第 三十八 章 · OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.

. OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.

It was a bright July morning four months after that fatal fight in the

Spanish barranca. A blue heaven stretched above, a green rolling plain

undulated below, intersected with hedge-rows and flecked with grazing

sheep. The sun was yet low in the heaven, and the red cows stood in the

long shadow of the elms, chewing the cud and gazing with great vacant

eyes at two horsemen who were spurring it down the long white road which

dipped and curved away back to where the towers and pinnacles beneath

the flat-topped hill marked the old town of Winchester.

Of the riders one was young, graceful, and fair, clad in plain doublet

and hosen of blue Brussels cloth, which served to show his active and

well-knit figure. A flat velvet cap was drawn forward to keep the glare

from his eyes, and he rode with lips compressed and anxious face, as one

who has much care upon his mind. Young as he was, and peaceful as

was his dress, the dainty golden spurs which twinkled upon his heels

proclaimed his knighthood, while a long seam upon his brow and a

scar upon his temple gave a manly grace to his refined and delicate

countenance. His comrade was a large, red-headed man upon a great black

horse, with a huge canvas bag slung from his saddle-bow, which jingled

and clinked with every movement of his steed. His broad, brown face was

lighted up by a continual smile, and he looked slowly from side to

side with eyes which twinkled and shone with delight. Well might John

rejoice, for was he not back in his native Hampshire, had he not Don

Diego's five thousand crowns rasping against his knee, and above all was

he not himself squire now to Sir Alleyne Edricson, the young Socman of

Minstead lately knighted by the sword of the Black Prince himself, and

esteemed by the whole army as one of the most rising of the soldiers of

England.

For the last stand of the Company had been told throughout Christendom

wherever a brave deed of arms was loved, and honors had flowed in upon

the few who had survived it. For two months Alleyne had wavered betwixt

death and life, with a broken rib and a shattered head; yet youth and

strength and a cleanly life were all upon his side, and he awoke from

his long delirium to find that the war was over, that the Spaniards

and their allies had been crushed at Navaretta, and that the prince had

himself heard the tale of his ride for succor and had come in person to

his bedside to touch his shoulder with his sword and to insure that so

brave and true a man should die, if he could not live, within the order

of chivalry. The instant that he could set foot to ground Alleyne had

started in search of his lord, but no word could he hear of him, dead

or alive, and he had come home now sad-hearted, in the hope of raising

money upon his estates and so starting upon his quest once more. Landing

at London, he had hurried on with a mind full of care, for he had heard

no word from Hampshire since the short note which had announced his

brother's death.

“By the rood!” cried John, looking around him exultantly, “where have we

seen since we left such noble cows, such fleecy sheep, grass so green,

or a man so drunk as yonder rogue who lies in the gap of the hedge?”

“Ah, John,” Alleyne answered wearily, “it is well for you, but I never

thought that my home-coming would be so sad a one. My heart is heavy for

my dear lord and for Aylward, and I know not how I may break the news to

the Lady Mary and to the Lady Maude, if they have not yet had tidings of

it.”

John gave a groan which made the horses shy. “It is indeed a black

business,” said he. “But be not sad, for I shall give half these crowns

to my old mother, and half will I add to the money which you may have,

and so we shall buy that yellow cog wherein we sailed to Bordeaux, and

in it we shall go forth and seek Sir Nigel.”

Alleyne smiled, but shook his head. “Were he alive we should have had

word of him ere now,” said he. “But what is this town before us?”

“Why, it is Romsey!” cried John. “See the tower of the old gray church,

and the long stretch of the nunnery. But here sits a very holy man, and

I shall give him a crown for his prayers.”

Three large stones formed a rough cot by the roadside, and beside it,

basking in the sun, sat the hermit, with clay-colored face, dull eyes,

and long withered hands. With crossed ankles and sunken head, he sat

as though all his life had passed out of him, with the beads slipping

slowly through his thin, yellow fingers. Behind him lay the narrow cell,

clay-floored and damp, comfortless, profitless and sordid. Beyond it

there lay amid the trees the wattle-and-daub hut of a laborer, the

door open, and the single room exposed to the view. The man ruddy and

yellow-haired, stood leaning upon the spade wherewith he had been at

work upon the garden patch. From behind him came the ripple of a happy

woman's laughter, and two young urchins darted forth from the hut,

bare-legged and towsy, while the mother, stepping out, laid her hand

upon her husband's arm and watched the gambols of the children. The

hermit frowned at the untoward noise which broke upon his prayers, but

his brow relaxed as he looked upon the broad silver piece which John

held out to him.

“There lies the image of our past and of our future,” cried Alleyne, as

they rode on upon their way. “Now, which is better, to till God's earth,

to have happy faces round one's knee, and to love and be loved, or

to sit forever moaning over one's own soul, like a mother over a sick

babe?”

“I know not about that,” said John, “for it casts a great cloud over me

when I think of such matters. But I know that my crown was well spent,

for the man had the look of a very holy person. As to the other, there

was nought holy about him that I could see, and it would be cheaper for

me to pray for myself than to give a crown to one who spent his days in

digging for lettuces.”

Ere Alleyne could answer there swung round the curve of the road a

lady's carriage drawn by three horses abreast with a postilion upon

the outer one. Very fine and rich it was, with beams painted and gilt,

wheels and spokes carved in strange figures, and over all an arched

cover of red and white tapestry. Beneath its shade there sat a stout

and elderly lady in a pink cote-hardie, leaning back among a pile of

cushions, and plucking out her eyebrows with a small pair of silver

tweezers. None could seem more safe and secure and at her ease than this

lady, yet here also was a symbol of human life, for in an instant, even

as Alleyne reined aside to let the carriage pass, a wheel flew out

from among its fellows, and over it all toppled--carving, tapestry

and gilt--in one wild heap, with the horses plunging, the postilion

shouting, and the lady screaming from within. In an instant Alleyne and

John were on foot, and had lifted her forth all in a shake with fear,

but little the worse for her mischance.

“Now woe worth me!” she cried, “and ill fall on Michael Easover of

Romsey! for I told him that the pin was loose, and yet he must needs

gainsay me, like the foolish daffe that he is.”

“I trust that you have taken no hurt, my fair lady,” said Alleyne,

conducting her to the bank, upon which John had already placed a

cushion.

“Nay, I have had no scath, though I have lost my silver tweezers. Now,

lack-a-day! did God ever put breath into such a fool as Michael Easover

of Romsey? But I am much beholden to you, gentle sirs. Soldiers ye are,

as one may readily see. I am myself a soldier's daughter,” she added,

casting a somewhat languishing glance at John, “and my heart ever goes

out to a brave man.”

“We are indeed fresh from Spain,” quoth Alleyne.

“From Spain, say you? Ah! it was an ill and sorry thing that so many

should throw away the lives that Heaven gave them. In sooth, it is bad

for those who fall, but worse for those who bide behind. I have but now

bid farewell to one who hath lost all in this cruel war.”

“And how that, lady?”

“She is a young damsel of these parts, and she goes now into a nunnery.

Alack! it is not a year since she was the fairest maid from Avon to

Itchen, and now it was more than I could abide to wait at Romsey Nunnery

to see her put the white veil upon her face, for she was made for a wife

and not for the cloister. Did you ever, gentle sir, hear of a body of

men called 'The White Company' over yonder?”

“Surely so,” cried both the comrades.

“Her father was the leader of it, and her lover served under him as

squire. News hath come that not one of the Company was left alive, and

so, poor lamb, she hath----”

“Lady!” cried Alleyne, with catching breath, “is it the Lady Maude

Loring of whom you speak?”

“It is, in sooth.”

“Maude! And in a nunnery! Did, then, the thought of her father's death

so move her?”

“Her father!” cried the lady, smiling. “Nay; Maude is a good daughter,

but I think it was this young golden-haired squire of whom I have heard

who has made her turn her back upon the world.”

“And I stand talking here!” cried Alleyne wildly. “Come, John, come!”

Rushing to his horse, he swung himself into the saddle, and was off down

the road in a rolling cloud of dust as fast as his good steed could bear

him.

Great had been the rejoicing amid the Romsey nuns when the Lady Maude

Loring had craved admission into their order--for was she not sole child

and heiress of the old knight, with farms and fiefs which she could

bring to the great nunnery? Long and earnest had been the talks of the

gaunt lady abbess, in which she had conjured the young novice to turn

forever from the world, and to rest her bruised heart under the broad

and peaceful shelter of the church. And now, when all was settled, and

when abbess and lady superior had had their will, it was but fitting

that some pomp and show should mark the glad occasion. Hence was it that

the good burghers of Romsey were all in the streets, that gay flags and

flowers brightened the path from the nunnery to the church, and that a

long procession wound up to the old arched door leading up the bride to

these spiritual nuptials. There was lay-sister Agatha with the high gold

crucifix, and the three incense-bearers, and the two-and-twenty garbed

in white, who cast flowers upon either side of them and sang sweetly the

while. Then, with four attendants, came the novice, her drooping head

wreathed with white blossoms, and, behind, the abbess and her council of

older nuns, who were already counting in their minds whether their own

bailiff could manage the farms of Twynham, or whether a reeve would be

needed beneath him, to draw the utmost from these new possessions which

this young novice was about to bring them.

But alas! for plots and plans when love and youth and nature, and above

all, fortune are arrayed against them. Who is this travel-stained youth

who dares to ride so madly through the lines of staring burghers? Why

does he fling himself from his horse and stare so strangely about

him? See how he has rushed through the incense-bearers, thrust aside

lay-sister Agatha, scattered the two-and-twenty damosels who sang so

sweetly--and he stands before the novice with his hands out-stretched,

and his face shining, and the light of love in his gray eyes. Her foot

is on the very lintel of the church, and yet he bars the way--and she,

she thinks no more of the wise words and holy rede of the lady abbess,

but she hath given a sobbing cry and hath fallen forward with his arms

around her drooping body and her wet cheek upon his breast. A sorry

sight this for the gaunt abbess, an ill lesson too for the stainless

two-and-twenty who have ever been taught that the way of nature is the

way of sin. But Maude and Alleyne care little for this. A dank, cold

air comes out from the black arch before them. Without, the sun shines

bright and the birds are singing amid the ivy on the drooping beeches.

Their choice is made, and they turn away hand-in-hand, with their backs

to the darkness and their faces to the light.

Very quiet was the wedding in the old priory church at Christchurch,

where Father Christopher read the service, and there were few to see

save the Lady Loring and John, and a dozen bowmen from the castle. The

Lady of Twynham had drooped and pined for weary months, so that her face

was harsher and less comely than before, yet she still hoped on, for her

lord had come through so many dangers that she could scarce believe that

he might be stricken down at last. It had been her wish to start for

Spain and to search for him, but Alleyne had persuaded her to let him

go in her place. There was much to look after, now that the lands of

Minstead were joined to those of Twynham, and Alleyne had promised her

that if she would but bide with his wife he would never come back to

Hampshire again until he had gained some news, good or ill, of her lord

and lover.

The yellow cog had been engaged, with Goodwin Hawtayne in command, and a

month after the wedding Alleyne rode down to Bucklershard to see if she

had come round yet from Southampton. On the way he passed the fishing

village of Pitt's Deep, and marked that a little creyer or brig was

tacking off the land, as though about to anchor there. On his way back,

as he rode towards the village, he saw that she had indeed anchored, and

that many boats were round her, bearing cargo to the shore.

A bow-shot from Pitt's Deep there was an inn a little back from the

road, very large and wide-spread, with a great green bush hung upon a

pole from one of the upper windows. At this window he marked, as he rode

up, that a man was seated who appeared to be craning his neck in his

direction. Alleyne was still looking up at him, when a woman came

rushing from the open door of the inn, and made as though she would

climb a tree, looking back the while with a laughing face. Wondering

what these doings might mean, Alleyne tied his horse to a tree, and

was walking amid the trunks towards the inn, when there shot from the

entrance a second woman who made also for the trees. Close at her heels

came a burly, brown-faced man, who leaned against the door-post and

laughed loudly with his hand to his side, “Ah, mes belles!” he cried,

“and is it thus you treat me? Ah, mes petites! I swear by these

finger-bones that I would not hurt a hair of your pretty heads; but I

have been among the black paynim, and, by my hilt! it does me good to

look at your English cheeks. Come, drink a stoup of muscadine with me,

mes anges, for my heart is warm to be among ye again.”

At the sight of the man Alleyne had stood staring, but at the sound of

his voice such a thrill of joy bubbled up in his heart that he had

to bite his lip to keep himself from shouting outright. But a deeper

pleasure yet was in store. Even as he looked, the window above was

pushed outwards, and the voice of the man whom he had seen there came

out from it. “Aylward,” cried the voice, “I have seen just now a very

worthy person come down the road, though my eyes could scarce discern

whether he carried coat-armor. I pray you to wait upon him and tell him

that a very humble knight of England abides here, so that if he be in

need of advancement, or have any small vow upon his soul, or desire to

exalt his lady, I may help him to accomplish it.”

Aylward at this order came shuffling forward amid the trees, and in an

instant the two men were clinging in each other's arms, laughing and

shouting and patting each other in their delight; while old Sir Nigel

came running with his sword, under the impression that some small

bickering had broken out, only to embrace and be embraced himself,

until all three were hoarse with their questions and outcries and

congratulations.

On their journey home through the woods Alleyne learnt their

wondrous story: how, when Sir Nigel came to his senses, he with his

fellow-captive had been hurried to the coast, and conveyed by sea to

their captor's castle; how upon the way they had been taken by a Barbary

rover, and how they exchanged their light captivity for a seat on a

galley bench and hard labor at the pirate's oars; how, in the port at

Barbary, Sir Nigel had slain the Moorish captain, and had swum with

Aylward to a small coaster which they had taken, and so made their way

to England with a rich cargo to reward them for their toils. All this

Alleyne listened to, until the dark keep of Twynham towered above them

in the gloaming, and they saw the red sun lying athwart the rippling

Avon. No need to speak of the glad hearts at Twynham Castle that night,

nor of the rich offerings from out that Moorish cargo which found their

way to the chapel of Father Christopher.

Sir Nigel Loring lived for many years, full of honor and laden with

every blessing. He rode no more to the wars, but he found his way to

every jousting within thirty miles; and the Hampshire youth treasured

it as the highest honor when a word of praise fell from him as to their

management of their horses, or their breaking of their lances. So he

lived and so he died, the most revered and the happiest man in all his

native shire.

For Sir Alleyne Edricson and for his beautiful bride the future had also

naught but what was good. Twice he fought in France, and came back each

time laden with honors. A high place at court was given to him, and

he spent many years at Windsor under the second Richard and the fourth

Henry--where he received the honor of the Garter, and won the name of

being a brave soldier, a true-hearted gentleman, and a great lover and

patron of every art and science which refines or ennobles life.

As to John, he took unto himself a village maid, and settled in

Lyndhurst, where his five thousand crowns made him the richest franklin

for many miles around. For many years he drank his ale every night at

the “Pied Merlin,” which was now kept by his friend Aylward, who had

wedded the good widow to whom he had committed his plunder. The strong

men and the bowmen of the country round used to drop in there of an

evening to wrestle a fall with John or to shoot a round with Aylward;

but, though a silver shilling was to be the prize of the victory, it has

never been reported that any man earned much money in that fashion.

So they lived, these men, in their own lusty, cheery fashion--rude and

rough, but honest, kindly and true. Let us thank God if we have outgrown

their vices. Let us pray to God that we may ever hold their virtues. The

sky may darken, and the clouds may gather, and again the day may come

when Britain may have sore need of her children, on whatever shore of

the sea they be found. Shall they not muster at her call?