore, while the little waves caused by their
rapid motion through the water lapped the sides of the narrow
channel.
Just as they were about to round the first bend the bowman let loose,
and an arrow sung over their heads and struck the mud with a dull
swish. Revyngton instinctively bent his head, but his companions,
though men of peace, barely took notice of the deadly shaft.
"Safe for the time," commented Brother Angelique, as the boat shot
behind a sheltering bank.
"But how about thy safety?" asked the fugitive.
"By St. Edward, 'tis not to be thought of," replied the monk,
thrusting back his sleeve, which in his exertions had slipped down.
"They seek not us."
"But thou hast aided a fugitive from justice."
"Nay, that I wot not of. Besides, how am I to know that these men are
the officers of justice They might well be but water-pikers for aught
I know.... Oh!"
An exclamation of pain interrupted his words, for an arrow, shot
haphazard from the bend of the creek over the intervening bank, had
pierced his forearm betwixt elbow and wrist, while another shaft
trembled with its head buried in the thwart.
"On, Brother Petrox! On! 'Tis but a small matter," he gasped, and as
the other monk seized his companion's oar, the wounded man, shutting
his eyes tightly, snapped off the head of the arrow with his free
hand and drew the broken shaft from the wound.
A gush of blood followed, but the brave monk, gripping the wounded
member to stop the crimson flow, never ceased to urge the rower to
greater effort, while ever and again a shaft shot by their still
invisible pursuers flew perilously close to their heads.
At length the boat grounded on the hard bed of the channel, and
Brother Petrox called to Revyngton to jump out. Wading through the
shallow water the two started for the shore, leaving the wounded monk
calmly seated in the deserted craft.
From the mud hovels of the village of Ashlett wimpled women and
rough-haired children looked interestedly at the two runners, the
layman in his travel-stained apparel and the monk in his sombre garb.
Men there were none, for the hours of toil had called them to the
fields or out on the waters, where they sought a livelihood by
fishing; but had there been, the sight of the two speeding along
would hardly have excited anything but curiosity in the minds of
these dull-witted sons of the soil.
"I can go with thee no farther," panted the monk, as they reached the
cross-roads. "Follow yonder path, and God be with thee." And as
Revyngton sped onwards towards the rolling expanse of purple heather,
he saw the solitary figure of his benefactor waving encouragingly
towards the distant and invisible goal.
Settling down to a steady pace, the fugitive kept doggedly on his
way, his eyes fixed on a distant clump of trees that marked the brow
of the hill overlooking the valley of the Exe where lay the abbey.
Narrower and narrower became the road, till it deteriorated into a
mere footpath, the prickly gorse encroaching on either side and
hurting his feet as he ran. Yet, spurred onward by renewed hope, his
strength seemed well-nigh inexhaustible.
Suddenly, from behind a low heather-clad hillock at the side of the
road, four wild-looking men sprang up and barred his progress.
"Hold, stranger!" shouted one, brandishing a club. "Whither goest
thou? Hast aught in thy scrip that we would relieve thee of, for the
lighter thou art the easier thou'lt run."
"I have nothing in the world. Let me pass, I pray; 'tis a matter that
brooks no delay."
"Nay, not so fast, young master. What is thine errand?"
"My errand?" replied Revyngton, with a mirthless laugh. "I seek
sanctuary."
"Art without the pale of the law?"
"Of that there is little doubt."
"Then throw in thy lot with us. A free life in the forest glades,
with many a weighty scrip to balance the lightness of our minds, is
better than being cooped up in yonder monastery."
The fugitive shook his head.
"Nay, 'tis not to my liking."
"Neither is the other, I trow, but look!"
Following the direction of his hand, Revyngton saw coming over the
brow of a distant hill which he had crossed but a short while ago a
number of his pursuers. Three had procured horses, while the rest,
some five in number, ran by their side, holding on to the stirrups to
aid their speed.
Instantly the robbers vanished into the tangle of bracken, leaving
the fugitive alone on the narrow path, and once again he broke into a
headlong pace, his pursuers thundering along but three arrow-flights
behind him.
Fortunately the unevenness of the path prevented the horsemen from
riding their hardest, and when at length Revyngton, exhausted and
faint, reached the brow of the hill, he saw that the situation was
still in his favour. Blindly plunging onwards, with laboured
breathing and aching sides, he ran down the hill, at the foot of
which clustered the extensive buildings of the abbey.
Through a gap in the trees on his left he caught a glimpse of the
silvery river as it wound in majestic splendour towards the sea, but
to the hunted man the beauty of the scene was lost; all that
concerned him was the thought of the possibility of being overtaken
ere he could cover the last stretch of dusty road.
He was dimly conscious of hearing a crash behind him, and of looking
round for one brief moment, thereby catching a glimpse of two of the
horsemen mingled in utter confusion on the rough path. And still the
sound of the rapidly approaching hoofs of the remaining horse thudded
in his ears.
Now he had gained the angle of the abbey wall. The gate, with its
massive iron knocker, was within his grasp. The noise of the
footfalls of the pursuer's steed ceased; there was a sharp hiss, and
an arrow pierced the fugitive's leg just above the knee. Then, with a
final effort, he thundered at the portal, and, as his head swam and
his limbs gave way under him, he was dimly aware that he was
surrounded by a group of grey-robed figures. He had found sanctuary.
CHAPTER I
THE ARCHER, REDWARD BUCKLAND
IT was early morning in the month of August, 1338, so early that the
slanting rays of the sun still lit up the north side of the Norman
church of St. Andrew, and cast a shadow seven times its height across
the dew-soaked meadows.
Betwixt the high ground where stood the church and the narrow creek,
known as the Hamble River, clustered the mud-walled and thatched-roof
houses of the village of Hamble-le-Rice. Away to the north could be
traced the course of the tree-fringed creek till it lost itself
behind a range of low hills, while in the other direction lay the
estuary of the river, where it mingled itself with the salt waves of
Southampton Water, which, in its turn, was backed by the dark, dense
masses of trees that formed that tract of country so well known in
history and romance--the New Forest.
Peaceful, indeed, was the situation of this quiet little Hampshire
village, and peaceful also was the general existence of its
inhabitants. Situated on an out-of-the-way angle, far from the old
Roman highway that led from Clausentum to Portchester, and at that
period, as now, formed the highway between Southampton and
Portsmouth, Hamble village was all but cut off from the rest of the
world. Save for an occasional visit by the grey-robed monks from the
Priory of St. Mary and St. Edward at Netley, a chance journey of a
huckster or Chapman from Southampton or Winchester fairs, or the
unpreventable arrival of some vessel driven by stress of weather to
shelter in the estuary, strangers in the village were few and far
between.
Slow in thought, slower in speech, and backward in giving or taking
offence, yet terrible when roused to anger, the Hamble folk were
typical examples of the mediaeval English peasant whose descendants
have made history in all parts of the globe.
For years past the social condition of England had been in a
deplorable state. The strife between King Edward II. and De Spenser
on the one hand, and Queen Isabella and Mortimer on the other, had
encouraged lawlessness in all grades of society. Robbers, thieves,
murderers, and criminals of all kinds had multiplied to an enormous
degree, and were openly protected by the great barons, as being
useful tools in their hands. Guilds, founded for self-protective
measures, became instruments of oppression, and, generally speaking,
every man looked solely to his own interest.
But in the village of Hamble there was little to ruffle the even
tenor of its existence. Little did it matter whether the seamen of
Southampton had a feud with the men of the Cinque Ports, or whether
the monks of Beaulieu or Netley had a difference with the Bishop of
Winchester; but should a strange craft appear in the river, or a band
of marauders attempt to swoop down from the leafy fastnesses of
Waltham Chase, 'twas only necessary to ring the great bell of St.
Andrew's, and instantly the peaceful villagers would be turned into
an angry array of armed men, ready to sell their lives dearly in
defence of their hearths and homes.
But the time was at hand when Englishmen would have to sink their
differences and unite against a common foe. Edward III. had laid
claim to the throne of France, and, though the stake was a great one,
the enterprise was popular, inasmuch as the possibilities of
individual gain in the shape of plunder held out great inducements to
all classes of these island warriors.
On this particular morning early a man emerged from one of the houses
on the outskirts of the village, which, by reason of being built of
stone and being fair-sized, betokened that its owner was a man of
position--as far as the place was concerned. The house lay some two
hundred yards away from the rest, occupying the summit of an
even-crested ridge, and was surrounded by a palisade of stout pointed
stakes, that afforded complete protection against the attacks of any
ordinary band of adventurers.
The man was a tall, well-made individual, with a bronzed face
surmounted by a thick crop of reddish hair, and partially concealed
by a heavy beard, that grew high upon his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows
helped to further conceal his face, but any one could see from the
grey glint of his blue eyes that the profusion of hair covered a
comely countenance.
A well-worn leather jerkin, that had once been of a vivid red colour,
but was now nearly black with hard usage, failed to conceal the
mighty expanse of his chest, while the short sleeves of the garment
fitted tightly over the gnarled muscles of his arms. His lower limbs
were also covered by leathern hose, which, by reason of exposure to
salt water and the rough wear and tear of daily toil, were now
colourless and frayed till all semblance of dressed leather was
lacking. His legs, however, though of great size, did not betoken an
equality with the strength of his arms, and, moreover, he walked with
a slight limp.
A crimson scarf, bound tightly round his head, did duty for a
head-dress, while from a narrow black belt hung a short dagger on his
right side, counterbalanced by a leather purse or pouch on his left.
Over his shoulder he bore a pair of long ash oars, their blades still
covered with a deposit of dry mud, while in his left hand he carried
a six-foot yew-bow, which, unstrung, was as straight as a lance.
Redward Buckland, for such was his name, was not a Hamble man in the
strict sense of the word, yet so good-natured and easy-going was he,
so upright in his dealings, and withal a man of such great bodily
strength, that he was a popular member of the little community.
Of his past he said little, and was asked but little. He had been
master bowman in a company, had served against the Scots at
Bannockburn, with the Gascons in their feudal bickerings, and there
was hardly a castle in Normandy, Maine, Touraine, Anjou, Poitou, or
Limousin that he did not know.
Eleven years prior to the time of this story he suddenly appeared at
Hamble, bringing with him his son Raymond, then a child five years of
age. Men often talked of their coming; the bowman, in rusty
brigandine and dented headpiece, the boy, a lusty, laughing
youngster, perched on his shoulder, a wain jogging behind with a
heavy load of rich stuff--booty from many a foreign part--the like of
which had never before been seen in Hamble.
Thereupon he purchased a farmhouse, and settled down with the
intention of passing the rest of his days in comfort. Being a highly
religious man--though, like most of his companions in arms, he could
swear roundly at times--Redward Buckland acted in accordance with the
custom of the times. Four marks and a seven-pound candle of pure wax
he gave to the priory at Netley, and a gold-embroidered cloth to the
church of St. Andrew at Hamble.
These presents he accounted sufficient atonement and thank-offering
alike for delinquencies and deliverances from peril during his
sojourn abroad, and thence-forth he meant to live a quiet,
well-ordered life, though, unable to resist the call to arms, he had
served in short campaigns against the Scots, and had but a year
previously crossed the Channel to take part in the Battle of Cadsand.
Yet Hamble was his home, and to Hamble he returned as soon as each
particular expedition had ended.
Raymond Buckland, now a lad of sixteen, had little in common with his
father as far as appearance went. He was tall, slim, yet well-knit,
with curly flaxen hair, though the colour had a redeeming tinge of
reddish-gold that is necessary to impart a warmth to what would
otherwise be a lustreless head of hair. He moved with a grace and
ease that contrasted vividly with his father's comparatively awkward
gait, but his limbs were not wanting in strength.
A vigorous outdoor life had done much to develop his frame. Mentally
Raymond was well educated, according to the standard of the age,
having but recently returned from the Cistercian priory at Netley,
where for the last seven years he had been a novice. His long
intercourse with a monastic life had somewhat deadened his natural
inclinations, but since his return to the outside world the active
delights of youth seemed sweeter still.
"Hasten, Raymond," said his father, pausing to look back towards the
house, where the youth still lingered. "The young flood hath just
begun, and tide tarries for no man! And," he added, "fail not to
bring my quiver with the black-feathered arrows."
"And can I bring my crossbow?" inquired Raymond.
His father gave a gruff yet good-natured assent, and, resuming his
walk, sauntered gently towards the river.
Before he had passed the church Raymond had overtaken him, carrying
the quiver in his left hand, while across his back was slung a short
yet powerful crossbow, his own quiver with its stock of heavy
quarrels hanging from his belt.
"Ha! That crossbow again!" exclaimed Redward, in good-natured
contempt. "'Tis strange that an English boy should lean towards a
windlac-drawn weapon rather than a sturdy yew-bow. An thou wert a
Provençal or Genoese I could have understood it."
"Why, father?"
"Why, forsooth! Thou wert made a sturdy Englishman, with sinews and
muscles wherewith to bend an honest longbow--not to have to turn a
handle, like a butter-making wench, ere the bolt can be shot. And,
moreover, suppose thou wert matched against an archer; before thy
weapon were levelled I'll warrant there would be a dozen cloth-yard
shafts bristling in thine hide--though one would be enough, I trow!"
"But the Genoese?"
"The Genoese, my son, were ever underhanded fighters, preferring to
cause a gaping wound with a quarrel rather than a wholesome hole with
an arrow. 'Tis said that on more than one occasion the Pope hath
forbidden the use of the crossbow, and that the Second Lateran
Council, a hundred years ago, did likewise."
"How, then, do we find the crossbow still in use?"
"I cannot tell, Raymond, save it be the natural perversity of men.
But here we are at the shore."
They had passed through the village, between rows of thatched
cottages. Smoke was already beginning to issue from the hole in the
roof that did duty for a chimney, showing that the inhabitants were
early astir. The narrow road plunged sharply down to the mud-fringed
shores of the river, for the tide was low, and long flats of
treacherous slime extended almost from bank to bank, save for a
channel of deep water midway between.
With the air of a man who is thoroughly acquainted with the place,
Redward Buckland followed an almost invisible path--termed throughout
uncountable ages a Hard--that led across the mud flats to the edge of
the water, Raymond treading carefully at his heels. At the end of the
Hard lay a large, bluff-bowed boat, and, pulling the craft ashore by
a length of rope, the archer tossed the oars into it and beckoned to
his son to jump on board.
"Whither are we going, father?" asked Raymond, as his sire pushed
off, stepped awkwardly into the boat, and began to haul on board the
heavy stone that served as an anchor.
"Up the river to Botley, my son there to see Master Nicholas Hobbes."
"And who is he?" rejoined Raymond with the inquisitiveness of youth.
"Master Hobbes, of the city of Winton, is a fletcher, and his arrows
are well known as the very best in the country. Also he brings with
him a stock of bows made by Master Ford, whose fame as a bowyer
extends well beyond the borders of Hamptonshire."
"But why buy arrows, father; surely thou canst make thine own?"
"Ah, Raymond! Raymond!" replied his father, shaking his head
doubtfully, "thou hast yet to learn that though I could fashion mine
own weapons, yet custom demands that I get them from a member of the
honourable guild of bowyers and fletchers. Didst ever hear of a
belted knight welding his own coat of mail?"
The boy, in truth, had yet to learn of the existence of the powerful
guilds, or combinations of trades, which, founded for the purpose of
self-protection against the rapacity of the barons and the
lawlessness of their retainers, became strong enough to be regarded
with respect by these turbulent personages. As the guilds grew they
obtained charters from their sovereign, till they reached a state
that enabled them to deal harshly with those without the pale. Thus,
for instance, any man following the occupation of a tanner "not being
free"--_i.e._ made a member of a guild--was amerced, or fined, or
even subjected to corporal punishment.
Urged by the archer's long, powerful strokes the boat shot up-stream
with the tide, passing between steeply rising banks, where the
freshly leafed trees cast dark shadows across the verdant fields.
Raymond sat on the stern-thwart, looking with silent admiration on
the scene, for, as far as he could remember, it was his first
experience of a journey by water.
At length they came to a place where on the western side a smaller
creek joined the river. Redward rested on his oars and looked towards
the mud banks, which were even now nearly covered by the rising
water.
"We have hurried apace," he remarked, "and 'tis even too soon to go
right up to the town. This is called Badnam Creek, and, by St.
George, I'll wager we'll find some waterfowl amongst the reeds. Take
thy crossbow, Raymond, and I'll pit my six-foot bow against it."
Eagerly the boy took his weapon and wound the windlac till the
highly-drawn string clicked against the catch. Then he fitted a bolt,
and, having done so, turned to watch his sire's movements. The archer
had already notched the cord, and the bow, with a couple of arrows,
lay on the thwart by his side.
"Steady, my son!" exclaimed the archer in alarm. "Be careful where
thou pointest that hell-designed toy. 'Tis bad enough to have a
foeman's shaft through one leg without having mine own son's bolt
through the other. Hold it over the side, I pray thee!"
The boat was run amid a cluster of reeds, and the twain waited
silently and eagerly for some sign of feathered life. They were not
kept long in suspense, for from a marsh hard by came two wild geese,
their necks extended and their wings flapping noisily as they flew.
"Quick, Raymond!" whispered his father, "loose directly they are
overhead!"
In his excitement the youth sprang to his feet, and poised his
crossbow.
But alas for his inexperience! Unaccustomed to the swaying of the
boat he lost his balance and fell backwards across the thwart; his
crossbow twanged, and with a deep humming sound the quarrel flew
aimlessly into space.
In a moment Raymond raised himself into a sitting position, only to
see his father loose his second arrow.
"And thou hast missed also!" he exclaimed in a tone of reproach.
"Peace, lad; wait and see!"
The birds still continued their passage, one gliding with wings
outstretched, the other still beating the air with redoubled haste;
then, even as they looked, both birds swayed in their flight, and
fell into the water within two score paces of each other.
Without further remark Redward pushed the boat clear of the reeds,
and rowed towards his spoil. One of the geese was still transfixed by
an arrow, the other's neck had a small wound, showing that the shaft
had passed completely through it.
"Another groat gone!" exclaimed the archer, ruefully contemplating
the bird that had failed to stop the arrow. "But that was a grand
shot of thine, Raymond, I trow," he added in a bantering tone;
"'twas not learned of the monks of Netley?"
Then, observing a flush of mortification overspread the boy's
features, he continued, "Never mind, my son, even the best archer in
the kingdom would be at a loss in a small boat at first."
Presently they rounded an abrupt spur of land on their left, and came
to a spot where the creek narrowed considerably, being enclosed by
lofty hills on either side. A broad white road descended these hills
to the water's edge, where it was broken by the flowing tide. A rough
wooden hut, with a large open boat close at hand, marked the spot
where wayfarers were ferried across to the opposite side, where a
horn, chained to a post, was blown as a signal to attract the
ferryman.
"This is the road 'twixt Southampton and Portsmouth," said the
archer, indicating the dusty streak by a nod of his head. "At
Bursledon, on this side, is the fortalice of the Hewitts, though from
here 'tis hidden by the trees. On the other side is Swanwick Shore,
whence come some of the best mariners who man the cogs of
Southampton. But, mark ye! Here comes a great company of armed men;
by St. Etienne of Tours, it makes my heart glad to hear the clatter
of harness once more! I wonder under whose banners they march?"
And resting on his oars, Redward Buckland shaded his eyes from the
glare of the sun, and peered steadfastly up the hill where the white
road was now alive with men, a grey cloud of dust hanging over them
like a marsh mist in autumn, through which the Cross of St. George
blazoned on the white surcoats of the archers stood out bravely
against the dark foliage.
When the vanguard reached the foot of the hill, a bowshot from where
the watchers sat in their little craft, a tucket sounded and the
company halted.
Then Redward's accustomed eyes lighted upon their banner, which bore
a golden half-moon on an azure field, and unable to contain himself,
he stood upright, waving his cap in boisterous delight.
"By Our Lady, 'tis as I thought--the company of the Governor of
Portchester! Haste we to the shore, Raymond, that I may welcome mine
old comrades!"