‘It has nought to do with apes or devils,’ Sir Richard went on, in an
undertone. ‘It concerns De Aquila, than whom there was never bolder nor
craftier, nor more hardy knight born. And, remember, he was an old, old
man at that time.’
‘When?’ said Dan.
‘When we came back from sailing with Witta.’
‘What did you do with your gold?’ said Dan.
‘Have patience. Link by link is chain-mail made. I will tell all in its
place. We bore the gold to Pevensey on horseback—three loads of it—and
then up to the north chamber, above the Great Hall of Pevensey Castle,
where De Aquila lay in winter. He sat on his bed like a little white
falcon, turning his head swiftly from one to the other as we told our
tale. Jehan the Crab, an old sour man-at-arms, guarded the stairway, but
De Aquila bade him wait at the stair-foot, and let down both leather
curtains over the door. It was Jehan whom De Aquila had sent to us with
the horses, and only Jehan had loaded the gold. When our story was told,
De Aquila gave us the news of England, for we were as men waked from a
year-long sleep. The Red King was dead—slain (ye remember?) the day we set
sail—and Henry, his younger brother, had made himself King of England over
the head of Robert of Normandy. This was the very thing that the Red King
had done to Robert when our Great William died. Then Robert of Normandy,
mad, as De Aquila said, at twice missing of this kingdom, had sent an army
against England, which army had been well beaten back to their ships at
Portsmouth. A little earlier, and Witta’s ship would have rowed through
them.
‘“And now,” said De Aquila, “half the great Barons of the north and west
are out against the King between Salisbury and Shrewsbury; and half the
other half wait to see which way the game shall go. They say Henry is
overly English for their stomachs, because he hath married an English wife
and she hath coaxed him to give back their old laws to our Saxons. (Better
ride a horse on the bit he knows, _I_ say.) But that is only a cloak to
their falsehood.” He cracked his finger on the table where the wine was
spilt, and thus he spoke:—
‘“William crammed us Norman barons full of good English acres after
Santlache. _I_ had my share too,” he said, and clapped Hugh on the
shoulder; “but I warned him—I warned him before Odo rebelled—that he
should have bidden the Barons give up their lands and lordships in
Normandy if they would be English lords. Now they are all but princes both
in England and Normandy—trencher-fed hounds, with a foot in one trough and
both eyes on the other! Robert of Normandy has sent them word that if they
do not fight for him in England he will sack and harry out their lands in
Normandy. Therefore Clare has risen, Fitz Osborn has risen, Montgomery has
risen—whom our First William made an English earl. Even D’Arcy is out with
his men, whose father I remember a little hedge-sparrow knight nearby
Caen. If Henry wins, the Barons can still flee to Normandy, where Robert
will welcome them. If Henry loses, Robert, he says, will give them more
lands in England. Oh, a pest—a pest on Normandy, for she will be our
England’s curse this many a long year!”
‘“Amen,” said Hugh. “But will the war come our ways, think you?”
‘“Not from the North,” said De Aquila. “But the sea is always open. If the
Barons gain the upper hand Robert will send another army into England for
sure; and this time I think he will land here—where his father, the
Conqueror, landed. Ye have brought your pigs to a pretty market! Half
England alight, and gold enough on the ground”—he stamped on the bars
beneath the table—“to set every sword in Christendom fighting.”
‘“What is to do?” said Hugh. “I have no keep at Dallington; and if we
buried it, whom could we trust?”
‘“Me,” said De Aquila. “Pevensey walls are strong. No man but Jehan, who
is my dog, knows what is between them.” He drew a curtain by the
shot-window and showed us the shaft of a well in the thickness of the
wall.
‘“I made it for a drinking-well,” he said, “but we found salt water, and
it rises and falls with the tide. Hark!” We heard the water whistle and
blow at the bottom. “Will it serve?” said he.
‘“Needs must,” said Hugh. “Our lives are in thy hands.” So we lowered all
the gold down except one small chest of it by De Aquila’s bed, which we
kept as much for his delight in its weight and colour as for any our
needs.
‘In the morning, ere we rode to our Manors, he said: “I do not say
farewell; because ye will return and bide here. Not for love nor for
sorrow, but to be with the gold. Have a care,” he said, laughing, “lest I
use it to make myself Pope. Trust me not, but return!”’
Sir Richard paused and smiled sadly.
‘In seven days, then, we returned from our Manors—from the Manors which
had been ours.’
‘And were the children quite well?’ said Una.
‘My sons were young. Land and governance belong by right to young men.’
Sir Richard was talking to himself. ‘It would have broken their hearts if
we had taken back our Manors. They made us great welcome, but we could
see—Hugh and I could see—that our day was done. I was a cripple and he a
one-armed man. No!’ He shook his head. ‘And therefore’—he raised his
voice—‘we rode back to Pevensey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Una, for the knight seemed very sorrowful.
‘Little maid, it all passed long ago. They were young; we were old. We let
them rule the Manors. “Aha!” cried De Aquila from his shot-window, when we
dismounted. “Back again to earth, old foxes?” but when we were in his
chamber above the hall he puts his arms about us and says, “Welcome,
ghosts! Welcome, poor ghosts!”... Thus it fell out that we were rich
beyond belief, and lonely. And lonely!’
‘What did you do?’ said Dan.
‘We watched for Robert of Normandy,’ said the knight. ‘De Aquila was like
Witta. He suffered no idleness. In fair weather we would ride along
between Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the other—sometimes with
hawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout hares both on the Marsh and
the Downland), but always with an eye to the sea, for fear of fleets from
Normandy. In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower, frowning
against the rain—peering here and pointing there. It always vexed him to
think how Witta’s ship had come and gone without his knowledge. When the
wind ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf’s edge he would go and,
leaning on his sword among the stinking fish, would call to the mariners
for their news from France. His other eye he kept landward for word of
Henry’s war against the Barons.
‘Many brought him news—jongleurs, harpers, pedlars, sutlers, priests, and
the like; and, though he was secret enough in small things, yet, if their
news misliked him, then, regarding neither time nor place nor people,
would he curse our King Henry for a fool or a babe. I have heard him cry
aloud by the fishing-boats: “If I were King of England I would do thus and
thus”; and when I rode out to see that the warning-beacons were laid and
dry, he hath often called to me from the shot-window: “Look to it,
Richard! Do not copy our blind King, but see with thine own eyes and feel
with thine own hands.” I do not think he knew any sort of fear. And so we
lived at Pevensey, in the little chamber above the Hall.
‘One foul night came word that a messenger of the King waited below. We
were chilled after a long riding in the fog towards Bexlei, which is an
easy place for ships to land. De Aquila sent word the man might either eat
with us or wait till we had fed. Anon Jehan, at the stair-head, cried that
he had called for horse, and was gone. “Pest on him!” said De Aquila. “I
have more to do than to shiver in the Great Hall for every gadling the
King sends. Left he no word?”
‘“None,” said Jehan, “except”—he had been with De Aquila at
Santlache—“except he said that if an old dog could not learn new tricks it
was time to sweep out the kennel.”
‘“Oho!” said De Aquila, rubbing his nose, “to whom did he say that?”
‘“To his beard, chiefly, but some to his horse’s flank as he was girthing
up. I followed him out,” said Jehan the Crab.
‘“What was his shield-mark?”
‘“Gold horseshoes on black,” said the Crab.
‘“That is one of Fulke’s men,” said De Aquila.’
Puck broke in very gently, ‘Gold horseshoes on black is _not_ the Fulkes’
shield. The Fulkes’ arms are——’
The knight waved one hand statelily.
‘Thou knowest that evil man’s true name,’ he replied, ‘but I have chosen
to call him Fulke because I promised him I would not tell the story of his
wickedness so that any man might guess it. I have changed _all_ the names
in my tale. His children’s children may be still alive.’
‘True—true,’ said Puck, smiling softly. ‘It is knightly to keep faith—even
after a thousand years.’