They were fishing, a few days later, in the bed of the brook that for
centuries had cut deep into the soft valley soil. The trees closing
overhead made long tunnels through which the sunshine worked in blobs and
patches. Down in the tunnels were bars of sand and gravel, old roots and
trunks covered with moss or painted red by the irony water; foxgloves
growing lean and pale towards the light; clumps of fern and thirsty shy
flowers who could not live away from moisture and shade. In the pools you
could see the wave thrown up by the trouts as they charged hither and yon,
and the pools were joined to each other—except in flood time, when all was
one brown rush—by sheets of thin broken water that poured themselves
chuckling round the darkness of the next bend.
This was one of the children’s most secret hunting-grounds, and their
particular friend, old Hobden the hedger, had shown them how to use it.
Except for the click of a rod hitting a low willow, or a switch and tussle
among the young ash-leaves as a line hung up for the minute, nobody in the
hot pasture could have guessed what game was going on among the trouts
below the banks.
‘We’s got half-a-dozen,’ said Dan, after a warm, wet hour. ‘I vote we go
up to Stone Bay and try Long Pool.’
Una nodded—most of her talk was by nods—and they crept from the gloom of
the tunnels towards the tiny weir that turns the brook into the
mill-stream. Here the banks are low and bare, and the glare of the
afternoon sun on the Long Pool below the weir makes your eyes ache.
When they were in the open they nearly fell down with astonishment. A huge
grey horse, whose tail-hairs crinkled the glassy water, was drinking in
the pool, and the ripples about his muzzle flashed like melted gold. On
his back sat an old, white-haired man dressed in a loose glimmery gown of
chain-mail. He was bareheaded, and a nut-shaped iron helmet hung at his
saddle-bow. His reins were of red leather five or six inches deep,
scalloped at the edges, and his high padded saddle with its red girths was
held fore and aft by a red leather breastband and crupper.
‘Look!’ said Una, as though Dan were not staring his very eyes out. ‘It’s
like the picture in your room—“Sir Isumbras at the Ford.”’
The rider turned towards them, and his thin, long face was just as sweet
and gentle as that of the knight who carries the children in that picture.
‘They should be here now, Sir Richard,’ said Puck’s deep voice among the
willow-herb.
‘They are here,’ the knight said, and he smiled at Dan with the string of
trouts in his hand. ‘There seems no great change in boys since mine fished
this water.’
‘If your horse has drunk, we shall be more at ease in the Ring,’ said
Puck; and he nodded to the children as though he had never magicked away
their memories the week before.
The great horse turned and hoisted himself into the pasture with a kick
and a scramble that tore the clods down rattling.
‘Your pardon!’ said Sir Richard to Dan. ‘When these lands were mine, I
never loved that mounted men should cross the brook except by the paved
ford. But my Swallow here was thirsty, and I wished to meet you.’
‘We’re very glad you’ve come, sir,’ said Dan. ‘It doesn’t matter in the
least about the banks.’
He trotted across the pasture on the sword-side of the mighty horse, and
it was a mighty iron-handled sword that swung from Sir Richard’s belt. Una
walked behind with Puck. She remembered everything now.
‘I’m sorry about the Leaves,’ he said, ‘but it would never have done if
you had gone home and told, would it?’
‘I s’pose not,’ Una answered. ‘But you said that all the fair—People of
the Hills had left England.’
‘So they have; but I told you that you should come and go and look and
know, didn’t I? The knight isn’t a fairy. He’s Sir Richard Dalyngridge, a
very old friend of mine. He came over with William the Conqueror, and he
wants to see you particularly.’
‘What for?’ said Una.
‘On account of your great wisdom and learning,’ Puck replied, without a
twinkle.
‘Us?’ said Una. ‘Why, I don’t know my Nine Times—not to say it dodging;
and Dan makes the most _awful_ mess of fractions. He can’t mean _us_!’
‘Una!’ Dan called back. ‘Sir Richard says he is going to tell what
happened to Weland’s sword. He’s got it. Isn’t it splendid?’
‘Nay—nay,’ said Sir Richard, dismounting as they reached the Ring, in the
bend of the mill-stream bank. ‘It is you that must tell me, for I hear the
youngest child in our England to-day is as wise as our wisest clerk.’ He
slipped the bit out of Swallow’s mouth, dropped the ruby-red reins over
his head, and the wise horse moved off to graze.
Sir Richard (they noticed he limped a little) unslung his great sword.
‘That’s it,’ Dan whispered to Una.
‘This is the sword that Brother Hugh had from Wayland-Smith,’ Sir Richard
said. ‘Once he gave it to me, but I would not take it; but at the last it
became mine after such a fight as never christened man fought. See!’ He
half drew it from its sheath and turned it before them. On either side
just below the handle, where the Runic letters shivered as though they
were alive, were two deep gouges in the dull, deadly steel. ‘Now, what
Thing made those?’ said he. ‘I know not, but you, perhaps, can say.’
‘Tell them all the tale, Sir Richard,’ said Puck. ‘It concerns their land
somewhat.’
‘Yes, from the very beginning,’ Una pleaded, for the knight’s good face
and the smile on it more than ever reminded her of ‘Sir Isumbras at the
Ford.’
They settled down to listen, Sir Richard bare-headed to the sunshine,
dandling the sword in both hands, while the grey horse cropped outside the
Ring, and the helmet on the saddle-bow clinged softly each time he jerked
his head.
‘From the beginning, then,’ Sir Richard said, ‘since it concerns your
land, I will tell the tale. When our Duke came out of Normandy to take his
England, great knights (have ye heard?) came and strove hard to serve the
Duke, because he promised them lands here, and small knights followed the
great ones. My folk in Normandy were poor; but a great knight, Engerrard
of the Eagle—Engenulf De Aquila—who was kin to my father, followed the
Earl of Mortain, who followed William the Duke, and I followed De Aquila.
Yes, with thirty men-at-arms out of my father’s house and a new sword, I
set out to conquer England three days after I was made knight. I did not
then know that England would conquer me. We went up to Santlache with the
rest—a very great host of us.’
‘Does that mean the Battle of Hastings—Ten Sixty-Six?’ Una whispered, and
Puck nodded, so as not to interrupt.
‘At Santlache, over the hill yonder’—he pointed south-eastward towards
Fairlight—‘we found Harold’s men. We fought. At the day’s end they ran. My
men went with De Aquila’s to chase and plunder, and in that chase
Engerrard of the Eagle was slain, and his son Gilbert took his banner and
his men forward. This I did not know till after, for Swallow here was cut
in the flank, so I stayed to wash the wound at a brook by a thorn. There a
single Saxon cried out to me in French, and we fought together. I should
have known his voice, but we fought together. For a long time neither had
any advantage, till by pure ill-fortune his foot slipped and his sword
flew from his hand. Now I had but newly been made knight, and wished,
above all, to be courteous and fameworthy, so I forebore to strike and
bade him get his sword again. “A plague on my sword,” said he. “It has
lost me my first fight. You have spared my life. Take my sword.” He held
it out to me, but as I stretched my hand the sword groaned like a stricken
man, and I leaped back crying, “Sorcery!”
[The children looked at the sword as though it might speak again.]
‘Suddenly a clump of Saxons ran out upon me and, seeing a Norman alone,
would have killed me, but my Saxon cried out that I was his prisoner, and
beat them off. Thus, see you, he saved my life. He put me on my horse and
led me through the woods ten long miles to this valley.’
‘To here, d’you mean?’ said Una.
‘To this very valley. We came in by the Lower Ford under the King’s Hill
yonder’—he pointed eastward where the valley widens.
‘And was that Saxon Hugh the novice?’ Dan asked.
‘Yes, and more than that. He had been for three years at the monastery at
Bec by Rouen, where’—Sir Richard chuckled—‘the Abbot Herluin would not
suffer me to remain.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ said Dan.
‘Because I rode my horse into the refectory, when the scholars were at
meat, to show the Saxon boys we Normans were not afraid of an abbot. It
was that very Saxon Hugh tempted me to do it, and we had not met since
that day. I thought I knew his voice even inside my helmet, and, for all
that our Lords fought, we each rejoiced we had not slain the other. He
walked by my side, and he told me how a Heathen God, as he believed, had
given him his sword, but he said he had never heard it sing before. I
remember I warned him to beware of sorcery and quick enchantments.’ Sir
Richard smiled to himself. ‘I was very young—very young!
‘When we came to his house here we had almost forgotten that we had been
at blows. It was near midnight, and the Great Hall was full of men and
women waiting news. There I first saw his sister, the Lady Ælueva, of whom
he had spoken to us in France. She cried out fiercely at me, and would
have had me hanged in that hour, but her brother said that I had spared
his life—he said not how he saved mine from his Saxons—and that our Duke
had won the day; and even while they wrangled over my poor body, of a
sudden he fell down in a swoon from his wounds.
‘“This is _thy fault_,” said the Lady Ælueva to me, and she kneeled above
him and called for wine and cloths.
‘“If I had known,” I answered, “he should have ridden and I walked. But he
set me on my horse; he made no complaint; he walked beside me and spoke
merrily throughout. I pray I have done him no harm.”
‘“Thou hast need to pray,” she said, catching up her underlip. “If he
dies, thou shalt hang!”
‘They bore off Hugh to his chamber; but three tall men of the house bound
me and set me under the beam of the Great Hall with a rope round my neck.
The end of the rope they flung over the beam, and they sat them down by
the fire to wait word whether Hugh lived or died. They cracked nuts with
their knife-hilts the while.’
‘And how did you feel?’ said Dan.
‘Very weary; but I did heartily pray for my schoolmate Hugh his health.
About noon I heard horses in the valley, and the three men loosed my ropes
and fled out, and De Aquila’s men rode up. Gilbert de Aquila came with
them, for it was his boast that, like his father, he forgot no man that
served him. He was little, like his father, but terrible, with a nose like
an eagle’s nose and yellow eyes like an eagle. He rode tall
war-horses—roans, which he bred himself—and he could never abide to be
helped into the saddle. He saw the rope hanging from the beam and laughed,
and his men laughed, for I was too stiff to rise.
‘“This is poor entertainment for a Norman knight,” he said, “but, such as
it is, let us be grateful. Show me, boy, to whom thou owest most, and we
will pay them out of hand.”’
‘What did he mean? To kill ’em?’ said Dan.
‘Assuredly. But I looked at the Lady Ælueva where she stood among her
maids, and her brother beside her. De Aquila’s men had driven them all
into the Great Hall.’
‘Was she pretty?’ said Una.
‘In all my life I had never seen woman fit to strew rushes before my Lady
Ælueva,’ the knight replied, quite simply and quietly. ‘As I looked at her
I thought I might save her and her house by a jest.
‘“Seeing that I came somewhat hastily and without warning,” said I to De
Aquila, “I have no fault to find with the courtesy that these Saxons have
shown me.” But my voice shook. It is—it was not good to jest with that
little man.
‘All were silent awhile, till De Aquila laughed. “Look, men—a miracle!”
said he. “The fight is scarce sped, my father is not yet buried, and here
we find our youngest knight already set down in his Manor, while his
Saxons—ye can see it in their fat faces—have paid him homage and service!
By the Saints,” he said, rubbing his nose, “I never thought England would
be so easy won! Surely I can do no less than give the lad what he has
taken. This Manor shall be thine, boy,” he said, “till I come again, or
till thou art slain. Now, mount, men, and ride. We follow our Duke into
Kent to make him King of England.”
‘He drew me with him to the door while they brought his horse—a lean roan,
taller than my Swallow here, but not so well girthed.
‘“Hark to me,” he said, fretting with his great war-gloves. “I have given
thee this Manor, which is a Saxon hornets’ nest, and I think thou wilt be
slain in a month—as my father was slain. Yet if thou canst keep the roof
on the hall, the thatch on the barn, and the plough in the furrow till I
come back, thou shalt hold the Manor from me; for the Duke has promised
our Earl Mortain all the lands by Pevensey, and Mortain will give me of
them what he would have given my father. God knows if thou or I shall live
till England is won; but remember, boy, that here and now fighting is
foolishness and”—he reached for the reins—“craft and cunning is all.”
‘“Alas, I have no cunning,” said I.
‘“Not yet,” said he, hopping abroad, foot in stirrup, and poking his horse
in the belly with his toe. “Not yet, but I think thou hast a good teacher.
Farewell! Hold the Manor and live. Lose the Manor and hang,” he said, and
spurred out, his shield-straps squeaking behind him.
‘So, children, here was I, little more than a boy, and Santlache fight not
two days old, left alone with my thirty men-at-arms, in a land I knew not,
among a people whose tongue I could not speak, to hold down the land which
I had taken from them.’
‘And that was here at home?’ said Una.
‘Yes, here. See! From the Upper Ford, Weland’s Ford, to the Lower Ford, by
the Belle Allée, west and east it ran half a league. From the Beacon of
Brunanburgh behind us here, south and north it ran a full league—and all
the woods were full of broken men from Santlache, Saxon thieves, Norman
plunderers, robbers, and deerstealers. A hornets’ nest indeed!
‘When De Aquila had gone, Hugh would have thanked me for saving their
lives; but Lady Ælueva said that I had done it only for the sake of
receiving the Manor.
‘“How could I know that De Aquila would give it me?” I said. “If I had
told him I had spent my night in your halter he would have burned the
place twice over by now.”
‘“If any man had put _my_ neck in a rope,” she said, “I would have seen
his house burned thrice over before _I_ would have made terms.”
‘“But it was a woman,” I said; and I laughed and she wept and said that I
mocked her in her captivity.
‘“Lady,” said I, “there is no captive in this valley except one, and he is
not a Saxon.”
‘At this she cried that I was a Norman thief, who came with false, sweet
words, having intended from the first to turn her out in the fields to beg
her bread. Into the fields! She had never seen the face of war!
‘I was angry, and answered, “This much at least I can disprove, for I
swear”—and on my sword-hilt I swore it in that place—“I swear I will never
set foot in the Great Hall till the Lady Ælueva herself shall summon me
there.”
‘She went away, saying nothing, and I walked out, and Hugh limped after
me, whistling dolorously (that is a custom of the English), and we came
upon the three Saxons that had bound me. They were now bound by my
men-at-arms, and behind them stood some fifty stark and sullen churls of
the House and the Manor, waiting to see what should fall. We heard De
Aquila’s trumpets blow thin through the woods Kentward.
‘“Shall we hang these?” said my men.
‘“Then my churls will fight,” said Hugh, beneath his breath; but I bade
him ask the three what mercy they hoped for.
‘“None,” said they all. “She bade us hang thee if our master died. And we
would have hanged thee. There is no more to it.”
‘As I stood doubting a woman ran down from the oak wood above the King’s
Hill yonder, and cried out that some Normans were driving off the swine
there.
‘“Norman or Saxon,” said I, “we must beat them back, or they will rob us
every day. Out at them with any arms ye have!” So I loosed those three
carles and we ran together, my men-at-arms and the Saxons with bills and
bows which they had hidden in the thatch of their huts, and Hugh led them.
Half-way up the King’s Hill we found a false fellow from Picardy—a sutler
that sold wine in the Duke’s camp—with a dead knight’s shield on his arm,
a stolen horse under him, and some ten or twelve wastrels at his tail, all
cutting and slashing at the pigs. We beat them off, and saved our pork.
One hundred and seventy pigs we saved in that great battle.’ Sir Richard
laughed.
‘That, then, was our first work together, and I bade Hugh tell his folk
that so would I deal with any man, knight or churl, Norman or Saxon, who
stole as much as one egg from our valley. Said he to me, riding home:
“Thou hast gone far to conquer England this evening.” I answered: “England
must be thine and mine, then. Help me, Hugh, to deal aright with this
people. Make them to know that if they slay me De Aquila will surely send
to slay them, and he will put a worse man in my place.” “That may well be
true,” said he, and gave me his hand. “Better the devil we know than the
devil we know not, till we can pack you Normans home.” And so, too, said
his Saxons; and they laughed as we drove the pigs downhill. But I think
some of them, even then, began not to hate me.’
‘I like Brother Hugh,’ said Una, softly.
‘Beyond question he was the most perfect, courteous, valiant, tender, and
wise knight that ever drew breath,’ said Richard, caressing the sword. ‘He
hung up his sword—this sword—on the wall of the Great Hall, because he
said it was fairly mine, and never he took it down till De Aquila
returned, as I shall presently show. For three months his men and mine
guarded the valley, till all robbers and nightwalkers learned there was
nothing to get from us save hard tack and a hanging. Side by side we
fought against all who came—thrice a week sometimes we fought—against
thieves and landless knights looking for good manors. Then we were in some
peace, and I made shift by Hugh’s help to govern the valley—for all this
valley of yours was my Manor—as a knight should. I kept the roof on the
hall and the thatch on the barn, but.... The English are a bold people.
His Saxons would laugh and jest with Hugh, and Hugh with them, and—this
was marvellous to me—if even the meanest of them said that such and such a
thing was the Custom of the Manor, then straightway would Hugh and such
old men of the Manor as might be near forsake everything else to debate
the matter—I have seen them stop the mill with the corn half ground—and if
the custom or usage were proven to be as it was said, why, that was the
end of it, even though it were flat against Hugh, his wish and command.
Wonderful!’
‘Aye,’ said Puck, breaking in for the first time. ‘The Custom of Old
England was here before your Norman knights came, and it outlasted them,
though they fought against it cruel.’
‘Not I,’ said Richard. ‘I let the Saxons go their stubborn way, but when
my own men-at-arms, Normans not six months in England, stood up and told
me what was the custom of the country, _then_ I was angry. Ah, good days!
Ah, wonderful people! And I loved them all.’
The knight lifted his arms as though he would hug the whole dear valley,
and Swallow, hearing the chink of his chain-mail, looked up and whinnied
softly.
‘At last,’ he went on, ‘after a year of striving and contriving and some
little driving, De Aquila came to the valley, alone and without warning. I
saw him first at the Lower Ford, with a swine-herd’s brat on his
saddle-bow.
‘“There is no need for thee to give any account of thy stewardship,” said
he. “I have it all from the child here.” And he told me how the young
thing had stopped his tall horse at the Ford, by waving of a branch, and
crying that the way was barred. “And if one bold, bare babe be enough to
guard the Ford in these days, thou hast done well,” said he, and puffed
and wiped his head.
He pinched the child’s cheek, and looked at our cattle in the flat by the
brook.
‘“Both fat,” said he, rubbing his nose. “This is craft and cunning such as
I love. What did I tell thee when I rode away, boy?”
‘“Hold the Manor or hang,” said I. I had never forgotten it.
‘“True. And thou hast held.” He clambered from his saddle and with sword’s
point cut out a turf from the bank and gave it me where I kneeled.’
Dan looked at Una, and Una looked at Dan.
‘That’s seizin,’ said Puck, in a whisper.
‘“Now thou art lawfully seized of the Manor, Sir Richard,” said he—’twas
the first time he ever called me that—“thou and thy heirs for ever. This
must serve till the King’s clerks write out thy title on a parchment.
England is all ours—if we can hold it.”
‘“What service shall I pay?” I asked, and I remember I was proud beyond
words.
‘“Knight’s fee, boy, knight’s fee!” said he, hopping round his horse on
one foot. (Have I said he was little, and could not endure to be helped to
his saddle?) “Six mounted men or twelve archers thou shalt send me
whenever I call for them, and—where got you that corn?” said he, for it
was near harvest, and our corn stood well. “I have never seen such bright
straw. Send me three bags of the same seed yearly, and furthermore, in
memory of our last meeting—with the rope round thy neck—entertain me and
my men for two days of each year in the Great Hall of thy Manor.”
‘“Alas!” said I, “then my Manor is already forfeit. I am under vow not to
enter the Great Hall.” And I told him what I had sworn to the Lady
Ælueva.’
‘And hadn’t you ever been into the house since?’ said Una.
‘Never,’ Sir Richard answered smiling. ‘I had made me a little hut of wood
up the hill, and there I did justice and slept.... De Aquila wheeled
aside, and his shield shook on his back. “No matter, boy,” said he. “I
will remit the homage for a year.”’
‘He meant Sir Richard needn’t give him dinner there the first year,’ Puck
explained.
‘De Aquila stayed with me in the hut and Hugh, who could read and write
and cast accounts, showed him the roll of the Manor, in which were written
all the names of our fields and men, and he asked a thousand questions
touching the land, the timber, the grazing, the mill, and the fish-ponds,
and the worth of every man in the valley. But never he named the Lady
Ælueva’s name, nor went he near the Great Hall. By night he drank with us
in the hut. Yes, he sat on the straw like an eagle ruffled in her
feathers, his yellow eyes rolling above the cup, and he pounced in his
talk like an eagle, swooping from one thing to another, but always binding
fast. Yes; he would lie still awhile, and then rustle in the straw, and
speak sometimes as though he were King William himself, and anon he would
speak in parables and tales, and if at once we saw not his meaning he
would yerk us in the ribs with his scabbarded sword.
‘“Look you, boys,” said he, “I am born out of my due time. Five hundred
years ago I would have made all England such an England as neither Dane,
Saxon, nor Norman should have conquered. Five hundred years hence I should
have been such a councillor to Kings as the world hath never dreamed of.
’Tis all here,” said he, tapping his big head, “but it hath no play in
this black age. Now Hugh here is a better man than thou art, Richard.” He
had made his voice harsh and croaking, like a raven’s.
‘“Truth,” said I. “But for Hugh, his help and patience and long-suffering,
I could never have kept the Manor.”
‘“Nor thy life either,” said De Aquila. “Hugh has saved thee not once, but
a hundred times. Be still, Hugh!” he said. “Dost thou know, Richard, why
Hugh slept, and why he still sleeps, among thy Norman men-at-arms?”
‘“To be near me,” said I, for I thought this was truth.
‘“Fool!” said De Aquila. “It is because his Saxons have begged him to rise
against thee, and to sweep every Norman out of the valley. No matter how I
know. It is truth. Therefore Hugh hath made himself an hostage for thy
life, well knowing that if any harm befell thee from his Saxons thy
Normans would slay him without remedy. And this his Saxons know. It is
true, Hugh?”
‘“In some sort,” said Hugh, shamefacedly; “at least, it was true half a
year ago. My Saxons would not harm Richard now. I think they know him; but
I judged it best to make sure.”
‘Look, children, what that man had done—and I had never guessed it! Night
after night had he lain down among my men-at-arms, knowing that if one
Saxon had lifted knife against me his life would have answered for mine.
‘“Yes,” said De Aquila. “And he is a swordless man.” He pointed to Hugh’s
belt, for Hugh had put away his sword—did I tell you?—the day after it
flew from his hand at Santlache. He carried only the short knife and the
long-bow. “Swordless and landless art thou, Hugh; and they call thee kin
to Earl Godwin.” (Hugh was indeed of Godwin’s blood.) “The Manor that was
thine was given to this boy and to his children for ever. Sit up and beg,
for he can turn thee out like a dog, Hugh!”
‘Hugh said nothing, but I heard his teeth grind, and I bade De Aquila, my
own overlord, hold his peace, or I would stuff his words down his throat.
Then De Aquila laughed till the tears ran down his face.
‘“I warned the King,” said he, “what would come of giving England to us
Norman thieves. Here art thou, Richard, less than two days confirmed in
thy Manor, and already thou hast risen against thy overlord. What shall we
do to him, _Sir_ Hugh?”
‘“I am a swordless man,” said Hugh. “Do not jest with me,” and he laid his
head on his knees and groaned.
‘“The greater fool thou,” said De Aquila, and all his voice changed; “for
I have given thee the Manor of Dallington up the hill this half-hour
since,” and he yerked at Hugh with his scabbard across the straw.
‘“To me?” said Hugh. “I am a Saxon, and, except that I love Richard here,
I have not sworn fealty to any Norman.”
‘“In God’s good time, which because of my sins I shall not live to see,
there will be neither Saxon nor Norman in England,” said De Aquila. “If I
know men, thou art more faithful unsworn than a score of Normans I could
name. Take Dallington, and join Sir Richard to fight me to-morrow, if it
please thee!”
‘“Nay,” said Hugh. “I am no child. Where I take a gift, there I render
service”; and he put his hands between De Aquila’s, and swore to be
faithful, and, as I remember, I kissed him, and De Aquila kissed us both.
‘We sat afterwards outside the hut while the sun rose, and De Aquila
marked our churls going to their work in the fields, and talked of holy
things, and how we should govern our Manors in time to come, and of
hunting and of horse-breeding, and of the King’s wisdom and unwisdom; for
he spoke to us as though we were in all sorts now his brothers. Anon a
churl stole up to me—he was one of the three I had not hanged a year
ago—and he bellowed—which is the Saxon for whispering—that the Lady Ælueva
would speak to me at the Great House. She walked abroad daily in the
Manor, and it was her custom to send me word whither she went, that I
might set an archer or two behind and in front to guard her. Very often I
myself lay up in the woods and watched on her also.
‘I went swiftly, and as I passed the great door it opened from within, and
there stood my Lady Ælueva, and she said to me: “Sir Richard, will it
please you enter your Great Hall?” Then she wept, but we were alone.’
The knight was silent for a long time, his face turned across the valley,
smiling.
‘Oh, well done!’ said Una, and clapped her hands very softly. ‘She was
sorry, and she said so.’
‘Aye, she was sorry, and she said so,’ said Sir Richard, coming back with
a little start. ‘Very soon—but _he_ said it was two full hours later—De
Aquila rode to the door, with his shield new scoured (Hugh had cleansed
it), and demanded entertainment, and called me a false knight, that would
starve his overlord to death. Then Hugh cried out that no man should work
in the valley that day, and our Saxons blew horns, and set about feasting
and drinking, and running of races, and dancing and singing; and De Aquila
climbed upon a horse-block and spoke to them in what he swore was good
Saxon, but no man understood it. At night we feasted in the Great Hall,
and when the harpers and the singers were gone we four sat late at the
high table. As I remember, it was a warm night with a full moon, and De
Aquila bade Hugh take down his sword from the wall again, for the honour
of the Manor of Dallington, and Hugh took it gladly enough. Dust lay on
the hilt, for I saw him blow it off.
‘She and I sat talking a little apart, and at first we thought the harpers
had come back, for the Great Hall was filled with a rushing noise of
music. De Aquila leaped up; but there was only the moonlight fretty on the
floor.
‘“Hearken!” said Hugh. “It is my sword,” and as he belted it on the music
ceased.
‘“Over Gods, forbid that I should ever belt blade like that,” said De
Aquila. “What does it foretell?”
‘“The Gods that made it may know. Last time it spoke was at Hastings, when
I lost all my lands. Belike it sings now that I have new lands and am a
man again,” said Hugh.
‘He loosed the blade a little and drove it back happily into the sheath,
and the sword answered him low and crooningly, as—as a woman would speak
to a man, her head on his shoulder.
‘Now that was the second time in all my life I heard this Sword sing.’...
‘Look!’ said Una. ‘There’s mother coming down the Long Slip. What will she
say to Sir Richard? She can’t help seeing him.’
‘And Puck can’t magic us this time,’ said Dan.
‘Are you sure?’ said Puck; and he leaned forward and whispered to Sir
Richard, who, smiling, bowed his head.
‘But what befell the sword and my brother Hugh I will tell on another
time,’ said he, rising. ‘Ohé, Swallow!’
The great horse cantered up from the far end of the meadow, close to
mother.
They heard mother say: ‘Children, Gleason’s old horse has broken into the
meadow again. Where did he get through?’
‘Just below Stone Bay,’ said Dan. ‘He tore down simple flobs of the bank!
We noticed it just now. And we’ve caught no end of fish. We’ve been at it
all the afternoon.’
And they honestly believed that they had. They never noticed the Oak, Ash,
and Thorn leaves that Puck had slyly thrown into their laps.