‘“Gold horseshoes on black?” said De Aquila. “I had heard Fulke had joined
the Barons, but if this is true our King must be of the upper hand. No
matter, all Fulkes are faithful. Still, I would not have sent the man away
empty.”
‘“He fed,” said Jehan. “Gilbert the Clerk fetched him meat and wine from
the kitchens. He ate at Gilbert’s table.”
‘This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, who kept the accounts of the
Manor of Pevensey. He was tall and pale-coloured, and carried those
new-fashioned beads for counting of prayers. They were large brown nuts or
seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his penner and inkhorn they
clashed when he walked. His place was in the great fireplace. There was
his table of accounts, and there he lay o’ nights. He feared the hounds in
the Hall that came nosing after bones or to sleep on the warm ashes, and
would slash at them with his beads—like a woman. When De Aquila sat in
Hall to do justice, take fines, or grant lands, Gilbert would so write it
in the Manor-roll. But it was none of his work to feed our guests, or to
let them depart without his lord’s knowledge.
‘Said De Aquila, after Jehan was gone down the stair: “Hugh, hast thou
ever told my Gilbert thou canst read Latin hand-of-write?”
‘“No,” said Hugh. “He is no friend to me, or to Odo my hound either.” “No
matter,” said De Aquila. “Let him never know thou canst tell one letter
from its fellow, and”—here he jerked us in the ribs with his
scabbard—“watch him both of ye. There be devils in Africa, as I have
heard, but by the Saints there be greater devils in Pevensey!” And that
was all he would say.
‘It chanced, some small while afterwards, a Norman man-at-arms would wed a
Saxon wench of the Manor, and Gilbert (we had watched him well since De
Aquila spoke) doubted whether her folk were free or slave. Since De Aquila
would give them a field of good land, if she were free, the matter came up
at the justice in Great Hall before De Aquila. First the wench’s father
spoke; then her mother; then all together, till the hall rang and the
hounds bayed. De Aquila held up his hands. “Write her free,” he called to
Gilbert by the fireplace. “A’ God’s Name write her free, before she
deafens me! Yes, yes,” he said to the wench that was on her knees at him;
“thou art Cerdic’s sister, and own cousin to the Lady of Mercia, if thou
wilt be silent. In fifty years there will be neither Norman nor Saxon, but
all English,” said he, “and _these_ are the men that do our work!” He
clapped the man-at-arms, that was Jehan’s nephew, on the shoulder, and
kissed the wench, and fretted with his feet among the rushes to show it
was finished. (The Great Hall is always bitter cold.) I stood at his side;
Hugh was behind Gilbert in the fireplace making to play with wise rough
Odo. He signed to De Aquila, who bade Gilbert measure the new field for
the new couple. Out then runs our Gilbert between man and maid, his beads
clashing at his waist, and the Hall being empty, we three sit by the fire.
‘Said Hugh, leaning down to the hearthstones, “I saw this stone move under
Gilbert’s foot when Odo snuffed at it. Look!” De Aquila digged in the
ashes with his sword; the stone tilted; beneath it lay a parchment folden,
and the writing atop was: “Words spoken against the King by our Lord of
Pevensey—the second part.”
‘Here was set out (Hugh read it us whispering) every jest De Aquila had
made to us touching the King; every time he had called out to me from the
shot-window, and every time he had said what he would do if he were King
of England. Yes, day by day had his daily speech, which he never stinted,
been set down by Gilbert, tricked out and twisted from its true meaning,
yet withal so cunningly that none could deny who knew him that De Aquila
had in some sort spoken those words. Ye see?’
Dan and Una nodded.
‘Yes,’ said Una, gravely. ‘It isn’t what you say so much. It’s what you
mean when you say it. Like calling Dan a beast in fun. Only grown-ups
don’t always understand.’
‘“He hath done this day by day before our very face?” said De Aquila.
“Nay, hour by hour,” said Hugh. “When De Aquila spoke even now, in the
hall, of Saxons and Normans, I saw Gilbert write on a parchment, which he
kept beside the Manor-roll, that De Aquila said soon there would be no
Normans left in England if his men-at-arms did their work aright.”
‘“Bones of the Saints!” said De Aquila. “What avail is honour or a sword
against a pen? Where did Gilbert hide that writing? He shall eat it.”
‘“In his breast when he ran out,” said Hugh. “Which made me look to see
where he kept his finished stuff. When Odo scratched at this stone here, I
saw his face change. So I was sure.”
‘“He is bold,” said De Aquila. “Do him justice. In his own fashion, my
Gilbert is bold.”
‘“Overbold,” said Hugh. “Hearken here,” and he read: “Upon the feast of
St. Agatha, our Lord of Pevensey, lying in his upper chamber, being
clothed in his second fur gown reversed with rabbit——”
‘“Pest on him! He is not my tire-woman!” said De Aquila, and Hugh and I
laughed.
‘“Reversed with rabbit, seeing a fog over the marshes, did wake Sir
Richard Dalyngridge, his drunken cup-mate” (here they laughed at me) “and
said, ‘Peer out, old fox, for God is on the Duke of Normandy’s side.’”
‘“So did I. It was a black fog. Robert could have landed ten thousand men,
and we none the wiser. Does he tell how we were out all day riding the
marsh, and how I near perished in a quicksand, and coughed like a sick ewe
for ten days after?” cried De Aquila.
‘“No,” said Hugh. “But here is the prayer of Gilbert himself to his master
Fulke.”
‘“Ah,” said De Aquila. “Well I knew it was Fulke. What is the price of my
blood?”
‘“Gilbert prayeth that when our Lord of Pevensey is stripped of his lands
on this evidence which Gilbert hath, with fear and pains, collected——”
‘“Fear and pains is a true word,” said De Aquila, and sucked in his
cheeks. “But how excellent a weapon is a pen! I must learn it.”
‘“He prays that Fulke will advance him from his present service to that
honour in the Church which Fulke promised him. And lest Fulke should
forget, he has written below, ‘To be Sacristan of Battle.’”
‘At this De Aquila whistled. “A man who can plot against one lord can plot
against another. When I am stripped of my lands Fulke will whip off my
Gilbert’s foolish head. None the less Battle needs a new Sacristan. They
tell me the Abbot Henry keeps no sort of rule there.”
‘“Let the Abbot wait,” said Hugh. “It is our heads and our lands that are
in danger. This parchment is the second part of the tale. The first has
gone to Fulke, and so to the King, who will hold us traitors.”
‘“Assuredly,” said De Aquila. “Fulke’s man took the first part that
evening when Gilbert fed him, and our King is so beset by his brother and
his Barons (small blame, too!) that he is mad with mistrust. Fulke has his
ear, and pours poison into it. Presently the King gives him my land and
yours. This is old,” and he leaned back and yawned.
‘“And thou wilt surrender Pevensey without word or blow?” said Hugh. “We
Saxons will fight your King then. I will go warn my nephew at Dallington.
Give me a horse!”
‘“Give thee a toy and a rattle.” said De Aquila. “Put back the parchment,
and rake over the ashes. If Fulke is given my Pevensey which is England’s
gate, what will he do with it? He is Norman at heart, and his heart is in
Normandy, where he can kill peasants at his pleasure. He will open
England’s gate to our sleepy Robert, as Odo and Mortain tried to do, and
then there will be another landing and another Santlache. Therefore I
cannot give up Pevensey.”
‘“Good,” said we two.
‘“Ah, but wait! If my King be made, on Gilbert’s evidence, to mistrust me,
he will send his men against me here, and, while we fight, England’s gate
is left unguarded. Who will be the first to come through thereby? Even
Robert of Normandy. Therefore I cannot fight my King.” He nursed his
sword—thus.
‘“This is saying and unsaying like a Norman,” said Hugh. “What of our
Manors?”
‘“I do not think for myself,” said De Aquila, “nor for our King, nor for
your lands. I think for England, for whom neither King nor Baron thinks. I
am not Norman, Sir Richard, nor Saxon, Sir Hugh. English am I.”
‘“Saxon, Norman, or English,” said Hugh, “our lives are thine, however the
game goes. When do we hang Gilbert?”
‘“Never,” said De Aquila. “Who knows he may yet be Sacristan of Battle,
for, to do him justice, he is a good writer. Dead men make dumb witnesses.
Wait.”
‘“But the King may give Pevensey to Fulke. And our Manors go with it,”
said I. “Shall we tell our sons?”
‘“No. The King will not wake up a hornet’s nest in the South till he has
smoked out the bees in the North. He may hold me a traitor; but at least
he sees I am not fighting against him, and every day that I lie still is
so much gain to him while he fights the barons. If he were wise he would
wait till that war were over before he made new enemies. But I think Fulke
will play upon him to send for me, and if I do not obey the summons that
will, to Henry’s mind, be proof of my treason. But mere talk, such as
Gilbert sends, is no proof nowadays. We Barons follow the Church, and,
like Anselm, we speak what we please. Let us go about our day’s dealings,
and say naught to Gilbert.”
‘“Then we do nothing?” said Hugh.
‘“We wait,” said De Aquila. “I am old, but still I find that the most
grievous work I know.”
‘And so we found it, but in the end De Aquila was right.
‘A little later in the year, armed men rode over the hill, the Golden
Horseshoes flying behind the King’s banner. Said De Aquila, at the window
of our chamber: “How did I tell you? Here comes Fulke himself to spy out
his new lands which our King hath promised him if he can bring proof of my
treason.”
‘“How dost thou know?” said Hugh.
‘“Because that is what I would do if I were Fulke, but _I_ should have
brought more men. My roan horse to your old shoes,” said he, “Fulke brings
me the King’s Summons to leave Pevensey and join the war.” He sucked in
his cheeks and drummed on the edge of the shaft, where the water sounded
all hollow.
‘“Shall we go?” said I.
‘“Go! At this time of year? Stark madness,” said he. “Take _me_ from
Pevensey to fisk and flyte through fern and forest, and in three days
Robert’s keels would be lying on Pevensey mud with ten thousand men! Who
would stop them—Fulke?”
‘The horns blew without, and anon Fulke cried the King’s Summons at the
great door that De Aquila with all men and horse should join the King’s
camp at Salisbury.
‘“How did I tell you?” said De Aquila. “There are twenty Barons ’twixt
here and Salisbury could give King Henry good land-service, but he has
been worked upon by Fulke to send south and call me—_me!_—off the Gate of
England, when his enemies stand about to batter it in. See that Fulke’s
men lie in the big south barn,” said he. “Give them drink, and when Fulke
has eaten we will drink in my chamber. The Great Hall is too cold for old
bones.”
‘As soon as he was off-horse Fulke went to the chapel with Gilbert to give
thanks for his safe coming, and when he had eaten—he was a fat man, and
rolled his eyes greedily at our good roast Sussex wheatears—we led him to
the little upper chamber, whither Gilbert had already gone with the
Manor-roll. I remember when Fulke heard the tide blow and whistle in the
shaft he leaped back, and his long down-turned stirrup-shoes caught in the
rushes and he stumbled, so that Jehan behind him found it easy to knock
his head against the wall.’
‘Did you know it was going to happen?’ said Dan.
‘Assuredly,’ said Sir Richard, with a sweet smile. ‘I put my foot on his
sword and plucked away his dagger, but he knew not whether it was day or
night for a while. He lay rolling his eyes and bubbling with his mouth,
and Jehan roped him like a calf. He was cased all in that new-fangled
armour which we call lizard-mail. Not rings like my hauberk here’—Sir
Richard tapped his chest—‘but little pieces of dagger-proof steel
overlapping on stout leather. We stripped it off (no need to spoil good
harness by wetting it), and in the neck-piece De Aquila found the same
folden piece of parchment which we had put back under the hearthstone.
‘At this Gilbert would have run out. I laid my hand on his shoulder. It
sufficed. He fell to trembling and praying on his beads.
‘“Gilbert,” said De Aquila, “here be more notable sayings and doings of
our Lord of Pevensey for thee to write down. Take penner and inkhorn,
Gilbert. We cannot all be Sacristans of Battle.”
‘Said Fulke from the floor, “Ye have bound a King’s messenger. Pevensey
shall burn for this!”
‘“Maybe. I have seen it besieged once,” said De Aquila, “but heart up,
Fulke. I promise thee that thou shalt be hanged in the middle of the
flames at the end of that siege, if I have to share my last loaf with
thee; and that is more than Odo would have done when we starved out him
and Mortain.”
‘Then Fulke sat up and looked long and cunningly at De Aquila.
‘“By the Saints,” said he, “why didst thou not say thou wast on the Duke’s
side at the first?”
‘“Am I?” said De Aquila.
‘Fulke laughed and said, “No man who serves King Henry dare do this much
to his messenger. When didst thou come over to the Duke? Let me up and we
can smooth it out together.” And he smiled and becked and winked.
‘“Yes, we will smooth it out,” said De Aquila. He nodded to me, and Jehan
and I heaved up Fulke—he was a heavy man—and lowered him into the shaft by
a rope, not so as to stand on our gold, but dangling by his shoulders a
little above. It was turn of ebb, and the water came to his knees. He said
nothing, but shivered somewhat.
‘Then Jehan of a sudden beat down Gilbert’s wrist with his sheathed
dagger, “Stop!” he said. “He swallows his beads.”
‘“Poison, belike,” said De Aquila. “It is good for men who know too much.
I have carried it these thirty years. Give me!”
‘Then Gilbert wept and howled. De Aquila ran the beads through his
fingers. The last one—I have said they were large nuts—opened in two
halves on a pin, and there was a small folded parchment within. On it was
written: “_The Old Dog goes to Salisbury to be beaten. I have his Kennel.
Come quickly._”
‘“This is worse than poison,” said De Aquila, very softly, and sucked in
his cheeks. Then Gilbert grovelled in the rushes, and told us all he knew.
The letter, as we guessed, was from Fulke to the Duke (and not the first
that had passed between them); Fulke had given it to Gilbert in the
chapel, and Gilbert thought to have taken it by morning to a certain
fishing-boat at the wharf, which trafficked between Pevensey and the
French shore. Gilbert was a false fellow, but he found time between his
quakings and shakings to swear that the master of the boat knew nothing of
the matter.
‘“He hath called me shaved head,” said Gilbert, “and he hath thrown
haddock-guts at me; but for all that, he is no traitor.”
‘“I will have no clerk of mine mishandled or miscalled,” said De Aquila.
“That seaman shall be whipped at his own mast. Write me first a letter,
and thou shalt bear it, with the order for the whipping, to-morrow to the
boat.”
‘At this Gilbert would have kissed De Aquila’s hand—he had not hoped to
live until the morning—and when he trembled less he wrote a letter as from
Fulke to the Duke saying that the Kennel, which signified Pevensey, was
shut, and that the old Dog (which was De Aquila) sat outside it, and,
moreover, that all had been betrayed.
‘“Write to any man that all is betrayed,” said De Aquila, “and even the
Pope himself would sleep uneasily. Eh, Jehan? If one told thee all was
betrayed, what wouldst thou do?”
‘“I would run away,” said Jehan. “It might be true.”
‘“Well said,” quoth De Aquila. “Write, Gilbert, that Montgomery, the great
Earl, hath made his peace with the King, and that little D’Arcy, whom I
hate, hath been hanged by the heels. We will give Robert full measure to
chew upon. Write also that Fulke himself is sick to death of a dropsy.”
‘“Nay?” cried Fulke, hanging in the well-shaft. “Drown me out of hand, but
do not make a jest of me.”
‘“Jest? I?” said De Aquila. “I am but fighting for life and lands with a
pen, as thou hast shown me, Fulke.”
‘Then Fulke groaned, for he was cold, and, “Let me confess,” said he.
‘“Now, this is right neighbourly,” said De Aquila, leaning over the shaft.
“Thou hast read my sayings and doings—or at least the first part of
them—and thou art minded to repay me with thy own doings and sayings. Take
penner and inkhorn, Gilbert. Here is work that will not irk thee.”
‘“Let my men go without hurt, and I will confess my treason against the
King,” said Fulke.
‘“Now, why has he grown so tender of his men of a sudden?” said Hugh to
me; for Fulke had no name for mercy to his men. Plunder he gave them, but
pity, none.
‘“Té! Té!” said De Aquila. “Thy treason was all confessed long ago by
Gilbert. It would be enough to hang Montgomery himself.”
‘“Nay; but spare my men,” said Fulke; and we heard him splash like a fish
in a pond, for the tide was rising.
‘“All in good time,” said De Aquila. “The night is young; the wine is old;
and we need only the merry tale. Begin the story of thy life since when
thou wast a lad at Tours. Tell it nimbly!”
‘“Ye shame me to my soul,” said Fulke.
‘“Then I have done what neither King nor Duke could do,” said De Aquila.
“But begin, and forget nothing.”
‘“Send thy man away,” said Fulke.
‘“That much I can,” said De Aquila. “But, remember, I am like the Danes’
King; I cannot turn the tide.”
‘“How long will it rise?” said Fulke, and splashed anew.
‘“For three hours,” said De Aquila. “Time to tell all thy good deeds.
Begin, and Gilbert—I have heard thou art somewhat careless—do not twist
his words from their true meaning.”
‘So—fear of death in the dark being upon him—Fulke began; and Gilbert, not
knowing what his fate might be, wrote it word by word. I have heard many
tales, but never heard I aught to match the tale of Fulke, his black life,
as Fulke told it hollowly, hanging in the shaft.’
‘Was it bad?’ said Dan, awestruck.
‘Beyond belief,’ Sir Richard answered. ‘None the less, there was that in
it which forced even Gilbert to laugh. We three laughed till we ached. At
one place his teeth so chattered that we could not well hear, and we
reached him down a cup of wine. Then he warmed to it, and smoothly set out
all his shifts, malices, and treacheries, his extreme boldnesses (he was
desperate bold); his retreats, shufflings, and counterfeitings (he was
also inconceivably a coward); his lack of gear and honour; his despair at
their loss; his remedies, and well-coloured contrivances. Yes, he waved
the filthy rags of his life before us, as though they had been some proud
banner. When he ceased, we saw by torches that the tide stood at the
corners of his mouth, and he breathed strongly through his nose.
‘We had him out, and rubbed him; we wrapped him in a cloak, and gave him
wine, and we leaned and looked upon him the while he drank. He was
shivering, but shameless.
‘Of a sudden we heard Jehan at the stairway wake, but a boy pushed past
him, and stood before us, the hall rushes in his hair, all slubbered with
sleep. “My father! My father! I dreamed of treachery,” he cried, and
babbled thickly.
‘“There is no treachery here,” said Fulke. “Go,” and the boy turned, even
then not fully awake, and Jehan led him by the hand to the Great Hall.
‘“Thy only son!” said De Aquila, “Why didst thou bring the child here?”
‘“He is my heir. I dared not trust him to my brother,” said Fulke, and now
he was ashamed. De Aquila said nothing, but sat weighing a wine cup in his
two hands—thus. Anon, Fulke touched him on the knee.
‘“Let the boy escape to Normandy,” said he, “and do with me at thy
pleasure. Yea, hang me to-morrow, with my letter to Robert round my neck,
but let the boy go.”
‘“Be still,” said De Aquila. “I think for England.”
‘So we waited what our Lord of Pevensey should devise; and the sweat ran
down Fulke’s forehead.
‘At last said De Aquila: “I am too old to judge, or to trust any man. I do
not covet thy lands, as thou hast coveted mine; and whether thou art any
better or any worse than any other black Angevin thief, it is for thy King
to find out. Therefore, go back to thy King, Fulke.”
‘“And thou wilt say nothing of what has passed?” said Fulke.
‘“Why should I? Thy son will stay with me. If the King calls me again to
leave Pevensey, which I must guard against England’s enemies; if the King
sends his men against me for a traitor; or if I hear that the King in his
bed thinks any evil of me or my two knights, thy son will be hanged from
out this window, Fulke.”’
‘But it hadn’t anything to do with his son,’ cried Una, startled.
‘How could we have hanged Fulke?’ said Sir Richard. ‘We needed him to make
our peace with the King. He would have betrayed half England for the boy’s
sake. Of that we were sure.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Una. ‘But I think it was simply awful.’
‘So did not Fulke. He was well pleased.’
‘What? Because his son was going to be killed?’
‘Nay. Because De Aquila had shown him how he might save the boy’s life and
his own lands and honours. “I will do it,” he said. “I swear I will do it.
I will tell the King thou art no traitor, but the most excellent, valiant,
and perfect of us all. Yes, I will save thee.”
‘De Aquila looked still into the bottom of the cup, rolling the wine-dregs
to and fro.
‘“Ay,” he said. “If I had a son, I would, I think, save him. But do not by
any means tell me how thou wilt go about it.”
‘“Nay, nay,” said Fulke, nodding his bald head wisely. “That is my secret.
But rest at ease, De Aquila, no hair of thy head nor rood of thy land
shall be forfeited,” and he smiled like one planning great good deeds.
‘“And henceforward,” said De Aquila, “I counsel thee to serve one
master—not two.”
‘“What?” said Fulke. “Can I work no more honest trading between the two
sides these troublous times?”
‘“Serve Robert or the King—England or Normandy,” said De Aquila. “I care
not which it is, but make thy choice here and now.”
‘“The King, then,” said Fulke, “for I see he is better served than Robert.
Shall I swear it?”
‘“No need,” said De Aquila, and he laid his hand on the parchments which
Gilbert had written. “It shall be some part of my Gilbert’s penance to
copy out the savoury tale of thy life, till we have made ten, twenty, an
hundred, maybe, copies. How many cattle, think you, would the Bishop of
Tours give for that tale? Or thy brother? Or the Monks of Blois? Minstrels
will turn it into songs which thy own Saxon serfs shall sing behind their
plough-stilts, and men-at-arms riding through thy Norman towns. From here
to Rome, Fulke, men will make very merry over that tale, and how Fulke
told it, hanging in a well, like a drowned puppy. This shall be thy
punishment, if ever I find thee double-dealing with thy King any more.
Meantime, the parchments stay here with thy son. Him I will return to thee
when thou hast made my peace with the King. The parchments never.”
‘Fulke hid his face and groaned.
‘“Bones of the Saints!” said De Aquila, laughing. “The pen cuts deep. I
could never have fetched that grunt out of thee with any sword.”
‘“But so long as I do not anger thee, my tale will be secret?” said Fulke.
‘“Just so long. Does that comfort thee, Fulke?” said De Aquila.
‘“What other comfort have ye left me?” he said, and of a sudden he wept
hopelessly like a child, dropping his face on his knees.’
‘Poor Fulke,’ said Una.
‘I pitied him also,’ said Sir Richard.
‘“After the spur, corn,” said De Aquila, and he threw Fulke three wedges
of gold that he had taken from our little chest by the bed-place.
‘“If I had known this,” said Fulke, catching his breath, “I would never
have lifted hand against Pevensey. Only lack of this yellow stuff has made
me so unlucky in my dealings.”
‘It was dawn then, and they stirred in the Great Hall below. We sent down
Fulke’s mail to be scoured, and when he rode away at noon under his own
and the King’s banner very splendid and stately did he show. He smoothed
his long beard, and called his son to his stirrup and kissed him. De
Aquila rode with him as far as the New Mill landward. We thought the night
had been all a dream.’
‘But did he make it right with the King?’ Dan asked. ‘About your not being
traitors, I mean?’
Sir Richard smiled. ‘The King sent no second summons to Pevensey, nor did
he ask why De Aquila had not obeyed the first. Yes, that was Fulke’s work.
I know not how he did it, but it was well and swiftly done.’
‘Then you didn’t do anything to his son?’ said Una.
‘The boy? Oh, he was an imp. He turned the keep doors out of dortoirs
while we had him. He sang foul songs, learned in the Barons’ camps—poor
fool; he set the hounds fighting in hall; he lit the rushes to drive out,
as he said, the fleas; he drew his dagger on Jehan, who threw him down the
stairway for it; and he rode his horse through crops and among sheep. But
when we had beaten him, and showed him wolf and deer, he followed us old
men like a young, eager hound, and called us “uncle.” His father came the
summer’s end to take him away, but the boy had no lust to go, because of
the otter-hunting, and he stayed on till the fox-hunting. I gave him a
bittern’s claw to bring him good luck at shooting. An imp, if ever there
was!’
‘And what happened to Gilbert?’ said Dan.
‘Not even a whipping. De Aquila said he would sooner a clerk, however
false, that knew the Manor-roll than a fool, however true, that must be
taught his work afresh. Moreover, after that night I think Gilbert loved
as much as he feared De Aquila. At least he would not leave us—not even
when Vivian, the King’s Clerk, would have made him Sacristan of Battle
Abbey. A false fellow, but, in his fashion, bold.’
‘Did Robert ever land in Pevensey after all?’ Dan went on.
‘We guarded the coast too well while Henry was fighting his Barons; and
three or four years later, when England had peace, Henry crossed to
Normandy and showed his brother some work at Tenchebrai that cured Robert
of fighting. Many of Henry’s men sailed from Pevensey to that war. Fulke
came, I remember, and we all four lay in the little chamber once again,
and drank together. De Aquila was right. One should not judge men. Fulke
was merry. Yes, always merry—with a catch in his breath.’
‘And what did you do afterwards?’ said Una.
‘We talked together of times past. That is all men can do when they grow
old, little maid.’
The bell for tea rang faintly across the meadows. Dan lay in the bows of
the _Golden Hind_; Una in the stern, the book of verses open in her lap,
was reading from ‘The Slave’s Dream’:—
‘Again in the mist and shadow of sleep
He saw his native land.’
‘I don’t know when you began that,’ said Dan, sleepily.
On the middle thwart of the boat, beside Una’s sun-bonnet, lay an Oak
leaf, an Ash leaf, and a Thorn leaf, that must have dropped down from the
trees above; and the brook giggled as though it had just seen some joke.