CHAPTER XXXVIII.
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?
