Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 46233-h.htm or 46233-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/46233/pg46233-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/46233/46233-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/withblackprince00stod
WITH THE BLACK PRINCE
* * * * * *
BOOKS BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
Uniform edition. Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.50.
The Red Patriot.
A Story of the American Revolution. Illustrated by B. WEST
CLINEDINST.
Mr. Stoddard is at his best in this stirring story, which among
other themes pictures incidents of Washington's campaigning in New
Jersey. In this vivid account of a boy's part in great historical
events there is a leading actor, "the last of the Susquehannocks,"
whose share in the hero's adventures has given the title to the
book.
The Windfall; or, After the Flood.
Illustrated by B. WEST CLINEDINST.
"Full of adventures and incident so well conceived and described as
to keep the reader in a continued state of absorbed attention. It
is the kind of book that one wants to sit up nights to finish. One
can not lay it aside comfortably until the final outcome is
known"--_Springfield Union._
Little Smoke.
A Story of the Sioux Indians. With 12 full-page Illustrations by F.
S. DELLENBAUGH, portraits of Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, and other
chiefs, and 72 head and tail pieces representing the various
implements and surroundings of Indian life.
"It is not only a story of adventure, but the volume abounds in
information concerning this most powerful of remaining Indian
tribes. The work of the author has been well supplemented by the
artist."--_Boston Traveler._
Crowded Out o' Crofield.
The Story of a Country Boy who fought his way to success in the
great metropolis. With 23 Illustrations by C. T. HILL.
"This excellent story is interesting, thoroughly wholesome, and
teaches boys to be men, not prigs or Indian hunters."--_Detroit
Free Press._
The Battle of New York.
A Narrative of the Civil War. With 11 full-page Illustrations and
colored Frontispiece.
"The description of these terrible days and more awful nights is
very animated."--_New York Evening Post._
On the Old Frontier; or, The Last Raid of the Iroquois.
With 10 full-page Illustrations by H. D. MURPHY.
"Mr. Stoddard's stories of adventure are always of the thrilling
sort which boys like most to read. This tale, which relates to the
last raids of the Iroquois, is as stirring as the best of those
which have come from his pen."--_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin._
Chris, the Model-Maker.
A Story of New York. With Illustrations by B. WEST CLINEDINST.
The metropolis is always an attractive scene for a story, and
doubly so for a story like this, which tells how two boys and a
girl made their way by their own pluck and ability.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
* * * * * *
[Illustration: Firm as a rock stood the young warrior. (See page 18.)]
WITH THE BLACK PRINCE
by
WILLIAM O. STODDARD
Author of
Crowded Out o' Crofield, The Red Patriot,
Success Against Odds, etc.
Illustrated
[Illustration]
New York
D. Appleton and Company
1898
Copyright, 1898,
By D. Appleton and Company.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE KING'S DEER 1
II.--THE MEN OF THE WOODS 25
III.--THE EARL AND THE ESQUIRE 49
IV.--THE KING'S MESSENGER 70
V.--THE ENDING OF THE PEACE 96
VI.--THE SEA FIGHT 119
VII.--THE GREAT PLAN OF THE KING 143
VIII.--THE CASTLE OF BRUYERRE 166
IX.--KING EDWARD AT PARIS 188
X.--THE GREAT DAY OF CRÉCY 212
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FACING
PAGE
Firm as a rock stood the young warrior _Frontispiece_
Loudly twanged the bow 102
"Yield thee, De Renly!" he shouted 132
Up went the ladder, and on it the English climbed fast 177
Soon the air was full of the roaring 224
"Arise, Sir Richard of Wartmont!" 230
WITH THE BLACK PRINCE.
CHAPTER I.
THE KING'S DEER.
There came a sudden sound, breaking the shadowy silence of Longwood
forest.
Crash followed crash, at short intervals, with the snapping of dry twigs
and bush branches, and then came ringing, clear and sweet, three notes
of a hunting horn.
Out into an open glade, where the sunlight fell upon the long, green
grass of midsummer, there bounded a splendid stag--a stag royal, a stag
of ten--fit to be the antlered monarch of the king's deer in Longwood.
Three leaps, and then the beautiful animal stood still; but as he
turned, panting, and lowered his horns, it could be seen that he was
wounded. The feather of an arrow in his flank told how deeply the shaft
was driven.
He was at bay now, and splendid was his courage as he stood to battle
with his pursuers.
Again, and nearer, nearer, sounded the horn; for the hunters were
coming.
Out through the leafy barrier of the bushes at the edge of the glade
bounded three eager deerhounds, one after another. Large dogs they were,
brown-haired, lop-eared. Their baying had chimed in with the music of
the horn. Better for them it were if one of the huntsmen had been there
to hold them from their haste; for there is danger for any who rush
rashly in upon a stag at bay.
Loud voices and the thud of galloping hoofs told that the hunters were
close at hand; but they were too late in arriving. The foremost hound
dashed fiercely on, his white teeth showing, and his eyes flashing with
green light; but the ten-tined antlers passed under him and were lifted
swiftly.
Away the hound was hurled, pierced fatally, and then a sudden side
stroke disabled the second of the four-footed assailants. The third
paused, lifting a forefoot doubtfully as he glanced from one to the
other of his unlucky companions. A whizzing shaft passed over his head,
and a cloth-yard arrow sped to its mark, inside the shoulder of the
deer. The spreading antlers plowed the sod for a moment, and then all
was over. A tall, powerful-looking man, who came riding up, sprang from
his horse, and stood by the wounded dogs, exclaiming:
"These short-legged galloways have cost us two hounds! We had better
stalk a deer than run him, unless we have swifter steeds."
"Stalking must serve our turn, now the dogs are gone," growled a shorter
man who had come up and now stood beside him. "I would the legs of our
nags had been longer!"
They were rough-looking men, and they spoke in the burred Saxon-English
of Warwickshire five hundred years ago. It was another tongue from any
now spoken in England.
The galloways, of whose legs they had complained, were the undersized
and shaggy-maned horses they had ridden in that hunt. Such were
plentiful then, but none other could be had save by those who could pay
large prices.
"Fools are we," remarked another man. "And mayhap the horn blast has
gone to the wrong ears with token of our doings. That was thy blowing,
Guy the Bow."
"And what care we?" responded the tall hunter. "'Tis long since there
hath been a royal keeper in any wood of Arden Forest. Earl Warwick
himself never hunteth as far to the north as this. There's no harm in a
horn, and I like well the sound, and the baying o' the dogs. We'll not
again hear either very soon."
Others had now come up, but they said little. They lifted their game to
the back of one of the galloways. The arrows were carefully extracted,
cleaned, and restored to the quivers of their owners. The men were all
stalwart fellows, and the bows they carried were tremendous weapons.
When unstrung, such a bow would rest upon a man's foot and touch his
nose, and only a strong and practiced arm could bend one. Besides the
bows, they carried short, two-edged swords hanging at their belts, in
which were also stuck broad-bladed knives or daggers. They wore no armor
except light headpieces of steel, and their garments appeared to be made
of leather. The body coats were like leather blouses, soiled and worn.
They wore leggings of deerskin, but several were barefooted.
A brave-looking dozen were these hunters of Longwood. Their faces were
not evil, and their talk was that of kindly men fond of adventure and of
sport, but caring little whose deer they were taking.
The carcass of the stag had been bound to one of the horses, and the
hunters were mounting, when a loud shout came from under the nearest
oaks:
"Ho, there! Halt! What do ye, killing the king's deer?"
"Stand for your lives, men!" exclaimed Guy the Bow. "I'll not be taken!"
"Nor I!" roared a burly hunter at his side; "but--it's young Neville of
Wartmont. I could not strike him."
Only five men came riding out from under the trees, but they were all
well mounted, and were better armed than were the hunters. Every man of
them wore linked mail, with shield and lance and sword, while at every
saddlebow hung a mace or battleaxe. Their helmets were open in front,
and the face of the foremost rider was that of a beardless boy. It was a
very resolute face, however, and he raised his hand as he again
demanded:
"In the king's name, what do ye?"
"We be free men," said Guy sturdily. "Little reason hath thy father's
son to question our acts."
"Why not?" came back. "Yonder stag is a death-warrant for every man of
you!"
"Not so," exclaimed the burly hunter. "I am Ben o' Coventry, and we all
stand by Guy the Bow. Will thy mail shirt keep out a cloth-yard shaft,
Richard Neville of Wartmont?"
An arrow was on every bowstring at that moment; but Guy the Bow spoke
again.
"Thou art a boy, Richard Neville," he said. "I will tell thee somewhat
thou shouldst know. Thou hast only the ruins of thy tower to dwell in;
but when Earl Mortimer claimed thy father's barony, and sent his men to
put his seneschal in holding, the yeomen of Wartmont and Longwood, and
more from further on in Arden, stood by the Neville. The Mortimer raided
our holdings, burning house and barn. He lost his head years on, and thy
uncle is Earl of Warwick; but the bowmen of these parts had become used
to taking Earl Mortimer's deer."
"They are the king's deer now," said Richard. "Ye know that well."
"They bear no mark," grumbled Ben, lowering his bow. "We'll call that
stag for Mortimer, this day, in spite of the Neville. Take us not. Go
back to your tower."
"My young lord," was spoken in a low voice from among the men in mail
behind him, "let them alone. They are thine own men. It's only a deer
more or less. There are foes enough. Hark to Ben once more."
"I heard thee, sir," said Ben gratefully. "He might do well to heed thy
saying; but let him now hear what Guy may tell him."
"My young Lord of Wartmont," said Gay, "I had verily thought to go and
see thee this day. Knowest thou not that Clod of Lee, the Club of Devon,
hath been heard from this side the Avon? He was one of Mortimer's men,
and he hateth thee and thine. He is a wolf's head, by all law. He and
his outlaws would find at Wartmont much that such as they would seek. Go
in haste and hold thy tower against them, if thou canst, and bother not
thyself with a free hunt and a nag-load of venison."
"Thou art no king's forester," added Ben of Coventry. "These are times
when a man may let well enough alone."
"He speaketh truly," whispered Richard's mailed adviser. "Ride we to the
castle as fast as we may. Thy mother----"
"Not a dozen swordsmen are at the Mount!" exclaimed Richard. "My mother
is unprotected! Guy the Bow, I thank thee for thy warning. What care I
for a few deer? Only, watch thou and thy men; for the earl sendeth soon
to put this part of the shire under close forest law. None may escape if
work like this go on then."
"Thou art right, my young lord," responded Guy; "but the yeomen of
Longwood have no fellowship with the wolves of Devon and Cornwall. It is
said, too, that there be savage Welsh among these outlaws that spare
neither woman nor child. Ride thou with speed, and God be with thee!
Well for thee that they are not bowmen, like thy neighbors."
"Haste, my lord!" cried another of Richard's men. "There are many women
and there are children at the tower."
"On! on!" shouted Richard; but his face was white, as he wheeled his
horse southward.
Very terrible was the name which had been won by some of the robber
bands of England. They had been more numerous during the reign of Edward
the Second. His son, Edward the Third, was only fourteen years of age
when he was crowned, and it was several years more before he really
became king. Ever since then he had striven with only moderate success
to restore order throughout his realm. Several notable bodies of savage
marauders were still to be heard from only too frequently, while in many
districts the yeomen paid as little attention to the forest laws as if
they had been Robin Hood's merry men of Sherwood. This was not the case
upon the lands of the great barons, but only where there was no armed
force at hand to protect the game. The poachers were all the safer
everywhere because of the strong popular feeling in their favor, and
because any informer who should give the life of a man for that of a
deer might thenceforth be careful how he ventured far into the woods. He
was a mark for an arrow from a bush, and not many cared to risk the
vengeance of the woodsmen.
On rode the young Neville and his four men-at-arms; but hardly had they
disappeared among the forest glades before Ben of Coventry turned upon
his galloway to ask:
"Guy the Bow, what thinkest thou? The Wartmont boy spoke not unkindly.
There be kith and kin of the forest men at the tower. What if the Club
of Lee should reach the moat and find the gate open? 'Tis a careless
time."
"Hang up the stag and follow!" at once commanded Guy, captain of the
hunt. "We have taken three the day. There will be venison at every
hearth. If only for his father's sake----"
"We are not robbers, Guy the Bow," interrupted another of his followers.
"We are true men. 'Twill be a wolf hunt instead of a deer hunt. I like
it well."
They strung up the stag to a bough of a tree, and then wheeled with a
shout and galloped away as merrily as if they had started another hart
royal.
Three long miles away, easterly from the glade where the stag had
fallen, the forest ended; and beyond the scattered dignities of its
mighty oaks lay a wide reach of farm land. The fields were small, except
some that seemed set aside for pastures and meadows. There were
well-grown but not very well-kept hedges. There were a few farmhouses,
with barns and ricks. Nearly in the center rose a craggy hill, and at
the foot of this clustered a small hamlet. It was a sign of the troubles
that Edward the Third had striven to quell that all along the outer
border of the hamlet ran the tattered remnants of what once had been a
strong line of palisades and a deep ditch.
The hill was the Wart Mount, and on its crest were massive walls with a
high, square tower at one corner. Viewed from a distance, they seemed to
be a baronial stronghold. On a nearer approach, however, it could be
seen that the beauty and strength of Wartmont had been marred by fire,
and that much of it needed rebuilding. Some repairs had been made on the
tower itself. Its gateway, with moat and bridge, was in fair condition
for defense. More than one road led across the open country toward the
castle; but the highway was from the east, and travelers thereon were
hidden from sight by the hill.
There was a great stir in the village, for a man came riding at full
speed from one of the farmhouses, shouting loudly as he passed the old
palisades:
"To the hill! To the castle! The wolves of Devon are nigh! They have
wasted Black Tom's place, and have slain every soul!"
The warning had already traveled fast and far, and from each of the
farmhouses loaded wains, droves of cattle, horses, sheep, were hurrying
toward the hill. Women, with their children, came first, weeping and
praying.
Far away, on the southerly horizon, arose a black cloud of smoke to tell
of the end of Black Tom's wheatstacks and haystacks.
"Aye! aye!" mourned an old woman. "It's gone wi' fire! Alas! And the
good king is in Flanders the day, and his people are harried as if they
had no king."
"It's like the old time," said another, "when all the land was wasted. I
mind the telling o' what the Scots did for the north counties till the
king drave them across the border."
Well kept were the legends that were told from one generation to another
in the days when there were no books or newspapers; and they were now
rehearsed rapidly, while the affrighted farm people fled from their
threatened homes, as their ancestors had many a time been compelled to
do. Still they all seemed to have great faith in the castle, and to
believe that when once there they would be safe.
The rider who brought the news did not pause in the village, but rode
on, and dismounted at the bridge over the moat. Not stopping to hitch
his panting horse, he strode into the open portal, sending his loud
message of evil omen through the corridor beyond. Voice after voice took
up the cry and carried it up through the tower and out into the castle
yard, till it seemed to find weird echoes among the half-ruined walls.
At no place were these altogether broken down. There was no breach in
them. Large parts of the old structures were still roofed over, and
along the battlements there quickly appeared the forms of old and
young, peering out eagerly to see whatever there might be to see upon
the lowland.
There were very few men, apparently; but in the lower rooms of the tower
there were quickly clanking sounds, as shields and weapons and armor
were taken down from their places.
A large open area was included within the outer walls, and there was
room for quadrupeds as well as for human beings. Still there was a
promise of close crowding, if all the fugitives on the roads were to be
provided for.
Gathered now in the village street was a motley crowd of men. They were
by no means badly armed, but they seemed to have no commander, and their
hurried councils were of all sorts. Most seemed to favor a general
retreat to the castle, but against this course was urged the fact that
the marauders had not yet arrived, nor had all the people from the
farms.
"Men!" exclaimed a portly woman with a scythe in her strong hands,
"could ye not meet them at the palisades? Bar the gap with a wain. There
are bows and crossbows among ye. Fight them there!"
"We could never hold them back," came doubtfully from one of the men.
"They'd find gaps enough. It's only a stone wall can stop them."
"They'll plunder the village," the woman said.
"Better that than the blood of us all," responded the man. "We are few.
Would the young lord were here with his men-at-arms!"
"He rode to the north the morn," she was told. "Only four were with him.
The rest are far away with the earl. A summons came, telling that the
Scots were over the border."
"Could not the north counties care for themselves, without calling on
the midlands?" grumbled the woman.
At that moment there came a terrified shriek from the road-gap in the
palisades. The last of several wains was passing in, and all the street
was thronged with cattle.
"They come! They come!" screamed the women by that wain. "Oh, that they
gat so nigh, and none to see! It's over with us the day! Yon is the
Club, and his men are many!"
Partly mounted, but some of them on foot, a wild-looking throng of men
came pouring across a stubble-field from the southward. It seemed as if
they might be over a hundred strong. No marching order was observed.
There was no uniformity in their arms. At the head of them strode a
huge, black-haired, shaggy-bearded brute who bore a tremendous club of
oak, bound at its heavier end with a thick ring of iron. He laughed and
shouted as he came, as if with a savage pleasure over the wild deeds he
had done and the prospect before him.
"Short work!" he roared to those behind him. "Burn all ye can not take.
And then for the hills o' Wales! But we'll harry as we go!"
Other things he said that sounded as if he had an especial grudge
against the king and against all who, like the Nevilles, had been his
strong personal adherents.
The castle gateway was thronged, so that getting in was slow, but the
yard was already filling fast. So were the rooms of the tower, and such
as remained of the ruined buildings. Everywhere were distress and
terror, except upon one face just inside the portal.
Tall and stately was Maud Neville, the widowed lady of Wartmont Castle.
Her hair was white, but she was as erect as a pine, and all who looked
into her resolute face might well have taken courage. Some seemed to do
so, and around her gathered a score of stalwart retainers, with shields,
axes, and swords. Some who had bows were bidden to man the loopholes on
the second floor, and bide their time. Here, at least, if not in the
village, there was a captain, and she was obeyed.
"Men," she said, "you know well what wolves these are. If they force
their way into the keep, not one of us will be left to tell the tale."
A chorus of loyal voices answered her, and the men gripped their
weapons.
So was it on that side of the hill; but on the other, toward the east,
the highway presented another picture. Whether they were friends or
foemen, there was none to tell; but they were a warlike band of
horsemen. They were not mounted upon low-built galloways, but upon
steeds of size and strength. The horsemen themselves wore mail and
carried lances, and several of them had vizored helmets. They were ten
in number, riding two abreast, and one of the foremost pair carried a
kind of standard--a flag upon a long, slender staff. It was a broad,
square piece of blue silk bunting, embroidered with heraldic devices
that required a skilled reader to interpret them.
Strangely enough, according to the ideas and customs of the times, the
rabble that followed Clod the Club had also a banner. It was a somewhat
tattered affair; but it must once have been handsome. Its field was
broad and white, and any eyes could see that its dimmed, worn blazon had
been intended for three dragons. Perhaps the robber chief had reasons of
his own for marching with a flag which must have been found in Wales. It
may have aided him in keeping at his command some men who retained the
old fierce hatred of the Welsh for the kings of England.
He and his savages had now reached the palisades. The village men
retreated slowly up the street, while the remainder of those who could
not fight passed across the drawbridge and entered the castle gate.
More than one sturdy woman, however, had picked up a pike or an axe or a
fork, and stood among her kindred and her neighbors.
Not all the cattle nor all the wains could be cared for; and a shout
from the portal summoned the villagers to make more haste, that the gate
might be closed behind them. Part of them had been too brave and part
too irresolute, and there was no soldiership in their manner of obeying.
They were, indeed, almost afraid to turn their backs, for arrows were
flying now.
Well it was for them that there seemed to be so few good archers among
the outlaws; for down went man after man, in spite of shields or of such
armor as they had. Better shooting was done by the men of Wartmont
themselves, and the archers in the tower were also plying their bows. It
was this that made the Club of Devon shout to his wolves to charge, for
the shafts were doing deadly work.
With loud yells, on they rushed; and further retreat was impossible. The
foremost fighters on each side closed in a desperate strife, and the
Wartmont farmers showed both skill and strength. Half of them carried
battle-axes or poleaxes, and they plied them for their lives. Had it not
been for Clod himself, the rush might even have been checked; but
nothing could stand before him. He fought like a wild beast, striking
down foemen right and left, and making a pathway for his followers.
Victory for the outlaws would have been shortly gained but for the help
that came to the villagers.
"Onward, my men!" shouted Lady Maud, as she sprang across the narrow
bridge. "Follow me! Save your kith and kin!"
"We will die with you!" cried out her retainers as they pushed forward,
while the archers in the tower hurried down to join them.
Still they were too few; and the white head of the brave woman was
quickly the center of a surging mass, her entire force being almost
surrounded by the horde of robbers.
No shout came up the road. There was no sound but the rapid thud of
horses' feet; but suddenly five good lances charged furiously in among
the wolves. The foremost horseman went clean through them, but his horse
sank, groaning, as a Welsh pike stabbed him, and his rider barely gained
his feet as the horse went down. Sword in hand, then, he turned to face
his foes, but he spoke not to them.
"Mother!" he shouted, "I am here!"
"Thank God for thee, my son!" responded the brave woman. "Thou art but
just in time!"
Dire had been her peril, at that moment, but Richard's presence gave
courage to the defenders, while his charge had staggered the outlaws.
He was more than a match, with three of his dismounted men-at-arms at
his side, for the foes immediately in front of them. His fourth follower
lay several yards away, with his steel cap beaten in by a blow of the
terrible club.
"Hah! hah! hah!" yelled Clod as he turned from that victim to press his
way toward young Neville. "Down with him! Out of my path! Give the
youngster to me!"
"Face him, my son!" said Lady Maud, "and Heaven's aid be with thee! Oh,
for some o' the good king's men!"
"I have thee!" roared Clod, swinging high his club and preparing for a
deadly blow.
Firm as a rock stood the young warrior, raising his shield to parry.
Down came the club, but forward flashed the sword with an under-thrust.
"O my son!" burst from the lips of the Lady of Wartmont. "My son hath
fallen! Stand firm, men!"
Fallen, indeed, but so had Clod the Club, pierced through by the
sword-thrust; and a fierce yell burst from his followers as they sprang
forward to avenge him. They had been faring badly, but they were many
and they were desperate. They might even yet have broken through the men
of the tower who had stepped in front of Richard while his mother knelt
to lift him, but for another turn in the strange fortunes of the day.
There was no warning, and all were too intent on the fray to note the
arrival of newcomers; but now there came a sudden dropping of the outer
men of the throng of robbers. Shaft after shaft, unerring, strongly
driven, pierced them from back to breast.
"Shoot close!" shouted a voice. "Miss not. Steady, men! O Richard
Neville of Wartmont, we are the killers of the king's deer!"
"Aye!" added Ben of Coventry. "We are with Guy the Bow, and 'tis a
wolf-hunt!"
They were not many, but their archery was terrible. Fast twanged the
bows, and fast the outlaws fell.
"Closer, men! Spare not any!" commanded Guy the Bow, and the line of
galloways wheeled nearer.
It was too much. The remaining robbers would have fled if they could,
but they were between two fires.
"O Richard!" murmured Lady Maud. "Thou art not dead?"
His fine dark eyes opened, just then, and a smile came faintly upon his
lips as he replied:
"Only stunned, mother. The caitiff's club banged my shield down upon my
head, but my steel cap bore it well, else my neck were broken. Did he
go down?"
"He lieth among the ruck," she said. "But oh, thank God! The archers of
Longwood have come! The fight is won!"
It was won, indeed; for neither the archers nor the Wartmont men were
showing any mercy to the staggering, bewildered remnants of the outlaw
band which had been such a terror to the Welsh border, and was to other
counties almost as far inland as was Warwick itself. Never more would
any peaceful hamlet or lonely tower be left in ruins to tell of the
ruthless barbarity of the wolves of Devon.
Why they were so called, none knew; but it might be because that fair
county had at one time suffered most from their marauding, or because
fierce Clod the Club and some of his wild followers came from Lee on the
Devon shore.
"Bloody work, my young Lord of Wartmont! Bloody work, my lady!"
"Thank God for thee, Guy the Bow!" she responded. "Alas, my neighbors!
But who cometh there? My son, yonder is the flag of Cornwall, and none
may carry it but the prince himself. All ye stand fast, but those who
care for the hurt ones."
These, indeed, were many, for the women and children were pouring down
from the castle. With weeping and with wailing they were searching for
their own among the dead and the wounded. But even the mourners stood
almost still for a moment, as a knightly cavalcade came thundering up
the street.
The foremost horseman drew rein in front of Lady Maud and her son, and
the taller of them demanded:
"O Lady Neville of Wartmont, what is this? The prince rideth toward
Warwick. I am Walter de Maunay."
"His highness is most welcome," she said, with calm dignity. "So art
thou, Sir Walter. Around thee are the dead wolves of Devon. Some of our
own people have fallen. Would thou wert here an hour the sooner. God
save the king!"
Rapid were the questions and the answers, but the Black Prince himself,
as he was called, left all the talking to Sir Walter, while he
dismounted to study the meaning of the fray.
He had singularly keen, dark eyes, and they flashed swiftly hither and
thither, as if they were seeking to know exactly how this small battle
had been fought and won.
"And this is the famous Clod the Club?" he said. "By whose hand was this
thrust?"
"'Twas young Lord Richard," answered Guy the Bow. "Both went down, but
the Neville was little hurt. 'Twas bravely done!"
"Richard Neville," exclaimed the prince, "thou hast won honor in this!
I would that I had slain him. Thou art a good sword. The king hath need
of thee."
"He shall go with me," added Sir Walter admiringly, as he gazed down
upon the massive form of the slain robber. "Madame, give the king thy
son."
"Yea, and amen," she said. "He is the king's man. I would have him go.
And I will bide at Warwick Castle until he cometh again. Speak thou,
Richard!"
"I am the king's man," replied Richard, his face flushing. "O my mother,
bid me go with the prince. I would be a knight, as was my father, and
win my spurs before the king; but I fain would ask one favor of his
grace."
"Ask on," said the prince. "'Twere hard to refuse thee after this
gallant deed of arms."
"This work is less mine," said Richard, "than of Guy the Bow and my good
forestmen. But I trow that some of them have found unlawful marks for
other of their arrows. I ask for them the grace and pardon of the king."
"They have sinned against the king's deer," loudly laughed Sir Walter de
Maunay. "There needeth no promise. Thou hast not heard of his royal
proclamation. Free pardon hath he proclaimed to all such men as thine,
if they will march with him against the King of France. 'Tis fair pay
to every man, and the fortune of war beyond sea."
No voice responded for a moment as the archers studied one another's
faces.
"Richard," said his mother, "speak thou to them. They wait for thee."
"O Guy the Bow," said Richard, "wilt thou come with me--thou and thy
men?"
There was speech from man to man behind Guy; but it was Ben of Coventry
who said:
"Tell thy prince, Guy the Bow, that two score and more of bows like
thine will follow Richard Neville to fight for our good king."
To address the prince directly was more than Guy could do; but he spoke
out right sturdily:
"My master of Wartmont, thou hearest the speech of Ben. 'Tis mine also.
We take the pardon, and we will take the pay; and we will go as one
band, with thee for our captain."
"Aye," said another archer, "with the young Neville and Guy the Bow."
"Ye shall be the Neville's own company," responded the prince. "I like
it well. So will they do best service."
"Aye, 'tis the king's way also," added Sir Walter de Maunay; and then
the Lady of Wartmont led the way into the castle.
Richard went not forthwith, but conferred with his archers. He had care
also for the injured and the dead, and to learn the harm done in the
village and among the farms.
In a few minutes more, however, the banner of the prince was floating
gayly from a corner of the tower, to tell to all who saw that the heir
of the throne of England was under the Wartmont roof.