The later summer sunbeams lay on an expanse of slightly broken
ground where purple and crimson heather were relieved by the golden
blossoms of the dwarf gorse, interspersed with white stars of
stitch-wort. Here and there, on the slopes, grew stunted oaks and
hollies, whose polished leaves gleamed white with the reflection of
the light; but there was not a trace of human habitation save a
track, as if trodden by horses' feet, clear of the furze and heath,
and bordered by soft bent grass, beginning to grow brown.
Near this track--for path it could hardly be called--stood a slender
lad waiting and watching, a little round cap covering his short-cut
brown hair, a crimson tunic reaching to his knee, leggings and shoes
of deerhide, and a sword at his side, fastened by a belt of the like
skin, guarded and clasped with silver. His features were delicate,
though sunburnt, and his eyes were riveted on the distance, where
the path had disappeared amid the luxuriant spires of ling.
A hunting-horn sounded, and the youth drew himself together into an
attitude of eager attention; the baying of hounds and trampling of
horses' hoofs came nearer and nearer, and by and by there came in
view the ends of boar-spears, the tall points of bows, a cluster of
heads of men and horses--strong, sturdy, shaggy, sure-footed
creatures, almost ponies, but the only steeds fit to pursue the
chase on this rough and encumbered ground.
Foremost rode, with ivory and gold hunting-horn slung in a rich
Spanish baldrick, and a slender gilt circlet round his green
hunting-cap, a stout figure, with a face tanned to a fiery colour,
keen eyes of a dark auburn tint, and a shock of hair of the same
deep red.
At sight of him, the lad flung himself on his knees on the path,
with the cry, "Haro! Haro! Justice, Sir King!"
"Out of my way, English hound!" cried the King. "This is no time
for thy Haro."
"Nay, but one word, good fair King! I am French--French by my
father's side!" cried the lad, as there was a halt, more from the
instinct of the horse than the will of the King. 'Bertram de
Maisonforte! My father married the Lady of Boyatt, and her
inheritance was confirmed to him by your father, brave King William,
my Lord; but now he is dead, and his kinsman, Roger de Maisonforte,
hath ousted her and me, her son and lawful heir, from house and
home, and we pray for justice, Sir King?'
'Ha, Roger, thou there! What say'st thou to this bold beggar!'
shouted the Red King.
'I say,' returned a black, bronzed hunter, pressing to the front,
'that what I hold of thee, King William, on tenure of homage, and of
two good horses and staunch hounds yearly, I yield to no English
mongrel churl, who dares to meddle with me.'
'Thou hear'st, lad,' said Rufus, with his accustomed oath, 'homage
hath been done to us for the land, nor may it be taken back. Out of
our way, or--'
'Sir! sir!' entreated the lad, grasping the bridle, 'if no more
might be, we would be content if Sir Roger would but leave my mother
enough for her maintenance among the nuns of Romsey, and give me a
horse and suit of mail to go on the Holy War with Duke Robert.'
'Ho! ho! a modest request for a beggarly English clown!' cried the
King, aiming a blow at the lad with his whip, and pushing on his
horse, so as almost to throw him back on the heath. 'Ho! ho! fit
him out for a fool's errand!'
'We'll fit him! We'll teach him to take the cross at other men's
expense!' shouted the followers, seizing on the boy.
'Nay; we'll bestow his cross on him for a free gift!' exclaimed
Roger de Maisonforte.
And Bertram, struggling desperately in vain among the band of
ruffians, found his left arm bared, and two long and painful
slashes, in the form of the Crusader's cross, inflicted, amid loud
laughter, as the blood sprang forth.
'There, Sir Crusader,' said Roger, grinding his teeth over him. 'Go
on thy way now--as a horse-boy, if so please thee, and know better
than to throw thy mean false English pretension in the face of a
gentle Norman.'
Men, horses, dogs, all seemed to trample and scoff at Bertram as he
fell back on the elastic stems of the heath and gorse, whose
prickles seemed to renew the insults by scratching his face. When
the King's horn, the calls, the brutal laughter, and the baying of
the dogs had begun to die away in the distance, he gathered himself
together, sat up, and tried to find some means of stanching the
blood. Not only was the wound in a place hard to reach, but it had
been ploughed with the point of a boar-spear, and was grievously
torn. He could do nothing with it, and, as he perceived, he had
further been robbed of his sword, his last possession, his father's
sword.
The large tears of mingled rage, grief, and pain might well spring
from the poor boy's eyes in his utter loneliness, as he clenched his
hand with powerless wrath, and regained his feet, to retrace, as
best he might, his way to where his widowed mother had found a
temporary shelter in a small religious house.
The sun grew hotter and hotter, Bertram's wound bled, though not
profusely, the smart grew upon him, his tongue was parched with
thirst, and though he kept resolutely on, his breath came panting,
his head grew dizzy, his eyes dim, his feet faltered, and at last,
just as he attained a wider and more trodden way, he dropped
insensible by the side of the path, his dry lips trying to utter the
cry, "Lord, have mercy on me!"