ON THE HEELS OF THE ENEMY
ALTHOUGH the two bailiffs, Walter de Brakkeleye and Robert de la
Barre, had remained disgracefully inactive within their defences, the
men of Winchester, Romsey, and other neighbouring towns and villages
were massing to aid the men of Southampton, and a large and
well-appointed army had gathered at Bassett, ready to wrest the
pillaged town from the invaders and drive them back to their ships.
Throughout the night the defenders of St. Barbara's Tower kept
anxious vigil. Of the preparations for their relief they knew
nothing. But hardly had the pale dawn begun to gather in the east
than the foreigners were astir, taking steps to keep the galleys
afloat on the now falling tide, as if they purposed embarking once
more.
Then, with a crash and a roar, the sound of fighting was heard
towards the centre of the town, and from their elevated position the
sorry remnant of the defenders saw the lances of the English charge
down the High Street, bearing all before them. In other quarters the
invaders, entangled in the narrow streets, were cut off by swarms of
the infuriated inhabitants, who, knowing the peculiarities of their
town, moved with consummate ease, hurling down stones and shooting
arrows from the houses upon their entrapped enemy.
And now, from the Castle and the West Gate and Catchcold Towers
poured the liberated garrison, eager to avenge their disgrace. Many
were the encounters between the Southampton men and their foes in
this quarter of the town, till, driven back by weight of numbers, the
enemy, who were mostly Genoese, returned slowly past St. Barbara's
Tower, contesting every inch of ground.
The little band of defenders now occupied themselves by annoying the
retreating Italians with well-directed arrows, while, all danger of
an assault being at an end, the barricades behind the door were
removed so that the garrison could sally out and join their friends.
Nearer and nearer came the sound of conflict, till Raymond and his
comrades perceived the red-crossed surcoats of the Englishmen
pressing back the discomfited Genoese. At length, unable to withstand
the flanking fire of arrows, the enemy fled past out of bowshot of
the Tower--all save one, whom Raymond recognised as the son of the
King of Sicily. Burning to achieve a further deed of honour, Raymond
threw open the door and rushed out to intercept the mailclad knight,
who, with sweeping strokes of his sword, kept the men-at-arms at a
respectful distance. But the lad was forestalled. A huge countryman,
who had lost his all in the sack of the town, had crept behind the
Prince, and, with a swinging blow of a massive club, smote the
Italian behind the knees.
With a snarl of rage and pain the Prince fell to the ground, and,
with a shout of triumph, his assailant stood over him with his club
upraised to give the fatal blow. Finding further resistance
impossible, the knight dropped his sword.
"_Je me rends!_" he exclaimed. "_Je vous donnerai rançon!_"
"Yea, I know thou art a Françon," thundered the Englishman,
misunderstanding the Prince's appeal for mercy, "and therefore thou
shalt die!" And, notwithstanding a warning shout from Raymond and
several of the Englishmen, the club descended with tremendous force,
and the Italian lay dead upon the ground.
"I'll trouble thee to mind thy own business, my master!" hissed the
countryman, turning fiercely on Raymond.
"But he was a gentleman of quality. He surrendered to thee, and he
was worth a heavy ransom!"
"Ransom, forsooth!" rejoined the man, in a frenzy. "What ransom can
atone for a wife and five children slain? Speak not to me of ransom!"
And, shouldering his club, the man rushed off in pursuit of the
fugitives as they hastened towards the Water Gate.
Beaten back at every point, the invaders crowded on board their
galleys, and during the embarkation the slaughter was greater; for,
from the walls, as well as from the shore, a heavy fire of arrows was
hailed upon them by the infuriated townsmen.
At length, with the exception of a few galleys that, caught by the
falling tide, were burned and their crews slaughtered, the hostile
ships withdrew, and, with a steady north-west breeze, bore away down
Southampton Water, leaving behind them a half-burned and pillaged
town--the terrible penalty of unpreparedness!
After the _mêlée_ Raymond returned with the remnant of the
Constable's detachment to the Tower they had held so well, and, to
his surprise and delight, found his father awaiting him, though
Redward hardly recognised his son. Stained with his own blood and the
blood of the Genoese, covered with dust and grime from head to foot,
Raymond looked a very different person from the gentle youth of three
months back.
"By St. Edward of Netley!" exclaimed Redward, "wherever I go, whether
Francewards or otherwise, thou shalt go too; for methinks there is as
much danger in Merrie England as in the land of the Fleur-de-Lys!"
"But how camest thou here, father?" asked Raymond. "I thought thou
wert at Lepe."
"Ah, lad! it was there I saw the foemen sail towards Southampton; so I
rode hot-foot to Hythe.[1] There I took a boat--stole it, I fear--and
tried to cross; but in the fog I nearly ran into the thick of the
galleys. Then I knew I was too late; so back to the shore I rowed,
and came round the head of the Water by land. 'Twas a long journey by
Totton, and by the time I reached Millbrook it was daylight, and the
men of Romsey were marching in upon the town."
By this time Raymond had washed his face and hands, and had brushed
most of the grime from his clothes, having removed his white surcoat
and breastplate.
"We have had a hot time, father. They pressed us hard. Fourteen men
lie stretched upon the straw, and nine are dead. Poor old Dick Wyatt
is no more."
"Heaven rest his soul!" exclaimed Redward, piously crossing himself.
"He was a good and true comrade to me through thick and thin, and I
trow 'tis hard to be stricken down almost within sight of home."
Together father and son ascended the winding stair that led to the
upper rooms. There lay the wounded defenders, carefully tended by the
Lady Audrey. As Raymond entered the room, she looked at him in a
puzzled manner. Then, holding out her hand, she exclaimed:
"Why, 'tis my gallant preserver! And what a difference a clean face
doth make ye are but a boy, and a handsome one at that!"
A deep flush overspread the youth's face. Redward, knowing nothing of
the circumstances of her rescue, could but express his astonishment,
and, leaving the pair engaged in eager talk, he ascended to the roof,
where lay the bodies of Richard Wyatt and the other soldiers, each
grim and stern in death.
From Will Lightfoot he learned most of the particulars of the
defence, including his son's intrepid act of rescue.
"Ay! Buckland," said Will, "'tis not every archer who hath the good
fortune to rescue a noble lady such as the Lady Audrey Scarsdale!"
"Scarsdale?" repeated Redward.
"Ay Scarsdale--daughter of Sir Reginald Scarsdale."
The master-bowman staggered as if struck by an invisible blow; then,
recovering himself by an effort, asked Lightfoot if there were any
tidings of Sir John Hacket.
Even Will Lightfoot could not fail to notice the change in Redward's
appearance; but, putting it down to the fearful strain of the fight,
suggested adjourning to partake of refreshment.
The task of laying to rest the bodies of their comrades was next
proceeded with. Then Raymond, with two of his fellow-archers, entered
the ill-fated house of the Lady Scarsdale, and removed the bodies of
the three Genoese.
Placing the corpse of the Lady Hilda reverently on a bed, they locked
up the house and gave the keys into the custody of the Sheriff, who,
knowing the Scarsdale family, took the necessary steps to ensure a
fitting burial of the knight's wife, while Lady Audrey was taken care
of by some relatives who resided in another part of Hampshire.
Early the following morning Sir John Hacket, having assured himself
that the enemy had made for the Channel and were not likely to return
to raid some other coast town, rode into Southampton from Portsmouth,
attended by his squires and a troop of lances and mounted archers.
Proudly, yet sadly, the stern old knight gazed upon the sorry remnant
of the detachment he had left at Southampton but a week before.
"By St. George!" he exclaimed, "ye are a credit to me, and the one
bright jewel in the sable field of incompetence and neglect! The King
shall hear of your deeds! Ye see," he added aside to his squires,
"what that ranter, Walter de Brakkeleye, and his co-bailiff, de la
Barre, have done. Had they given more thought to the safe keeping of
the town, instead of bickering, as Brakkeleye did with me respecting
the jurisdiction of his bailiwick, not a house in Southampton would
have been touched by foreign foemen, not one of the townsfolk harmed.
Should the King think fit to hang them on the battlements 'twould be
but their deserts!"
"And now," he continued, addressing the archers, "I will take care
that bravery hath its reward. Another penny a day shall be added to
your pay, and, as for Raymond Buckland, who, I am told, undertook the
defence after my trusted Wyatt's death, from this time forth he shall
be one of my squires! Let him but acquit himself as he hath done
since he hath been in my company, and he will be on the road to win a
pair of gilded spurs!"
[1] Not, of course, the well-known coast town in Kent, but the
ancient village of that name on the New Forest side of Southampton
Water.