"Tell my lord there hath been no strange sail seen to-day, but as it is
parlous thick to-night, and was so the greater part of the afternoon, a
vessel might have passed without my seeing. Tell his lordship I will be
sure to keep a trusty look-out."
"Is that all, holy father?"
"Yes, my son; get thee back as soon as may be, for it behoveth him to
take measures in case a schallop hath gotten past unperceived."
Ralph turned his horse's head; the mist was now far down below, and
dispersing before it spread inland. His road lay clear before him.
Clapping spurs to his horse, he galloped off, and in the course of
another hour was hallooing to the guard at the outer gate of the Castle
to open and let him in. In a few minutes more he had dismounted at the
Captain's apartments, given his horse to Humphrey, who was sitting up
for him, and in another second was ushered into the presence of the
Captain of the Wight.
*CHAPTER IX.*
*HOW THE COCKEREL LEARNT HARDIHOOD.*
When Ralph pushed aside the heavy curtain which hung inside the
ill-fitting but massive oak door, he was for a moment dazed by the
brilliant light within the room.
The chambers of the more luxurious nobles were at this time fitted up
with much profusion of rich draperies, gorgeous tapestries, and
splendidly carved and gilded furniture. Lord Woodville inherited and
shared all the lavish tastes of his mother and his family. His brother,
the ill-fated Lord Scales, had been the patron of Caxton, having himself
translated and composed some of the earliest works published by the
Father of Printing, and the Captain of the Wight upheld the traditions
of his house.
Seated before an elaborately-carved desk, lighted by long wax candles
standing in exquisitely-designed brass candlesticks, whose bold bosses
and delicate spiral work reflected the light in countless sparkles and
scintillations, sat the Lord Woodville, his handsome face in conspicuous
distinctness with the light shining full upon it, while behind hung a
gorgeous tapestry from the looms of Flanders, which had belonged to his
mother, Jacquetta of Luxemburg. He was clad in a close-fitting short
tunic of black stamped velvet, made very full across the chest and
shoulders, and drawn in with narrowing pleats at the waist, where it was
confined by a magnificent belt of scarlet Cordovan leather, richly
studded with gold and jewelled mountings. A finely-chased silver-hilted
poignard hung at his right side, and his shapely legs were set off to
fullest advantage by his tight-fitting hose, which, after the fashion of
the time, were parti-coloured, of light blue and white in alternate
pieces. Long and fanciful scarlet Cordovan slippers encased his feet,
and a rich purple mantle, lined with the fur of the silver fox, hung
over the back of his chair. One elegantly-formed hand rested on the
desk, where a few characters had been inscribed on a sheet of paper
before him, while the other arm hung negligently over the back of his
chair. There was a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and no one could
have realised in that slightly effeminate figure, and almost womanish
face, with its sensitive mouth and finely-chiselled nose and broad brow,
round which the long hair fell in waving masses, the warrior who had
fought in nearly all the bloodiest battles of those fierce civil wars,
and had borne himself in ranged field or tented lists "righte hardilie,
valyentlie, and of full lusty prowess." For the conflict on the
battle-field was then no child's play as regards the noble, to whom
quarter in those bloody civil wars was rarely or never given.
It was probably the refined tastes of the Woodvilles, while rendering
them such favourites with the luxurious Edward IV. and the ladies of his
court, which caused the ruder barons of that rough age to hate them so
bitterly. The taunt flung in the face of Lord Rivers and his son by
Warwick, when he was brought before him a prisoner at Calais, showed the
malignity of hate and contempt the nobles felt for the family, a hatred
arising, no doubt, from jealousy at the Woodvilles' sudden rise to
distinction, but aggravated by a contempt for their accomplishments,
which were considered totally inconsistent with the stern realities of
life. How was it possible that a hardy knight and well-seasoned
man-at-arms could find time to paint, write, or even read? Such
occupations were for jongleurs or monks, not belted knights and stout
barons.
As Ralph dropped the curtain behind him, the Captain of the Wight rose
from his chair, the dreamy look of abstraction giving place to the
alertness of real life.
"Well, Master Lisle, thou hast been a dullard on the way; what hath made
thee so late?"
"There was a thick mist abroad, my lord."
"Oh, and thou lost thy way? Like enough. These sea fogs are sudden in
their uprising. But thou gavest my missive to the Hermit?"
"Yea, my lord, and he bid me say that he had seen no sail, but that, as
the mist had overspread the land and sea the latter part of the day, it
were very possible for a schallop to have gotten past unnoticed."
"Yea, forsooth, he sayeth well," said the Captain thoughtfully; then he
added, "There was no other message?"
"None my lord, save--" and Ralph hesitated, for he did not like to tell
of his mishaps, and as he thought of the strange adventure on the wild
cliff, in the brilliant light of that luxurious room, he could scarcely
believe it was not a dream. The utter contrast between the present
moment, the elegant surroundings, the absolute security of that splendid
castle, with all its guards, walls, men-at-arms, bastions, archers, and
turrets, and the wild weirdness of that solitary wrestle on the verge of
the black precipice, in the cold light of the moon, and the ghostly
vapour, seemed too impossible. Surely he must have dreamt it.
"Save what, my child?" said Lord Woodville.
"Save that I lost my way, and--" and again he hesitated.
"Well, my page, and what?"
"And I was set on by a base caitiff."
"Ay, marry--who has dared to lay hands on one of my pages?"
"That I know not, my lord," and then Ralph narrated the adventure as
best he could.
Lord Woodville listened to the end, his countenance expressing no
feeling until Ralph came to the part where the man bid him take a note
to the Captain of the Wight. He then looked up gravely, and said,
"Where is it, my child?"
Ralph fumbled in his pocket; he searched everywhere--he could not find
it. Seeing his nervousness, the Lord Woodville said, smiling,--
"Nay, fair page, take it quietly; thou mayest have overlooked it.
Search each of thy pockets one by one, and so we shall arrive at a just
conclusion."
Ralph did as he was told, and displayed but few things to the amused
eyes of Lord Woodville, for he had not troubled to replace the rubbish
which the man had left upon the grass when he turned out his pockets.
When all had been gone through, there was nothing found.
"My lord," said Ralph, abashed, "I must have dropped it when I delivered
thy missive to the Hermit of St Catherine's."
"Like enough, my page; but thou shouldest be more careful. An thou
didst, I shall get it in the morning; or thou canst ride in search of
it. But thou art sure thou hast not been dreaming?" added Lord
Woodville, with a smile.
"Nay, my lord, that I will warrant, for thou mayest see the stain of the
grass and the earth on my surcoat and hose."
"Well that is somewhat, certes, but 'tis a quaint tale. Who could they
be who would attack thee, do thee no harm, take no gold from thee, or
strip thee of thy rich poignard and gaudy dress? For I see they have
left thee thy purse and gold pieces."
"Nay, my lord, I know not; but I can show thee the place to-morrow, an
thou wilt ride thither."
"What was the man like who captured you? Didst thou see his face?"
"Nay, my lord, for he ever came between me and the moon; but he was of
marvellous strength, and of a wondrous bigness; and he spoke like one in
authority, and of gentle birth and breeding."
"Well, 'tis a strange adventure, in sooth, and we will take thought for
it to-morrow. Perchance thou mayest find the missive in thy saddle
housings, or in thy dress, as thou retirest to sleep. But it groweth
late; get thee now to thy rest. I shall need thee to-morrow."
So saying, Lord Woodville nodded kindly to the boy, as a sign for him to
retire, and Ralph left the room, glad enough to have escaped so easily,
marvelling more than ever whether what had happened had really been a
dream.
Meanwhile the Captain of the Wight stood musing before his fire, for
there was now need for a fire, since the season was drawing on, and it
was near the end of September, while the thick stone walls of the strong
building were damp and cold.
Presently he went to his desk, pressed a spring, and out of a drawer at
the side he took a little scented leathern case. Opening this, he took
out two very faded flowers, a long lock of wavy soft brown hair, and a
golden heart. He gazed at the silent relics, his lips moved, and he
crossed himself devoutly. He then, after pressing them to his lips, put
them back in the case, shut the case up, and replaced it in the drawer,
which he carefully fastened again.
This done, with a heavy sigh he stepped across to a _prie dieu_, and
devoutly kneeling before a richly-carved crucifix, he remained absorbed
in prayer. When he rose up, his face looked white and haggard. Before
retiring to rest, he drew aside the curtain over his door, opened it,
and called to the archer on guard to pass the word to the man who
relieved him, to usher, without question, any monk who should come to
him in the morning.
When Ralph awoke next morning, the events of the previous night seemed
more than ever like a dream. The commonplace realities of everyday life,
the bright morning sun, the boyish chaff of his companions, and the
decisive tone of Tom o' Kingston as he put them through their exercises,
seemed so utterly out of keeping with the romantic adventure of the
night before.
Dicky Cheke seemed somewhat crestfallen this morning, and he and Maurice
Woodville had each a rather swollen cheek and lip, while Willie
Newenhall was decidedly puffy and red about the eye.
Even Bowerman showed signs of the manful handling given him by Ralph,
who had almost forgotten the scuffle, in the greater excitement that had
followed.
"I' faith, Ralph," said Dicky Cheke, "there'll be war anon, and Bowerman
shall grin. What do you think? After you had gone, and the Captain had
gotten well away, that rogue 'Pig's Eyes' got Bowerman to attack us; but
we gave them enough work before we gave in, and that's why his eye's so
wadged up, and Bowerman's nose looks so red about the bridge."
"Now, Master Cheke," called out Tom o' Kingston, "are you going to give
over gossiping? I hear there's talk of a tilt toward, and that Sir John
thinks two of you young men can break a lance in it. Now I'd be loth
you bore yourselves boorishly, so please to give heed to all I've to say
to you. Master Bowerman, you look but sadly this morning; what's come
to your nose?"
"Never mind my nose, Tom," said that youth sulkily. "It's no business
of yours if my nose is well or amiss. Let me have a run at you with the
lance; I want to practise against a live man."
"Not this morning, Master Bowerman; you've enough to do to hit the
Saracen fairly. Now are you ready. Go!"
The boys were all mounted on their hackneys horses that formed part of
the stud of the castle garrison, and which were trained for the work.
Each boy carried a lance about thirteen feet long, and they were this
morning going to tilt at a large and roughly-made figure of a Saracen,
who held a shield in one arm, and a loose club in the other. The
figure, when hit on the shield, spun round, and, unless the performer
were quick in his movements, caught its assailant a more or less violent
blow in the back, depending upon the force with which the shield was
hit.
At the word of command of Tom o' Kingston, Bowerman dug his heels into
his horse's side and rode at the figure. He hit the shield fairly, and
galloped past untouched, raising his lance as he trotted round.
"That's well done, but give him a harder buffet next time. Now, Master
Newenhall!" cried the instructor.
Willie Newenhall was but half awake. He was yawning desperately when he
received the order to go. He had scarcely fastened up his clothes, and
he looked a sodden mass of sleepy stupidity. His half-washed face,
squat nose, and little eyes, which were now smaller than ever, owing to
the events of the night before, did not look prepossessing, and not the
uttermost vagaries of the most vivid imagination would have thought that
the owner of that countenance and that appearance fancied himself to be
a dangerous lady-killer, a cause of disquiet alike to the anxious
husband as well as the fond father. But the nights of fancy are
proverbially wild, and had anybody suggested to Willie Newenhall that he
was anything else than a very handsome, irresistible youth, he would
have regarded that person with the pitying scorn justly due to the
envious and the blighted. Sleepy, and unfinished in the matter of his
toilette--for it was seven o'clock in the morning, and Willie dearly
loved his bed--he heard the order to put his horse in motion at the
quintain. With another prolonged yawn he shook his horse's reins, and
trotted lazily towards the post. It so happened that he had not
fastened up his tunic properly. As the pace of the horse increased, and
he prepared to level his spear to hit the shield, the tunic flew open,
and got in the way of his arms. Forgetting, or not noticing, how near he
was to the quintain, he moved his arm up to clear the dress, thus
bringing the lance across his body, and before he had time to recover
his position, the long spear struck athwart the quintain, and got askew
between the shield and the wooden post on which it revolved, with the
effect of its becoming jammed and immovable. As Willie's horse was well
trained, and had increased his speed on nearing the quintain, his rider
was swept out of his saddle, and over the crupper, falling to the ground
like a sack of flour.
The onlookers greeted this mishap with a roar of laughter, and their
instructor, with whom Willie Newenhall was no favourite, scoffingly bid
him pick himself up, and "not lie there like a trussed pullet."
Ruefully the sleepy page, now rudely awakened, got up, and came limping
back.
"Pick up thy lance, stupid, and go after thy nag. Beshrew me, but an I
were the Captain, I'd as lief have a turnip for a page as thee. For you
both grow, and that's all; saving that a turnip is good to eat, which is
more than can be said o' thee." Then turning to Ralph, Tom o' Kingston
said, "Now, Master Lisle, do thou show them how to do the matter."
Ralph dearly loved these exercises, and had become an apt pupil.
Sticking spurs to his horse, he cantered eagerly forward. As he neared
the post, with knees and voice he encouraged his horse, and with loose
reins and gathering speed he struck the quintain a vigorous blow; then,
raising his lance aloft, galloped on, untouched by the swiftly-revolving
club.
"By my faith, 'twas well done, young master! You'll make the best lance
of them all. But, when all's said and done, that's not much praise
neither."
"You're a bit grumpy this morning--Tom," said Dicky Cheke. "What's gone
wrong? Has Polly Bremeskate been unkind to thee?"
"Now, Master Cheke, mind your work, and let me have none of your sauce,"
said Tom o' Kingston, who was supposed to cherish a fatal passion for
this very buxom and florid spinster, who was the inheritor of certain
lands and tenements sufficient to be a powerful attraction, over and
above her other charms, to the yeomen of the island. Her suitors
therefore were numerous, and she gave herself airs of importance
becoming in one so happily placed.
Dicky and Maurice went through the performance very well, and after the
exercise had been repeated several times, the little group was joined by
the Breton knight and Sir John Trenchard.
The arrival of these important spectators caused the performers to try
their best, and even the stolid Willie was roused into something like
emulation.
"How do they tackle to their work, Master Tom?" asked Sir John.
"There's naught amiss, Sir John, with Master Bowerman and Lisle; they'll
bear themselves well enough--leastways the last-named gentleman will;
and so, for their size, will the other two young masters. But as for
Master Newenhall, you'd as well mount Betty the scullery wench on Jenny
the donkey, and give her a broomstick, as let him ride among press of
knights."
"Go in, boys, and don your breastpieces, brassarts, gauntlets, and
burgonets, and get your targets. This worshipful knight and I would see
how you can bear yourselves in a tilt."
It was delightful news to all the pages, except Willie Newenhall, who in
his heart detested the whole thing, and would much rather have sat at
the window where Lady Trenchard's maids were looking at the sports, than
have been down there, jeered at by the others, and with a strong
probability of receiving hard knocks. If only he could gossip, he was
happy. He could scarcely open his mouth among men, but with a garrulous
woman--if only she were married, or beyond the chance of having designs
upon himself--he was quite at home, and would discuss by the hour the
latest fashion in 'cotes hardies,' or 'furbelows,' or any other of the
mysteries usually never spoken of by men, or, if referred to at all,
mentioned with bated breath, as though conscious of venturing on unknown
ground, and with the usual result of bringing ridicule upon themselves,
by the utter ignorance they displayed. But not so with Willie. He was
as much at home when discussing women's dress or idle gossip and
scandal, as his companions were at handling the lance or throwing the
bar.
In a few minutes more the pages all re-appeared, armed entirely from the
waist upwards in polished steel their faces looking bright and boyish
under their raised visors, with their shields on their left arms. At the
word 'Mount,' they vaulted into the saddle, or attempted to do so, for
although they were practised every day at this exercise, yet it was a
difficult matter to accomplish in armour. Bowerman and Ralph, owing to
the advantage of height, were able to do it gracefully enough, but poor
Dicky ignominiously failed, while Maurice managed to scramble up with
loss of dignity, but ultimate success. Willie had also failed, and
received a sharp rebuke from Sir John Trenchard. When at last, by dint
of great struggles, the two unfortunates had got on their horses, they
were ranged in a line, sitting motionless with lance erect and visor
raised.
The scene was pretty. The morning drill took place in the castle yard
properly so called; the place of arms outside the walls, on the east of
the castle, not being used for the lesser exercises. The five martial
figures of the youths, their fresh boyish faces, contrasting with their
warlike panoply, the graceful figure of the Breton knight, in his
close-fitting tunic and picturesque dress, set off to advantage by the
grizzled head and weather-beaten appearance of Sir John Trenchard,
formed a becoming contrast to the burly form and soldierly bearing of
the esquire, sitting his horse to the right of the little squad, and
completing the group on the yellow gravel of the yard. Behind all, the
towering keep, with its base hidden by thick brushwood, carefully
trimmed and topped, stood up dark and grim against the eastern sky. To
the south east, Mountjoy's Tower, and the long line of wall between,
cast their deep shadows over the barracks and store-houses below; while
opposite, in the bright sunlight, was the old chapel of St Nicholas, the
chaplain's room, guard-room, and the noble towers of the main gateway.
The Captain's apartments, on the north, commanded a view on three sides
into the yard, and the boys were made more eager than ever to do well,
by seeing the Captain of the Wight standing in the oriel window, looking
down upon them.
About the quadrangle were grouped, some in shadow some in bright
sunlight, the picturesque figures of the garrison of the castle who were
off duty, while the flitting shadows on the parapet of the eastern walls
showed where the sentries were pacing to and fro on their beat.
Above the keep floated the standard of England, and from the main tower
the banner of the Captain of the Wight flung its blazon in the breeze.
*CHAPTER X.*
*HOW THE COCKEREL VAUNTED HIMSELF.*
"Let the varlets tilt according to size, Master Tom," said Sir John
Trenchard. "Master Bowerman, do you and Master Newenhall begin: close
your visors."
This was bad news for Willie. As he turned his horse's head to take up
his place, that disconsolate youth murmured through the bars of his
closed visor,--
"Bowerman, I say, there's little need to tilt in earnest. I won't hit
you hard, if you'll only rap on my breastpiece lightly."
But Bowerman only laughed. He was delighted to have so easy an
adversary.
"Marry, 'Pig's Eyes,'" he replied, "do thy best, there's the Captain
looking on."
With a deep sigh of woe-begone anticipation, poor Willie, whose bones
still ached from his last fall, wheeled his horse round at the word of
command, and sat facing Bowerman.
"At the word 'Ready,'" said Tom o' Kingston, in a dry, monotonous voice,
"you will lay your spears in rest, holding the point on a level with
your own eye, and the hand pressed well into the side, keeping the guard
well up to the rest. At the word 'Go,' you will clap spurs to your
horses, and ride straight for each other."
There was a pause for the combatants to settle themselves well in their
saddles, look to any part of their armour that might be amiss, and
generally pull themselves together.
"Ready!" called out the esquire.
Down came the lances in a graceful sweep, and the two pages sat waiting
for the next word.
"Go!" shouted the instructor, and the previously motionless figures dug
their spurs into their horses, and rode at each other.
The two lances struck almost at the same moment, but Bowerman adroitly
caught Newenhall's lance on his polished shield, and thus caused it to
glance over his left shoulder. His own spear struck his adversary under
the rim of the breastplate, where it turned over to protect the gorget.
Sliding along the smooth surface of the steel, it held under the roundel
which protected the right shoulder, and the miserable Willie was lifted
out of the saddle, and hurled once more over the crupper to the ground,
while Bowerman, raising his lance aloft, after the proper fashion,
trotted round to his own place again, saluting the Breton knight and Sir
John Trenchard as he rode past.
"Well and manfully done, Sir Page!" cried the latter warrior.
"_Ma foi! oui! il a fait son devoir en bon soudard_," said the sire
Alain de Kervignac.
The hapless Newenhall lay still upon the ground; not that he was really
hurt, beyond being considerably shaken, and bumped about the head; but
he wisely thought if it were seen that he were hurt he might be sent
indoors, and allowed to sit in Lady Trenchard's room, and be made a fuss
of, a state of affairs he dearly loved.
"Is he hurt, think you?" said Sir John Trenchard. "I would be loth that
he really got a hurt."
"Nay, Sir John," said Tom o' Kingston, winking at his chief in a knowing
fashion, "he'll be all right anon. I know the habits of the lad." Then
he called out, "Master Newenhall, the others are going to begin; you'd
best get out of the way."
But that astute youth determined not to move. "They'll never be such
caitiffs as to ride over me," he thought. However, it looked very much
like it, for without any concern the esquire called out,--
"Now, Master Cheke and Master Woodville, 'tis your turn. Lower your
beavers."
"You'd best take care, Maurice," said Dicky, as they rode off. "I mean
to do my best, and I'm sorry for thee."
"None of thy peppercorn wit, Dicky. I'll topple thee out of thy saddle
like a pint pot off a brown jack."
And so the two boys took up their positions, waiting for the word. It
was soon given. Down came the lances.
"Go," called the esquire, and the two boys rode at each other manfully
enough. They were very equally matched, and struck each other full on
their breastplates; but in Dicky's case the lance of his adversary
glanced off the sharp edge of the convex corslet, and slipped under his
arm, doing him no injury, while his own lance also glanced aside, and
the two boys were nearly unseated by their horses' impetus. Had they not
both held on tightly by the reins, and been prevented from going
backwards by the high-peaked saddle, they must have fallen to the
ground. As it was, they remained with their horses stationary, each
spear locked under the other's arm.
"Maurice, I shall do thee a mischief," cried Dicky Cheke, through his
visor. "Thou hadst best give up, and fall off thy horse. I won't hurt
thee then."
"Grammercy for thy gentleness, Master Dicky, but I'll soon have thee
down," and the two boys pushed at each other, with the guards of their
spears pressing against their breastplates.
"Maurice, I say, don't be such an obstinate pig! I'll give thee all my
share of the marchpane of strawberries when we have it again, if thou
wilt only fall off this once. I'll promise I'll do it for thee another
time."
"That _is_ gammon! Marry come up, my pipkin!" said Maurice ironically,
and, pushing and wriggling his lance harder than ever, to the great
aggravation of Dicky Cheke, he almost lifted him out of the saddle.
"Maurice, I shall get mad soon," said Dicky, "and then I shall hurt
thee. Ah! would'st thou?" and Dicky, dropping his reins, and gripping
the saddle with his knees, grasped Maurice's lance with his left hand,
and tried to force it back out of his hold.
The two horses were pushing against each other. Suddenly Maurice grasped
Dicky's lance, and at the same time backing his horse, he pulled that
young gentleman out of the saddle forward, who, however held on all the
time to the lance, and thus broke his fall. The moment he was on the
ground, he rose to his feet, holding the spear all the time, and
fiercely tried to push Maurice out of the saddle. But Sir John
Trenchard called out that all was fairly done, and that both had done
their devoir as right hardy varlets, but that natheless Woodville had
gotten most honour, for he kept his seat while the other was dismounted.
"That's as may be," said the unquenchable Dicky, "albeit, had it been in
real lists, I should have driven thee against the barrier, and so I
should have won the prize."
Willie Newenhall, when he saw that the boys really were to tilt across
the very place where he was lying, with no more concern for him than if
he had been a log of wood, vowing vengeance on the two youngsters,
rolled out of the way, and got up sulkily enough, limping back to the
place where his well-trained horse was standing, and appearing in great
distress. But as no one took any notice of him, with a growl of disgust
at their heartlessness, he gave up the game, and stood watching the
others.
"Now, Master Bowerman, an thou art in good wind again, here's Master
Lisle ready for a course with thee."
"Right willing I am," answered Bowerman, who felt highly elated at the
success of his first essay, and the praises he had received. In
addition to this, he had long hoped to have an opportunity of
effectually quenching Ralph, to whom he had taken a dislike the moment
he saw him, and which had been increased by many circumstances since.
The two took up their respective positions and awaited the word of
command. There was a certain swagger of easy self-assurance in Bowerman
as he trotted his horse to his post, saluting the Captain of the Wight,
who was standing at his window.
By this time there was a considerable concourse of spectators, for it
was drawing near chapel time, and the garrison was assembling to fall
in.
Tom o' Kingston glancing at the two figures, who looked very equally
matched, called out "Ready," quickly followed by the command to go.
The well-trained horses hardly needed the spur, so perfectly accustomed
were they to the words of command. They broke at once into a canter,
and with levelled lances the two combatants met exactly in the middle of
the ground. Bowerman's lance struck Ralph full and fair under the
gorget, and flew into a thousand splinters. The blow was a rude one,
and Ralph staggered under it; but his own lance had been aimed at his
antagonist's visor, and took far more severe effect than he intended.
The visor was forced violently up, and a splinter from Bowerman's own
lance, struck him full under the eye at the same moment, inflicting a
severe wound. The shock of Ralph's well-aimed blow, together with the
pain of the splinter cut, caused Bowerman to reel in his seat, and as
the spear had caught in the bars of the visor, he was borne backwards
out of the saddle, and hurled to the ground.
"My faith,'twas well done!" cried Sir John Trenchard, while all the
bystanders raised a shout of congratulation, for Ralph was already a
great favourite with them all.
But Ralph, directly he saw what had happened, thought no more of the
tilt, and how he ought to have ridden round and saluted the judges and
spectators. He only saw Bowerman on the ground, bleeding from the severe
wound under the eye, which looked worse than it really was. He
instantly reined in his horse, threw down his spear, and leaped to the
ground.
"Oh, Bowerman, I am so sorry!" he cried, as he stooped down to help to
raise him.
"Get up, you fool!" answered Bowerman, in furious wrath. "Do you think
I am a girl, that I want your whinings and whimperings? Get away, you
viper you, had my lance not gone all to pieces, you'd have been lying on
your back instead of me. Tom ought to have given me a new one. He
should have known it was sprung in the first course."
So saying, and fiercely wrathful, Bowerman spurned all offer of
assistance from Ralph, and rose from the ground. The others had now
come forward, seeing the blood flowing from the wound, and Bowerman was
taken to Lady Trenchard to have the cut attended to.
The bell was now tolling, and the other pages had no time to doff their
armour. Hastily walking their horses over to the stables, they hurried
into chapel.
When the service was over they withdrew to their common room, in the
north-west side of the Captain's apartments, and talked over the events
of their first trial at real tilting in armour, while they ate their
meal.
Newenhall was very sulky. He complained of severe pains in his head,
and said it was a great shame he was not allowed to go to the
sick-room,--that Bowerman was no worse than he was, and he was always
treated unfairly.
Dicky and Maurice nearly had their harmony spoilt by bickering over
their contest; and Ralph was very much distressed at the accident that
had happened to Bowerman, and of which he was the unwilling cause, while
he was still more grieved at the evident animosity with which Bowerman
regarded him.
"I tell thee what, Lisle," said Dicky, who was in a very rasping mood,
"it was lucky for thee that Bowerman's spear went all to pieces, or he
would have had thee out of the saddle as roughly as he knocked over
'Pig's Eyes.'"
"No he wouldn't," said Maurice. "I saw it all, and it would have gone
just the same had Bowerman's spear kept sound. Lisle had got him neatly
in the beaver--nothing could have kept him in his seat."
"That's all you know about it! Why, couldn't he have held on to the
reins?"
"And what'd be the use of that, when he was being knocked over
sideways?"
And so the boys wrangled until they were set to work by the chaplain.
After they had been working rather less steadily than usual, and Dicky
had drawn down upon his head some very severe rebukes from Sir Simon
Halberd, while "Pig's Eyes" was so very much more stupid than ordinary
that even the gentle Sir Simon's commonly placid spirit was ruffled, and
he complained loudly of his dulness, a message came that Ralph Lisle was
wanted in the Captain's room.
Wondering what was the matter, Ralph hastily complied with the summons.
On opening the Captain's door, he found Lord Woodville pacing up and
down the room. Seeing Ralph enter, he stopped, and greeted him with a
kindly smile.
"My child," he said, "thou bearedst thyself right gallantly this
morning, and I liked thy courtesy and gentleness even more than thy
prowess. Go on like that and thou wilt make a full, gentle, perfect
knight; for gentleness, courtesy, and thought for others become a good
knight quite as much as hardihood and masterfulness."
Ralph's face glowed with joy at these commendations from his lord, and
he rejoiced to hear this renowned and skilful warrior using very nearly
the same words as his father had done on the eve of his quitting home.
"I have sent for thee, my page, to tell thee I have heard no news of thy
lost missive. Thinkest thou now that the whole matter was but a dream?"
Ralph had by this time forgotten all about the last night's adventure.
It all came before him in its startling reality. It could not have been
a dream.
"My lord," he answered, "I think it was no dream; how could my clothes
have been all soiled with grass and earth if it were a dream?"