“What?” cried Aylward. “Am I to be left behind? I, who am the Squire’s

own man? Ill fare the bowman who comes betwixt me and yonder boat!”

“Nay, Aylward,” said his master, “I order that you stay, for indeed you

are a sick man.”

“But now that the waves have sunk I am myself again. Nay, fair sir, I

pray that you will not leave me behind.”

“You must needs take the space of a better man; for what do you know of

the handling of a boat?” said Badding shortly. “No more fool’s talk, I

pray you, for the night will soon fall. Stand aside!”

Aylward looked hard at the French boat. “I could swim ten times up and

down Frensham pond,” said he, “and it will be strange if I cannot go as

far as that. By these finger-bones, Samkin Aylward may be there as soon

as you!”

The little boat with its five occupants pushed off from the side of the

schooner, and dipping and rising, made its slow way toward the

Frenchman. Badding and one archer had single oars, the second archer

was in the prow, while Black Simon and Nigel huddled into the stern

with the water lapping and hissing at their very elbows. A shout of

defiance rose from the Frenchmen, and they stood in a line along the

side of their vessel shaking their fists and waving their weapons.

Already the sun was level with Dungeness, and the gray of evening was

blurring sky and water into one dim haze. A great silence hung over the

broad expanse of nature, and no sound broke it save the dip and splash

of the oars and the slow deep surge of the boat upon the swell. Behind

them their comrades of the Marie Rose stood motionless and silent,

watching their progress with eager eyes.

They were near enough now to have a good look at the Frenchmen. One was

a big swarthy man with a long black beard. He had a red cap and an ax

over his shoulder. There were ten other hardy-looking fellows, all of

them well armed, and there were three who seemed to be boys.

“Shall we try a shaft upon them?” asked Hugh Baddlesmere. “They are

well within our bowshot.”

“Only one of you can shoot at a time, for you have no footing,” said

Badding. “With one foot in the prow and one over the thwart you will

get your stance. Do what you may, and then we will close in upon them.”

The archer balanced himself in the rolling boat with the deftness of a

man who has been trained upon the sea, for he was born and bred in the

Cinque Ports. Carefully he nocked his arrow, strongly he drew it,

steadily he loosed it, but the boat swooped at the instant, and it

buried itself in the waves. The second passed over the little ship, and

the third struck in her black side. Then in quick succession so quick

that two shafts were often in the air at the same instant—he discharged

a dozen arrows, most of which just cleared the bulwarks and dropped

upon the deck. There was a cry on the Frenchman, and the heads vanished

from the side.

“Enough!” cried Badding. “One is down, and it may be two. Close in,

close in, in God’s name, before they rally!”

He and the other bent to their oars; but at the same instant there was

a sharp zip in the air and a hard clear sound like a stone striking a

wall. Baddlesmere clapped his hand to his head, groaned and fell

forward out of the boat, leaving a swirl of blood upon the surface. A

moment later the same fierce hiss ended in a loud wooden crash, and a

short, thick crossbow-bolt was buried deep in the side of their boat.

“Close in, close in!” roared Badding, tugging at his oar. “Saint George

for England! Saint Leonard for Winchelsea! Close in!”

But again that fatal crossbow twanged. Dicon of Rye fell back with a

shaft through his shoulder. “God help me, I can no more!” said he.

Badding seized the oar from his hand; but it was only to sweep the

boat’s head round and pull her back to the Marie Rose. The attack had

failed.

“What now, master-shipman?” cried Nigel. “What has befallen to stop us?

Surely the matter does not end here?”

“Two down out of five,” said Badding, “and twelve at the least against

us. The odds are too long, little master. Let us at least go back, fill

up once more, and raise a mantelet against the bolts, for they have an

arbalist which shoots both straight and hard. But what we do we must do

quickly, for the darkness falls apace.”

Their repulse had been hailed by wild yells of delight from the

Frenchmen, who danced with joy and waved their weapons madly over their

heads. But before their rejoicings had finished they saw the little

boat creeping out once more from the shadow of the Marie Rose, a great

wooden screen in her bows to protect her from the arrows. Without a

pause she came straight and fast for her enemy. The wounded archer had

been put on board, and Aylward would have had his place had Nigel been

able to see him upon the deck. The third archer, Hal Masters, had

sprung in, and one of the seamen, Wat Finnis of Hythe. With their

hearts hardened to conquer or to die, the five ran alongside the

Frenchman and sprang upon her deck. At the same instant a great iron

weight crashed through the bottom of their skiff, and their feet had

hardly left her before she was gone. There was no hope and no escape

save victory.

The crossbowman stood under the mast, his terrible weapon at his

shoulder, the steel string stretched taut, the heavy bolt shining upon

the nut. One life at least he would claim out of this little band. Just

for one instant too long did he dwell upon his aim, shifting from the

seaman to Cock Badding, whose formidable appearance showed him to be

the better prize. In that second of time Hal Masters’ string twanged

and his long arrow sped through the arbalister’s throat. He dropped on

the deck, with blood and curses pouring from his mouth.

A moment later Nigel’s sword and Badding’s hammer had each claimed a

victim and driven back the rush of assailants. The five were safe upon

the deck, but it was hard for them to keep a footing there. The French

seamen, Bretons and Normans, were stout, powerful fellows, armed with

axes and swords, fierce fighters and brave men. They swarmed round the

little band, attacking them from all sides. Black Simon felled the

black-bearded French Captain, and at the same instant was cut over the

head and lay with his scalp open upon the deck. The seaman Wat of Hythe

was killed by a crashing blow from an ax. Nigel was struck down, but

was up again like a flash, and drove his sword through the man who had

felled him.

But Badding, Masters the archer and he had been hustled back to the

bulwark and were barely holding their own from minute to minute against

the fierce crowd who assailed them, when an arrow coming apparently

from the sea struck the foremost Frenchman to the heart. A moment later

a boat dashed up alongside and four more men from the Marie Rose

scrambled on to the blood-stained deck. With one fierce rush the

remaining Frenchmen were struck down or were seized by their

assailants. Nine prostrate men upon the deck showed how fierce had been

the attack, how desperate the resistance.

Badding leaned panting upon his blood-clotted hammer. “By Saint

Leonard!” he cried, “I thought that this little master had been the

death of us all. God wot you were but just in time, and how you came I

know not. This archer has had a hand in it, by the look of him.”

Aylward, still pale from his seasickness and dripping from head to foot

with water, had been the first man in the rescue party.

Nigel looked at him in amazement. “I sought you aboard the ship,

Aylward, but I could not lay eyes on you,” said he.

“It was because I was in the water, fair sir, and by my hilt! it suits

my stomach better than being on it,” he answered. “When you first set

forth I swam behind you, for I saw that the Frenchman’s boat hung by a

rope, and I thought that while you kept him in play I might gain it. I

had reached it when you were driven back, so I hid behind it in the

water and said my prayers as I have not said them for many a day. Then

you came again, and no one had an eye for me, so I clambered into it,

cut the rope, took the oars which I found there and brought her back

for more men.”

“By Saint Paul! you have acted very wisely and well,” said Nigel, “and

I think that of all of us it is you who have won most honor this day.

But of all these men dead and alive I see none who resembles that Red

Ferret whom my Lord Chandos has described and who has worked such

despite upon us in the past: It would indeed be an evil chance if he

has in spite of all our pains made his way to France in some other

boat.”

“That we shall soon find out,” said Badding. “Come with me and we will

search the ship from truck to keel ere he escapes us.”

There was a scuttle at the base of the mast which led down into the

body of the vessel, and the Englishmen were approaching this when a

strange sight brought them to a stand. A round brazen head had appeared

in the square dark opening. An instant afterward a pair of shining

shoulders followed. Then slowly the whole figure of a man in complete

plate-armor emerged on the deck. In his gauntleted hand he carried a

heavy steel mace. With this uplifted he moved toward his enemies,

silent save for the ponderous clank of his footfall. It was an inhuman,

machine-like figure, menacing and terrible, devoid of all expression,

slow-moving, inexorable and awesome.

A sudden wave of terror passed over the English seamen. One of them

tried to pass and get behind the brazen man, but he was pinned against

the side by a quick movement and his brains dashed out by a smashing

blow from the heavy mace. Wild panic seized the others, and they rushed

back to the boat. Aylward strung an arrow, but his bowstring was damp

and the shaft rang loudly upon the shining breast-plate and glanced off

into the sea. Masters struck the brazen head with a sword, but the

blade snapped without injuring the helmet, and an instant later the

bowman was stretched senseless on the deck. The seamen shrank from this

terrible silent creature and huddled in the stern, all the fight gone

out of them.

Again he raised his mace and was advancing on the helpless crowd where

the brave were encumbered and hampered by the weaklings, when Nigel

shook himself clear and bounded forward into the open, his sword in his

hand and a smile of welcome upon his lips.

The sun had set, and one long mauve gash across the western Channel was

closing swiftly into the dull grays of early night. Above, a few stars

began to faintly twinkle; yet the twilight was still bright enough for

an observer to see every detail of the scene: the Marie Rose, dipping

and rising on the long rollers astern; the broad French boat with its

white deck blotched with blood and littered with bodies; the group of

men in the stern, some trying to advance and some seeking to escape—all

a confused, disorderly, struggling rabble.

Then betwixt them and the mast the two figures: the armed shining man

of metal, with hand upraised, watchful, silent, motionless, and Nigel,

bareheaded and crouching, with quick foot, eager eyes and fearless

happy face, moving this way and that, in and out, his sword flashing

like a gleam of light as he sought at all points for some opening in

the brazen shell before him.

It was clear to the man in armor that if he could but pen his

antagonist in a corner he would beat him down without fail. But it was

not to be done. The unhampered man had the advantage of speed. With a

few quick steps he could always glide to either side and escape the

clumsy rush. Aylward and Badding had sprung out to Nigel’s assistance;

but he shouted to them to stand back, with such authority and anger in

his voice that their weapons dropped to their sides. With staring eyes

and set features they stood watching that unequal fight.

Once it seemed that all was over with the Squire, for in springing back

from his enemy he tripped over one of the bodies which strewed the deck

and fell flat upon his back, but with a swift wriggle he escaped the

heavy blow which thundered down upon him, and springing to his feet he

bit deeply into the Frenchman’s helmet with a sweeping cut in return.

Again the mace fell, and this time Nigel had not quite cleared himself.

His sword was beaten down and the blow fell partly upon his left

shoulder. He staggered, and once more the iron club whirled upward to

dash him to the ground.

Quick as a flash it passed through his mind that he could not leap

beyond its reach. But he might get within it. In an instant he had

dropped his sword, and springing in he had seized the brazen man round

the waist. The mace was shortened and the handle jobbed down once upon

the bare flaxen head. Then, with a sonorous clang, and a yell of

delight from the spectators, Nigel with one mighty wrench tore his

enemy from the deck and hurled him down upon his back. His own head was

whirling and he felt that his senses were slipping away, but already

his hunting-knife was out and pointing through the slit in the brazen

helmet.

“Give yourself up, fair sir!” said he.

“Never to fishermen and to archers! I am a gentleman of coat-armor.

Kill me!”

“I also am a gentleman of coat-armor. I promise you quarter.”

“Then, sir, I surrender myself to you.”

The dagger tinkled down upon the deck. Seamen and archers ran forward,

to find Nigel half senseless upon his face. They drew him off, and a

few deft blows struck off the helmet of his enemy. A head,

sharp-featured, freckled and foxy-red, disclosed itself beneath it.

Nigel raised himself on his elbow for an instant.

“You are the Red Ferret?” said he.

“So my enemies call me,” said the Frenchman, with a smile. “I rejoice,

sir, that I have fallen to so valiant and honorable a gentleman.”

“I thank you, fair sir,” said Nigel feebly. “I also rejoice that I have

encountered so debonair a person, and I shall ever bear in mind the

pleasure which I have had from our meeting.”

So saying, he laid his bleeding head upon his enemy’s brazen front and

sank into a dead faint.

XV.

HOW THE RED FERRET CAME TO COSFORD

The old chronicler in his “_Gestes du Sieur Nigel_” has bewailed his

broken narrative, which rose from the fact that out of thirty-one years

of warfare no less than seven were spent by his hero at one time or

another in the recovery from his wounds or from those illnesses which

arose from privation and fatigue. Here at the very threshold of his

career, on the eve of a great enterprise, this very fate befell him.

Stretched upon a couch in a low-roofed and ill-furnished chamber, which

looks down from under the machicolated corner turret upon the inner

court of the Castle of Calais, he lay half-unconscious and impotent,

while great deeds were doing under his window. Wounded in three places,

and with his head splintered by the sharp pommel of the Ferret’s mace,

he hovered betwixt life and death, his shattered body drawing him

downward, his youthful spirit plucking him up.

As in some strange dream he was aware of that deed of arms within the

courtyard below. Dimly it came back to his memory afterwards the sudden

startled shout, the crash of metal, the slamming of great gates, the

roar of many voices, the clang, clang, clang, as of fifty lusty smiths

upon their anvils, and then at last the dwindling of the hubbub, the

low groans and sudden shrill cries to the saints, the measured murmur

of many voices, the heavy clanking of armored feet.

Sometime in that fell struggle he must have drawn his weakened body as

far as the narrow window, and hanging to the iron bars have looked down

on the wild scene beneath him. In the red glare of torches held from

windows and from roof he saw the rush and swirl of men below, the ruddy

light shining back from glowing brass and gleaming steel. As a wild

vision it came to him afterward, the beauty and the splendor, the

flying lambrequins, the jeweled crests, the blazonry and richness of

surcoat and of shield, where sable and gules, argent and vair, in every

pattern of saltire, bend or chevron, glowed beneath him like a drift of

many-colored blossoms, tossing, sinking, stooping into shadow,

springing into light. There glared the blood-red gules of Chandos, and

he saw the tall figure of his master, a thunderbolt of war, raging in

the van. There too were the three black chevrons on the golden shield

which marked the noble Manny. That strong swordsman must surely be the

royal Edward himself, since only he and the black-armored swift-footed

youth at his side were marked by no symbol of heraldry. “Manny! Manny!

George for England!” rose the deep-throated bay, and ever the gallant

counter-cry: “A Chargny! A Chargny! Saint Denis for France!” thundered

amid the clash and thudding of the battle.

Such was the vague whirling memory still lingering in Nigel’s mind when

at last the mists cleared away from it and he found himself weak but

clear on the low couch in the corner turret. Beside him, crushing

lavender betwixt his rough fingers and strewing it over floor and

sheets, was Aylward the archer. His longbow leaned at the foot of the

bed, and his steel cap was balanced on the top of it, while he himself,

sitting in his shirt sleeves, fanned off the flies and scattered the

fragrant herbs over his helpless master.

“By my hilt!” he cried with a sudden shout, every tooth in his head

gleaming with joy, “I thank the Virgin and all the saints for this

blessed sight! I had not dared to go back to Tilford had I lost you.

Three weeks have you lain there and babbled like a babe, but now I see

in your eyes that you are your own man again.”

“I have indeed had some small hurt,” said Nigel feebly; “but it is

shame and sorrow that I should lie here if there is work for my hands.

Whither go you, archer?”

“To tell the good Sir John that you are mending.”

“Nay, bide with me a little longer, Aylward. I can call to mind all

that has passed. There was a bickering of small boats, was there not,

and I chanced upon a most worthy person and exchanged handstrokes with

him? He was my prisoner, was he not?”

“He was, fair sir.”

“And where is he now?”

“Below in the castle.”

A smile stole over Nigel’s pale face. “I know what I will do with him,”

said he.

“I pray you to rest, fair sir,” said Aylward anxiously. “The King’s own

leech saw you this morning, and he said that if the bandage was torn

from your head you would surely die.”

“Nay, good archer, I will not move. But tell me what befell upon the

boat?”

“There is little to tell, fair sir. Had this Ferret not been his own

squire and taken so long a time to don his harness it is likely that

they would have had the better of us. He did not reach the battle till

his comrades were on their backs. Him we took to the Marie Rose,

because he was your man. The others were of no worth, so we threw them

into the sea.”

“The quick and the dead?”

“Every man of them.”

“It was an evil deed.”

Aylward shrugged his shoulders. “I tried to save one boy,” said he;

“but Cock Badding would not have it, and he had Black Simon and the

others at his back. ‘It is the custom of the Narrow Seas,’ said they:

‘To-day for them; to-morrow for us.’—Then they tore him from his hold

and cast him screaming over the side. By my hilt! I have no love for

the sea and its customs, so I care not if I never set foot on it again

when it has once borne me back to England.”

“Nay, there are great happenings upon the sea, and many worthy people

to be found upon ships,” said Nigel. “In all parts, if one goes far

enough upon the water, one would find those whom it would be joy to

meet. If one crosses over the Narrow Sea, as we have done, we come on

the French who are so needful to us; for how else would we win worship?

Or if you go south, then in time one may hope to come to the land of

the unbelievers, where there is fine skirmishing and much honor for him

who will venture his person. Bethink you, archer, how fair a life it

must be when one can ride forth in search of advancement with some hope

of finding many debonair cavaliers upon the same quest, and then if one

be overborne one has died for the faith, and the gates of Heaven are

open before you. So also the sea to the north is a help to him who

seeks honor, for it leads to the country of the Eastlanders and to

those parts where the heathen still dwell who turn their faces from the

blessed Gospel. There also a man might find some small deeds to do, and

by Saint Paul! Aylward, if the French hold the truce and the good Sir

John permits us, I would fain go down into those parts. The sea is a

good friend to the cavalier, for it takes him where he may fulfil his

vows.”

Aylward shook his head, for his memories were too recent; but he said

nothing, because at this instant the door opened and Chandos entered.

With joy in his face he stepped forward to the couch and took Nigel’s

hand in his. Then he whispered a word in Aylward’s ear, who hurried

from the room.

“_Pardieu!_ this is a good sight,” said the knight. “I trust that you

will soon be on your feet again.”

“I crave your pardon, my honored lord, that I have been absent from

your side,” said Nigel.

“In truth my heart was sore for you, Nigel; for you have missed such a

night as comes seldom in any man’s life. All went even as we had

planned. The postern gate was opened, and a party made their way in;

but we awaited them, and all were taken or slain. But the greater part

of the French had remained without upon the plain of Nieullet, so we

took horse and went out against them. When we drew near them they were

surprised, but they made good cheer among themselves, calling out to

each other: ‘If we fly we lose all. It is better to fight on, in the

hopes that the day may be ours.’ This was heard by our people in the

van, who cried out to them: ‘By Saint George! you speak truth. Evil

befall him who thinks of flying!’ So they held their ground like worthy

people for the space of an hour, and there were many there whom it is

always good to meet: Sir Geoffrey himself, and Sir Pepin de Werre, with

Sir John de Landas, old Ballieul of the Yellow Tooth, and his brother

Hector the Leopard. But above all Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont was at

great pains to meet us worthily, and he was at handstrokes with the

King for a long time. Then, when we had slain or taken them, all the

prisoners were brought to a feast which was ready for them, and the

knights of England waited upon them at the table and made good cheer

with them. And all this, Nigel, we owe to you.”

The Squire flushed with pleasure at the words. “Nay, most honored lord,

it was but a small thing which I have been able to do. But I thank God

and our Lady that I have done some service, since it has pleased you to

take me with you to the wars. Should it chance—”

But the words were cut short upon Nigel’s lips, and he lay back with

amazed eyes staring from his pallid face. The door of his little

chamber had opened, and who was this, the tall stately man with the

noble presence, the high forehead, the long handsome face, the dark,

brooding eyes—who but the noble Edward of England?

“Ha, my little cock of Tilford Bridge, I still bear you in mind,” said

he. “Right glad I was to hear that you had found your wits again, and I

trust that I have not helped to make you take leave of them once more.”

Nigel’s stare of astonishment had brought a smile to the King’s lips.

Now the Squire stammered forth some halting words of gratitude at the

honor done to him.

“Nay, not a word,” said the King. “But in sooth it is a joy to my heart

to see the son of my old comrade Eustace Loring carry himself so

bravely. Had this boat got before us with news of our coming, then all

our labor had been in vain, and no Frenchman ventured to Calais that

night. But above all I thank you for that you have delivered into my

hands one whom I had vowed to punish in that he has caused us more

scathe by fouler means than any living man. Twice have I sworn that

Peter the Red Ferret shall hang, for all his noble blood and

coat-armor, if ever he should fall into my hands. Now at last his time

has come; but I would not put him to death until you, who had taken

him, could be there to see it done. Nay, thank me not, for I could do

no less, seeing that it is to you that I owe him.”

But it was not thanks which Nigel was trying to utter. It was hard to

frame his words, and yet they must be said. “Sire,” he murmured, “it

ill becomes me to cross your royal will—”

The dark Plantagenet wrath gathered upon the King’s high brow and

gloomed in his fierce deep-set eyes. “By God’s dignity! no man has ever

crossed it yet and lived unscathed. How now, young sir, what mean such

words, to which we are little wont? Have a care, for this is no light

thing which you venture.”

“Sire,” said Nigel, “in all matters in which I am a free man I am ever

your faithful liege, but some things there are which may not be done.”

“How?” cried the King. “In spite of my will?”

“In spite of your will, sire,” said Nigel, sitting up on his couch,

with white face and blazing eyes.

“By the Virgin!” the angry King thundered, “we are come to a pretty

pass! You have been held too long at home, young man. The overstabled

horse will kick. The unweathered hawk will fly at check. See to it,

Master Chandos! He is thine to break, and I hold you to it that you

break him. And what is it that Edward of England may not do, Master

Loring?”

Nigel faced the King with a face as grim as his own. “You may not put

to death the Red Ferret.”

“_Pardieu!_ And why?”

“Because he is not thine to slay, sire. Because he is mine. Because I

promised him his life, and it is not for you, King though you be, to

constrain a man of gentle blood to break his plighted word and lose his

honor.”

Chandos laid his soothing hand upon his Squire’s shoulder. “Excuse him,

sire; he is weak from his wounds,” said he. “Perhaps we have stayed

overlong, for the leech has ordered repose.”

But the angry King was not easily to be appeased. “I am not wont to be

so browbeat,” said he hotly. “This is your Squire, Master John. How

comes it that you can stand there and listen to his pert talk, and say

no word to chide him? Is this how you guide your household? Have you

not taught him that every promise given is subject to the King’s

consent, and that with him only lie the springs of life and death? If

he is sick, you at least are hale. Why stand you there in silence?”

“My liege,” said Chandos gravely, “I have served you for over a score

of years, and have shed my blood through as many wounds in your cause,

so that you should not take my words amiss. But indeed I should feel

myself to be no true man if I did not tell you that my Squire Nigel,

though perchance he has spoken more bluntly than becomes him, is none

the less right in this matter, and that you are wrong. For bethink you,

sire—”

“Enough!” cried the King, more furious than ever. “Like master, like

man, and I might have known why it is that this saucy Squire dares to

bandy words with his sovereign lord. He does but give out what he hath

taken in. John, John, you grow overbold. But this I tell you, and you

also, young man, that as God is my help, ere the sun has set this night

the Red Ferret will hang as a warning to all spies and traitors from

the highest tower of Calais, that every ship upon the Narrow Seas, and

every man for ten miles round may see him as he swings and know how

heavy is the hand of the English King. Do you bear it in mind, lest you

also may feel its weight!” With a glare like an angry lion he walked

from the room, and the iron-clamped door clanged loudly behind him.

Chandos and Nigel looked ruefully at each other. Then the knight patted

his Squire upon his bandaged head.

“You have carried yourself right well, Nigel. I could not wish for

better. Fear not. All will be well.”

“My fair and honored lord,” cried Nigel, “I am heavy at heart, for

indeed I could do no other, and yet I have brought trouble upon you.”

“Nay, the clouds will soon pass. If he does indeed slay this Frenchman,

you have done all that lay within your power, and your mind may rest

easy.”

“I pray that it will rest easy in Paradise,” said Nigel; “for at the

hour that I hear that I am dishonored and my prisoner slain I tear this

bandage from my head and so end all things. I will not live when once

my word is broken.”

“Nay, fair son, you take this thing too heavily,” said Chandos, with a

grave face. “When a man has done all he may there remains no dishonor;

but the King hath a kind heart for all his hot head, and it may be that

if I see him I will prevail upon him. Bethink you how he swore to hang

the six burghers of this very town, and yet he pardoned them. So keep a

high heart, fair son, and I will come with good news ere evening.”

For three hours, as the sinking sun traced the shadow higher and ever

higher upon the chamber wall, Nigel tossed feverishly upon his couch,

his ears straining for the footfall of Aylward or of Chandos, bringing

news of the fate of the prisoner. At last the door flew open, and there

before him stood the one man whom he least expected, and yet would most

gladly have seen. It was the Red Ferret himself, free and joyous.

With swift furtive steps he was across the room and on his knees beside

the couch, kissing the pendent hand. “You have saved me, most noble

sir!” he cried. “The gallows was fixed and the rope slung, when the

good Lord Chandos told the King that you would die by your own hand if

I were slain. ‘Curse this mule-headed Squire!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name

let him have his prisoner, and let him do what he will with him so long

as he troubles me no more!’ So here I have come, fair sir, to ask you

what I shall do.”

“I pray you to sit beside me and be at your ease,” said Nigel. “In a

few words I will tell you what I would have you do. Your armor I will

keep, that I may have some remembrance of my good fortune in meeting so

valiant a gentleman. We are of a size, and I make little doubt that I

can wear it. Of ransom I would ask a thousand crowns.”

“Nay, nay!” cried the Ferret. “It would be a sad thing if a man of my

position was worth less than five thousand.”

“A thousand will suffice, fair sir, to pay my charges for the war. You

will not again play the spy, nor do us harm until the truce is broken.”

“That I will swear.”

“And lastly there is a journey that you shall make.”

The Frenchman’s face lengthened. “Where you order I must go,” said he;

“but I pray you that it is not to the Holy Land.”

“Nay,” said Nigel; “but it is to a land which is holy to me. You will

make your way back to Southampton.”

“I know it well. I helped to burn it down some years ago.”

“I rede you to say nothing of that matter when you get there. You will

then journey as though to London until you come to a fair town named

Guildford.”

“I have heard of it. The King hath a hunt there.”

“The same. You will then ask for a house named Cosford, two leagues

from the town on the side of a long hill.”

“I will bear it in mind.”

“At Cosford you will see a good knight named Sir John Buttesthorn, and

you will ask to have speech with his daughter, the Lady Mary.”

“I will do so; and what shall I say to the Lady Mary, who lives at

Cosford on the slope of a long hill two leagues from the fair town of

Guildford?”

“Say only that I sent my greeting, and that Saint Catharine has been my

friend—only that and nothing more. And now leave me, I pray you, for my

head is weary and I would fain have sleep.”

Thus it came about that a month later on the eve of the Feast of Saint

Matthew, the Lady Mary, as she walked front Cosford gates, met with a

strange horseman, richly clad, a serving-man behind him, looking

shrewdly about him with quick blue eyes, which twinkled from a red and

freckled face. At sight of her he doffed his hat and reined his horse.

“This house should be Cosford,” said he. “Are you by chance the Lady

Mary who dwells there?”

The lady bowed her proud dark head.

“Then,” said he, “Squire Nigel Loring sends you greeting and tells you

that Saint Catharine has been his friend.” Then turning to his servant

he cried: “Heh, Raoul, our task is done! Your master is a free man once

more. Come, lad, come, the nearest port to France! Hola! Hola! Hola!”

And so without a word more the two, master and man, set spurs to their

horses and galloped like madmen down the long slope of Hindhead, until

as she looked after them they were but two dark dots in the distance,

waist-high in the ling and the bracken.

She turned back to the house, a smile upon her face. Nigel had sent her

greeting. A Frenchman had brought it. His bringing it had made him a

freeman. And Saint Catherine had been Nigel’s friend. It was at her

shrine that he had sworn that three deeds should be done ere he should

set eyes upon her again. In the privacy of her room the Lady Mary sank

upon her prie-dieu and poured forth the thanks of her heart to the

Virgin that one deed was accomplished; but even as she did so her joy

was overcast by the thought of those two others which lay before him.

XVI.

HOW THE KING’S COURT FEASTED IN CALAIS CASTLE

It was a bright sunshiny morning when Nigel found himself at last able

to leave his turret chamber and to walk upon the rampart of the castle.

There was a brisk northern wind, heavy and wet with the salt of the

sea, and he felt, as he turned his face to it, fresh life and strength

surging in his blood and bracing his limbs. He took his hand from

Aylward’s supporting arm and stood with his cap off, leaning on the

rampart and breathing in the cool strong air. Far off upon the distant

sky-line, half hidden by the heave of the waves, was the low white

fringe of cliffs which skirted England. Between him and them lay the

broad blue Channel, seamed and flecked with flashing foam, for a sharp

sea was running and the few ships in sight were laboring heavily.

Nigel’s eyes traversed the wide-spread view, rejoicing in the change

from the gray wall of his cramped chamber. Finally they settled upon a

strange object at his very feet.

It was a long trumpet-shaped engine of leather and iron bolted into a

rude wooden stand and fitted with wheels. Beside it lay a heap of metal

slugs and lumps of stone. The end of the machine was raised and pointed

over the battlement. Behind it stood an iron box which Nigel opened. It

was filled with a black coarse powder, like gritty charcoal.

“By Saint Paul!” said he, passing his hands over the engine, “I have

heard men talk of these things, but never before have I seen one. It is

none other than one of those wondrous new-made bombards.”

“In sooth, it is even as you say,” Aylward answered, looking at it with

contempt and dislike in his face. “I have seen them here upon the

ramparts, and have also exchanged a buffet or two with him who had

charge of them. He was jack-fool enough to think that with this leather

pipe he could outshoot the best archer in Christendom. I lent him a

cuff on the ear that laid him across his foolish engine.”

“It is a fearsome thing,” said Nigel, who had stooped to examine it.

“We live in strange times when such things can be made. It is loosed by

fire, is it not, which springs from the black dust?”

“By my hilt! fair sir, I know not. And yet I call to mind that ere we

fell out this foolish bombardman did say something of the matter. The

fire-dust is within and so also is the ball. Then you take more dust

from this iron box and place it in the hole at the farther end—so. It

is now ready. I have never seen one fired, but I wot that this one

could be fired now.”

“It makes a strange sound, archer, does it not?” said Nigel wistfully.

“So I have heard, fair sir—even as the bow twangs, so it also has a

sound when you loose it.”

“There is no one to hear, since we are alone upon the rampart, nor can

it do scathe, since it points to sea. I pray you to loose it and I will

listen to the sound.” He bent over the bombard with an attentive ear,

while Aylward, stooping his earnest brown face over the touch-hole,

scraped away diligently with a flint and steel. A moment later both he

and Nigel were seated some distance off upon the ground while amid the

roar of the discharge and the thick cloud of smoke they had a vision of

the long black snakelike engine shooting back upon the recoil. For a

minute or more they were struck motionless with astonishment while the

reverberations died away and the smoke wreaths curled slowly up to the

blue heavens.

“Good lack!” cried Nigel at last, picking himself up and looking round

him. “Good lack, and Heaven be my aid! I thank the Virgin that all

stands as it did before. I thought that the castle had fallen.”

“Such a bull’s bellow I have never heard,” cried Aylward, rubbing his

injured limbs. “One could hear it from Frensham Pond to Guildford

Castle. I would not touch one again—not for a hide of the best land in

Puttenham!”

“It may fare ill with your own hide, archer, if you do,” said an angry

voice behind them. Chandos had stepped from the open door of the corner

turret and stood looking at them with a harsh gaze. Presently, as the

matter was made clear to him his face relaxed into a smile.

“Hasten to the warden, archer, and tell him how it befell. You will

have the castle and the town in arms. I know not what the King may

think of so sudden an alarm. And you, Nigel, how in the name of the

saints came you to play the child like this?”

“I knew not its power, fair lord.”

“By my soul, Nigel, I think that none of us know its power. I can see

the day when all that we delight in, the splendor and glory of war, may

all go down before that which beats through the plate of steel as

easily as the leathern jacket. I have bestrode my warhorse in my armor

and have looked down at the sooty, smoky bombardman beside me, and I

have thought that perhaps I was the last of the old and he the first of

the new; that there would come a time when he and his engines would

sweep you and me and the rest of us from the field.”

“But not yet, I trust, honored sir?”

“No, not yet, Nigel. You are still in time to win your spurs even as

your fathers did. How is your strength?”

“I am ready for any task, my good and honored lord.”

“It is well, for work awaits us—good work, pressing work, work of peril

and of honor. Your eyes shine and your face flushes, Nigel. I live my

own youth over again as I look at you. Know then that though there is

truce with the French here, there is not truce in Brittany where the

houses of Blois and of Montfort still struggle for the dukedom. Half

Brittany fights for one, and half for the other. The French have taken

up the cause of Blois, and we of Montfort, and it is such a war that

many a great leader, such as Sir Walter Manny, has first earned his

name there. Of late the war has gone against us, and the bloody hands

of the Rohans, of Gaptooth Beaumanoir, of Oliver the Flesher and others

have been heavy upon our people. The last tidings have been of

disaster, and the King’s soul is dark with wrath for that his friend

and comrade Gilles de St. Pol has been done to death in the Castle of

La Brohinière. He will send succors to the country, and we go at their

head. How like you that, Nigel?”

“My honored lord, what could I ask for better?”

“Then have your harness ready, for we start within the week. Our path

by land is blocked by the French, and we go by sea. This night the King

gives a banquet ere he returns to England, and your place is behind my

chair. Be in my chamber that you may help me to dress, and so we will

to the hall together.”

With satin and with samite, with velvet and with fur, the noble Chandos

was dressed for the King’s feast, and Nigel too had donned his best

silk jupon, faced with the five scarlet roses, that he might wait upon

him. In the great hall of Calais Castle the tables were set, a high

table for the lords, a second one for the less distinguished knights,

and a third at which the squires might feast when their masters were

seated.

Never had Nigel in his simple life at Tilford pictured a scene of such

pomp and wondrous luxury. The grim gray walls were covered from ceiling

to floor with priceless tapestry of Arras, where hart, hounds and

huntsmen circled the great hall with one long living image of the

chase. Over the principal table drooped a line of banners, and beneath

them rows of emblazoned shields upon the wall carried the arms of the

high noblemen who sat beneath. The red light of cressets and of torches

burned upon the badges of the great captains of England. The lions and

lilies shone over the high dorseret chair in the center, and the same

august device marked with the cadency label indicated the seat of the

Prince, while glowing to right and to left were the long lines of noble

insignia, honored in peace and terrible in war. There shone the gold

and sable of Manny, the engrailed cross of Suffolk, the red chevron of

Stafford, the scarlet and gold of Audley, the blue lion rampant of the

Percies, the silver swallows of Arundel, the red roebuck of the

Montacutes, the star of the de Veres, the silver scallops of Russell,

the purple lion of de Lacy, and the black crosses of Clinton.

A friendly Squire at Nigel’s elbow whispered the names of the famous

warriors beneath. “You are young Loring of Tilford, the Squire of

Chandos, are you not?” said he. “My name is Delves, and I come from

Doddington in Cheshire. I am the Squire of Sir James Audley, yonder

round-backed man with the dark face and close-cropped beard, who hath

the Saracen head as a crest above him.”

“I have heard of him as a man of great valor,” said Nigel, gazing at

him with interest.

“Indeed, you may well say so, Master Loring. He is the bravest knight

in England, and in Christendom also, as I believe. No man hath done

such deeds of valor.”

Nigel looked at his new acquaintance with hope in his eyes. “You speak

as it becomes you to speak when you uphold your own master,” said he.

“For the same reason, Master Delves, and in no spirit of ill-will to

you, it behooves me to tell you that he is not to be compared in name

or fame with the noble knight on whom I wait. Should you hold

otherwise, then surely we can debate the matter in whatever way or time

may please you best.”

Delves smiled good-humoredly. “Nay, be not so hot,” said he. “Had you

upheld any other knight, save perhaps Sir Walter Manny, I had taken you

at your word, and your master or mine would have had place for a new

Squire. But indeed it is only truth that no knight is second to

Chandos, nor would I draw my sword to lower his pride of place. Ha, Sir

James’ cup is low! I must see to it!” He darted off, a flagon of

Gascony in his hand. “The King hath had good news to-night,” he

continued when he returned. “I have not seen him in so merry a mind

since the night when we took the Frenchmen and he laid his pearl

chaplet upon the head of de Ribeaumont. See how he laughs, and the

Prince also. That laugh bodes some one little good, or I am the more

mistaken. Have a care! Sir John’s plate is empty.”

It was Nigel’s turn to dart away; but ever in the intervals he returned

to the corner whence he could look down the hall and listen to the

words of the older Squire. Delves was a short, thick-set man past

middle age, weather-beaten and scarred, with a rough manner and bearing

which showed that he was more at his ease in a tent than a hall. But

ten years of service had taught him much, and Nigel listened eagerly to

his talk.

“Indeed the King hath some good tidings,” he continued. “See now, he

has whispered it to Chandos and to Manny. Manny spreads it on to Sir

Reginald Cobham, and he to Robert Knolles, each smiling like the Devil

over a friar.”

“Which is Sir Robert Knolles?” asked Nigel with interest. “I have heard

much of him and his deeds.”

“He is the tall hard-faced man in yellow silk, he with the hairless

cheeks and the split lip. He is little older than yourself, and his

father was a cobbler in Chester, yet he has already won the golden

spurs. See how he dabs his great hand in the dish and hands forth the

gobbets. He is more used to a camp-kettle than a silver plate. The big

man with the black beard is Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, whose brother is

the Abbot of Beaulieu. Haste, haste! for the boar’s head is come and

the plate’s to be cleaned.”

The table manners of our ancestors at this period would have furnished

to the modern eye the strangest mixture of luxury and of barbarism.

Forks were still unknown, and the courtesy fingers, the index and the

middle of the left hand, took their place. To use any others was

accounted the worst of manners. A crowd of dogs lay among the rushes

growling at each other and quarreling over the gnawed bones which were

thrown to them by the feasters. A slice of coarse bread served usually

as a plate, but the King’s own high table was provided with silver

platters, which were wiped by the Squire or page after each course. On

the other hand the table-linen was costly, and the courses, served with

a pomp and dignity now unknown, comprised such a variety of dishes and

such complex marvels of cookery as no modern banquet could show.

Besides all our domestic animals and every kind of game, such strange

delicacies as hedgehogs, bustards, porpoises, squirrels, bitterns and

cranes lent variety to the feast.

Each new course, heralded by a flourish of silver trumpets, was borne

in by liveried servants walking two and two, with rubicund marshals

strutting in front and behind, bearing white wands in their hands, not

only as badges of their office, but also as weapons with which to repel

any impertinent inroad upon the dishes in the journey from the kitchen

to the hall. Boar’s heads, enarmed and endored with gilt tusks and

flaming mouths, were followed by wondrous pasties molded to the shape

of ships, castles and other devices with sugar seamen or soldiers who

lost their own bodies in their fruitless defense against the hungry

attack. Finally came the great nef, a silver vessel upon wheels laden

with fruit and sweetmeats which rolled with its luscious cargo down the

line of guests. Flagons of Gascony, of Rhine wine, of Canary and of

Rochelle were held in readiness by the attendants; but the age, though

luxurious, was not drunken, and the sober habits of the Norman had

happily prevailed over the license of those Saxon banquets where no

guest might walk from the table without a slur upon his host. Honor and

hardihood go ill with a shaking hand or a blurred eye.

Whilst wine, fruit and spices were handed round the high tables the

squires had been served in turn at the farther end of the hall.

Meanwhile round the King there had gathered a group of statesmen and

soldiers, talking eagerly among themselves. The Earl of Stafford, the

Earl of Warwick, the Earl of Arundel, Lord Beauchamp and Lord Neville

were assembled at the back of his chair, with Lord Percy and Lord

Mowbray at either side. The little group blazed with golden chains and

jeweled chaplets, flame colored paltocks and purple tunics.

Of a sudden the King said something over his shoulder to Sir William de

Pakyngton the herald, who advanced and stood by the royal chair. He was

a tall and noble-featured man, with long grizzled beard which rippled

down to the gold-linked belt girdling his many-colored tabard. On his

head he had placed the heraldic barret-cap which bespoke his dignity,

and he slowly raised his white wand high in the air, while a great hush

fell upon the hall.

“My lords of England,” said he, “knight bannerets, knights, squires,

and all others here present of gentle birth and coat-armor, know that

your dread and sovereign lord, Edward, King of England and of France,

bids me give you greeting and commands you to come hither that he may

have speech with you.”

In an instant the tables were deserted and the whole company had

clustered in front of the King’s chair. Those who had sat on either

side of him crowded inward so that his tall dark figure upreared itself

amid the dense circle of his guests.

With a flush upon his olive cheeks and with pride smoldering in his

dark eyes, he looked round him at the eager faces of the men who had

been his comrades from Sluys and Cadsand to Crécy and Calais. They

caught fire from that warlike gleam in his masterful gaze, and a sudden

wild, fierce shout pealed up to the vaulted ceiling, a soldierly thanks

for what was passed and a promise for what was to come. The King’s

teeth gleamed in a quick smile, and his large white hand played with

the jeweled dagger in his belt.

“By the splendor of God!” said he in a loud clear voice, “I have little

doubt that you will rejoice with me this night, for such tidings have

come to my ears as may well bring joy to everyone of you. You know well

that our ships have suffered great scathe from the Spaniards, who for

many years have slain without grace or ruth all of my people who have

fallen into their cruel hands. Of late they have sent their ships into

Flanders, and thirty great cogs and galleys lie now at Sluys

well-filled with archers and men-at-arms and ready in all ways for

battle. I have it to-day from a sure hand that, having taken their

merchandise aboard, these ships will sail upon the next Sunday and will

make their way through our Narrow Sea. We have for a great time been

long-suffering to these people, for which they have done us many

contraries and despites, growing ever more arrogant as we grow more

patient. It is in my mind therefore that we hie us to-morrow to

Winchelsea, where we have twenty ships, and make ready to sally out

upon them as they pass. May God and Saint George defend the right!”

A second shout, far louder and fiercer than the first, came like a

thunderclap after the King’s words. It was the bay of a fierce pack to

their trusted huntsman.

Edward laughed again as he looked round at the gleaming eyes, the

waving arms and the flushed joyful faces of his liegemen. “Who hath

fought against these Spaniards?” he asked. “Is there anyone here who

can tell us what manner of men they be?”

A dozen hands went up into the air; but the King turned to the Earl of

Suffolk at his elbow.

“You have fought them, Thomas?” said he.

“Yes, sire, I was in the great sea-fight eight years ago at the Island

of Guernsey, when Lord Lewis of Spain held the sea against the Earl of

Pembroke.”

“How found you them, Thomas?”

“Very excellent people, sire, and no man could ask for better. On every

ship they have a hundred crossbowmen of Genoa, the best in the world,

and their spearmen also are very hardy men. They would throw great

cantles of iron from the tops of the masts, and many of our people met

their death through it. If we can bar their way in the Narrow Sea, then

there will be much hope of honor for all of us.”

“Your words are very welcome, Thomas,” said the King, “and I make no

doubt that they will show themselves to be very worthy of what we

prepare for them. To you I give a ship, that you may have the handling

of it. You also, my dear son, shall have a ship, that evermore honor

may be thine.”

“I thank you, my fair and sweet father,” said the Prince, with joy

flushing his handsome boyish face.

“The leading ship shall be mine. But you shall have one, Walter Manny,

and you, Stafford, and you, Arundel, and you, Audley, and you, Sir

Thomas Holland, and you, Brocas, and you, Berkeley, and you, Reginald.

The rest shall be awarded at Winchelsea, whither we sail to-morrow.

Nay, John, why do you pluck so at my sleeve?”

Chandos was leaning forward, with an anxious face. “Surely, my honored

lord, I have not served you so long and so faithfully that you should

forget me now. Is there then no ship for me?”

The King smiled, but shook his head. “Nay, John, have I not given you

two hundred archers and a hundred men-at-arms to take with you into

Brittany? I trust that your ships will be lying in Saint Malo Bay ere

the Spaniards are abreast of Winchelsea. What more would you have, old

war-dog? Wouldst be in two battles at once?”

“I would be at your side, my liege, when the lion banner is in the wind

once more. I have ever been there. Why should you cast me now? I ask

little, dear lord—a galley, a balinger, even a pinnace, so that I may

only be there.”

“Nay, John, you shall come. I cannot find it in my heart to say you

nay. I will find you place in my own ship, that you may indeed be by my

side.”

Chandos stooped and kissed the King’s hand. “My Squire?” he asked.

The King’s brows knotted into a frown. “Nay, let him go to Brittany

with the others,” said he harshly. “I wonder, John, that you should

bring back to my memory this youth whose pertness is too fresh that I

should forget it. But some one must go to Brittany in your stead, for

the matter presses and our people are hard put to it to hold their

own.” He cast his eyes over the assembly, and they rested upon the

stern features of Sir Robert Knolles.

“Sir Robert,” he said, “though you are young in years you are already

old in war, and I have heard that you are as prudent in council as you

are valiant in the field. To you I commit the charge of this venture to

Brittany in place of Sir John Chandos, who will follow thither when our

work has been done upon the waters. Three ships lie in Calais port and

three hundred men are ready to your hand. Sir John will tell you what

our mind is in the matter. And now, my friends and good comrades, you

will haste you each to his own quarters, and you will make swiftly such

preparations as are needful, for, as God is my aid, I will sail with

you to Winchelsea to-morrow!”

Beckoning to Chandos, Manny and a few of his chosen leaders, the King

led them away to an inner chamber, where they might discuss the plans

for the future. At the same time the assembly broke up, the knights in

silence and dignity, the squires in mirth and noise, but all joyful at

heart for the thought of the great days which lay before them.

XVII.

THE SPANIARDS ON THE SEA

Day had not yet dawned when Nigel was in the chamber of Chandos

preparing him for his departure and listening to the last cheery words

of advice and direction from his noble master. That same morning,

before the sun was half-way up the heaven, the King’s great nef

Philippa, bearing within it the most of those present at his banquet

the night before, set its huge sail, adorned with the lions and the

lilies, and turned its brazen beak for England. Behind it went five

smaller cogs crammed with squires, archers and men-at-arms.

Nigel and his companions lined the ramparts of the castle and waved

their caps as the bluff, burly vessels, with drums beating and trumpets

clanging, a hundred knightly pennons streaming from their decks and the

red cross of England over all, rolled slowly out to the open sea. Then

when they had watched them until they were hull down they turned, with

hearts heavy at being left behind, to make ready for their own more

distant venture.

It took them four days of hard work ere their preparations were

complete, for many were the needs of a small force sailing to a strange

country. Three ships had been left to them, the cog Thomas of Romney,

the Grace Dieu of Hythe, and the Basilisk of Southampton, into each of

which one hundred men were stowed, besides the thirty seamen who formed

the crew. In the hold were forty horses, amongst them Pommers, much

wearied by his long idleness, and homesick for the slopes of Surrey

where his great limbs might find the work he craved. Then the food and

the water, the bow-staves and the sheaves of arrows, the horseshoes,

the nails, the hammers, the knives, the axes, the ropes, the vats of

hay, the green fodder and a score of other things were packed aboard.

Always by the side of the ships stood the stern young knight Sir

Robert, checking, testing, watching and controlling, saying little, for

he was a man of few words, but with his eyes, his hands, and if need be

his heavy dog-whip, wherever they were wanted.

The seamen of the Basilisk, being from a free port, had the old feud

against the men of the Cinque Ports, who were looked upon by the other

mariners of England as being unduly favored by the King. A ship of the

West Country could scarce meet with one from the Narrow Seas without

blood flowing. Hence sprang sudden broils on the quay side, when with

yell and blow the Thomases and Grace Dieus, Saint Leonard on their lips

and murder in their hearts, would fall upon the Basilisks. Then amid

the whirl of cudgels and the clash of knives would spring the tiger

figure of the young leader, lashing mercilessly to right and left like

a tamer among his wolves, until he had beaten them howling back to

their work. Upon the morning of the fourth day all was ready, and the

ropes being cast off the three little ships were warped down the harbor

by their own pinnaces until they were swallowed up in the swirling

folds of a Channel mist.

Though small in numbers, it was no mean force which Edward had

dispatched to succor the hard-pressed English garrisons in Brittany.

There was scarce a man among them who was not an old soldier, and their

leaders were men of note in council and in war. Knolles flew his flag

of the black raven aboard the Basilisk. With him were Nigel and his own

Squire John Hawthorn. Of his hundred men, forty were Yorkshire Dalesmen

and forty were men of Lincoln, all noted archers, with old Wat of

Carlisle, a grizzled veteran of border warfare, to lead them.

Already Aylward by his skill and strength had won his way to an

under-officership amongst them, and shared with Long Ned Widdington, a

huge North Countryman, the reputation of coming next to famous Wat

Carlisle in all that makes an archer. The men-at-arms too were

war-hardened soldiers, with Black Simon of Norwich, the same who had

sailed from Winchelsea, to lead them. With his heart filled with hatred

for the French who had slain all who were dear to him, he followed like

a bloodhound over land and sea to any spot where he might glut his

vengeance. Such also were the men who sailed in the other ships,

Cheshire men from the Welsh borders in the cog Thomas, and Cumberland

men, used to Scottish warfare, in the Grace Dieu.

Sir James Astley hung his shield of cinquefoil ermine over the quarter

of the Thomas. Lord Thomas Percy, a cadet of Alnwick, famous already

for the high spirit of that house which for ages was the bar upon the

landward gate of England, showed his blue lion rampant as leader of the

Grace Dieu. Such was the goodly company Saint-Malo bound, who warped

from Calais Harbor to plunge into the thick reek of a Channel mist.

A slight breeze blew from the eastward, and the highended, round-bodied

craft rolled slowly down the Channel. The mist rose a little at times,

so that they had sight of each other dipping and rising upon a sleek,

oily sea, but again it would sink down, settling over the top,

shrouding the great yard, and finally frothing over the deck until even

the water alongside had vanished from their view and they were afloat

on a little raft in an ocean of vapor. A thin cold rain was falling,

and the archers were crowded under the shelter of the overhanging poop

and forecastle, where some spent the hours at dice, some in sleep, and

many in trimming their arrows or polishing their weapons.

At the farther end, seated on a barrel as a throne of honor, with trays

and boxes of feathers around him, was Bartholomew the bowyer and

Fletcher, a fat, bald-headed man, whose task it was to see that every

man’s tackle was as it should be, and who had the privilege of selling

such extras as they might need. A group of archers with their staves

and quivers filed before him with complaints or requests, while half a

dozen of the seniors gathered at his back and listened with grinning

faces to his comments and rebukes.

“Canst not string it?” he was saying to a young bowman. “Then surely

the string is overshort or the stave overlong. It could not by chance

be the fault of thy own baby arms more fit to draw on thy hosen than to

dress a warbow. Thou lazy lurdan, thus is it strung!” He seized the

stave by the center in his right hand, leaned the end on the inside of

his right foot, and then, pulling the upper nock down with the left

hand, slid the eye of the string easily into place. “Now I pray thee to

unstring it again,” handing it to the bowman.

The youth with an effort did so, but he was too slow in disengaging his

fingers, and the string sliding down with a snap from the upper nock

caught and pinched them sorely against the stave. A roar of laughter,

like the clap of a wave, swept down the deck as the luckless bowman

danced and wrung his hand.

“Serve thee well right, thou redeless fool!” growled the old bowyer.

“So fine a bow is wasted in such hands. How now, Samkin? I can teach

you little of your trade, I trow. Here is a bow dressed as it should

be; but it would, as you say, be the better for a white band to mark

the true nocking point in the center of this red wrapping of silk.

Leave it and I will tend to it anon. And you, Wat? A fresh head on

yonder stele? Lord, that a man should carry four trades under one hat,

and be bowyer, fletcher, stringer and headmaker! Four men’s work for

old Bartholomew and one man’s pay!”

“Nay, say no more about that,” growled an old wizened bowman, with a

brown-parchment skin and little beady eyes. “It is better in these days

to mend a bow than to bend one. You who never looked a Frenchman in the

face are pricked off for ninepence a day, and I, who have fought five

stricken fields, can earn but fourpence.”

“It is in my mind, John of Tuxford, that you have looked in the face

more pots of mead than Frenchmen,” said the old bowyer. “I am swinking

from dawn to night, while you are guzzling in an alestake. How now,

youngster? Overbowed? Put your bow in the tiller. It draws at sixty

pounds—not a pennyweight too much for a man of your inches. Lay more

body to it, lad, and it will come to you. If your bow be not stiff, how

can you hope for a twenty-score flight. Feathers? Aye, plenty and of

the best. Here, peacock at a groat each. Surely a dandy archer like

you, Tom Beverley, with gold earrings in your ears, would have no

feathering but peacocks?”

“So the shaft fly straight, I care not of the feather,” said the

bowman, a tall young Yorkshireman, counting out pennies on the palm of

his horny hand.

“Gray goose-feathers are but a farthing. These on the left are a

halfpenny, for they are of the wild goose, and the second feather of a

fenny goose is worth more than the pinion of a tame one. These in the

brass tray are dropped feathers, and a dropped feather is better than a

plucked one. Buy a score of these, lad, and cut them saddle-backed or

swine-backed, the one for a dead shaft and the other for a smooth

flyer, and no man in the company will swing a better-fletched quiver

over his shoulder.”

It chanced that the opinion of the bowyer on this and other points

differed from that of Long Ned of Widdington, a surly straw-bearded

Yorkshireman, who had listened with a sneering face to his counsel. Now

he broke in suddenly upon the bowyer’s talk. “You would do better to

sell bows than to try to teach others how to use them,” said he; “for

indeed, Bartholomew, that head of thine has no more sense within it

than it has hairs without. If you had drawn string for as many months

as I have years you would know that a straight-cut feather flies

smoother than a swine-backed, and pity it is that these young bowmen

have none to teach them better!”

This attack upon his professional knowledge touched the old bowyer on

the raw. His fat face became suffused with blood and his eyes glared

with fury as he turned upon the archer. “You seven-foot barrel of

lies!” he cried. “All-hallows be my aid, and I will teach you to open

your slabbing mouth against me! Pluck forth your sword and stand out on

yonder deck, that we may see who is the man of us twain. May I never

twirl a shaft over my thumb nail if I do not put Bartholomew’s mark

upon your thick head!”

A score of rough voices joined at once in the quarrel, some upholding

the bowyer and others taking the part of the North Countryman. A

red-headed Dalesman snatched up a sword, but was felled by a blow from

the fist of his neighbor. Instantly, with a buzz like a swarm of angry

hornets, the bowmen were out on the deck; but ere a blow was struck

Knolles was amongst them with granite face and eyes of fire.

“Stand apart, I say! I will warrant you enough fighting to cool your

blood ere you see England once more. Loring, Hawthorn, cut any man down

who raises his hand. Have you aught to say, you fox-haired rascal?” He

thrust his face within two inches of that of the red man who had first

seized his sword. The fellow shrank back, cowed, from his fierce eyes.

“Now stint your noise, all of you, and stretch your long ears.

Trumpeter, blow once more!”

A bugle call had been sounded every quarter of an hour so as to keep in

touch with the other two vessels who were invisible in the fog. Now the

high clear note rang out once more, the call of a fierce sea-creature

to its mates, but no answer came back from the thick wall which pent

them in. Again and again they called, and again and again with bated

breath they waited for an answer.

“Where is the Shipman?” asked Knolles. “What is your name, fellow? Do

you dare call yourself master-mariner?”

“My name is Nat Dennis, fair sir,” said the gray-bearded old seaman.

“It is thirty years since first I showed my cartel and blew trumpet for

a crew at the water-gate of Southampton. If any man may call himself

master-mariner, it is surely I.”

“Where are our two ships?”

“Nay, sir, who can say in this fog?”

“Fellow, it was your place to hold them together.”

“I have but the eyes God gave me, fair sir, and they cannot see through

a cloud.”

“Had it been fair, I, who am a soldier, could have kept them in

company. Since it was foul, we looked to you, who are called a mariner,

to do so. You have not done it. You have lost two of my ships ere the

venture is begun.”

“Nay, fair sir, I pray you to consider—”

“Enough words!” said Knolles sternly. “Words will not give me back my

two hundred men. Unless I find them before I come to Saint-Malo, I

swear by Saint Wilfrid of Ripon that it will be an evil day for you!

Enough! Go forth and do what you may!”

For five hours with a light breeze behind them they lurched through the

heavy fog, the cold rain still matting their beards and shining on

their faces. Sometimes they could see a circle of tossing water for a

bowshot or so in each direction, and then the wreaths would crawl in

upon them once more and bank them thickly round. They had long ceased

to blow the trumpet for their missing comrades, but had hopes when

clear weather came to find them still in sight. By the shipman’s

reckoning they were now about midway between the two shores.

Nigel was leaning against the bulwarks, his thoughts away in the dingle

at Cosford and out on the heather-clad slopes of Hindhead, when

something struck his ear. It was a thin clear clang of metal, pealing

out high above the dull murmur of the sea, the creak of the boom and

the flap of the sail. He listened, and again it was borne to his ear.

“Hark, my lord!” said he to Sir Robert. “Is there not a sound in the

fog?”

They both listened together with sidelong heads. Then it rang clearly

forth once more, but this time in another direction. It had been on the

bow; now it was on the quarter. Again it sounded, and again. Now it had

moved to the other bow; now back to the quarter again; now it was near;

and now so far that it was but a faint tinkle on the ear. By this time

every man on board, seamen, archers and men-at-arms, were crowding the

sides of the vessel. All round them there were noises in the darkness,

and yet the wall of fog lay wet against their very faces. And the

noises were such as were strange to their ears, always the same high

musical clashing.

The old shipman shook his head and crossed himself.

“In thirty years upon the waters I have never heard the like,” said he.

“The Devil is ever loose in a fog. Well is he named the Prince of

Darkness.”

A wave of panic passed over the vessel, and these rough and hardy men

who feared no mortal foe shook with terror at the shadows of their own

minds. They stared into the cloud with blanched faces and fixed eyes,

as though each instant some fearsome shape might break in upon them.

And as they stared there came a gust of wind. For a moment the fog-bank

rose and a circle of ocean lay before them.

It was covered with vessels. On all sides they lay thick upon its

surface. They were huge caracks, high-ended and portly, with red sides

and bulwarks carved and crusted with gold. Each had one great sail set

and was driving down channel on the same course at the Basilisk. Their

decks were thick with men, and from their high poops came the weird

clashing which filled the air. For one moment they lay there, this

wondrous fleet, surging slowly forward, framed in gray vapor. The next

the clouds closed in and they had vanished from view. There was a long

hush, and then a buzz of excited voices.

“The Spaniards!” cried a dozen bowmen and sailors.

“I should have known it,” said the shipman. “I call to mind on the

Biscay Coast how they would clash their cymbals after the fashion of

the heathen Moor with whom they fight; but what would you have me do,

fair sir? If the fog rises we are all dead men.”

“There were thirty ships at the least,” said Knolles, with a moody

brow. “If we have seen them I trow that they have also seen us. They

will lay us aboard.”

“Nay, fair sir, it is in my mind that our ship is lighter and faster

than theirs. If the fog hold another hour we should be through them.”

“Stand to your arms!” yelled Knolles. “Stand to your arms—! They are on

us!”

The Basilisk had indeed been spied from the Spanish Admiral’s ship

before the fog closed down. With so light a breeze, and such a fog, he

could not hope to find her under sail. But by an evil chance not a

bowshot from the great Spanish carack was a low galley, thin and swift,

with oars which could speed her against wind or tide. She also had seen

the Basilisk and it was to her that the Spanish leader shouted his

orders. For a few minutes she hunted through the fog, and then sprang

out of it like a lean and stealthy beast upon its prey. It was the

sight of the long dark shadow gliding after them which had brought that

wild shout of alarm from the lips of the English knight. In another

instant the starboard oars of the galley had been shipped, the sides of

the two vessels grated together, and a stream of swarthy, red-capped

Spaniards were swarming up the sides of the Basilisk and dropped with

yells of triumph upon her deck.

For a moment it seemed as if the vessel was captured without a blow

being struck, for the men of the English ship had run wildly in all

directions to look for their arms. Scores of archers might be seen

under the shadow of the forecastle and the poop bending their bowstaves

to string them with the cords from their waterproof cases. Others were

scrambling over saddles, barrels and cases in wild search of their

quivers. Each as he came upon his arrows pulled out a few to lend to

his less fortunate comrades. In mad haste the men-at-arms also were

feeling and grasping in the dark corners, picking up steel caps which

would not fit them, hurling them down on the deck, and snatching

eagerly at any swords or spears that came their way.

The center of the ship was held by the Spaniards; and having slain all

who stood before them, they were pressing up to either end before they

were made to understand that it was no fat sheep but a most fierce old

wolf which they had taken by the ears.

If the lesson was late, it was the more thorough. Attacked on both

sides and hopelessly outnumbered, the Spaniards, who had never doubted

that this little craft was a merchant-ship, were cut off to the last

man. It was no fight, but a butchery. In vain the survivors ran

screaming prayers to the saints and threw themselves down into the

galley alongside. It also had been riddled with arrows from the poop of

the Basilisk, and both the crew on the deck and the galley-slaves in

the outriggers at either side lay dead in rows under the overwhelming

shower from above. From stem to rudder every foot of her was furred

with arrows. It was but a floating coffin piled with dead and dying

men, which wallowed in the waves behind them as the Basilisk lurched

onward and left her in the fog.

In their first rush on to the Basilisk, the Spaniards had seized six of

the crew and four unarmed archers. Their throats had been cut and their

bodies tossed overboard. Now the Spaniards who littered the deck,

wounded and dead, were thrust over the side in the same fashion. One

ran down into the hold and had to be hunted and killed squealing under

the blows like a rat in the darkness. Within half an hour no sign was

left of this grim meeting in the fog save for the crimson splashes upon

bulwarks and deck. The archers, flushed and merry, were unstringing

their bows once more, for in spite of the water glue the damp air took

the strength from the cords. Some were hunting about for arrows which

might have stuck inboard, and some tying up small injuries received in

the scuffle. But an anxious shadow still lingered upon the face of Sir

Robert, and he peered fixedly about him through the fog.

“Go among the archers, Hawthorne,” said he to his Squire. “Charge them

on their lives to make no sound! You also, Loring. Go to the afterguard

and say the same to them. We are lost if one of these great ships

should spy us.”

For an hour with bated breath they stole through the fleet, still

hearing the cymbals clashing all round them, for in this way the

Spaniards held themselves together. Once the wild music came from above

their very prow, and so warned them to change their course. Once also a

huge vessel loomed for an instant upon their quarter, but they turned

two points away from her, and she blurred and vanished. Soon the

cymbals were but a distant tinkling, and at last they died gradually

away.

“It is none too soon,” said the old shipman, pointing to a yellowish

tint in the haze above them. “See yonder! It is the sun which wins

through. It will be here anon. Ah! said I not so?”

A sickly sun, no larger and far dimmer than the moon, had indeed shown

its face, with cloud-wreaths smoking across it. As they looked up it

waxed larger and brighter before their eyes—a yellow halo spread round

it, one ray broke through, and then a funnel of golden light poured

down upon them, widening swiftly at the base. A minute later they were

sailing on a clear blue sea with an azure cloud-flecked sky above their

heads, and such a scene beneath it as each of them would carry in his

memory while memory remained.

They were in mid-channel. The white and green coasts of Picardy and of

Kent lay clear upon either side of them. The wide channel stretched in

front, deepening from the light blue beneath their prow to purple on

the far sky-line. Behind them was that thick bank of cloud from which

they had just burst. It lay like a gray wall from east to west, and

through it were breaking the high shadowy forms of the ships of Spain.

Four of them had already emerged, their red bodies, gilded sides and

painted sails shining gloriously in the evening sun. Every instant a

fresh golden spot grew out of the fog, which blazed like a star for an

instant, and then surged forward to show itself as the brazen beak of

the great red vessel which bore it. Looking back, the whole bank of

cloud was broken by the widespread line of noble ships which were

bursting through it. The Basilisk lay a mile or more in front of them

and two miles clear of their wing. Five miles farther off, in the

direction of the French coast, two other small ships were running down

Channel. A cry of joy from Robert Knolles and a hearty prayer of

gratitude to the saints from the old shipman hailed them as their

missing comrades, the cog Thomas and the Grace Dieu.

But fair as was the view of their lost friends, and wondrous the

appearance of the Spanish ships, it was not on those that the eyes of

the men of the Basilisk were chiefly bent. A greater sight lay before

them—a sight which brought them clustering to the forecastle with eager

eyes and pointing fingers. The English fleet was coming forth from the

Winchelsea Coast. Already before the fog lifted a fast galleass had

brought the news down Channel that the Spanish were on the sea, and the

King’s fleet was under way. Now their long array of sails, gay with the

coats and colors of the towns which had furnished them, lay bright

against the Kentish coast from Dungeness Point to Rye. Nine and twenty

ships were there from Southampton, Shoreham, Winchelsea, Hastings, Rye,

Hythe, Romney, Folkestone, Deal, Dover and Sandwich. With their great

sails slued round to catch the wind they ran out, whilst the Spanish,

like the gallant foes that they have ever been, turned their heads

landward to meet them. With flaunting banners and painted sails,

blaring trumpets and clashing cymbals, the two glittering fleets,

dipping and rising on the long Channel swell, drew slowly together.

King Edward had been lying all day in his great ship the Philippa, a

mile out from the Camber Sands, waiting for the coming of the

Spaniards. Above the huge sail which bore the royal arms flew the red

cross of England. Along the bulwarks were shown the shields of forty

knights, the flower of English chivalry, and as many pennons floated

from the deck. The high ends of the ship glittered with the weapons of

the men-at-arms, and the waist was crammed with the archers. From time

to time a crash of nakers and blare of trumpets burst from the royal

ship, and was answered by her great neighbors, the Lion on which the

Black Prince flew his flag, the Christopher with the Earl of Suffolk,

the Salle du Roi of Robert of Namur, and the Grace Marie of Sir Thomas

Holland. Farther off lay the White Swan, bearing the arms of Mowbray,

the Palmer of Deal, flying the Black Head of Audley, and the Kentish

man under the Lord Beauchamp. The rest lay, anchored but ready, at the

mouth of Winchelsea Creek.

The King sat upon a keg in the fore part of his ship, with little John

of Richmond, who was no more than a schoolboy, perched upon his knee.

Edward was clad in the black velvet jacket which was his favorite garb,

and wore a small brown-beaver hat with a white plume at the side. A

rich cloak of fur turned up with miniver drooped from his shoulders.

Behind him were a score of his knights, brilliant in silks and

sarcenets, some seated on an upturned boat and some swinging their legs

from the bulwark.

In front stood John Chandos in a party-colored jupon, one foot raised

upon the anchor-stock, picking at the strings of his guitar and singing

a song which he had learned at Marienburg when last he helped the

Teutonic knights against the heathen. The King, his knights, and even

the archers in the waist below them, laughed at the merry lilt and

joined lustily in the chorus, while the men of the neighboring ships

leaned over the side to hearken to the deep chant rolling over the

waters.

But there came a sudden interruption to the song. A sharp, harsh shout

came down from the lookout stationed in the circular top at the end of

the mast. “I spy a sail—two sails!” he cried.

John Bunce the King’s shipman shaded his eyes and stared at the long

fog-bank which shrouded the northern channel. Chandos, with his fingers

over the strings of his guitar, the King, the knights, all gazed in the

same direction. Two small dark shapes had burst forth, and then after

some minutes a third.

“Surely they are the Spaniards?” said the King.

“Nay, sire,” the seaman answered, “the Spaniards are greater ships and

are painted red. I know not what these may be.”

“But I could hazard a guess!” cried Chandos. “Surely they are the three

ships with my own men on their way to Brittany.”

“You have hit it, John,” said the King. “But look, I pray you! What in

the name of the Virgin is that?”

Four brilliant stars of flashing light had shone out from different

points of the cloud-bank. The next instant as many tall ships had

swooped forth into the sunshine. A fierce shout rang from the King’s

ship, and was taken up all down the line, until the whole coast from

Dungeness to Winchelsea echoed the warlike greeting. The King sprang up

with a joyous face.

“The game is afoot, my friends!” said he. “Dress, John! Dress, Walter!

Quick all of you! Squires, bring the harness! Let each tend to himself,

for the time is short.”

A strange sight it was to see these forty nobles tearing off their

clothes and littering the deck with velvets and satins, whilst the

squire of each, as busy as an ostler before a race, stooped and pulled

and strained and riveted, fastening the bassinets, the legpieces, the

front and the back plates, until the silken courtier had become the man

of steel. When their work was finished, there stood a stern group of

warriors where the light dandies had sung and jested round Sir John’s

guitar. Below in orderly silence the archers were mustering under their

officers and taking their allotted stations. A dozen had swarmed up to

their hazardous post in the little tower in the tops.

“Bring wine, Nicholas!” cried the King. “Gentlemen, ere you close your

visors I pray you to take a last rouse with me. You will be dry enough,

I promise you, before your lips are free once more. To what shall we

drink, John?”

“To the men of Spain,” said Chandos, his sharp face peering like a

gaunt bird through the gap in his helmet. “May their hearts be stout

and their spirits high this day!”

“Well said, John!” cried the King, and the knights laughed joyously as

they drank. “Now, fair sirs, let each to his post! I am warden here on

the forecastle. Do you, John, take charge of the afterguard. Walter,

James, William, Fitzallan, Goldesborough, Reginald—you will stay with

me! John, you may pick whom you will and the others will bide with the

archers. Now bear straight at the center, master-shipman. Ere yonder

sun sets we will bring a red ship back as a gift to our ladies, or

never look upon a lady’s face again.”

The art of sailing into a wind had not yet been invented, nor was there

any fore-and-aft canvas, save for small headsails with which a vessel

could be turned. Hence the English fleet had to take a long slant down

channel to meet their enemies; but as the Spaniards coming before the

wind were equally anxious to engage there was the less delay. With

stately pomp and dignity, the two great fleets approached.

It chanced that one fine carack had outstripped its consorts and came

sweeping along, all red and gold, with a fringe of twinkling steel, a

good half-mile before the fleet. Edward looked at her with a kindling

eye, for indeed she was a noble sight with the blue water creaming

under her gilded prow.

“This is a most worthy and debonair vessel, Master Bunce,” said he to

the shipman beside him. “I would fain have a tilt with her. I pray you

to hold us straight that we may bear her down.”

“If I hold her straight, then one or other must sink, and it may be

both,” the seaman answered.

“I doubt not that with the help of our Lady we shall do our part,” said

the King. “Hold her straight, master-shipman, as I have told you.”

Now the two vessels were within arrow flight, and the bolts from the

crossbowmen pattered upon the English ship. These short thick devil’s

darts were everywhere humming like great wasps through the air,

crashing against the bulwarks, beating upon the deck, ringing loudly on

the armor of the knights, or with a soft muffled thud sinking to the

socket in a victim.

The bowmen along either side of the Philippa had stood motionless

waiting for their orders, but now there was a sharp shout from their

leader, and every string twanged together. The air was full of their

harping, together with the swish of the arrows, the long-drawn keening

of the bowmen and the short deep bark of the under-officers. “Steady,

steady! Loose steady! Shoot wholly together! Twelve score paces! Ten

score! Now eight! Shoot wholly together!” Their gruff shouts broke

through the high shrill cry like the deep roar of a wave through the

howl of the wind.

As the two great ships hurtled together the Spaniard turned away a few

points so that the blow should be a glancing one. None the less it was

terrific. A dozen men in the tops of the carack were balancing a huge

stone with the intention of dropping it over on the English deck. With

a scream of horror they saw the mast cracking beneath them. Over it

went, slowly at first, then faster, until with a crash it came down on

its side, sending them flying like stones from a sling far out into the

sea. A swath of crushed bodies lay across the deck where the mast had

fallen. But the English ship had not escaped unscathed. Her mast held,

it is true, but the mighty shock not only stretched every man flat upon

the deck, but had shaken a score of those who lined her sides into the

sea. One bowman was hurled from the top, and his body fell with a

dreadful crash at the very side of the prostrate King upon the

forecastle. Many were thrown down with broken arms and legs from the

high castles at either end into the waist of the ship. Worst of all,

the seams had been opened by the crash and the water was gushing in at

a dozen places.

But these were men of experience and of discipline, men who had already

fought together by sea and by land, so that each knew his place and his

duty. Those who could staggered to their feet and helped up a score or

more of knights who were rolling and clashing in the scuppers unable to

rise for the weight of their armor. The bowmen formed up as before. The

seamen ran to the gaping seams with oakum and with tar. In ten minutes

order had been restored and the Philippa, though shaken and weakened,

was ready for battle once more. The King was glaring round him like a

wounded boar.

“Grapple my ship with that,” he cried, pointing to the crippled

Spaniard, “for I would have possession of her!”

But already the breeze had carried them past it, and a dozen Spanish

ships were bearing down full upon them.

“We cannot win back to her, lest we show our flank to these others,”

said the shipman.

“Let her go her way!” cried the knights. “You shall have better than

her.”

“By Saint George! you speak the truth,” said the King, “for she is ours

when we have time to take her. These also seem very worthy ships which

are drawing up to us, and I pray you, master-shipman, that you will

have a tilt with the nearest.”

A great carack was within a bowshot of them and crossing their bows.

Bunce looked up at his mast, and he saw that already it was shaken and

drooping. Another blow and it would be over the side and his ship a

helpless log upon the water. He jammed his helm round therefore, and

ran his ship alongside the Spaniard, throwing out his hooks and iron

chains as he did so.

They, no less eager, grappled the Philippa both fore and aft, and the

two vessels, linked tightly together, surged slowly over the long blue

rollers. Over their bulwarks hung a cloud of men locked together in a

desperate struggle, sometimes surging forward on to the deck of the

Spaniard, sometimes recoiling back on to the King’s ship, reeling this

way and that, with the swords flickering like silver flames above them,

while the long-drawn cry of rage and agony swelled up like a wolf’s

howl to the calm blue heaven above them.

But now ship after ship of the English had come up, each throwing its

iron over the nearest Spaniard and striving to board her high red

sides. Twenty ships were drifting in furious single combat after the

manner of the Philippa, until the whole surface of the sea was covered

with a succession of these desperate duels. The dismasted carack, which

the King’s ship had left behind it, had been carried by the Earl of

Suffolk’s Christopher, and the water was dotted with the heads of her

crew. An English ship had been sunk by a huge stone discharged from an

engine, and her men also were struggling in the waves, none having

leisure to lend them a hand. A second English ship was caught between

two of the Spanish vessels and overwhelmed by a rush of boarders so

that not a man of her was left alive. On the other hand, Mowbray and

Audley had each taken the caracks which were opposed to them, and the

battle in the center, after swaying this way and that, was turning now

in favor of the Islanders.

The Black Prince, with the Lion, the Grace Marie and four other ships

had swept round to turn the Spanish flank; but the movement was seen,

and the Spaniards had ten ships with which to meet it, one of them

their great carack the St. Iago di Compostella. To this ship the Prince

had attached his little cog and strove desperately to board her, but

her side was so high and the defense so desperate that his men could

never get beyond her bulwarks but were hurled down again and again with

a clang and clash to the deck beneath. Her side bristled with

crossbowmen, who shot straight down on to the packed waist of the Lion,

so that the dead lay there in heaps. But the most dangerous of all was

a swarthy black-bearded giant in the tops, who crouched so that none

could see him, but rising every now and then with a huge lump of iron

between his hands, hurled it down with such force that nothing would

stop it. Again and again these ponderous bolts crashed through the deck

and hurtled down into the bottom of the ship, starting the planks and

shattering all that came in their way.

The Prince, clad in that dark armor which gave him his name, was

directing the attack from the poop when the shipman rushed wildly up to

him with fear on his face.

“Sire!” he cried. “The ship may not stand against these blows. A few

more will sink her! Already the water floods inboard.”

The Prince looked up, and as he did so the shaggy beard showed once

more and two brawny arms swept downward. A great slug, whizzing down,

beat a gaping hole in the deck, and fell rending and riving into the

hold below. The master-mariner tore his grizzled hair.

“Another leak!” he cried. “I pray to Saint Leonard to bear us up this

day! Twenty of my shipmen are bailing with buckets, but the water rises

on them fast. The vessel may not float another hour.”

The Prince had snatched a crossbow from one of his attendants and

leveled it at the Spaniard’s tops. At the very instant when the seaman

stood erect with a fresh bar in his hands, the bolt took him full in

the face, and his body fell forward over the parapet, hanging there

head downward. A howl of exultation burst from the English at the

sight, answered by a wild roar of anger from the Spaniards. A seaman

had run from the Lion’s hold and whispered in the ear of the shipman.

He turned an ashen face upon the Prince.

“It is even as I say, sire. The ship is sinking beneath our feet!” he

cried.

“The more need that we should gain another,” said he. “Sir Henry

Stokes, Sir Thomas Stourton, William, John of Clifton, here lies our

road! Advance my banner, Thomas de Mohun! On, and the day is ours!”

By a desperate scramble a dozen men, the Prince at their head, gained a

footing on the edge of the Spaniard’s deck. Some slashed furiously to

clear a space, others hung over, clutching the rail with one hand and

pulling up their comrades from below. Every instant that they could

hold their own their strength increased, till twenty had become thirty

and thirty forty, when of a sudden the newcomers, still reaching forth

to their comrades below, saw the deck beneath them reel and vanish in a

swirling sheet of foam. The Prince’s ship had foundered.

A yell went up from the Spaniards as they turned furiously upon the

small band who had reached their deck. Already the Prince and his men

had carried the poop, and from that high station they beat back their

swarming enemies. But crossbow darts pelted and thudded among their

ranks till a third of their number were stretched upon the planks.

Lined across the deck they could hardly keep an unbroken front to the

leaping, surging crowd who pressed upon them. Another rush, or another

after that, must assuredly break them, for these dark men of Spain,

hardened by an endless struggle with the Moors, were fierce and

stubborn fighters. But hark to this sudden roar upon the farther side

of them—

“Saint George! Saint George! A Knolles to the rescue!” A small craft

had run alongside and sixty men had swarmed on the deck of the St.

Iago. Caught between two fires, the Spaniards wavered and broke. The

fight became a massacre. Down from the poop sprang the Prince’s men. Up

from the waist rushed the new-corners. There were five dreadful minutes

of blows and screams and prayers with struggling figures clinging to

the bulwarks and sullen splashes into the water below. Then it was

over, and a crowd of weary, overstrained men leaned panting upon their

weapons, or lay breathless and exhausted upon the deck of the captured

carack.

The Prince had pulled up his visor and lowered his beaver. He smiled

proudly as he gazed around him and wiped his streaming face. “Where is

the shipman?” he asked. “Let him lead us against another ship.”

“Nay, sire, the shipman and all his men have sunk in the Lion,” said

Thomas de Mohun, a young knight of the West Country, who carried the

standard. “We have lost our ship and the half of our following. I fear

that we can fight no more.”

“It matters the less since the day is already ours,” said the Prince,

looking over the sea. “My noble father’s royal banner flies upon yonder

Spaniard. Mowbray, Audley, Suffolk, Beauchamp, Namur, Tracey, Stafford,

Arundel, each has his flag over a scarlet carack, even as mine floats

over this. See, yonder squadron is already far beyond our reach. But

surely we owe thanks to you who came at so perilous a moment to our

aid. Your face I have seen, and your coat-armor also, young sir, though

I cannot lay my tongue to your name. Let me know that I may thank you.”

He had turned to Nigel, who stood flushed and joyous at the head of the

boarders from the Basilisk.

“I am but a Squire, sire, and can claim no thanks, for there is nothing

that I have done. Here is our leader.”

The Prince’s eyes fell upon the shield charged with the Black Raven and

the stern young face of him who bore it. “Sir Robert Knolles,” said he,

“I had thought you were on your way to Brittany.”

“I was so, sire, when I had the fortune to see this battle as I

passed.”

The Prince laughed. “It would indeed be to ask too much, Robert, that

you should keep on your course when much honor was to be gathered so

close to you. But now I pray you that you will come back with us to

Winchelsea, for well I know that my father would fain thank you for

what you have done this day.”

But Robert Knolles shook his head. “I have your father’s command, sire,

and without his order I may not go against it. Our people are

hard-pressed in Brittany, and it is not for me to linger on the way. I

pray you, sire, if you must needs mention me to the King, to crave his

pardon that I should have broken my journey thus.”

“You are right, Robert. God-speed you on your way! And I would that I

were sailing under your banner, for I see clearly that you will take

your people where they may worshipfully win worship. Perchance I also

maybe in Brittany before the year is past.”

The Prince turned to the task of gathering his weary people together,

and the Basilisks passed over the side once more and dropped down on to

their own little ship. They poled her off from the captured Spaniard

and set their sail with their prow for the south. Far ahead of them

were their two consorts, beating towards them in the hope of giving

help, while down Channel were a score of Spanish ships with a few of

the English vessels hanging upon their skirts. The sun lay low on the

water, and its level beams glowed upon the scarlet and gold of fourteen

great caracks, each flying the cross of Saint George, and towering high

above the cluster of English ships which, with brave waving of flags

and blaring of music, were moving slowly towards the Kentish coast.

XVIII.

HOW BLACK SIMON CLAIMED FORFEIT FROM THE KING OF SARK

For a day and a half the small fleet made good progress, but on the

second morning, after sighting Cape de la Hague, there came a brisk

land wind which blew them out to sea. It grew into a squall with rain

and fog so that they were two more days beating back. Next morning they

found themselves in a dangerous rock studded sea with a small island

upon their starboard quarter. It was girdled with high granite cliffs

of a reddish hue, and slopes of bright green grassland lay above them.

A second smaller island lay beside it. Dennis the shipman shook his

head as he looked.

“That is Brechou,” said he, “and the larger one is the Island of Sark.

If ever I be cast away, I pray the saints that I may not be upon yonder

coast!”

Knolles gazed across at it. “You say well, master-shipman,” said he.

“It does appear to be a rocky and perilous spot.”

“Nay, it is the rocky hearts of those who dwell upon it that I had in

my mind,” the old sailor answered. “We are well safe in three goodly

vessels, but had we been here in a small craft I make no doubt that

they would have already had their boats out against us.”

“Who then are these people, and how do they live upon so small and

windswept an island?” asked the soldier.

“They do not live from the island, fair sir, but from what they can

gather upon the sea around it. They are broken folk from all countries,

justice-fliers, prison-breakers, reavers, escaped bondsmen, murderers

and staff-strikers who have made their way to this outland place and

hold it against all comers. There is one here who could tell you of

them and of their ways, for he was long time prisoner amongst them.”

The seaman pointed to Black Simon, the dark man from Norwich, who was

leaning against the side lost in moody thought and staring with a

brooding eye at the distant shore.

“How now, fellow?” asked Knolles. “What is this I hear? Is it indeed

sooth that you have been a captive upon this island?”

“It is true, fair sir. For eight months I have been servant to the man

whom they call their King. His name is La Muette, and he comes from

Jersey nor is there under God’s sky a man whom I have more desire to

see.”

“Has he then mishandled you?”

Black Simon gave a wry smile and pulled off his jerkin. His lean sinewy

back was waled and puckered with white scars. “He has left his sign of

hand upon me,” said he. “He swore that he would break me to his will,

and thus he tried to do it. But most I desire to see him because he

hath lost a wager to me and I would fain be paid.”

“This is a strange saying,” said Knolles. “What is this wager, and why

should he pay you?”

“It is but a small matter,” Simon answered; “but I am a poor man and

the payment would be welcome. Should it have chanced that we stopped at

this island I should have craved your leave that I go ashore and ask

for that which I have fairly won.”

Sir Robert Knolles laughed. “This business tickleth my fancy,” said he.

“As to stopping at the island, this shipman tells me that we must needs

wait a day and a night, for that we have strained our planks. But if

you should go ashore, how will you be sure that you will be free to

depart, or that you will see this King of whom you speak?”

Black Simon’s dark face was shining with a fierce joy. “Fair sir, I

will ever be your debtor if you will let me go. Concerning what you

ask, I know this island even as I know the streets of Norwich, as you

may well believe seeing that it is but a small place and I upon it for

near a year. Should I land after dark, I could win my way to the King’s

house, and if he be not dead or distraught with drink I could have

speech with him alone, for I know his ways and his hours and how he may

be found. I would ask only that Aylward the archer may go with me, that

I may have one friend at my side if things should chance to go awry.”

Knolles thought awhile. “It is much that you ask,” said he, “for by

God’s truth I reckon that you and this friend of yours are two of my

men whom I would be least ready to lose. I have seen you both at grips

with the Spaniards and I know you. But I trust you, and if we must

indeed stop at this accursed place, then you may do as you will. If you

have deceived me, or if this is a trick by which you design to leave

me, then God be your friend when next we meet, for man will be of small

avail!”

It proved that not only the seams had to be calked but that the cog

Thomas was out of fresh water. The ships moored therefore near the Isle

of Brechou, where springs were to be found. There were no people upon

this little patch, but over on the farther island many figures could be

seen watching them, and the twinkle of steel from among them showed

that they were armed men. One boat had ventured forth and taken a good

look at them, but had hurried back with the warning that they were too

strong to be touched.

Black Simon found Aylward seated under the poop with his back, against

Bartholomew the bowyer. He was whistling merrily as he carved a girl’s

face upon the horn of his bow.

“My friend,” said Simon, “will you come ashore to-night—for I have need

of your help?”

Aylward crowed lustily. “Will I come, Simon? By my hilt, I shall be

right glad to put my foot on the good brown earth once more. All my

life I have trod it, and yet I would never have learned its worth had I

not journeyed in these cursed ships. We will go on shore together,

Simon, and we will seek out the women, if there be any there, for it

seems a long year since I heard their gentle voices, and my eyes are

weary of such faces as Bartholomew’s or thine.”

Simon’s grim features relaxed into a smile. “The only face that you

will see ashore, Samkin, will bring you small comfort,” said he, “and I

warn you that this is no easy errand, but one which may be neither

sweet nor fair, for if these people take us our end will be a cruel

one.”

“By my hilt,” said Aylward, “I am with you, gossip, wherever you may

go! Say no more, therefore, for I am weary of living like a cony in a

hole, and I shall be right glad to stand by you in your venture.”

That night, two hours after dark, a small boat put forth from the

Basilisk. It contained Simon, Aylward and two seamen. The soldiers

carried their swords, and Black Simon bore a brown biscuit-bag over his

shoulder. Under his direction the rowers skirted the dangerous surf

which beat against the cliffs until they came to a spot where an

outlying reef formed a breakwater. Within was a belt of calm water and

a shallow cover with a sloping beach. Here the boat was dragged up and

the seamen were ordered to wait, while Simon and Aylward started on

their errand.

With the assured air of a man who knows exactly where he is and whither

he is going, the man-at-arms began to clamber up a narrow fern-lined

cleft among the rocks. It was no easy ascent in the darkness, but Simon

climbed on like an old dog hot upon a scent, and the panting Aylward

struggled after as best he might. At last they were at the summit and

the archer threw himself down upon the grass.

“Nay, Simon, I have not enough breath to blow out a candle,” said he.

“Stint your haste for a minute, since we have a long night before us.

Surely this man is a friend indeed, if you hasten so to see him.”

“Such a friend,” Simon answered, “that I have often dreamed of our next

meeting. Now before that moon has set it will have come.”

“Had it been a wench I could have understood it,” said Aylward. “By

these ten finger-bones, if Mary of the mill or little Kate of Compton

had waited me on the brow of this cliff, I should have come up it and

never known it was there. But surely I see houses and hear voices over

yonder in the shadow?”

“It is their town,” whispered Simon. “There are a hundred as

bloody-minded cutthroats as are to be found in Christendom beneath

those roofs. Hark to that!”

A fierce burst of laughter came out of the darkness, followed by a long

cry of pain.

“All-hallows be with us!” cried Aylward. “What is that?”

“As like as not some poor devil has fallen into their clutches, even as

I did. Come this way, Samkin, for there is a peat-cutting where we may

hide. Aye, here it is, but deeper and broader than of old. Now follow

me close, for if we keep within it we shall find ourselves a stone cast

off the King’s house.”

Together they crept along the dark cutting. Suddenly Simon seized

Aylward by the shoulder and pushed him into the shadow of the bank.

Crouching in the darkness, they heard footsteps and voices upon the

farther side of the trench. Two men sauntered along it and stopped

almost at the very spot where the comrades were lying. Aylward could

see their dark figures outlined against the starry sky.

“Why should you scold, Jacques,” said one of them, speaking a strange

half-French, half-English lingo. “_Le diable t’emporte_ for a grumbling

rascal. You won a woman and I got nothing. What more would you have?”

“You will have your chance off the next ship, _mon garçon_, but mine is

passed. A woman, it is true—an old peasant out of the fields, with a

face as yellow as a kite’s claw. But Gaston, who threw a nine against

my eight, got as fair a little Normandy lass as ever your eyes have

seen. Curse the dice, I say! And as to my woman, I will sell her to you

for a firkin of Gascony.”

“I have no wine to spare, but I will give you a keg of apples,” said

the other. “I had it out of the Peter and Paul, the Falmouth boat that

struck in Creux Bay.”

“Well, well your apples may be the worse for keeping, but so is old

Marie, and we can cry quits on that. Come round and drink a cup over

the bargain.”

They shuffled onward in the darkness.

“Heard you ever such villainy?” cried Aylward, breathing fierce and

hard. “Did you hear them, Simon? A woman for a keg of apples! And my

heart’s root is sad for the other one, the girl of Normandy. Surely we

can land to-morrow and burn all these water-rats out of their nest.”

“Nay, Sir Robert will not waste time or strength ere he reach

Brittany.”

“Sure I am that if my little master Squire Loring had the handling of

it, every woman on this island would be free ere another day had

passed.”

“I doubt it not,” said Simon. “He is one who makes an idol of woman,

after the manner of those crazy knight errants. But Sir Robert is a

true soldier and hath only his purpose in view.”

“Simon,” said Aylward, “the light is not overgood and the place is

cramped for sword-play, but if you will step out into the open I will

teach you whether my master is a true soldier or not.”

“Tut, man! you are as foolish yourself,” said Simon. “Here we are with

our work in hand, and yet you must needs fall out with me on our way to

it. I say nothing against your master save that he hath the way of his

fellows who follow dreams and fancies. But Knolles looks neither to

right nor left and walks forward to his mark. Now, let us on, for the

time passes.”

“Simon, your words are neither good nor fair. When we are back on

shipboard we will speak further of this matter. Now lead on, I pray

you, and let us see some more of this ten-devil island.”

For half a mile Simon led the way until they came to a large house

which stood by itself. Peering at it from the edge of the cutting,

Aylward could see that it was made from the wreckage of many vessels,

for at each corner a prow was thrust out. Lights blazed within, and

there came the sound of a strong voice singing a gay song which was

taken up by a dozen others in the chorus.

“All is well, lad!” whispered Simon in great delight. “That is the

voice of the King. It is the very song he used to sing. ‘_Les deux

filles de Pierre_.’ ’Fore God, my back tingles at the very sound of it.

Here we will wait until his company take their leave.”

Hour after hour they crouched in the peat-cutting, listening to the

noisy songs of the revelers within, some French, some English, and all

growing fouler and less articulate as the night wore on. Once a quarrel

broke out and the clamor was like a cageful of wild beasts at

feeding-time. Then a health was drunk and there was much stamping and

cheering.

Only once was the long vigil broken. A woman came forth from the house

and walked up and down, with her face sunk upon her breast. She was

tall and slender, but her features could not be seen for a wimple over

her head. Weary sadness could be read in her bowed back and dragging

steps. Once only they saw her throw her two hands up to Heaven as one

who is beyond human aid. Then she passed slowly into the house again. A

moment later the door of the hall was flung open, and a shouting

stumbling throng came crowding forth, with whoop and yell, into the

silent night. Linking arms and striking up a chorus, they marched past

the peat-cutting, their voices dwindling slowly away as they made for

their homes.

“Now, Samkin, now!” cried Simon, and jumping out from the hiding-place

he made for the door. It had not yet been fastened. The two comrades

sprang inside. Then Simon drew the bolts so that none might interrupt

them.

A long table littered with flagons and beakers lay before them. It was

lit up by a line of torches, which flickered and smoked in their iron

sconces. At the farther end a solitary man was seated. His head rested

upon his two hands, as if he were befuddled with wine, but at the harsh

sound of the snapping bolts he raised his face and looked angrily

around him. It was a strange powerful head, tawny and shaggy like a

lion’s, with a tangled beard and a large harsh face, bloated and

blotched with vice. He laughed as the newcomers entered, thinking that

two of his boon companions had returned to finish a flagon. Then he

stared hard and he passed his hand over his eyes like one who thinks he

may be dreaming.

“_Mon Dieu!_” he cried. “Who are you and whence come you at this hour

of the night? Is this the way to break into our royal presence?”

Simon approached up one side of the table and Aylward up the other.

When they were close to the King, the man-at-arms plucked a torch from

its socket and held it to his own face. The King staggered back with a

cry, as he gazed at that grim visage.

“_Le diable noir!_” he cried. “Simon, the Englishman! What make you

here?”

Simon put his hand upon his shoulder. “Sit here!” said he, and he

forced the King into his seat. “Do you sit on the farther side of him,

Aylward. We make a merry group, do we not? Often have I served at this

table, but never did I hope to drink at it. Fill your cup, Samkin, and

pass the flagon.”

The King looked from one to the other with terror in his bloodshot

eyes. “What would you do?” he asked. “Are you mad, that you should come

here. One shout and you are at my mercy.”

“Nay, my friend, I have lived too long in your house not to know the

ways of it. No man-servant ever slept beneath your roof, for you feared

lest your throat would be cut in the night-time. You may shout and

shout, if it so please you. It chanced that I was passing on my way

from England in those ships which lie off La Brechou, and I thought I

would come in and have speech with you.”

“Indeed, Simon, I am right glad to see you,” said the King, cringing

away from the fierce eyes of the soldier. “We were good friends in the

past, were we not, and I cannot call to mind that I have ever done you

injury. When you made your way to England by swimming to the Levantine

there was none more glad in heart than I!”

“If I cared to doff my doublet I could show you the marks of what your

friendship has done for me in the past,” said Simon. “It is printed on

my back as clearly as on my memory. Why, you foul dog, there are the

very rings upon the wall to which my hands were fastened, and there the

stains upon the boards on which my blood has dripped! Is it not so, you

king of butchers?”

The pirate chief turned whiter still. “It may be that life here was

somewhat rough, Simon, but if I have wronged you in anyway, I will

surely make amends. What do you ask?”

“I ask only one thing, and I have come hither that I may get it. It is

that you pay me forfeit for that you have lost your wager.”

“My wager, Simon! I call to mind no wager.”

“But I will call it to your mind, and then I will take my payment.

Often have you sworn that you would break my courage. ‘By my head!’ you

have cried to me. ‘You will crawl at my feet!’ and again: ‘I will wager

my head that I will tame you!’ Yes, yes, a score of times you have said

so. In my heart, as I listened, I have taken up your gage. And now,

dog, you have lost and I am here to claim the forfeit.”

His long heavy sword flew from its sheath. The King, with a howl of

despair, flung his arms round him, and they rolled together under the

table. Aylward sat with a ghastly face, and his toes curled with horror

at the sight, for he was still new to scenes of strife and his blood

was too cold for such a deed. When Simon rose he tossed something into

his bag and sheathed his bloody sword.

“Come, Samkin, our work is well done,” said he.

“By my hilt, if I had known what it was I would have been less ready to

come with you,” said the archer. “Could you not have clapped a sword in

his fist and let him take his chance in the hall?”

“Nay, Samkin, if you had such memories as I, you would have wished that

he should die like a sheep and not like a man. What chance did he give

me when he had the power? And why should I treat him better? But, Holy

Virgin, what have we here?”

At the farther end of the table a woman was standing. An open door

behind her showed that she had come from the inner room of the house.

By her tall figure the comrades knew that she was the same that they

had already seen. Her face had once been fair, but now was white and

haggard with wild dark eyes full of a hopeless terror and despair.

Slowly she paced up the room, her gaze fixed not upon the comrades, but

upon the dreadful thing beneath the table. Then as she stooped and was

sure she burst into loud laughter and clapped her hands.

“Who shall say there is no God?” she cried. “Who shall say that prayer

is unavailing? Great sir, brave sir, let me kiss that conquering hand!”

“Nay, nay, dame, stand back! Well, if you must needs have one of them,

take this which is the clean one.”

“It is the other I crave—that which is red with his blood! Oh! joyful

night when my lips have been wet with it! Now I can die in peace!”

“We must go, Aylward,” said Simon. “In another hour the dawn will have

broken. In daytime a rat could not cross this island and pass unseen.

Come, man, and at once!”

But Aylward was at the woman’s side. “Come with us, fair dame,” said

he. “Surely we can, at least, take you from this island, and no such

change can be for the worse.”

“Nay,” said she, “the saints in Heaven cannot help me now until they

take me to my rest. There is no place for me in the world beyond, and

all my friends were slain on the day I was taken. Leave me, brave men,

and let me care for myself. Already it lightens in the east, and black

will be your fate if you are taken. Go, and may the blessing of one who

was once a holy nun go with you and guard you from danger!”

Sir Robert Knolles was pacing the deck in the early morning, when he

heard the sound of oars, and there were his two night-birds climbing up

the side.

“So, fellow,” said he, “have you had speech with the King of Sark?”

“Fair sir, I have seen him.”

“And he has paid his forfeit?”

“He has paid it, sir!”

Knolles looked with curiosity at the bag which Simon bore. “What carry

you there?” he asked.

“The stake that he has lost.”

“What was it then? A goblet? A silver plate?”

For answer Simon opened his bag and shook it on the deck.

Sir Robert turned away with a whistle. “’Fore God!” said he, “it is in

my mind that I carry some hard men with me to Brittany.”