第 八 章 · Chapter 8

. Chapter 8

Every one knows the disagreeable, lurking discomfort that follows a

quarrel--a discomfort that imbitters the very taste of life for the time

being. Such was the dull distaste that Myles felt that morning after

what had passed in the dormitory. Every one in the proximity of such

an open quarrel feels a reflected constraint, and in Myles's mind was a

disagreeable doubt whether that constraint meant disapproval of him or

of his late enemies.

It seemed to him that Gascoyne added the last bitter twang to his

unpleasant feelings when, half an hour later, they marched with the

others to chapel.

“Why dost thou breed such trouble for thyself, Myles?” said he,

recurring to what he had already said. “Is it not foolish for thee to

come hither to this place, and then not submit to the ways thereof, as

the rest of us do?”

“Thou talkest not like a true friend to chide me thus,” said Myles,

sullenly; and he withdrew his arm from his friend's.

“Marry, come up!” said Gascoyne; “an I were not thy friend, I would let

thee jog thine own way. It aches not my bones to have thine drubbed.”

Just then they entered the chapel, and words that might have led to a

quarrel were brought to a close.

Myles was not slow to see that he had the ill will of the head of their

company. That morning in the armory he had occasion to ask some question

of Blunt; the head squire stared coldly at him for a moment, gave him a

short, gruff answer, and then, turning his back abruptly, began talking

with one of the other bachelors. Myles flushed hot at the other's

insulting manner, and looked quickly around to see if any of the others

had observed what had passed. It was a comfort to him to see that all

were too busy arming themselves to think of anything else; nevertheless,

his face was very lowering as he turned away.

“Some day I will show him that I am as good a man as he,” he muttered to

himself. “An evil-hearted dog to put shame upon me!”

The storm was brewing and ready to break.

That day was exceptionally hot and close, and permission had been asked

by and granted to those squires not on duty to go down to the river for

a bath after exercise at the pels. But as Myles replaced his arms in

the rack, a little page came with a bidding to come to Sir James in his

office.

“Look now,” said Myles, “here is just my ill-fortune. Why might he not

have waited an hour longer rather than cause me to miss going with ye?”

“Nay,” said Gascoyne, “let not that grieve thee, Myles. Wilkes and I

will wait for thee in the dormitory--will we not, Edmund? Make thou

haste and go to Sir James.”

Sir James was sitting at the table studying over a scroll of parchment,

when Myles entered his office and stood before him at the table.

“Well, boy,” said he, laying aside the parchment and looking up at the

lad, “I have tried thee fairly for these few days, and may say that I

have found thee worthy to be entered upon the rolls as esquire of the

body.”

“I give thee thanks, sir,” said Myles.

The knight nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not at once give

the word of dismissal that Myles had expected. “Dost mean to write thee

a letter home soon?” said he, suddenly.

“Aye,” said Myles, gaping in great wonderment at the strangeness of the

question.

“Then when thou dost so write,” said Sir James, “give thou my deep

regards to thy father.” Then he continued, after a brief pause. “Him did

I know well in times gone by, and we were right true friends in hearty

love, and for his sake I would befriend thee--that is, in so much as is

fitting.”

“Sir,” said Myles; but Sir James held up his hand, and he stopped short

in his thanks.

“But, boy,” said he, “that which I sent for thee for to tell thee was of

more import than these. Dost thou know that thy father is an attainted

outlaw?”

“Nay,” cried Myles, his cheeks blazing up as red as fire; “who sayeth

that of him lieth in his teeth.”

“Thou dost mistake me,” said Sir James, quietly. “It is sometimes no

shame to be outlawed and banned. Had it been so, I would not have told

thee thereof, nor have bidden thee send my true love to thy father, as

I did but now. But, boy, certes he standest continually in great

danger--greater than thou wottest of. Were it known where he lieth hid,

it might be to his undoing and utter ruin. Methought that belike thou

mightest not know that; and so I sent for thee for to tell thee that it

behoovest thee to say not one single word concerning him to any of these

new friends of thine, nor who he is, nor what he is.”

“But how came my father to be so banned?” said Myles, in a constrained

and husky voice, and after a long time of silence.

“That I may not tell thee just now,” said the old knight, “only

this--that I have been bidden to make it known to thee that thy father

hath an enemy full as powerful as my Lord the Earl himself, and

that through that enemy all his ill-fortune--his blindness and

everything--hath come. Moreover, did this enemy know where thy father

lieth, he would slay him right speedily.”

“Sir,” cried Myles, violently smiting his open palm upon the table,

“tell me who this man is, and I will kill him!”

Sir James smiled grimly. “Thou talkest like a boy,” said he. “Wait until

thou art grown to be a man. Mayhap then thou mayst repent thee of these

bold words, for one time this enemy of thy father's was reckoned the

foremost knight in England, and he is now the King's dear friend and a

great lord.”

“But,” said Myles, after another long time of heavy silence, “will not

my Lord then befriend me for the sake of my father, who was one time his

dear comrade?”

Sir James shook his head. “It may not be,” said he. “Neither thou nor

thy father must look for open favor from the Earl. An he befriended

Falworth, and it came to be known that he had given him aid or succor,

it might belike be to his own undoing. No, boy; thou must not even look

to be taken into the household to serve with gentlemen as the other

squires do serve, but must even live thine own life here and fight thine

own way.”

Myles's eyes blazed. “Then,” cried he, fiercely, “it is shame and

attaint upon my Lord the Earl, and cowardice as well, and never will I

ask favor of him who is so untrue a friend as to turn his back upon a

comrade in trouble as he turneth his back upon my father.”

“Thou art a foolish boy,” said Sir James with a bitter smile, “and

knowest naught of the world. An thou wouldst look for man to befriend

man to his own danger, thou must look elsewhere than on this earth. Was

I not one time Mackworth's dear friend as well as thy father? It could

cost him naught to honor me, and here am I fallen to be a teacher of

boys. Go to! thou art a fool.”

Then, after a little pause of brooding silence, he went on to say that

the Earl was no better or worse than the rest of the world. That men of

his position had many jealous enemies, ever seeking their ruin, and

that such must look first of all each to himself, or else be certainly

ruined, and drag down others in that ruin. Myles was silenced, but the

bitterness had entered his heart, and abided with him for many a day

afterwards.

Perhaps Sir James read his feelings in his frank face, for he sat

looking curiously at him, twirling his grizzled mustache the while.

“Thou art like to have hard knocks of it, lad, ere thou hast gotten thee

safe through the world,” said he, with more kindness in his harsh voice

than was usual. “But get thee not into fights before thy time.” Then he

charged the boy very seriously to live at peace with his fellow-squires,

and for his father's sake as well as his own to enter into none of the

broils that were so frequent in their quarters.

It was with this special admonition against brawling that Myles was

dismissed, to enter, before five minutes had passed, into the first

really great fight of his life.

Besides Gascoyne and Wilkes, he found gathered in the dormitory six

or eight of the company of squires who were to serve that day upon

household duty; among others, Walter Blunt and three other bachelors,

who were changing their coarse service clothes for others more fit for

the household.

“Why didst thou tarry so long, Myles?” said Gascoyne, as he entered.

“Methought thou wert never coming.”

“Where goest thou, Falworth?” called Blunt from the other end of the

room, where he was lacing his doublet.

Just now Myles had no heart in the swimming or sport of any sort, but he

answered, shortly, “I go to the river to swim.”

“Nay,” said Blunt, “thou goest not forth from the castle to-day. Hast

thou forgot how thou didst answer me back about fetching the water

this morning? This day thou must do penance, so go thou straight to the

armory and scour thou up my breastplate.”

From the time he had arisen that morning everything had gone wrong with

Myles. He had felt himself already outrated in rendering service to

the bachelors, he had quarrelled with the head of the esquires, he had

nearly quarrelled with Gascoyne, and then had come the bitterest and

worst of all, the knowledge that his father was an outlaw, and that

the Earl would not stretch out a hand to aid him or to give him any

countenance. Blunt's words brought the last bitter cut to his heart,

and they stung him to fury. For a while he could not answer, but stood

glaring with a face fairly convulsed with passion at the young man, who

continued his toilet, unconscious of the wrath of the new recruit.

Gascoyne and Wilkes, accepting Myles's punishment as a thing of course,

were about to leave the dormitory when Myles checked them.

“Stop, Francis!” he cried, hoarsely. “Thinkest thou that I will stay

behind to do yon dog's dirty work? No; I go with ye.”

A moment or two of dumb, silent amazement followed his bold words; then

Blunt cried, “Art thou mad?”

“Nay,” answered Myles in the same hoarse voice, “I am not mad. I tell

thee a better man than thou shouldst not stay me from going an I list to

go.

“I will break thy cockerel head for that speech,” said Blunt, furiously.

He stooped as he spoke, and picked up a heavy clog that lay at his feet.

It was no insignificant weapon either. The shoes of those days were

sometimes made of cloth, and had long pointed toes stuffed with tow or

wool. In muddy weather thick heavy clogs or wooden soles were strapped,

like a skate, to the bottom of the foot. That clog which Blunt had

seized was perhaps eighteen or twenty inches long, two or two and a half

inches thick at the heel, tapering to a point at the toe. As the older

lad advanced, Gascoyne stepped between him and his victim.

“Do not harm him, Blunt,” he pleaded. “Bear thou in mind how new-come he

is among us. He knoweth not our ways as yet.”

“Stand thou back, Gascoyne,” said Blunt, harshly, as he thrust him

aside. “I will teach him our ways so that he will not soon forget them.”

Close to Myles's feet was another clog like that one which Blunt held.

He snatched it up, and set his back against the wall, with a white face

and a heart beating heavily and tumultuously, but with courage steeled

to meet the coming encounter. There was a hard, grim look in his blue

eyes that, for a moment perhaps, quelled the elder lad. He hesitated.

“Tom! Wat! Ned!” he called to the other bachelors, “come hither, and

lend me a hand with this knave.”

“An ye come nigh me,” panted Myles, “I will brain the first within

reach.”

Then Gascoyne dodged behind the others, and, without being seen, slipped

out of the room for help.

The battle that followed was quick, sharp, and short. As Blunt strode

forward, Myles struck, and struck with might and main, but he was too

excited to deliver his blow with calculation. Blunt parried it with the

clog he held, and the next instant, dropping his weapon, gripped Myles

tight about the body, pinning his arms to his sides.

Myles also dropped the clog he held, and, wrenching out his right

arm with a sudden heave, struck Blunt full in the face, and then with

another blow sent him staggering back. It all passed in an instant; the

next the three other bachelors were upon him, catching him by the body,

the arms, the legs. For a moment or two they swayed and stumbled hither

and thither, and then down they fell in a struggling heap.

Myles fought like a wild-cat, kicking, struggling, scratching; striking

with elbows and fists. He caught one of the three by his collar, and

tore his jacket open from the neck to the waist; he drove his foot into

the pit of the stomach of another, and knocked him breathless. The other

lads not in the fight stood upon the benches and the beds around, but

such was the awe inspired by the prestige of the bachelors that not one

of them dared to lend hand to help him, and so Myles fought his fierce

battle alone.

But four to one were odds too great, and though Myles struggled as

fiercely as ever, by-and-by it was with less and less resistance.

Blunt had picked up the clog he had dropped when he first attacked the

lad, and now stood over the struggling heap, white with rage, the blood

running from his lip, cut and puffed where Myles had struck him, and

murder looking out from his face, if ever it looked out of the face of

any mortal being.

“Hold him a little,” said he, fiercely, “and I will still him for you.”

Even yet it was no easy matter for the others to do his bidding, but

presently he got his chance and struck a heavy, cruel blow at Myles's

head. Myles only partly warded it with his arm. Hitherto he had fought

in silence, now he gave a harsh cry.

“Holy Saints!” cried Edmund Wilkes. “They will kill him.”

Blunt struck two more blows, both of them upon the body, and then at

last they had the poor boy down, with his face upon the ground and his

arms pinned to his sides, and Blunt, bracing himself for the stroke,

with a grin of rage raised a heavy clog for one terrible blow that

should finish the fight.