VII. HOW NIGEL WENT MARKETING TO GUILDFORD
It was on a bright June morning that young Nigel, with youth and
springtime to make his heart light, rode upon his errand from
Tilford to Guildford town. Beneath him was his great yellow
warhorse, caracoling and curveting as be went, as blithe and free
of spirit as his master. In all England one would scarce have
found upon that morning so high-mettled and so debonair a pair.
The sandy road wound through groves of fir, where the breeze came
soft and fragrant with resinous gums, or over heathery downs,
which rolled away to north and to south, vast and untenanted, for
on the uplands the soil was poor and water scarce. Over
Crooksbury Common he passed, and then across the great Heath of
Puttenham, following a sandy path which wound amid the bracken and
the heather, for he meant to strike the Pilgrims' Way where it
turned eastward from Farnham and from Seale. As he rode he
continually felt his saddle-bag with his hand, for in it, securely
strapped, he had placed the precious treasures of the Lady
Ermyntrude. As he saw the grand tawny neck tossing before him,
and felt the easy heave of the great horse and heard the muffled
drumming of his hoofs, he could have sung and shouted with the joy
of living.
Behind him, upon the little brown pony which had been Nigel's
former mount, rode Samkin Aylward the bowman, who had taken upon
himself the duties of personal attendant and body-guard. His
great shoulders and breadth of frame seemed dangerously top-heavy
upon the tiny steed, but he ambled along, whistling a merry lilt
and as lighthearted as his master. There was no countryman who
had not a nod and no woman who had not a smile for the jovial
bowman, who rode for the most part with his face over his
shoulder, staring at the last petticoat which had passed him.
Once only he met with a harsher greeting. It was from a tall,
white-headed, red-faced man whom they met upon the moor.
"Good-morrow, dear father!" cried Aylward. "How is it with you at
Crooksbury? And how are the new black cow and the ewes from Alton
and Mary the dairymaid and all your gear?"
"It ill becomes you to ask, you ne'er-do-weel," said the old man.
"You have angered the monks of Waverley, whose tenant I am, and
they would drive me out of my farm. Yet there are three more
years to run, and do what they may I will bide till then. But
little did I think that I should lose my homestead through you,
Samkin, and big as you are I would knock the dust out of that
green jerkin. with a good hazel switch if I had you at
Crooksbury."
"Then you shall do it to-morrow morning, good father, for I will
come and see you then. But indeed I did not do more at Waverley
than you would have done yourself. Look me in the eye, old
hothead, and tell me if you would have stood by while the last
Loring - look at him as he rides with his head in the air and his
soul in the clouds - was shot down before your very eyes at the
bidding of that fat monk! If you would, then I disown you as my
father."
"Nay, Samkin, if it was like that, then perhaps what you did was
not so far amiss. But it is hard to lose the old farm when my
heart is buried deep in the good brown soil."
"Tut, man! there are three years to run, and what may not happen
in three years? Before that time I shall have gone to the wars,
and when I have opened a French strong box or two you can buy the
good brown soil and snap your fingers at Abbot John and his
bailiffs. Am I not as proper a man as Tom Withstaff of Churt?
And yet he came back after six months with his pockets full of
rose nobles and a French wench on either arm."
"God preserve us from the wenches, Samkin! But indeed I think
that if there is money to be gathered you are as likely to get
your fist full as any man who goes to the war. But hasten, lad,
hasten! Already your young master is over the brow."
Thus admonished, the archer waved his gauntleted hand to his
father, and digging his heels into the sides of his little pony
soon drew up with the Squire. Nigel glanced over his shoulder and
slackened speed until the pony's head was up to his saddle.
"Have I not heard, archer," said he, "that an outlaw has been
loose in these parts?"
"It is true, fair sir. He was villain to Sir Peter Mandeville,
but he broke his bonds and fled into the forests. Men call him
the `Wild Man of Puttenham.'"
"How comes it that he has not been hunted down? If the man be a
draw-latch and a robber it would be an honorable deed to clear the
country of such an evil."
"Twice the sergeants-at-arms from Guildford have come out against
him, but the fox has many earths, and it would puzzle you to get
him out of them."
"By Saint Paul! were my errand not a pressing one I would be
tempted to turn aside and seek him. Where lives he, then?"
"There is a great morass beyond Puttenham, and across it there are
caves in which he and his people lurk."
"His people? He hath a band?"
"There are several with him."
"It sounds a most honorable enterprise," said Nigel. "When the
King hath come and gone we will spare a day for the outlaws of
Puttenham. I fear there is little chance for us to see them on
this journey."
"They prey upon the pilgrims who pass along the Winchester Road,
and they are well loved by the folk in these parts, for they rob
none of them and have an open hand for all who will help them."
"It is right easy to have an open hand with the money that you
have stolen," said Nigel; "but I fear that they will not try to
rob two men with swords at their girdles like you and me, so we
shall have no profit from them."
They had passed over the wild moors and had come down now into the
main road by which the pilgrims from the west of England made
their way to the national shrine at Canterbury. It passed from
Winchester, and up the beautiful valley of the Itchen until it
reached Farnham, where it forked into two branches, one of which
ran along the Hog's Back, while the second wound to the south and
came out at Saint Catherine's Hill where stands the Pilgrim
shrine, a gray old ruin now, but once so august, so crowded and so
affluent. It was this second branch upon which Nigel and Aylward
found themselves as they rode to Guildford.
No one, as it chanced, was going the same way as themselves, but
they met one large drove of pilgrims returning from their journey
with pictures of Saint Thomas and snails' shells or little leaden
ampullae in their hats and bundles of purchases over their
shoulders. They were a grimy, ragged, travel-stained crew, the
men walking, the women borne on asses. Man and beast, they limped
along as if it would be a glad day when they saw their homes once
more. These and a few beggars or minstrels, who crouched among
the heather on either side of the track in the hope of receiving
an occasional farthing from the passer-by, were the only folk they
met until they had reached the village of Puttenham. Already
there, was a hot sun and just breeze enough to send the dust
flying down the road, so they were glad to clear their throats
with a glass of beer at the ale-stake in the village, where the
fair alewife gave Nigel a cold farewell because he had no
attentions for her, and Aylward a box on the ear because he had
too many.
On the farther side of Puttenham the road runs through thick woods
of oak and beech, with a tangled undergrowth of fern and bramble.
Here they met a patrol of sergeants-at-arms, tall fellows,
well-mounted, clad in studded-leather caps and tunics, with lances
and swords. They walked their horses slowly on the shady side of
the road, and stopped as the travelers came up, to ask if they had
been molested on the way.
"Have a care," they added, "for the `Wild Man' and his wife are
out. Only yesterday they slew a merchant from the west and took a
hundred crowns."
"His wife, you say?"
"Yes, she is ever at his side, and has saved him many a time, for
if he has the strength it is she who has the wit. I hope to see
their heads together upon the green grass one of these mornings."
The patrol passed downward toward Farnham, and so, as it proved,
away from the robbers, who had doubtless watched them closely from
the dense brushwood which skirted the road. Coming round a curve,
Nigel and Aylward were aware of a tall and graceful woman who sat,
wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, upon the bank by the side
of the track. At such a sight of beauty in distress Nigel pricked
Pommers with the spur and in three bounds was at the side of the
unhappy lady.
"What ails you, fair dame?" he asked. "Is there any small matter
in which I may stand your friend, or is it possible that anyone
hath so hard a heart as to do you an injury."
She rose and turned upon him a face full of hope and entreaty.
"Oh, save my poor, poor father!" she cried. "Have you perchance
seen the way-wardens? They passed us, and I fear they are beyond
reach."
"Yes, they have ridden onward, but we may serve as well."
"Then hasten, hasten, I pray you! Even now they may be doing him
to death. They have dragged him into yonder grove and I have
heard his voice growing ever weaker in the distance. Hasten, I
implore you!"
Nigel sprang from his horse and tossed the rein to Aylward.
"Nay, let us go together. How many robbers were there, lady?"
"Two stout fellows."
"Then I come also."
"Nay, it is not possible," said Nigel. "The wood is too thick for
horses, and we cannot leave them in the road."
"I will guard them," cried the lady.
"Pommers is not so easily held. Do you bide here, Aylward, until
you hear from me. Stir not, I command you!" So saying, Nigel,
with the light, of adventure gleaming in his joyous eyes, drew his
sword and plunged swiftly into the forest.
Far and fast he ran, from glade to glade, breaking through the
bushes, springing over the brambles, light as a young deer,
peering this way and that, straining his ears for a sound, and
catching only the cry of the wood-pigeons. Still on he went, with
the constant thought of the weeping woman behind and of the
captured man in front. It was not until he was footsore and out
of breath that he stopped with his hand to his side, and
considered that his own business had still to be done, and that it
was time once more that he should seek the road to Guildford.
Meantime Aylward had found his own rough means of consoling the
woman in the road, who stood sobbing with her face against the
side of Pommers' saddle.
"Nay, weep not, my pretty one," said he. "It brings the tears to
my own eyes to see them stream from thine."
"Alas! good archer, he was the best of fathers, so gentle and so
kind! Had you but known him, you must have loved him."
"Tut, tut! he will suffer no scathe. Squire Nigel will bring him
back to you anon."
"No, no, I shall never see him more. Hold me, archer, or I fall!"
Aylward pressed his ready arm round the supple waist. The
fainting woman leaned with her hand upon his shoulder. Her pale
face looked past him, and it was some new light in her eyes, a
flash of expectancy, of triumph, of wicked joy, which gave him
sudden warning of his danger.
He shook her off and sprang to one side, but only just in time to
avoid a crashing blow from a great club in the hands of a man even
taller and stronger than himself. He had one quick vision of
great white teeth clenched in grim ferocity, a wild flying beard
and blazing wild-beast eyes. The next instant he had closed,
ducking his head beneath another swing of that murderous cudgel.
With his arms round the robber's burly body and his face buried in
his bushy beard, Aylward gasped and strained and heaved. Back and
forward in the dusty road the two men stamped and staggered, a
grim wrestling-match, with life for the prize. Twice the great
strength of the outlaw had Aylward nearly down, and twice with his
greater youth and skill the archer restored his grip and his
balance. Then at last his turn came. He slipped his leg behind
the other's knee, and, giving a mighty wrench, tore him across it.
With a hoarse shout the outlaw toppled backward and had hardly
reached the ground before Aylward had his knee upon his chest and
his short sword deep in his beard and pointed to his throat.
"By these ten finger-bones!" he gasped, "one more struggle and it
is your last!"
The man lay still enough, for he was half-stunned by the crashing
fall. Aylward looked round him, but the woman had disappeared.
At the first blow struck she had vanished into the forest. He
began to have fears for his master, thinking that he perhaps had
been lured into some deathtrap; but his forebodings were soon at
rest, for Nigel himself came hastening down the road, which he had
struck some distance from the spot where he left it.
"By Saint Paul!" he cried, "who is this man on whom you are
perched, and where is the lady who has honored us so far as to
crave our help? Alas, that I have been unable to find her
father!"
"As well for you, fair sir," said Aylward, "for I am of opinion
that her father was the Devil. This woman is, as I believe, the
wife of the `Wild Man of Puttenham,' and this is the `Wild Man'
himself who set upon me and tried to brain me with his club."
The outlaw, who had opened his eyes, looked with a scowl from his
captor to the new-comer. "You are in luck, archer," said he, "for
I have come to grips with many a man, but I cannot call to mind
any who have had the better of me."
"You have indeed the grip of a bear," said Aylward; "but it was a
coward deed that your wife should hold me while you dashed out my
brains with a stick. It is also a most villainous thing to lay a
snare for wayfarers by asking for their pity and assistance, so
that it was our own soft hearts which brought us into such danger.
The next who hath real need of our help may suffer for your sins."
"When the hand of the whole world is against you," said the outlaw
in a surly voice, "you must fight as best you can."
"You well deserve to be hanged, if only because you have brought
this woman, who is fair and gentle-spoken, to such a life," said
Nigel. "Let us tie him by the wrist to my stirrup leather,
Aylward, and we will lead him into Guildford."
The archer drew a spare bowstring from his case and had bound the
prisoner as directed, when Nigel gave a sudden start and cry of
alarm.
"Holy Mary!" he cried. "Where is the saddle-bag?"
It had been cut away by a sharp knife. Only the two ends of strap
remained. Aylward and Nigel stared at each other in blank dismay.
Then the young Squire shook his clenched hands and pulled at his
yellow curls in his despair.
"The Lady Ermyntrude's bracelet! My grandfather's cup!" he cried.
"I would have died ere I lost them! What can I say to her? I
dare not return until I have found them. Oh, Aylward, Aylward!
how came you to let them be taken?"
The honest archer had pushed back his steel cap and was scratching
his tangled head. "Nay, I know nothing of it. You never said
that there was aught of price in the bag, else had I kept a better
eye upon it. Certes! it was not this fellow who took it, since I
have never had my hands from him. It can only be the woman who
fled with it while we fought."
Nigel stamped about the road in his perplexity. "I would follow
her to the world's end if I knew where I could find her, but to
search these woods for her is to look for a mouse in a
wheat-field. Good Saint George, thou who didst overcome the
Dragon, I pray you by that most honorable and knightly achievement
that you will be with me now! And you also, great Saint Julian,
patron of all wayfarers in distress! Two candles shall burn
before your shrine at Godalming, if you will but bring me back my
saddle-bag. What would I not give to have it back?"
"Will you give me my life?" asked the outlaw. "Promise that I go
free, and you shall have it back, if it be indeed true that my
wife has taken it."
"Nay, I cannot do that," said Nigel. "My honor would surely be
concerned, since my loss is a private one; but it would be to the
public scathe that you should go free. By Saint Paul! it would be
an ungentle deed if in order to save my own I let you loose upon
the gear of a hundred others."
"I will not ask you to let me loose," said the "Wild Man." "If
you will promise that my life be spared I will restore your bag."
"I cannot give such a promise, for it will lie with the Sheriff
and reeves of Guildford."
"Shall I have your word in my favor?"
"That I could promise you, if you will give back the bag, though I
know not how far my word may avail. But your words are vain, for
you cannot think that we will be so fond as to let you go in the
hope that you return?"
"I would not ask it," said the "Wild Man," "for I can get your bag
and yet never stir from the spot where I stand. Have I your
promise upon your honor and all that you hold dear that you will
ask for grace?"
"You have."
"And that my wife shall be unharmed?"
"I promise it."
The outlaw laid back his head and uttered a long shrill cry like
the howl of a wolf. There was a silent pause, and then, clear and
shrill, there rose the same cry no great distance away in the
forest. Again the "Wild Man" called, and again his mate replied.
A third time he summoned, as the deer bells to the doe in the
greenwood. Then with a rustle of brushwood and snapping of twigs
the woman was before them once more, tall, pale, graceful,
wonderful. She glanced neither at Aylward nor Nigel, but ran to
the side of her husband.
"Dear and sweet lord," she cried, "I trust they have done you no
hurt. I waited by the old ash, and my heart sank when you came
not."
"I have been taken at last, wife."
"Oh, cursed, cursed day! Let him go, kind, gentle sirs; do not
take him from me!"
"They will speak for me at Guildford," said the " Wild Man." "They
have sworn it. But hand them first the bag that you have taken."
She drew it out from under her loose cloak. "Here it is, gentle
sir. Indeed it went to my heart to take it, for you had mercy
upon me in my trouble. But now I am, as you see, in real and very
sore distress. Will you not have mercy now? Take ruth on us,
fair sir! On my knees I beg it of you, most gentle and kindly
Squire!"
Nigel had clutched his bag, and right glad he was to feel that the
treasures were all safe within it. " My proffer is given," said
he. "I will say what I can; but the issue rests with others. I
pray you to stand up, for indeed I cannot promise more."
"Then I must be content," said she, rising, with a composed face.
"I have prayed you to take ruth, and indeed I can do no more; but
ere I go back to the forest I would rede you to be on your guard
lest you lose your bag once more. Wot you how I took it, archer?
Nay, it was simple enough, and may happen again, so I make it
clear to you. I had this knife in my sleeve, and though it is
small it is very sharp. I slipped it down like this. Then when I
seemed to weep with my face against the saddle, I cut down like
this - "
In an instant she had shorn through the stirrup leather which
bound her man, and he, diving under the belly of the horse, had
slipped like a snake into the brushwood. In passing he had struck
Pommers from beneath, and the great horse, enraged and insulted,
was rearing high, with two men hanging to his bridle. When at
last he had calmed there was no sign left of the "Wild Man or of
his wife. In vain did Aylward, an arrow on his string, run here
and there among the great trees and peer down the shadowy glades.
When he returned he and his master cast a shamefaced glance at
each other.
"I trust that we are better soldiers than jailers," said Aylward,
as he climbed on his pony.
But Nigel's frown relaxed into a smile. "At least we have gained
back what we lost," said he. "Here I place it on the pommel of my
saddle, and I shall not take my eyes from it until we are safe in
Guildford town."
So they jogged on together until passing Saint Catherine's shrine
they crossed the winding Wey once more, and so found themselves in
the steep high street with its heavy-caved gabled houses, its
monkish hospitium upon the left, where good ale may still be
quaffed, and its great square-keeped castle upon the right, no
gray and grim skeleton of ruin, but very quick and alert, with
blazoned banner flying free, and steel caps twinkling from the
battlement. A row of booths extended from the castle gate to the
high street, and two doors from the Church of the Trinity was that
of Thorold the goldsmith, a rich burgess and Mayor of the town.
He looked long and lovingly at the rich rubies and at the fine
work upon the goblet. Then he stroked his flowing gray beard as
he pondered whether he should offer fifty nobles or sixty, for he
knew well that he could sell them again for two hundred. If he
offered too much his profit would be reduced. If he offered too
little the youth might go as far as London with them, for they
were rare and of great worth. The young man was ill-clad, and his
eyes were anxious. Perchance he was hard pressed and was ignorant
of the value of what he bore. He would sound him.
"These things are old and out of fashion, fair sir," said he. "Of
the stones I can scarce say if they are of good quality or not,
but they are dull and rough. Yet, if your price be low I may add
them to my stock, though indeed this booth was made to sell and
not to buy. What do you ask?"
Nigel bent his brows in perplexity. Here was a game in which
neither his bold heart nor his active limbs could help him. It
was the new force mastering the old: the man of commerce
conquering the man of war - wearing him down and weakening him
through the centuries until he had him as his bond-servant and his
thrall.
" know not what to ask, good sir," said Nigel. "It is not for
me, nor for any man who bears my name, to chaffer and to haggle.
You know the worth of these things, for it is your trade to do so.
The Lady Ermyntrude lacks money, and we must have it against the
King's coming, so give me that which is right and just, and we
will say no more."
The goldsmith smiled. The business was growing more simple and
more profitable. He had intended to offer fifty, but surely it
would be sinful waste to give more than twenty-five.
"I shall scarce know what to do with them when I have them," said
he. "Yet I should not grudge twenty nobles if it is a matter in
which the King is concerned."
Nigel's heart turned to lead. This sum would not buy one-half
what was needful. It was clear that the Lady Ermyntrude had
overvalued her treasures. Yet he could not return empty-handed,
so if twenty nobles was the real worth, as this good old man
assured him, then he must be thankful and take it.
"I am concerned by what you say," said he. "You know more of
these things than I can do. However, I will take - "
"A hundred and fifty," whispered Aylward's voice in his ear.
"A hundred and fifty," said Nigel, only too relieved to have found
the humblest guide upon these unwonted paths.
The goldsmith started. This youth was not the simple soldier that
he had seemed. That frank face, those blue eyes, were traps for
the unwary. Never had he been more taken aback in a bargain.
"This is fond talk and can lead to nothing, fair sir," said he,
turning away and fiddling with the keys of his strong boxes. "Yet
I have no wish to be hard on you. Take my outside price, which is
fifty nobles."
"And a hundred," whispered Aylward.
"And a hundred," said Nigel, blushing at his own greed.
"Well, well, take a hundred!" cried the merchant. "Fleece me,
skin me, leave me a loser, and take for your wares the full
hundred!"
"I should be shamed forever if I were to treat you so badly," said
Nigel. "You have spoken me fair, and I would not grind you down.
Therefore, I will gladly take one hundred - "
"And fifty," whispered Aylward.
"And fifty," said Nigel.
"By Saint John of Beverley!" cried the merchant. "I came hither
from the North Country, and they are said to be shrewd at a deal
in those parts; but I had rather bargain with a synagogue full of
Jews than with you, for all your gentle ways. Will you indeed
take no less than a hundred and fifty? Alas! you pluck from me my
profits of a month. It is a fell morning's work for me. I would
I had never seen you!" With groans and lamentations he paid the
gold pieces across the counter, and Nigel, hardly able to credit
his own good fortune, gathered them into the leather saddle-bag.
A moment later with flushed face he was in the street and pouring
out his thanks to Aylward.
"Alas, my fair lord! the man has robbed us now," said the archer.
" We could have had another twenty had we stood fast."
"How know you that, good Aylward?"
"By his eyes, Squire Loring. I wot I have little store of reading
where the parchment of a book or the pinching of a blazon is
concerned, but I can read men's eyes, and I never doubted that he
would give what he has given."
The two travelers had dinner at the monk's hospitium, Nigel at the
high table and Aylward among the commonalty. Then again they
roamed the high street on business intent. Nigel bought taffeta
for hangings, wine, preserves, fruit, damask table linen and many
other articles of need. At last he halted before the armorer's
shop at the castle-yard, staring at the fine suits of plate, the
engraved pectorals, the plumed helmets, the cunningly jointed
gorgets, as a child at a sweet-shop.
"Well, Squire Loring," said Wat the armorer, looking sidewise from
the furnace where he was tempering a sword blade, "what can I sell
you this morning? I swear to you by Tubal Cain, the father of all
workers in metal, that you might go from end to end of Cheapside
and never see a better suit than that which hangs from yonder
hook!"
"And the price, armorer?"
"To anyone else, two hundred and fifty rose nobles. To you two
hundred."
"And why cheaper to me, good fellow?"
"Because I fitted your father also for the wars, and a finer suit
never went out of my shop. I warrant that it turned many an edge
before he laid it aside. We worked in mail in those days, and I
had as soon have a well-made thick-meshed mail as any plates; but
a young knight will be in the fashion like any dame of the court,
and so it must be plate now, even though the price be trebled."
"Your rede is that the mail is as good?"
"I am well sure of it."
"Hearken then, armorer! I cannot at this moment buy a suit of
plate, and yet I sorely need steel harness on account of a small
deed which it is in my mind to do. Now I have at my home at
Tilford that very suit of mail of which you speak, with which my
father first rode to the wars. Could you not so alter it that it
should guard my limbs also?"
The armorer looked at Nigel's small upright figure and burst out
laughing. "You jest, Squire Loring! The suit was made for one
who was far above the common stature of man."
"Nay, I jest not. If it will but carry me through one spear-
running it will have served its purpose."
The armorer leaned back on his anvil and pondered while Nigel
stared anxiously at his sooty face.
"Right gladly would I lend you a suit of plate for this one
venture, Squire Loring, but I know well that if you should be
overthrown your harness becomes prize to the victor. I am a poor
man with many children, and I dare not risk the loss of it. But
as to what you say of the old suit of mail, is it indeed in good
condition?"
"Most excellent, save only at the neck, which is much frayed."
"To shorten the limbs is easy. It is but to cut out a length of
the mail and then loop up the links. But to shorten the body-nay,
that is beyond the armorer's art."
"It was my last hope. Nay, good armorer, if you have indeed
served and loved my gallant father, then I beg you by his memory
that you will help me now."
The armorer threw down his heavy hammer with a crash upon the
floor. "It is not only that I loved your father, Squire Loring,
but it is that I have seen you, half armed as you were, ride
against the best of them at the Castle tiltyard. Last Martinmas
my heart bled for you when I saw how sorry was your harness, and
yet you held your own against the stout Sir Oliver with his Milan
suit: When go you to Tilford?"
"Even now."
"Heh, Jenkin, fetch out the cob!" cried the worthy Wat. "May my
right hand lose its cunning if I do not send you into battle in
your father's suit! To-morrow I must be back in my booth, but
today I give to you without fee and for the sake of the good-will
which I bear to your house. I will ride with you to Tilford, and
before night you shall see what Wat can do."
So it came about that there was a busy evening at the old Tilford
Manor-house, where the Lady Ermyntrude planned and cut and hung
the curtains for the hall, and stocked her cupboards with the good
things which Nigel had brought from Guildford.
Meanwhile the Squire and the armorer sat with their heads touching
and the old suit of mail with its gorget of overlapping plates
laid out across their knees. Again and again old Wat shrugged his
shoulders, as one who has been asked to do more than can be
demanded from mortal man. At last, at a suggestion from the
Squire, he leaned back in his chair and laughed long and loudly in
his bushy beard, while the Lady Ermyntrude glared her black
displeasure at such plebeian merriment. Then taking his fine
chisel and his hammer from his pouch of tools, the armorer, still
chuckling at his own thoughts, began to drive a hole through the
center of the steel tunic.
