“The Scotch knights have no masters in the world, and he who can hold

his own with the best of them, be it a Douglas, a Murray or a Seaton,

has nothing more to learn. Though you be a hard man, you will always

meet as hard a one if you ride northward. If the Welsh be like the

furze fire, then, _pardieu!_ the Scotch are the peat, for they will

smolder and you will never come to the end of them. I have had many

happy hours on the marches of Scotland, for even if there be no war the

Percies of Alnwick or the Governor of Carlisle can still raise a little

bickering with the border clans.”

“I bear in mind that my father was wont to say that they were very

stout spearmen.”

“No better in the world, for the spears are twelve foot long and they

hold them in very thick array; but their archers are weak, save only

the men of Ettrick and Selkirk who come from the forest. I pray you to

open the lattice, Nigel, for the steam is overthick. Now in Wales it is

the spearmen who are weak, and there are no archers in these islands

like the men of Gwent with their bows of elm, which shoot with such

power that I have known a cavalier to have his horse killed when the

shaft had passed through his mail breeches, his thigh and his saddle.

And yet, what is the most strongly shot arrow to these new balls of

iron driven by the fire-powder which will crush a man’s armor as an egg

is crushed by a stone? Our fathers knew them not.”

“Then the better for us,” cried Nigel, “since there is at least one

honorable venture which is all our own.”

Chandos chuckled and turned upon the flushed youth a twinkling and

sympathetic eye. “You have a fashion of speech which carries me back to

the old men whom I met in my boyhood,” said he. “There were some of the

real old knight-errants left in those days, and they spoke as you do.

Young as you are, you belong to another age. Where got you that trick

of thought and word?”

“I have had only one to teach me, the Lady Ermyntrude.”

“_Pardieu!_ she has trained a proper young hawk ready to stoop at a

lordly quarry,” said Chandos. “I would that I had the first unhooding

of you. Will you not ride with me to the wars?”

The tears brimmed over from Nigel’s eyes, and he wrung the gaunt hand

extended from the bath. “By Saint Paul! what could I ask better in the

world? I fear to leave her, for she has none other to care for her. But

if it can in any way be arranged—”

“The King’s hand may smooth it out. Say no more until he is here. But

if you wish to ride with me—”

“What could man wish for more? Is there a Squire in England who would

not serve under the banner of Chandos! Whither do you go, fair sir? And

when do you go? Is it to Scotland? Is it to Ireland? Is it to France?

But alas, alas!”

The eager face had clouded. For the instant he had forgotten that a

suit of armor was as much beyond his means as a service of gold plate.

Down in a twinkling came all his high hopes to the ground. Oh, these

sordid material things, which come between our dreams and their

fulfilment! The Squire of such a knight must dress with the best. Yet

all the fee simple of Tilford would scarce suffice for one suit of

plate.

Chandos, with his quick wit and knowledge of the world, had guessed the

cause of this sudden change. “If you fight under my banner it is for me

to find the weapons,” said he. “Nay, I will not be denied.”

But Nigel shook his head sadly. “It may not be. The Lady Ermyntrude

would sell this old house and every acre round it, ere she would permit

me to accept this gracious bounty which you offer. Yet I do not

despair, for only last week I won for myself a noble war-horse for

which I paid not a penny, so perchance a suit of armor may also come my

way.”

“And how won you the horse?”

“It was given me by the monks of Waverley.”

“This is wonderful. _Pardieu!_ I should have expected, from what I had

seen, that they would have given you little save their malediction.”

“They had no use for the horse, and they gave it to me.”

“Then we have only to find some one who has no use for a suit of armor

and will give it to you. Yet I trust that you will think better of it

and let me, since that good lady proves that I am your kinsman, fit you

for the wars.”

“I thank you, noble sir, and if I should turn to anyone it would indeed

be to you; but there are other ways which I would try first. But I pray

you, good Sir John, to tell me of some of your noble spear-runnings

against the French, for the whole land rings with the tale of your

deeds and I have heard that in one morning three champions have fallen

before your lance. Was it not so?”

“That it was indeed so these scars upon my body will prove; but these

were the follies of my youth.”

“How can you call them follies? Are they not the means by which

honorable advancement may be gained and one’s lady exalted?”

“It is right that you should think so, Nigel. At your age a man should

have a hot head and a high heart. I also had both and fought for my

lady’s glove or for my vow or for the love of fighting. But as one

grows older and commands men one has other things to think of. One

thinks less of one’s own honor and more of the safety of the army. It

is not your own spear, your own sword, your own arm, which will turn

the tide of fight; but a cool head may save a stricken field. He who

knows when his horsemen should charge and when they should fight on

foot, he who can mix his archers with his men-at-arms in such a fashion

that each can support the other, he who can hold up his reserve and

pour it into the battle when it may turn the tide, he who has a quick

eye for boggy land and broken ground—that is the man who is of more

worth to an army than Roland, Oliver and all the paladins.”

“Yet if his knights fail him, honored sir, all his head-work will not

prevail.”

“True enough, Nigel; so may every Squire ride to the wars with his soul

on fire, as yours is now. But I must linger no longer, for the King’s

service must be done. I will dress, and when I have bid farewell to the

noble Dame Ermyntrude I will on to Farnham; but you will see me here

again on the day that the King comes.”

So Chandos went his way that evening, walking his horse through the

peaceful lanes and twanging his citole as he went, for he loved music

and was famous for his merry songs. The cottagers came from their huts

and laughed and clapped as the rich full voice swelled and sank to the

cheery tinkling of the strings. There were few who saw him pass that

would have guessed that the quaint one-eyed man with the yellow hair

was the toughest fighter and craftiest man of war in Europe. Once only,

as he entered Farnham, an old broken man-at-arms ran out in his rags

and clutched at his horse as a dog gambols round his master. Chandos

threw him a kind word and a gold coin as he passed on to the castle.

In the meanwhile young Nigel and the Lady Ermyntrude, left alone with

their difficulties, looked blankly in each other’s faces.

“The cellar is well nigh empty,” said Nigel. “There are two firkins of

small beer and a tun of canary. How can we set such drink before the

King and his court?”

“We must have some wine of Bordeaux. With that and the mottled cow’s

calf and the fowls and a goose, we can set forth a sufficient repast if

he stays only for the one night. How many will be with him?”

“A dozen, at the least.”

The old dame wrung her hands in despair. “Nay, take it not to heart,

dear lady!” said Nigel. “We have but to say the word and the King would

stop at Waverley, where he and his court would find all that they could

wish.”

“Never!” cried the Lady Ermyntrude. “It would be shame and disgrace to

us forever if the King were to pass our door when he has graciously

said that he was fain to enter in. Nay, I will do it. Never did I think

that I would be forced to this, but I know that he would wish it, and I

will do it.”

She went to the old iron coffer, and taking a small key from her girdle

she unlocked it. The rusty hinges, screaming shrilly as she threw back

the lid, proclaimed how seldom it was that she had penetrated into the

sacred recesses of her treasure-chest. At the top were some relics of

old finery: a silken cloak spangled with golden stars, a coif of silver

filigree, a roll of Venetian lace. Beneath were little packets tied in

silk which the old lady handled with tender care: a man’s

hunting-glove, a child’s shoe, a love-knot done in faded green ribbon,

some letters in rude rough script, and a vernicle of Saint Thomas. Then

from the very bottom of the box she drew three objects, swathed in

silken cloth, which she uncovered and laid upon the table. The one was

a bracelet of rough gold studded with uncut rubies, the second was a

gold salver, and the third was a high goblet of the same metal.

“You have heard me speak of these, Nigel, but never before have you

seen them, for indeed I have not opened the hutch for fear that we

might be tempted in our great need to turn them into money. I have kept

them out of my sight and even out of my thoughts. But now it is the

honor of the house which calls, and even these must go. This goblet was

that which my husband, Sir Nele Loring, won after the intaking of

Belgrade when he and his comrades held the lists from matins to vespers

against the flower of the French chivalry. The salver was given him by

the Earl of Pembroke in memory of his valor upon the field of Falkirk.”

“And the bracelet, dear lady?”

“You will not laugh, Nigel?”

“Nay, why should I laugh?”

“The bracelet was the prize for the Queen of Beauty which was given to

me before all the high-born ladies of England by Sir Nele Loring a

month before our marriage—the Queen of Beauty, Nigel—I, old and

twisted, as you see me. Five strong men went down before his lance ere

he won that trinket for me. And now in my last years—”

“Nay, dear and honored lady, we will not part with it.”

“Yes, Nigel, he would have it so. I can hear his whisper in my ear.

Honor to him was everything—the rest nothing. Take it from me, Nigel,

ere my heart weakens. To-morrow you will ride with it to Guildford; you

will see Thorold the goldsmith; and you will raise enough money to pay

for all that we shall need for the King’s coming.” She turned her face

away to hide the quivering of her wrinkled features, and the crash of

the iron lid covered the sob which burst from her overwrought soul.

VII.

HOW NIGEL WENT MARKETING TO GUILDFORD

It was on a bright June morning that young Nigel, with youth and

springtime to make his heart light, rode upon his errand from Tilford

to Guildford town. Beneath him was his great yellow warhorse,

caracoling and curveting as he went, as blithe and free of spirit as

his master. In all England one would scarce have found upon that

morning so high-mettled and so debonair a pair. The sandy road wound

through groves of fir, where the breeze came soft and fragrant with

resinous gums, or over heathery downs, which rolled away to north and

to south, vast and untenanted, for on the uplands the soil was poor and

water scarce. Over Crooksbury Common he passed, and then across the

great Heath of Puttenham, following a sandy path which wound amid the

bracken and the heather, for he meant to strike the Pilgrims’ Way where

it turned eastward from Farnham and from Seale. As he rode he

continually felt his saddle-bag with his hand, for in it, securely

strapped, he had placed the precious treasures of the Lady Ermyntrude.

As he saw the grand tawny neck tossing before him, and felt the easy

heave of the great horse and heard the muffled drumming of his hoofs,

he could have sung and shouted with the joy of living.

Behind him, upon the little brown pony which had been Nigel’s former

mount, rode Samkin Aylward the bowman, who had taken upon himself the

duties of personal attendant and body-guard. His great shoulders and

breadth of frame seemed dangerously top-heavy upon the tiny steed, but

he ambled along, whistling a merry lilt and as lighthearted as his

master. There was no countryman who had not a nod and no woman who had

not a smile for the jovial bowman, who rode for the most part with his

face over his shoulder, staring at the last petticoat which had passed

him. Once only he met with a harsher greeting. It was from a tall,

white-headed, red-faced man whom they met upon the moor.

“Good-morrow, dear father!” cried Aylward. “How is it with you at

Crooksbury? And how are the new black cow and the ewes from Alton and

Mary the dairymaid and all your gear?”

“It ill becomes you to ask, you ne’er-do-weel,” said the old man. “You

have angered the monks of Waverley, whose tenant I am, and they would

drive me out of my farm. Yet there are three more years to run, and do

what they may I will bide till then. But little did I think that I

should lose my homestead through you, Samkin, and big as you are I

would knock the dust out of that green jerkin with a good hazel switch

if I had you at Crooksbury.”

“Then you shall do it to-morrow morning, good father, for I will come

and see you then. But indeed I did not do more at Waverley than you

would have done yourself. Look me in the eye, old hothead, and tell me

if you would have stood by while the last Loring—look at him as he

rides with his head in the air and his soul in the clouds—was shot down

before your very eyes at the bidding of that fat monk! If you would,

then I disown you as my father.”

“Nay, Samkin, if it was like that, then perhaps what you did was not so

far amiss. But it is hard to lose the old farm when my heart is buried

deep in the good brown soil.”

“Tut, man! there are three years to run, and what may not happen in

three years? Before that time I shall have gone to the wars, and when I

have opened a French strong box or two you can buy the good brown soil

and snap your fingers at Abbot John and his bailiffs. Am I not as

proper a man as Tom Withstaff of Churt? And yet he came back after six

months with his pockets full of rose nobles and a French wench on

either arm.”

“God preserve us from the wenches, Samkin! But indeed I think that if

there is money to be gathered you are as likely to get your fist full

as any man who goes to the war. But hasten, lad, hasten! Already your

young master is over the brow.”

Thus admonished, the archer waved his gauntleted hand to his father,

and digging his heels into the sides of his little pony soon drew up

with the Squire. Nigel glanced over his shoulder and slackened speed

until the pony’s head was up to his saddle.

“Have I not heard, archer,” said he, “that an outlaw has been loose in

these parts?”

“It is true, fair sir. He was villain to Sir Peter Mandeville, but he

broke his bonds and fled into the forests. Men call him the ‘Wild Man

of Puttenham.’”

“How comes it that he has not been hunted down? If the man be a

draw-latch and a robber it would be an honorable deed to clear the

country of such an evil.”

“Twice the sergeants-at-arms from Guildford have come out against him,

but the fox has many earths, and it would puzzle you to get him out of

them.”

“By Saint Paul! were my errand not a pressing one I would be tempted to

turn aside and seek him. Where lives he, then?”

“There is a great morass beyond Puttenham, and across it there are

caves in which he and his people lurk.”

“His people? He hath a band?”

“There are several with him.”

“It sounds a most honorable enterprise,” said Nigel. “When the King

hath come and gone we will spare a day for the outlaws of Puttenham. I

fear there is little chance for us to see them on this journey.”

“They prey upon the pilgrims who pass along the Winchester Road, and

they are well loved by the folk in these parts, for they rob none of

them and have an open hand for all who will help them.”

“It is right easy to have an open hand with the money that you have

stolen,” said Nigel; “but I fear that they will not try to rob two men

with swords at their girdles like you and me, so we shall have no

profit from them.”

They had passed over the wild moors and had come down now into the main

road by which the pilgrims from the west of England made their way to

the national shrine at Canterbury. It passed from Winchester, and up

the beautiful valley of the Itchen until it reached Farnham, where it

forked into two branches, one of which ran along the Hog’s Back, while

the second wound to the south and came out at Saint Catherine’s Hill

where stands the Pilgrim shrine, a gray old ruin now, but once so

august, so crowded and so affluent. It was this second branch upon

which Nigel and Aylward found themselves as they rode to Guildford.

No one, as it chanced, was going the same way as themselves, but they

met one large drove of pilgrims returning from their journey with

pictures of Saint Thomas and snails’ shells or little leaden ampullae

in their hats and bundles of purchases over their shoulders. They were

a grimy, ragged, travel-stained crew, the men walking, the women borne

on asses. Man and beast, they limped along as if it would be a glad day

when they saw their homes once more. These and a few beggars or

minstrels, who crouched among the heather on either side of the track

in the hope of receiving an occasional farthing from the passer-by,

were the only folk they met until they had reached the village of

Puttenham. Already there, was a hot sun and just breeze enough to send

the dust flying down the road, so they were glad to clear their throats

with a glass of beer at the ale-stake in the village, where the fair

alewife gave Nigel a cold farewell because he had no attentions for

her, and Aylward a box on the ear because he had too many.

On the farther side of Puttenham the road runs through thick woods of

oak and beech, with a tangled undergrowth of fern and bramble. Here

they met a patrol of sergeants-at-arms, tall fellows, well-mounted,

clad in studded-leather caps and tunics, with lances and swords. They

walked their horses slowly on the shady side of the road, and stopped

as the travelers came up, to ask if they had been molested on the way.

“Have a care,” they added, “for the ‘Wild Man’ and his wife are out.

Only yesterday they slew a merchant from the west and took a hundred

crowns.”

“His wife, you say?”

“Yes, she is ever at his side, and has saved him many a time, for if he

has the strength it is she who has the wit. I hope to see their heads

together upon the green grass one of these mornings.”

The patrol passed downward toward Farnham, and so, as it proved, away

from the robbers, who had doubtless watched them closely from the dense

brushwood which skirted the road. Coming round a curve, Nigel and

Aylward were aware of a tall and graceful woman who sat, wringing her

hands and weeping bitterly, upon the bank by the side of the track. At

such a sight of beauty in distress Nigel pricked Pommers with the spur

and in three bounds was at the side of the unhappy lady.

“What ails you, fair dame?” he asked. “Is there any small matter in

which I may stand your friend, or is it possible that anyone hath so

hard a heart as to do you an injury.”

She rose and turned upon him a face full of hope and entreaty. “Oh,

save my poor, poor father!” she cried. “Have you perchance seen the

way-wardens? They passed us, and I fear they are beyond reach.”

“Yes, they have ridden onward, but we may serve as well.”

“Then hasten, hasten, I pray you! Even now they may be doing him to

death. They have dragged him into yonder grove and I have heard his

voice growing ever weaker in the distance. Hasten, I implore you!”

Nigel sprang from his horse and tossed the rein to Aylward.

“Nay, let us go together. How many robbers were there, lady?”

“Two stout fellows.”

“Then I come also.”

“Nay, it is not possible,” said Nigel. “The wood is too thick for

horses, and we cannot leave them in the road.”

“I will guard them,” cried the lady.

“Pommers is not so easily held. Do you bide here, Aylward, until you

hear from me. Stir not, I command you!” So saying, Nigel, with the

light, of adventure gleaming in his joyous eyes, drew his sword and

plunged swiftly into the forest.

Far and fast he ran, from glade to glade, breaking through the bushes,

springing over the brambles, light as a young deer, peering this way

and that, straining his ears for a sound, and catching only the cry of

the wood-pigeons. Still on he went, with the constant thought of the

weeping woman behind and of the captured man in front. It was not until

he was footsore and out of breath that he stopped with his hand to his

side, and considered that his own business had still to be done, and

that it was time once more that he should seek the road to Guildford.

Meantime Aylward had found his own rough means of consoling the woman

in the road, who stood sobbing with her face against the side of

Pommers’ saddle.

“Nay, weep not, my pretty one,” said he. “It brings the tears to my own

eyes to see them stream from thine.”

“Alas! good archer, he was the best of fathers, so gentle and so kind!

Had you but known him, you must have loved him.”

“Tut, tut! he will suffer no scathe. Squire Nigel will bring him back

to you anon.”

“No, no, I shall never see him more. Hold me, archer, or I fall!”

Aylward pressed his ready arm round the supple waist. The fainting

woman leaned with her hand upon his shoulder. Her pale face looked past

him, and it was some new light in her eyes, a flash of expectancy, of

triumph, of wicked joy, which gave him sudden warning of his danger.

He shook her off and sprang to one side, but only just in time to avoid

a crashing blow from a great club in the hands of a man even taller and

stronger than himself. He had one quick vision of great white teeth

clenched in grim ferocity, a wild flying beard and blazing wild-beast

eyes. The next instant he had closed, ducking his head beneath another

swing of that murderous cudgel.

With his arms round the robber’s burly body and his face buried in his

bushy beard, Aylward gasped and strained and heaved. Back and forward

in the dusty road the two men stamped and staggered, a grim

wrestling-match, with life for the prize. Twice the great strength of

the outlaw had Aylward nearly down, and twice with his greater youth

and skill the archer restored his grip and his balance. Then at last

his turn came. He slipped his leg behind the other’s knee, and, giving

a mighty wrench, tore him across it. With a hoarse shout the outlaw

toppled backward and had hardly reached the ground before Aylward had

his knee upon his chest and his short sword deep in his beard and

pointed to his throat.

“By these ten finger-bones!” he gasped, “one more struggle and it is

your last!”

The man lay still enough, for he was half-stunned by the crashing fall.

Aylward looked round him, but the woman had disappeared. At the first

blow struck she had vanished into the forest. He began to have fears

for his master, thinking that he perhaps had been lured into some

deathtrap; but his forebodings were soon at rest, for Nigel himself

came hastening down the road, which he had struck some distance from

the spot where he left it.

“By Saint Paul!” he cried, “who is this man on whom you are perched,

and where is the lady who has honored us so far as to crave our help?

Alas, that I have been unable to find her father!”

“As well for you, fair sir,” said Aylward, “for I am of opinion that

her father was the Devil. This woman is, as I believe, the wife of the

‘Wild Man of Puttenham,’ and this is the ‘Wild Man’ himself who set

upon me and tried to brain me with his club.”

The outlaw, who had opened his eyes, looked with a scowl from his

captor to the new-comer. “You are in luck, archer,” said he, “for I

have come to grips with many a man, but I cannot call to mind any who

have had the better of me.”

“You have indeed the grip of a bear,” said Aylward; “but it was a

coward deed that your wife should hold me while you dashed out my

brains with a stick. It is also a most villainous thing to lay a snare

for wayfarers by asking for their pity and assistance, so that it was

our own soft hearts which brought us into such danger. The next who

hath real need of our help may suffer for your sins.”

“When the hand of the whole world is against you,” said the outlaw in a

surly voice, “you must fight as best you can.”

“You well deserve to be hanged, if only because you have brought this

woman, who is fair and gentle-spoken, to such a life,” said Nigel. “Let

us tie him by the wrist to my stirrup leather, Aylward, and we will

lead him into Guildford.”

The archer drew a spare bowstring from his case and had bound the

prisoner as directed, when Nigel gave a sudden start and cry of alarm.

“Holy Mary!” he cried. “Where is the saddle-bag?”

It had been cut away by a sharp knife. Only the two ends of strap

remained. Aylward and Nigel stared at each other in blank dismay. Then

the young Squire shook his clenched hands and pulled at his yellow

curls in his despair.

“The Lady Ermyntrude’s bracelet! My grandfather’s cup!” he cried. “I

would have died ere I lost them! What can I say to her? I dare not

return until I have found them. Oh, Aylward, Aylward! how came you to

let them be taken?”

The honest archer had pushed back his steel cap and was scratching his

tangled head. “Nay, I know nothing of it. You never said that there was

aught of price in the bag, else had I kept a better eye upon it.

Certes! it was not this fellow who took it, since I have never had my

hands from him. It can only be the woman who fled with it while we

fought.”

Nigel stamped about the road in his perplexity. “I would follow her to

the world’s end if I knew where I could find her, but to search these

woods for her is to look for a mouse in a wheat-field. Good Saint

George, thou who didst overcome the Dragon, I pray you by that most

honorable and knightly achievement that you will be with me now! And

you also, great Saint Julian, patron of all wayfarers in distress! Two

candles shall burn before your shrine at Godalming, if you will but

bring me back my saddle-bag. What would I not give to have it back?”

“Will you give me my life?” asked the outlaw. “Promise that I go free,

and you shall have it back, if it be indeed true that my wife has taken

it.”

“Nay, I cannot do that,” said Nigel. “My honor would surely be

concerned, since my loss is a private one; but it would be to the

public scathe that you should go free. By Saint Paul! it would be an

ungentle deed if in order to save my own I let you loose upon the gear

of a hundred others.”

“I will not ask you to let me loose,” said the “Wild Man.” “If you will

promise that my life be spared I will restore your bag.”

“I cannot give such a promise, for it will lie with the Sheriff and

reeves of Guildford.”

“Shall I have your word in my favor?”

“That I could promise you, if you will give back the bag, though I know

not how far my word may avail. But your words are vain, for you cannot

think that we will be so fond as to let you go in the hope that you

return?”

“I would not ask it,” said the “Wild Man,” “for I can get your bag and

yet never stir from the spot where I stand. Have I your promise upon

your honor and all that you hold dear that you will ask for grace?”

“You have.”

“And that my wife shall be unharmed?”

“I promise it.”

The outlaw laid back his head and uttered a long shrill cry like the

howl of a wolf. There was a silent pause, and then, clear and shrill,

there rose the same cry no great distance away in the forest. Again the

“Wild Man” called, and again his mate replied. A third time he

summoned, as the deer bells to the doe in the greenwood. Then with a

rustle of brushwood and snapping of twigs the woman was before them

once more, tall, pale, graceful, wonderful. She glanced neither at

Aylward nor Nigel, but ran to the side of her husband.

“Dear and sweet lord,” she cried, “I trust they have done you no hurt.

I waited by the old ash, and my heart sank when you came not.”

“I have been taken at last, wife.”

“Oh, cursed, cursed day! Let him go, kind, gentle sirs; do not take him

from me!”

“They will speak for me at Guildford,” said the “Wild Man.” “They have

sworn it. But hand them first the bag that you have taken.”

She drew it out from under her loose cloak. “Here it is, gentle sir.

Indeed it went to my heart to take it, for you had mercy upon me in my

trouble. But now I am, as you see, in real and very sore distress. Will

you not have mercy now? Take ruth on us, fair sir! On my knees I beg it

of you, most gentle and kindly Squire!”

Nigel had clutched his bag, and right glad he was to feel that the

treasures were all safe within it. “My proffer is given,” said he. “I

will say what I can; but the issue rests with others. I pray you to

stand up, for indeed I cannot promise more.”

“Then I must be content,” said she, rising, with a composed face. “I

have prayed you to take ruth, and indeed I can do no more; but ere I go

back to the forest I would rede you to be on your guard lest you lose

your bag once more. Wot you how I took it, archer? Nay, it was simple

enough, and may happen again, so I make it clear to you. I had this

knife in my sleeve, and though it is small it is very sharp. I slipped

it down like this. Then when I seemed to weep with my face against the

saddle, I cut down like this—”

In an instant she had shorn through the stirrup leather which bound her

man, and he, diving under the belly of the horse, had slipped like a

snake into the brushwood. In passing he had struck Pommers from

beneath, and the great horse, enraged and insulted, was rearing high,

with two men hanging to his bridle. When at last he had calmed there

was no sign left of the “Wild Man” or of his wife. In vain did Aylward,

an arrow on his string, run here and there among the great trees and

peer down the shadowy glades. When he returned he and his master cast a

shamefaced glance at each other.

“I trust that we are better soldiers than jailers,” said Aylward, as he

climbed on his pony.

But Nigel’s frown relaxed into a smile. “At least we have gained back

what we lost,” said he. “Here I place it on the pommel of my saddle,

and I shall not take my eyes from it until we are safe in Guildford

town.”

So they jogged on together until passing Saint Catherine’s shrine they

crossed the winding Wey once more, and so found themselves in the steep

high street with its heavy-caved gabled houses, its monkish hospitium

upon the left, where good ale may still be quaffed, and its great

square-keeped castle upon the right, no gray and grim skeleton of ruin,

but very quick and alert, with blazoned banner flying free, and steel

caps twinkling from the battlement. A row of booths extended from the

castle gate to the high street, and two doors from the Church of the

Trinity was that of Thorold the goldsmith, a rich burgess and Mayor of

the town.

He looked long and lovingly at the rich rubies and at the fine work

upon the goblet. Then he stroked his flowing gray beard as he pondered

whether he should offer fifty nobles or sixty, for he knew well that he

could sell them again for two hundred. If he offered too much his

profit would be reduced. If he offered too little the youth might go as

far as London with them, for they were rare and of great worth. The

young man was ill-clad, and his eyes were anxious. Perchance he was

hard pressed and was ignorant of the value of what he bore. He would

sound him.

“These things are old and out of fashion, fair sir,” said he. “Of the

stones I can scarce say if they are of good quality or not, but they

are dull and rough. Yet, if your price be low I may add them to my

stock, though indeed this booth was made to sell and not to buy. What

do you ask?”

Nigel bent his brows in perplexity. Here was a game in which neither

his bold heart nor his active limbs could help him. It was the new

force mastering the old: the man of commerce conquering the man of

war—wearing him down and weakening him through the centuries until he

had him as his bond-servant and his thrall.

“I know not what to ask, good sir,” said Nigel. “It is not for me, nor

for any man who bears my name, to chaffer and to haggle. You know the

worth of these things, for it is your trade to do so. The Lady

Ermyntrude lacks money, and we must have it against the King’s coming,

so give me that which is right and just, and we will say no more.”

The goldsmith smiled. The business was growing more simple and more

profitable. He had intended to offer fifty, but surely it would be

sinful waste to give more than twenty-five.

“I shall scarce know what to do with them when I have them,” said he.

“Yet I should not grudge twenty nobles if it is a matter in which the

King is concerned.”

Nigel’s heart turned to lead. This sum would not buy one-half what was

needful. It was clear that the Lady Ermyntrude had overvalued her

treasures. Yet he could not return empty-handed, so if twenty nobles

was the real worth, as this good old man assured him, then he must be

thankful and take it.

“I am concerned by what you say,” said he. “You know more of these

things than I can do. However, I will take—”

“A hundred and fifty,” whispered Aylward’s voice in his ear.

“A hundred and fifty,” said Nigel, only too relieved to have found the

humblest guide upon these unwonted paths.

The goldsmith started. This youth was not the simple soldier that he

had seemed. That frank face, those blue eyes, were traps for the

unwary. Never had he been more taken aback in a bargain.

“This is fond talk and can lead to nothing, fair sir,” said he, turning

away and fiddling with the keys of his strong boxes. “Yet I have no

wish to be hard on you. Take my outside price, which is fifty nobles.”

“And a hundred,” whispered Aylward.

“And a hundred,” said Nigel, blushing at his own greed.

“Well, well, take a hundred!” cried the merchant. “Fleece me, skin me,

leave me a loser, and take for your wares the full hundred!”

“I should be shamed forever if I were to treat you so badly,” said

Nigel. “You have spoken me fair, and I would not grind you down.

Therefore, I will gladly take one hundred—”

“And fifty,” whispered Aylward.

“And fifty,” said Nigel.

“By Saint John of Beverley!” cried the merchant. “I came hither from

the North Country, and they are said to be shrewd at a deal in those

parts; but I had rather bargain with a synagogue full of Jews than with

you, for all your gentle ways. Will you indeed take no less than a

hundred and fifty? Alas! you pluck from me my profits of a month. It is

a fell morning’s work for me. I would I had never seen you!” With

groans and lamentations he paid the gold pieces across the counter, and

Nigel, hardly able to credit his own good fortune, gathered them into

the leather saddle-bag.

A moment later with flushed face he was in the street and pouring out

his thanks to Aylward.

“Alas, my fair lord! the man has robbed us now,” said the archer. “We

could have had another twenty had we stood fast.”

“How know you that, good Aylward?”

“By his eyes, Squire Loring. I wot I have little store of reading where

the parchment of a book or the pinching of a blazon is concerned, but I

can read men’s eyes, and I never doubted that he would give what he has

given.”

The two travelers had dinner at the monk’s hospitium, Nigel at the high

table and Aylward among the commonalty. Then again they roamed the high

street on business intent. Nigel bought taffeta for hangings, wine,

preserves, fruit, damask table linen and many other articles of need.

At last he halted before the armorer’s shop at the castle-yard, staring

at the fine suits of plate, the engraved pectorals, the plumed helmets,

the cunningly jointed gorgets, as a child at a sweet-shop.

“Well, Squire Loring,” said Wat the armorer, looking sidewise from the

furnace where he was tempering a sword blade, “what can I sell you this

morning? I swear to you by Tubal Cain, the father of all workers in

metal, that you might go from end to end of Cheapside and never see a

better suit than that which hangs from yonder hook!”

“And the price, armorer?”

“To anyone else, two hundred and fifty rose nobles. To you two

hundred.”

“And why cheaper to me, good fellow?”

“Because I fitted your father also for the wars, and a finer suit never

went out of my shop. I warrant that it turned many an edge before he

laid it aside. We worked in mail in those days, and I had as soon have

a well-made thick-meshed mail as any plates; but a young knight will be

in the fashion like any dame of the court, and so it must be plate now,

even though the price be trebled.”

“Your rede is that the mail is as good?”

“I am well sure of it.”

“Hearken then, armorer! I cannot at this moment buy a suit of plate,

and yet I sorely need steel harness on account of a small deed which it

is in my mind to do. Now I have at my home at Tilford that very suit of

mail of which you speak, with which my father first rode to the wars.

Could you not so alter it that it should guard my limbs also?”

The armorer looked at Nigel’s small upright figure and burst out

laughing. “You jest, Squire Loring! The suit was made for one who was

far above the common stature of man.”

“Nay, I jest not. If it will but carry me through one spear-running it

will have served its purpose.”

The armorer leaned back on his anvil and pondered while Nigel stared

anxiously at his sooty face.

“Right gladly would I lend you a suit of plate for this one venture,

Squire Loring, but I know well that if you should be overthrown your

harness becomes prize to the victor. I am a poor man with many

children, and I dare not risk the loss of it. But as to what you say of

the old suit of mail, is it indeed in good condition?”

“Most excellent, save only at the neck, which is much frayed.”

“To shorten the limbs is easy. It is but to cut out a length of the

mail and then loop up the links. But to shorten the body—nay, that is

beyond the armorer’s art.”

“It was my last hope. Nay, good armorer, if you have indeed served and

loved my gallant father, then I beg you by his memory that you will

help me now.”

The armorer threw down his heavy hammer with a crash upon the floor.

“It is not only that I loved your father, Squire Loring, but it is that

I have seen you, half armed as you were, ride against the best of them

at the Castle tiltyard. Last Martinmas my heart bled for you when I saw

how sorry was your harness, and yet you held your own against the stout

Sir Oliver with his Milan suit: When go you to Tilford?”

“Even now.”

“Heh, Jenkin, fetch out the cob!” cried the worthy Wat. “May my right

hand lose its cunning if I do not send you into battle in your father’s

suit! To-morrow I must be back in my booth, but to-day I give to you

without fee and for the sake of the good-will which I bear to your

house. I will ride with you to Tilford, and before night you shall see

what Wat can do.”

So it came about that there was a busy evening at the old Tilford

Manor-house, where the Lady Ermyntrude planned and cut and hung the

curtains for the hall, and stocked her cupboards with the good things

which Nigel had brought from Guildford.

Meanwhile the Squire and the armorer sat with their heads touching and

the old suit of mail with its gorget of overlapping plates laid out

across their knees. Again and again old Wat shrugged his shoulders, as

one who has been asked to do more than can be demanded from mortal man.

At last, at a suggestion from the Squire, he leaned back in his chair

and laughed long and loudly in his bushy beard, while the Lady

Ermyntrude glared her black displeasure at such plebeian merriment.

Then taking his fine chisel and his hammer from his pouch of tools, the

armorer, still chuckling at his own thoughts, began to drive a hole

through the center of the steel tunic.

VIII.

HOW THE KING HAWKED ON CROOKSBURY HEATH

The King and his attendants had shaken off the crowd who had followed

them from Guildford along the Pilgrims’ Way and now, the mounted

archers having beaten off the more persistent of the spectators, they

rode at their ease in a long, straggling, glittering train over the

dark undulating plain of heather.

In the van was the King himself, for his hawks were with him and he had

some hope of sport. Edward at that time was a well-grown, vigorous man

in the very prime of his years, a keen sportsman, an ardent gallant and

a chivalrous soldier. He was a scholar too, speaking Latin, French,

German, Spanish, and even a little English.

So much had long been patent to the world, but only of recent years had

he shown other and more formidable characteristics: a restless ambition

which coveted his neighbor’s throne, and a wise foresight in matters of

commerce, which engaged him now in transplanting Flemish weavers and

sowing the seeds of what for many years was the staple trade of

England. Each of these varied qualities might have been read upon his

face. The brow, shaded by a crimson cap of maintenance, was broad and

lofty. The large brown eyes were ardent and bold. His chin was

clean-shaven, and the close-cropped dark mustache did not conceal the

strong mouth, firm, proud and kindly, but capable of setting tight in

merciless ferocity. His complexion was tanned to copper by a life spent

in field sports or in war, and he rode his magnificent black horse

carelessly and easily, as one who has grown up in the saddle. His own

color was black also, for his active; sinewy figure was set off by

close-fitting velvet of that hue, broken only by a belt of gold, and by

a golden border of open pods of the broom-plant.

With his high and noble bearing, his simple yet rich attire and his

splendid mount, he looked every inch a King.

The picture of gallant man on gallant horse was completed by the noble

Falcon of the Isles which fluttered along some twelve feet above his

head, “waiting on,” as it was termed, for any quarry which might arise.

The second bird of the cast was borne upon the gauntleted wrist of

Raoul the chief falconer in the rear.

At the right side of the monarch and a little behind him rode a youth

some twenty years of age, tall, slim and dark, with noble aquiline

features and keen penetrating eyes which sparkled with vivacity and

affection as he answered the remarks of the King. He was clad in deep

crimson diapered with gold, and the trappings of his white palfrey were

of a magnificence which proclaimed the rank of its rider. On his face,

still free from mustache or beard, there sat a certain gravity and

majesty of expression which showed that young as he was great affairs

had been in his keeping and that his thoughts and interests were those

of the statesman and the warrior. That great day when, little more than

a school-boy, he had led the van of the victorious army which had

crushed the power of France and Crécy, had left this stamp upon his

features; but stern as they were they had not assumed that tinge of

fierceness which in after years was to make “The Black Prince” a name

of terror on the marches of France. Not yet had the first shadow of

fell disease come to poison his nature ere it struck at his life, as he

rode that spring day, light and debonair, upon the heath of Crooksbury.

On the left of the King, and so near to him that great intimacy was

implied, rode a man about his own age, with the broad face, the

projecting jaw and the flattish nose which are often the outward

indications of a pugnacious nature.

His complexion was crimson, his large blue eyes somewhat prominent, and

his whole appearance full-blooded and choleric. He was short, but

massively built, and evidently possessed of immense strength. His

voice, however, when he spoke was gentle and lisping, while his manner

was quiet and courteous. Unlike the King or the Prince, he was clad in

light armor and carried a sword by his side and a mace at his

saddle-bow, for he was acting as Captain of the King’s Guard, and a

dozen other knights in steel followed in the escort. No hardier soldier

could Edward have at his side, if, as was always possible in those

lawless times, sudden danger was to threaten, for this was the famous

knight of Hainault, now naturalized as an Englishman, Sir Walter Manny,

who bore as high a reputation for chivalrous valor and for gallant

temerity as Chandos himself.

Behind the knights, who were forbidden to scatter and must always

follow the King’s person, there was a body of twenty or thirty hobblers

or mounted bowmen, together with several squires, unarmed themselves

but leading spare horses upon which the heavier part of their knights’

equipment was carried. A straggling tail of falconers, harbingers,

varlets, body-servants and huntsmen holding hounds in leash completed

the long and many-colored train which rose and dipped on the low

undulations of the moor.

Many weighty things were on the mind of Edward the King. There was

truce for the moment with France, but it was a truce broken by many

small deeds of arms, raids, surprises and ambushes upon either side,

and it was certain that it would soon dissolve again into open war.

Money must be raised, and it was no light matter to raise it, now that

the Commons had once already voted the tenth lamb and the tenth sheaf.

Besides, the Black Death had ruined the country, the arable land was

all turned to pasture, the laborer, laughing at statutes, would not

work under fourpence a day, and all society was chaos. In addition, the

Scotch were growling over the border, there was the perennial trouble

in half-conquered Ireland, and his allies abroad in Flanders and in

Brabant were clamoring for the arrears of their subsidies.

All this was enough to make even a victorious monarch full of care; but

now Edward had thrown it all to the winds and was as light-hearted as a

boy upon a holiday. No thought had he for the dunning of Florentine

bankers or the vexatious conditions of those busybodies at Westminster.

He was out with his hawks, and his thoughts and his talk should be of

nothing else. The varlets beat the heather and bushes as they passed,

and whooped loudly as the birds flew out.

“A magpie! A magpie!” cried the falconer.

“Nay, nay, it is not worthy of your talons, my brown-eyed queen,” said

the King, looking up at the great bird which flapped from side to side

above his head, waiting for the whistle which should give her the

signal. “The tercels, falconer—a cast of tercels! Quick, man, quick!

Ha! the rascal makes for wood! He puts in! Well flown, brave peregrine!

He makes his point. Drive him out to thy comrade. Serve him, varlets!

Beat the bushes! He breaks! He breaks! Nay, come away then! You will

see Master Magpie no more.”

The bird had indeed, with the cunning of its race, flapped its way

through brushwood and bushes to the thicker woods beyond, so that

neither the hawk amid the cover nor its partner above nor the clamorous

beaters could harm it. The King laughed at the mischance and rode on.

Continually birds of various sorts were flushed, and each was pursued

by the appropriate hawk, the snipe by the tercel, the partridge by the

goshawk, even the lark by the little merlin. But the King soon tired of

this petty sport and went slowly on his way, still with the magnificent

silent attendant flapping above his head.

“Is she not a noble bird, fair son?” he asked, glancing up as her

shadow fell upon him.

“She is indeed, sire. Surely no finer ever came from the isles of the

north.”

“Perhaps not, and yet I have had a hawk from Barbary as good a footer

and a swifter flyer. An Eastern bird in yarak has no peer.”

“I had one once from the Holy Land,” said de Manny. “It was fierce and

keen and swift as the Saracens themselves. They say of old Saladin that

in his day his breed of birds, of hounds and of horses had no equal on

earth.”

“I trust, dear father, that the day may come when we shall lay our

hands on all three,” said the Prince, looking with shining eyes upon

the King. “Is the Holy Land to lie forever in the grasp of these

unbelieving savages, or the Holy Temple to be defiled by their foul

presence? Ah! my dear and most sweet lord, give to me a thousand lances

with ten thousand bowmen like those I led at Crécy, and I swear to you

by God’s soul that within a year I will have done homage to you for the

Kingdom of Jerusalem!”

The King laughed as he turned to Walter Manny. “Boys will still be

boys,” said he.

“The French do not count me such!” cried the young Prince, flushing

with anger.

“Nay, fair son, there is no one sets you at a higher rate than your

father. But you have the nimble mind and quick fancy of youth, turning

over from the thing that is half done to a further task beyond. How

would we fare in Brittany and Normandy while my young paladin with his

lances and his bowmen was besieging Ascalon or battering at Jerusalem?”

“Heaven would help in Heaven’s work.”

“From what I have heard of the past,” said the King dryly, “I cannot

see that Heaven has counted for much as an ally in these wars of the

East. I speak with reverence, and yet it is but sooth to say that

Richard of the Lion Heart or Louis of France might have found the

smallest earthly principality of greater service to him than all the

celestial hosts. How say you to that, my Lord Bishop?”

A stout churchman who had ridden behind the King on a solid bay cob,

well-suited to his weight and dignity, jogged up to the monarch’s

elbow. “How say you, sire? I was watching the goshawk on the partridge

and heard you not.”

“Had I said that I would add two manors to the See of Chichester, I

warrant that you would have heard me, my Lord Bishop.”

“Nay, fair lord, test the matter by saying so,” cried the jovial

Bishop.

The King laughed aloud. “A fair counter, your reverence. By the rood!

you broke your lance that passage. But the question I debated was this:

How is it that since the Crusades have manifestly been fought in God’s

quarrel, we Christians have had so little comfort or support in

fighting them. After all our efforts and the loss of more men than

could be counted, we are at last driven from the country, and even the

military orders which were formed only for that one purpose can scarce

hold a footing in the islands of the Greek sea. There is not one

seaport nor one fortress in Palestine over which the flag of the Cross

still waves. Where then was our ally?”

“Nay, sire, you open a great debate which extends far beyond this

question of the Holy Land, though that may indeed be chosen as a fair

example. It is the question of all sin, of all suffering, of all

injustice—why it should pass without the rain of fire and the

lightnings of Sinai. The wisdom of God is beyond our understanding.”

The King shrugged his shoulders. “This is an easy answer, my Lord

Bishop. You are a prince of the Church. It would fare ill with an

earthly prince who could give no better answer to the affairs which

concerned his realm.”

“There are other considerations which might be urged, most gracious

sire. It is true that the Crusades were a holy enterprise which might

well expect the immediate blessing of God; but the Crusaders—is it

certain that they deserved such a blessing? Have I not heard that their

camp was the most dissolute ever seen?”

“Camps are camps all the world over, and you cannot in a moment change

a bowman into a saint. But the holy Louis was a crusader after your own

heart. Yet his men perished at Mansurah and he himself at Tunis.”

“Bethink you also that this world is but the antechamber of the next,”

said the prelate. “By suffering and tribulation the soul is cleansed,

and the true victor may be he who by the patient endurance of

misfortune merits the happiness to come.”

“If that be the true meaning of the Church’s blessing, then I hope that

it will be long before it rests upon our banners in France,” said the

King. “But methinks that when one is out with a brave horse and a good

hawk one might find some other subject than theology. Back to the

birds, Bishop, or Raoul the falconer will come to interrupt thee in thy

cathedral.”

Straightway the conversation came back to the mystery of the woods and

the mystery of the rivers, to the dark-eyed hawks and the yellow-eyed,

to hawks of the lure and hawks of the fist. The Bishop was as steeped

in the lore of falconry as the King, and the others smiled as the two

wrangled hard over disputed and technical questions: if an eyas trained

in the mews can ever emulate the passage hawk taken wild, or how long

the young hawks should be placed at hack, and how long weathered before

they are fully reclaimed.

Monarch and prelate were still deep in this learned discussion, the

Bishop speaking with a freedom and assurance which he would never have

dared to use in affairs of Church and State, for in all ages there is

no such leveler as sport. Suddenly, however, the Prince, whose keen

eyes had swept from time to time over the great blue heaven, uttered a

peculiar call and reined up his palfrey, pointing at the same time into

the air.

“A heron!” he cried. “A heron on passage!”

To gain the full sport of hawking a heron must not be put up from its

feeding-ground, where it is heavy with its meal, and has no time to get

its pace on before it is pounced upon by the more active hawk, but it

must be aloft, traveling from point to point, probably from the

fish-stream to the heronry. Thus to catch the bird on passage was the

prelude of all good sport. The object to which the Prince had pointed

was but a black dot in the southern sky, but his strained eyes had not

deceived him, and both Bishop and King agreed that it was indeed a

heron, which grew larger every instant as it flew in their direction.

“Whistle him off, sire! Whistle off the gerfalcon!” cried the Bishop.

“Nay, nay, he is overfar. She would fly at check.”

“Now, sire, now!” cried the Prince, as the great bird with the breeze

behind him came sweeping down the sky.

The King gave the shrill whistle, and the well-trained hawk raked out

to the right and to the left to make sure which quarry she was to

follow. Then, spying the heron, she shot up in a swift ascending curve

to meet him.

“Well flown, Margot! Good bird!” cried the King, clapping his hands to

encourage the hawk, while the falconers broke into the shrill whoop

peculiar to the sport.

Going on her curve, the hawk would soon have crossed the path of the

heron; but the latter, seeing the danger in his front and confident in

his own great strength of wing and lightness of body, proceeded to

mount higher in the air, flying in such small rings that to the

spectators it almost seemed as if the bird was going perpendicularly

upward.

“He takes the air!” cried the King. “But strong as he flies, he cannot

out fly Margot. Bishop, I lay you ten gold pieces to one that the heron

is mine.”

“I cover your wager, sire,” said the Bishop. “I may not take gold so

won, and yet I warrant that there is an altar-cloth somewhere in need

of repairs.”

“You have good store of altar-cloths, Bishop, if all the gold I have

seen you win at tables goes to the mending of them,” said the King.

“Ah! by the rood, rascal, rascal! See how she flies at check!”

The quick eyes of the Bishop had perceived a drift of rooks when on

their evening flight to the rookery were passing along the very line

which divided the hawk from the heron. A rook is a hard temptation for

a hawk to resist. In an instant the inconstant bird had forgotten all

about the great heron above her and was circling over the rooks, flying

westward with them as she singled out the plumpest for her stoop.

“There is yet time, sire! Shall I cast off her mate?” cried the

falconer.

“Or shall I show you, sire, how a peregrine may win where a gerfalcon

fails?” said the Bishop. “Ten golden pieces to one upon my bird.”

“Done with you, Bishop!” cried the King, his brow dark with vexation.

“By the rood! if you were as learned in the fathers as you are in hawks

you would win to the throne of Saint Peter! Cast off your peregrine and

make your boasting good.”

Smaller than the royal gerfalcon, the Bishop’s bird was none the less a

swift and beautiful creature. From her perch upon his wrist she had

watched with fierce, keen eyes the birds in the heaven, mantling

herself from time to time in her eagerness. Now when the button was

undone and the leash uncast the peregrine dashed off with a whir of her

sharp-pointed wings, whizzing round in a great ascending circle which

mounted swiftly upward, growing ever smaller as she approached that

lofty point where, a mere speck in the sky, the heron sought escape

from its enemies. Still higher and higher the two birds mounted, while

the horsemen, their faces upturned, strained their eyes in their

efforts to follow them.

“She rings! She still rings!” cried the Bishop. “She is above him! She

has gained her pitch.”

“Nay, nay, she is far below,” said the King.

“By my soul, my Lord Bishop is right!” cried the Prince. “I believe she

is above. See! See! She swoops!”

“She binds! She binds!” cried a dozen voices as the two dots blended

suddenly into one.

There could be no doubt that they were falling rapidly. Already they

grew larger to the eye. Presently the heron disengaged himself and

flapped heavily away, the worse for that deadly embrace, while the

peregrine, shaking her plumage, ringed once more so as to get high

above the quarry and deal it a second and more fatal blow. The Bishop

smiled, for nothing, as it seemed, could hinder his victory.

“Thy gold pieces shall be well spent, sire,” said he. “What is lost to

the Church is gained by the loser.”

But a most unlooked-for chance deprived the Bishop’s altar cloth of its

costly mending. The King’s gerfalcon having struck down a rook, and

finding the sport but tame, bethought herself suddenly of that noble

heron, which she still perceived fluttering over Crooksbury Heath. How

could she have been so weak as to allow these silly, chattering rooks

to entice her away from that lordly bird? Even now it was not too late

to atone for her mistake. In a great spiral she shot upward until she

was over the heron. But what was this? Every fiber of her, from her

crest to her deck feathers, quivered with jealousy and rage at the

sight of this creature, a mere peregrine, who had dared to come between

a royal gerfalcon and her quarry. With one sweep of her great wings she

shot up until she was above her rival. The next instant—

“They crab! They crab!” cried the King, with a roar of laughter,

following them with his eyes as they bustled down through the air.

“Mend thy own altar-cloths, Bishop. Not a groat shall you have from me

this journey. Pull them apart, falconer, lest they do each other an

injury. And now, masters, let us on, for the sun sinks toward the

west.”

The two hawks, which had come to the ground interlocked with clutching

talons and ruffled plumes, were torn apart and brought back bleeding

and panting to their perches, while the heron after its perilous

adventure flapped its way heavily onward to settle safely in the

heronry of Waverley. The cortege, who had scattered in the excitement

of the chase, came together again, and the journey was once more

resumed.

A horseman who had been riding toward them across the moor now

quickened his pace and closed swiftly upon them. As he came nearer, the

King and the Prince cried out joyously and waved their hands in

greeting.

“It is good John Chandos!!” cried the King. “By the rood, John, I have

missed your merry songs this week or more! Glad I am to see that you

have your citole slung to your back. Whence come you then?”

“I come from Tilford, sire, in the hope that I should meet your

majesty.”

“It was well thought of. Come, ride here between the Prince and me, and

we will believe that we are back in France with our war harness on our

backs once more. What is your news, Master John?”

Chandos’ quaint face quivered with suppressed amusement and his one eye

twinkled like a star. “Have you had sport, my liege?”

“Poor sport, John. We flew two hawks on the same heron. They crabbed,

and the bird got free. But why do you smile so?”

“Because I hope to show you better sport ere you come to Tilford.”

“For the hawk? For the hound?”

“A nobler sport than either.”

“Is this a riddle, John? What mean you?”

“Nay, to tell all would be to spoil all. I say again that there is rare

sport betwixt here and Tilford, and I beg you, dear lord, to mend your

pace that we make the most of the daylight.”

Thus adjured, the King set spurs to his horse, and the whole cavalcade

cantered over the heath in the direction which Chandos showed.

Presently as they came over a slope they saw beneath them a winding

river with an old high-backed bridge across it. On the farther side was

a village green with a fringe of cottages and one dark manor house upon

the side of the hill.

“This is Tilford,” said Chandos. “Yonder is the house of the Lorings.”

The King’s expectations had been aroused and his face showed his

disappointment.

“Is this the sport that you have promised us, Sir John? How can you

make good your words?”

“I will make them good, my liege.”

“Where then is the sport?”

On the high crown of the bridge a rider in armor was seated, lance in

hand, upon a great yellow steed. Chandos touched the King’s arm and

pointed. “That is the sport,” said he.

IX.

HOW NIGEL HELD THE BRIDGE AT TILFORD

The King looked at the motionless figure, at the little crowd of hushed

expectant rustics beyond the bridge, and finally at the face of

Chandos, which shone with amusement.

“What is this, John?” he asked.

“You remember Sir Eustace Loring, sire?”

“Indeed I could never forget him nor the manner of his death.”

“He was a knight errant in his day.”

“That indeed he was—none better have I known.”

“So is his son Nigel, as fierce a young war-hawk as ever yearned to use

beak and claws; but held fast in the mews up to now. This is his trial

fight. There he stands at the bridge-head, as was the wont in our

fathers’ time, ready to measure himself against all comers.”

Of all Englishmen there was no greater knight errant than the King

himself, and none so steeped in every quaint usage of chivalry; so that

the situation was after his own heart.

“He is not yet a knight?”

“No, sire, only a Squire.”

“Then he must bear himself bravely this day if he is to make good what

he has done. Is it fitting that a young untried Squire should venture

to couch his lance against the best in England?”

“He hath given me his cartel and challenge,” said Chandos, drawing a

paper from his tunic. “Have I your permission, sire, to issue it?”

“Surely, John, we have no cavalier more versed in the laws of chivalry

than yourself. You know this young man, and you are aware how far he is

worthy of the high honor which he asks. Let us hear his defiance.”

The knights and squires of the escort, most of whom were veterans of

the French war, had been gazing with interest and some surprise at the

steel-clad figure in front of them. Now at a call from Sir Walter Manny

they assembled round the spot where the King and Chandos had halted.

Chandos cleared his throat and read from his paper—

“‘_A tous seigneurs, chevaliers et escuyers_,’ so it is headed,

gentlemen. It is a message from the good Squire Nigel Loring of

Tilford, son of Sir Eustace Loring, of honorable memory. Squire Loring

awaits you in arms, gentlemen, yonder upon the crown of the old bridge.

Thus says he: ‘For the great desire that I, a most humble and unworthy

Squire, entertain, that I may come to the knowledge of the noble

gentlemen who ride with my royal master, I now wait on the Bridge of

the Way in the hope that some of them may condescend to do some small

deed of arms upon me, or that I may deliver them from any vow which

they may have taken. This I say out of no esteem for myself, but solely

that I may witness the noble bearing of these famous cavaliers and

admire their skill in the handling of arms. Therefore, with the help of

Saint George, I will hold the bridge with sharpened lances against any

or all who may deign to present themselves while daylight lasts.”

“What say you to this, gentlemen?” asked the King, looking round with

laughing eyes.

“Truly it is issued in very good form,” said the Prince. “Neither

Claricieux nor Red Dragon nor any herald that ever wore tabard could

better it. Did he draw it of his own hand?”

“He hath a grim old grandmother who is one of the ancient breed,” said

Chandos. “I doubt not that the Dame Ermyntrude hath drawn a challenge

or two before now. But hark ye, sire, I would have a word in your

ear—and yours too, most noble Prince.”

Leading them aside, Chandos whispered some explanations, which ended by

them all three bursting into a shout of laughter.

“By the rood! no honorable gentleman should be reduced to such

straits,” said the King. “It behooves me to look to it. But how now,

gentlemen? This worthy cavalier still waits his answer.”

The soldiers had all been buzzing together; but now Walter Manny turned

to the King with the result of their counsel.

“If it please your majesty,” said he, “we are of opinion that this

Squire hath exceeded all bounds in desiring to break a spear with a

belted knight ere he has given his proofs. We do him sufficient honor

if a Squire ride against him, and with your consent I have chosen my

own body-squire, John Widdicombe, to clear the path for us across the

bridge.”

“What you say, Walter, is right and fair,” said the King. “Master

Chandos, you will tell our champion yonder what hath been arranged. You

will advise him also that it is our royal will that this contest be not

fought upon the bridge, since it is very clear that it must end in one

or both going over into the river, but that he advance to the end of

the bridge and fight upon the plain. You will tell him also that a

blunted lance is sufficient for such an encounter, but that a

hand-stroke or two with sword or mace may well be exchanged, if both

riders should keep their saddles. A blast upon Raoul’s horn shall be

the signal to close.”

Such ventures as these where an aspirant for fame would wait for days

at a cross-road, a ford, or a bridge, until some worthy antagonist

should ride that way, were very common in the old days of adventurous

knight erranty, and were still familiar to the minds of all men because

the stories of the romancers and the songs of the trouveres were full

of such incidents. Their actual occurrence however had become rare.

There was the more curiosity, not unmixed with amusement, in the

thoughts of the courtiers as they watched Chandos ride down to the

bridge and commented upon the somewhat singular figure of the

challenger. His build was strange, and so also was his figure, for the

limbs were short for so tall a man. His head also was sunk forward as

if he were lost in thought or overcome with deep dejection.

“This is surely the Cavalier of the Heavy Heart,” said Manny. “What

trouble has he, that he should hang his head?”

“Perchance he hath a weak neck,” said the King.

“At least he hath no weak voice,” the Prince remarked, as Nigel’s

answer to Chandos came to their ears. “By our lady, he booms like a

bittern.”

As Chandos rode back again to the King, Nigel exchanged the old ash

spear which had been his father’s for one of the blunted tournament

lances which he took from the hands of a stout archer in attendance. He

then rode down to the end of the bridge where a hundred-yard stretch of

greensward lay in front of him. At the same moment the Squire of Sir

Walter Manny, who had been hastily armed by his comrades, spurred

forward and took up his position.

The King raised his hand; there was a clang from the falconer’s horn,

and the two riders, with a thrust of their heels and a shake of their

bridles, dashed furiously at each other. In the center the green strip

of marshy meadowland, with the water squirting from the galloping

hoofs, and the two crouching men, gleaming bright in the evening sun,

on one side the half circle of motionless horsemen, some in steel, some

in velvet, silent and attentive, dogs, hawks, and horses all turned to

stone; on the other the old peaked bridge, the blue lazy river, the

group of openmouthed rustics, and the dark old manor-house with one

grim face which peered from the upper window.

A good man was John Widdicombe, but he had met a better that day.

Before that yellow whirlwind of a horse and that rider who was welded

and riveted to his saddle his knees could not hold their grip. Nigel

and Pommers were one flying missile, with all their weight and strength

and energy centered on the steady end of the lance. Had Widdicombe been

struck by a thunderbolt he could not have flown faster or farther from

his saddle. Two full somersaults did he make, his plates clanging like

cymbals, ere he lay prone upon his back.

For a moment the King looked grave at that prodigious fall. Then

smiling once more as Widdicombe staggered to his feet, he clapped his

hands loudly in applause. “A fair course and fairly run!” he cried.

“The five scarlet roses bear themselves in peace even as I have seen

them in war. How now, my good Walter? Have you another Squire or will

you clear a path for us yourself?”

Manny’s choleric face had turned darker as he observed the mischance of

his representative. He beckoned now to a tall knight, whose gaunt and

savage face looked out from his open bassinet as an eagle might from a

cage of steel.

“Sir Hubert,” said he, “I bear in mind the day when you overbore the

Frenchman at Caen. Will you not be our champion now?”

“When I fought the Frenchman, Walter, it was with naked weapons,” said

the knight sternly. “I am a soldier and I love a soldier’s work, but I

care not for these tiltyard tricks which were invented for nothing but

to tickle the fancies of foolish women.”

“Oh, most ungallant speech!” cried the King. “Had my good-consort heard

you she would have arraigned you to appear at a Court of Love with a

jury of virgins to answer for your sins. But I pray you to take a

tilting spear, good Sir Hubert!”

“I had as soon take a peacock’s feather, my fair lord; but I will do

it, if you ask me. Here, page, hand me one of those sticks, and let me

see what I can do.”

But Sir Hubert de Burgh was not destined to test either his skill or

his luck. The great bay horse which he rode was as unused to this

warlike play as was its master, and had none of its master’s stoutness

of heart; so that when it saw the leveled lance, the gleaming figure

and the frenzied yellow horse rushing down upon it, it swerved, turned

and galloped furiously down the river-bank. Amid roars of laughter from

the rustics on the one side and from the courtiers on the other, Sir

Hubert was seen, tugging vainly at his bridle, and bounding onward,

clearing gorse-bushes and heather-clumps, until he was but a

shimmering, quivering gleam upon the dark hillside. Nigel, who had

pulled Pommers on to his very haunches at the instant that his opponent

turned, saluted with his lance and trotted back to the bridge-head,

where he awaited his next assailant.

“The ladies would say that a judgment hath fallen upon our good Sir

Hubert for his impious words,” said the King.

“Let us hope that his charger may be broken in ere they venture to ride

out between two armies,” remarked the Prince. “They might mistake the

hardness of his horse’s mouth for a softness of the rider’s heart. See

where he rides, still clearing every bush upon his path.”

“By the rood!” said the King, “if the bold Hubert has not increased his

repute as a jouster he has gained great honor as a horseman. But the

bridge is still closed, Walter. How say you now? Is this young Squire

never to be unhorsed, or is your King himself to lay lance in rest ere

his way can be cleared? By the head of Saint Thomas! I am in the very

mood to run a course with this gentle youth.”

“Nay, nay, sire, too much honor hath already been done him!” said

Manny, looking angrily at the motionless horseman. “That this untried

boy should be able to say that in one evening he has unhorsed my

Squire, and seen the back of one of the bravest knights in England is

surely enough to turn his foolish head. Fetch me a spear, Robert! I

will see what I can make of him.”

The famous knight took the spear when it was brought to him as a

master-workman takes a tool. He balanced it, shook it once or twice in

the air, ran his eyes down it for a flaw in the wood, and then finally

having made sure of its poise and weight laid it carefully in rest

under his arm. Then gathering up his bridle so as to have his horse

under perfect command, and covering himself with the shield, which was

slung round his neck, he rode out to do battle.

Now, Nigel, young and inexperienced, all Nature’s aid will not help you

against the mixed craft and strength of such a warrior. The day will

come when neither Manny nor even Chandos could sweep you from your

saddle; but now, even had you some less cumbrous armor, your chance

were small. Your downfall is near; but as you see the famous black

chevrons on a golden ground your gallant heart which never knew fear is

only filled with joy and amazement at the honor done you. Your downfall

is near, and yet in your wildest dreams you would never guess how

strange your downfall is to be.

Again with a dull thunder of hoofs the horses gallop over the soft

water-meadow. Again with a clash of metal the two riders meet. It is

Nigel now, taken clean in the face of his helmet with the blunted

spear, who flies backward off his horse and falls clanging on the

grass.

But good heavens! what is this? Manny has thrown up his hands in horror

and the lance has dropped from his nerveless fingers. From all sides,

with cries of dismay, with oaths and shouts and ejaculations to the

saints, the horsemen ride wildly in. Was ever so dreadful, so sudden,

so complete, an end to a gentle passage at arms? Surely their eyes must

be at fault? Some wizard’s trick has been played upon them to deceive

their senses. But no, it was only too clear. There on the greensward

lay the trunk of the stricken cavalier, and there, a good dozen yards

beyond, lay his helmeted head.

“By the Virgin!” cried Manny wildly, as he jumped from his horse, “I

would give my last gold piece that the work of this evening should be

undone! How came it? What does it mean? Hither, my Lord Bishop, for

surely it smacks of witchcraft and the Devil.”

With a white face the Bishop had sprung down beside the prostrate body,

pushing through the knot of horrified knights and squires.

“I fear that the last offices of the Holy Church come too late,” said

he in a quivering voice. “Most unfortunate young man! How sudden an

end! _In medio vitæ_, as the Holy Book has it—one moment in the pride

of his youth, the next his head torn from his body. Now God and his

saints have mercy upon me and guard me from evil!”

The last prayer was shot out of the Bishop with an energy and

earnestness unusual in his orisons. It was caused by the sudden outcry

of one of the Squires who, having lifted the helmet from the ground,

cast it down again with a scream of horror.

“It is empty!” he cried. “It weighs as light as a feather.”

“’Fore God, it is true!” cried Manny, laying his hand on it. “There is

no one in it. With what have I fought, father Bishop? Is it of this

world or of the next?”

The Bishop had clambered on his horse the better to consider the point.

“If the foul fiend is abroad,” said he, “my place is over yonder by the

King’s side. Certes that sulphur-colored horse hath a very devilish

look. I could have sworn that I saw both smoke and flame from its

nostrils. The beast is fit to bear a suit of armor which rides and

fights and yet hath no man within it.”

“Nay, not too fast, father Bishop,” said one of the knights. “It may be

all that you say and yet come from a human workshop. When I made a

campaign in South Germany I have seen at Nuremberg a cunning figure,

devised by an armorer, which could both ride and wield a sword. If this

be such a one—”

“I thank you all for your very gentle courtesy,” said a booming voice

from the figure upon the ground.

At the words even the valiant Manny sprang into his saddle. Some rode

madly away from the horrid trunk. A few of the boldest lingered.

“Most of all,” said the voice, “would I thank the most noble knight,

Sir Walter Manny, that he should deign to lay aside his greatness and

condescend to do a deed of arms upon so humble a Squire.”

“’Fore God!” said Manny, “if this be the Devil, then the Devil hath a

very courtly tongue. I will have him out of his armor, if he blast me!”

So saying he sprang once more from his horse and plunging his hand down

the slit in the collapsed gorget he closed it tightly upon a fistful of

Nigel’s yellow curls. The groan that came forth was enough to convince

him that it was indeed a man who lurked within. At the same time his

eyes fell upon the hole in the mail corselet which had served the

Squire as a visor, and he burst into deep-chested mirth. The King, the

Prince and Chandos, who had watched the scene from a distance, too much

amused by it to explain or interfere, rode up weary with laughter, now

that all was discovered.

“Let him out!” said the King, with his hand to his side. “I pray you to

unlace him and let him out! I have shared in many a spear-running, but

never have I been nearer falling from my horse than as I watched this

one. I feared the fall had struck him senseless, since he lay so

still.”

Nigel had indeed lain with all the breath shaken from his body, and as

he was unaware that his helmet had been carried off, he had not

understood either the alarm or the amusement that he had caused. Now

freed from the great hauberk in which he had been shut like a pea in a

pod, he stood blinking in the light, blushing deeply with shame that

the shifts to which his poverty had reduced him should be exposed to

all these laughing courtiers. It was the King who brought him comfort.

“You have shown that you can use your father’s weapons,” said he, “and

you have proved also that you are the worthy bearer of his name and his

arms, for you have within you that spirit for which he was famous. But

I wot that neither he nor you would suffer a train of hungry men to

starve before your door; so lead on, I pray you, and if the meat be as

good as this grace before it, then it will be a feast indeed.”

X.

HOW THE KING GREETED HIS SENESCHAL OF CALAIS

It would have fared ill with the good name of Tilford Manor house and

with the housekeeping of the aged Dame Ermyntrude had the King’s whole

retinue, with his outer and inner marshal, his justiciar, his

chamberlain and his guard, all gathered under the one roof. But by the

foresight and the gentle management of Chandos this calamity was

avoided, so that some were quartered at the great Abbey and others

passed on to enjoy the hospitality of Sir Roger FitzAlan at Farnham

Castle. Only the King himself, the Prince, Manny, Chandos, Sir Hubert

de Burgh, the Bishop and two or three more remained behind as the

guests of the Lorings.

But small as was the party and humble the surroundings, the King in no

way relaxed that love of ceremony, of elaborate form and of brilliant

coloring which was one of his characteristics. The sumpter-mules were

unpacked, squires ran hither and thither, baths smoked in the

bed-chambers, silks and satins were unfolded, gold chains gleamed and

clinked, so that when at last, to the long blast of two court

trumpeters, the company took their seats at the board, it was the

brightest, fairest scene which those old black rafters had ever

spanned.

The great influx of foreign knights who had come in their splendor from

all parts of Christendom to take part in the opening of the Round Tower

of Windsor six years before, and to try their luck and their skill at

the tournament connected with it, had deeply modified the English

fashions of dress. The old tunic, over-tunic and cyclas were too sad

and simple for the new fashions, so now strange and brilliant

cote-hardies, pourpoints, courtepies, paltocks, hanselines and many

other wondrous garments, parti-colored or diapered, with looped,

embroidered or escalloped edges, flamed and glittered round the King.

He himself, in black velvet and gold, formed a dark rich center to the

finery around him. On his right sat the Prince, on his left the Bishop,

while Dame Ermyntrude marshaled the forces of the household outside,

alert and watchful, pouring in her dishes and her flagons at the right

moment, rallying her tired servants, encouraging the van, hurrying the

rear, hastening up her reserves, the tapping of her oak stick heard

everywhere the pressure was the greatest.

Behind the King, clad in his best, but looking drab and sorry amid the

brilliant costumes round him, Nigel himself, regardless of an aching

body and a twisted knee, waited upon his royal guests, who threw many a

merry jest at him over their shoulders as they still chuckled at the

adventure of the bridge.

“By the rood!” said King Edward, leaning back, with a chicken bone held

daintily between the courtesy fingers of his left hand, “the play is

too good for this country stage. You must to Windsor with me, Nigel,

and bring with you this great suit of harness in which you lurk. There

you shall hold the lists with your eyes in your midriff, and unless

some one cleave you to the waist I see not how any harm can befall you.

Never have I seen so small a nut in so great a shell.”

The Prince, looking back with laughing eyes, saw by Nigel’s flushed and

embarrassed face that his poverty hung heavily upon him. “Nay,” said he

kindly, “such a workman is surely worthy of better tools.”

“And it is for his master to see that he has them,” added the King.

“The court armorer will look to it that the next time your helmet is

carried away, Nigel, your head shall be inside it.”

Nigel, red to the roots of his flaxen hair, stammered out some words of

thanks.

John Chandos, however, had a fresh suggestion, and he cocked a roguish

eye as he made it: “Surely, my liege, your bounty is little needed in

this case. It is the ancient law of arms that if two cavaliers start to

joust, and one either by maladdress or misadventure fail to meet the

shock, then his arms become the property of him who still holds the

lists. This being so, methinks, Sir Hubert de Burgh, that the fine

hauberk of Milan and the helmet of Bordeaux steel in which you rode to

Tilford should remain with our young host as some small remembrance of

your visit.”

The suggestion raised a general chorus of approval and laughter, in

which all joined, save only Sir Hubert himself, who, flushed with

anger, fixed his baleful eyes upon Chandos’ mischievous and smiling

face.

“I said that I did not play that foolish game, and I know nothing of

its laws,” said he; “but you know well, John, that if you would have a

bout with sharpened spear or sword, where two ride to the ground, and

only one away from it, you have not far to go to find it.”

“Nay, nay, would you ride to the ground? Surely you had best walk,

Hubert,” said Chandos. “On your feet I know well that I should not see

your back as we have seen it to-day. Say what you will, your horse has

played you false, and I claim your suit of harness for Nigel Loring.”

“Your tongue is overlong, John, and I am weary of its endless clack!”

said Sir Hubert, his yellow mustache bristling from a scarlet face. “If

you claim my harness, do you yourself come and take it. If there is a

moon in the sky you may try this very night when the board is cleared.”

“Nay, fair sirs,” cried the King, smiling from one to the other, “this

matter must be followed no further. Do you fill a bumper of Gascony,

John, and you also, Hubert. Now pledge each other, I pray you, as good

and loyal comrades who would scorn to fight save in your King’s

quarrel. We can spare neither of you while there is so much work for

brave hearts over the sea. As to this matter of the harness, John

Chandos speaks truly where it concerns a joust in the lists, but we

hold that such a law is scarce binding in this, which was but a wayside

passage and a gentle trial of arms. On the other hand, in the case of

your Squire, Master Manny, there can be no doubt that his suit is

forfeit.”

“It is a grievous hearing for him, my liege,” said Walter Manny; “for

he is a poor man and hath been at sore pains to fit himself for the

wars. Yet what you say shall be done, fair sire. So, if you will come

to me in the morning, Squire Loring, John Widdicombe’s suit will be

handed over to you.”

“Then with the King’s leave, I will hand it back to him,” said Nigel,

troubled and stammering; “for indeed I had rather never ride to the

wars than take from a brave man his only suit of plate.”

“There spoke your father’s spirit!” cried the King. “By the rood!

Nigel, I like you full well. Let the matter bide in my hands. But I

marvel much that Sir Aymery the Lombard hath not come to us yet from

Windsor.”

From the moment of his arrival at Tilford, again and again King Edward

had asked most eagerly whether Sir Aymery had come, and whether there

was any news of him, so that the courtiers glanced at each other in

wonder. For Aymery was known to all of them as a famous mercenary of

Italy, lately appointed Governor of Calais, and this sudden and urgent

summons from the King might well mean some renewal of the war with

France, which was the dearest wish of every soldier. Twice the King had

stopped his meal and sat with sidelong head; his wine-cup in his hand,

listening attentively when some sound like the clatter of hoofs was

heard from outside; but the third time there could be no mistake. The

tramp and jingle of the horses broke loud upon the ear, and ended in

hoarse voices calling out of the darkness, which were answered by the

archers posted as sentries without the door.

“Some traveler has indeed arrived, my liege,” said Nigel. “What is your

royal will?”

“It can be but Aymery,” the King answered, “for it was only to him that

I left the message that he should follow me hither. Bid him come in, I

pray you, and make him very welcome at your board.”

Nigel cast open the door, plucking a torch from its bracket as he did

so. Half a dozen men-at-arms sat on their horses outside, but one had

dismounted, a short, squat, swarthy man with a rat face and quick,

restless brown eyes which peered eagerly past Nigel into the red glare

of the well-lit hall.

“I am Sir Aymery of Pavia,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, tell me! is

the King within?”

“He is at table, fair sir, and he bids you to enter.”

“One moment, young man, one moment, and a secret word in your ear. Wot

you why it is that the King has sent for me?”

Nigel read terror in the dark cunning eyes which glanced in sidelong

fashion into his. “Nay, I know not.”

“I would I knew—I would I was sure ere I sought his presence.”

“You have but to cross the threshold, fair sir, and doubtless you will

learn from the King’s own lips.”

Sir Aymery seemed to gather himself as one who braces for a spring into

ice-cold water. Then he crossed with a quick stride from the darkness

into the light. The King stood up and held out his hand with a smile

upon his long handsome face, and yet it seemed to the Italian that it

was the lips which smiled but not the eyes.

“Welcome!” cried Edward. “Welcome to our worthy and faithful Seneschal

of Calais! Come, sit here before me at the board, for I have sent for

you that I may hear your news from over the sea, and thank you for the

care that you have taken of that which is as dear to me as wife or

child. Set a place for Sir Aymery there, and give him food and drink,

for he has ridden fast and far in our service to-day.”

Throughout the long feast which the skill of the Lady Ermyntrude had

arranged, Edward chatted lightly with the Italian as well as with the

barons near him. Finally, when the last dish was removed and the

gravy-soaked rounds of coarse bread which served as plates had been

cast to the dogs, the wine-flagons were passed round; and old

Weathercote the minstrel entered timidly with his harp in the hope that

he might be allowed to play before the King’s majesty. But Edward had

other sport afoot.

“I pray you, Nigel, to send out the servants, so that we may be alone.

I would have two men-at-arms at every door lest we be disturbed in our

debate, for it is a matter of privacy. And now, Sir Aymery, these noble

lords as well as I, your master, would fain hear from your own lips how

all goes forward in France.”

The Italian’s face was calm; but he looked restlessly from one to

another along the line of his listeners.

“So far as I know, my liege, all is quiet on the French marches,” said

he.

“You have not heard then that they have mustered or gathered to a head

with the intention of breaking the truce and making some attempt upon

our dominions?”

“Nay, sire, I have heard nothing of it.”

“You set my mind much at ease, Aymery,” said the King; “for if nothing

has come to your ears, then surely it cannot be. It was said that the

wild Knight de Chargny had come down to St. Omer with his eyes upon my

precious jewel and his mailed hands ready to grasp it.”

“Nay, sire, let him come. He will find the jewel safe in its strong

box, with a goodly guard over it.”

“You are the guard over my jewel, Aymery.”

“Yes, sire, I am the guard.”

“And you are a faithful guard and one whom I can trust, are you not?

You would not barter away that which is so dear to me when I have

chosen you out of all my army to hold it for me?”

“Nay, sire, what reasons can there be for such questions? They touch my

honor very nearly. You know that I would part with Calais only when I

parted with my soul.”

“Then you know nothing of de Chargny’s attempt?”

“Nothing sire.”

“Liar and villain!” yelled the King, springing to his feet and dashing

his fist upon the table until the glasses rattled again. “Seize him,

archers! Seize him this instant! Stand close by either elbow, lest he

do himself a mischief! Now do you dare to tell me to my face, you

perjured Lombard, that you know nothing of de Chargny and his plans?”

“As God is my witness I know nothing of him!” The man’s lips were

white, and he spoke in a thin, sighing, reedy voice, his eyes wincing

away from the fell gaze of the angry King.

Edward laughed bitterly, and drew a paper from his breast. “You are the

judges in this case, you, my fair son, and you, Chandos, and you,

Manny, and you, Sir Hubert, and you also, my Lord Bishop. By my

sovereign power I make you a court that you may deal justice upon this

man, for by God’s eyes I will not stir from this room until I have

sifted the matter to the bottom. And first I would read you this

letter. It is superscribed to Sir Aymery of Pavia, _nomme_ Le Lombard,

Château de Calais. Is not that your name and style, you rogue?”

“It is my name, sire; but no such letter has come to me.”

“Else had your villainy never been disclosed. It is signed ‘Isidore de

Chargny’. What says my enemy de Chargny to my trusted servant? Listen!

‘We could not come with the last moon, for we have not gathered

sufficient strength, nor have we been able to collect the twenty

thousand crowns which are your price. But with the next turn of the

moon in the darkest hour we will come and you will be paid your money

at the small postern gate with the rowan-bush beside it.’ Well, rogue,

what say you now?”

“It is a forgery!” gasped the Italian.

“I pray you that you will let me see it, sire,” said Chandos. “De

Chargny was my prisoner, and so many letters passed ere his ransom was

paid that his script is well-known to me. Yes, yes, I will swear that

this is indeed his. If my salvation were at stake I could swear it.”

“If it were indeed written by de Chargny it was to dishonor me,” cried

Sir Aymery.

“Nay, nay!” said the young Prince. “We all know de Chargny and have

fought against him. Many faults he has, a boaster and a brawler, but a

braver man and one of greater heart and higher of enterprise does not

ride beneath the lilies of France. Such a man would never stoop to

write a letter for the sake of putting dishonor upon one of knightly

rank. I, for one, will never believe it.”

A gruff murmur from the others showed that they were of one mind with

the Prince. The light of the torches from the walls beat upon the line

of stern faces at the high table. They had sat like flint, and the

Italian shrank from their inexorable eyes. He looked swiftly round, but

armed men choked every entrance. The shadow of death had fallen athwart

his soul.

“This letter,” said the King, “was given by de Chargny to one Dom

Beauvais, a priest of St. Omer, to carry into Calais. The said priest,

smelling a reward, brought it to one who is my faithful servant, and so

it came to me. Straightway I sent for this man that he should come to

me. Meanwhile the priest has returned so that de Chargny may think that

his message is indeed delivered.”

“I know nothing of it,” said the Italian doggedly, licking his dry

lips.

A dark flush mounted to the King’s forehead, and his eyes were gorged

with his wrath. “No more of this, for God’s dignity!” he cried. “Had we

this fellow at the Tower, a few turns of the rack would tear a

confession from his craven soul. But why should we need his word for

his own guilt? You have seen, my lords, you have heard! How say you,

fair son? Is the man guilty?”

“Sire, he is guilty.”

“And you, John? And you, Walter? And you, Hubert? And you, my Lord

Bishop? You are all of one mind, then. He is guilty of the betrayal of

his trust. And the punishment?”

“It can only be death,” said the Prince, and each in turn the others

nodded their agreement.

“Aymery of Pavia, you have heard your doom,” said Edward, leaning his

chin upon his hand and glooming at the cowering Italian. “Step forward,

you archer at the door, you with the black beard. Draw your sword! Nay,

you white-faced rogue, I would not dishonor this roof-tree by your

blood. It is your heels, not your head, that we want. Hack off these

golden spurs of knighthood with your sword, archer! ’Twas I who gave

them, and I who take them back. Ha! they fly across the hall, and with

them every bond betwixt you and the worshipful order whose sign and

badge they are! Now lead him out on the heath afar from the house where

his carrion can best lie, and hew his scheming head from his body as a

warning to all such traitors!”

The Italian, who had slipped from his chair to his knees, uttered a cry

of despair, as an archer seized him by either shoulder. Writhing out of

their grip, he threw himself upon the floor and clutched at the King’s

feet.

“Spare me, my most dread lord, spare me, I beseech you! In the name of

Christ’s passion, I implore your grace and pardon! Bethink you, my good

and dear lord, how many years I have served under your banners and how

many services I have rendered. Was it not I who found the ford upon the

Seine two days before the great battle? Was it not I also who marshaled

the attack at the intaking of Calais? I have a wife and four children

in Italy, great King; and it was the thought of them which led me to

fall from my duty, for this money would have allowed me to leave the

wars and to see them once again. Mercy, my liege, mercy, I implore!”

The English are a rough race, but not a cruel one. The King sat with a

face of doom; but the others looked askance and fidgeted in their

seats.

“Indeed, my fair liege,” said Chandos, “I pray you that you will abate

somewhat of your anger.”

Edward shook his head curtly. “Be silent, John. It shall be as I have

said.”

“I pray you, my dear and honored liege, not to act with overmuch haste

in the matter,” said Manny. “Bind him and hold him until the morning,

for other counsels may prevail.”

“Nay, I have spoken. Lead him out!”

But the trembling man clung to the King’s knees in such a fashion that

the archers could not disengage his convulsive grip. “Listen to me a

moment, I implore you! Give me but one minute to plead with you, and

then do what you will.”

The King leaned back in his chair. “Speak and have done,” said he.

“You must spare me, my noble liege. For your own sake I say that you

must spare me, for I can set you in the way of such a knightly

adventure as will gladden your heart. Bethink you, sire, that this de

Chargny and his comrades know nothing of their plans having gone awry.

If I do but send them a message they will surely come to the postern

gate. Then, if we have placed our bushment with skill we shall have

such a capture and such a ransom as will fill your coffers. He and his

comrades should be worth a good hundred thousand crowns.”

Edward spurned the Italian away from him with his foot until he

sprawled among the rushes, but even as he lay there like a wounded

snake his dark eyes never left the King’s face.

“You double traitor! You would sell Calais to de Chargny, and then in

turn you would sell de Chargny to me. How dare you suppose that I or

any noble knight had such a huckster’s soul as to think only of ransoms

where honor is to be won? Could I or any true man be so caitiff and so

thrall? You have sealed your own doom. Lead him out!”

“One instant, I pray you, my fair and most sweet lord,” cried the

Prince. “Assuage your wrath yet a little while, for this man’s rede

deserves perhaps more thought than we have given it. He has turned your

noble soul sick with his talk of ransoms; but look at it, I pray you,

from the side of honor, and where could we find such hope of

worshipfully winning worship? I pray you to let me put my body in this

adventure, for it is one from which, if rightly handled, much

advancement is to be gained.”

Edward looked with sparkling eyes at the noble youth at his side.

“Never was hound more keen on the track of a stricken hart than you on

the hope of honor, fair son,” said he. “How do you conceive the matter

in your mind?”

“De Chargny and his men will be such as are worth going far to meet,

for he will have the pick of France under his banner that night. If we

did as this man says and awaited him with the same number of lances,

then I cannot think that there is any spot in Christendom where one

would rather be than in Calais that night.”

“By the rood, fair son, you are right!” cried the King, his face

shining with the thought. “Now which of you, John Chandos or Walter

Manny, will take the thing in charge?” He looked mischievously from one

to the other like a master who dangles a bone betwixt two fierce old

hounds. All they had to say was in their burning, longing eyes. “Nay,

John, you must not take it amiss; but it is Walter’s turn, and he shall

have it.”

“Shall we not all go under your banner, sire, or that of the Prince?”

“Nay, it is not fitting that the royal banners of England should be

advanced in so small an adventure. And yet, if you have space in your

ranks for two more cavaliers, both the Prince and I would ride with you

that night.”

The young man stooped and kissed his father’s hand.

“Take this man in your charge, Walter, and do with him as you will.

Guard well lest he betray us once again. Take him from my sight, for

his breath poisons the room. And now, Nigel, if that worthy graybeard

of thine would fain twang his harp or sing to us—but what in God’s name

would you have?”

He had turned, to find his young host upon his knee and his flaxen head

bent in entreaty.

“What is it, man? What do you crave?”

“A boon, fair liege!”

“Well, well, am I to have no peace to-night, with a traitor kneeling to

me in front, and a true man on his knees behind? Out with it, Nigel.

What would you have?”

“To come with you to Calais.”

“By the rood! your request is fair enough, seeing that our plot is

hatched beneath your very roof. How say you, Walter? Will you take him,

armor and all?” asked King Edward.

“Say rather will you take me?” said Chandos. “We two are rivals in

honor, Walter, but I am very sure that you would not hold me back.”

“Nay, John, I will be proud to have the best lance in Christendom

beneath my banner.”

“And I to follow so knightly a leader. But Nigel Loring is my Squire,

and so he comes with us also.”

“Then that is settled,” said the King, “and now there is no need for

hurry, since there can be no move until the moon has changed. So I pray

you to pass the flagon once again, and to drink with me to the good

knights of France. May they be of great heart and high of enterprise

when we all meet once more within the castle wall of Calais!”

XI.

IN THE HALL OF THE KNIGHT OF DUPLIN

The King had come and had gone. Tilford Manor house stood once more

dark and silent, but joy and contentment reigned within its walls. In

one night every trouble had fallen away like some dark curtain which

had shut out the sun. A princely sum of money had come from the King’s

treasurer, given in such fashion that there could be no refusal. With a

bag of gold pieces at his saddle-bow Nigel rode once more into

Guildford, and not a beggar on the way who had not cause to bless his

name.

There he had gone first to the goldsmith and had bought back cup and

salver and bracelet, mourning with the merchant over the evil chance

that gold and gold-work had for certain reasons which only those in the

trade could fully understand gone up in value during the last week, so

that already fifty gold pieces had to be paid more than the price which

Nigel had received. In vain the faithful Aylward fretted and fumed and

muttered a prayer that the day would come when he might feather a shaft

in the merchant’s portly paunch. The money had to be paid.

Thence Nigel hurried to Wat the armorer’s and there he bought that very

suit for which he had yearned so short a time before. Then and there he

tried it on in the booth, Wat and his boy walking round him with

spanner and wrench, fixing bolts and twisting rivets.

“How is that, my fair sir?” cried the armorer as he drew the bassinet

over the head and fastened it to the camail which extended to the

shoulders. “I swear by Tubal Cain that it fits you as the shell fits

the crab! A finer suit never came from Italy or Spain.”

Nigel stood in front of a burnished shield which served as a mirror,

and he turned this way and that, preening himself like a little shining

bird. His smooth breastplate, his wondrous joints with their deft

protection by the disks at knee and elbow and shoulder, the beautifully

flexible gauntlets and sollerets, the shirt of mail and the

close-fitting greave-plates were all things of joy and of beauty in his

eyes. He sprang about the shop to show his lightness, and then running

out he placed his hand on the pommel and vaulted into Pommers’ saddle,

while Wat and his boy applauded in the doorway.

Then springing off and running into the shop again he clanked down upon

his knees before the image of the Virgin upon the smithy wall. There

from his heart he prayed that no shadow or stain should come upon his

soul or his honor whilst these arms incased his body, and that he might

be strengthened to use them for noble and godly ends. A strange turn

this to a religion of peace, and yet for many a century the sword and

the faith had upheld each other and in a darkened world the best ideal

of the soldier had turned in some dim groping fashion toward the light.

“_Benedictus dominus deus meus qui docet manus meas ad prælium et

digitos meos ad bellum!_” There spoke the soul of the knightly soldier.

So the armor was trussed upon the armorer’s mule and went back with

them to Tilford, where Nigel put it on once more for the pleasure of

the Lady Ermyntrude, who clapped her skinny hands and shed tears of

mingled pain and joy—pain that she should lose him, joy that he should

go so bravely to the wars. As to her own future, it had been made easy

for her, since it was arranged that a steward should look to the

Tilford estate whilst she had at her disposal a suite of rooms in royal

Windsor, where with other venerable dames of her own age and standing

she could spend the twilight of her days discussing long-forgotten

scandals and whispering sad things about the grandfathers and the

grandmothers of the young courtiers all around them. There Nigel might

leave her with an easy mind when he turned his face to France.

But there was one more visit to be paid and one more farewell to be

spoken ere Nigel could leave the moorlands where he had dwelled so

long. That evening he donned his brightest tunic, dark purple velvet of

Genoa, with trimming of miniver, his hat with the snow-white feather

curling round the front, and his belt of embossed silver round his

loins. Mounted on lordly Pommers, with his hawk upon wrist and his

sword by his side, never did fairer young gallant or one more modest in

mind set forth upon such an errand. It was but the old Knight of Duplin

to whom he would say farewell; but the Knight of Duplin had two

daughters, Edith and Mary, and Edith was the fairest maid in all the

heather-country.

Sir John Buttesthorn, the Knight of Duplin, was so called because he

had been present at that strange battle, some eighteen years before,

when the full power of Scotland had been for a moment beaten to the

ground by a handful of adventurers and mercenaries, marching under the

banner of no nation, but fighting in their own private quarrel. Their

exploit fills no pages of history, for it is to the interest of no

nation to record it, and yet the rumor and fame of the great fight

bulked large in those times, for it was on that day when the flower of

Scotland was left dead upon the field, that the world first understood

that a new force had arisen in war, and that the English archer, with

his robust courage and his skill with the weapon which he had wielded

from his boyhood, was a power with which even the mailed chivalry of

Europe had seriously to reckon.

Sir John after his return from Scotland had become the King’s own head

huntsman, famous through all England for his knowledge of venery, until

at last, getting overheavy for his horses, he had settled in modest

comfort into the old house of Cosford upon the eastern slope of the

Hindhead hill. Here, as his face grew redder and his beard more white,

he spent the evening of his days, amid hawks and hounds, a flagon of

spiced wine ever at his elbow, and his swollen foot perched upon a

stool before him. There it was that many an old comrade broke his

journey as he passed down the rude road which led from London to

Portsmouth, and thither also came the young gallants of the country to

hear the stout knight’s tales of old wars, or to learn, from him that

lore of the forest and the chase which none could teach so well as he.

But sooth to say, whatever the old knight might think, it was not

merely his old tales and older wine which drew the young men to

Cosford, but rather the fair face of his younger daughter, or the

strong soul and wise counsel of the elder. Never had two more different

branches sprung from the same trunk. Both were tall and of a queenly

graceful figure. But there all resemblance began and ended.

Edith was yellow as the ripe corn, blue-eyed, winning, mischievous,

with a chattering tongue, a merry laugh, and a smile which a dozen of

young gallants, Nigel of Tilford at their head, could share equally

amongst them. Like a young kitten she played with all things that she

found in life, and some there were who thought that already the claws

could be felt amid the patting of her velvet touch.

Mary was dark as night, grave-featured, plain-visaged, with steady

brown eyes looking bravely at the world from under a strong black arch

of brows. None could call her beautiful, and when her fair sister cast

her arm round her and placed her cheek against hers, as was her habit

when company was there, the fairness of the one and the plainness of

the other leaped visibly to the eyes of all, each the clearer for that

hard contrast. And yet, here and there, there was one who, looking at

her strange, strong face, and at the passing gleams far down in her

dark eyes, felt that this silent woman with her proud bearing and her

queenly grace had in her something of strength, of reserve and of

mystery which was more to them than all the dainty glitter of her

sister.

Such were the ladies of Cosford toward whom Nigel Loring rode that

night with doublet of Genoan velvet and the new white feather in his

cap.

He had ridden over Thursley Ridge past that old stone where in days

gone by at the place of Thor the wild Saxons worshiped their war-god.

Nigel looked at it with a wary eye and spurred Pommers onward as he

passed it, for still it was said that wild fires danced round it on the

moonless nights, and they who had ears for such things could hear the

scream and sob of those whose lives had been ripped from them that the

fiend might be honored. Thor’s stone, Thor’s jumps, Thor’s

punch-bowl—the whole country-side was one grim monument to the God of

Battles, though the pious monks had changed his uncouth name for that

of the Devil his father, so that it was the Devil’s jumps and the

Devil’s punch-bowl of which they spoke. Nigel glanced back at the old

gray boulder, and he felt for an instant a shudder pass through his

stout heart. Was it the chill of the evening air, or was it that some

inner voice had whispered to him of the day when he also might lie

bound on such a rock and have such a blood-stained pagan crew howling

around him.

An instant later the rock and his vague fear and all things else had

passed from his mind, for there, down the yellow sandy path, the

setting sun gleaming on her golden hair, her lithe figure bending and

swaying with every heave of the cantering horse, was none other than

the same fair Edith, whose face had come so often betwixt him and his

sleep. His blood rushed hot to his face at the sight, for fearless of

all else, his spirit was attracted and yet daunted by the delicate

mystery of woman. To his pure and knightly soul not Edith alone, but

every woman, sat high and aloof, enthroned and exalted, with a thousand

mystic excellencies and virtues which raised her far above the rude

world of man. There was joy in contact with them; and yet there was

fear, fear lest his own unworthiness, his untrained tongue or rougher

ways should in some way break rudely upon this delicate and tender

thing. Such was his thought as the white horse cantered toward him; but

a moment later his vague doubts were set at rest by the frank voice of

the young girl, who waved her whip in merry greeting.

“Hail and well met, Nigel!” she cried. “Whither away this evening? Sure

I am that it is not to see your friends of Cosford, for when did you

ever don so brave a doublet for us? Come, Nigel, her name, that I may

hate her for ever.”