THE MURDER BY THE MERE
For a while Sir John and his retainer rode in silence. Then he laughed
loudly.
“Jeffrey,” he called, “that was a near touch. Sir Priest was minded to
stick his Spanish pick-tooth between our ribs, and shrive us afterwards,
as we lay dying, to salve his conscience.”
“Yes, master; only, being reasonable, he remembered that English swords
have a longer reach, and that his bullies are in the Ford ale-house
seeing the Old Year out, and so put it off. Master, I have always told
you that old October of yours is too strong to drink at noon. It should
be saved till bed-time.”
“What do you mean, man?”
“I mean that ale spoke yonder, not wisdom. You have showed your hand and
played the fool.”
“Who are you to teach me?” asked Sir John angrily. “I meant that he
should hear the truth for once, the slimy traitor.”
“Perhaps, perhaps; but these be bad days for Truth and those who court
her. Was it needful to tell him that to-morrow you journey to London
upon a certain errand?”
“Why not? I’ll be there before him.”
“Will you ever be there, master? The road runs past the Abbey, and that
priest has good ruffians in his pay who can hold their tongues.”
“Do you mean that he will waylay me? I say he dare not. Still, to please
you, we will take the longer path through the forest.”
“A rough one, master; but who goes with you on this business? Most of
us are away with the wains, and others make holiday. There are but three
serving-men at the hall, and you cannot leave the Lady Cicely without a
guard, or take her with you through this cold. Remember there’s
wealth yonder which some may need more even than your lands,” he added
meaningly. “Wait a while, then, till your people return or you can call
up your tenants, and go to London as one of your quality should, with
twenty good men at your back.”
“And so give our friend the Abbot time to get Cromwell’s ear, and
through him that of the King. No, no; I ride to-morrow at the dawn with
you, or, if you are afraid, without you, as I have done before and taken
no harm.”
“None shall say that Jeffrey Stokes is afraid of man or priest or
devil,” answered the old soldier, colouring. “Your road has been good
enough for me this thirty years, and it is good enough now. If I warned
you it was not for my own sake, who care little what comes, but for
yours and that of your house.”
“I know it,” said Sir John more kindly. “Take not my words ill, my
temper is up to-day. Thank the saints! here is the hall at last. Why!
whose horse has passed the gates before us?”
Jeffrey glanced at the tracks which the moonlight showed very clearly in
the new-fallen snow.
“Sir Christopher Harflete’s grey mare,” he said. “I know the shoeing and
the round shape of the hoof. Doubtless he is visiting Mistress Cicely.”
“Whom I have forbidden to him,” grumbled Sir John, swinging himself from
the saddle.
“Forbid him not,” answered Jeffrey, as he took his horse. “Christopher
Harflete may yet be a good friend to a maid in need, and I think that
need is nigh.”
“Mind your business, knave,” shouted Sir John. “Am I to be set at naught
in my own house by a chit of a girl and a gallant who would mend his
broken fortunes?”
“If you ask me, I think so,” replied the imperturbable Jeffrey, as he
led away the horses.
Sir John strode into the house by the backway, which opened on to the
stable-yard. Taking the lantern that stood by the door, he went along
galleries and upstairs to the sitting-chamber above the hall, which,
since her mother’s death, his daughter had used as her own, for here
he guessed that he would find her. Setting down the lantern upon the
passage table, he pushed open the door, which was not latched, and
entered.
The room was large, and, being lighted only by the great fire that
burned upon the hearth and two candles, all this end of it was hid in
shadow. Near to the deep window-place the shadow ceased, however, and
here, seated in a high-backed oak chair, with the light of the blazing
fire falling full upon her, was Cicely Foterell, Sir John’s only
surviving child. She was a tall and graceful maiden, blue-eyed,
brown-haired, fair-skinned, with a round and child-like face which
most people thought beautiful to look upon. Just now this face, that
generally was so arch and cheerful, seemed somewhat troubled. For this
there might be a reason, since, seated upon a stool at her side, was a
young man talking to her earnestly.
He was a stalwart young man, very broad about the shoulders, clean-cut
in feature, with a long, straight nose, black hair, and merry black
eyes. Also, as such a gallant should do, he appeared to be making love
with much vigour and directness, for his face was upturned pleading with
the girl, who leaned back in her chair answering him nothing. At this
moment, indeed, his copious flow of words came to an end, perhaps from
exhaustion, perhaps for other reasons, and was succeeded by a more
effective method of attack. Suddenly sinking from the stool to his
knees, he took the unresisting hand of Cicely and kissed it several
times; then, emboldened by his success, threw his long arms about her,
and before Sir John, choked with indignation, could find words to stop
him, drew her towards him and treated her red lips as he had treated her
fingers. This rude proceeding seemed to break the spell that bound her,
for she pushed back the chair and, escaping from his grasp, rose, saying
in a broken voice----
“Oh! Christopher, dear Christopher, this is most wrong.”
“May be,” he answered. “So long as you love me I care not what it is.”
“That you have known these two years, Christopher. I love you well,
but, alas! my father will have none of you. Get you hence now, ere
he returns, or we both shall pay for it, and I, perhaps, be sent to a
nunnery where no man may come.”
“Nay, sweet, I am here to ask his consent to my suit----”
Then at last Sir John broke out.
“To ask my consent to your suit, you dishonest knave!” he roared from
the darkness; whereat Cicely sank back into her chair looking as though
she would faint, and the strong Christopher staggered like a man pierced
by an arrow. “First to take my girl and hug her before my very eyes, and
then, when the mischief is done, to ask my consent to your suit!” and he
rushed at them like a charging bull.
Cicely rose to fly, then, seeing no escape, took refuge in her lover’s
arms. Her infuriated father seized the first part of her that came to
his hand, which chanced to be one of her long brown plaits of hair, and
tugged at it till she cried out with pain, purposing to tear her away,
at which sight and sound Christopher lost his temper also.
“Leave go of the maid, sir,” he said in a low, fierce voice, “or, by
God! I’ll make you.”
“Leave go of the maid?” gasped Sir John. “Why, who holds her tightest,
you or I? Do you leave go of her.”
“Yes, yes, Christopher,” she whispered, “ere I am pulled in two.”
Then he obeyed, lifting her into the chair, but her father still kept
his hold of the brown tress.
“Now, Sir Christopher,” he said, “I am minded to put my sword through
you.”
“And pierce your daughter’s heart as well as mine. Well, do it if you
will, and when we are dead and you are childless, weep yourself and go
to the grave.”
“Oh! father, father,” broke in Cicely, who knew the old man’s temper,
and feared the worst, “in justice and in pity, listen to me. All my
heart is Christopher’s, and has been from a child. With him I shall have
happiness, without him black despair; and that is his case too, or so
he swears. Why, then, should you part us? Is he not a proper man and of
good lineage, and name unstained? Until of late did you not ever favour
him much and let us be together day by day? And now, when it is too
late, you deny him. Oh! why, why?”
“You know why well enough, girl. Because I have chosen another husband
for you. The Lord Despard is taken with your baby face, and would marry
you. But this morning I had it under his own hand.”
“The Lord Despard?” gasped Cicely. “Why, he only buried his second
wife last month! Father, he is as old as you are, and drunken, and has
grandchildren of well-nigh my age. I would obey you in all things, but
never will I go to him alive.”
“And never shall he live to take you,” muttered Christopher.
“What matter his years, daughter? He is a sound man, and has no son,
and should one be born to him, his will be the greatest heritage within
three shires. Moreover, I need his friendship, who have bitter enemies.
But enough of this. Get you gone, Christopher, before worse befall you.”
“So be it, sir, I will go; but first, as an honest man and my father’s
friend, and, as I thought, my own, answer me one question. Why have you
changed your tune to me of late? Am I not the same Christopher Harflete
I was a year or two ago? And have I done aught to lower me in the
world’s eye or in yours?”
“No, lad,” answered the old knight bluntly; “but since you will have it,
here it is. Within that year or two your uncle whose heir you were has
married and bred a son, and now you are but a gentleman of good name,
and little to float it on. That big house of yours must go to the
hammer, Christopher. You’ll never stow a bride in it.”
“Ah! I thought as much. Christopher Harflete with the promise of the
Lesborough lands was one man; Christopher Harflete without them is
another--in your eyes. Yet, sir, I hold you foolish. I love your
daughter and she loves me, and those lands and more may come back, or
I, who am no fool, will win others. Soon there will be plenty going up
there at Court, where I am known. Further, I tell you this: I believe
that I shall marry Cicely, and earlier than you think, and I would have
had your blessing with her.”
“What! Will you steal the girl away?” asked Sir John furiously.
“By no means, sir. But this is a strange world of ours, in which from
hour to hour top becomes bottom, and bottom top, and there--I think I
shall marry her. At least I am sure that Despard the sot never will,
for I’ll kill him first, if I hang for it. Sir, sir, surely you will not
throw your pearl upon that muckheap. Better crush it beneath your heel
at once. Look, and say you cannot do it,” and he pointed to the pathetic
figure of Cicely, who stood by them with clasped hands, panting breast,
and a face of agony.
The old knight glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes, and saw
something that moved him to pity, for at bottom his heart was honest,
and though he treated her so roughly, as was the fashion of the times,
he loved his daughter more than all the world.
“Who are you, that would teach me my duty to my bone and blood?” he
grumbled. Then he thought a while, and added, “Hear me, now, Christopher
Harflete. To-morrow at the dawn I ride to London with Jeffrey Stokes on
a somewhat risky business.”
“What business, sir?”
“If you would know--that of a quarrel with yonder Spanish rogue of an
Abbot, who claims the best part of my lands, and has poisoned the ear
of that upstart, the Vicar-General Cromwell. I go to take the deeds and
prove him a liar and a traitor also, which Cromwell does not know. Now,
is my nest safe from you while I am away? Give me your word, and I’ll
believe you, for at least you are an honest gentleman, and if you have
poached a kiss or two, that may be forgiven. Others have done the same
before you were born. Give me your word, or I must drag the girl through
the snows to London at my heels.”
“You have it, sir,” answered Christopher. “If she needs my company she
must come for it to Cranwell Towers, for I’ll not seek hers while you
are away.”
“Good. Then one gift for another. I’ll not answer my Lord of Despard’s
letter till I get back again--not to please you, but because I hate
writing. It is a labour to me, and I have no time to spare to-night.
Now, have a cup of drink and be off with you. Love-making is thirsty
work.”
“Aye, gladly, sir, but hear me, hear me. Ride not to London with such
slight attendance after a quarrel with Abbot Maldon. Let me wait on you.
Although my fortunes be so low I can bring a man or two--six or eight,
indeed--while yours are away with the wains.”
“Never, Christopher. My own hand has guarded my head these sixty years,
and can do so still. Also,” he added, with a flash of insight, “as you
say, the journey is dangerous, and who knows? If aught went wrong, you
might be wanted nearer home. Christopher, you shall never have my girl;
she’s not for you. Yet, perhaps, if need were, you would strike a blow
for her even if it made you excommunicate. Get hence, wench. Why do you
stand there gaping on us, like an owl in sunlight? And remember, if
I catch you at more such tricks, you’ll spend your days mumbling at
prayers in a nunnery, and much good may they do you.”
“At least I should find peace there, and gentle words,” answered Cicely
with spirit, for she knew her father, and the worst of her fear had
departed. “Only, sir, I did not know that you wished to swell the wealth
of the Abbots of Blossholme.”
“Swell their wealth!” roared her father. “Nay, I’ll stretch their necks.
Get you to your chamber, and send up Jeffrey with the liquor.”
Then, having no choice, Cicely curtseyed, first to her father and next
to Christopher, to whom she sent a message with her eyes that she
dared not utter with her lips, and so vanished into the shadows, where
presently she was heard stumbling against some article of furniture.
“Show the maid a light, Christopher,” said Sir John, who, lost in his
own thoughts, was now gazing into the fire.
Seizing one of the two candles, Christopher sprang after her like a
hound after a hare, and presently the pair of them passed through the
door and down the long passage beyond. At a turn in it they halted, and
once more, without word spoken, she found her way into those long arms.
“You will not forget me, even if we must part?” sobbed Cicely.
“Nay, sweet,” he answered. “Moreover, keep a brave heart; we do not part
for long, for God has given us to each other. Your father does not mean
all he says, and his temper, which has been stirred to-day, will soften.
If not, we must look to ourselves. I keep a swift horse or two, Cicely.
Could you ride one if need were?”
“I have ever loved riding,” she said meaningly.
“Good. Then you shall never go to that fat hog’s sty, for I’ll stick him
first. And I have friends both in Scotland and in France. Which like you
best?”
“They say the air of France is softer. Now, away from me, or one will
come to seek us,” and they tore themselves apart.
“Emlyn, your foster-mother, is to be trusted,” he said rapidly; “also
she loves me well. If there be need, let me hear of you through her.”
“Aye,” she answered, “without fail,” and glided from him like a ghost.
“Have you been waiting to see the moon rise?” asked Sir John, glancing
at Christopher from beneath his shaggy eyebrows as he returned.
“Nay, sir, but the passages in this old house of yours are most wondrous
long, and I took a wrong turn in threading them.”
“Oh!” said Sir John. “Well, you have a talent for wrong turns, and
such partings are hard. Now, do you understand that this is the last of
them?”
“I understand that you may say so, sir.”
“And that I mean it, too, I hope. Listen, Christopher,” he added, with
earnestness, but in a kindly voice. “Believe me, I like you well, and
would not give you pain, or the maid yonder, if I could help it. Yet I
have no choice. I am threatened on all sides by priest and king, and you
have lost your heritage. She is the only jewel that I can pawn, and for
your own safety’s sake and her children’s sake, must marry well. Yonder
Despard will not live long, he drinks too hard; and then your day may
come, if you still care for his leavings--perhaps in two years, perhaps
in less, for she will soon see him out. Now, let us talk no more of
the matter, but if aught befalls me, be a friend to her. Here comes the
liquor--drink it up and be off. Though I seem rough with you, my hope is
that you may quaff many another cup at Shefton.”
It was seven o’clock of the next morning, and Sir John, having eaten
his breakfast, was girding on his sword--for Jeffrey had already gone
to fetch the horses--when the door opened and his daughter entered the
great hall, candle in hand, wrapped in a fur cloak, over which her long
hair fell. Glancing at her, Sir John noted that her eyes were wide and
frightened.
“What is it now, girl?” he asked. “You’ll take your death of cold among
these draughts.”
“Oh! father,” she said, kissing him, “I came to bid you farewell,
and--and--to pray you not to start.”
“Not to start? And why?”
“Because, father, I have dreamed a bad dream. At first last night I
could not sleep, and when at length I did I dreamed that dream thrice,”
and she paused.
“Go on, Cicely; I am not afraid of dreams, which are but
foolishness--coming from the stomach.”
“Mayhap; yet, father, it was so plain and clear I can scarcely bear to
tell it to you. I stood in a dark place amidst black things that I knew
to be trees. Then the red dawn broke upon the snow, and I saw a little
pool with brown rushes frozen in its ice. And there--there, at the edge
of the pool, by a pollard willow with one white limb, you lay, your bare
sword in your hand and an arrow in your neck, shot from behind, while in
the trunk of the willow were other arrows, and lying near you two slain.
Then cloaked men came as though to carry them away, and I awoke. I say I
dreamed it thrice.”
“A jolly good morrow indeed,” said Sir John, turning a shade paler. “And
now, daughter, what do you make of this business?”
“I? Oh! I make that you should stop at home and send some one else to do
your business. Sir Christopher, for instance.”
“Why, then I should baulk your dream, which is either true or false.
If true, I have no choice, it must be fulfilled; if false, why should I
heed it? Cicely, I am a plain man and take no note of such fancies. Yet
I have enemies, and it may well chance that my day is done. If so, use
your mother wit, girl; beware of Maldon, look to yourself, and as for
your mother’s jewels, hide them,” and he turned to go.
She clasped him by the arm.
“In that sad case what should I do, father?” she asked eagerly.
He stopped and stared at her up and down.
“I see that you believe in your dream,” he said, “and therefore,
although it shall not stay a Foterell, I begin to believe in it too. In
that case you have a lover whom I have forbid to you. Yet he is a man
after my own heart, who would deal well by you. If I die, my game is
played. Set your own anew, sweet Cicely, and set it soon, ere that Abbot
is at your heels. Rough as I may have been, remember me with kindness,
and God’s blessing and mine be on you. Hark! Jeffrey calls, and if they
stand, the horses will take cold. There, fare you well. Fear not for me,
I wear a chain shirt beneath my cloak. Get back to bed and warm you,”
and he kissed her on the brow, thrust her from him and was gone.
Thus did Cicely and her father part--for ever.
All that day Sir John and Jeffrey, his serving-man, trotted forward
through the snow--that is, when they were not obliged to walk because
of the depth of the drifts. Their plan was to reach a certain farm in a
glade of the woodland within two hours of sundown, and sleep there, for
they had taken the forest path, leaving again for the Fens and Cambridge
at the dawn. This, however, proved not possible because of the exceeding
badness of the road. So it came about that when the darkness closed in
on them a little before five o’clock, bringing with it a cold,
moaning wind and a scurry of snow, they were obliged to shelter in a
faggot-built woodman’s hut, waiting for the moon to appear among the
clouds. Here they fed the horses with corn that they had brought with
them, and themselves also from their store of dried meat and barley
cakes, which Jeffrey carried on his shoulder in a bag. It was a poor
meal eaten thus in the darkness, but served to stay their stomachs and
pass away the time.
At length a ray of light pierced the doorway of the hut.
“She’s up,” said Sir John, “let us be going ere the nags grow stiff.”
Making no answer, Jeffrey slipped the bits back into the horses’ mouths
and led them out. Now the full moon had appeared like a great white eye
between two black banks of cloud and turned the world to silver. It was
a dreary scene on which she shone; a dazzling plain of snow, broken by
patches of hawthorns, and here and there by the gaunt shape of a pollard
oak, since this being the outskirt of the forest, folk came hither to
lop the tops of the trees for firing. A hundred and fifty yards away
or so, at the crest of a slope, was a round-shaped hill, made, not by
Nature, but by man. None knew what that hill might be, but tradition
said that once, hundreds or thousands of years before, a big battle
had been fought around it in which a king was killed, and that his
victorious army had raised this mound above his bones to be a memorial
for ever.
The story was indeed that, being a sea-king, they had built a boat or
dragged it thither from the river shore and set him in it with all the
slain for rowers; also that he might be seen at nights seated on his
horse in armour, and staring about him, as when he directed the battle.
At least it is true that the mount was called King’s Grave, and that
people feared to pass it after sundown.
As Jeffrey Stokes was holding his master’s stirrup for him to mount,
he uttered an exclamation and pointed. Following the line of his
outstretched hand, in the clear moonlight Sir John saw a man, who sat,
still as any statue, upon a horse on the very point of King’s Grave.
He appeared to be covered with a long cloak, but above it his helmet
glittered like silver. Next moment a fringe of black cloud hid the face
of the moon, and when it passed away the man and horse were gone.
“What did that fellow there?” asked Sir John.
“Fellow?” answered Jeffrey in a shaken voice, “I saw none. That was the
Ghost of the Grave. My grandfather met him ere he came to his end in the
forest, none know how, for the wolves, of which there were plenty in
his day, picked his bones clean, and so have many others for hundreds of
years; always just before their doom. He is an ill fowl, that Ghost
of the Grave, and those who clap eyes on him do wisely to turn their
horses’ heads homewards, as I would to-night if I had my way, master.”
“What use, Jeffrey? If the sight of him means death, death will come.
Moreover, I believe nothing of the tale. Your ghost was some forest
reeve or herdsman.”
“A forest reeve or herdsman who wanders about in a steel helm on a fine
horse in snow-time when there are no trees to cut or cattle to mind!
Well, have it as you will, master; only God save me from such reeves and
herdmen, for I think they hail from hell.”
“Then he was a spy watching whither we go,” answered Sir John angrily.
“If so, who sent him? The Abbot of Blossholme? In that case I would
sooner meet the devil, for this means mischief. I say that we had better
ride back to Shefton.”
“Then do so, Jeffrey, if you are scared, and I will go on alone, who,
being on an honest business, fear not Satan or an abbot, either.”
“Nay, master. Many a year ago, when we were younger, I stood by you on
Flodden Field when Sir Edward, Christopher Harflete’s father, was killed
at our side, and those red-bearded Scotch bare-breeks pressed us hard,
yet I never itched to turn my back, even after that great fellow with an
axe got you down, and we thought that all was lost. Then shall I do
so now?--though it is true that I fear yon goblin more than all the
Highlanders beyond the Tweed. Ride on; man can die but once, and for my
part I care not when it comes, who have little to lose in an ill world.”
So without more words they started forward, peering about them as they
went. Soon the forest thickened, and the track they followed wound its
way round great trunks of primeval oaks, or the edges of bog-holes, or
through brakes of thorns. Hard enough it was to find it at times, since
the snow made it one with the bordering ground, and the gloom of the
oaks was great. But Jeffrey was a woodman born, and from his childhood
had known the shape of every tree in that waste, so that they held
safely to their road. Well would it have been for them if they had not!
They came to a place where three other tracks crossed that which they
rode upon, and here Jeffrey Stokes, who was ahead, held up his hand.
“What is it?” asked Sir John.
“It is the marks of ten or a dozen shod horses passed within two hours,
since the last snow fell. And who be they, I wonder?”
“Doubtless travellers like ourselves. Ride on, man; that farm is not a
mile ahead.”
Then Jeffrey broke out.
“Master, I like it not,” he said. “Battle-horses have gone by here, not
chapmen’s or farmers’ nags, and I think I know their breed. I say that
we had best turn about if we would not walk into some snare.”
“Turn you, then,” grumbled Sir John indifferently. “I am cold and weary,
and seek my rest.”
“Pray God that you may not find it when you are colder,” muttered
Jeffrey, spurring his horse.
They went on through the dead winter silence, that was broken only by
the hoots of a flitting owl hungry for the food that it could not find,
and the swish of the feet of a galloping fox as it looped past them
through the snow. Presently they came to an open place ringed in by
forest, so wet that only marsh-trees would grow there. To their right
lay a little ice-covered mere, with sere, brown reeds standing here and
there upon its face, and at the end of it a group of stark pollarded
willows, whereof the tops had been cut for poles by those who dwelt in
the forest farm near by. Sir John looked at the place and shivered a
little--perhaps because the frost bit him. Or was it that he remembered
his daughter’s dream, which told of such a spot? At any rate, he set his
teeth, and his right hand sought the hilt of his sword. His weary horse
sniffed the air and neighed, and the neigh was answered from close at
hand.
“Thank the saints! we are nearer to that farm than I thought,” said Sir
John.
As he spoke the words a number of men appeared galloping down on them
from out of the shelter of a thorn-brake, and the moonlight shone on the
bared weapons in their hands.
“Thieves!” shouted Sir John. “At them now, Jeffrey, and win through to
the farm.”
The man hesitated, for he saw that their foes were many and no common
robbers, but his master drew his sword and spurred his beast, so he
must do likewise. In twenty seconds they were among them, and some one
commanded them to yield. Sir John rushed at the fellow, and, rising in
his stirrups, cut him down. He fell all of a heap and lay still in the
snow, which grew crimson about him. One came at Jeffrey, who turned his
horse so that the blow missed, then took his weight upon the point of
his sword, so that this man, too, fell down and lay in the snow, moving
feebly.
The rest, thinking this greeting too warm for them, swung round and
vanished again among the thorns.
“Now ride for it,” said Jeffrey.
“I cannot,” answered Sir John. “One of those knaves has hurt my mare,”
and he pointed to blood that ran from a great gash in the beast’s
foreleg, which it held up piteously.
“Take mine,” said Jeffrey; “I’ll dodge them afoot.”
“Never, man! To the willows; we will hold our own there;” and, springing
from the wounded beast, which tried to hobble after them, but could not,
for its sinews were cut, he ran to the shelter of the trees, followed by
Jeffrey on his horse.
“Who are these rogues?” he asked.
“The Abbot’s men-at-arms,” answered Jeffrey. “I saw the face of him I
spitted.”
Now Sir John’s jaw dropped.
“Then we are sped, friend, for they dare not let us go. Cicely dreams
well.”
As he spoke an arrow whistled by them.
“Jeffrey,” he went on, “I have papers on me that should not be lost,
for with them might go my girl’s heritage. Take them,” and he thrust
a packet into his hand, “and this purse also. There’s plenty in it.
Away--anywhere, and lie hid out of reach a while, or they’ll still your
tongue. Then I charge you on your soul, come back with help and hang
that knave Abbot--for your Lady’s sake, Jeffrey. She’ll reward you, and
so will God above.”
The man thrust away purse and deeds in some deep pocket.
“How can I leave you to be butchered?” he muttered, grinding his teeth.
As the words left his lips he heard his master utter a gurgling sound,
and saw that an arrow, shot from behind, had pierced him through the
throat; saw, too, he who was skilled in war, that the wound was mortal.
Then he hesitated no longer.
“Christ rest you!” he said. “I’ll do your bidding or die;” and, turning
his horse, he drove the rowels into its sides, causing it to bound away
like a deer.
For a moment the stricken Sir John watched him go. Then he ran out of
his cover, shaking his sword above his head--ran into the open moonlight
to draw the arrows. They came fast enough, but ere ever he fell, for
that steel shirt of his was strong, Jeffrey, lying low on his horse’s
neck, was safe away, and though the murderers followed hard they never
caught him.
Nor, though they searched for days, could they find him at Shefton or
elsewhere, for Jeffrey, who knew that all roads were blocked, and who
dared not venture home, doubling like a hare across country, had won
down to the water, where a ship lay foreign bound, and by dawn was on
the sea.