Chương Chương 11 · HOW A YOUNG SHEPHERD HAD A PERILOUS FLOCK.

. HOW A YOUNG SHEPHERD HAD A PERILOUS FLOCK.

Black was the mouth of Twynham Castle, though a pair of torches burning

at the further end of the gateway cast a red glare over the outer

bailey, and sent a dim, ruddy flicker through the rough-hewn arch,

rising and falling with fitful brightness. Over the door the travellers

could discern the escutcheon of the Montacutes, a roebuck gules on a

field argent, flanked on either side by smaller shields which bore the

red roses of the veteran constable. As they passed over the drawbridge,

Alleyne marked the gleam of arms in the embrasures to right and left,

and they had scarce set foot upon the causeway ere a hoarse blare

burst from a bugle, and, with screech of hinge and clank of chain, the

ponderous bridge swung up into the air, drawn by unseen hands. At the

same instant the huge portcullis came rattling down from above, and shut

off the last fading light of day. Sir Nigel and his lady walked on in

deep talk, while a fat under-steward took charge of the three comrades,

and led them to the buttery, where beef, bread, and beer were kept ever

in readiness for the wayfarer. After a hearty meal and a dip in the

trough to wash the dust from them, they strolled forth into the bailey,

where the bowman peered about through the darkness at wall and at keep,

with the carping eyes of one who has seen something of sieges, and is

not likely to be satisfied. To Alleyne and to John, however, it appeared

to be as great and as stout a fortress as could be built by the hands of

man.

Erected by Sir Balwin de Redvers in the old fighting days of the twelfth

century, when men thought much of war and little of comfort, Castle

Twynham had been designed as a stronghold pure and simple, unlike those

later and more magnificent structures where warlike strength had been

combined with the magnificence of a palace. From the time of the Edwards

such buildings as Conway or Caernarvon castles, to say nothing of Royal

Windsor, had shown that it was possible to secure luxury in peace as

well as security in times of trouble. Sir Nigel's trust, however, still

frowned above the smooth-flowing waters of the Avon, very much as the

stern race of early Anglo-Normans had designed it. There were the broad

outer and inner bailies, not paved, but sown with grass to nourish the

sheep and cattle which might be driven in on sign of danger. All round

were high and turreted walls, with at the corner a bare square-faced

keep, gaunt and windowless, rearing up from a lofty mound, which made it

almost inaccessible to an assailant. Against the bailey-walls were rows

of frail wooden houses and leaning sheds, which gave shelter to the

archers and men-at-arms who formed the garrison. The doors of these

humble dwellings were mostly open, and against the yellow glare from

within Alleyne could see the bearded fellows cleaning their harness,

while their wives would come out for a gossip, with their needlework in

their hands, and their long black shadows streaming across the yard.

The air was full of the clack of their voices and the merry prattling of

children, in strange contrast to the flash of arms and constant warlike

challenge from the walls above.

“Methinks a company of school lads could hold this place against an

army,” quoth John.

“And so say I,” said Alleyne.

“Nay, there you are wide of the clout,” the bowman said gravely. “By my

hilt! I have seen a stronger fortalice carried in a summer evening.

I remember such a one in Picardy, with a name as long as a Gascon's

pedigree. It was when I served under Sir Robert Knolles, before the days

of the Company; and we came by good plunder at the sacking of it. I had

myself a great silver bowl, with two goblets, and a plastron of Spanish

steel. Pasques Dieu! there are some fine women over yonder! Mort de ma

vie! see to that one in the doorway! I will go speak to her. But whom

have we here?”

“Is there an archer here hight Sam Aylward?” asked a gaunt man-at-arms,

clanking up to them across the courtyard.

“My name, friend,” quoth the bowman.

“Then sure I have no need to tell thee mine,” said the other.

“By the rood! if it is not Black Simon of Norwich!” cried Aylward. “A

mon coeur, camarade, a mon coeur! Ah, but I am blithe to see thee!” The

two fell upon each other and hugged like bears.

“And where from, old blood and bones?” asked the bowman.

“I am in service here. Tell me, comrade, is it sooth that we shall have

another fling at these Frenchmen? It is so rumored in the guard-room,

and that Sir Nigel will take the field once more.”

“It is like enough, mon gar., as things go.”

“Now may the Lord be praised!” cried the other. “This very night will I

set apart a golden ouche to be offered on the shrine of my name-saint. I

have pined for this, Aylward, as a young maid pines for her lover.”

“Art so set on plunder then? Is the purse so light that there is not

enough for a rouse? I have a bag at my belt, camarade, and you have but

to put your fist into it for what you want. It was ever share and share

between us.”

“Nay, friend, it is not the Frenchman's gold, but the Frenchman's blood

that I would have. I should not rest quiet in the grave, coz, if I had

not another turn at them. For with us in France it has ever been fair

and honest war--a shut fist for the man, but a bended knee for the

woman. But how was it at Winchelsea when their galleys came down upon it

some few years back? I had an old mother there, lad, who had come down

thither from the Midlands to be the nearer her son. They found her

afterwards by her own hearthstone, thrust through by a Frenchman's bill.

My second sister, my brother's wife, and her two children, they were but

ash-heaps in the smoking ruins of their house. I will not say that we

have not wrought great scath upon France, but women and children have

been safe from us. And so, old friend, my heart is hot within me, and I

long to hear the old battle-cry again, and, by God's truth! if Sir

Nigel unfurls his pennon, here is one who will be right glad to feel the

saddle-flaps under his knees.”

“We have seen good work together, old war-dog,” quoth Aylward; “and,

by my hilt! we may hope to see more ere we die. But we are more like to

hawk at the Spanish woodcock than at the French heron, though certes

it is rumored that Du Guesclin with all the best lances of France have

taken service under the lions and towers of Castile. But, comrade, it is

in my mind that there is some small matter of dispute still open between

us.”

“'Fore God, it is sooth!” cried the other; “I had forgot it. The

provost-marshal and his men tore us apart when last we met.”

“On which, friend, we vowed that we should settle the point when next we

came together. Hast thy sword, I see, and the moon throws glimmer enough

for such old night-birds as we. On guard, mon gar.! I have not heard

clink of steel this month or more.”

“Out from the shadow then,” said the other, drawing his sword. “A vow is

a vow, and not lightly to be broken.”

“A vow to the saints,” cried Alleyne, “is indeed not to be set aside;

but this is a devil's vow, and, simple clerk as I am, I am yet the

mouthpiece of the true church when I say that it were mortal sin to

fight on such a quarrel. What! shall two grown men carry malice for

years, and fly like snarling curs at each other's throats?”

“No malice, my young clerk, no malice,” quoth Black Simon. “I have not

a bitter drop in my heart for mine old comrade; but the quarrel, as he

hath told you, is still open and unsettled. Fall on, Aylward!”

“Not whilst I can stand between you,” cried Alleyne, springing before

the bowman. “It is shame and sin to see two Christian Englishmen turn

swords against each other like the frenzied bloodthirsty paynim.”

“And, what is more,” said Hordle John, suddenly appearing out of the

buttery with the huge board upon which the pastry was rolled, “if either

raise sword I shall flatten him like a Shrovetide pancake. By the black

rood! I shall drive him into the earth, like a nail into a door, rather

than see you do scath to each other.”

“'Fore God, this is a strange way of preaching peace,” cried Black

Simon. “You may find the scath yourself, my lusty friend, if you raise

your great cudgel to me. I had as lief have the castle drawbridge drop

upon my pate.”

“Tell me, Aylward,” said Alleyne earnestly, with his hands outstretched

to keep the pair asunder, “what is the cause of quarrel, that we may see

whether honorable settlement may not be arrived at?”

The bowman looked down at his feet and then up at the moon. “Parbleu!”

he cried, “the cause of quarrel? Why, mon petit, it was years ago in

Limousin, and how can I bear in mind what was the cause of it? Simon

there hath it at the end of his tongue.”

“Not I, in troth,” replied the other; “I have had other things to think

of. There was some sort of bickering over dice, or wine, or was it a

woman, coz?”

“Pasques Dieu! but you have nicked it,” cried Aylward. “It was indeed

about a woman; and the quarrel must go forward, for I am still of the

same mind as before.”

“What of the woman, then?” asked Simon. “May the murrain strike me if I

can call to mind aught about her.”

“It was La Blanche Rose, maid at the sign of the 'Trois Corbeaux' at

Limoges. Bless her pretty heart! Why, mon gar., I loved her.”

“So did a many,” quoth Simon. “I call her to mind now. On the very day

that we fought over the little hussy, she went off with Evan ap Price,

a long-legged Welsh dagsman. They have a hostel of their own now,

somewhere on the banks of the Garonne, where the landlord drinks so much

of the liquor that there is little left for the customers.”

“So ends our quarrel, then,” said Aylward, sheathing his sword. “A Welsh

dagsman, i' faith! C'etait mauvais gout, camarade, and the more so when

she had a jolly archer and a lusty man-at-arms to choose from.”

“True, old lad. And it is as well that we can compose our differences

honorably, for Sir Nigel had been out at the first clash of steel; and

he hath sworn that if there be quarrelling in the garrison he would

smite the right hand from the broilers. You know him of old, and that he

is like to be as good as his word.”

“Mort-Dieu! yes. But there are ale, mead, and wine in the buttery, and

the steward a merry rogue, who will not haggle over a quart or two.

Buvons, mon gar., for it is not every day that two old friends come

together.”

The old soldiers and Hordle John strode off together in all good

fellowship. Alleyne had turned to follow them, when he felt a touch upon

his shoulder, and found a young page by his side.

“The Lord Loring commands,” said the boy, “that you will follow me to

the great chamber, and await him there.”

“But my comrades?”

“His commands were for you alone.”

Alleyne followed the messenger to the east end of the courtyard, where a

broad flight of steps led up to the doorway of the main hall, the outer

wall of which is washed by the waters of the Avon. As designed at first,

no dwelling had been allotted to the lord of the castle and his family

but the dark and dismal basement story of the keep. A more civilized or

more effeminate generation, however, had refused to be pent up in such

a cellar, and the hall with its neighboring chambers had been added for

their accommodation. Up the broad steps Alleyne went, still following

his boyish guide, until at the folding oak doors the latter paused, and

ushered him into the main hall of the castle.

On entering the room the clerk looked round; but, seeing no one, he

continued to stand, his cap in his hand, examining with the greatest

interest a chamber which was so different to any to which he was

accustomed. The days had gone by when a nobleman's hall was but a

barn-like, rush-strewn enclosure, the common lounge and eating-room of

every inmate of the castle. The Crusaders had brought back with them

experiences of domestic luxuries, of Damascus carpets and rugs of

Aleppo, which made them impatient of the hideous bareness and want of

privacy which they found in their ancestral strongholds. Still stronger,

however, had been the influence of the great French war; for, however

well matched the nations might be in martial exercises, there could be

no question but that our neighbors were infinitely superior to us in the

arts of peace. A stream of returning knights, of wounded soldiers,

and of unransomed French noblemen, had been for a quarter of a century

continually pouring into England, every one of whom exerted an influence

in the direction of greater domestic refinement, while shiploads of

French furniture from Calais, Rouen, and other plundered towns, had

supplied our own artisans with models on which to shape their work.

Hence, in most English castles, and in Castle Twynham among the rest,

chambers were to be found which would seem to be not wanting either in

beauty or in comfort.

In the great stone fireplace a log fire was spurting and crackling,

throwing out a ruddy glare which, with the four bracket-lamps which

stood at each corner of the room, gave a bright and lightsome air to the

whole apartment. Above was a wreath-work of blazonry, extending up to

the carved and corniced oaken roof; while on either side stood the high

canopied chairs placed for the master of the house and for his most

honored guest. The walls were hung all round with most elaborate and

brightly colored tapestry, representing the achievements of Sir Bevis

of Hampton, and behind this convenient screen were stored the tables

dormant and benches which would be needed for banquet or high festivity.

The floor was of polished tiles, with a square of red and black diapered

Flemish carpet in the centre; and many settees, cushions, folding

chairs, and carved bancals littered all over it. At the further end was

a long black buffet or dresser, thickly covered with gold cups, silver

salvers, and other such valuables. All this Alleyne examined with

curious eyes; but most interesting of all to him was a small ebony

table at his very side, on which, by the side of a chess-board and the

scattered chessmen, there lay an open manuscript written in a right

clerkly hand, and set forth with brave flourishes and devices along the

margins. In vain Alleyne bethought him of where he was, and of those

laws of good breeding and decorum which should restrain him: those

colored capitals and black even lines drew his hand down to them, as

the loadstone draws the needle, until, almost before he knew it, he

was standing with the romance of Garin de Montglane before his eyes, so

absorbed in its contents as to be completely oblivious both of where he

was and why he had come there.

He was brought back to himself, however, by a sudden little ripple of

quick feminine laughter. Aghast, he dropped the manuscript among the

chessmen and stared in bewilderment round the room. It was as empty and

as still as ever. Again he stretched his hand out to the romance, and

again came that roguish burst of merriment. He looked up at the ceiling,

back at the closed door, and round at the stiff folds of motionless

tapestry. Of a sudden, however, he caught a quick shimmer from the

corner of a high-backed bancal in front of him, and, shifting a pace

or two to the side, saw a white slender hand, which held a mirror of

polished silver in such a way that the concealed observer could see

without being seen. He stood irresolute, uncertain whether to advance or

to take no notice; but, even as he hesitated, the mirror was whipped

in, and a tall and stately young lady swept out from behind the oaken

screen, with a dancing light of mischief in her eyes. Alleyne started

with astonishment as he recognized the very maiden who had suffered

from his brother's violence in the forest. She no longer wore her gay

riding-dress, however, but was attired in a long sweeping robe of black

velvet of Bruges, with delicate tracery of white lace at neck and at

wrist, scarce to be seen against her ivory skin. Beautiful as she had

seemed to him before, the lithe charm of her figure and the proud, free

grace of her bearing were enhanced now by the rich simplicity of her

attire.

“Ah, you start,” said she, with the same sidelong look of mischief,

“and I cannot marvel at it. Didst not look to see the distressed damosel

again. Oh that I were a minstrel, that I might put it into rhyme,

with the whole romance--the luckless maid, the wicked socman, and the

virtuous clerk! So might our fame have gone down together for all time,

and you be numbered with Sir Percival or Sir Galahad, or all the other

rescuers of oppressed ladies.”

“What I did,” said Alleyne, “was too small a thing for thanks; and yet,

if I may say it without offence, it was too grave and near a matter

for mirth and raillery. I had counted on my brother's love, but God has

willed that it should be otherwise. It is a joy to me to see you again,

lady, and to know that you have reached home in safety, if this be

indeed your home.”

“Yes, in sooth, Castle Twynham is my home, and Sir Nigel Loring my

father. I should have told you so this morning, but you said that you

were coming thither, so I bethought me that I might hold it back as

a surprise to you. Oh dear, but it was brave to see you!” she cried,

bursting out a-laughing once more, and standing with her hand pressed to

her side, and her half-closed eyes twinkling with amusement. “You drew

back and came forward with your eyes upon my book there, like the mouse

who sniffs the cheese and yet dreads the trap.”

“I take shame,” said Alleyne, “that I should have touched it.”

“Nay, it warmed my very heart to see it. So glad was I, that I laughed

for very pleasure. My fine preacher can himself be tempted then, thought

I; he is not made of another clay to the rest of us.”

“God help me! I am the weakest of the weak,” groaned Alleyne. “I pray

that I may have more strength.”

“And to what end?” she asked sharply. “If you are, as I understand, to

shut yourself forever in your cell within the four walls of an abbey,

then of what use would it be were your prayer to be answered?”

“The use of my own salvation.”

She turned from him with a pretty shrug and wave. “Is that all?” she

said. “Then you are no better than Father Christopher and the rest of

them. Your own, your own, ever your own! My father is the king's man,

and when he rides into the press of fight he is not thinking ever of the

saving of his own poor body; he recks little enough if he leave it on

the field. Why then should you, who are soldiers of the Spirit, be

ever moping or hiding in cell or in cave, with minds full of your own

concerns, while the world, which you should be mending, is going on its

way, and neither sees nor hears you? Were ye all as thoughtless of your

own souls as the soldier is of his body, ye would be of more avail to

the souls of others.”

“There is sooth in what you say, lady,” Alleyne answered; “and yet I

scarce can see what you would have the clergy and the church to do.”

“I would have them live as others and do men's work in the world,

preaching by their lives rather than their words. I would have them come

forth from their lonely places, mix with the borel folks, feel the pains

and the pleasures, the cares and the rewards, the temptings and the

stirrings of the common people. Let them toil and swinken, and labor,

and plough the land, and take wives to themselves----”

“Alas! alas!” cried Alleyne aghast, “you have surely sucked this poison

from the man Wicliffe, of whom I have heard such evil things.”

“Nay, I know him not. I have learned it by looking from my own chamber

window and marking these poor monks of the priory, their weary life,

their profitless round. I have asked myself if the best which can be

done with virtue is to shut it within high walls as though it were some

savage creature. If the good will lock themselves up, and if the wicked

will still wander free, then alas for the world!”

Alleyne looked at her in astonishment, for her cheek was flushed, her

eyes gleaming, and her whole pose full of eloquence and conviction. Yet

in an instant she had changed again to her old expression of merriment

leavened with mischief.

“Wilt do what I ask?” said she.

“What is it, lady?”

“Oh, most ungallant clerk! A true knight would never have asked, but

would have vowed upon the instant. 'Tis but to bear me out in what I say

to my father.”

“In what?”

“In saying, if he ask, that it was south of the Christchurch road that I

met you. I shall be shut up with the tire-women else, and have a week

of spindle and bodkin, when I would fain be galloping Troubadour up

Wilverley Walk, or loosing little Roland at the Vinney Ridge herons.”

“I shall not answer him if he ask.”

“Not answer! But he will have an answer. Nay, but you must not fail me,

or it will go ill with me.”

“But, lady,” cried poor Alleyne in great distress, “how can I say that

it was to the south of the road when I know well that it was four miles

to the north.”

“You will not say it?”

“Surely you will not, too, when you know that it is not so?”

“Oh, I weary of your preaching!” she cried, and swept away with a toss

of her beautiful head, leaving Alleyne as cast down and ashamed as

though he had himself proposed some infamous thing. She was back again

in an instant, however, in another of her varying moods.

“Look at that, my friend!” said she. “If you had been shut up in abbey

or in cell this day you could not have taught a wayward maiden to abide

by the truth. Is it not so? What avail is the shepherd if he leaves his

sheep.”

“A sorry shepherd!” said Alleyne humbly. “But here is your noble

father.”

“And you shall see how worthy a pupil I am. Father, I am much beholden

to this young clerk, who was of service to me and helped me this very

morning in Minstead Woods, four miles to the north of the Christchurch

road, where I had no call to be, you having ordered it otherwise.” All

this she reeled off in a loud voice, and then glanced with sidelong,

questioning eyes at Alleyne for his approval.

Sir Nigel, who had entered the room with a silvery-haired old lady upon

his arm, stared aghast at this sudden outburst of candor.

“Maude, Maude!” said he, shaking his head, “it is more hard for me to

gain obedience from you than from the ten score drunken archers who

followed me to Guienne. Yet, hush! little one, for your fair lady-mother

will be here anon, and there is no need that she should know it. We will

keep you from the provost-marshal this journey. Away to your chamber,

sweeting, and keep a blithe face, for she who confesses is shriven. And

now, fair mother,” he continued, when his daughter had gone, “sit

you here by the fire, for your blood runs colder than it did. Alleyne

Edricson, I would have a word with you, for I would fain that you should

take service under me. And here in good time comes my lady, without

whose counsel it is not my wont to decide aught of import; but, indeed,

it was her own thought that you should come.”

“For I have formed a good opinion of you, and can see that you are one

who may be trusted,” said the Lady Loring. “And in good sooth my dear

lord hath need of such a one by his side, for he recks so little of

himself that there should be one there to look to his needs and meet his

wants. You have seen the cloisters; it were well that you should see the

world too, ere you make choice for life between them.”

“It was for that very reason that my father willed that I should come

forth into the world at my twentieth year,” said Alleyne.

“Then your father was a man of good counsel,” said she, “and you cannot

carry out his will better than by going on this path, where all that is

noble and gallant in England will be your companions.”

“You can ride?” asked Sir Nigel, looking at the youth with puckered

eyes.

“Yes, I have ridden much at the abbey.”

“Yet there is a difference betwixt a friar's hack and a warrior's

destrier. You can sing and play?”

“On citole, flute and rebeck.”

“Good! You can read blazonry?”

“Indifferent well.”

“Then read this,” quoth Sir Nigel, pointing upwards to one of the many

quarterings which adorned the wall over the fireplace.

“Argent,” Alleyne answered, “a fess azure charged with three lozenges

dividing three mullets sable. Over all, on an escutcheon of the first, a

jambe gules.”

“A jambe gules erased,” said Sir Nigel, shaking his head solemnly. “Yet

it is not amiss for a monk-bred man. I trust that you are lowly and

serviceable?”

“I have served all my life, my lord.”

“Canst carve too?”

“I have carved two days a week for the brethren.”

“A model truly! Wilt make a squire of squires. But tell me, I pray,

canst curl hair?”

“No, my lord, but I could learn.”

“It is of import,” said he, “for I love to keep my hair well ordered,

seeing that the weight of my helmet for thirty years hath in some degree

frayed it upon the top.” He pulled off his velvet cap of maintenance as

he spoke, and displayed a pate which was as bald as an egg, and shone

bravely in the firelight. “You see,” said he, whisking round, and

showing one little strip where a line of scattered hairs, like the last

survivors in some fatal field, still barely held their own against the

fate which had fallen upon their comrades; “these locks need some little

oiling and curling, for I doubt not that if you look slantwise at my

head, when the light is good, you will yourself perceive that there are

places where the hair is sparse.”

“It is for you also to bear the purse,” said the lady; “for my sweet

lord is of so free and gracious a temper that he would give it gayly to

the first who asked alms of him. All these things, with some knowledge

of venerie, and of the management of horse, hawk and hound, with the

grace and hardihood and courtesy which are proper to your age, will make

you a fit squire for Sir Nigel Loring.”

“Alas! lady,” Alleyne answered, “I know well the great honor that you

have done me in deeming me worthy to wait upon so renowned a knight,

yet I am so conscious of my own weakness that I scarce dare incur duties

which I might be so ill-fitted to fulfil.”

“Modesty and a humble mind,” said she, “are the very first and rarest

gifts in page or squire. Your words prove that you have these, and

all the rest is but the work of use and time. But there is no call for

haste. Rest upon it for the night, and let your orisons ask for guidance

in the matter. We knew your father well, and would fain help his son,

though we have small cause to love your brother the Socman, who is

forever stirring up strife in the county.”

“We can scarce hope,” said Nigel, “to have all ready for our start before

the feast of St. Luke, for there is much to be done in the time. You

will have leisure, therefore, if it please you to take service under me,

in which to learn your devoir. Bertrand, my daughter's page, is hot to

go; but in sooth he is over young for such rough work as may be before

us.”

“And I have one favor to crave from you,” added the lady of the castle,

as Alleyne turned to leave their presence. “You have, as I understand,

much learning which you have acquired at Beaulieu.”

“Little enough, lady, compared with those who were my teachers.”

“Yet enough for my purpose, I doubt not. For I would have you give

an hour or two a day whilst you are with us in discoursing with my

daughter, the Lady Maude; for she is somewhat backward, I fear, and hath

no love for letters, save for these poor fond romances, which do but

fill her empty head with dreams of enchanted maidens and of errant

cavaliers. Father Christopher comes over after nones from the priory,

but he is stricken with years and slow of speech, so that she gets small

profit from his teaching. I would have you do what you can with her, and

with Agatha my young tire-woman, and with Dorothy Pierpont.”

And so Alleyne found himself not only chosen as squire to a knight but

also as squire to three damosels, which was even further from the part

which he had thought to play in the world. Yet he could but agree to

do what he might, and so went forth from the castle hall with his

face flushed and his head in a whirl at the thought of the strange and

perilous paths which his feet were destined to tread.