Chapter Chapter 12 · HOW ALLEYNE LEARNED MORE THAN HE COULD TEACH.

. HOW ALLEYNE LEARNED MORE THAN HE COULD TEACH.

And now there came a time of stir and bustle, of furbishing of arms and

clang of hammer from all the southland counties. Fast spread the tidings

from thorpe to thorpe and from castle to castle, that the old game was

afoot once more, and the lions and lilies to be in the field with the

early spring. Great news this for that fierce old country, whose trade

for a generation had been war, her exports archers and her imports

prisoners. For six years her sons had chafed under an unwonted peace.

Now they flew to their arms as to their birthright. The old soldiers of

Crecy, of Nogent, and of Poictiers were glad to think that they might

hear the war-trumpet once more, and gladder still were the hot youth who

had chafed for years under the martial tales of their sires. To pierce

the great mountains of the south, to fight the tamers of the fiery

Moors, to follow the greatest captain of the age, to find sunny

cornfields and vineyards, when the marches of Picardy and Normandy were

as rare and bleak as the Jedburgh forests--here was a golden prospect

for a race of warriors. From sea to sea there was stringing of bows in

the cottage and clang of steel in the castle.

Nor did it take long for every stronghold to pour forth its cavalry, and

every hamlet its footmen. Through the late autumn and the early winter

every road and country lane resounded with nakir and trumpet, with the

neigh of the war-horse and the clatter of marching men. From the Wrekin

in the Welsh marches to the Cotswolds in the west or Butser in the

south, there was no hill-top from which the peasant might not have seen

the bright shimmer of arms, the toss and flutter of plume and of pensil.

From bye-path, from woodland clearing, or from winding moor-side track

these little rivulets of steel united in the larger roads to form a

broader stream, growing ever fuller and larger as it approached the

nearest or most commodious seaport. And there all day, and day after

day, there was bustle and crowding and labor, while the great ships

loaded up, and one after the other spread their white pinions and darted

off to the open sea, amid the clash of cymbals and rolling of drums and

lusty shouts of those who went and of those who waited. From Orwell to

the Dart there was no port which did not send forth its little fleet,

gay with streamer and bunting, as for a joyous festival. Thus in the

season of the waning days the might of England put forth on to the

waters.

In the ancient and populous county of Hampshire there was no lack of

leaders or of soldiers for a service which promised either honor or

profit. In the north the Saracen's head of the Brocas and the scarlet

fish of the De Roches were waving over a strong body of archers from

Holt, Woolmer, and Harewood forests. De Borhunte was up in the east, and

Sir John de Montague in the west. Sir Luke de Ponynges, Sir Thomas West,

Sir Maurice de Bruin, Sir Arthur Lipscombe, Sir Walter Ramsey, and stout

Sir Oliver Buttesthorn were all marching south with levies from Andover,

Arlesford, Odiham and Winchester, while from Sussex came Sir John

Clinton, Sir Thomas Cheyne, and Sir John Fallislee, with a troop of

picked men-at-arms, making for their port at Southampton. Greatest of

all the musters, however, was that of Twynham Castle, for the name and

the fame of Sir Nigel Loring drew towards him the keenest and boldest

spirits, all eager to serve under so valiant a leader. Archers from the

New Forest and the Forest of Bere, billmen from the pleasant country

which is watered by the Stour, the Avon, and the Itchen, young cavaliers

from the ancient Hampshire houses, all were pushing for Christchurch to

take service under the banner of the five scarlet roses.

And now, could Sir Nigel have shown the bachelles of land which the laws

of rank required, he might well have cut his forked pennon into a

square banner, and taken such a following into the field as would have

supported the dignity of a banneret. But poverty was heavy upon him, his

land was scant, his coffers empty, and the very castle which covered him

the holding of another. Sore was his heart when he saw rare bowmen and

war-hardened spearmen turned away from his gates, for the lack of the

money which might equip and pay them. Yet the letter which Aylward had

brought him gave him powers which he was not slow to use. In it Sir

Claude Latour, the Gascon lieutenant of the White Company, assured him

that there remained in his keeping enough to fit out a hundred archers

and twenty men-at-arms, which, joined to the three hundred veteran

companions already in France, would make a force which any leader might

be proud to command. Carefully and sagaciously the veteran knight chose

out his men from the swarm of volunteers. Many an anxious consultation

he held with Black Simon, Sam Aylward, and other of his more experienced

followers, as to who should come and who should stay. By All Saints'

day, however ere the last leaves had fluttered to earth in the Wilverley

and Holmesley glades, he had filled up his full numbers, and mustered

under his banner as stout a following of Hampshire foresters as ever

twanged their war-bows. Twenty men-at-arms, too, well mounted and

equipped, formed the cavalry of the party, while young Peter Terlake of

Fareham, and Walter Ford of Botley, the martial sons of martial sires,

came at their own cost to wait upon Sir Nigel and to share with Alleyne

Edricson the duties of his squireship.

Yet, even after the enrolment, there was much to be done ere the party

could proceed upon its way. For armor, swords, and lances, there was no

need to take much forethought, for they were to be had both better and

cheaper in Bordeaux than in England. With the long-bow, however, it was

different. Yew staves indeed might be got in Spain, but it was well to

take enough and to spare with them. Then three spare cords should be

carried for each bow, with a great store of arrow-heads, besides the

brigandines of chain mail, the wadded steel caps, and the brassarts or

arm-guards, which were the proper equipment of the archer. Above all,

the women for miles round were hard at work cutting the white surcoats

which were the badge of the Company, and adorning them with the red lion

of St. George upon the centre of the breast. When all was completed and

the muster called in the castle yard the oldest soldier of the French

wars was fain to confess that he had never looked upon a better equipped

or more warlike body of men, from the old knight with his silk jupon,

sitting his great black war-horse in the front of them, to Hordle John,

the giant recruit, who leaned carelessly upon a huge black bow-stave in

the rear. Of the six score, fully half had seen service before, while a

fair sprinkling were men who had followed the wars all their lives, and

had a hand in those battles which had made the whole world ring with the

fame and the wonder of the island infantry.

Six long weeks were taken in these preparations, and it was close on

Martinmas ere all was ready for a start. Nigh two months had Alleyne

Edricson been in Castle Twynham--months which were fated to turn the

whole current of his life, to divert it from that dark and lonely bourne

towards which it tended, and to guide it into freer and more sunlit

channels. Already he had learned to bless his father for that wise

provision which had made him seek to know the world ere he had ventured

to renounce it.

For it was a different place from that which he had pictured--very

different from that which he had heard described when the master of the

novices held forth to his charges upon the ravening wolves who lurked

for them beyond the peaceful folds of Beaulieu. There was cruelty in it,

doubtless, and lust and sin and sorrow; but were there not virtues to

atone, robust positive virtues which did not shrink from temptation,

which held their own in all the rough blasts of the work-a-day world?

How colorless by contrast appeared the sinlessness which came from

inability to sin, the conquest which was attained by flying from the

enemy! Monk-bred as he was, Alleyne had native shrewdness and a mind

which was young enough to form new conclusions and to outgrow old

ones. He could not fail to see that the men with whom he was thrown in

contact, rough-tongued, fierce and quarrelsome as they were, were yet of

deeper nature and of more service in the world than the ox-eyed brethren

who rose and ate and slept from year's end to year's end in their own

narrow, stagnant circle of existence. Abbot Berghersh was a good man,

but how was he better than this kindly knight, who lived as simple a

life, held as lofty and inflexible an ideal of duty, and did with all

his fearless heart whatever came to his hand to do? In turning from the

service of the one to that of the other, Alleyne could not feel that

he was lowering his aims in life. True that his gentle and thoughtful

nature recoiled from the grim work of war, yet in those days of martial

orders and militant brotherhoods there was no gulf fixed betwixt the

priest and the soldier. The man of God and the man of the sword might

without scandal be united in the same individual. Why then should he,

a mere clerk, have scruples when so fair a chance lay in his way of

carrying out the spirit as well as the letter of his father's provision.

Much struggle it cost him, anxious spirit-questionings and midnight

prayings, with many a doubt and a misgiving; but the issue was that ere

he had been three days in Castle Twynham he had taken service under Sir

Nigel, and had accepted horse and harness, the same to be paid for out

of his share of the profits of the expedition. Henceforth for seven

hours a day he strove in the tilt-yard to qualify himself to be a worthy

squire to so worthy a knight. Young, supple and active, with all the

pent energies from years of pure and healthy living, it was not long

before he could manage his horse and his weapon well enough to earn

an approving nod from critical men-at-arms, or to hold his own against

Terlake and Ford, his fellow-servitors.

But were there no other considerations which swayed him from the

cloisters towards the world? So complex is the human spirit that it can

itself scarce discern the deep springs which impel it to action. Yet

to Alleyne had been opened now a side of life of which he had been as

innocent as a child, but one which was of such deep import that it could

not fail to influence him in choosing his path. A woman, in monkish

precepts, had been the embodiment and concentration of what was

dangerous and evil--a focus whence spread all that was to be dreaded and

avoided. So defiling was their presence that a true Cistercian might

not raise his eyes to their face or touch their finger-tips under ban of

church and fear of deadly sin. Yet here, day after day for an hour

after nones, and for an hour before vespers, he found himself in close

communion with three maidens, all young, all fair, and all therefore

doubly dangerous from the monkish standpoint. Yet he found that in their

presence he was conscious of a quick sympathy, a pleasant ease, a ready

response to all that was most gentle and best in himself, which filled

his soul with a vague and new-found joy.

And yet the Lady Maude Loring was no easy pupil to handle. An older and

more world-wise man might have been puzzled by her varying moods, her

sudden prejudices, her quick resentment at all constraint and authority.

Did a subject interest her, was there space in it for either romance

or imagination, she would fly through it with her subtle, active mind,

leaving her two fellow-students and even her teacher toiling behind her.

On the other hand, were there dull patience needed with steady toil and

strain of memory, no single fact could by any driving be fixed in her

mind. Alleyne might talk to her of the stories of old gods and heroes,

of gallant deeds and lofty aims, or he might hold forth upon moon and

stars, and let his fancy wander over the hidden secrets of the universe,

and he would have a rapt listener with flushed cheeks and eloquent eyes,

who could repeat after him the very words which had fallen from his

lips. But when it came to almagest and astrolabe, the counting of

figures and reckoning of epicycles, away would go her thoughts to horse

and hound, and a vacant eye and listless face would warn the teacher

that he had lost his hold upon his scholar. Then he had but to bring out

the old romance book from the priory, with befingered cover of sheepskin

and gold letters upon a purple ground, to entice her wayward mind back

to the paths of learning.

At times, too, when the wild fit was upon her, she would break into

pertness and rebel openly against Alleyne's gentle firmness. Yet he

would jog quietly on with his teachings, taking no heed to her mutiny,

until suddenly she would be conquered by his patience, and break into

self-revilings a hundred times stronger than her fault demanded. It

chanced however that, on one of these mornings when the evil mood was

upon her, Agatha the young tire-woman, thinking to please her mistress,

began also to toss her head and make tart rejoinder to the teacher's

questions. In an instant the Lady Maude had turned upon her two blazing

eyes and a face which was blanched with anger.

“You would dare!” said she. “You would dare!” The frightened tire-woman

tried to excuse herself. “But my fair lady,” she stammered, “what have I

done? I have said no more than I heard.”

“You would dare!” repeated the lady in a choking voice. “You, a

graceless baggage, a foolish lack-brain, with no thought above the

hemming of shifts. And he so kindly and hendy and long-suffering! You

would--ha, you may well flee the room!”

She had spoken with a rising voice, and a clasping and opening of her

long white fingers, so that it was no marvel that ere the speech was

over the skirts of Agatha were whisking round the door and the click of

her sobs to be heard dying swiftly away down the corridor.

Alleyne stared open-eyed at this tigress who had sprung so suddenly

to his rescue. “There is no need for such anger,” he said mildly. “The

maid's words have done me no scath. It is you yourself who have erred.”

“I know it,” she cried, “I am a most wicked woman. But it is bad enough

that one should misuse you. Ma foi! I will see that there is not a

second one.”

“Nay, nay, no one has misused me,” he answered. “But the fault lies

in your hot and bitter words. You have called her a baggage and a

lack-brain, and I know not what.”

“And you are he who taught me to speak the truth,” she cried. “Now I

have spoken it, and yet I cannot please you. Lack-brain she is, and

lack-brain I shall call her.”

Such was a sample of the sudden janglings which marred the peace of that

little class. As the weeks passed, however, they became fewer and less

violent, as Alleyne's firm and constant nature gained sway and influence

over the Lady Maude. And yet, sooth to say, there were times when he had

to ask himself whether it was not the Lady Maude who was gaining sway

and influence over him. If she were changing, so was he. In drawing her

up from the world, he was day by day being himself dragged down towards

it. In vain he strove and reasoned with himself as to the madness of

letting his mind rest upon Sir Nigel's daughter. What was he--a younger

son, a penniless clerk, a squire unable to pay for his own harness--that

he should dare to raise his eyes to the fairest maid in Hampshire? So

spake reason; but, in spite of all, her voice was ever in his ears and

her image in his heart. Stronger than reason, stronger than cloister

teachings, stronger than all that might hold him back, was that old, old

tyrant who will brook no rival in the kingdom of youth.

And yet it was a surprise and a shock to himself to find how deeply

she had entered into his life; how completely those vague ambitions and

yearnings which had filled his spiritual nature centred themselves now

upon this thing of earth. He had scarce dared to face the change which

had come upon him, when a few sudden chance words showed it all up hard

and clear, like a lightning flash in the darkness.

He had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his fellow-squire,

Peter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from Wat Swathling, the

Dorsetshire armorer. The day for their departure had almost come, and

the two youths spurred it over the lonely downs at the top of their

speed on their homeward course, for evening had fallen and there was

much to be done. Peter was a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad

who looked on the coming war as the schoolboy looks on his holidays.

This day, however, he had been sombre and mute, with scarce a word a

mile to bestow upon his comrade.

“Tell me Alleyne Edricson,” he broke out, suddenly, as they clattered

along the winding track which leads over the Bournemouth hills, “has it

not seemed to you that of late the Lady Maude is paler and more silent

than is her wont?”

“It may be so,” the other answered shortly.

“And would rather sit distrait by her oriel than ride gayly to the chase

as of old. Methinks, Alleyne, it is this learning which you have taught

her that has taken all the life and sap from her. It is more than she

can master, like a heavy spear to a light rider.”

“Her lady-mother has so ordered it,” said Alleyne.

“By our Lady! and withouten disrespect,” quoth Terlake, “it is in my

mind that her lady-mother is more fitted to lead a company to a storming

than to have the upbringing of this tender and milk-white maid. Hark ye,

lad Alleyne, to what I never told man or woman yet. I love the fair Lady

Maude, and would give the last drop of my heart's blood to serve her.”

He spoke with a gasping voice, and his face flushed crimson in the

moonlight.

Alleyne said nothing, but his heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice in

his bosom.

“My father has broad acres,” the other continued, “from Fareham Creek to

the slope of the Portsdown Hill. There is filling of granges, hewing

of wood, malting of grain, and herding of sheep as much as heart could

wish, and I the only son. Sure am I that Sir Nigel would be blithe at

such a match.”

“But how of the lady?” asked Alleyne, with dry lips.

“Ah, lad, there lies my trouble. It is a toss of the head and a droop of

the eyes if I say one word of what is in my mind. 'Twere as easy to woo

the snow-dame that we shaped last winter in our castle yard. I did but

ask her yesternight for her green veil, that I might bear it as a token

or lambrequin upon my helm; but she flashed out at me that she kept it

for a better man, and then all in a breath asked pardon for that she had

spoke so rudely. Yet she would not take back the words either, nor would

she grant the veil. Has it seemed to thee, Alleyne, that she loves any

one?”

“Nay, I cannot say,” said Alleyne, with a wild throb of sudden hope in

his heart.

“I have thought so, and yet I cannot name the man. Indeed, save myself,

and Walter Ford, and you, who are half a clerk, and Father Christopher

of the Priory, and Bertrand the page, who is there whom she sees?”

“I cannot tell,” quoth Alleyne shortly; and the two squires rode on

again, each intent upon his own thoughts.

Next day at morning lesson the teacher observed that his pupil was

indeed looking pale and jaded, with listless eyes and a weary manner. He

was heavy-hearted to note the grievous change in her.

“Your mistress, I fear, is ill, Agatha,” he said to the tire-woman, when

the Lady Maude had sought her chamber.

The maid looked aslant at him with laughing eyes. “It is not an illness

that kills,” quoth she.

“Pray God not!” he cried. “But tell me, Agatha, what it is that ails

her?”

“Methinks that I could lay my hand upon another who is smitten with the

same trouble,” said she, with the same sidelong look. “Canst not give a

name to it, and thou so skilled in leech-craft?”

“Nay, save that she seems aweary.”

“Well, bethink you that it is but three days ere you will all be gone,

and Castle Twynham be as dull as the Priory. Is there not enough there

to cloud a lady's brow?”

“In sooth, yes,” he answered; “I had forgot that she is about to lose

her father.”

“Her father!” cried the tire-woman, with a little trill of laughter. “Oh

simple, simple!” And she was off down the passage like arrow from bow,

while Alleyne stood gazing after her, betwixt hope and doubt, scarce

daring to put faith in the meaning which seemed to underlie her words.