Very early in the morning, Gilbert Warde was riding along the straight
road between Sheering Abbey and Stortford Castle. He rode in his tunic
and hose and russet boots, with his father's sword by his side; for he
meant not to do murder, but to fight his enemy to death, in all the
honour of even chance. He judged that Sir Arnold must have returned
from Faringdon; and if Gilbert met him now, riding over his own lands
in the May morning, he would be unmailed and unsuspecting of attack.
And should they not meet, Gilbert meant to ride up to the castle gate,
and ask for the baron, and courteously propose to him that they should
ride together into the wood. And, indeed, Gilbert hoped that it might
turn out so; for, once under the gateway, he might hope to see Beatrix
for a moment; and two weeks had passed, and terrible things had
happened, since he had last set eyes upon her face.
He met no one in the road; but in the meadow before the castle half a
dozen Saxon grooms, in loose hose and short homespun tunics, were
exercising some of Curboil's great Normandy horses. The baron himself
was not in sight, and the grooms told Gilbert that he was within. The
drawbridge was down, and Gilbert halted just before entering the gate,
calling loudly for the porter. But instead of the latter, Sir Arnold
himself appeared at that moment within the courtyard, feeding a brace
of huge mastiffs with gobbets of red raw meat from a wooden bowl,
carried by a bare-legged stable-boy with a shock of almost colourless
flaxen hair, and a round, red face, pierced by two little round blue
eyes. Gilbert called again, and the knight instantly turned and came
towards him, beating down with his hands the huge dogs that sprang up
at him in play and seemed trying to drive him back. Sir Arnold was
smooth, spotless and carefully dressed as ever, and came forward with a
well-composed smile in which hospitality was skilfully blended with
sympathy and concern. Gilbert, who was as thorough a Norman in every
instinct and thought as any whose fathers had held lands from the
Conqueror, did his best to be suave and courteous on his side.
Dismounting, he said quietly that he desired to speak with Sir Arnold
alone upon a matter of weight, and as the day was fair, he proposed
that they should ride together for a little way into the greenwood. Sir
Arnold barely showed a slight surprise, and readily assented. Gilbert,
intent upon his purpose, noticed that the knight had no weapon.
"It were as well that you took your sword with you, Sir Arnold," he
said, somewhat emphatically. "No one is safe from highwaymen in these
times."
The knight met Gilbert's eyes, and the two looked at each other
steadily for a moment; then Curboil sent the stable-boy to fetch his
sword from the hall, and himself went out upon the drawbridge and
called to one of the grooms to bring in a horse. In less than half an
hour from the time when Gilbert had reached the castle, he and his
enemy were riding quietly side by side in a little glade in Stortford
wood. Gilbert drew rein and walked his horse, and Sir Arnold instantly
did the same. Then Gilbert spoke.
"Sir Arnold de Curboil, it is now full three days since I saw you
treacherously kill my father."
Sir Arnold started and turned half round in the saddle, his olive skin
suddenly white with anger; but the soft fresh colour in Gilbert's cheek
never changed.
"Treacherously!" cried the knight, with indignation and with a
questioning tone.
"Foully," answered Gilbert, with perfect calm. "I was not twenty paces
from you when you met, and had I not been hampered by a Frenchman of
your side, who was unreasonably slow in dying, I should have either
saved my father's life or ended yours, as I mean to now."
Thereupon Gilbert brought his horse to a stand and prepared to
dismount, for the sward was smooth and hard and there was room enough
to fight. Sir Arnold laughed aloud as he sat still in the saddle,
watching the younger man.
"So you have brought me here to kill me!" he said as his mirth subsided.
Gilbert's foot was already on the ground, but he paused in the act of
dismounting.
"If you do not like the spot," he answered coolly, "we can ride
farther."
"No, I am satisfied," answered the knight; but before he had spoken the
last word he broke into a laugh again.
They tied up their horses to trees at a little distance, out of reach
of one another, and Gilbert was the first to return to the ring of open
ground. As he walked, he drew his father's sword from its sheath,
slipped the scabbard from the belt, and threw it to the edge of the
grass. Sir Arnold was before him a moment later; but his left hand only
rested on the pommel of his sheathed weapon, and he was still smiling
as he stopped before his young adversary.
"I should by no means object to fighting you," he said, "if I had
killed your father in treachery. But I did not. I saw you as well as
you saw me. Your Frenchman, as you call him, hindered your sight. Your
father was either beside himself with rage, or did not know me in my
mail. He dropped his point one instant, and then flew at me like a
bloodhound, so that I barely saved myself by slaying him against my
will. I will not fight you unless you force me to it; and you had
better not, for if you do, I shall lay you by the heels in two passes."
"Bragging and lying are well coupled," answered Gilbert, falling into
guard. "Draw before I shall have counted three, or I will skewer you
like a trussed fowl. One--two--"
Before the next word could pass his lips, Sir Arnold's sword was out,
keen and bright as if it had just left the armourer's hands, clashing
upon Gilbert's hacked and blood-rusted blade.
Sir Arnold was a brave man, but he was also cautious. He expected to
find in Gilbert a beginner of small skill and reckless bravery, who
would expose himself for the sake of bringing in a sweeping blow in
carte, or attempting a desperate thrust. Consequently he did not
attempt to put his bragging threat into practice, for Gilbert was
taller than he, stronger, and more than twenty years younger. Unmailed,
as he stood in his tunic and hose, one vigorous sword-stroke of the
furious boy might break down his guard and cut him half in two. But in
one respect Curboil was mistaken. Gilbert, though young, was one of
those naturally gifted fencers in whom the movements of wrist and arm
are absolutely simultaneous with the perception of the eye, and not
divided by any act of reasoning or thought. In less than half a minute
Sir Arnold knew that he was fighting for his life; the full minute had
not passed before he felt Gilbert's jagged blade deep in the big
muscles of his sword arm, and his own weapon, running past his
adversary, fell from his powerless hand.
In those days it was no shame to strike a disarmed foe, in a duel to
the death. As Sir Arnold felt the rough steel wrenched from the
flesh-wound, he knew that the next stroke would kill him. Quick as
light, his left hand snatched the long dagger from its sheath at his
left side, and Gilbert, raising his blade to strike, felt as if an
icicle had pierced his breast; his arm trembled in the air, and lost
its hold upon the hilt; a scarlet veil descended before his eyes, and
the bright blood gushed from his mouth as he fell straight backward
upon the green turf.
Sir Arnold stepped back and stood looking at the fallen figure
curiously, drawing his lids down, as some short-sighted men do. Then,
as the sobbing breast ceased to heave and the white hands lay quite
still upon the sward, he shrugged his shoulders, and began to take care
of his own wound by twisting a leathern thong from Gilbert's saddle
very tight upon his upper arm, using a stout oak twig for a lever. Then
he plucked a handful of grass with his left hand and tried to hold his
dagger in his right in order to clean the reddened steel. But his right
hand was useless; so he knelt on one knee beside the body, and ran the
poniard two or three times through the skirt of Gilbert's dark tunic,
and returned it to its sheath. He picked up his sword, too, and
succeeded in sheathing it. He mounted his horse, leaving Gilbert's
tethered to the tree, cast one more glance at the motionless figure on
the grass, and rode away towards Stortford Castle.