THE RETURN OF THE _GRÂCE À DIEU_
For the nonce all thoughts of the expected arrival of Sir Oliver Lysle
were forgotten, save by the Lady Bertha and her son.
The pennons and garlands were already being removed, the minstrels
trooped silently back to the great hall, and the banner of the Lysles
was lowered to half-mast.
Yet, although all outward signs of merrymaking had disappeared, the
feast provided for the tenantry was to be partaken of on the arrival of
the _Grâce à Dieu_.
Soldiers and peasants gathered in small knots, eagerly discussing the
events that were likely to ensue consequent upon the late monarch's
decease.
"But Prince Henry was ever a young gallivant," observed Arnold Gripwell.
"I' faith, 'tis no great advancement to have seen the inside of a gaol."
"Have a care, gossip, or thine ears will suffer for it," remonstrated a
bearded master-archer. "Boys will be boys, they say. Perchance our King
has put off all his ill-deeds."
"They do say that he hath made absolute confession," said another. "I
have it on authority of a member of Sir Thomas Erpingham's household
that the Prince hath repaired to the chapel of a recluse, and, laying
bare to him the misdeeds of his whole life, hath put off the mantle of
vice, and hath returned decently adorned with the cloak of virtue."
"So be it," replied Gripwell stoutly. "The late King, though his title
to the throne were but a hollow one, was ever a soldier and a man. Give
me a man whom I can serve and follow to the wars, say I."
"Then perchance thy wish will be gratified, Arnold," remarked Sampson,
the master-bowman. "Prince Henry bore himself like a man at Homildon
fight, as thou knowest. Who knows but that ere long we shall follow him
to France to win back his own?"
"Pray Heaven it be so," returned the master-at-arms heartily. "For my
part, I'd as lief cross the narrow seas as a common soldier. Well I
remember my grandsire's tales of how the manhood of England crossed
thither in the time of the great Edward. Every mean archer, who went as
poor as a church mouse and did not lay his bones on French soil,
returned laden with rich booty. Did not my grandsire purchase the
copyhold of the farm at Nutbourne out of his ransom of a French knight?"
"But what think you, Master Sampson?" asked an archer eagerly. "Dost
think that the new King will make war?"
"He hath by far a better opportunity than Henry of Lancaster, the saints
rest his soul," replied the bowman. "That base rebel, Glendower, hath
been driven from the Welsh marches, and lies in hiding in the wilds of
that leek-ridden country. The Scots, too, are kept well in hand, so that
peace on the borders is to be depended upon. The King hath but to raise
his hand, and from the length and breadth of the realm the yeomen of
England will flock to his banner."
Sir Oliver's retainers were not far from the mark. Like the household of
many another knight, his men-at-arms and archers were tolerably well
versed in the affairs affecting the kingdom's welfare. To them war was
both a trade and the means of following an honourable profession.
Meanwhile the _Grâce à Dieu_ had gained the mouth of the little rithe
leading up to the quay, and was preparing to anchor.
Again the excitement rose, but in the midst of the hum of suppressed
anticipation an archer called attention to a significant fact: Sir
Oliver's shield was not displayed from the ship's quarter.
"Heaven forfend that he be dead," exclaimed Gripwell. "See, the Lady
Bertha hath noticed the omission."
Unable to conceal her agitation, the châtelaine, quitting the post of
honour, had crossed the drawbridge, and, accompanied by Geoffrey, was
hastening towards the wharf, a crowd of archers and men-at-arms
following at a respectful distance.
Already the small craft that belonged to the manor had put off to the
newly-arrived ship, which, for want of water, could not approach within
a bowshot of the shore.
"Where is thy master, Sir Oliver, Simeon?" asked the Lady Bertha, trying
the while to maintain her composure, as a burly, bow-legged man stepped
out of the boat and scrambled up the steps of the wharf.
Simeon Cross was the master-shipman of the _Grâce à Dieu_. For more than
two-score years had he earned his bread on the waters, being more used
to the heaving planks of a ship than to hard ground.
Awkwardly he shuffled with his feet, scarce daring to raise his eyes to
meet the stern, expectant look of the Châtelaine of Warblington.
"Answer me, rascal. Where is Sir Oliver?"
"Lady, I have ever been unshipshape with my tongue; were I to talk much
my words would trip like a scowed anchor. Ere long black would be white,
and white black, and——"
"Cease thy babbling, Simeon, and answer yea or nay. Is Sir Oliver alive
and well?"
"Lady, yea and nay. Yea, since he is still in the flesh, and nay, by
reason of——"
"The saints be praised!" ejaculated the fair questioner, reassured by
the old seaman's reply. "But stand aside, I pray you, for I perceive
that Oswald Steyning draws near. Tell me, Oswald, how comes it that thou
hast deserted thy master? Is it meet that a squire should return without
his lord?"
"Sweet lady, I had no choice in the matter," replied the squire, a
fair-haired youth of about sixteen years of age. "By the express command
of Sir Oliver and of the Lord of Malevereux I stand here this day. Sir
Oliver is alive and, I wot, in health, but, alas! a prisoner."
"A prisoner?"
"Ay, fair lady, of the Lord of Malevereux, otherwise known as the Tyrant
of Valadour, who sends this letter by my hand."
Drawing from his pouch a sealed packet, the squire knelt and presented
it to the châtelaine.
"From Yves, Baron of Malevereux, Lord of the High, the Middle, and the
Low, to the Lady Bertha, Châtelaine of the Castle of Warblington,
greeting:—
"Whereas, by the grace of the blessed Saint Hilary, Sir Oliver Lysle,
thy husband, hath fallen into my hands, be it known that this is my will
and pleasure: Him will I have and hold until a ransom of ten thousand
crowns be paid for the release of the said Sir Oliver. It is my request
that this sum be paid on or before the eve of the Feast of the blessed
Saint Silvester, failing which Sir Oliver must suffer death."
Twice the châtelaine read the missive, then, turning to the squire, she
asked—
"Knowest aught of this letter?"
"Nay, fair lady, though I wot 'tis of cold comfort."
"How came Sir Oliver to be taken?"
"By stealth, madame. They of Malevereux seized him as he lay abed in a
hostel on the road 'twixt Rouen and Taillemartel. Me they also took, but
the Tyrant set me free in order that I might bear tidings to
Warblington."
"And did Sir Oliver charge thee by word of mouth?"
"Yea, 'twas thus:—'Present my humblest respects to my dear lady, thy
mistress, and say that not a groat is to be paid as ransom for me.' No
more, no less."
"That I will bear in mind," replied the châtelaine resolutely.
"Meanwhile I must devise some answer to this Tyrant of Malevereux. Hast
promise of safe conduct?"
"The word of the Lord of Malevereux is but a poor bond, sweet lady. Yet,
since I have his promise, I will right willingly take the risk."
"'Tis well. Now to return to the castle. Arnold, see to the ordering of
the men-at-arms, the archers, and the tenants. Let them have their
feast, e'en though it be a sad one. Simeon, see to it that the _Grâce à
Dieu_ is warped up to the quay at high tide, and take steps to set a
goodly store of provisions on board, since to France thou must sail once
more. Now, Oswald, bear me company, for there is much on which I must
question thee."
All this time Geoffrey had been a silent yet eager listener. Already he
had grasped the main points of the situation, and, quick to act, he had
made up his mind that the time had come for the son of Sir Oliver Lysle
to prove himself worthy of the ancient and honourable name.
"Tell me all thou knowest concerning this Tyrant of Malevereux, Oswald,"
began Lady Bertha, as the châtelaine and the two lads gained the
comparative seclusion of the hall.
"He is the most puissant rogue in all Normandy, ay, in the whole of
France," replied the squire. "Though I perceive he has written in a
courteous style, worthy of a knight of Christendom, he is but a base
robber and oppressor of the poor, and a treacherous enemy to all true
gentlemen of coat armour. He hath declared that he fears neither God,
man, nor devil, yet withal he is of a craven disposition, and full of
superstitious fears."
"It is said that on one day of the year he throws open his Castle of
Malevereux to all who would fain partake of his hospitality?"
"That is so, sweet lady. On the Feast of Saint Silvester—in
commemoration of a deliverance from a great peril—the Lord of Malevereux
doth hold a joust to which all men may come, saving that they leave
their arms at the gate. Beyond that 'tis said that no man, other than
the Tyrant's retainers, hath set foot within the castle save as a
captive."
"The Feast of Saint Silvester!" exclaimed the Lady Bertha. "On that day
this base knight would fain receive ransom for Sir Oliver."
"Might I not be permitted to go to France?" asked Geoffrey, speaking for
the first time during the conversation. "I would desire to have some
small chance of advancement 'gainst this villainous baron."
"Thou'rt but a lad, Geoffrey," replied his mother. "I commend thy
courage and determination; they do thee honour, but the task is beyond
thee."
"I am almost of the same age as that most puissant knight, Edward the
Black Prince, when he fought at Crécy, and as old as our new King when
he crossed swords with Lord Percy at Otterburn," asserted Sir Oliver's
son. "Oswald hath followed my father Francewards these two years.
Therefore, saving your presence, I ought to be up and doing."
"'Tis a matter that demands careful consideration, Geoffrey, though I do
perceive that thou art not like a girl that hath to stay at home. Even
as a young hawk hath to leave the nest, a knight's son must, sooner or
later, quit the shelter of his parents' roof. But of that more anon. It
is in my mind that the good knight, Sir Thomas Carberry, who holds the
Castle of Portchester should hear of the mishap that hath befallen my
lord."
"Wouldst that I ride thither?" asked Geoffrey eagerly, for the doughty
knight was ever a favourite of the lad.
"That is my desire, Geoffrey. The day is but young, and thou canst
return ere sundown. Oswald shall bear thee company."