الفصل الفصل 10 · HOW HORDLE JOHN FOUND A MAN WHOM HE MIGHT FOLLOW.

. HOW HORDLE JOHN FOUND A MAN WHOM HE MIGHT FOLLOW.

If he might not return to Beaulieu within the year, and if his brother's

dogs were to be set upon him if he showed face upon Minstead land, then

indeed he was adrift upon earth. North, south, east, and west--he might

turn where he would, but all was equally chill and cheerless. The Abbot

had rolled ten silver crowns in a lettuce-leaf and hid them away in the

bottom of his scrip, but that would be a sorry support for twelve long

months. In all the darkness there was but the one bright spot of the

sturdy comrades whom he had left that morning; if he could find them

again all would be well. The afternoon was not very advanced, for all

that had befallen him. When a man is afoot at cock-crow much may be done

in the day. If he walked fast he might yet overtake his friends ere they

reached their destination. He pushed on therefore, now walking and now

running. As he journeyed he bit into a crust which remained from his

Beaulieu bread, and he washed it down by a draught from a woodland

stream.

It was no easy or light thing to journey through this great forest,

which was some twenty miles from east to west and a good sixteen from

Bramshaw Woods in the north to Lymington in the south. Alleyne, however,

had the good fortune to fall in with a woodman, axe upon shoulder,

trudging along in the very direction that he wished to go. With his

guidance he passed the fringe of Bolderwood Walk, famous for old ash

and yew, through Mark Ash with its giant beech-trees, and on through

the Knightwood groves, where the giant oak was already a great tree,

but only one of many comely brothers. They plodded along together, the

woodman and Alleyne, with little talk on either side, for their thoughts

were as far asunder as the poles. The peasant's gossip had been of the

hunt, of the bracken, of the gray-headed kites that had nested in Wood

Fidley, and of the great catch of herring brought back by the boats of

Pitt's Deep. The clerk's mind was on his brother, on his future--above

all on this strange, fierce, melting, beautiful woman who had broken

so suddenly into his life, and as suddenly passed out of it again. So

_distrait_ was he and so random his answers, that the woodman took

to whistling, and soon branched off upon the track to Burley, leaving

Alleyne upon the main Christchurch road.

Down this he pushed as fast as he might, hoping at every turn and rise

to catch sight of his companions of the morning. From Vinney Ridge to

Rhinefield Walk the woods grow thick and dense up to the very edges of

the track, but beyond the country opens up into broad dun-colored moors,

flecked with clumps of trees, and topping each other in long, low curves

up to the dark lines of forest in the furthest distance. Clouds of

insects danced and buzzed in the golden autumn light, and the air was

full of the piping of the song-birds. Long, glinting dragonflies shot

across the path, or hung tremulous with gauzy wings and gleaming bodies.

Once a white-necked sea eagle soared screaming high over the traveller's

head, and again a flock of brown bustards popped up from among the

bracken, and blundered away in their clumsy fashion, half running, half

flying, with strident cry and whirr of wings.

There were folk, too, to be met upon the road--beggars and couriers,

chapmen and tinkers--cheery fellows for the most part, with a rough jest

and homely greeting for each other and for Alleyne. Near Shotwood he

came upon five seamen, on their way from Poole to Southampton--rude

red-faced men, who shouted at him in a jargon which he could scarce

understand, and held out to him a great pot from which they had been

drinking--nor would they let him pass until he had dipped pannikin in

and taken a mouthful, which set him coughing and choking, with the tears

running down his cheeks. Further on he met a sturdy black-bearded man,

mounted on a brown horse, with a rosary in his right hand and a long

two-handed sword jangling against his stirrup-iron. By his black robe

and the eight-pointed cross upon his sleeve, Alleyne recognized him

as one of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem, whose

presbytery was at Baddesley. He held up two fingers as he passed, with a

“_Benedic, fili mi!_” whereat Alleyne doffed hat and bent knee, looking

with much reverence at one who had devoted his life to the overthrow of

the infidel. Poor simple lad! he had not learned yet that what men are

and what men profess to be are very wide asunder, and that the Knights

of St. John, having come into large part of the riches of the ill-fated

Templars, were very much too comfortable to think of exchanging their

palace for a tent, or the cellars of England for the thirsty deserts of

Syria. Yet ignorance may be more precious than wisdom, for Alleyne as he

walked on braced himself to a higher life by the thought of this other's

sacrifice, and strengthened himself by his example which he could scarce

have done had he known that the Hospitaller's mind ran more upon malmsey

than on Mamelukes, and on venison rather than victories.

As he pressed on the plain turned to woods once more in the region of

Wilverley Walk, and a cloud swept up from the south with the sun shining

through the chinks of it. A few great drops came pattering loudly

down, and then in a moment the steady swish of a brisk shower, with

the dripping and dropping of the leaves. Alleyne, glancing round for

shelter, saw a thick and lofty holly-bush, so hollowed out beneath that

no house could have been drier. Under this canopy of green two men were

already squatted, who waved their hands to Alleyne that he should join

them. As he approached he saw that they had five dried herrings laid

out in front of them, with a great hunch of wheaten bread and a leathern

flask full of milk, but instead of setting to at their food they

appeared to have forgot all about it, and were disputing together with

flushed faces and angry gestures. It was easy to see by their dress and

manner that they were two of those wandering students who formed about

this time so enormous a multitude in every country in Europe. The one

was long and thin, with melancholy features, while the other was fat and

sleek, with a loud voice and the air of a man who is not to be gainsaid.

“Come hither, good youth,” he cried, “come hither! _Vultus ingenui

puer_. Heed not the face of my good coz here. _Foenum habet in cornu_,

as Don Horace has it; but I warrant him harmless for all that.”

“Stint your bull's bellowing!” exclaimed the other. “If it come to

Horace, I have a line in my mind: _Loquaces si sapiat_----How doth it

run? The English o't being that a man of sense should ever avoid a great

talker. That being so, if all were men of sense then thou wouldst be a

lonesome man, coz.”

“Alas! Dicon, I fear that your logic is as bad as your philosophy or

your divinity--and God wot it would be hard to say a worse word than

that for it. For, hark ye: granting, _propter argumentum_, that I am a

talker, then the true reasoning runs that since all men of sense should

avoid me, and thou hast not avoided me, but art at the present moment

eating herrings with me under a holly-bush, ergo you are no man of

sense, which is exactly what I have been dinning into your long ears

ever since I first clapped eyes on your sunken chops.”

“Tut, tut!” cried the other. “Your tongue goes like the clapper of

a mill-wheel. Sit down here, friend, and partake of this herring.

Understand first, however, that there are certain conditions attached to

it.”

“I had hoped,” said Alleyne, falling into the humor of the twain, “that

a tranchoir of bread and a draught of milk might be attached to it.”

“Hark to him, hark to him!” cried the little fat man. “It is even thus,

Dicon! Wit, lad, is a catching thing, like the itch or the sweating

sickness. I exude it round me; it is an aura. I tell you, coz, that no

man can come within seventeen feet of me without catching a spark. Look

at your own case. A duller man never stepped, and yet within the week

you have said three things which might pass, and one thing the day we

left Fordingbridge which I should not have been ashamed of myself.”

“Enough, rattle-pate, enough!” said the other. “The milk you shall have

and the bread also, friend, together with the herring, but you must hold

the scales between us.”

“If he hold the herring he holds the scales, my sapient brother,” cried

the fat man. “But I pray you, good youth, to tell us whether you are a

learned clerk, and, if so, whether you have studied at Oxenford or at

Paris.”

“I have some small stock of learning,” Alleyne answered, picking at his

herring, “but I have been at neither of these places. I was bred amongst

the Cistercian monks at Beaulieu Abbey.”

“Pooh, pooh!” they cried both together. “What sort of an upbringing is

that?”

“_Non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum_,” quoth Alleyne.

“Come, brother Stephen, he hath some tincture of letters,” said the

melancholy man more hopefully. “He may be the better judge, since he

hath no call to side with either of us. Now, attention, friend, and let

your ears work as well as your nether jaw. _Judex damnatur_--you know

the old saw. Here am I upholding the good fame of the learned Duns

Scotus against the foolish quibblings and poor silly reasonings of

Willie Ockham.”

“While I,” quoth the other loudly, “do maintain the good sense

and extraordinary wisdom of that most learned William against the

crack-brained fantasies of the muddy Scotchman, who hath hid such little

wit as he has under so vast a pile of words, that it is like one drop of

Gascony in a firkin of ditch-water. Solomon his wisdom would not suffice

to say what the rogue means.”

“Certes, Stephen Hapgood, his wisdom doth not suffice,” cried the other.

“It is as though a mole cried out against the morning star, because he

could not see it. But our dispute, friend, is concerning the nature of

that subtle essence which we call thought. For I hold with the learned

Scotus that thought is in very truth a thing, even as vapor or fumes,

or many other substances which our gross bodily eyes are blind to. For,

look you, that which produces a thing must be itself a thing, and if a

man's thought may produce a written book, then must thought itself be a

material thing, even as the book is. Have I expressed it? Do I make it

plain?”

“Whereas I hold,” shouted the other, “with my revered preceptor,

_doctor, praeclarus et excellentissimus_, that all things are but

thought; for when thought is gone I prythee where are the things then?

Here are trees about us, and I see them because I think I see them, but

if I have swooned, or sleep, or am in wine, then, my thought having gone

forth from me, lo the trees go forth also. How now, coz, have I touched

thee on the raw?”

Alleyne sat between them munching his bread, while the twain disputed

across his knees, leaning forward with flushed faces and darting

hands, in all the heat of argument. Never had he heard such jargon of

scholastic philosophy, such fine-drawn distinctions, such cross-fire of

major and minor, proposition, syllogism, attack and refutation. Question

clattered upon answer like a sword on a buckler. The ancients, the

fathers of the Church, the moderns, the Scriptures, the Arabians, were

each sent hurtling against the other, while the rain still dripped and

the dark holly-leaves glistened with the moisture. At last the fat man

seemed to weary of it, for he set to work quietly upon his meal, while

his opponent, as proud as the rooster who is left unchallenged upon the

midden, crowed away in a last long burst of quotation and deduction.

Suddenly, however, his eyes dropped upon his food, and he gave a howl of

dismay.

“You double thief!” he cried, “you have eaten my herrings, and I without

bite or sup since morning.”

“That,” quoth the other complacently, “was my final argument, my

crowning effort, or _peroratio_, as the orators have it. For, coz, since

all thoughts are things, you have but to think a pair of herrings, and

then conjure up a pottle of milk wherewith to wash them down.”

“A brave piece of reasoning,” cried the other, “and I know of but one

reply to it.” On which, leaning forward, he caught his comrade a rousing

smack across his rosy cheek. “Nay, take it not amiss,” he said, “since

all things are but thoughts, then that also is but a thought and may be

disregarded.”

This last argument, however, by no means commended itself to the pupil

of Ockham, who plucked a great stick from the ground and signified his

dissent by smiting the realist over the pate with it. By good fortune,

the wood was so light and rotten that it went to a thousand splinters,

but Alleyne thought it best to leave the twain to settle the matter at

their leisure, the more so as the sun was shining brightly once

more. Looking back down the pool-strewn road, he saw the two excited

philosophers waving their hands and shouting at each other, but their

babble soon became a mere drone in the distance, and a turn in the road

hid them from his sight.

And now after passing Holmesley Walk and the Wooton Heath, the forest

began to shred out into scattered belts of trees, with gleam of

corn-field and stretch of pasture-land between. Here and there by the

wayside stood little knots of wattle-and-daub huts with shock-haired

laborers lounging by the doors and red-cheeked children sprawling in

the roadway. Back among the groves he could see the high gable ends and

thatched roofs of the franklins' houses, on whose fields these men found

employment, or more often a thick dark column of smoke marked their

position and hinted at the coarse plenty within. By these signs Alleyne

knew that he was on the very fringe of the forest, and therefore no

great way from Christchurch. The sun was lying low in the west and

shooting its level rays across the long sweep of rich green country,

glinting on the white-fleeced sheep and throwing long shadows from the

red kine who waded knee-deep in the juicy clover. Right glad was the

traveller to see the high tower of Christchurch Priory gleaming in the

mellow evening light, and gladder still when, on rounding a corner, he

came upon his comrades of the morning seated astraddle upon a fallen

tree. They had a flat space before them, on which they alternately threw

little square pieces of bone, and were so intent upon their occupation

that they never raised eye as he approached them. He observed with

astonishment, as he drew near, that the archer's bow was on John's

back, the archer's sword by John's side, and the steel cap laid upon the

tree-trunk between them.

“Mort de ma vie!” Aylward shouted, looking down at the dice. “Never had

I such cursed luck. A murrain on the bones! I have not thrown a good

main since I left Navarre. A one and a three! En avant, camarade!”

“Four and three,” cried Hordle John, counting on his great fingers,

“that makes seven. Ho, archer, I have thy cap! Now have at thee for thy

jerkin!”

“Mon Dieu!” he growled, “I am like to reach Christchurch in my shirt.”

Then suddenly glancing up, “Hola, by the splendor of heaven, here is our

cher petit! Now, by my ten finger bones! this is a rare sight to mine

eyes.” He sprang up and threw his arms round Alleyne's neck, while

John, no less pleased, but more backward and Saxon in his habits, stood

grinning and bobbing by the wayside, with his newly won steel cap stuck

wrong side foremost upon his tangle of red hair.

“Hast come to stop?” cried the bowman, patting Alleyne all over in his

delight. “Shall not get away from us again!”

“I wish no better,” said he, with a pringling in the eyes at this hearty

greeting.

“Well said, lad!” cried big John. “We three shall to the wars together,

and the devil may fly away with the Abbot of Beaulieu! But your feet

and hosen are all besmudged. Hast been in the water, or I am the more

mistaken.”

“I have in good sooth,” Alleyne answered, and then as they journeyed

on their way he told them the many things that had befallen him, his

meeting with the villein, his sight of the king, his coming upon his

brother, with all the tale of the black welcome and of the fair damsel.

They strode on either side, each with an ear slanting towards him, but

ere he had come to the end of his story the bowman had spun round upon

his heel, and was hastening back the way they had come, breathing loudly

through his nose.

“What then?” asked Alleyne, trotting after him and gripping at his

jerkin.

“I am back for Minstead, lad.”

“And why, in the name of sense?”

“To thrust a handful of steel into the Socman. What! hale a demoiselle

against her will, and then loose dogs at his own brother! Let me go!”

“Nenny, nenny!” cried Alleyne, laughing. “There was no scath done. Come

back, friend”--and so, by mingled pushing and entreaties, they got his

head round for Christchurch once more. Yet he walked with his chin upon

his shoulder, until, catching sight of a maiden by a wayside well, the

smiles came back to his face and peace to his heart.

“But you,” said Alleyne, “there have been changes with you also. Why

should not the workman carry his tools? Where are bow and sword and

cap--and why so warlike, John?”

“It is a game which friend Aylward hath been a-teaching of me.”

“And I found him an over-apt pupil,” grumbled the bowman. “He hath

stripped me as though I had fallen into the hands of the tardvenus. But,

by my hilt! you must render them back to me, camarade, lest you bring

discredit upon my mission, and I will pay you for them at armorers'

prices.”

“Take them back, man, and never heed the pay,” said John. “I did but

wish to learn the feel of them, since I am like to have such trinkets

hung to my own girdle for some years to come.”

“Ma foi, he was born for a free companion!” cried Aylward, “He hath the

very trick of speech and turn of thought. I take them back then, and

indeed it gives me unease not to feel my yew-stave tapping against my

leg bone. But see, mes garcons, on this side of the church rises the

square and darkling tower of Earl Salisbury's castle, and even from here

I seem to see on yonder banner the red roebuck of the Montacutes.”

“Red upon white,” said Alleyne, shading his eyes; “but whether roebuck

or no is more than I could vouch. How black is the great tower, and

how bright the gleam of arms upon the wall! See below the flag, how it

twinkles like a star!”

“Aye, it is the steel head-piece of the watchman,” remarked the archer.

“But we must on, if we are to be there before the drawbridge rises at

the vespers bugle; for it is likely that Sir Nigel, being so renowned a

soldier, may keep hard discipline within the walls, and let no man enter

after sundown.” So saying, he quickened his pace, and the three comrades

were soon close to the straggling and broad-spread town which centered

round the noble church and the frowning castle.

It chanced on that very evening that Sir Nigel Loring, having supped

before sunset, as was his custom, and having himself seen that Pommers

and Cadsand, his two war-horses, with the thirteen hacks, the five

jennets, my lady's three palfreys, and the great dapple-gray roussin,

had all their needs supplied, had taken his dogs for an evening

breather. Sixty or seventy of them, large and small, smooth and

shaggy--deer-hound, boar-hound, blood-hound, wolf-hound, mastiff, alaun,

talbot, lurcher, terrier, spaniel--snapping, yelling and whining, with

score of lolling tongues and waving tails, came surging down the narrow

lane which leads from the Twynham kennels to the bank of Avon. Two

russet-clad varlets, with loud halloo and cracking whips, walked

thigh-deep amid the swarm, guiding, controlling, and urging. Behind

came Sir Nigel himself, with Lady Loring upon his arm, the pair walking

slowly and sedately, as befitted both their age and their condition,

while they watched with a smile in their eyes the scrambling crowd in

front of them. They paused, however, at the bridge, and, leaning their

elbows upon the stonework, they stood looking down at their own faces in

the glassy stream, and at the swift flash of speckled trout against the

tawny gravel.

Sir Nigel was a slight man of poor stature, with soft lisping voice and

gentle ways. So short was he that his wife, who was no very tall woman,

had the better of him by the breadth of three fingers. His sight having

been injured in his early wars by a basketful of lime which had been

emptied over him when he led the Earl of Derby's stormers up the breach

at Bergerac, he had contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking,

peering expression of face. His age was six and forty, but the constant

practice of arms, together with a cleanly life, had preserved his

activity and endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he seemed to

have the slight limbs and swift grace of a boy. His face, however, was

tanned of a dull yellow tint, with a leathery, poreless look, which

spoke of rough outdoor doings, and the little pointed beard which he

wore, in deference to the prevailing fashion, was streaked and shot with

gray. His features were small, delicate, and regular, with clear-cut,

curving nose, and eyes which jutted forward from the lids. His dress was

simple and yet spruce. A Flandrish hat of beevor, bearing in the band

the token of Our Lady of Embrun, was drawn low upon the left side to

hide that ear which had been partly shorn from his head by a Flemish

man-at-arms in a camp broil before Tournay. His cote-hardie, or tunic,

and trunk-hosen were of a purple plum color, with long weepers which

hung from either sleeve to below his knees. His shoes were of red

leather, daintily pointed at the toes, but not yet prolonged to the

extravagant lengths which the succeeding reign was to bring into

fashion. A gold-embroidered belt of knighthood encircled his loins, with

his arms, five roses gules on a field argent, cunningly worked upon the

clasp. So stood Sir Nigel Loring upon the bridge of Avon, and talked

lightly with his lady.

And, certes, had the two visages alone been seen, and the stranger been

asked which were the more likely to belong to the bold warrior whose

name was loved by the roughest soldiery of Europe, he had assuredly

selected the lady's. Her face was large and square and red, with fierce,

thick brows, and the eyes of one who was accustomed to rule. Taller and

broader than her husband, her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined

tippet, could not conceal the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her

figure. It was the age of martial women. The deeds of black Agnes of

Dunbar, of Lady Salisbury and of the Countess of Montfort, were still

fresh in the public minds. With such examples before them the wives of

the English captains had become as warlike as their mates, and ordered

their castles in their absence with the prudence and discipline of

veteran seneschals. Right easy were the Montacutes of their Castle

of Twynham, and little had they to dread from roving galley or French

squadron, while Lady Mary Loring had the ordering of it. Yet even in

that age it was thought that, though a lady might have a soldier's

heart, it was scarce as well that she should have a soldier's face.

There were men who said that of all the stern passages and daring deeds

by which Sir Nigel Loring had proved the true temper of his courage, not

the least was his wooing and winning of so forbidding a dame.

“I tell you, my fair lord,” she was saying, “that it is no fit training

for a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles singing a French

rondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de Mayence, as I found her

yesternight, pretending sleep, the artful, with the corner of the scroll

thrusting forth from under her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of

the priory, forsooth--that is ever her answer. How shall all this help

her when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all

agape for beef and beer?”

“True, my sweet bird, true,” answered the knight, picking a comfit from

his gold drageoir. “The maid is like the young filly, which kicks heels

and plunges for very lust of life. Give her time, dame, give her time.”

“Well, I know that my father would have given me, not time, but a good

hazel-stick across my shoulders. Ma foi! I know not what the world is

coming to, when young maids may flout their elders. I wonder that you do

not correct her, my fair lord.”

“Nay, my heart's comfort, I never raised hand to woman yet, and it would

be a passing strange thing if I began on my own flesh and blood. It was

a woman's hand which cast this lime into mine eyes, and though I saw

her stoop, and might well have stopped her ere she threw, I deemed it

unworthy of my knighthood to hinder or balk one of her sex.”

“The hussy!” cried Lady Loring clenching her broad right hand. “I would

I had been at the side of her!”

“And so would I, since you would have been the nearer me my own. But

I doubt not that you are right, and that Maude's wings need clipping,

which I may leave in your hands when I am gone, for, in sooth, this

peaceful life is not for me, and were it not for your gracious kindness

and loving care I could not abide it a week. I hear that there is talk

of warlike muster at Bordeaux once more, and by St. Paul! it would be a

new thing if the lions of England and the red pile of Chandos were to

be seen in the field, and the roses of Loring were not waving by their

side.”

“Now woe worth me but I feared it!” cried she, with the color all struck

from her face. “I have noted your absent mind, your kindling eye, your

trying and riveting of old harness. Consider my sweet lord, that you

have already won much honor, that we have seen but little of each other,

that you bear upon your body the scar of over twenty wounds received

in I know not how many bloody encounters. Have you not done enough for

honor and the public cause?”

“My lady, when our liege lord, the king, at three score years, and my

Lord Chandos at three-score and ten, are blithe and ready to lay lance

in rest for England's cause, it would ill be-seem me to prate of service

done. It is sooth that I have received seven and twenty wounds. There is

the more reason that I should be thankful that I am still long of breath

and sound in limb. I have also seen some bickering and scuffling. Six

great land battles I count, with four upon sea, and seven and fifty

onfalls, skirmishes and bushments. I have held two and twenty towns,

and I have been at the intaking of thirty-one. Surely then it would

be bitter shame to me, and also to you, since my fame is yours, that I

should now hold back if a man's work is to be done. Besides, bethink

you how low is our purse, with bailiff and reeve ever croaking of empty

farms and wasting lands. Were it not for this constableship which the

Earl of Salisbury hath bestowed upon us we could scarce uphold the state

which is fitting to our degree. Therefore, my sweeting, there is the

more need that I should turn to where there is good pay to be earned and

brave ransoms to be won.”

“Ah, my dear lord,” quoth she, with sad, weary eyes. “I thought that at

last I had you to mine own self, even though your youth had been spent

afar from my side. Yet my voice, as I know well, should speed you on to

glory and renown, not hold you back when fame is to be won. Yet what can

I say, for all men know that your valor needs the curb and not the

spur. It goes to my heart that you should ride forth now a mere knight

bachelor, when there is no noble in the land who hath so good a claim to

the square pennon, save only that you have not the money to uphold it.”

“And whose fault that, my sweet bird?” said he.

“No fault, my fair lord, but a virtue: for how many rich ransoms have

you won, and yet have scattered the crowns among page and archer and

varlet, until in a week you had not as much as would buy food and

forage. It is a most knightly largesse, and yet withouten money how can

man rise?”

“Dirt and dross!” cried he.

“What matter rise or fall, so that duty be done and honor gained.

Banneret or bachelor, square pennon or forked, I would not give a denier

for the difference, and the less since Sir John Chandos, chosen flower

of English chivalry, is himself but a humble knight. But meanwhile fret

not thyself, my heart's dove, for it is like that there may be no war

waged, and we must await the news. But here are three strangers, and

one, as I take it, a soldier fresh from service. It is likely that he

may give us word of what is stirring over the water.”

Lady Loring, glancing up, saw in the fading light three companions

walking abreast down the road, all gray with dust, and stained with

travel, yet chattering merrily between themselves. He in the midst was

young and comely, with boyish open face and bright gray eyes, which

glanced from right to left as though he found the world around him both

new and pleasing. To his right walked a huge red-headed man, with

broad smile and merry twinkle, whose clothes seemed to be bursting and

splitting at every seam, as though he were some lusty chick who was

breaking bravely from his shell. On the other side, with his knotted

hand upon the young man's shoulder, came a stout and burly archer, brown

and fierce eyed, with sword at belt and long yellow yew-stave peeping

over his shoulder. Hard face, battered head piece, dinted brigandine,

with faded red lion of St. George ramping on a discolored ground, all

proclaimed as plainly as words that he was indeed from the land of war.

He looked keenly at Sir Nigel as he approached, and then, plunging his

hand under his breastplate, he stepped up to him with a rough, uncouth

bow to the lady.

“Your pardon, fair sir,” said he, “but I know you the moment I clap eyes

on you, though in sooth I have seen you oftener in steel than in velvet.

I have drawn string besides you at La Roche-d'Errien, Romorantin,

Maupertuis, Nogent, Auray, and other places.”

“Then, good archer, I am right glad to welcome you to Twynham Castle,

and in the steward's room you will find provant for yourself and

comrades. To me also your face is known, though mine eyes play such

tricks with me that I can scarce be sure of my own squire. Rest awhile,

and you shall come to the hall anon and tell us what is passing in

France, for I have heard that it is likely that our pennons may flutter

to the south of the great Spanish mountains ere another year be passed.”

“There was talk of it in Bordeaux,” answered the archer, “and I

saw myself that the armorers and smiths were as busy as rats in a

wheat-rick. But I bring you this letter from the valiant Gascon knight,

Sir Claude Latour. And to you, Lady,” he added after a pause, “I bring

from him this box of red sugar of Narbonne, with every courteous and

knightly greeting which a gallant cavalier may make to a fair and noble

dame.”

This little speech had cost the blunt bowman much pains and planning;

but he might have spared his breath, for the lady was quite as much

absorbed as her lord in the letter, which they held between them, a

hand on either corner, spelling it out very slowly, with drawn brows and

muttering lips. As they read it, Alleyne, who stood with Hordle John a

few paces back from their comrade, saw the lady catch her breath, while

the knight laughed softly to himself.

“You see, dear heart,” said he, “that they will not leave the old dog

in his kennel when the game is afoot. And what of this White Company,

archer?”

“Ah, sir, you speak of dogs,” cried Aylward; “but there are a pack

of lusty hounds who are ready for any quarry, if they have but a good

huntsman to halloo them on. Sir, we have been in the wars together, and

I have seen many a brave following but never such a set of woodland boys

as this. They do but want you at their head, and who will bar the way to

them!”

“Pardieu!” said Sir Nigel, “if they are all like their messenger, they

are indeed men of whom a leader may be proud. Your name, good archer?”

“Sam Aylward, sir, of the Hundred of Easebourne and the Rape of

Chichester.”

“And this giant behind you?”

“He is big John, of Hordle, a forest man, who hath now taken service in

the Company.”

“A proper figure of a man at-arms,” said the little knight. “Why, man,

you are no chicken, yet I warrant him the stronger man. See to that

great stone from the coping which hath fallen upon the bridge. Four of

my lazy varlets strove this day to carry it hence. I would that you two

could put them to shame by budging it, though I fear that I overtask

you, for it is of a grievous weight.”

He pointed as he spoke to a huge rough-hewn block which lay by the

roadside, deep sunken from its own weight in the reddish earth. The

archer approached it, rolling back the sleeves of his jerkin, but with

no very hopeful countenance, for indeed it was a mighty rock. John,

however, put him aside with his left hand, and, stooping over the stone,

he plucked it single-handed from its soft bed and swung it far into the

stream. There it fell with mighty splash, one jagged end peaking out

above the surface, while the waters bubbled and foamed with far-circling

eddy.

“Good lack!” cried Sir Nigel, and “Good lack!” cried his lady, while

John stood laughing and wiping the caked dirt from his fingers.

“I have felt his arms round my ribs,” said the bowman, “and they crackle

yet at the thought of it. This other comrade of mine is a right learned

clerk, for all that he is so young, hight Alleyne, the son of Edric,

brother to the Socman of Minstead.”

“Young man,” quoth Sir Nigel, sternly, “if you are of the same way of

thought as your brother, you may not pass under portcullis of mine.”

“Nay, fair sir,” cried Aylward hastily, “I will be pledge for it that

they have no thought in common; for this very day his brother hath set

his dogs upon him, and driven him from his lands.”

“And are you, too, of the White Company?” asked Sir Nigel. “Hast had

small experience of war, if I may judge by your looks and bearing.”

“I would fain to France with my friends here,” Alleyne answered; “but I

am a man of peace--a reader, exorcist, acolyte, and clerk.”

“That need not hinder,” quoth Sir Nigel.

“No, fair sir,” cried the bowman joyously. “Why, I myself have served

two terms with Arnold de Cervolles, he whom they called the archpriest.

By my hilt! I have seen him ere now, with monk's gown trussed to his

knees, over his sandals in blood in the fore-front of the battle. Yet,

ere the last string had twanged, he would be down on his four bones

among the stricken, and have them all houseled and shriven, as quick as

shelling peas. Ma foi! there were those who wished that he would have

less care for their souls and a little more for their bodies!”

“It is well to have a learned clerk in every troop,” said Sir Nigel. “By

St. Paul, there are men so caitiff that they think more of a scrivener's

pen than of their lady's smile, and do their devoir in hopes that they

may fill a line in a chronicle or make a tag to a jongleur's romance. I

remember well that, at the siege of Retters, there was a little, sleek,

fat clerk of the name of Chaucer, who was so apt at rondel, sirvente, or

tonson, that no man dare give back a foot from the walls, lest he find

it all set down in his rhymes and sung by every underling and varlet

in the camp. But, my soul's bird, you hear me prate as though all were

decided, when I have not yet taken counsel either with you or with my

lady mother. Let us to the chamber, while these strangers find such fare

as pantry and cellar may furnish.”

“The night air strikes chill,” said the lady, and turned down the road

with her hand upon her lord's arm. The three comrades dropped behind and

followed: Aylward much the lighter for having accomplished his mission,

Alleyne full of wonderment at the humble bearing of so renowned

a captain, and John loud with snorts and sneers, which spoke his

disappointment and contempt.

“What ails the man?” asked Aylward in surprise.

“I have been cozened and bejaped,” quoth he gruffly.

“By whom, Sir Samson the strong?”

“By thee, Sir Balaam the false prophet.”

“By my hilt!” cried the archer, “though I be not Balaam, yet I hold

converse with the very creature that spake to him. What is amiss, then,

and how have I played you false?”

“Why, marry, did you not say, and Alleyne here will be my witness, that,

if I would hie to the wars with you, you would place me under a leader

who was second to none in all England for valor? Yet here you bring me

to a shred of a man, peaky and ill-nourished, with eyes like a moulting

owl, who must needs, forsooth, take counsel with his mother ere he

buckle sword to girdle.”

“Is that where the shoe galls?” cried the bowman, and laughed aloud.

“I will ask you what you think of him three months hence, if we be all

alive; for sure I am that----”

Aylward's words were interrupted by an extraordinary hubbub which broke

out that instant some little way down the street in the direction of the

Priory. There was deep-mouthed shouting of men, frightened shrieks of

women, howling and barking of curs, and over all a sullen, thunderous

rumble, indescribably menacing and terrible. Round the corner of the

narrow street there came rushing a brace of whining dogs with tails

tucked under their legs, and after them a white-faced burgher, with

outstretched hands and wide-spread fingers, his hair all abristle and

his eyes glinting back from one shoulder to the other, as though some

great terror were at his very heels. “Fly, my lady, fly!” he screeched,

and whizzed past them like bolt from bow; while close behind came

lumbering a huge black bear, with red tongue lolling from his mouth, and

a broken chain jangling behind him. To right and left the folk flew for

arch and doorway. Hordle John caught up the Lady Loring as though

she had been a feather, and sprang with her into an open porch; while

Aylward, with a whirl of French oaths, plucked at his quiver and tried

to unsling his bow. Alleyne, all unnerved at so strange and unwonted a

sight, shrunk up against the wall with his eyes fixed upon the frenzied

creature, which came bounding along with ungainly speed, looking the

larger in the uncertain light, its huge jaws agape, with blood and

slaver trickling to the ground. Sir Nigel alone, unconscious to all

appearance of the universal panic, walked with unfaltering step up

the centre of the road, a silken handkerchief in one hand and his gold

comfit-box in the other. It sent the blood cold through Alleyne's veins

to see that as they came together--the man and the beast--the creature

reared up, with eyes ablaze with fear and hate, and whirled its great

paws above the knight to smite him to the earth. He, however, blinking

with puckered eyes, reached up his kerchief, and flicked the beast twice

across the snout with it. “Ah, saucy! saucy,” quoth he, with gentle

chiding; on which the bear, uncertain and puzzled, dropped its four legs

to earth again, and, waddling back, was soon swathed in ropes by the

bear-ward and a crowd of peasants who had been in close pursuit.

A scared man was the keeper; for, having chained the brute to a stake

while he drank a stoup of ale at the inn, it had been baited by stray

curs, until, in wrath and madness, it had plucked loose the chain, and

smitten or bitten all who came in its path. Most scared of all was he

to find that the creature had come nigh to harm the Lord and Lady of the

castle, who had power to place him in the stretch-neck or to have the

skin scourged from his shoulders. Yet, when he came with bowed head

and humble entreaty for forgiveness, he was met with a handful of

small silver from Sir Nigel, whose dame, however, was less charitably

disposed, being much ruffled in her dignity by the manner in which she

had been hustled from her lord's side.

As they passed through the castle gate, John plucked at Aylward's

sleeve, and the two fell behind.

“I must crave your pardon, comrade,” said he, bluntly. “I was a fool not

to know that a little rooster may be the gamest. I believe that this man

is indeed a leader whom we may follow.”