"Young master be right masterful. The saints grant he be not led astray
to overmuch almsgiving. I'd rather see him squander a bit on his own
sports. 'Twould be more akin to his age."
*CHAPTER V.*
*OF THE COMING TO THE ISLE OF WIGHT.*
The next morning found Ralph Lisle refreshed and eager for the day's
work. His head felt quite well, and had it not been for a piece of
plaster which the infirmarer of Hide, who came to dress his wound early
in the morning, placed over the cut, he would hardly have remembered the
occurrence.
Neither the Abbot of Quarr nor Lord Woodville had forgotten him. The
former sent some money for his expenses at the worthy citizen's house,
and the latter sent him a tabard of white taffeta, embroidered with the
badge of the captain of the Island, in all respects like the other
pages, with a supply of food from his own table; and the servant who
brought these was directed to say that they would start at eight
o'clock, and that he was to arrange all matters with his host.
Punctually at half-past seven Humphrey brought round Ralph's horse, well
brushed and groomed, and Ralph, looking more handsome than ever in his
new surcoat, with his sword buckled to his belt, and his silver-hilted
poignard, stood in all the pride of conscious importance at the
doorstep, the admired of all the little street-boys and burgesses who
were up and about at that hour; while he was conscious of many a girlish
face looking out from the casements of the houses opposite and above
him, glancing down smiles of approval, for all the city knew what he had
done, and who he was, the Lisles of Thruxton and Mansbridge being
well-known throughout the county.
His worthy host and hostess were loud in their regrets at his departure,
and at first refused all offer of remuneration, but Ralph pressed it on
them with so much gratitude and delicacy, that their scruples yielded,
and they accepted it with evident reluctance, and only on condition that
when he was a belted knight he would come back and see them. This was
touching Ralph in his weakest point. He promised with a conscious smile,
and mounted his horse amid the loudly-expressed admiration of the little
crowd.
As he rode down the street, Humphrey caught sight of a well-known face.
"Why, there's old Dickon of Andover! Dickon, I say," he called out, "an
you be a-going home to-night, go up to Thruxton and say how you seen the
young master all well, and say as how he sends greetings to my lord and
her leddyship. Ye mind now?"
"Oh, ay, I'se mind," cried back old Dickon, stopping to gaze upon Ralph.
"Well now he do look foine, to be sure."
And so they turned into the street where the _cortege_ was in waiting
for the Captain of the Wight to come out.
Ralph felt a little shy as he rode up to the large body of archers and
men-at-arms that blocked up the street, but he soon felt at ease as he
was greeted kindly by Maurice Woodville and Dicky Cheke, who were on the
look out for him.
"Willie Newenhall is still stuffing," said the latter, "and as for
Eustace, he is putting the last touch of paint to his cheeks; he's such
a coxcomb, you'd never guess half he does."
But now all drew up in order. The men-at-arms sat erect, and held their
lances upright; the knights and mounted archers drew their swords; the
yeomen and billmen held their halberds and bills at attention and a
flourish of trumpets announced that the Captain of the Wight was issuing
from the house.
As Lord Woodville came out, followed by his guests, among whom Ralph
recognised his kinsman the Abbot of Quarr, he glanced quickly over the
assembled troop. His keen eye took in everything, but with the dignity
befitting his rank he never mentioned what he saw amiss at the time,
making a note of it in his memory, to call the attention of the proper
officer to it privately, while if he saw anything to praise he always
publicly expressed his approval.
In the present case his eye fell on Ralph, but knowing how trying it
would be for the young boy to be called out before all that assembly, he
merely nodded to him with a kind smile of recognition, and said,--
"Ah, there's my trusty young friend; right glad am I to see him so
blythe this morning. Sir John Trenchard, you will see to his comfort, I
know."
He then mounted his steed, the stirrup being held for him by Willie
Newenhall, as the oldest of his pages.
The captain of the guard gave the order to march, and the leading files
turned down to the right, and directed their way to Southampton.
Ralph did not see much of the old city of Winchester, but he had been
there several times before, and old buildings had little charms for him,
with the animation of life before him. Men, not grey stones, however
skilfully carved, or however cunningly piled up, were his attraction.
The delicious air of the morning played over his face; the delightful
sensation of being part of what men stopped to look at, an object of awe
and admiration, this thrilled him, and he yielded to the temptation, so
natural to exuberant youth, of giving himself airs, and thinking of his
appearance. At first the sense of shyness had kept this feeling of
self-admiration down, but as he rode along, and noticed the glance of
the passers-by, how they stopped to gaze open-mouthed at them, and how
loud were the expressions of approval at the fine appearance of the
cavalcade, he began to feel his own importance, and was fast adopting
the easy self-satisfaction of the other pages.
By the time they had reached Southampton, which they did in rather less
than three hours from leaving Winchester, he felt on perfectly easy
terms with everyone, including Eustace Bowerman even, who, however, did
not seem inclined to be very friendly to him, seeming not to relish the
remark of Maurice Woodville when he said,--
"Certes, Bowerman, Lisle oweth thee many thanks. Had it not been for thy
kind thought, he would never have done so hardily as he hath. He would
have been sitting his nag like any stick, such as you and old Pudding
Face, when the bull ran at our lord--but now he hath gotten himself a
name at the first start; our Captain will never forget."
Bowerman bit his lip. It was quite true.
"Marry, young Maurice, don't you be talking. If Lisle's horse took
fright and bolted when the bull came blundering down that alley, I don't
see why the Captain should make such a fuss about it."
"His horse didn't bolt," said Dicky hotly; "you know right well Lisle
spurred him in the way."
"Nay, Master Dicky malapert, I know no such thing."
"Then you don't know much, as I always said," retorted Dicky.
"Marry, Dicky, I'll have to wallop thee once more, I see. You're
growing saucy again."
"Wallop me i' faith!" sneered Dicky; "I'd like to see you doing it."
"Wait till we get on board the barge then, and you'll soon be
satisfied."
Willie Newenhall never engaged in these wordy contests. He only thought
of his appearance, when he was going to feed again, or of the danger he
was always in from the fair sex, by reason of his own good looks. The
other pages knew well his weak points, and would always chaff him on the
risks he ran from his many fascinations.
"I' faith, Willie, there's a pretty lass looking at thee; and that's her
brother, or sweetheart, with her. How fierce he looks. Ah, if you look
at her that way, he'll be murdering you presently," added Dicky, as
Willie looked round nervously, to see the group his comrade was
referring to, only to meet with a jeering remark from the apprentice who
was standing by the girl, of "Hi, young round knave, pudding chops or
pig's eyes, what do you lack here?" or some equally elegant observation,
which caused Maurice and Dicky to laugh derisively, and the men-at-arms
and archers, who were close behind, to grin broadly.
But Willie was far too stupid to make any retort, he only grunted
angrily, and leered at the people on the other side of the street.
Then they passed through Southampton, under the noble Bargate, with its
figure of Bevis of Hampton, and the giant Ascapart, whose reality all
true townsfolk believed in, and of whose doughty deeds with Guy of
Warwick Ralph had often heard and longed to emulate. The cavalcade rode
down the long street under the old west gate tower, and outside the
splendid old walls, on to the town quay.
Oh, the sight of the gleaming water! Ralph had never seen the sea
before--how it glanced and sparkled in the mid-day sun of June. The dim
haze of the opposite shore, where stretched the New Forest away and away
far into the land and down the coast, with all its memories of ancient
times. The splash of the little waves, rippling before the fresh north
breeze, as they sparkled against the bluff bows of the unwieldy barges
or straighter stems of the swifter galleys. How stately was the curve of
a high-prowed, lofty-pooped merchant ship as she came round to the helm,
while all her sails fluttered in the breeze as her bows ran up in the
wind, and the heavy splash told of the weighty anchor dropping to the
muddy bottom of the Teste.
Then the smells, the sounds, the cries. Ralph had never enjoyed life
before. All the instincts of his race came out in him,--of that ancient
race of the island, whose origin was lost in the dim vista of antiquity,
whose lands belonged to the mysterious sons of Stur long before the
Norman Conquest, and passed by marriage to De Lisle, if indeed De Lisle
was not simply the Norman form of expression for the original lord of
the island, for who could more worthily be called "de insula" or "of the
island" or "De Lisle" than that family which was above all others "of
the island?" since the possessions of the "filius Azor" or "Stur" are
the most important of any, as recorded in Domesday book.
The instincts of his sea-girt ancestors rose in him, and Ralph Lisle
gazed at the dancing water with eager delight.
The scene of confusion that then followed delighted him still more. The
getting the horses on board, the telling off the various parties each to
its own barge, the excitement of pushing out into the stream, or warping
the larger vessels off to their kedge anchors, which were dropped in the
middle of the fairway, all this was delicious, and Ralph felt he was in
a wonderful dream.
"Mind your eye, young Popinjay!" bawled a burly seaman. "Stand clear o'
that warp now," as Ralph took his stand on a large coil of rope near the
bows. "Such a gay bird as you should know better than to stand on a warp
that way. Did yer think 'twas a doormat?"
In a few minutes the barge was hauled out into the stream, the anchor
was right up and down.
"Haul away there," called the captain.
Out flapped the big foresail in the breeze, the jib was run out, the
anchor was up, and hanging at the bows, already the water was chattering
under her stem.
"Now then, my lads, shake out that mainsail. Look alive there!" bawled
the skipper, and the great white sail dropped down from the mainmast and
longyard, where it had been brailed up, and swelled out in the breeze,
louder chattered the wavelets under the bow, and merrily the seamen
sheeted home the ropes.
Ralph had now time to look round him. He was on the same barge as Lord
Woodville and his immediate escort. The horses with the grooms and
men-at-arms were on a large barge that was running alongside of them.
On their right, but a little astern, was another barge containing the
rest of the troop, and among them Ralph was glad to see the beggar man
and his daughter.
The baggage and vanguard had gone on early in the morning, under the
charge of Tom o' Kingston.
Ralph looked up at the swelling sails and the tall masts. The barge was
bluff-bowed and high-sterned, like those remnants of the Middle Ages the
Breton and Norman _chasses marees_ of modern times, and like them she
carried three large lug sails, and one jib, set far out on a high peaked
bowsprit.
As this was the barge of the captain of the Island, she was far better
appointed than the other vessels. Her sails were white, and adorned with
the arms of the Lord Woodville, argent, a fess, and canton, gules, while
the mainsail bore the arms of Newport, the capital of the Island. The
ropes were all white and new, and the decks and bulwarks were
scrupulously clean, and the latter fresh varnished.
Ralph was never tired of looking aloft at the large blocks or pulleys,
the strong ropes, the stout masts, and the swelling sails lazily falling
in graceful folds as the breeze died down, or bellying out to the
fresher puffs of the fair weather wind.
He leaned over the side and watched the ripple of the water as the hull
glided through it. How dark green the sea looked on the side where the
shadow of the hull and sails fell, how mellow and blue it sparkled on
the side where the sunlight shone upon it. He looked at the other
barges; they were rippling through the sea, a little fount of water
spouting up under the cutwater, and glancing off the bows in a lovely
curve of spray, the one vessel all shadow, the other all bright and
gleaming in the sun.
The tide was running out strongly. Swiftly they flew past Netley, its
abbey towers rising out of the green woods, the toll of its bell
sounding over the water the hour of nones; gaily they flew past the
mouth of the Hamble, and in a short time were gliding out by Calshott
Spit, running before the breeze into the stronger ripple of the main
tide of the Solent.
But long ere this Ralph had been summoned to dinner, and for the first
time he was called upon to wait upon his lord. It was his duty to serve
him with wine, and deftly he performed his task, for he had been well
taught at home. The motion of the vessel was scarcely perceptible, and
his hand was very steady. After the Captain of the Wight and his guests
had been served, the pages sat down apart to their repast, and Ralph was
astonished at his own appetite.
"I tell you what it is, little eyes," cried Dicky, "you'll have to look
after yourself, or Lisle will leave you nothing to eat."
To this Willie Newenhall made no answer, but glanced askance at Ralph,
and eat away harder than ever.
"There, there, Willie, dear, don't be afraid; he'll leave you a bit, if
you are a good lad, I don't doubt," laughed Maurice.
It had been Bowerman's duty to attend closely upon his lord, and he had
found no opportunity to put his threat in execution. However, now the
repast was over, he began to remember what had passed.
"Dicky," he said, "come hither."
"Not I," said that lively young gentleman. "You can come here, if you
want me."
"Be quiet, varlets!" called out Sir John Trenchard, who was sitting on a
settle on the deck not far off. "If you want to jangle, wait till you
get ashore."
They were now splashing through the tide, which ran swiftly over the
Brambles, the steersman keeping the vessel's head well up to it, so as
not to be carried down past the Newport river.
Larger and larger loomed up the island. Away to their left lay
Portsmouth and the ridge of Portsdown; to their right they could see far
down the Solent, point after point standing up in ever-decreasing
clearness, until the distant Node Hill, above Freshwater, where the land
trended away to the south-west, loomed up faint and grey in the
shimmering haze of the lovely afternoon.
Nearer and nearer they drew to the island, and as they approached the
land Ralph saw that a fine stretch of water opened up ahead.
"The tide's making out amain yet," said the skipper, approaching Lord
Woodville, with cap in hand. "What will be your lordship's pleasure?
Shall we run in and anchor, and land your lordship, or will it please
you that we try to stem the tide? Natheless it will be but a poor job we
shall make of it till the tide turns; and then we sha'n't have water far
up for some while."
"Run us ashore at Northwood,[*] we will ride up to Carisbrooke. Our
baggage can come up afterwards, in the evening, when the tide makes
enough to float you up to Newport Quay."
[*] Cowes as yet (1487) was not. The building of the castles by Henry
VIII., sixty years afterwards, was the beginning of Cowes.
"Ay, ay, my lord."
Ralph watched the movements of the crew with curiosity. As they ran in
before the wind, which was very fitful, he saw them brail up the
mainsail, then as they ran up past the land, which was all covered with
woods and bush, they took in the foresail, and gently, under the light
pressure of the jib, the barge slithered on the mud, close to a shingle
hard, where it was possible to disembark at low tide.
And now again all was confusion. The other barges ran in alongside the
Captain's. The gangways were lowered down. The horses with great
difficulty were partly lowered, partly driven out on to the shingle.
The grooms and men-at-arms got out, and led the horses up to form their
ranks on the grass sward at the foot of the woods, which then stretched
in unbroken verdure from Northwood Church to Gurnard Bay and Thorness,
forming part of the King's Forest of Alvington, Watchingwell, or
Parkhurst.
The Lord Woodville, when all was ready, disembarked with his guests,
and, attended by his pages, he mounted his horse on the green grass
above, great state being observed, and great care taken, by laying down
mats and cloths, that he should not soil his feet on the muddy shingle.
As soon as he was mounted, the order to advance was given, and the
cavalcade set off for Carisbrooke, through the green woods by the side
of the blue Medina, glancing through the stems of the trees by the
roadside. More than ever Ralph felt grateful to the Abbot of Quarr for
having presented him to so puissant a chief, and one under whom he
should learn such courtesy and gentleness. He felt sorry to leave the
sea and the ships, but rejoiced that their journey lay along the water
side.
Humphrey had disembarked with him, and Ralph, looking back, saw that the
beggar man and his daughter were still on the other barge.
"We shall have to look sharp after our pony, Master Ralph," grumbled
Humphrey.
As they rose over the hill by Northwood Church, where the churchyard was
being prepared for the approaching consecration, for up to this year the
few inhabitants had to go all the way to Carisbrooke to bury their dead,
Ralph looked back, and thought he had never seen anything so pretty.
Below, lay the Newport creek, clothed in thick woods on each side;
beyond, stretched the blue Solent, the yellow line of the Hampshire
coast and the grey distance blending with the mellow haze of the sky.
The three barges, with their masts sloping at different angles, their
great yards swinging athwart each other, and the sails only partially
furled, giving animation and picturesqueness to the foreground, while
above all spread the blue vault of heaven, cloudless and serene.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*HOW THEY CAME TO CARISBROOKE CASTLE.*
The cavalcade as it drew near Newport was formed into more precise
array. It behoved the Captain of the Wight to enter the capital of his
little kingdom in becoming state.
The vanguard, under Tom o' Kingston, had been sent on earlier in the
day, the bailiffs and burgesses of Newport had therefore received ample
notice to prepare for the reception of their Lord and Captain.
The military force of the island at this time was much improved. After
the conclusion of the civil war, Edward IV. appointed Anthony Woodville,
Lord Scales, the most accomplished knight as well as finished gentlemen
of his time, to be lord and Captain of the Wight, in succession to his
father, Richard, Lord Woodville, Earl Rivers. Under the martial rule of
this skilled warrior, the defences of Carisbrooke Castle and the
military force of the island seem to have been put on a sound footing,
and the military tenures of the landlords who held their lands of the
"honour of Carisbrooke Castle" were carefully inquired into, and their
services duly enforced. The large powers possessed by the Warden of the
Island, in the reign of Edward III., as evidenced in the commission
granted to John de Gattesdon, show that a vigorous Captain had ample
means at his disposal for mustering a formidable force, and that only
the supineness, or corruption, or absenteeism of the lord of the island
or his deputies could have allowed the inhabitants to have fallen into
such a state of despair as two petitions, presented to the King and
Parliament in 1449, show that they had yielded to. In short, if the
Captain of the Wight was a keen soldier and able man, the forces of the
island were smart and serviceable, and if he were not, they fell into
indiscipline and inefficiency.
Sir Edward Woodville, now Captain of the Island, was in all respects a
"righte hardie, puissant, and valyant knighte," and took pains that all
under his command should be well-appointed and well-disciplined, and as
his appointment vested in his person the supreme civil as well as
military command, his influence and authority were wide reaching--in
other words, he was a "strong" Captain.
The chief officials in Newport were the bailiffs, for there was no mayor
or court of aldermen for more than a hundred and seventeen years after
this date, and they acted as deputies for the Captain of the Wight in
all matters relating to the business of the borough of Newport. These
officials now came out, arrayed in all the dignity of their office,
accompanied by the chief burgesses of the town, and attended by Tom o'
Kingston and the body of archers and men-at-arms he commanded. The
populace, naturally eager to see all pageants, crowded out of their
houses, and by the time the procession, issuing from the town over the
bridge to the north, had reached the Priory of St Cross, it had attained
to very considerable proportions. Several of the neighbouring gentry
had ridden in and joined the concourse, with their servants and
dependants. Chief among these was conspicuous a martial figure, attended
by a very lovely girl, and followed by four stalwart yeoman, well
mounted and appointed. When the _cortege_ had reached the gate of the
Priory of St Cross it halted, and in the meadows at the foot of Hunny
Hill the concourse found room to see the reception of their Lord and
Captain.
Soon after the arrival of the bailiffs and their attendants, the gleam
of spear points, bills, and halberds showed over the brow of the steep
hill that descended abruptly to the little town. Soon afterwards the
Lord Woodville himself appeared, attended by his household and guests,
and followed by the main body of his mounted archers and men-at-arms.
As Ralph looked down into the valley below he was struck by the gay
prospect. The bright tabards and glancing weapons of the men-at-arms
gave colour and life to the picture, mingling as they did with the
soberer dresses of the townsfolk, with their wives and daughters. The
high pointed head-dresses of some of the dames, and the horned caps of
others, whence transparent draperies hung in the wind, much to the
annoyance of their male relatives, who had either to take care not to
become entangled in them, or else to run the risk of sharp reprimand or
scornful look, added a quaint variety to the scene. The banner of
Newport flaunted its blazon in the breeze, side by side with the arms of
Woodville and the royal arms. Beyond were the red tiles of the old
houses, the streets, neat and orderly, the tower of the Church of St
Thomas, rising above the houses, and, behind all, the steep down of St
George's to the left, and the range of downs stretching away to the
right, with the vale of the Medina between, from which the mist of
approaching evening was already beginning to rise, while from out the
valley to the right the noble pile of Carisbrooke Castle rose clear and
grand in all its feudal beauty, lately restored, and rendered wellnigh
impregnable to the forces of mediaeval warfare. How splendid it looked,
its walls and battlements, turrets and bastions, lighted up by the
westering sun, the dark shadow of the smooth slope of Buccomb down
forming a background to the ruddy pile, and the donjon keep standing up
grim and distinct amid the lesser towers and roofs, flinging defiance to
the assaults of men and time alike in the flag on its summit.
Such was the scene Ralph looked upon, but as they descended the steep
hill his eyes became fixed on the throng of people awaiting them, and
once more he felt a sense of shyness come over him. He was not yet used
to being looked at. His fellow-pages, however, were quite unconcerned,
and were passing remarks freely among themselves under their breath, as
they recognised faces in the crowd.
"Marry! there's old Billy Gander. How red his nose is! Why didn't he
get some of thy powder thou art so fond of, Bowerman?"
"And look! there's Dicky Shide. By St Anthony! but he's got a worse
squint than of old. Poor old Squint Eye!"
"Willie, my swain, there's Polly Bremeskete. I wouldn't let her see
thee, that I wouldn't. She told Tom o' Kingston she meant to marry
thee, come next Peter's day. And she always keeps her word."
"By'r lady, there's Yolande de Lisle; she looks more lovely than ever!"
And Eustace Bowerman drew himself up, and sat his horse with greater
importance than before, while even Richard Cheke and Maurice Woodville
looked conscious, and glanced at their dress, squared their toes, and
sat more erect on their steeds, holding their horses tighter with their
knees, and making them step in lighter action.
Ralph glanced to where Bowerman had descried the object of all this
homage, curious to see who it was that bore his name. He had heard that
a great-uncle of his had returned to the island home of his ancestors in
King Harry the Fourth's reign, but he had forgotten all about it, and
had never given such remote genealogical questions a thought. However,
now he heard the name mentioned, he recollected what he had been told,
and what his father had said about the disinherited son, and the only
daughter.
He had not to search long for the young lady who created so much
admiration among the pages.
Sitting her palfrey with easy grace, and perfectly at home amid the
noisy crowd and free manners of the rough troopers, was a girl or rather
young woman of about eighteen or twenty, of very graceful, although
somewhat robust, proportions, but remarkable for her brilliant
complexion, lovely features, and sparkling blue eyes. Fun and health
glowed in every line of her face, in her masses of wavy fair hair, which
refused to be confined under the prim cap and horned head-dress in which
the fashion of the time struggled hard to reduce them to order, in her
soft cheeks, red lips, and graceful rounded figure. Ralph thought there
never was anyone so lovely in the whole world. He forget everything. He
gazed at her in rapt admiration, utterly oblivious of all that was going
on.
"By my halidome, Master Page, whither goest thou?" said the grating
voice of Sir John Trenchard, against whom Ralph bumped with a sudden
jerk, as the troop stopped for Lord Woodville to receive the homage of
his subjects. "Canst not see where thou goest, or keep a fitting
distance from thy betters? Draw back to thy fellows, I say."
Thus roughly aroused, Ralph, much abashed, reined up his horse, and
backed it to a line with the other pages, who were grinning from ear to
ear at his luckless mistake; but what made him more uncomfortable still,
was that he saw the fair object of his admiration had witnessed it all,
and was smiling meaningly at Eustace Bowerman. He began to envy that
page in a way he would not have thought possible before.
But Bowerman was all smiles and amiability now. He nodded familiarly to
one person, haughtily to another, and most expressively to the lady on
horseback. But she, after the first glance of recognition and
amusement, looked no more his way, being occupied with gazing at the
Captain of the Wight and the two French knights who were with him.
Ralph, as soon as he had recovered from his mortification, tried to keep
his eyes away from Mistress Lisle, and watched what was going on.
After the bailiffs had done homage, and congratulated Lord Woodville on
the success of his expedition, the burgesses came forward and performed
their part of the ceremony, being greeted kindly by the Captain, who was
evidently very popular. Ralph noticed that the old knight who sat his
horse so firmly, and held up his head so proudly, was greeted with
especial respect by Lord Woodville, who also exchanged very courteous
salutations with the lovely lady of the golden hair, to whom he
presented the two French knights, who, with their proverbial gallantry,
seemed to be paying her compliments which, as they could not be too
flattering, seemed not unwillingly received.
The ceremonies over, the cavalcade reformed. The bailiffs and the
burgesses heading the procession, they then defiled over the bridge, and
passed into the town.
Ralph had now recovered himself sufficiently to ask who that old knight
was who looked so striking, and to whom Lord Woodville had paid so much
attention.
"Ay, certes, you may well ask," said Maurice Woodville, "for he is, or
ought to be, a kinsman of thine own, seeing he beareth the same name as
thyself, and, for aught I know, the same coat armour."
"Nay, for the fair lady weareth on her mantle a coat argent with a chief
gules charged with three lions rampant of the field, whereas my father
beareth or a fess between two chevrons sable."
"Well, you must e'en settle that as best pleaseth you; all I know is
that he is called Sir William de Lisle of the Wood, or, as our chaplain
would have it, '_Dominus de Insula de Bosco_,' which, to my thinking,
isn't half as pretty as the English."
"And is that his daughter?" asked Ralph shyly, thinking of his father's
words with keener interest.
"Ay, marry is she, and the loveliest demoiselle in all the Wight, and
the world to boot, say I!" answered Maurice, with enthusiasm.
At the corner of St James Street, where it intersected the High Street,
there was a halt. Here the Abbot of Quarr took leave of Lord Woodville,
for his road lay down High Street, and so to his monastery. Sir William
Lisle and his daughter, much to her regret, also took leave; but Lord
Woodville, before parting with the Abbot and the old knight, called to
Ralph to come up; who, with some embarrassment, rode forward, and was by
Lord Woodville presented to Sir William Lisle and the fair Yolande.
"Sir William, I have a kinsman of yours I would fain make you acquainted
with. This fair youth hath already begun right manfully, and I dare
vouch will prove a full knightly twig of thy own worshipful stock."
Sir William de Lisle looked at Ralph, as he thought somewhat sternly,
but his words were kind.
"Fair young sir, I am right pleased to hear thee so well reported of.
'Twill give our daughter and me joy to see thee at our poor home of
Briddlesford, whenever thy noble Captain can spare thee. Thou wilt find
good sport for thy hawk in the woods and creek of Wodyton, and along the
banks of King's Quay; only beware how thou fliest him over the lands of
the Abbot of Quarr, for he is a strict preserver of his own demesne."
As Sir William said this, he glanced at the Lord Abbot, and a merry
twinkle was in his eye, for many had been the discussions over the
rights of the respective demesnes, for the lands of the Lisles bordered
on those of Quarr Abbey, and hot had been the complaints of Sir William
that idle monks had been caught setting traps in his lands, which had
led to counter charges on the part of the monks.
"And forget not, fair cousin, if thou shouldest be tempted our way, to
bring over some of thy fellow pages with thee; for without them thou
wilt be parlous dull, seeing there is naught at home to amuse thee
saving my poor self; and one poor girl is but sorry sport for a merry
page," said Yolande, with a demure smile, as she turned her palfrey to
accompany her father.
Ralph longed to say something that would become him, but he felt very
shy amid all that concourse of people, with his comrades watching, and
the French knights and Lord Woodville all looking at him; he could only
stammer out his thanks, and bow low over his saddle.
"Fare-thee-well, kinsman mine," said the Abbot; "give diligent heed to
thy instructors, reverence those in authority over thee, and attend
carefully to the ministrations of worthy Sir Simon Halberd, who will
give me frequent account of thee when he cometh to Quarr."
"Grammercy, my Lord Abbot, I owe thee many thanks for thy great kindness
in giving me to so noble a lord," said Ralph, who, now that the bright
eyes of his fair kinswoman were not gazing at him with the amused look
which so disconcerted him, felt his presence of mind returning, and was
able to answer with his customary boldness.
And so the cavalcades parted, Mistress Yolande giving a farewell glance
of Parthian destructiveness at the French knights, but deigning no more
to notice such simple things as innocent pages.
"By St Nicholas, Bowerman, you are always to be luckless now!" laughed
Maurice. "But yestere'en you helped Lisle to the best bit of good
fortune he's likely to have for some time; and now he's called up before
all of us to be presented to our fair princess of the golden hair.
Didst see how kindly she smiled on him?" he added mischievously.
"Body o' me! an' you hold not your jabbering tongue, I'll flay you when
we get to the castle!" said Bowerman savagely.
"Nay, fair youth, be not wroth; 'tis not I who got Lisle all this good
luck. Virtue is its own reward. Be happy! sweet damoiseau, and rejoice
in thy good nature. 'Tis true, 'tis not often you do a fellow a good
turn; so be happy when you do."
"All right, my young cockerel, tarry but the nonce. My time will come
anon," said Eustace, in furious dudgeon.
Ralph had fallen back as the procession moved on. All the pages were
well known in Newport, and the doings of the little court at the castle
were intimately discussed. The characters of each of the principal
members of the garrison were well known, and any new arrival was
critically examined and freely talked about.
[Illustration: THE CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT ENTERING CARISBROOKE CASTLE.]
The worthy burgesses' wives and their fair daughters much regretted that
the Captain of the Island was not married. The lady of Sir John
Trenchard presided over the domestic part of the castle, and did the
honours when ladies paid it a visit. But she was not of an amiable
disposition, and it was popularly reported that her worthy lord's little
asperities of temper, and sourness of look, arose in great measure from
the austere frigidity of this eminently respectable matron, who,
however, as Ralph subsequently found, was at heart a very kind and sweet
lady. The reasons for Lord Woodville being still a bachelor were
variously stated, and all hotly asserted by their different supporters,
who one and all had their information on undoubted private authority,
which they were not at liberty to divulge. The only fact that really was
known, however, was the simple one that there was no Lady Woodville. The
head of the column was now mounting the steep ascent to the castle, and
Ralph noticed the splendid position of this noble fortress. The sun was
getting low on the western horizon; the level rays bathed all the long
valley away to the west in a rich golden haze, falling full on the
grandly-proportioned towers of the main guard. The massive walls,
pierced for archery, and crowned with their projecting machicolations
and graceful parapets, were not yet clothed with the growth of yellow
and grey lichen which has been slowly painting them for the last four
hundred years. The stone was yet fresh from the hand of the mason, and
above the great gate, high up on the parapet, could be seen the arms of
Lord Scales.
"My grandfather had that done!" said Maurice proudly, pointing up to the
noble gateway as they tramped over the drawbridge, and passed out of the
warmth of the sunlight under the heavy portcullis, and between the
massive iron-studded oak doors, which were swung back to allow the
Captain of the Wight and his "meynie" to enter, and then slowly and
harshly swung back as the last man-at-arms clanked over the drawbridge,
shutting out the sunlight and the outside world.
The guard under the archway presented arms, the trumpets sounded a
flourish, and out into the sunlight, whose rays just passed between the
towers, and touched his plume, rode the lord of the castle, and of all
those stalwart men.
*CHAPTER VII.*
*HOW THE COCKEREL SHOWED FIGHT.*
The days passed rapidly by after Ralph Lisle had become part of the
retinue of the Captain of the Wight. Each day brought its busy round of
occupation. There was the early practice, before the morning meal, at
throwing the bar, running at the quintain, and leaping over the wooden
horse. Every exercise was directed to bringing fully into play all the
muscles of the body, and especially such as were most needed in the
handling of the lance, and the management of the war horse. After the
morning meal, at which the pages had their table apart in the hall of
the Lord Woodville's apartments, which at that period were very much in
the same position as the Governor's lodgings were at a later time, when
added to and repaired by Sir George Carey, those pages who were not on
duty went through a course of "grammar and rhetoric," under the
instruction of Sir Simon Halbard, the chaplain of St Nicholas within the
walls. The whole garrison, or at least such part of it as could be
spared from their duties, always attended mass every morning, for the
Lord Woodville was a strict disciplinarian, and enforced the precept of
the Church with the rigid punctuality of a Grand-Master of the Temple.
The "book-learning," as the pages called it, occupied about three hours,
and then preparations were made for the mid-day meal, the most important
of all the meals of the day. This repast was served in much state, all
the pages being required to attend to carve and hand the dishes, and
pour out the wine for the Captain of the Wight and his guests, or the
knights of his household. After those of highest rank were served, the
pages sat down to their repast, presided over by the senior esquire.
The afternoons were spent either in attendance on their lord, or in
private amusements and exercises of their own. No one of the pages was
allowed out of the precincts of the castle without Sir John Trenchard's
leave, but this was usually very easily obtained.
So passed the days in healthy exercise and wholesome occupation. There
had been many little bickerings, and even personal struggles between the
pages, but, boy-like, they had been brief, and, on the whole, the life
was very pleasant. Ralph had ridden over with Maurice Woodville to pay
his relatives a visit at Briddlesford. They had met his fair cousin,
who was riding out to fly her hawk; and as they accompanied her to a
high hill, whence a lovely view was obtained all over the Solent and far
inland from the New Forest and Beaulieu on the left to Chichester and
even the hills above Arundel on the right, they were surprised to meet
one of the Breton, or French Knights, as they called them, riding out
there, quite unattended.
There had been much talk about the business of these Bretons with the
Captain of the Island. Merchant ships, bringing salt and other
commodities to Newport from Nantes and St Malo, had reported how
unsettled was the state of Brittany, how the Duke of Orleans and the
Prince of Orange, both nephews of the old Duke of Brittany, had fled to
him, to his castle of Malestroit, and how the armies of the King of
France, who was himself but a boy, but whose affairs were wonderfully
managed by that very wise and puissant lady the Dame de Beaujeu, his
sister, had entered the country, and how all would go to utter ruin,
unless King Henry sent force of knights and men-at-arms to assist the
Duke of Brittany and his fair young daughter the Duchess Anne. Such
news was bruited abroad, and there was no young knight in England who
did not burn with ardour to lay lance in rest for so great a princess,
and against the hereditary foe of England. All men knew, therefore,
that the Sire de Kervignac and the Vicomte de la Roche Guemene were come
to solicit men-at-arms and archers, and there was not one of the
garrison of Carisbroke Castle who did not heartily wish they might
succeed, and perhaps no one wished it more than Master Eustace Bowerman.
After the customary courtesies had been exchanged, Mistress Yolande
urged the two pages to fly their hawks at a heron, which was busily
feeding on the rich weeds far out on the mud at the mouth of a creek
called King's Quay. The boys, nothing loth, cast off their birds, and
rode eagerly after them. But whether it were that the wood was too
thick, or the country too rough, the lady did not follow them, while the
knight stayed, as in duty bound, to escort her, and so the boys lost
sight of them for the rest of the afternoon. And not only did they
suffer this disappointment, but, what was almost worse, Ralph's falcon
killed the bird, but fell with it so far out on the mud that it was
impossible to get at it, although the boys did everything they could to
urge their dogs to go on to the treacherous slime, and bring the quarry
to land. The tide was quite low, and they had to give up all hopes of
obtaining more sport. It was with much difficulty, and after long
waiting, that they were able to get the falcon to fly back to fist, for
it was taught not to leave its prey until some one came to take it.
When at last they did recover the bird, the afternoon was too far
advanced for them to return by Briddlesford to inquire after Mistress
Yolande, and bid good-bye to Sir William de Lisle, which Ralph would
dearly have liked to do; and he was, besides, in such a state of mud
from having tried to recover the bird, that they thought it best to
return to Carisbroke without being seen by any one. Riding home as fast
as they could, they made a _detour_, to avoid passing through Newport,
and reached the castle just before the gates were shut for the evening.
When they got back, and related the events of the afternoon, they found
Eustace Bowerman, who was already sulky enough at not having been asked
by Ralph to accompany him instead of Maurice Woodville, in a towering
temper.
"You blind moles," he growled, "why did ye not cleave to Mistress Lisle
and that jackanapes of a Frenchman? What geese ye must have been, to
have been shaken off like that. But I'll talk to that jackanapes anon,
that I will. What does he mean by coming over here and sporting in our
covers?" and Eustace Bowerman flung himself out of his chair, and went
to the oriel window, which looked out into the courtyard of the castle.
"I' faith, Eustace, my Trojan, don't you call me a goose again," said
Ralph good-humouredly, but with a determination in his tone.
"And prythee why not?" said Eustace, who was glad of anything to vent
his ill-humour upon. "None but a goose would show the white feather as
you did, riding away from that dandified Frenchman."
"I never showed the white feather yet," said Maurice hotly, "and if you
say that I did, you lie in your throat."
Eustace was not in a humour to take things quietly. In a passion at
these words of Maurice, he rushed across the room, and would have flung
himself upon him, had not Ralph put out his foot, and tripped him up.
He fell heavily to the ground, greeted by a roar of laughter from Dicky
Cheke, who scented the battle from afar, and chuckled at the approaching
crisis.
"Oh, cocks and pies, my swaggering imp, look you there! You've split
your new trunk hose all down the leg. Fie, man, you're not fit to be
seen; run away and get old Gammer Tibet to sew it up for you."
But Eustace rose in a more towering rage than ever. He turned upon
Ralph, and struck at him with all his force. But Ralph had not been
learning martial exercises for nothing, and although he was four years
junior to Eustace Bowerman, yet in height and activity he was in no way
his inferior, although his frame was not as well set, or his weight and
strength as great as that of his assailant. With ease, therefore, he
knocked down the blow that Eustace aimed at him, but refrained from
replying by a blow in return.
"Bowerman, I don't want to fight," said Ralph quietly; "why get into a
rage about nothing?"
"So you don't want to fight, eh? I thought not," sneered Eustace, who
was in a very evil mood. "Then I want to thrash you, so you'd best take
it quietly."
Ralph, seeing that there really was nothing else for it, although he was
of a very peace-loving, happy disposition, stepped back, and awaited his
antagonist's assault.
Bowerman, who saw how reluctant Ralph was to fight, mistook this
backwardness for cowardice, utterly forgetting, or else wilfully
misinterpreting, the brave action of the boy at Winchester.
He advanced upon him with a fierce scowl of concentrated hate, and aimed
a blow right at Ralph's face; but the boy guarded it with his right arm,
and at the same time with his left dealt his assailant a swift and
well-planted blow full in his chest, causing him to stagger back and
gasp for breath.
"Well done, Lisle!" cried Dicky Cheke, in an ecstasy of joy and
excitement. "Do it again, my lusty lambkin; follow it up with one on
his nose that'll spoil his beauty for some time."
"Why don't you give it those little bodikins?" stormed Eustace to his
ally Willie Newenhall, as he prepared to attack Ralph again.
"Because he's afraid, the big booby," laughed Dicky derisively.
Bowerman, seeing that his antagonist was not to be despised, determined
to close with him and overpower him by his superior weight. Stepping
back therefore, to gather way for a rush, he was about to spring upon
Ralph, when that boy, with the instinct of a general, anticipated him,
darting forward to meet him, and pounding him with blows.
The delight of Dicky was a treat to behold. He danced, jumped, sang,
whistled, and at last, forgetting everything in the wild madness of the
moment, he flung himself upon Willie, and belaboured him right manfully.
That stolid youth was looking on with a lack-lustre expression on his
fat face, and marvelling to see how Ralph dared to stand up to Bowerman,
whom he had always looked upon as invincible. He was roughly aroused
from his stupid contemplation of the contest, by Dicky Cheke's
unprovoked assault. When once aroused, however, his greater age and
weight told heavily in his favour, and poor Dicky would have paid dearly
for his temerity, by being crushed under the dead weight of "Pig's
Eyes," as he called him, had not Maurice Woodville assailed him with
vigour in the rear.
The uproar now waxed furious. Ralph, who had gained a decided advantage
by becoming the assailant, was pounding his adversary with hearty
alacrity, not without receiving, however, very severe blows in return.
The two smaller boys had got Willie down, and were pummelling him with
right good will, while he roared lustily to Bowerman to come and take
"these little fiends off him."
In the midst of the confusion the door opened, and the Captain of the
Wight appeared, attended by the other Breton knight, the Sire Alain de
Kervignac.
So busy were the combatants, that none of them noticed the interruption,
and for a second or two fierce blows were exchanged before any one was
aware that there were spectators.
Dicky Cheke was the first to catch sight of the calm face of his lord,
over which an amused expression flitted.
"Holy saints!" he gasped, suddenly stopping in the act of planting a
well-directed blow in the prostrate Willie's eye, who was at the same
moment pounding Maurice in the chest, "here's the Captain," and he
sprang up, breathless and confused, hastily adjusting his disordered
dress as best he could.
The others were equally startled, and for a second or two there was a
very awkward pause.
"Well, young gentlemen, I see you have taken the lessons of the
tilt-yard to heart; but I should wish you to remember that it better
becomes you to tilt at the quintain, or even at each other, with lances,
than grovel on the ground, and spoil your clothes in this unseemly
brawl."
The youths all looked very much abashed, but Lord Woodville would not
see that it was a real fight that was going on; he treated it as a mere
trial of strength, and continued:--
"I have brought this noble Breton knight to see you, for he purposes,
together with his right valiant companion in arms, the sire de la Roche
Guemene, to hold a joust against all comers, and he fain would see if I
cannot spare the stoutest of my pages to make a trial of arms before the
ladies of our island. How like you this, my varlets?"
There was no need to ask. The flushed faces and bright eyes showed how
welcome such news was; only the three younger boys looked a little
crestfallen, for they knew they were too young to be allowed to tilt in
the lists, even supposing the two others were so highly favoured.
"I see by your looks you like the news well. Master Bowerman and Master
Newenhall, I hear from Sir John Trenchard that you are now of an age
when you may make public trial of arms, I therefore appoint you my
esquires, and give you permission to joust with spears on the first six
courses, but not to take part in the tourney with swords." Then seeing
the looks of disappointment in the faces of Ralph Lisle, and his two
comrades, he added,--"And you, fair pages, must rest you content for
another year, when you be grown older. And now, my masters, set your
dress in order--contend no more; and do thou, Ralph Lisle, come hither
with me." So saying, Lord Woodville left the room, followed by the
Breton knight, and speedily joined by Ralph, who stayed a second to put
his dress tidy.
"My page," said Lord Woodville to Ralph, as soon as he had come up with
them, "take this missive to the hermit who dwells on St Catherine's
hill. Thou knowest the way--'tis where thou wentest hunting with me last
week. Take the best horse out of my stable, and ride like the wind;
wait for an answer, and bring me back word right quickly. I have chosen
thee for thy good riding, and fealty to me. Talk to no man, but do my
bidding straightway."
Ralph was delighted at this mark of confidence. He took the note, and
turned away to go to the stables. As he was going out of the door of
the hall, he heard Lord Woodville say,--
"I marvel where sire Amand de la Roche Guemene hath gotten to? I have
not seen him all day."
Ralph paused.
"My lord, I saw him this afternoon. He met us with Mistress Lisle, and
we left them together when we flew our hawks."
"Marry you did!" said the Captain of the Wight, glancing at his
companion; and adding, in a voice not intended for Ralph's ear,--"Fair
knight, we shall have to take care that thy gentle companion doth not
spoil our island of its comeliest damoiselle."
As Ralph rode across the courtyard, he met Humphrey, who was astonished
to see his young master riding forth so late, for the sun was just
setting, and the gates were shut for the night; but Ralph with great
pride told him, he was riding forth in all haste on the business of the
Captain, and the worthy varlet shared in his young master's importance.
At the sight of the pass given to Ralph by Sir John Trenchard, the
captain of the guard ordered the gates to open, and the heavy rattle of
the chains showed that the drawbridge was being let down, and in another
moment Ralph rode out into the glorious light of the after-glow which
illumined all the sky to the west.
With a light heart he heard the heavy drawbridge creak up again, and,
rejoicing in his freedom, he put spurs to his horse and rode fast over
the hill, away towards the distant downs to the south. His horse was
fresh, and, under Ralph's light weight, cantered swiftly along. He knew
the way, or at least thought he did, and took no notice of objects; his
mind was full of the approaching tilt, and his one idea was how he could
obtain leave from Lord Woodville to let him splinter a lance. And so he
cantered on in the ever-increasing gloom, not seeing how dim it was
growing, or how damp a mist from the sea was drifting down the valley.
The few roads that went through the island were bad in the most
frequented parts, but in the cross tracks over the downs to the back of
the island they were little more than muddy quagmires in wet weather,
and ruts hard as rock in fine. Ralph galloped past Gatcombe, belonging
to the Bremshotts, the last male of which family was then very old, and
his lands were about to pass away to other names. Little did Ralph know
that he was passing what once had belonged to his ancestors, and how
that fair manor had come down, through three successive ladies, from the
Fitz Stuar to the Lisles, and thence, in the female line, to the
Bremshotts, whose daughters again would share it with the Dudleys and
the Pakenhams. He breathed his horse up the steep slope that led past
Chillerton Down, and as he descended on the further side, he first felt
how damp was the night air, and noticed how difficult it was to find his
way. Mindful, however, of his lord's injunction to make all the speed he
could, he urged his horse to a reckless pace, and it was not until he
had ridden for another half-hour that he began to be anxious as to his
whereabouts. The air seemed much keener than it had been, and there was
a salt freshness in it, that ought to have told him he must be near the
sea. Could he have mistaken his way? There was no building he could see
anywhere, and the track had entirely ceased. Ralph got off his horse to
examine the ground. He was on rough, coarse grass, with large stones
cropping up here and there. This might be the slope of St Catherine's
down, or it might be anywhere. Ralph mounted his horse again. The mist
was dense, there was no star or light to be seen in any direction, nor
was there any sound of human life. But there was a sound--what was it?
Ralph could hear a dull roar, and seething, swishing sound. He could
not tell what it was. He had never lived by the sea, or he would have
known that it was the swell of the Channel rolling on the shore, and
breaking in surf among the rocks of that dangerous coast. He spurred on
his horse once more. But after a few strides the horse refused to go
further, and backed and reared, as he had never done before. In vain
Ralph struck his spurs into his flanks, and urged him or by word and
rein. The horse only reared and snorted the more, and swung round on
his hind legs, plunging in utterly uncontrolled rebellion.
Ralph could not make it out. Never since the animal had been given to
him had he known him to be so unmanageable. Seeing how useless it was
to press the horse any further, he ceased to try to subdue him to his
will, trusting to get the mastery when he had quieted down.
As the horse stood still, his flanks quivering with excitement, Ralph
noticed a smell of smoke: his senses had become keener since he had lost
his way.
This smell of smoke caused him to feel more hopeful; where there was
smoke there must be a fire, and probably a human habitation. He turned
his head round to ascertain where the smell came from, and, as he
sniffed the air in various directions, he came to the conclusion that it
must be in front of him.
Once more he urged his horse forward, but the animal was as determined
as ever not to go that way.
"What can it be?" thought Ralph, who was beginning to feel a little
superstitious, as the tales of goblins and spirits came back to his
mind, suggested by the unaccountable noise, the mysterious smoke, and,
above all, the remarkable stubbornness of his horse, usually so docile
and manageable.
For the third time he stuck his spurs against his horse's sides,
encouraging him by his voice at the same time, but with the same
result--not one step forward would the animal take.
"Young man, didst thou never hear of Balaam?" said a deep voice,
proceeding, apparently, directly from under the horse's head, and in
another moment a tall black figure rose out of the darkness, so close as
almost to touch Ralph, who could not restrain a shudder of supernatural
dread at the suddenness of the strange appearance.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*HOW THE COCKEREL GOT A FALL.*
"What art thou?" stammered Ralph, as soon as he had recovered from his
surprise. "What dost thou mean by thy talk of Balaam?"
"Look, boy, and thou wilt see," answered the dark figure, which every
second was becoming more clearly defined in the gloom.
Without Ralph having noticed it, the mist had been growing lighter for
the last quarter of an hour. The atmosphere, while still densely thick,
was yet paler and more luminous, and immediate objects were more easily
distinguished.
Hardly had the strange figure spoken the words, than the vapour which
enveloped them parted, and a wonderful sight presented itself to the
eyes of the awe-struck boy.
Was it all a dream? or was he really standing, or floating in mid air?
He could hardly repress a shudder of unutterable awe, so strange was the
sudden change from the blackness of night to the brilliantly weird scene
before him.
He was standing on the very verge of a fearful precipice, so close that
he could peer over from the saddle down, down, far down to a rocky shore
below, where the sea, in seething surf, was beating and grinding and
gnawing at the black rocks scattered in wildest confusion on the strand.
At his side was a vast, yawning black chasm impossible for him to
fathom, shrouded as it was in the deep shadow of the bold headland
beyond. Tophet itself could hardly be blacker or more fearful looking.
The grim gloom of this awful abyss, at the very edge of which he was
standing, made the flesh creep on his bones. One step more, and he
would have plunged he knew not whither. Above this terrible place the
clinging mist still veiled the scene. But Ralph could see that the
hills and cliffs went soaring up till lost in obscurity.
Right from the feet of the dazed boy, but far, far down, a broad path of
dancing light stretched away and away till a grey and silver cloud under
the clear full moon hid it in its soft embrace, as it lay brooding over
the sea.
How lovely was the dancing sea, how glorious the moon, how wondrous the
violet of the deep sky of night. Ralph had never seen anything like it,
and yet how near to awful death had he been.
The ghostly mist curled up over the edge of the cliff, the strange white
shapes went silently floating by like ghosts of the shipwrecked dead, or
a still army of spirits flying inland to visit their midnight homes.
Silently as the strange scene had opened, so stilly and impalpably it
faded away. In another moment all was gone, and the boy and the dark
figure were alone in the thick fog, nothing visible of all that wondrous
scene but themselves and the few feet of turf on which they stood.
Ralph could hardly believe it was reality. Surely it must be all a
dream.
"Now, my young master, believest thou? Dost understand where thou art?"
"Nay, not I; it seemeth to me I dream."
"Ay, marry, that wouldest thou soon, if indeed men do dream in that
sleep which they call death," said the deep voice bitterly.
Ralph could not make out this dark figure. He had not looked at it
during the fitful light which opened up that strange sight only to
disappear in greater obscurity than before. He now tried to examine the
form of him who uttered such enigmatical remarks in so well-cultured a
voice.
He saw a tall figure, strong and well made, with a hood over its head,
such as were worn by the courtiers of ages long gone by, and which Ralph
had seen depicted in tapestry and illuminations of King Edward the
Third's time. A tight-fitting tunic strapped at the waist by a belt,
from which gleamed the hilt of a dagger, and the head of a small axe,
showed he was both active and well-armed. But Ralph could see nothing
of the man's face, or make out whether his clothes were of those of
gentle birth or of the common stuff worn by the country men and
labourers.
"Well, my master, and how long may it please you to stay here, and what
may be your business?"
Ralph did not like the tone of bantering superiority the other assumed;
he answered:--
"Marry, good fellow, what is that to thee? An thou canst tell me where
I am, and whither to go to St Catherine's down, that is all I want of
thee."
"So thou wouldest go to St Catherine's down, wouldest thou? And what
may be your business there?"
"Thou art parlous curious, good knave," said Ralph haughtily. "I pray
you ask me no questions, but tell me what I wish to know."
"Body o' me, this is a fine springald," said the other. "But before I
tell thee what thou wouldest know, thou must tell me what I would know."
"And what is that?"
"What is thy business at this hour from the Captain of the Wight with
the hermit of St Catherine's?"
"That shalt thou never know!" cried Ralph hotly.
"Then thou mayest grope here in the darkness until thy carcase becometh
a prey to the sea-mews, or a feast for the crabs on yonder beach."
"Base churl! thou deservedst chastisement for thine insolence!" cried
Ralph, whose temper was becoming provoked. "But I will e'en do without
thy niggard help." And Ralph got off his horse, and prepared to grope
his way to where the smell of smoke still met his nostrils.
"Nay, Sir Page, thou goest not thus," said the man, stepping in front of
him, and at the same time putting his finger to his mouth he gave a
prolonged whistle like the shrill scream of a sea-bird.
Ralph laid his hand on his sword, seeing there was evidently mischief
intended. But before he could draw it, his wrist was held as in a vice,
and in a second his other arm was grasped, and with a quick trip of the
foot, he found himself prostrate on the grass, the man kneeling on him,
and holding him immovable.
"Struggle not, young master, or thou wilt suffer. Thou art powerless to
do aught, so better lie still."
But Ralph was furious. With the rage of mortified pride--for he had
never been mastered before--he struggled, kicked, and writhed, and even
tried to bite the hands that held him with a grasp of iron. He had
never felt such power in human hands before.
"Marry, 'tis a fierce youth and a strong," muttered the man. "I shall
have to do him a mischief, an they come not soon. Ah! would you?" he
said, as Ralph's hand wriggled to get at his poignard, and in a trice
the arm was wrenched out stiff and straight, and kept pinioned to the
ground. Never had Ralph believed man could be so strong. But, still
unconquered, the boy struggled with his legs, and raised himself off the
ground with his heels. By a violent uplifting of his knees, he hit his
captor a fierce blow in the back, causing him to fall forward on his
face. With a desperate heave the boy pursued his advantage, and in
another moment would have upset his adversary, when he felt his legs
caught and pulled roughly down, once more he was utterly powerless.
"Now, stripling," said his first assailant, still holding his arms
stretched out, but getting off the boy's chest, where he had been
crushing the breath out of his body, "I told you it would be all for
naught your wrestling like that. Will you tell me what you have come
here for?"
"Never," said Ralph resolutely.
"Then, Bill," said his captor, "we shall even have to search him."
Before Ralph knew what was happening, he felt his arms held by another
man, while the first speaker carefully searched his pockets.
"There's naught here," he said, in a disappointed tone, as he turned out
the contents of Ralph's small clothes and tunic, and examined the
miscellaneous collection of utterly useless articles which boys, from
the earliest days down to the present, have set their hearts on forming,
to the detriment of their pockets, the aggravation of their female
relatives, and the marring of their own figure.
"Nay, but there is," said the man who held his legs; "look'ee there,
there's summat whoite i' the grass."
"Marry, so there is!" and the first speaker picked up the missive of the
Captain of the Wight and turned it over.
"You base villains," said Ralph, "an you touch that, you will repent
it!"
A loud laugh greeted this remark; and the first speaker, rising, held
the paper up to see if he could make anything out of it.
"I can't make it out," he said. "I must e'en take it to the light."
"And what are we to do wi' the lad while you be gone? Shall us knife un
and pitch un over to cliff?"
"Body o' me, no! Do him no harm; hold him till I come back."
So saying, the first speaker disappeared from Ralph's line of sight.
The moon had again come out, and as Ralph lay on his back, he could just
manage, by wriggling his head, to look on each side of him. He could
see that the men who held him were rough figures, clad in coarse hairy
clothes, possibly skins of animals. The moonlight fell on their hair
and beards, giving them a wild and ferocious appearance; and long
knives, whose hilts stuck out of their belts, gleamed in the silver
light. Who were they, and what could they mean by attacking him? and,
above all, how could they dare, in so small an island, to defy so
powerful an authority as that of the Captain of the Wight? As he lay on
his back, Ralph caught sight of a light; at first he took it for a star,
but it flickered and flared in so strange a way, that he soon knew it
could not be.
Surely it must be a fire, and, if so, there must be men near. Ralph
felt a hope of aid; he tried to shout aloud, but the first sound he
uttered caused the man who was holding his arms to clap his hand over
his mouth, and effectually to stop all further cries. In vain Ralph
seized his arm with his disengaged hand. The other man, who was tired of
holding his legs, had seated himself upon them; his arms were therefore
free. He leant forward, and grasped Ralph's hand, and roughly made him
let go his grip of his companion.
"Best give it up, young 'un," he said gruffly, as he held the arm in no
gentle hold. "There's naught can hear thee save the Gaffer and the sea
mews."
"Then what's that light?" asked Ralph, as the man relaxed the pressure
on his mouth.
"'Tis the light on St Catherine, and 'tis a good mile or more away."
"Then where am I?"
"Where are you? Why, on the ground, to be sure," laughed the man.
Ralph's anger rose, but it was utterly useless, he could do nothing.
After lying still for another minute or more, one of the men said,--
"The Gaffer is a long while; maybe he can't spell out them words."
"Surely he's larnt his chriss-cross row long ago," said the other
derisively.
"Ay, right enough, mate, but them letters may be t'other sort."
"Well, and if they be, ain't he got Mistress Magdalen to read it for
him?"
"Hold your tongue, you lubber; here he comes."
Ralph could just manage to see the head of his captor rising out of the
mist, and from the distinctness with which he saw his figure develop, he
knew the edge of the cliff must be very near, as indeed he had already
seen.
"Master Page, here's thy missive; there's naught in it that concerneth
me, so thou mayest e'en take it to the Hermit of St Catherine's; but
when thou returnest to the Castle, give this message to thy lord; thou
needest not to say who gave it thee--he will ask no questions."
Ralph now felt his captors relax their hold, in another second he was
free. He rose to his feet, the men had already disappeared. He looked
round; there was nothing to be seen of any living being; only his horse
was browsing tranquilly a few paces off, and two white bits of parchment
lay on the grass.
Picking these up, he went to the edge of the cliff. The sea was
restlessly seething and surging among the rocks, each ripple and wave
rolling like molten silver to the iron-bound coast. Every crevice and
rock stood out sharp and clear in the brilliant moonlight, only marking
in blacker contrast the hideous gloom of the yawning chasm at his side.
He could see no path, yet the men must have gone down that way, or else
he would have seen them had they ventured to clamber down the precipice
in front. He stood up and looked round--the light had disappeared. Had
they told him the truth about that light? Was it the Hermitage of St
Catherine's? But there was none to ask, and he felt as bewildered as
ever, nay, more so, for he had utterly lost his bearings.
And then he thought of his lord's command, and of the urgency of the
matter. What should he do? With the recklessness of despair, he bawled
aloud,--
"You varlets, which way am I to go to get to St Catherine's?" But only
the echo from the blackness beyond answered mockingly "Catherine" in
quivering note, and the waves surged ceaselessly below. He cried
again,--"You caitiffs, you, why don't you answer?" and the echo laughed
back "answer," but none other answer came. "'Tis little use," he
muttered, in sullen bitterness of spirit; "but I will yet find out where
that smoke came from." He looked at his horse, how should he tether
him? He saw beyond, and nearer the head of the chasm, a few bushes
growing. Carefully he led his horse along the edge of the abyss,
marvelling how he had escaped so awful a death, and regretfully thinking
how he had chidden his noble horse, whose sensible instinct had saved
both their lives.
When he reached the bushes, he saw that he was on the brink of a deep
gully, but the ground was all broken and boggy, and covered with
closely-growing bush, bramble, and scrub. The mist was gathering up
afresh. Great banks of vapour were scudding across the moon, and
flitting up the black chasm, suddenly appearing in the moonlight out of
the darkness below, like steam out of a cauldron.
While he was debating what to do, he was startled by a gentle voice
almost at his elbow. Turning quickly round, he saw a graceful figure
standing on the edge of the gully, looking like black marble against the
broad path of silver glory that stretched across the sea behind it.
"Fair sir, whither wouldst thou go?" said the voice.
"If thou art of real flesh and blood, gentle damoiselle, I would thank
thee to tell me which is my way to St Catherine's Hermitage."
"And thou wouldst not thank me if I were not real flesh and blood?"
"Ay, marry would I, an' thou wert Sathanas himself!" cried the youth
impatiently, "if only I could escape from this quagmire of a hole."
"Thou art not over-courteous, Sir Page," said the gentle voice.
"Certes, fair damsel, I crave thy pardon, but I am much belated, and
have been sorely bested. I cry your mercy. But tell me, an thou canst,
how I can find the Hermit of St Catherine's?"
"Right easily, fair sir. Seest thou yonder hill to thy right?"
"The fire I saw was to the left, I'll wager my falcon," said Ralph; then
he added aloud, "Marry, do I, fair damsel."
"Then ride straight up that hill--there is naught save a few rough
stones to hinder thee; only walk thy horse carefully till thou gettest
upon hard ground, as 'tis all quick about here. Nay, I will show thee,"
added the figure quickly; "'tis but a poor return for thy kindness to
us."
"And when did I show kindness to thee, gentle damsel?" said Ralph, in
astonishment.
"Thou quickly forgettest thy good deeds, I see," said the girl. "'Tis a
good sign of one gently nurtured."
"But when saw I thee before?"
"I did not say thou hadst seen me before!"
"Marry, fair damsel, thou speakest in riddles. I did thee a kindness,
and yet did not see thee! A-read me the riddle?"
"Nay, 'tis best to forget the kindnesses you do, so long as they to whom
they are done keep them in mind. There, now, thou art on safe ground.
Ride boldly up the hill. At the summit thou wilt see the beacon light.
Fare-thee-well."
"But, damsel, wilt thou not tell me thy name? Who are those caitiffs who
wrought me such wrong? Where dwellest thou? How camest thou here?"
"And then men call us poor women curious and prying," laughed the girl.
"Good-night, gentle sir, mayest thou prosper, and have a pleasant
journey;" and before Ralph realised she was gone, she had disappeared
down the head of the gully.
"Well, 'tis little use following her," thought Ralph; "my business is up
there. I marvel whether she told me truth; but I shall soon see."
He mounted his horse, and pursued his way as fast as he could,
consistently with the steepness of the ascent.
So steep was the hill in some places, that he dismounted once more, and
led his horse up. He had no idea the hill was so high or so difficult
to climb, from the view he had had of it below, but at length he found
the steep incline becoming rounder and more level. Mounting again, he
set spurs to his horse, and galloped over the smooth, close-cropped,
wind-shorn grass.
After riding a few hundred yards, he saw a bright glow before him, and
in another minute he was trotting up to a low building with a small
octagonal tower, on the top of which was a cresset holding a mass of
flaming tow and faggots, which cast a lurid glare all over the summit of
the lofty down. It was St Catherine's Chapel and Hermitage.
As Ralph rode up, the figure of a man in a monk's dress emerged in the
tower, and attended to the fire.
"Art thou the Hermit of St Catherine?" called out Ralph.
The monk turned round.
"Who is it that calls?"
"One of the Captain of the Wight's pages, who has come with a missive
for thee."
"Tarry, my son, till I come down," said the Hermit.
The figure then disappeared, and shortly afterwards a low door at the
base of the tower opened, and the Hermit came out, holding a lantern in
his hand. He carefully scrutinised Ralph without saying anything, and
took the paper the page handed to him.