ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

“UNDERSHAW,” November 30, 1905.

I.

THE HOUSE OF LORING

In the month of July of the year 1348, between the feasts of St.

Benedict and of St. Swithin, a strange thing came upon England, for out

of the east there drifted a monstrous cloud, purple and piled, heavy

with evil, climbing slowly up the hushed heaven. In the shadow of that

strange cloud the leaves drooped in the trees, the birds ceased their

calling, and the cattle and the sheep gathered cowering under the

hedges. A gloom fell upon all the land, and men stood with their eyes

upon the strange cloud and a heaviness upon their hearts. They crept

into the churches where the trembling people were blessed and shriven

by the trembling priests. Outside no bird flew, and there came no

rustling from the woods, nor any of the homely sounds of Nature. All

was still, and nothing moved, save only the great cloud which rolled up

and onward, with fold on fold from the black horizon. To the west was

the light summer sky, to the east this brooding cloud-bank, creeping

ever slowly across, until the last thin blue gleam faded away and the

whole vast sweep of the heavens was one great leaden arch.

Then the rain began to fall. All day it rained, and all the night and

all the week and all the month, until folk had forgotten the blue

heavens and the gleam of the sunshine. It was not heavy, but it was

steady and cold and unceasing, so that the people were weary of its

hissing and its splashing, with the slow drip from the eaves. Always

the same thick evil cloud flowed from east to west with the rain

beneath it. None could see for more than a bow-shot from their

dwellings for the drifting veil of the rain-storms. Every morning the

folk looked upward for a break, but their eyes rested always upon the

same endless cloud, until at last they ceased to look up, and their

hearts despaired of ever seeing the change. It was raining at

Lammas-tide and raining at the Feast of the Assumption and still

raining at Michaelmas. The crops and the hay, sodden and black, had

rotted in the fields, for they were not worth the garnering. The sheep

had died, and the calves also, so there was little to kill when

Martinmas came and it was time to salt the meat for the winter. They

feared a famine, but it was worse than famine which was in store for

them.

For the rain had ceased at last, and a sickly autumn sun shone upon a

land which was soaked and sodden with water. Wet and rotten leaves

reeked and festered under the foul haze which rose from the woods. The

fields were spotted with monstrous fungi of a size and color never

matched before—scarlet and mauve and liver and black. It was as though

the sick earth had burst into foul pustules; mildew and lichen mottled

the walls, and with that filthy crop Death sprang also from the

water-soaked earth. Men died, and women and children, the baron of the

castle, the franklin on the farm, the monk in the abbey and the villein

in his wattle-and-daub cottage. All breathed the same polluted reek and

all died the same death of corruption. Of those who were stricken none

recovered, and the illness was ever the same—gross boils, raving, and

the black blotches which gave its name to the disease. All through the

winter the dead rotted by the wayside for want of some one to bury

them. In many a village no single man was left alive. Then at last the

spring came with sunshine and health and lightness and laughter—the

greenest, sweetest, tenderest spring that England had ever known—but

only half of England could know it. The other half had passed away with

the great purple cloud.

Yet it was there in that stream of death, in that reek of corruption,

that the brighter and freer England was born. There in that dark hour

the first streak of the new dawn was seen. For in no way save by a

great upheaval and change could the nation break away from that iron

feudal system which held her limbs. But now it was a new country which

came out from that year of death. The barons were dead in swaths. No

high turret nor cunning moat could keep out that black commoner who

struck them down.

Oppressive laws slackened for want of those who could enforce them, and

once slackened could never be enforced again. The laborer would be a

slave no longer. The bondsman snapped his shackles. There was much to

do and few left to do it. Therefore the few should be freemen, name

their own price, and work where and for whom they would. It was the

black death which cleared the way for that great rising thirty years

later which left the English peasant the freest of his class in Europe.

But there were few so far-sighted that they could see that here, as

ever, good was coming out of evil. At the moment misery and ruin were

brought into every family. The dead cattle, the ungarnered crops, the

untilled lands—every spring of wealth had dried up at the same moment.

Those who were rich became poor; but those who were poor already, and

especially those who were poor with the burden of gentility upon their

shoulders, found themselves in a perilous state. All through England

the smaller gentry were ruined, for they had no trade save war, and

they drew their living from the work of others. On many a manor-house

there came evil times, and on none more than on the Manor of Tilford,

where for many generations the noble family of the Lorings had held

their home.

There was a time when the Lorings had held the country from the North

Downs to the Lakes of Frensham, and when their grim castle-keep rising

above the green meadows which border the River Wey had been the

strongest fortalice betwixt Guildford Castle in the east and Winchester

in the west. But there came that Barons’ War, in which the King used

his Saxon subjects as a whip with which to scourge his Norman barons,

and Castle Loring, like so many other great strongholds, was swept from

the face of the land. From that time the Lorings, with estates sadly

curtailed, lived in what had been the dower-house, with enough for

splendor.

And then came their lawsuit with Waverley Abbey, and the Cistercians

laid claim to their richest land, with peccary, turbary and feudal

rights over the remainder. It lingered on for years, this great

lawsuit, and when it was finished the men of the Church and the men of

the Law had divided all that was richest of the estate between them.

There was still left the old manor-house from which with each

generation there came a soldier to uphold the credit of the name and to

show the five scarlet roses on the silver shield where it had always

been shown—in the van. There were twelve bronzes in the little chapel

where Matthew the priest said mass every morning, all of men of the

house of Loring. Two lay with their legs crossed, as being from the

Crusades. Six others rested their feet upon lions, as having died in

war. Four only lay with the effigy of their hounds to show that they

had passed in peace.

Of this famous but impoverished family, doubly impoverished by law and

by pestilence, two members were living in the year of grace 1349—Lady

Ermyntrude Loring and her grandson Nigel. Lady Ermyntrude’s husband had

fallen before the Scottish spearsmen at Stirling, and her son Eustace,

Nigel’s father, had found a glorious death nine years before this

chronicle opens upon the poop of a Norman galley at the sea-fight of

Sluys. The lonely old woman, fierce and brooding like the falcon mewed

in her chamber, was soft only toward the lad whom she had brought up.

All the tenderness and love of her nature, so hidden from others that

they could not imagine their existence, were lavished upon him. She

could not bear him away from her, and he, with that respect for

authority which the age demanded, would not go without her blessing and

consent.

So it came about that Nigel, with his lion heart and with the blood of

a hundred soldiers thrilling in his veins, still at the age of two and

twenty, wasted the weary days reclaiming his hawks with leash and lure

or training the alans and spaniels who shared with the family the big

earthen-floored hall of the manor-house.

Day by day the aged Lady Ermyntrude had seen him wax in strength and in

manhood, small of stature, it is true, but with muscles of steel—and a

soul of fire. From all parts, from the warden of Guildford Castle, from

the tilt-yard of Farnham, tales of his prowess were brought back to

her, of his daring as a rider, of his debonair courage, of his skill

with all weapons; but still she, who had both husband and son torn from

her by a bloody death, could not bear that this, the last of the

Lorings, the final bud of so famous an old tree, should share the same

fate. With a weary heart, but with a smiling face, he bore with his

uneventful days, while she would ever put off the evil time until the

harvest was better, until the monks of Waverley should give up what

they had taken, until his uncle should die and leave money for his

outfit, or any other excuse with which she could hold him to her side.

And indeed, there was need for a man at Tilford, for the strife betwixt

the Abbey and the manor-house had never been appeased, and still on one

pretext or another the monks would clip off yet one more slice of their

neighbor’s land. Over the winding river, across the green meadows, rose

the short square tower and the high gray walls of the grim Abbey, with

its bell tolling by day and night, a voice of menace and of dread to

the little household.

It is in the heart of the great Cistercian monastery that this

chronicle of old days must take its start, as we trace the feud betwixt

the monks and the house of Loring, with those events to which it gave

birth, ending with the coming of Chandos, the strange spear-running of

Tilford Bridge and the deeds with which Nigel won fame in the wars.

Elsewhere, in the chronicle of the White Company, it has been set forth

what manner of man was Nigel Loring. Those who love him may read herein

those things which went to his making. Let us go back together and gaze

upon this green stage of England, the scenery, hill, plain and river

even as now, the actors in much our very selves, in much also so

changed in thought and act that they might be dwellers in another world

to ours.

II.

HOW THE DEVIL CAME TO WAVERLEY

The day was the first of May, which was the Festival of the Blessed

Apostles Philip and James. The year was the 1,349th from man’s

salvation.

From tierce to sext, and then again from sext to nones, Abbot John of

the House of Waverley had been seated in his study while he conducted

the many high duties of his office. All around for many a mile on every

side stretched the fertile and flourishing estate of which he was the

master. In the center lay the broad Abbey buildings, with church and

cloisters, hospitium, chapter-house and frater-house, all buzzing with

a busy life. Through the open window came the low hum of the voices of

the brethren as they walked in pious converse in the ambulatory below.

From across the cloister there rolled the distant rise and fall of a

Gregorian chant, where the precentor was hard at work upon the choir,

while down in the chapter-house sounded the strident voice of Brother

Peter, expounding the rule of Saint Bernard to the novices.

Abbot John rose to stretch his cramped limbs. He looked out at the

greensward of the cloister, and at the graceful line of open Gothic

arches which skirted a covered walk for the brethren within. Two and

two in their black-and-white garb with slow step and heads inclined,

they paced round and round. Several of the more studious had brought

their illuminating work from the scriptorium, and sat in the warm

sunshine with their little platters of pigments and packets of

gold-leaf before them, their shoulders rounded and their faces sunk low

over the white sheets of vellum. There too was the copper-worker with

his burin and graver. Learning and art were not traditions with the

Cistercians as with the parent Order of the Benedictines, and yet the

library of Waverley was well filled both with precious books and with

pious students.

But the true glory of the Cistercian lay in his outdoor work, and so

ever and anon there passed through the cloister some sunburned monk,

soiled mattock or shovel in hand, with his gown looped to his knee,

fresh from the fields or the garden. The lush green water-meadows

speckled with the heavy-fleeced sheep, the acres of corn-land reclaimed

from heather and bracken, the vineyards on the southern slope of

Crooksbury Hill, the rows of Hankley fish-ponds, the Frensham marshes

drained and sown with vegetables, the spacious pigeon-cotes, all

circled the great Abbey round with the visible labors of the Order.

The Abbot’s full and florid face shone with a quiet content as he

looked out at his huge but well-ordered household. Like every head of a

prosperous Abbey, Abbot John, the fourth of the name, was a man of

various accomplishments. Through his own chosen instruments he had to

minister a great estate and to keep order and decorum among a large

body of men living a celibate life. He was a rigid disciplinarian

toward all beneath him, a supple diplomatist to all above. He held high

debate with neighboring abbots and lords, with bishops, with papal

legates, and even on occasion with the King’s majesty himself. Many

were the subjects with which he must be conversant. Questions of

doctrine, questions of building, points of forestry, of agriculture, of

drainage, of feudal law, all came to the Abbot for settlement. He held

the scales of justice in all the Abbey banlieue which stretched over

many a mile of Hampshire and of Surrey. To the monks his displeasure

might mean fasting, exile to some sterner community, or even

imprisonment in chains. Over the layman also he could hold any

punishment save only corporeal death, instead of which he had in hand

the far more dreadful weapon of spiritual excommunication.

Such were the powers of the Abbot, and it is no wonder that there were

masterful lines in the ruddy features of Abbot John, or that the

brethren, glancing up, should put on an even meeker carriage and more

demure expression as they saw the watchful face in the window above

them.

A knock at the door of his studio recalled the Abbot to his immediate

duties, and he returned to his desk. Already he had spoken with his

cellarer and prior, almoner, chaplain and lector, but now in the tall

and gaunt monk who obeyed his summons to enter he recognized the most

important and also the most importunate of his agents, Brother Samuel

the sacrist, whose office, corresponding to that of the layman’s

bailiff, placed the material interests of the monastery and its

dealings with the outer world entirely under his control, subject only

to the check of the Abbot. Brother Samuel was a gnarled and stringy old

monk whose stern and sharp-featured face reflected no light from above

but only that sordid workaday world toward which it was forever turned.

A huge book of accounts was tucked under one of his arms, while a great

bunch of keys hung from the other hand, a badge of his office, and also

on occasion of impatience a weapon of offense, as many a scarred head

among rustics and lay brothers could testify.

The Abbot sighed wearily, for he suffered much at the hands of his

strenuous agent. “Well, Brother Samuel, what is your will?” he asked.

“Holy father, I have to report that I have sold the wool to Master

Baldwin of Winchester at two shillings a bale more than it fetched last

year, for the murrain among the sheep has raised the price.”

“You have done well, brother.”

“I have also to tell you that I have distrained Wat the warrener from

his cottage, for his Christmas rent is still unpaid, nor the hen-rents

of last year.”

“He has a wife and four children, brother.” He was a good, easy man,

the Abbot, though liable to be overborne by his sterner subordinate.

“It is true, holy father; but if I should pass him, then how am I to

ask the rent of the foresters of Puttenham, or the hinds in the

village? Such a thing spreads from house to house, and where then is

the wealth of Waverley?”

“What else, Brother Samuel?”

“There is the matter of the fish-ponds.”

The Abbot’s face brightened. It was a subject upon which he was an

authority. If the rule of his Order had robbed him of the softer joys

of life, he had the keener zest for those which remained.

“How have the char prospered, brother?”

“They have done well, holy father, but the carp have died in the

Abbot’s pond.”

“Carp prosper only upon a gravel bottom. They must be put in also in

their due proportion, three milters to one spawner, brother sacrist,

and the spot must be free from wind, stony and sandy, an ell deep, with

willows and grass upon the banks. Mud for tench, brother, gravel for

carp.”

The sacrist leaned forward with the face of one who bears tidings of

woe. “There are pike in the Abbot’s pond,” said he.

“Pike!” cried the Abbot in horror. “As well shut up a wolf in our

sheepfold. How came a pike in the pond? There were no pike last year,

and a pike does not fall with the rain nor rise in the springs. The

pond must be drained, or we shall spend next Lent upon stockfish, and

have the brethren down with the great sickness ere Easter Sunday has

come to absolve us from our abstinence.”

“The pond shall be drained, holy father; I have already ordered it.

Then we shall plant pot-herbs on the mud bottom, and after we have

gathered them in, return the fish and water once more from the lower

pond, so that they may fatten among the rich stubble.”

“Good!” cried the Abbot. “I would have three fish-stews in every

well-ordered house—one dry for herbs, one shallow for the fry and the

yearlings, and one deep for the breeders and the tablefish. But still,

I have not heard you say how the pike came in the Abbot’s pond.”

A spasm of anger passed over the fierce face of the sacrist, and his

keys rattled as his bony hand clasped them more tightly. “Young Nigel

Loring!” said he. “He swore that he would do us scathe, and in this way

he has done it.”

“How know you this?”

“Six weeks ago he was seen day by day fishing for pike at the great

Lake of Frensham. Twice at night he has been met with a bundle of straw

under his arm on the Hankley Down. Well, I wot that the straw was wet

and that a live pike lay within it.”

The Abbot shook his head. “I have heard much of this youth’s wild ways;

but now indeed he has passed all bounds if what you say be truth. It

was bad enough when it was said that he slew the King’s deer in Woolmer

Chase, or broke the head of Hobbs the chapman, so that he lay for seven

days betwixt life and death in our infirmary, saved only by Brother

Peter’s skill in the pharmacies of herbs; but to put pike in the

Abbot’s pond—why should he play such a devil’s prank?”

“Because he hates the House of Waverley, holy father; because he swears

that we hold his father’s land.”

“In which there is surely some truth.”

“But, holy father, we hold no more than the law has allowed.”

“True, brother, and yet between ourselves, we may admit that the

heavier purse may weigh down the scales of Justice. When I have passed

the old house and have seen that aged woman with her ruddled cheeks and

her baleful eyes look the curses she dare not speak, I have many a time

wished that we had other neighbors.”

“That we can soon bring about, holy father. Indeed, it is of it that I

wished to speak to you. Surely it is not hard for us to drive them from

the country-side. There are thirty years’ claims of escuage unsettled,

and there is Sergeant Wilkins, the lawyer of Guildford, whom I will

warrant to draw up such arrears of dues and rents and issues of hidage

and fodder-corn that these folk, who are as beggarly as they are proud,

will have to sell the roof-tree over them ere they can meet them.

Within three days I will have them at our mercy.”

“They are an ancient family and of good repute. I would not treat them

too harshly, brother.”

“Bethink you of the pike in the carp pond!”

The Abbot hardened his heart at the thought. “It was indeed a devil’s

deed—when we had but newly stocked it with char and with carp. Well,

well, the law is the law, and if you can use it to hurt, it is still

lawful to do so. Have these claims been advanced?”

“Deacon the bailiff with his two varlets went down to the Hall

yesternight on the matter of the escuage, and came screaming back with

this young hothead raging at their heels. He is small and slight, yet

he has the strength of many men in the hour of his wrath. The bailiff

swears that he will go no more, save with half a score of archers to

uphold him.”

The Abbot was red with anger at this new offense. “I will teach him

that the servants of Holy Church, even though we of the rule of Saint

Bernard be the lowliest and humblest of her children, can still defend

their own against the froward and the violent! Go, cite this man before

the Abbey court. Let him appear in the chapter-house after tierce

to-morrow.”

But the wary sacrist shook his head: “Nay, holy father, the times are

not yet ripe. Give me three days, I pray you, that my case against him

may be complete. Bear in mind that the father and the grandfather of

this unruly squire were both famous men of their day and the foremost

knights in the King’s own service, living in high honor and dying in

their knightly duty. The Lady Ermyntrude Loring was first lady to the

King’s mother. Roger FitzAlan of Farnham and Sir Hugh Walcott of

Guildford Castle were each old comrades-in-arms of Nigel’s father, and

sib to him on the distaff side. Already there has been talk that we

have dealt harshly with them. Therefore, my rede is that we be wise and

wary and wait until his cup be indeed full.”

The Abbot had opened his mouth to reply, when the consultation was

interrupted by a most unwonted buzz of excitement from among the monks

in the cloister below. Questions and answers in excited voices sounded

from one side of the ambulatory to the other. Sacrist and Abbot were

gazing at each other in amazement at such a breach of the discipline

and decorum of their well-trained flock, when there came a swift step

upon the stair, and a white-faced brother flung open the door and

rushed into the room.

“Father Abbot!” he cried. “Alas, alas! Brother John is dead, and the

holy subprior is dead, and the Devil is loose in the five-virgate

field!”

III.

THE YELLOW HORSE OF CROOKSBURY

In those simple times there was a great wonder and mystery in life. Man

walked in fear and solemnity, with Heaven very close above his head,

and Hell below his very feet. God’s visible hand was everywhere, in the

rainbow and the comet, in the thunder and the wind. The Devil too raged

openly upon the earth; he skulked behind the hedge-rows in the

gloaming; he laughed loudly in the night-time; he clawed the dying

sinner, pounced on the unbaptized babe, and twisted the limbs of the

epileptic. A foul fiend slunk ever by a man’s side and whispered

villainies in his ear, while above him there hovered an angel of grace

who pointed to the steep and narrow track. How could one doubt these

things, when Pope and priest and scholar and King were all united in

believing them, with no single voice of question in the whole wide

world?

Every book read, every picture seen, every tale heard from nurse or

mother, all taught the same lesson. And as a man traveled through the

world his faith would grow the firmer, for go where he would there were

the endless shrines of the saints, each with its holy relic in the

center, and around it the tradition of incessant miracles, with stacks

of deserted crutches and silver votive hearts to prove them. At every

turn he was made to feel how thin was the veil, and how easily rent,

which screened him from the awful denizens of the unseen world.

Hence the wild announcement of the frightened monk seemed terrible

rather than incredible to those whom he addressed. The Abbot’s ruddy

face paled for a moment, it is true, but he plucked the crucifix from

his desk and rose valiantly to his feet.

“Lead me to him!” said he. “Show me the foul fiend who dares to lay his

grip upon brethren of the holy house of Saint Bernard! Run down to my

chaplain, brother! Bid him bring the exorcist with him, and also the

blessed box of relics, and the bones of Saint James from under the

altar! With these and a contrite and humble heart we may show front to

all the powers of darkness.”

But the sacrist was of a more critical turn of mind. He clutched the

monk’s arm with a grip which left its five purple spots for many a day

to come.

“Is this the way to enter the Abbot’s own chamber, without knock or

reverence, or so much as a ‘Pax vobiscum’?” said he sternly. “You were

wont to be our gentlest novice, of lowly carriage in chapter, devout in

psalmody and strict in the cloister. Pull your wits together and answer

me straightly. In what form has the foul fiend appeared, and how has he

done this grievous scathe to our brethren? Have you seen him with your

own eyes, or do you repeat from hearsay? Speak, man, or you stand on

the penance-stool in the chapter-house this very hour!”

Thus adjured, the frightened monk grew calmer in his bearing, though

his white lips and his startled eyes, with the gasping of his breath,

told of his inward tremors.

“If it please you, holy father, and you, reverend sacrist, it came

about in this way. James the subprior, and Brother John and I had spent

our day from sext onward on Hankley, cutting bracken for the

cow-houses. We were coming back over the five-virgate field, and the

holy subprior was telling us a saintly tale from the life of Saint

Gregory, when there came a sudden sound like a rushing torrent, and the

foul fiend sprang over the high wall which skirts the water-meadow and

rushed upon us with the speed of the wind. The lay brother he struck to

the ground and trampled into the mire. Then, seizing the good subprior

in his teeth, he rushed round the field, swinging him as though he were

a fardel of old clothes.

“Amazed at such a sight, I stood without movement and had said a credo

and three aves, when the Devil dropped the subprior and sprang upon me.

With the help of Saint Bernard I clambered over the wall, but not

before his teeth had found my leg, and he had torn away the whole back

skirt of my gown.” As he spoke he turned and gave corroboration to his

story by the hanging ruins of his long trailing garment.

“In what shape then did Satan appear?” the Abbot demanded.

“As a great yellow horse, holy father—a monster horse, with eyes of

fire and the teeth of a griffin.”

“A yellow horse!” The sacrist glared at the scared monk. “You foolish

brother! How will you behave when you have indeed to face the King of

Terrors himself if you can be so frightened by the sight of a yellow

horse? It is the horse of Franklin Aylward, my father, which has been

distrained by us because he owes the Abbey fifty good shillings and can

never hope to pay it. Such a horse, they say, is not to be found

betwixt this and the King’s stables at Windsor, for his sire was a

Spanish destrier, and his dam an Arab mare of the very breed which

Saladin, whose soul now reeks in Hell, kept for his own use, and even

it has been said under the shelter of his own tent. I took him in

discharge of the debt, and I ordered the varlets who had haltered him

to leave him alone in the water-meadow, for I have heard that the beast

has indeed a most evil spirit, and has killed more men than one.”

“It was an ill day for Waverley that you brought such a monster within

its bounds,” said the Abbot. “If the subprior and Brother John be

indeed dead, then it would seem that if the horse be not the Devil he

is at least the Devil’s instrument.”

“Horse or Devil, holy father, I heard him shout with joy as he trampled

upon Brother John, and had you seen him tossing the subprior as a dog

shakes a rat you would perchance have felt even as I did.”

“Come then,” cried the Abbot, “let us see with our own eyes what evil

has been done.”

And the three monks hurried down the stair which led to the cloisters.

They had no sooner descended than their more pressing fears were set at

rest, for at that very moment, limping, disheveled and mud-stained, the

two sufferers were being led in amid a crowd of sympathizing brethren.

Shouts and cries from outside showed, however, that some further drama

was in progress, and both Abbot and sacrist hastened onward as fast as

the dignity of their office would permit, until they had passed the

gates and gained the wall of the meadow. Looking over it, a remarkable

sight presented itself to their eyes.

Fetlock deep in the lush grass there stood a magnificent horse, such a

horse as a sculptor or a soldier might thrill to see. His color was a

light chestnut, with mane and tail of a more tawny tint. Seventeen

hands high, with a barrel and haunches which bespoke tremendous

strength, he fined down to the most delicate lines of dainty breed in

neck and crest and shoulder. He was indeed a glorious sight as he stood

there, his beautiful body leaning back from his wide-spread and propped

fore legs, his head craned high, his ears erect, his mane bristling,

his red nostrils opening and shutting with wrath, and his flashing eyes

turning from side to side in haughty menace and defiance.

Scattered round in a respectful circle, six of the Abbey lay servants

and foresters, each holding a halter, were creeping toward him. Every

now and then, with a beautiful toss and swerve and plunge, the great

creature would turn upon one of his would-be captors, and with

outstretched head, flying mane and flashing teeth, would chase him

screaming to the safety of the wall, while the others would close

swiftly in behind and cast their ropes in the hope of catching neck or

leg, but only in their turn to be chased to the nearest refuge.

Had two of these ropes settled upon the horse, and had their throwers

found some purchase of stump or boulder by which they could hold them,

then the man’s brain might have won its wonted victory over swiftness

and strength. But the brains were themselves at fault which imagined

that one such rope would serve any purpose save to endanger the

thrower.

Yet so it was, and what might have been foreseen occurred at the very

moment of the arrival of the monks. The horse, having chased one of his

enemies to the wall, remained so long snorting his contempt over the

coping that the others were able to creep upon him from behind. Several

ropes were flung, and one noose settled over the proud crest and lost

itself in the waving mane. In an instant the creature had turned and

the men were flying for their lives; but he who had cast the rope

lingered, uncertain what use to make of his own success. That moment of

doubt was fatal. With a yell of dismay, the man saw the great creature

rear above him. Then with a crash the fore feet fell upon him and

dashed him to the ground. He rose screaming, was hurled over once more,

and lay a quivering, bleeding heap, while the savage horse, the most

cruel and terrible in its anger of all creatures on earth, bit and

shook and trampled the writhing body.

A loud wail of horror rose from the lines of tonsured heads which

skirted the high wall—a wail which suddenly died away into a long

hushed silence, broken at last by a rapturous cry of thanksgiving and

of joy.

On the road which led to the old dark manor-house upon the side of the

hill a youth had been riding. His mount was a sorry one, a weedy,

shambling, long-haired colt, and his patched tunic of faded purple with

stained leather belt presented no very smart appearance; yet in the

bearing of the man, in the poise of his head, in his easy graceful

carriage, and in the bold glance of his large blue eyes, there was that

stamp of distinction and of breed which would have given him a place of

his own in any assembly. He was of small stature, but his frame was

singularly elegant and graceful. His face, though tanned with the

weather, was delicate in features and most eager and alert in

expression. A thick fringe of crisp yellow curls broke from under the

dark flat cap which he was wearing, and a short golden beard hid the

outline of his strong square chin. One white osprey feather thrust

through a gold brooch in the front of his cap gave a touch of grace to

his somber garb. This and other points of his attire, the short hanging

mantle, the leather-sheathed hunting-knife, the cross belt which

sustained a brazen horn, the soft doe-skin boots and the prick spurs,

would all disclose themselves to an observer; but at the first glance

the brown face set in gold and the dancing light of the quick,

reckless, laughing eyes, were the one strong memory left behind.

Such was the youth who, cracking his whip joyously, and followed by

half a score of dogs, cantered on his rude pony down the Tilford Lane,

and thence it was that with a smile of amused contempt upon his face he

observed the comedy in the field and the impotent efforts of the

servants of Waverley.

Suddenly, however, as the comedy turned swiftly to black tragedy, this

passive spectator leaped into quick strenuous life. With a spring he

was off his pony, and with another he was over the stone wall and

flying swiftly across the field. Looking up from his victim, the great

yellow horse saw this other enemy approach, and spurning the prostrate,

but still writhing body with its heels, dashed at the newcomer.

But this time there was no hasty flight, no rapturous pursuit to the

wall. The little man braced himself straight, flung up his metal-headed

whip, and met the horse with a crashing blow upon the head, repeated

again and again with every attack. In vain the horse reared and tried

to overthrow its enemy with swooping shoulders and pawing hoofs. Cool,

swift and alert, the man sprang swiftly aside from under the very

shadow of death, and then again came the swish and thud of the unerring

blow from the heavy handle.

The horse drew off, glared with wonder and fury at this masterful man,

and then trotted round in a circle, with mane bristling, tail streaming

and ears on end, snorting in its rage and pain. The man, hardly

deigning to glance at his fell neighbor, passed on to the wounded

forester, raised him in his arms with a strength which could not have

been expected in so slight a body, and carried him, groaning, to the

wall, where a dozen hands were outstretched to help him over. Then, at

his leisure, the young man also climbed the wall, smiling back with

cool contempt at the yellow horse, which had come raging after him once

more.

As he sprang down, a dozen monks surrounded him to thank him or to

praise him; but he would have turned sullenly away without a word had

he not been stopped by Abbot John in person.

“Nay, Squire Loring,” said he, “if you be a bad friend to our Abbey,

yet we must needs own that you have played the part of a good Christian

this day, for if there is breath left in our servant’s body it is to

you next to our blessed patron Saint Bernard that we owe it.”

“By Saint Paul! I owe you no good-will, Abbot John,” said the young

man. “The shadow of your Abbey has ever fallen across the house of

Loring. As to any small deed that I may have done this day, I ask no

thanks for it. It is not for you nor for your house that I have done

it, but only because it was my pleasure so to do.”

The Abbot flushed at the bold words, and bit his lip with vexation.

It was the sacrist, however, who answered: “It would be more fitting

and more gracious,” said he, “if you were to speak to the holy Father

Abbot in a manner suited to his high rank and to the respect which is

due to a Prince of the Church.”

The youth turned his bold blue eyes upon the monk, and his sunburned

face darkened with anger. “Were it not for the gown upon your back, and

for your silvering hair, I would answer you in another fashion,” said

he. “You are the lean wolf which growls ever at our door, greedy for

the little which hath been left to us. Say and do what you will with

me, but by Saint Paul! if I find that Dame Ermyntrude is baited by your

ravenous pack I will beat them off with this whip from the little patch

which still remains of all the acres of my fathers.”

“Have a care, Nigel Loring, have a care!” cried the Abbot, with finger

upraised. “Have you no fears of the law of England?”

“A just law I fear and obey.”

“Have you no respect for Holy Church?”

“I respect all that is holy in her. I do not respect those who grind

the poor or steal their neighbor’s land.”

“Rash man, many a one has been blighted by her ban for less than you

have now said! And yet it is not for us to judge you harshly this day.

You are young and hot words come easily to your lips. How fares the

forester?”

“His hurt is grievous, Father Abbot, but he will live,” said a brother,

looking up from the prostrate form. “With a blood-letting and an

electuary, I will warrant him sound within a month.”

“Then bear him to the hospital. And now, brother, about this terrible

beast who still gazes and snorts at us over the top of the wall as

though his thoughts of Holy Church were as uncouth as those of Squire

Nigel himself, what are we to do with him?”

“Here is Franklin Aylward,” said one of the brethren. “The horse was

his, and doubtless he will take it back to his farm.”

But the stout red-faced farmer shook his head at the proposal. “Not I,

in faith!” said he. “The beast hath chased me twice round the paddock;

it has nigh slain my boy Samkin. He would never be happy till he had

ridden it, nor has he ever been happy since. There is not a hind in my

employ who will enter his stall. Ill fare the day that ever I took the

beast from the Castle stud at Guildford, where they could do nothing

with it and no rider could be found bold enough to mount it! When the

sacrist here took it for a fifty-shilling debt he made his own bargain

and must abide by it. He comes no more to the Crooksbury farm.”

“And he stays no more here,” said the Abbot. “Brother sacrist, you have

raised the Devil, and it is for you to lay it again.”

“That I will most readily,” cried the sacrist. “The pittance-master can

stop the fifty shillings from my very own weekly dole, and so the Abbey

be none the poorer. In the meantime here is Wat with his arbalist and a

bolt in his girdle. Let him drive it to the head through this cursed

creature, for his hide and his hoofs are of more value than his wicked

self.”

A hard brown old woodman who had been shooting vermin in the Abbey

groves stepped forward with a grin of pleasure. After a lifetime of

stoats and foxes, this was indeed a noble quarry which was to fall

before him. Fitting a bolt on the nut of his taut crossbow, he had

raised it to his shoulder and leveled it at the fierce, proud,

disheveled head which tossed in savage freedom at the other side of the

wall. His finger was crooked on the spring, when a blow from a whip

struck the bow upward and the bolt flew harmless over the Abbey

orchard, while the woodman shrank abashed from Nigel Loring’s angry

eyes.

“Keep your bolts for your weasels!” said he. “Would you take life from

a creature whose only fault is that its spirit is so high that it has

met none yet who dare control it? You would slay such a horse as a king

might be proud to mount, and all because a country franklin, or a monk,

or a monk’s varlet, has not the wit nor the hands to master him?”

The sacrist turned swiftly on the Squire. “The Abbey owes you an

offering for this day’s work, however rude your words may be,” said he.

“If you think so much of the horse, you may desire to own it. If I am

to pay for it, then with the holy Abbot’s permission it is in my gift

and I bestow it freely upon you.”

The Abbot plucked at his subordinate’s sleeve. “Bethink you, brother

sacrist,” he whispered, “shall we not have this man’s blood upon our

heads?”

“His pride is as stubborn as the horse’s, holy father,” the sacrist

answered, his gaunt fact breaking into a malicious smile. “Man or

beast, one will break the other and the world will be the better for

it. If you forbid me—”

“Nay, brother, you have bought the horse, and you may have the bestowal

of it.”

“Then I give it—hide and hoofs, tail and temper—to Nigel Loring, and

may it be as sweet and as gentle to him as he hath been to the Abbot of

Waverley!”

The sacrist spoke aloud amid the tittering of the monks, for the man

concerned was out of earshot. At the first words which had shown him

the turn which affairs had taken he had run swiftly to the spot where

he had left his pony. From its mouth he removed the bit and the stout

bridle which held it. Then leaving the creature to nibble the grass by

the wayside he sped back whence he came.

“I take your gift, monk,” said he, “though I know well why it is that

you give it. Yet I thank you, for there are two things upon earth for

which I have ever yearned, and which my thin purse could never buy. The

one is a noble horse, such a horse as my father’s son should have

betwixt his thighs, and here is the one of all others which I would

have chosen, since some small deed is to be done in the winning of him,

and some honorable advancement to be gained. How is the horse called?”

“Its name,” said the franklin, “is Pommers. I warn you, young sir, that

none may ride him, for many have tried, and the luckiest is he who has

only a staved rib to show for it.”

“I thank you for your rede,” said Nigel, “and now I see that this is

indeed a horse which I would journey far to meet. I am your man,

Pommers, and you are my horse, and this night you shall own it or I

will never need horse again. My spirit against thine, and God hold thy

spirit high, Pommers, so that the greater be the adventure, and the

more hope of honor gained!”

While he spoke the young Squire had climbed on to the top of the wall

and stood there balanced, the very image of grace and spirit and

gallantry, his bridle hanging from one hand and his whip grasped in the

other. With a fierce snort, the horse made for him instantly, and his

white teeth flashed as he snapped; but again a heavy blow from the

loaded whip caused him to swerve, and even at the instant of the

swerve, measuring the distance with steady eyes, and bending his supple

body for the spring, Nigel bounded into the air and fell with his legs

astride the broad back of the yellow horse. For a minute, with neither

saddle nor stirrups to help him, and the beast ramping and rearing like

a mad thing beneath him, he was hard pressed to hold his own. His legs

were like two bands of steel welded on to the swelling arches of the

great horse’s ribs, and his left hand was buried deep in the tawny

mane.

Never had the dull round of the lives of the gentle brethren of

Waverley been broken by so fiery a scene. Springing to right and

swooping to left, now with its tangled wicked head betwixt its

forefeet, and now pawing eight feet high in the air, with scarlet,

furious nostrils and maddened eyes, the yellow horse was a thing of

terror and of beauty. But the lithe figure on his back, bending like a

reed in the wind to every movement, firm below, pliant above, with calm

inexorable face, and eyes which danced and gleamed with the joy of

contest, still held its masterful place for all that the fiery heart

and the iron muscles of the great beast could do.

Once a long drone of dismay rose from the monks, as rearing higher and

higher yet a last mad effort sent the creature toppling over backward

upon its rider. But, swift and cool, he had writhed from under it ere

it fell, spurned it with his foot as it rolled upon the earth, and then

seizing its mane as it rose swung himself lightly on to its back once

more. Even the grim sacrist could not but join the cheer, as Pommers,

amazed to find the rider still upon his back, plunged and curveted down

the field.

But the wild horse only swelled into a greater fury. In the sullen

gloom of its untamed heart there rose the furious resolve to dash the

life from this clinging rider, even if it meant destruction to beast

and man. With red, blazing eyes it looked round for death. On three

sides the five-virgate field was bounded by a high wall, broken only at

one spot by a heavy four-foot wooden gate. But on the fourth side was a

low gray building, one of the granges of the Abbey, presenting a long

flank unbroken by door or window. The horse stretched itself into a

gallop, and headed straight for that craggy thirty-foot wall. He would

break in red ruin at the base of it if he could but dash forever the

life of this man, who claimed mastery over that which had never found

its master yet.

The great haunches gathered under it, the eager hoofs drummed the

grass, as faster and still more fast the frantic horse bore himself and

his rider toward the wall. Would Nigel spring off? To do so would be to

bend his will to that of the beast beneath him. There was a better way

than that. Cool, quick and decided, the man swiftly passed both whip

and bridle into the left hand which still held the mane. Then with the

right he slipped his short mantle from his shoulders and lying forward

along the creature’s strenuous, rippling back he cast the flapping

cloth over the horse’s eyes.

The result was but too successful, for it nearly brought about the

downfall of the rider. When those red eyes straining for death were

suddenly shrouded in unexpected darkness the amazed horse propped on

its forefeet and came to so dead a stop that Nigel was shot forward on

to its neck and hardly held himself by his hair-entwined hand. Ere he

had slid back into position the moment of danger had passed, for the

horse, its purpose all blurred in its mind by this strange thing which

had befallen, wheeled round once more, trembling in every fiber, and

tossing its petulant head until at last the mantle had been slipped

from its eyes and the chilling darkness had melted into the homely

circle of sunlit grass once more.

But what was this new outrage which had been inflicted upon it? What

was this defiling bar of iron which was locked hard against its mouth?

What were these straps which galled the tossing neck, this band which

spanned its chest? In those instants of stillness ere the mantle had

been plucked away Nigel had lain forward, had slipped the snaffle

between the champing teeth, and had deftly secured it.

Blind, frantic fury surged in the yellow horse’s heart once more at

this new degradation, this badge of serfdom and infamy. His spirit rose

high and menacing at the touch. He loathed this place, these people,

all and everything which threatened his freedom. He would have done

with them forever; he would see them no more. Let him away to the

uttermost parts of the earth, to the great plains where freedom is.

Anywhere over the far horizon where he could get away from the defiling

bit and the insufferable mastery of man.

He turned with a rush, and one magnificent deer-like bound carried him

over the four-foot gate. Nigel’s hat had flown off, and his yellow

curls streamed behind him as he rose and fell in the leap. They were in

the water-meadow now, and the rippling stream twenty feet wide gleamed

in front of them running down to the main current of the Wey. The

yellow horse gathered his haunches under him and flew over like an

arrow. He took off from behind a boulder and cleared a furze-bush on

the farther side. Two stones still mark the leap from hoof-mark to

hoof-mark, and they are eleven good paces apart. Under the hanging

branch of the great oak-tree on the farther side (that _Quercus

Tilfordiensis ordiensis_ is still shown as the bound of the Abby’s

immediate precincts) the great horse passed. He had hoped to sweep off

his rider, but Nigel sank low on the heaving back with his face buried

in the flying mane. The rough bough rasped him rudely, but never shook

his spirit nor his grip. Rearing, plunging and struggling, Pommers

broke through the sapling grove and was out on the broad stretch of

Hankley Down.

And now came such a ride as still lingers in the gossip of the lowly

country folk and forms the rude jingle of that old Surrey ballad, now

nearly forgotten, save for the refrain:

The Doe that sped on Hinde Head,

The Kestril on the winde,

And Nigel on the Yellow Horse

Can leave the world behinde.

Before them lay a rolling ocean of dark heather, knee-deep, swelling in

billow on billow up to the clear-cut hill before them. Above stretched

one unbroken arch of peaceful blue, with a sun which was sinking down

toward the Hampshire hills. Through the deep heather, down the gullies,

over the watercourses, up the broken slopes, Pommers flew, his great

heart bursting with rage, and every fiber quivering at the indignities

which he had endured.

And still, do what he would, the man clung fast to his heaving sides

and to his flying mane, silent, motionless, inexorable, letting him do

what he would, but fixed as Fate upon his purpose. Over Hankley Down,

through Thursley Marsh, with the reeds up to his mud-splashed withers,

onward up the long slope of the Headland of the Hinds, down by the

Nutcombe Gorge, slipping, blundering, bounding, but never slackening

his fearful speed, on went the great yellow horse. The villagers of

Shottermill heard the wild clatter of hoofs, but ere they could swing

the ox-hide curtains of their cottage doors horse and rider were lost

amid the high bracken of the Haslemere Valley. On he went, and on,

tossing the miles behind his flying hoofs. No marsh-land could clog

him, no hill could hold him back. Up the slope of Linchmere and the

long ascent of Fernhurst he thundered as on the level, and it was not

until he had flown down the incline of Henley Hill, and the gray castle

tower of Midhurst rose over the coppice in front, that at last the

eager outstretched neck sank a little on the breast, and the breath

came quick and fast. Look where he would in woodland and on down, his

straining eyes could catch no sign of those plains of freedom which he

sought.

And yet another outrage! It was bad that this creature should still

cling so tight upon his back, but now he would even go to the

intolerable length of checking him and guiding him on the way that he

would have him go. There was a sharp pluck at his mouth, and his head

was turned north once more. As well go that way as another, but the man

was mad indeed if he thought that such a horse as Pommers was at the

end of his spirit or his strength. He would soon show him that he was

unconquered, if it strained his sinews or broke his heart to do so.

Back then he flew up the long, long ascent. Would he ever get to the

end of it? Yet he would not own that he could go no farther while the

man still kept his grip. He was white with foam and caked with mud. His

eyes were gorged with blood, his mouth open and gasping, his nostrils

expanded, his coat stark and reeking. On he flew down the long Sunday

Hill until he reached the deep Kingsley Marsh at the bottom. No, it was

too much! Flesh and blood could go no farther. As he struggled out from

the reedy slime with the heavy black mud still clinging to his

fetlocks, he at last eased down with sobbing breath and slowed the

tumultuous gallop to a canter.

Oh, crowning infamy! Was there no limit to these degradations? He was

no longer even to choose his own pace. Since he had chosen to gallop so

far at his own will he must now gallop farther still at the will of

another. A spur struck home on either flank. A stinging whip-lash fell

across his shoulder. He bounded his own height in the air at the pain

and the shame of it. Then, forgetting his weary limbs, forgetting his

panting, reeking sides, forgetting everything save this intolerable

insult and the burning spirit within, he plunged off once more upon his

furious gallop. He was out on the heather slopes again and heading for

Weydown Common. On he flew and on. But again his brain failed him and

again his limbs trembled beneath him, and yet again he strove to ease

his pace, only to be driven onward by the cruel spur and the falling

lash. He was blind and giddy with fatigue.

He saw no longer where he placed his feet, he cared no longer whither

he went, but his one mad longing was to get away from this dreadful

thing, this torture which clung to him and would not let him go.

Through Thursley village he passed, his eyes straining in his agony,

his heart bursting within him, and he had won his way to the crest of

Thursley Down, still stung forward by stab and blow, when his spirit

weakened, his giant strength ebbed out of him, and with one deep sob of

agony the yellow horse sank among the heather. So sudden was the fall

that Nigel flew forward over his shoulder, and beast and man lay

prostrate and gasping while the last red rim of the sun sank behind

Butser and the first stars gleamed in a violet sky.

The young Squire was the first to recover, and kneeling by the panting,

overwrought horse he passed his hand gently over the tangled mane and

down the foam-flecked face. The red eye rolled up at him; but it was

wonder not hatred, a prayer and not a threat, which he could read in

it. As he stroked the reeking muzzle, the horse whinnied gently and

thrust his nose into the hollow of his hand. It was enough. It was the

end of the contest, the acceptance of new conditions by a chivalrous

foe from a chivalrous victor.

“You are my horse, Pommers,” Nigel whispered, and he laid his cheek

against the craning head. “I know you, Pommers, and you know me, and

with the help of Saint Paul we shall teach some other folk to know us

both. Now let us walk together as far as this moorland pond, for indeed

I wot not whether it is you or I who need the water most.”

And so it was that some belated monks of Waverley passing homeward from

the outer farms saw a strange sight which they carried on with them so

that it reached that very night the ears both of sacrist and of Abbot.

For, as they passed through Tilford they had seen horse and man walking

side by side and head by head up the manor-house lane. And when they

had raised their lanterns on the pair it was none other than the young

Squire himself who was leading home, as a shepherd leads a lamb, the

fearsome yellow horse of Crooksbury.

IV.

HOW THE SUMMONER CAME TO THE MANOR HOUSE OF TILFORD

By the date of this chronicle the ascetic sternness of the old Norman

castles had been humanized and refined so that the new dwellings of the

nobility, if less imposing in appearance, were much more comfortable as

places of residence. A gentle race had built their houses rather for

peace than for war. He who compares the savage bareness of Pevensey or

Guildford with the piled grandeur of Bodmin or Windsor cannot fail to

understand the change in manners which they represent.

The earlier castles had a set purpose, for they were built that the

invaders might hold down the country; but when the Conquest was once

firmly established a castle had lost its meaning save as a refuge from

justice or as a center for civil strife. On the marches of Wales and of

Scotland the castle might continue to be a bulwark to the kingdom, and

there still grew and flourished; but in all other places they were

rather a menace to the King’s majesty, and as such were discouraged and

destroyed. By the reign of the third Edward the greater part of the old

fighting castles had been converted into dwelling-houses or had been

ruined in the civil wars, and left where their grim gray bones are

still littered upon the brows of our hills. The new buildings were

either great country-houses, capable of defense, but mainly

residential, or they were manor-houses with no military significance at

all.

Such was the Tilford Manor-house where the last survivors of the old

and magnificent house of Loring still struggled hard to keep a footing

and to hold off the monks and the lawyers from the few acres which were

left to them. The mansion was a two-storied one, framed in heavy beams

of wood, the interstices filled with rude blocks of stone. An outside

staircase led up to several sleeping-rooms above. Below there were only

two apartments, the smaller of which was the bower of the aged Lady

Ermyntrude. The other was the hall, a very large room, which served as

the living room of the family and as the common dining-room of

themselves and of their little group of servants and retainers. The

dwellings of these servants, the kitchens, the offices and the stables

were all represented by a row of penthouses and sheds behind the main

building. Here lived Charles the page, Peter the old falconer, Red

Swire who had followed Nigel’s grandfather to the Scottish wars,

Weathercote the broken minstrel, John the cook, and other survivors of

more prosperous days, who still clung to the old house as the barnacles

to some wrecked and stranded vessel.

One evening about a week after the breaking of the yellow horse, Nigel

and his grandmother sat on either side of the large empty fireplace in

this spacious apartment. The supper had been removed, and so had the

trestle tables upon which it had been served, so that the room seemed

bare and empty. The stone floor was strewed with a thick layer of green

rushes, which was swept out every Saturday and carried with it all the

dirt and débris of the week. Several dogs were now crouched among these

rushes, gnawing and cracking the bones which had been thrown from the

table. A long wooden buffet loaded with plates and dishes filled one

end of the room, but there was little other furniture save some benches

against the walls, two dorseret chairs, one small table littered with

chessmen, and a great iron coffer. In one corner was a high wickerwork

stand, and on it two stately falcons were perched, silent and

motionless, save for an occasional twinkle of their fierce yellow eyes.

But if the actual fittings of the room would have appeared scanty to

one who had lived in a more luxurious age, he would have been surprised

on looking up to see the multitude of objects which were suspended

above his head. Over the fireplace were the coats-of-arms of a number

of houses allied by blood or by marriage to the Lorings. The two

cresset-lights which flared upon each side gleamed upon the blue lion

of the Percies, the red birds of de Valence, the black engrailed cross

of de Mohun, the silver star of de Vere, and the ruddy bars of

FitzAlan, all grouped round the famous red roses on the silver shield

which the Lorings had borne to glory upon many a bloody field. Then

from side to side the room was spanned by heavy oaken beams from which

a great number of objects were hanging. There were mail-shirts of

obsolete pattern, several shields, one or two rusted and battered

helmets, bowstaves, lances, otter-spears, harness, fishing-rods, and

other implements of war or of the chase, while higher still amid the

black shadows of the peaked roof could be seen rows of hams, flitches

of bacon, salted geese, and those other forms of preserved meat which

played so great a part in the housekeeping of the Middle Ages.

Dame Ermyntrude Loring, daughter, wife, and mother of warriors, was

herself a formidable figure. Tall and gaunt, with hard craggy features

and intolerant dark eyes, even her snow-white hair and stooping back

could not entirely remove the sense of fear which she inspired in those

around her. Her thoughts and memories went back to harsher times, and

she looked upon the England around her as a degenerate and effeminate

land which had fallen away from the old standard of knightly courtesy

and valor.

The rising power of the people, the growing wealth of the Church, the

increasing luxury in life and manners, and the gentler tone of the age

were all equally abhorrent to her, so that the dread of her fierce

face, and even of the heavy oak staff with which she supported her

failing limbs, was widespread through all the country round.

Yet if she was feared she was also respected, for in days when books

were few and readers scarce, a long memory and a ready tongue were of

the more value; and where, save from Dame Ermyntrude, could the young

unlettered Squires of Surrey and Hampshire hear of their grandfathers

and their battles, or learn that lore of heraldry and chivalry which

she handed down from a ruder but a more martial age? Poor as she was,

there was no one in Surrey whose guidance would be more readily sought

upon a question of precedence or of conduct than the Dame Ermyntrude

Loring.

She sat now with bowed back by the empty fireplace, and looked across

at Nigel with all the harsh lines of her old ruddled face softening

into love and pride. The young Squire was busy cutting bird-bolts for

his crossbow, and whistling softly as he worked. Suddenly he looked up

and caught the dark eyes which were fixed upon him. He leaned forward

and patted the bony hand.

“What hath pleased you, dear dame? I read pleasure in your eyes.”

“I have heard to-day, Nigel, how you came to win that great war-horse

which stamps in our stable.”

“Nay, dame; I had told you that the monks had given it to me.”

“You said so, fair son, but never a word more. Yet the horse which you

brought home was a very different horse I wot, to that which was given

you. Why did you not tell me?”

“I should think it shame to talk of such a thing.”

“So would your father before you, and his father no less. They would

sit silent among the knights when the wine went round and listen to

every man’s deeds; but if perchance there was anyone who spoke louder

than the rest and seemed to be eager for honor, then afterwards your

father would pluck him softly by the sleeve and whisper in his ear to

learn if there was any small vow of which he could relieve him, or if

he would deign to perform some noble deed of arms upon his person. And

if the man were a braggart and would go no further, your father would

be silent and none would know it. But if he bore himself well, your

father would spread his fame far and wide, but never make mention of

himself.”

Nigel looked at the old woman with shining eyes. “I love to hear you

speak of him,” said he. “I pray you to tell me once more of the manner

of his death.”

“He died as he had lived, a very courtly gentleman. It was at the great

sea-battle upon the Norman coast, and your father was in command of the

after-guard in the King’s own ship. Now the French had taken a great

English ship the year before when they came over and held the narrow

seas and burned the town of Southampton.

“This ship was the Christopher, and they placed it in the front of

their battle; but the English closed upon it and stormed over its side,

and slew all who were upon it.

“But your father and Sir Lorredan of Genoa, who commanded the

Christopher, fought upon the high poop, so that all the fleet stopped

to watch it, and the King himself cried aloud at the sight, for Sir

Lorredan was a famous man-at-arms and bore himself very stoutly that

day, and many a knight envied your father that he should have chanced

upon so excellent a person. But your father bore him back and struck

him such a blow with a mace that he turned the helmet half round on his

head, so that he could no longer see through the eye holes, and Sir

Lorredan threw down his sword and gave himself to ransom. But your

father took him by the helmet and twisted it until he had it straight

upon his head. Then, when he could see once again, he handed him his

sword, and prayed him that he would rest himself and then continue, for

it was great profit and joy to see any gentleman carry himself so well.

So they sat together and rested by the rail of the poop; but even as

they raised their hands again your father was struck by a stone from a

mangonel and so died.”

“And this Sir Lorredan,” cried Nigel, “he died also, as I understand?”

“I fear that he was slain by the archers, for they loved your father,

and they do not see these things with our eyes.”

“It was a pity,” said Nigel; “for it is clear that he was a good knight

and bore himself very bravely.”

“Time was, when I was young, when commoners dared not have laid their

grimy hands upon such a man. Men of gentle blood and coat-armor made

war upon each other, and the others, spearmen or archers, could

scramble amongst themselves. But now all are of a level, and only here

and there one like yourself, fair son, who reminds me of the men who

are gone.”

Nigel leaned forward and took her hands in his. “What I am you have

made me,” said he.

“It is true, Nigel. I have indeed watched over you as the gardener

watches his most precious blossom, for in you alone are all the hopes

of our ancient house, and soon—very soon—you will be alone.”

“Nay, dear lady, say not that.”

“I am very old, Nigel, and I feel the shadow closing in upon me. My

heart yearns to go, for all whom I have known and loved have gone

before me. And you—it will be a blessed day for you, since I have held

you back from that world into which your brave spirit longs to plunge.”

“Nay, nay, I have been happy here with you at Tilford.”

“We are very poor, Nigel. I do not know where we may find the money to

fit you for the wars. Yet we have good friends. There is Sir John

Chandos, who has won such credit in the French wars and who rides ever

by the King’s bridle-arm. He was your father’s friend and they were

Squires together. If I sent you to court with a message to him he would

do what he could.”

Nigel’s fair face flushed. “Nay, Dame Ermyntrude, I must find my own

gear, even as I have found my own horse, for I had rather ride into

battle in this tunic than owe my suit to another.”

“I feared that you would say so, Nigel; but indeed I know not how else

we may get the money,” said the old woman sadly. “It was different in

the days of my father. I can remember that a suit of mail was but a

small matter in those days, for in every English town such things could

be made. But year by year since men have come to take more care of

their bodies, there have been added a plate of proof here and a cunning

joint there, and all must be from Toledo or Milan, so that a knight

must have much metal in his purse ere he puts any on his limbs.”

Nigel looked up wistfully at the old armor which was slung on the beams

above him. “The ash spear is good,” said he, “and so is the oaken

shield with facings of steel. Sir Roger FitzAlan handled them and said

that he had never seen better. But the armor—”

Lady Ermyntrude shook her old head and laughed. “You have your father’s

great soul, Nigel, but you have not his mighty breadth of shoulder and

length of limb. There was not in all the King’s great host a taller or

a stronger man. His harness would be little use to you. No, fair son, I

rede you that when the time comes you sell this crumbling house and the

few acres which are still left, and so go forth to the wars in the hope

that with your own right hand you will plant the fortunes of a new

house of Loring.”

A shadow of anger passed over Nigel’s fresh young face. “I know not if

we may hold off these monks and their lawyers much longer. This very

day there came a man from Guildford with claims from the Abbey

extending back before my father’s death.”

“Where are they, fair son?”

“They are flapping on the furze-bushes of Hankley, for I sent his

papers and parchments down wind as fast as ever falcon flew.”

“Nay! you were mad to do that, Nigel. And the man, where is he?”

“Red Swire and old George the archer threw him into the Thursley bog.”

“Alas! I fear me such things cannot be done in these days, though my

father or my husband would have sent the rascal back to Guildford

without his ears. But the Church and the Law are too strong now for us

who are of gentler blood. Trouble will come of it, Nigel, for the Abbot

of Waverley is not one who will hold back the shield of the Church from

those who are her servants.”

“The Abbot would not hurt us. It is that gray lean wolf of a sacrist

who hungers for our land. Let him do his worst. I fear him not.”

“He has such an engine at his back, Nigel, that even the bravest must

fear him. The ban which blasts a man’s soul is in the keeping of his

church, and what have we to place against it? I pray you to speak him

fair, Nigel.”

“Nay, dear lady, it is both my duty and my pleasure to do what you bid

me; but I would die ere I ask as a favor that which we can claim as a

right. Never can I cast my eyes from yonder window that I do not see

the swelling down-lands and the rich meadows, glade and dingle, copse

and wood, which have been ours since Norman-William gave them to that

Loring who bore his shield at Senlac. Now, by trick and fraud, they

have passed away from us, and many a franklin is a richer man than I;

but never shall it be said that I saved the rest by bending my neck to

their yoke. Let them do their worst, and let me endure it or fight it

as best I may.”

The old lady sighed and shook her head. “You speak as a Loring should,

and yet I fear that some great trouble will befall us. But let us talk

no more of such matters, since we cannot mend them. Where is your

citole, Nigel? Will you not play and sing to me?”

The gentleman of those days could scarce read and write; but he spoke

in two languages, played at least one musical instrument as a matter of

course, and possessed a number of other accomplishments, from the

imping of hawk’s feathers, to the mystery of venery, with knowledge of

every beast and bird, its time of grace and when it was seasonable. As

far as physical feats went, to vault barebacked upon a horse, to hit a

running hare with a crossbow-bolt, or to climb the angle of a castle

courtyard, were feats which had come by nature to the young Squire; but

it was very different with music, which had called for many a weary

hour of irksome work. Now at last he could master the strings, but both

his ear and his voice were not of the best, so that it was well perhaps

that there was so small and so unprejudiced an audience to the

Norman-French chanson, which he sang in a high reedy voice with great

earnestness of feeling, but with many a slip and quaver, waving his

yellow head in cadence to the music:

A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword!

For the world is all to win.

Though the way be hard and the door be barred,

The strong man enters in.

If Chance and Fate still hold the gate,

Give me the iron key,

And turret high my plume shall fly,

Or you may weep for me!

A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse!

To bear me out afar,

Where blackest need and grimmest deed

And sweetest perils are.

Hold thou my ways from glutted days

Where poisoned leisure lies,

And point the path of tears and wrath

Which mounts to high emprise!

A heart! A heart! Ah, give me a heart

To rise to circumstance!

Serene and high and bold to try

The hazard of the chance,

With strength to wait, but fixed as fate

To plan and dare and do,

The peer of all, and only thrall,

Sweet lady mine, to you!

It may have been that the sentiment went for more than the music, or it

may have been the nicety of her own ears had been dulled by age, but

old Dame Ermyntrude clapped her lean hands together and cried out in

shrill applause.

“Weathercote has indeed had an apt pupil!” she said. “I pray you that

you will sing again.”

“Nay, dear dame, it is turn and turn betwixt you and me. I beg that you

will recite a romance, you who know them all. For all the years that I

have listened I have never yet come to the end of them, and I dare

swear that there are more in your head than in all the great books

which they showed me at Guildford Castle. I would fain hear ‘Doon of

Mayence,’ or ‘The Song of Roland,’ or ‘Sir Isumbras.’”

So the old dame broke into a long poem, slow and dull in the inception,

but quickening as the interest grew, until with darting hands and

glowing face she poured forth the verses which told of the emptiness of

sordid life, the beauty of heroic death, the high sacredness of love

and the bondage of honor. Nigel, with set, still features and brooding

eyes, drank in the fiery words, until at last they died upon the old

woman’s lips and she sank back weary in her chair.

Nigel stooped over her and kissed her brow. “Your words will ever be as

a star upon my path,” said he. Then, carrying over the small table and

the chessmen, he proposed that they should play their usual game before

they sought their rooms for the night.

But a sudden and rude interruption broke in upon their gentle contest.

A dog pricked its ears and barked. The others ran growling to the door.

And then there came a sharp clash of arms, a dull heavy blow as from a

club or sword-pommel, and a deep voice from without summoned them to

open in the King’s name. The old dame and Nigel had both sprung to

their feet, their table overturned and their chessmen scattered among

the rushes. Nigel’s hand had sought his crossbow, but the Lady

Ermyntrude grasped his arm.

“Nay, fair son! Have you not heard that it is in the King’s name?” said

she. “Down, Talbot! Down, Bayard! Open the door and let his messenger

in!”

Nigel undid the bolt, and the heavy wooden door swung outward upon its

hinges. The light from the flaring cressets beat upon steel caps and

fierce bearded faces, with the glimmer of drawn swords and the yellow

gleam of bowstaves. A dozen armed archers forced their way into the

room. At their head were the gaunt sacrist of Waverley and a stout

elderly man clad in a red velvet doublet and breeches much stained and

mottled with mud and clay. He bore a great sheet of parchment with a

fringe of dangling seals, which he held aloft as he entered.

“I call on Nigel Loring!” he cried. “I, the officer of the King’s law

and the lay summoner of Waverley, call upon the man named Nigel

Loring!”

“I am he.”

“Yes, it is he!” cried the sacrist. “Archers, do as you were ordered!”

In an instant the band threw themselves upon him like the hounds on a

stag. Desperately Nigel strove to gain his sword which lay upon the

iron coffer. With the convulsive strength which comes from the spirit

rather than from the body, he bore them all in that direction, but the

sacrist snatched the weapon from its place, and the rest dragged the

writhing Squire to the ground and swathed him in a cord.

“Hold him fast, good archers! Keep a stout grip on him!” cried the

summoner. “I pray you, one of you, prick off these great dogs which

snarl at my heels. Stand off, I say, in the name of the King! Watkin,

come betwixt me and these creatures who have as little regard for the

law as their master.”

One of the archers kicked off the faithful dogs. But there were others

of the household who were equally ready to show their teeth in defense

of the old house of Loring. From the door which led to their quarters

there emerged the pitiful muster of Nigel’s threadbare retainers. There

was a time when ten knights, forty men-at-arms and two hundred archers

would march behind the scarlet roses. Now at this last rally when the

young head of the house lay bound in his own hall, there mustered at

his call the page Charles with a cudgel, John the cook with his longest

spit, Red Swire the aged man-at-arms with a formidable ax swung over

his snowy head, and Weathercote the minstrel with a boar-spear. Yet

this motley array was fired with the spirit of the house, and under the

lead of the fierce old soldier they would certainly have flung

themselves upon the ready swords of the archers, had the Lady

Ermyntrude not swept between them:

“Stand back, Swire!” she cried. “Back, Weathercote Charles, put a leash

on Talbot, and hold Bayard back!” Her black eyes blazed upon the

invaders until they shrank from that baleful gaze. “Who are you, you

rascal robbers, who dare to misuse the King’s name and to lay hands

upon one whose smallest drop of blood has more worth than all your

thrall and caitiff bodies?”

“Nay, not so fast, dame, not so fast, I pray you!” cried the stout

summoner, whose face had resumed its natural color, now that he had a

woman to deal with. “There is a law of England, mark you, and there are

those who serve and uphold it, who are the true men and the King’s own

lieges. Such a one am I. Then again, there are those who take such as

me and transfer, carry or convey us into a bog or morass. Such a one is

this graceless old man with the ax, whom I have seen already this day.

There are also those who tear, destroy or scatter the papers of the

law, of which this young man is the chief. Therefore, I would rede you,

dame, not to rail against us, but to understand that we are the King’s

men on the King’s own service.”

“What then is your errand in this house at this hour of the night?”

The summoner cleared his throat pompously, and turning his parchment to

the light of the cressets he read out a long document in Norman-French,

couched in such a style and such a language that the most involved and

foolish of our forms were simplicity itself compared to those by which

the men of the long gown made a mystery of that which of all things on

earth should be the plainest and the most simple. Despair fell cold

upon Nigel’s heart and blanched the face of the old dame as they

listened to the dread catalogue of claims and suits and issues,

questions of peccary and turbary, of house-bote and fire-bote, which

ended by a demand for all the lands, hereditaments, tenements,

messuages and curtilages, which made up their worldly all.

Nigel, still bound, had been placed with his back against the iron

coffer, whence he heard with dry lips and moist brow this doom of his

house. Now he broke in on the recital with a vehemence which made the

summoner jump:

“You shall rue what you have done this night!” he cried. “Poor as we

are, we have our friends who will not see us wronged, and I will plead

my cause before the King’s own majesty at Windsor, that he, who saw the

father die, may know what things are done in his royal name against the

son. But these matters are to be settled in course of law in the King’s

courts, and how will you excuse yourself for this assault upon my house

and person?”

“Nay, that is another matter,” said the sacrist. “The question of debt

may indeed be an affair of a civil court. But it is a crime against the

law and an act of the Devil, which comes within the jurisdiction of the

Abbey Court of Waverley when you dare to lay hands upon the summoner or

his papers.”

“Indeed, he speaks truth,” cried the official. “I know no blacker sin.”

“Therefore,” said the stern monk, “it is the order of the holy father

Abbot that you sleep this night in the Abbey cell, and that to-morrow

you be brought before him at the court held in the chapter-house so

that you receive the fit punishment for this and the many other violent

and froward deeds which you have wrought upon the servants of Holy

Church. Enough is now said, worthy master summoner. Archers, remove

your prisoner!”

As Nigel was lifted up by four stout archers, the Dame Ermyntrude would

have rushed to his aid, but the sacrist thrust her back.

“Stand off, proud woman! Let the law take its course, and learn to

humble your heart before the power of Holy Church. Has your life not

taught its lesson, you, whose horn was exalted among the highest and

will soon not have a roof above your gray hairs? Stand back, I say,

lest I lay a curse upon you!”

The old dame flamed suddenly into white wrath as she stood before the

angry monk: “Listen to me while I lay a curse upon you and yours!” she

cried as she raised her shriveled arms and blighted him with her

flashing eyes—

“As you have done to the house of Loring, so may God do to you, until

your power is swept from the land of England, and of your great Abbey

of Waverley there is nothing left but a pile of gray stones in a green

meadow! I see it! I see it! With my old eyes I see it! From scullion to

Abbot and from cellar to tower, may Waverley and all within it droop

and wither from this night on!”

The monk, hard as he was, quailed before the frantic figure and the

bitter, burning words. Already the summoner and the archers with their

prisoner were clear of the house. He turned and with a clang he shut

the heavy door behind him.

V.

HOW NIGEL WAS TRIED BY THE ABBOT OF WAVERLEY

The law of the Middle Ages, shrouded as it was in old Norman-French

dialect, and abounding in uncouth and incomprehensible terms, in

deodands and heriots, in infang and outfang, was a fearsome weapon in

the hands of those who knew how to use it. It was not for nothing that

the first act of the rebel commoners was to hew off the head of the

Lord Chancellor. In an age when few knew how to read or to write, these

mystic phrases and intricate forms, with the parchments and seals which

were their outward expression, struck cold terror into hearts which

were steeled against mere physical danger.

Even young Nigel Loring’s blithe and elastic spirit was chilled as he

lay that night in the penal cell of Waverley and pondered over the

absolute ruin which threatened his house from a source against which

all his courage was of no avail. As well take up sword and shield to

defend himself against the black death, as against this blight of Holy

Church. He was powerless in the grip of the Abbey. Already they had

shorn off a field here and a grove there, and now in one sweep they

would take in the rest, and where then was the home of the Lorings, and

where should Lady Ermyntrude lay her aged head, or his old retainers,

broken and spent, eke out the balance of their days? He shivered as he

thought of it.

It was very well for him to threaten to carry the matter before the

King, but it was years since royal Edward had heard the name of Loring,

and Nigel knew that the memory of princes was a short one. Besides, the

Church was the ruling power in the palace as well as in the cottage,

and it was only for very good cause that a King could be expected to

cross the purposes of so high a prelate as the Abbot of Waverley, as

long as they came within the scope of the law. Where then was he to

look for help? With the simple and practical piety of the age, he

prayed for the aid of his own particular saints: of Saint Paul, whose

adventures by land and sea had always endeared him; of Saint George,

who had gained much honorable advancement from the Dragon; and of Saint

Thomas, who was a gentleman of coat-armor, who would understand and

help a person of gentle blood. Then, much comforted by his naïve

orisons he enjoyed the sleep of youth and health until the entrance of

the lay brother with the bread and small beer, which served as

breakfast, in the morning.

The Abbey court sat in the chapter-house at the canonical hour of

tierce, which was nine in the forenoon. At all times the function was a

solemn one, even when the culprit might be a villain who was taken

poaching on the Abbey estate, or a chapman who had given false measure

from his biased scales. But now, when a man of noble birth was to be

tried, the whole legal and ecclesiastical ceremony was carried out with

every detail, grotesque or impressive, which the full ritual

prescribed. The distant roll of church music and the slow tolling of

the Abbey bell; the white-robed brethren, two and two, walked thrice

round the hall singing the “_Benedicite_” and the “_Veni, Creator_”

before they settled in their places at the desks on either side. Then

in turn each high officer of the Abbey from below upward, the almoner,

the lector, the chaplain, the subprior and the prior, swept to their

wonted places.

Finally there came the grim sacrist, with demure triumph upon his

downcast features, and at his heels Abbot John himself, slow and

dignified, with pompous walk and solemn, composed face, his iron-beaded

rosary swinging from his waist, his breviary in his hand, and his lips

muttering as he hurried through his office for the day. He knelt at his

high prie-dieu; the brethren, at a signal from the prior, prostrated

themselves upon the floor, and the low deep voices rolled in prayer,

echoed back from the arched and vaulted roof like the wash of waves

from an ocean cavern. Finally the monks resumed their seats; there

entered clerks in seemly black with pens and parchment; the

red-velveted summoner appeared to tell his tale; Nigel was led in with

archers pressing close around him; and then, with much calling of old

French and much legal incantation and mystery, the court of the Abbey

was open for business.

It was the sacrist who first advanced to the oaken desk reserved for

the witnesses and expounded in hard, dry, mechanical fashion the many

claims which the House, of Waverley had against the family of Loring.

Some generations back in return for money advanced or for spiritual

favor received the Loring of the day had admitted that his estate had

certain feudal duties toward the Abbey. The sacrist held up the

crackling yellow parchment with swinging leaden seals on which the

claim was based. Amid the obligations was that of escuage, by which the

price of a knight’s fee should be paid every year. No such price had

been paid, nor had any service been done. The accumulated years came

now to a greater sum than the fee simple of the estate. There were

other claims also. The sacrist called for his books, and with thin,

eager forefinger he tracked them down: dues for this, and tailage for

that, so many shillings this year, and so many marks that one. Some of

it occurred before Nigel was born; some of it when he was but a child.

The accounts had been checked and certified by the sergeant of the law.

Nigel listened to the dread recital, and felt like some young stag who

stands at bay with brave pose and heart of fire, but who sees himself

compassed round and knows clearly that there is no escape. With his

bold young face, his steady blue eyes, and the proud poise of his head,

he was a worthy scion of the old house, and the sun, shining through

the high oriel window, and showing up the stained and threadbare

condition of his once rich doublet, seemed to illuminate the fallen

fortunes of his family.

The sacrist had finished his exposition, and the sergeant-at-law was

about to conclude a case which Nigel could in no way controvert, when

help came to him from an unexpected quarter. It may have been a certain

malignity with which the sacrist urged his suit, it may have been a

diplomatic dislike to driving matters to extremes, or it may have been

some genuine impulse of kindliness, for Abbot John was choleric but

easily appeased. Whatever the cause, the result was that a white plump

hand, raised in the air with a gesture of authority, showed that the

case was at an end.

“Our brother sacrist hath done his duty in urging this suit,” said he,

“for the worldly wealth of this Abbey is placed in his pious keeping,

and it is to him that we should look if we suffered in such ways, for

we are but the trustees of those who come after us. But to my keeping

has been consigned that which is more precious still, the inner spirit

and high repute of those who follow the rule of Saint Bernard. Now it

has ever been our endeavor, since first our saintly founder went down

into the valley of Clairvaux and built himself a cell there, that we

should set an example to all men in gentleness and humility. For this

reason it is that we built our houses in lowly places, that we have no

tower to our Abbey churches, and that no finery and no metal, save only

iron or lead, come within our walls. A brother shall eat from a wooden

platter, drink from an iron cup, and light himself from a leaden

sconce. Surely it is not for such an order who await the exaltation

which is promised to the humble, to judge their own case and so acquire

the lands of their neighbor! If our cause be just, as indeed I believe

that it is, then it were better that it be judged at the King’s assizes

at Guildford, and so I decree that the case be now dismissed from the

Abbey court so that it can be heard elsewhere.”

Nigel breathed a prayer to the three sturdy saints who had stood by him

so manfully and well in the hour of his need. “Abbot John,” said he, “I

never thought that any man of my name would utter thanks to a

Cistercian of Waverley; but by Saint Paul! you have spoken like a man

this day, for it would indeed be to play with cogged dice if the

Abbey’s case is to be tried in the Abbey court.”

The eighty white-clad brethren looked with half resentful, half amused

eyes as they listened to this frank address to one who, in their small

lives, seemed to be the direct vice-regent of Heaven. The archers had

stood back from Nigel, as though he was at liberty to go, when the loud

voice of the summoner broke in upon the silence—

“If it please you, holy father Abbot,” cried the voice, “this decision

of yours is indeed secundum legem and intra vires so far as the civil

suit is concerned which lies between this person and the Abbey. That is

your affair; but it is I, Joseph the summoner, who have been grievously

and criminally mishandled, my writs, papers and indentures destroyed,

my authority flouted, and my person dragged through a bog, quagmire or

morass, so that my velvet gabardine and silver badge of office were

lost and are, as I verily believe, in the morass, quagmire or bog

aforementioned, which is the same bog, morass—”

“Enough!” cried the Abbot sternly. “Lay aside this foolish fashion of

speech and say straitly what you desire.”

“Holy father, I have been the officer of the King’s law no less than

the servant of Holy Church, and I have been let, hindered and assaulted

in the performance of my lawful and proper duties, whilst my papers,

drawn in the King’s name, have been shended and rended and cast to the

wind. Therefore, I demand justice upon this man in the Abbey court, the

said assault having been committed within the banlieue of the Abbey’s

jurisdiction.”

“What have you to say to this, brother sacrist?” asked the Abbot in

some perplexity.

“I would say, father, that it is within our power to deal gently and

charitably with all that concerns ourselves, but that where a the

King’s officer is concerned we are wanting in our duty if we give him

less than the protection that he demands. I would remind you also, holy

father, that this is not the first of this man’s violence, but that he

has before now beaten our servants, defied our authority, and put pike

in the Abbot’s own fish-pond.”

The prelate’s heavy cheeks flushed with anger as this old grievance

came fresh into his mind. His eyes hardened as he looked at the

prisoner. “Tell me, Squire Nigel, did you indeed put pike in the pond?”

The young man drew himself proudly up. “Ere I answer such a question,

father Abbot, do you answer one from me, and tell me what the monks of

Waverley have ever done for me that I should hold my hand when I could

injure them?”

A low murmur ran round the room, partly wonder at his frankness, and

partly anger at his boldness.

The Abbot settled down in his seat as one who has made up his mind.

“Let the case of the summoner be laid before me,” said he. “Justice

shall be done, and the offender shall be punished, be he noble or

simple. Let the plaint be brought before the court.”

The tale of the summoner, though rambling and filled with endless legal

reiteration, was only too clear in its essence. Red Swire, with his

angry face framed in white bristles, was led in, and confessed to his

ill treatment of the official. A second culprit, a little wiry

nut-brown archer from Churt, had aided and abetted in the deed. Both of

them were ready to declare that young Squire Nigel Loring knew nothing

of the matter. But then there was the awkward incident of the tearing

of the writs. Nigel, to whom a lie was an impossibility, had to admit

that with his own hands he had shredded those august documents. As to

an excuse or an explanation, he was too proud to advance any. A cloud

gathered over the brow of the Abbot, and the sacrist gazed with an

ironical smile at the prisoner, while a solemn hush fell over the

chapter-house as the case ended and only, judgment remained.

“Squire Nigel,” said the Abbot, “it was for you, who are, as all men

know, of ancient lineage in this land, to give a fair example by which

others should set their conduct. Instead of this, your manor house has

ever been a center for the stirring up of strife, and now not content

with your harsh showing toward us, the Cistercian monks of Waverley,

you have even marked your contempt for the King’s law, and through your

servants have mishandled the person of his messenger. For such offenses

it is in my power to call the spiritual terrors of the Church upon your

head, and yet I would not be harsh with you, seeing that you are young,

and that even last week you saved the life of a servant of the Abbey

when in peril. Therefore, it is by temporal and carnal means that I

will use my power to tame your overbold spirit, and to chasten that

headstrong and violent humor which has caused such scandal in your

dealings with our Abbey. Bread and water for six weeks from now to the

Feast of Saint Benedict, with a daily exhortation from our chaplain,

the pious Father Ambrose, may still avail to bend the stiff neck and to

soften the hard heart.”

At this ignominious sentence by which the proud heir of the house of

Loring would share the fate of the meanest village poacher, the hot

blood of Nigel rushed to his face, and his eye glanced round him with a

gleam which said more plainly than words that there could be no tame

acceptance of such a doom. Twice he tried to speak, and twice his anger

and his shame held the words in his throat.

“I am no subject of yours, proud Abbot!” he cried at last. “My house

has ever been vavasor to the King. I deny the power of you and your

court to lay sentence upon me. Punish these your own monks, who whimper

at your frown, but do not dare to lay your hand upon him who fears you

not, for he is a free man, and the peer of any save only the King

himself.”

The Abbot seemed for an instant taken aback by these bold words, and by

the high and strenuous voice in which they were uttered. But the

sterner sacrist came as ever to stiffen his will. He held up the old

parchment in his hand.

“The Lorings were indeed vavasors to the King,” said he; “but here is

the very seal of Eustace Loring which shows that he made himself vassal

to the Abbey and held his land from it.”

“Because he was gentle,” cried Nigel, “because he had no thought of

trick or guile.”

“Nay!” said the summoner. “If my voice may be heard, father Abbot, upon

a point of the law, it is of no weight what the causes may have been

why a deed is subscribed, signed or confirmed, but a court is concerned

only with the terms, articles, covenants and contracts of the said

deed.”

“Besides,” said the sacrist, “sentence is passed by the Abbey court,

and there is an end of its honor and good name if it be not upheld.”

“Brother sacrist,” said the Abbot angrily, “methinks you show overmuch

zeal in this case, and certes, we are well able to uphold the dignity

and honor of the Abbey court without any rede of thine. As to you,

worthy summoner, you will give your opinion when we crave for it, and

not before, or you may yourself get some touch of the power of our

tribunal. But your case hath been tried, Squire Loring, and judgment

given. I have no more to say.”

He motioned with his hand, and an archer laid his grip upon the

shoulder of the prisoner. But that rough plebeian touch woke every

passion of revolt in Nigel’s spirit. Of all his high line of ancestors,

was there one who had been subjected to such ignominy as this? Would

they not have preferred death? And should he be the first to lower

their spirit or their traditions? With a quick, lithe movement, he

slipped under the arm of the archer, and plucked the short, straight

sword from the soldier’s side as he did so. The next instant he had

wedged himself into the recess of one of the narrow windows, and there

were his pale set face, his burning eyes, and his ready blade turned

upon the assembly.

“By Saint Paul!” said he, “I never thought to find honorable

advancement under the roof of an abbey, but perchance there may, be

some room for it ere you hale me to your prison.”

The chapter-house was in an uproar. Never in the long and decorous

history of the Abbey had such a scene been witnessed within its walls.

The monks themselves seemed for an instant to be infected by this

spirit of daring revolt. Their own lifelong fetters hung more loosely

as they viewed this unheard-of defiance of authority. They broke from

their seats on either side and huddled half-scared, half-fascinated, in

a large half-circle round the defiant captive, chattering, pointing,

grimacing, a scandal for all time. Scourges should fall and penance be

done for many a long week before the shadow of that day should pass

from Waverley. But meanwhile there was no effort to bring them back to

their rule. Everything was chaos and disorder. The Abbot had left his

seat of justice and hurried angrily forward, to be engulfed and hustled

in the crowd of his own monks like a sheep-dog who finds himself

entangled amid a flock.

Only the sacrist stood clear. He had taken shelter behind the

half-dozen archers, who looked with some approval and a good deal of

indecision at this bold fugitive from justice.

“On him!” cried the sacrist. “Shall he defy the authority of the court,

or shall one man hold six of you at bay? Close in upon him and seize

him. You, Baddlesmere, why do you hold back?”

The man in question, a tall bushy-bearded fellow, clad like the others

in green jerkin and breeches with high brown boots, advanced slowly,

sword in hand, against Nigel. His heart was not in the business, for

these clerical courts were not popular, and everyone had a tender heart

for the fallen fortunes of the house of Loring and wished well to its

young heir.

“Come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough,” said he. “Stand forth

and give yourself up!”

“Come and fetch me, good fellow,” said Nigel, with a dangerous smile.

The archer ran in. There was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered like a

swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood running

down his forearm and dripping from his fingers. He wrung them and

growled a Saxon oath.

“By the black rood of Bromeholm!” he cried, “I had as soon put my hand

down a fox’s earth to drag up a vixen from her cubs.”

“Standoff!” said Nigel curtly. “I would not hurt you; but by Saint

Paul! I will not be handled, or some one will be hurt in the handling.”

So fierce was his eye and so menacing his blade as he crouched in the

narrow bay of the window that the little knot of archers were at a loss

what to do. The Abbot had forced his way through the crowd and stood,

purple with outraged dignity, at their side.

“He is outside the law,” said he. “He hath shed blood in a court of

justice, and for such a sin there is no forgiveness. I will not have my

court so flouted and set at naught. He who draws the sword, by the

sword also let him perish. Forester Hugh lay a shaft to your bow!”

The man, who was one of the Abbey’s lay servants, put his weight upon

his long bow and slipped the loose end of the string into the upper

notch. Then, drawing one of the terrible three-foot arrows,

steel-tipped and gaudily winged, from his waist, he laid it to the

string.

“Now draw your bow and hold it ready!” cried the furious Abbot. “Squire

Nigel, it is not for Holy Church to shed blood, but there is naught but

violence which will prevail against the violent, and on your head be

the sin. Cast down the sword which you hold in your hand!”

“Will you give me freedom to leave your Abbey?”

“When you have abided your sentence and purged your sin.”

“Then I had rather die where I stand than give up my sword.”

A dangerous flame lit in the Abbot’s eyes. He came of a fighting Norman

stock, like so many of those fierce prelates who, bearing a mace lest

they should be guilty of effusion of blood, led their troops into

battle, ever remembering that it was one of their own cloth and dignity

who, crosier in hand, had turned the long-drawn bloody day of Hastings.

The soft accent of the churchman was gone and it was the hard voice of

a soldier which said—

“One minute I give you, and no more. Then when I cry ‘Loose!’ drive me

an arrow through his body.”

The shaft was fitted, the bow was bent, and the stern eyes of the

woodman were fixed on his mark. Slowly the minute passed, while Nigel

breathed a prayer to his three soldier saints, not that they should

save his body in this life, but that they should have a kindly care for

his soul in the next. Some thought of a fierce wildcat sally crossed

his mind, but once out of his corner he was lost indeed. Yet at the

last he would have rushed among his enemies, and his body was bent for

the spring, when with a deep sonorous hum, like a breaking harp-string,

the cord of the bow was cloven in twain, and the arrow tinkled upon the

tiled floor. At the same moment a young curly-headed bowman, whose

broad shoulders and deep chest told of immense strength, as clearly as

his frank, laughing face and honest hazel eyes did of good humor and

courage, sprang forward sword in hand and took his place by Nigel’s

side.

“Nay, comrades!” said he. “Samkin Aylward cannot stand by and see a

gallant man shot down like a bull at the end of a baiting. Five against

one is long odds; but two against four is better, and by my

finger-bones! Squire Nigel and I leave this room together, be it on our

feet or no.”

The formidable appearance of this ally and his high reputation among

his fellows gave a further chill to the lukewarm ardor of the attack.

Aylward’s left arm was passed through his strung bow, and he was known

from Woolmer Forest to the Weald as the quickest, surest archer that

ever dropped a running deer at tenscore paces.

“Nay, Baddlesmere, hold your fingers from your string-case, or I may

chance to give your drawing hand a two months’ rest,” said Aylward.

“Swords, if you will, comrades, but no man strings his bow till I have

loosed mine.”

Yet the angry hearts of both Abbot and sacrist rose higher with a fresh

obstacle.

“This is an ill day for your father, Franklin Aylward, who holds the

tenancy of Crooksbury,” said the sacrist. “He will rue it that ever he

begot a son who will lose him his acres and his steading.”

“My father is a bold yeoman, and would rue it evermore that ever his

son should stand by while foul work was afoot,” said Aylward stoutly.

“Fall on, comrades! We are waiting.”

Encouraged by promises of reward if they should fall in the service of

the Abbey, and by threats of penalties if they should hold back, the

four archers were about to close, when a singular interruption gave an

entirely new turn to the proceedings.

At the door of the chapter-house, while these fiery doings had been

afoot, there had assembled a mixed crowd of lay brothers, servants and

varlets who had watched the development of the drama with the interest

and delight with which men hail a sudden break in a dull routine.

Suddenly there was an agitation at the back of this group, then a swirl

in the center, and finally the front rank was violently thrust aside,

and through the gap there emerged a strange and whimsical figure, who

from the instant of his appearance dominated both chapter-house and

Abbey, monks, prelates and archers, as if he were their owner and their

master.

He was a man somewhat above middle age, with thin lemon-colored hair, a

curling mustache, a tufted chin of the same hue, and a high craggy

face, all running to a great hook of the nose, like the beak of an

eagle. His skin was tanned a brown-red by much exposure to the wind and

sun. In height he was tall, and his figure was thin and loose-jointed,

but stringy and hard-bitten. One eye was entirely covered by its lid,

which lay flat over an empty socket, but the other danced and sparkled

with a most roguish light, darting here and there with a twinkle of

humor and criticism and intelligence, the whole fire of his soul

bursting through that one narrow cranny.

His dress was as noteworthy as his person. A rich purple doublet and

cloak was marked on the lapels with a strange scarlet device shaped

like a wedge. Costly lace hung round his shoulders, and amid its soft

folds there smoldered the dull red of a heavy golden chain. A knight’s

belt at his waist and a knight’s golden spurs twinkling from his

doeskin riding-boots proclaimed his rank, and on the wrist of his left

gauntlet there sat a demure little hooded falcon of a breed which in

itself was a mark of the dignity of the owner. Of weapons he had none,

but a mandolin was slung by a black silken band over his back, and the

high brown end projected above his shoulder. Such was the man, quaint,

critical, masterful, with a touch of what is formidable behind it, who

now surveyed the opposing groups of armed men and angry monks with an

eye which commanded their attention.

“Excusez!” said he, in a lisping French. “Excusez, mes amis! I had

thought to arouse from prayer or meditation, but never have I seen such

a holy exercise as this under an abbey’s roof, with swords for

breviaries and archers for acolytes. I fear that I have come amiss, and

yet I ride on an errand from one who permits no delay.”

The Abbot, and possibly the sacrist also, had begun to realize that

events had gone a great deal farther than they had intended, and that

without an extreme scandal it was no easy matter for them to save their

dignity and the good name of Waverley. Therefore, in spite of the

debonair, not to say disrespectful, bearing of the newcomer, they

rejoiced at his appearance and intervention.

“I am the Abbot of Waverley, fair son,” said the prelate. “If your

message deal with a public matter it may be fitly repeated in the

chapter-house; if not I will give you audience in my own chamber; for

it is clear to me that you are a gentle man of blood and coat-armor who

would not lightly break in upon the business of our court—a business

which, as you have remarked, is little welcome to men of peace like

myself and the brethren of the rule of Saint Bernard.”

“_Pardieu!_ Father Abbot,” said the stranger. “One had but to glance at

you and your men to see that the business was indeed little to your

taste, and it may be even less so when I say that rather than see this

young person in the window, who hath a noble bearing, further molested

by these archers, I will myself adventure my person on his behalf.”

The Abbot’s smile turned to a frown at these frank words. “It would

become you better, sir, to deliver the message of which you say that

you are the bearer, than to uphold a prisoner against the rightful

judgment of a court.”

The stranger swept the court with his questioning eye. “The message is

not for you, good father Abbot. It is for one whom I know not. I have

been to his house, and they have sent me hither. The name is Nigel

Loring.”

“It is for me, fair sir.”

“I had thought as much. I knew your father, Eustace Loring, and though

he would have made two of you, yet he has left his stamp plain enough

upon your face.”

“You know not the truth of this matter,” said the Abbot. “If you are a

loyal man, you will stand aside, for this young man hath grievously

offended against the law, and it is for the King’s lieges to give us

their support.”

“And you have haled him up for judgment,” cried the stranger with much

amusement. “It is as though a rookery sat in judgment upon a falcon. I

warrant that you have found it easier to judge than to punish. Let me

tell you, father Abbot, that this standeth not aright. When powers such

as these were given to the like of you, they were given that you might

check a brawling underling or correct a drunken woodman, and not that

you might drag the best blood in England to your bar and set your

archers on him if he questioned your findings.”

The Abbot was little used to hear such words of reproof uttered in so

stern a voice under his own abbey roof and before his listening monks.

“You may perchance find that an Abbey court has more powers than you

wot of, Sir Knight,” said he, “if knight indeed you be who are so

uncourteous and short in your speech. Ere we go further, I would ask

your name and style?”

The stranger laughed. “It is easy to see that you are indeed men of

peace,” said he proudly. “Had I shown this sign,” and he touched the

token upon his lapels, “whether on shield or pennon, in the marches of

France or Scotland, there is not a cavalier but would have known the

red pile of Chandos.”

Chandos, John Chandos, the flower of English chivalry, the pink of

knight-errantry, the hero already of fifty desperate enterprises, a man

known and honored from end to end of Europe! Nigel gazed at him as one

who sees a vision. The archers stood back abashed, while the monks

crowded closer to stare at the famous soldier of the French wars. The

Abbot abated his tone, and a smile came to his angry face.

“We are indeed men of peace, Sir John, and little skilled in warlike

blazonry,” said he; “yet stout as are our Abbey walls, they are not so

thick that the fame of your exploits has not passed through them and

reached our ears. If it be your pleasure to take an interest in this

young and misguided Squire, it is not for us to thwart your kind

intention or to withhold such grace as you request. I am glad indeed

that he hath one who can set him so fair an example for a friend.”

“I thank you for your courtesy, good father Abbot,” said Chandos

carelessly. “This young Squire has, however, a better friend than

myself, one who is kinder to those he loves and more terrible to those

he hates. It is from him I bear a message.”

“I pray you, fair and honored sir,” said Nigel, “that you will tell me

what is the message that you bear.”

“The message, _mon ami_, is that your friend comes into these parts and

would have a night’s lodging at the manor house of Tilford for the love

and respect that he bears your family.”

“Nay, he is most welcome,” said Nigel, “and yet I hope that he is one

who can relish a soldier’s fare and sleep under a humble roof, for

indeed we can but give our best, poor as it is.”

“He is indeed a soldier and a good one,” Chandos answered, laughing,

“and I warrant he has slept in rougher quarters than Tilford

Manor-house.”

“I have few friends, fair sir,” said Nigel, with a puzzled face. “I

pray you give me this gentleman’s name.”

“His name is Edward.”

“Sir Edward Mortimer of Kent, perchance, or is it Sir Edward Brocas of

whom the Lady Ermyntrude talks?”

“Nay, he is known as Edward only, and if you ask a second name it is

Plantagenet, for he who comes to seek the shelter of your roof is your

liege lord and mine, the King’s high majesty, Edward of England.”

VI.

IN WHICH LADY ERMYNTRUDE OPENS THE IRON COFFER

AS in a dream Nigel heard these stupendous and incredible words. As in

a dream also he had a vision of a smiling and conciliatory Abbot, of an

obsequious sacrist, and of a band of archers who cleared a path for him

and for the King’s messenger through the motley crowd who had choked

the entrance of the Abbey court. A minute later he was walking by the

side of Chandos through the peaceful cloister, and in front in the open

archway of the great gate was the broad yellow road between its borders

of green meadow-land. The spring air was the sweeter and the more

fragrant for that chill dread of dishonor and captivity which had so

recently frozen his ardent heart. He had already passed the portal when

a hand plucked at his sleeve and he turned to find himself confronted

by the brown honest face and hazel eyes of the archer who had

interfered in his behalf.

“Well,” said Aylward, “what have you to say to me, young sir?”

“What can I say, my good fellow, save that I thank you with all my

heart? By Saint Paul! if you had been my blood brother you could not

have stood by me more stoutly.”

“Nay! but this is not enough.”

Nigel colored with vexation, and the more so as Chandos was listening

with his critical smile to their conversation. “If you had heard what

was said in the court,” said he, “you would understand that I am not

blessed at this moment with much of this world’s gear. The black death

and the monks have between them been heavy upon our estate. Willingly

would I give you a handful of gold for your assistance, since that is

what you seem to crave; but indeed I have it not, and so once more I

say that you must be satisfied with my thanks.”

“Your gold is nothing to me,” said Aylward shortly, “nor would you buy

my loyalty if you filled my wallet with rose nobles, so long as you

were not a man after my own heart. But I have seen you back the yellow

horse, and I have seen you face the Abbot of Waverley, and you are such

a master as I would very gladly serve if you have by chance a place for

such a man. I have seen your following, and I doubt not that they were

stout fellows in your grandfather’s time; but which of them now would

draw a bow-string to his ear? Through you I have left the service of

the Abbey of Waverley, and where can I look now for a post? If I stay

here I am all undone like a fretted bow-string.”

“Nay, there can be no difficulty there,” said Chandos. “_Pardieu!_ a

roistering, swaggering dare-devil archer is worth his price on the

French border. There are two hundred such who march behind my own

person, and I would ask nothing better than to see you among them.”

“I thank you, noble sir, for your offer,” said Aylward, “and I had

rather follow your banner than many another one, for it is well known

that it goes ever forward, and I have heard enough of the wars to know

that there are small pickings for the man who lags behind. Yet, if the

Squire will have me, I would choose to fight under the five roses of

Loring, for though I was born in the hundred of Easebourne and the rape

of Chichester, yet I have grown up and learned to use the longbow in

these parts, and as the free son of a free franklin I had rather serve

my own neighbor than a stranger.”

“My good fellow,” said Nigel, “I have told you that I could in no wise

reward you for such service.”

“If you will but take me to the wars I will see to my own reward,” said

Aylward. “Till then I ask for none, save a corner of your table and six

feet of your floor, for it is certain that the only reward I would get

from the Abbey for this day’s work would be the scourge for my back and

the stocks for my ankles. Samkin Aylward is your man, Squire Nigel,

from this hour on, and by these ten finger-bones he trusts the Devil

will fly away with him if ever he gives you cause to regret it!” So

saying he raised his hand to his steel cap in salute, slung his great

yellow bow over his back, and followed on some paces in the rear of his

new master.

“_Pardieu!_ I have arrived _à la bonne heure_,” said Chandos. “I rode

from Windsor and came to your manor house, to find it empty save for a

fine old dame, who told me of your troubles. From her I walked across

to the Abbey, and none too soon, for what with cloth-yard shafts for

your body, and bell, book and candle for your soul, it was no very

cheerful outlook. But here is the very dame herself, if I mistake not.”

It was indeed the formidable figure of the Lady Ermyntrude, gaunt,

bowed and leaning on her staff, which had emerged from the door of the

manor-house and advanced to greet them. She croaked with laughter, and

shook her stick at the great building as she heard of the discomfiture

of the Abbey court. Then she led the way into the hall where the best

which she could provide had been laid out for their illustrious guest.

There was Chandos blood in her own veins, traceable back through the de

Greys, de Multons, de Valences, de Montagues and other high and noble

strains, so that the meal had been eaten and cleared before she had

done tracing the network of intermarriages and connections, with

quarterings, impalements, lozenges and augmentations by which the

blazonry of the two families might be made to show a common origin.

Back to the Conquest and before it there was not a noble family-tree

every twig and bud of which was not familiar to the Dame Ermyntrude.

And now when the trestles were cleared and the three were left alone in

the hall, Chandos broke his message to the lady. “King Edward hath ever

borne in mind that noble knight your son Sir Eustace,” said he. “He

will journey to Southampton next week, and I am his harbinger. He bade

me say, noble and honored lady, that he would come from Guildford in

any easy stage so that he might spend one night under your roof.”

The old dame flushed with pleasure, and then turned white with vexation

at the words. “It is in truth great honor to the house of Loring,” said

she, “yet our roof is now humble and, as you have seen, our fare is

plain. The King knows not that we are so poor. I fear lest we seem

churlish and niggard in his eyes.”

But Chandos reasoned away her fears. The King’s retinue would journey

on to Farnham Castle. There were no ladies in his party. Though he was

King, still he was a hardy soldier, and cared little for his ease. In

any case, since he had declared his coming, they must make the best of

it. Finally, with all delicacy, Chandos offered his own purse if it

would help in the matter. But already the Lady Ermyntrude had recovered

her composure.

“Nay, fair kinsman, that may not be,” said she. “I will make such

preparation as I may for the King. He will bear in mind that if the

house of Loring can give nothing else, they have always held their

blood and their lives at his disposal.”

Chandos was to ride on to Farnham Castle and beyond, but he expressed

his desire to have a warm bath ere he left Tilford, for like most of

his fellow-knights, he was much addicted to simmering in the hottest

water that he could possibly endure. The bath therefore, a high hooped

arrangement like a broader but shorter churn, was carried into the

privacy of the guest-chamber, and thither it was that Nigel was

summoned to hold him company while he stewed and sweltered in his tub.

Nigel perched himself upon the side of the high bed, swinging his legs

over the edge and gazing with wonder and amusement at the quaint face,

the ruffled yellow hair, and the sinewy shoulders of the famous

warrior, dimly seen amid a pillar of steam. He was in a mood for talk;

so Nigel with eager lips plied him with a thousand questions about the

wars, hanging upon every word which came back to him, like those of the

ancient oracles, out of the mist and the cloud. To Chandos himself, the

old soldier for whom war had lost its freshness, it was a renewal of

his own ardent youth to listen to Nigel’s rapid questions and to mark

the rapt attention with which he listened.

“Tell me of the Welsh, honored sir,” asked the Squire. “What manner of

soldiers are the Welsh?”

“They are very valiant men of war,” said Chandos, splashing about in

his tub. “There is good skirmishing to be had in their valleys if you

ride with a small following. They flare up like a furzebush in the

flames, but if for a short space you may abide the heat of it, then

there is a chance that it may be cooler.”

“And the Scotch?” asked Nigel. “You have made war upon them also, as I

understand.”