XIII. HOW THE COMRADES JOURNEYED DOWN THE OLD, OLD ROAD
And now the season of the moonless nights was drawing nigh and the
King's design was ripe. Very secretly his preparations were made.
Already the garrison of Calais, which consisted of five hundred
archers and two hundred men-at-arms, could, if forewarned, resist
any attack made upon it. But it was the King's design not merely
to resist the attack, but to capture the attackers. Above all it
was his wish to find the occasion for one of those adventurous
passages of arms which had made his name famous throughout
Christendom as the very pattern and leader of knight-errant
chivalry.
But the affair wanted careful handling. The arrival of any,
reinforcements, or even the crossing of any famous soldier, would
have alarmed the French and warned them that their plot had been
discovered. Therefore it was in twos and threes in the creyers
and provision ships which were continually passing from shore to
shore that the chosen warriors and their squires were brought to
Calais. There they were passed at night through the water-gate
into the castle where they could lie hidden, unknown to the
townsfolk, until the hour for action had come.
Nigel had received word from Chandos to join him at "The Sign of
the Broom-Pod" in Winchelsea. Three days beforehand he and
Aylward rode from Tilford all armed and ready for the wars. Nigel
was in hunting-costume, blithe and gay, with his precious armor
and his small baggage trussed upon the back of a spare horse which
Aylward led by the bridle. The archer had himself a good black
mare, heavy and slow, but strong enough to be fit to carry his
powerful frame. In his brigandine of chain mail and his steel
cap, with straight strong sword by his side, his yel low long-bow
jutting over his shoulder, and his quiver of arrows supported by a
scarlet baldric, he was such a warrior as any knight might well be
proud to have in his train. All Tilford trailed behind them, as
they rode slowly over the long slope of heath land which skirts
the flank of Crooksbury Hill.
At the summit of the rise Nigel reined in Pommers and looked back
at the little village behind him. There was the old dark manor
house, with one bent figure leaning upon a stick and gazing dimly
after him from beside the door. He looked at the high-pitched
roof, the timbered walls, the long trail of swirling blue smoke
which rose from the single chimney, and the group of downcast old
servants who lingered at the gate, John the cook, Weathercote the
minstrel, and Red Swire the broken soldier. Over the river amid
the trees he could see the grim, gray tower of Waverley, and even
as he looked, the iron bell, which had so often seemed to be the
hoarse threatening cry of an enemy, clanged out its call to
prayer. Nigel doffed his velvet cap and prayed also - prayed that
peace might remain at home, and good warfare, in which honor and
fame should await him, might still be found abroad. Then, waving
his hand to the people, he turned his horse's head and rode slowly
eastward. A moment later Aylward broke from the group of archers
and laughing girls who clung to his bridle and his stirrup straps,
and rode on, blowing kisses over his shoulder. So at last the two
comrades, gentle and simple, were fairly started on their venture.
There are two seasons of color in those parts: the yellow, when
the country-side is flaming with the gorse-blossoms, and the
crimson, when all the long slopes are smoldering with the heather.
So it was now. Nigel looked back from time to time, as he rode
along the narrow track where the ferns and the ling brushed his
feet on either side, and as he looked it seemed to him that wander
where he might he would never see a fairer scene than that of his
own home. Far to the westward, glowing in the morning light,
rolled billow after billow of ruddy heather land, until they
merged into the dark shadows of Woolmer Forest and the pale clear
green of the Butser chalk downs. Never in his life had Nigel
wandered far beyond these limits, and the woodlands, the down and
the heather were dear to his soul. It gave him a pang in his
heart now as he turned his face away from them; but if home lay to
the westward, out there to the eastward was the great world of
adventure, the noble stage where each of his kinsmen in turn had
played his manly part and left a proud name behind.
How often he had longed for this day! And now it had come with no
shadow cast behind it. Dame Ermyntrude was under the King's
protection. The old servants had their future assured. The
strife with the monks of Waverley had been assuaged. He had a
noble horse under him, the best of weapons, and a stout follower
at his back. Above all he was bound on a gallant errand with the
bravest knight in England as his leader. All these thoughts
surged together in his mind, and he whistled and sang, as he rode,
out of the joy of his heart, while Pommers sidled and curveted in
sympathy with the mood of his master. Presently, glancing back,
he saw from Aylward's downcast eyes and Puckered brow that the
archer was clouded with trouble. He reined his horse to let him
come abreast of him.
"How now, Aylward?" said he. "Surely of all men in England you
and I should be the most blithe this morning, since we ride
forward with all hopes of honorable advancement. By Saint Paul!
ere we see these heather hills once more we shall either
worshipfully win worship, or we shall venture our persons in the
attempt. These be glad thoughts, and why should you be downcast?"
Aylward shrugged his broad shoulders, and a wry smile dawned upon
his rugged face. "I am indeed as limp as a wetted bowstring,"
said he. "It is the nature of a man that he should be sad when he
leaves the woman he loves."
"In truth, yes!" cried Nigel, and in a flash the dark eyes of Mary
Buttesthorn rose before him, and he heard her low, sweet, earnest
voice as he had heard it that night when they brought her frailer
sister back from Shalford Manor, a voice which made all that was
best and noblest in a man thrill within his soul. "Yet, bethink
you, archer, that what a woman loves in man is not his gross body,
but rather his soul, his honor, his fame, the deeds with which he
has made his life beautiful. Therefore you are winning love as
well as glory when you turn to the wars."
"It may be so," said Aylward; "but indeed it goes to my heart to
see the pretty dears weep, and I would fain weep as well to keep
them company. When Mary - or was it Dolly? - nay, it was Martha,
the red-headed girl from the mill - when she held tight to my
baldric it was like snapping my heart-string to pluck myself
loose."
"You speak of one name and then of another," said Nigel. "How is
she called then, this maid whom you love?"
Aylward pushed back his steel cap and scratched his bristling head
with some embarrassment. "Her name," said he, " is Mary Dolly
Martha Susan Jane Cicely Theodosia Agnes Johanna Kate."
Nigel laughed as Aylward rolled out this prodigious title. "I had
no right to take you to the wars," said he; "for by Saint Paul!
it is very clear that I have widowed half the parish. But I saw
your aged father the franklin. Bethink you of the joy that will
fill his heart when he hears that you have done some small deed in
France, and so won honor in the eyes of all."
"I fear that honor will not help him to pay his arrears of rent to
the sacrist of Waverley," said Aylward. "Out he will go on the
roadside, honor and all, if he does not find ten nobles by next
Epiphany. But if I could win a ransom or be at the storming of a
rich city, then indeed the old man would be proud of me. Thy
sword must help my spade, Samkin,' said he as he kissed me goodby.
Ah! it would indeed be a happy day for him and for all if I could
ride back with a saddle-bag full of gold pieces, and please God, I
shall dip my hand in somebody's pocket before I see Crooksbury
Hill once more!"
Nigel shook his head, for indeed it seemed hopeless to try to
bridge the gulf between them. Already they had made such good
progress along the bridle-path through the heather that the little
hill of Saint Catharine and the ancient shrine upon its summit
loomed up before them. Here they crossed the road from the south
to London, and at the crossing two wayfarers were waiting who
waved their hands in greeting, the one a tall, slender, dark woman
upon a white jennet, the other a very thick and red-faced old man,
whose weight seemed to curve the back of the stout gray cob which
he bestrode.
"What how, Nigel!" he cried. "Mary has told me that you make a
start this morning, and we have waited here this hour and more on
the chance of seeing you pass. Come, lad, and have a last stoup
of English ale, for many a time amid the sour French wines you
will long for the white foam under your nose, and the good homely
twang of it."
Nigel had to decline the draft, for it meant riding into Guildford
town, a mile out of his course, but very gladly he agreed with
Mary that they should climb the path to the old shrine and offer a
last orison together. The knight and Aylward waited below with
the horses; and so it came about that Nigel and Mary found
themselves alone under the solemn old Gothic arches, in front of
the dark shadowed recess in which gleamed the golden reliquary of
the saint. In silence they knelt side by side in prayer, and then
came forth once more out of the gloom and the shadow into the
fresh sunlit summer morning. They stopped ere they descended the
path, and looked to right and left at the fair meadows and the
blue Wey curling down the valley.
"What have you prayed for, Nigel?" said she.
"I have prayed that God and His saints will hold my spirit high
and will send me back from France in such a fashion that I may
dare to come to you and to claim you for my own."
"Bethink you well what it is that you say, Nigel," said she.
"What you are to me only my own heart can tell; but I would never
set eyes upon your face again rather than abate by one inch that
height of honor and worshipful achievement to which you may
attain."
"Nay, my dear and most sweet lady, how should you abate it, since
it is the thought of you which will nerve my arm and uphold my
heart?"
"Think once more, my fair lord, and hold yourself bound by no word
which you have said. Let it be as the breeze which blows past our
faces and is heard of no more. Your soul yearns for honor. To
that has it ever turned. Is there room in it for love also? or is
it possible that both shall live at their highest in one mind? Do
you not call to mind that Galahad and other great knights of old
have put women out of their lives that they might ever give their
whole soul and strength to the winning of honor? May it not be
that I shall be a drag upon you, that your heart may shrink from
some honorable task, lest it should bring risk and pain to me?
Think well before you answer, my fair lord, for indeed my very
heart would break if it should ever happen that through love of me
your high hopes and great promise should miss fulfilment."
Nigel looked at her with sparkling eyes. The soul which shone
through her dark face had transformed it for the moment into a
beauty more lofty and more rare than that of her shallow sister.
He bowed before the majesty of the woman, and pressed his lips to
her hand. "You are like a star upon my path which guides me on
the upward way," said he. "Our souls are set together upon the
finding of honor, and how shall we hold each other back when our
purpose is the same?"
She shook her proud head. "So it seems to you now, fair lord, but
it may be otherwise as the years pass. How shall you prove that I
am indeed a help and not a hindrance?"
"I will prove it by my deeds, fair and dear lady," said Nigel.
"Here at the shrine of the holy Catharine, on this, the Feast of
Saint Margaret, I take my oath that I will do three deeds in your
honor as a proof of my high love before I set eyes upon your face
again, and these three deeds shall stand as a proof to you that if
I love you dearly, still I will not let the thought of you stand
betwixt me and honorable achievement!"
Her face shone with her love and her pride. "I also make my
oath," said she, "and I do it in the name of the holy Catharine
whose shrine is hard by. I swear that I will hold myself for you
until these three deeds be done and we meet once more; also that
if - which may dear Christ forfend! you fall in doing them then I
shall take the veil in Shalford nunnery and look upon no man's
face again! Give me your hand, Nigel."
She had taken a little bangle of gold filigree work from her arm
and fastened it upon his sunburnt wrist, reading aloud to him the
engraved motto in old French: "Fais ce que dois, adviegne que
pourra - c'est commande au chevalier." Then for one moment they
fell into each other's arms and with kiss upon kiss, a loving man
and a tender woman, they swore their troth to each other. But the
old knight was calling impatiently from below and together they
hurried down the winding path to where the horses waited under the
sandy bluff.
As far as the Shalford crossing Sir John rode by Nigel's arm, and
many were the last injunctions which he gave him concerning
woodcraft, and great his anxiety lest he confuse a spay with a
brocket, or either with a hind. At last when they came to the
reedy edge of the Wey the old knight and his daughter reined up
their horses. Nigel looked back at them ere he entered the dark
Chantry woods, and saw them still gazing after him and waving
their hands. Then the path wound amongst the trees and they were
lost to sight; but long afterwards when a clearing exposed once
more the Shalford meadows Nigel saw that the old man upon the gray
cob was riding slowly toward Saint Catharine's Hill, but that the
girl was still where he had seen her last, leaning forward in her
saddle and straining her eyes to pierce the dark forest which
screened her lover from her view. It was but a fleeting glance
through a break in the foliage, and yet in after days of stress
and toil in far distant lands it was that one little picture - the
green meadow, the reeds, the slow blue-winding river, and the
eager bending graceful figure upon the white horse - which was the
clearest and the dearest image of that England which he had left
behind him.
But if Nigel's friends had learned that this was the morning of
his leaving, his enemies too were on the alert. The two comrades
had just emerged from the Chantry woods and were beginning the
ascent of that curving path which leads upward to the old Chapel
of the Martyr when with a hiss like an angry snake a long white
arrow streaked under Pommers and struck quivering in the grassy
turf. A second whizzed past Nigel's ear, as he tried to turn; but
Aylward struck the great war-horse a sharp blow over the haunches,
and it had galloped some hundreds of yards before its rider could
pull it up. Aylward followed as hard as he could ride, bending
low over his horse's neck, while arrows whizzed all around him.
"By Saint Paul!" said Nigel, tugging at his bridle and white with
anger, "they shall not chase me across the country as though I was
a frighted doe. Archer, how dare you to lash my horse when I
would have turned and ridden in upon them?"
"It is well that I did so," said Aylward, "or by these ten finger-
bones! our journey would have begun and ended on the same day. As
I glanced round I saw a dozen of them at the least amongst the
brushwood. See now how the light glimmers upon their steel caps
yonder in the bracken under the great beech-tree. Nay, I pray
you, my fair lord, do not ride forward. What chance has a man in
the open against all these who lie at their ease in the underwood?
If you will not think of yourself, then consider your horse, which
would have a cloth-yard shaft feathered in its hide ere it could
reach the wood."
Nigel chafed in impotent anger. "Am I to be shot at like a
popinjay at a fair, by any reaver or outlaw that seeks a mark for
his bow?" he cried. "By Saint Paul! Aylward, I will put on my
harness and go further into the matter. Help me to untruss, I
pray you!"
"Nay, my fair lord, I will not help you to your own downfall. It
is a match with cogged dice betwixt a horseman on the moor and
archers amid the forest. But these men are no outlaws, or they
would not dare to draw their bows within a league of the sheriff
of Guildford."
"Indeed, Aylward, I think that you speak truth," said Nigel." It
may be that these are the men of Paul de la Fosse of Shalford,
whom I have giver, little cause to love me. Ah! there is indeed
the very man himself."
They sat their horses with their backs to the long slope which
leads up to the old chapel on the hill. In front of them was the
dark ragged edge of the wood, with a sharp twinkle of steel here
and there in its shadows which spoke of these lurking foes. But
now there was a long moot upon a horn, and at once a score of
russet-clad bowmen ran forward from amid the trees, spreading out
into a scattered line and closing swiftly in upon the travelers.
In the midst of them, upon a great gray horse, sat a small
misshapen man, waving and cheering as one sets hounds on a badger,
turning his head this way and that as he whooped and pointed,
urging his bowmen onward up the slope.
"Draw them on, my fair lord! Draw them on until we have them out
on the down!" cried Aylward, his eyes shining with joy. "Five
hundred paces more, and then we may be on terms with them. Nay,
linger not, but keep them always just clear of arrowshot until our
turn has come."
Nigel shook and trembled with eagerness, as with his hand on his
sword-hilt he looked at the line of eager hurrying men. But it
flashed through his mind what Chandos had said of the cool head
which is better for the warrior than the hot heart. Aylward's
words were true and wise. He turned Pommers' head therefore, and
amid a cry of derision from behind them the comrades trotted over
the down. The bowmen broke into a run, while their leader
screamed and waved more madly than before. Aylward cast many a
glance at them over his shoulder.
"Yet a little farther! Yet a little farther still!" he muttered.
"The wind is towards them and the fools have forgot that I can
overshoot them by fifty paces. Now, my good lord, I pray you for
one instant to hold the horses, for my weapon is of more avail
this day, than thine can be. They may make sorry cheer ere they
gain the shelter of the wood once more."
He had sprung from his horse, and with a downward wrench of his
arm and a push with his knee he slipped the string into the upper
nock of his mighty war-bow. Then in a flash he notched his shaft
and drew it to the pile, his keen blue eyes glowing fiercely
behind it from under his knotted brows. With thick legs planted
sturdily apart, his body laid to the bow, his left arm motionless
as wood, his right bunched into a double curve of swelling muscles
as he stretched the white well-waxed string, he looked so keen and
fierce a fighter that the advancing line stopped for an instant at
the sight of him. Two or three loosed off their arrows, but the
shafts flew heavily against the head wind, and snaked along the
hard turf some score of paces short of the mark. One only, a
short bandy-legged man, whose squat figure spoke of enormous
muscular strength, ran swiftly in and then drew so strong a bow
that the arrow quivered in the ground at Aylward's very feet.
"It is Black Will of Lynchmere," said the bowman. "Many a match
have I shot with him, and I know well that no other man on the
Surrey marches could have sped such a shaft. I trust that you are
houseled and shriven, Will, for I have known you so long that I
would not have your damnation upon my soul."
He raised his bow as he spoke, and the string twanged with a rich
deep musical note. Aylward leaned upon his bow-stave as he keenly
watched the long swift flight of his shaft, skimming smoothly down
the wind.
"On him, on him! No, over him, by my hilt!" he cried. "There is
more wind than I had thought. Nay, nay, friend, now that I have
the length of you, you can scarce hope to loose again."
Black Will had notched an arrow and was raising his bow when
Aylward's second shaft passed through the shoulder of his drawing
arm. With a shout of anger and pain he dropped his weapon, and
dancing in his fury he shook his fist and roared curses at his
rival.
"I could slay him; but I will not, for good bowmen are not so
common," said Aylward. "And now, fair sir, we must on, for they
are spreading round on either side, and if once they get behind
us, then indeed our journey has come to a sudden end. But ere we
go I would send a shaft through yonder horseman who leads them
on."
"Nay, Aylward, I pray you to leave him," said Nigel. "Villain as
he is, he is none the less a gentleman of coat-armor, and should
die by some other weapon than thine."
"As you will," said Aylward, with a clouded brow. "I have been
told that in the late wars many a French prince and baron has not
been too proud to take his death wound from an English yeoman's
shaft, and that nobles of England have been glad enough to stand
by and see it done."
Nigel shook his head sadly. "It is sooth you say, archer, and
indeed it is no new thing, for that good knight Richard of the
Lion Heart met his end in such a lowly fashion, and so also did
Harold the Saxon. But this is a private matter, and I would not
have you draw your bow against him. Neither can I ride at him
myself, for he is weak in body, though dangerous in spirit.
Therefore, we will go upon our way, since there is neither profit
nor honor to be gained, nor any hope of advancement."
Aylward, having unstrung his bow, had remounted his horse during
this conversation, and the two rode swiftly past the little squat
Chapel of the Martyr and over the brow of the hill. From the
summit they looked back. The injured archer lay upon the ground,
with several of his comrades gathered in a knot around him.
Others ran aimlessly up the hill, but were already far behind.
The leader sat motionless upon his horse, and as he saw them look
back he raised his hand and shrieked his curses at them. An
instant later the curve of the ground had hid them from view. So,
amid love and hate, Nigel bade adieu to the home of his youth.
And now the comrades were journeying upon that old, old road which
runs across the south of England and yet never turns toward
London, for the good reason that the place was a poor hamlet when
first the road was laid. From Winchester, the Saxon capital, to
Canterbury, the holy city of Kent, ran that ancient highway, and
on from Canterbury to the narrow straits where, on a clear day,
the farther shore can be seen. Along this track as far back as
history can trace the metals of the west have been carried and
passed the pack-horses which bore the goods which Gaul sent in
exchange. Older than the Christian faith and older than the
Romans, is the old road. North and south are the woods and the
marshes, so that only on the high dry turf of the chalk land could
a clear track be found. The Pilgrim's Way, it still is called;
but the pilgrims were the last who ever trod it, for it was
already of immemorial age before the death of Thomas a Becket gave
a new reason why folk should journey to the scene of his murder.
>From the hill of Weston Wood the travelers could see the long
white band which dipped and curved and rose over the green
downland, its course marked even in the hollows by the line of the
old yew-trees which flanked it. Neither Nigel nor Aylward had
wandered far from their own country, and now they rode with light
hearts and eager eyes taking note of all the varied pictures of
nature and of man which passed before them. To their left was a
hilly country, a land of rolling heaths and woods, broken here and
there into open spaces round the occasional farm-house of a
franklin. Hackhurst Down, Dunley Hill, and Ranmore Common swelled
and sank, each merging into the other. But on the right, after
passing the village of Shere and the old church of Gomshall, the
whole south country lay like a map at their feet. There was the
huge wood of the Weald, one unbroken forest of oak-trees
stretching away to the South Downs, which rose olive-green against
the deep blue sky. Under this great canopy of trees strange folk
lived and evil deeds were done. In its recesses were wild tribes,
little changed from their heathen ancestors, who danced round the
altar of Thor, and well was it for the peaceful traveler that he
could tread the high open road of the chalk land with no need to
wander into so dangerous a tract, where soft clay, tangled forest
and wild men all barred his progress.
But apart from the rolling country upon the left and the great
forest-hidden plain upon the right, there was much upon the road
itself to engage the attention of the wayfarers. It was crowded
with people. As far as their eyes could carry they could see the
black dots scattered thickly upon the thin white band, sometimes
single, sometimes several abreast, sometimes in moving crowds,
where a drove of pilgrims held together for mutual protection, or
a nobleman showed his greatness by the number of retainers who
trailed at his heels. At that time the main roads were very
crowded, for there, were many wandering people in the land. Of
all sorts and kinds, they passed in an unbroken stream before the
eyes of Nigel and of Aylward, alike only in the fact that one and
all were powdered from their hair to their shoes with the gray
dust of the chalk.
There were monks journeying from one cell to another, Benedictines
with their black gowns looped up to show their white skirts,
Carthusians in white, and pied Cistercians. Friars also of the
three wandering orders - Dominicans in black, Carmelites in white
and Franciscans in gray. There was no love lost between the
cloistered monks and the free friars, each looking on the other as
a rival who took from him the oblations of the faithful; so they
passed on the high road as cat passes dog, with eyes askance and
angry faces.
Then besides the men of the church there were the men of trade,
the merchant in dusty broadcloth and Flanders hat riding at the
head of his line of pack-horses. He carried Cornish tin,
Welt-country wool, or Sussex iron if he traded eastward, or if his
head should be turned westward then he bore with him the velvets
of Genoa, the ware of Venice, the wine of France, or the armor of
Italy and Spain. Pilgrims were everywhere, poor people for the
most part, plodding wearily along with trailing feet and bowed
heads, thick staves in their hands and bundles over their
shoulders. Here and there on a gaily caparisoned palfrey, or in
the greater luxury of a horse-litter, some West-country lady might
be seen making her easy way to the shrine of Saint Thomas.
Besides all these a constant stream of strange vagabonds drifted
along the road: minstrels who wandered from fair to fair, a foul
and pestilent crew; jugglers and acrobats, quack doctors and
tooth-drawers, students and beggars, free workmen in search of
better wages, and escaped bondsmen who would welcome any wages at
all. Such was the throng which set the old road smoking in a haze
of white dust from Winchester to the narrow sea.
But of all the wayfarers those which interested Nigel most were
the soldiers. Several times they passed little knots of archers
or men-at-arms, veterans from France, who had received their
discharge and were now making their way to their southland homes.
They were half drunk all of them, for the wayfarers treated them
to beer at the frequent inns and ale-stakes which lined the road,
so that they cheered and sang lustily as they passed. They roared
rude pleasantries at Aylward, who turned in his saddle and shouted
his opinion of them until they were out of hearing.
Once, late in the afternoon, they overtook a body of a hundred
archers all marching together with two knights riding at their
head. They were passing from Guildford Castle to Reigate Castle,
where they were in garrison. Nigel rode with the knights for some
distance, and hinted that if either was in search of honorable
advancement, or wished to do some small deed, or to relieve
himself of any vow, it might be possible to find some means of
achieving it. They were both, however, grave and elderly men,
intent upon their business and with no mind for fond wayside
adventures, so Nigel quickened his pace and left them behind.
They had left Boxhill and Headley Heath upon the left, and the
towers of Reigate were rising amid the trees in front of them,
when they overtook a large, cheery, red-faced man, with a forked
beard, riding upon a good horse and exchanging a nod or a merry
word with all who passed him. With him they rode nearly as far as
Bletchingley, and Nigel laughed much to hear him talk; but always
under the raillery there was much earnestness and much wisdom in
all his words. He rode at his ease about the country, he said,
having sufficient money to keep him from want and to furnish him
for the road. He could speak all the three languages of England,
the north, the middle and the south, so that he was at home with
the people of every shire and could hear their troubles and their
joys. In all parts in town and in country there was unrest, he
said; for the poor folk were weary of their masters both of the
Church and State, and soon there would be such doings in England
as had never been seen before.
But above all this man was earnest against the Church its enormous
wealth, its possession of nearly one-third of the whole land of
the country, its insatiable greed for more at the very time when
it claimed to be poor and lowly. The monks and friars, too, he
lashed with his tongue: their roguish ways, their laziness and
their cunning. He showed how their wealth and that of the haughty
lord must always be founded upon the toil of poor humble Peter the
Plowman, who worked and strove in rain and cold out in the fields,
the butt and laughing-stock of everyone, and still bearing up the
whole world upon his weary shoulders. He had set it all out in a
fair parable; so now as he rode he repeated some of the verses,
chanting them and marking time with his forefinger, while Nigel
and Aylward on either side of him with their heads inclined inward
listened with the same attention, but with very different feelings
- Nigel shocked at such an attack upon authority, and Aylward
chuckling as he heard the sentiments of his class so shrewdly
expressed. At last the stranger halted his horse outside the
"Five Angels" at Gatton.
"It is a good inn, and I know the ale of old," said he. "When I
had finished that `Dream of Piers the Plowman from which I have
recited to you, the last verses were thus:
"`Now have I brought my little booke to an ende
God's blessing be on him who a drinke will me sende' -
I pray you come in with me and share it."
"Nay," said Nigel, "we must on our way, for we have far to go.
But give me your name, my friend, for indeed we have passed a
merry hour listening to your words."
"Have a care!" the stranger answered, shaking his head. "You and
your class will not spend a merry hour when these words are turned
into deeds and Peter the Plowman grows weary of swinking in the
fields and takes up his bow and his staff in order to set this
land in order."
"By Saint Paul! I expect that we shall bring Peter to reason and
also those who have put such evil thoughts into his head," said
Nigel. "So once more I ask your name, that I may know it if ever
I chance to hear that you have been hanged?"
The stranger laughed good-humoredly. "You can call me Thomas
Lackland," said he. "I should be Thomas Lack-brain if I were
indeed to give my true name, since a good many robbers, some in
black gowns and some in steel, would be glad to help me upwards in
the way you speak of. So good-day to you, Squire, and to you
also, archer, and may you find your way back with whole bones from
the wars!"
That night the comrades slept in Godstone Priory, and early next
morning they were well upon their road down the Pilgrim's Way. At
Titsey it was said that a band of villeins were out in Westerham
Wood and had murdered three men the day before; so that Nigel had
high hopes of an encounter; but the brigands showed no sign,
though the travelers went out of their way to ride their horses
along the edges of the forest. Farther on they found traces of
their work, for the path ran along the hillside at the base of a
chalk quarry, and there in the cutting a man was lying dead. From
his twisted limbs and shattered frame it was easy to see that he
had been thrown over from above, while his pockets turned outward
showed the reason for his murder. The comrades rode past without
too close a survey, for dead men were no very uncommon objects on
the King's highway, and if sheriff or bailiff should chance upon
you near the body you might find yourself caught in the meshes of
the law.
Near Sevenoaks their road turned out of the old Canterbury way and
pointed south toward the coast, leaving the chalk lands and coming
down into the clay of the Weald. It was a wretched, rutted
mule-track running through thick forests with occasional clearings
in which lay the small Kentish villages, where rude shock-headed
peasants with smocks and galligaskins stared with bold, greedy
eyes at the travelers. Once on the right they caught a distant
view of the Towers of Penshurst, and once they heard the deep
tolling of the bells of Bayham Abbey, but for the rest of their
day's journey savage peasants and squalid cottages were all that
met their eyes, with endless droves of pigs who fed upon the
litter of acorns. The throng of travelers who crowded the old
road were all gone, and only here and there did they meet or
overtake some occasional merchant or messenger bound for Battle
Abbey, Pevensey Castle or the towns of the south.
That night they slept in a sordid inn, overrun with rats and with
fleas, one mile south of the hamlet of Mayfield. Aylward
scratched vigorously and cursed with fervor. Nigel lay without
movement or sound. To the man who had learned the old rule of
chivalry there were no small ills in life. It was beneath the
dignity of his soul to stoop to observe them. Cold and heat,
hunger and thirst, such things did not exist for the gentleman.
The armor of his soul was so complete that it was proof not only
against the great ills of life but even against the small ones; so
the flea-bitten Nigel lay grimly still while Aylward writhed upon
his couch.
They were now but a short distance from their destination; but
they had hardly started on their journey through the forest next
morning, when an adventure befell them which filled Nigel with the
wildest hopes.
Along the narrow winding path between the great oak trees there
rode a dark sallow man in a scarlet tabard who blew so loudly upon
a silver trumpet that they heard the clanging call long before
they set eyes on him. Slowly he advanced, pulling up every fifty
paces to make the forest ring with another warlike blast. The
comrades rode forward to meet him.
"I pray you," said Nigel, "to tell me who you are and why you blow
upon this trumpet."
The fellow shook his head, so Nigel repeated the question in
French, the common language of chivalry, spoken at that age by
every gentleman in Western Europe.
The man put his lips to the trumpet and blew another long note
before he answered. "I am Gaston de Castrier," said he, "the
humble Squire of the most worthy and valiant knight Raoul de
Tubiers, de Pestels, de Grimsard, de Mersac, de Leoy, de Bastanac,
who also writes himself Lord of Pons. It is his order that I ride
always a mile in front of him to prepare all to receive him, and
he desires me to blow upon a trumpet not out of vainglory, but out
of greatness of spirit, so that none may be ignorant of his coming
should they desire to encounter him."
Nigel sprang from his horse with a cry of joy, and began to
unbutton his doublet. "Quick, Aylward, quick!" he said. "He
comes, a knight errant comes! Was there ever such a chance of
worshipfully winning worship? Untruss the harness whilst I loose
my clothes! Good sir, I beg you to warn your noble and valiant
master that a poor Squire of England would implore him to take
notice of him and to do some small deed upon him as he passes."
But already the Lord of Pons had come in sight. He was a huge man
upon an enormous horse, so that together they seemed to fill up
the whole long dark archway under the oaks. He was clad in full
armor of a brazen hue with only his face exposed, and of this face
there was little visible save a pair of arrogant eyes and a great
black beard, which flowed through the open vizor and down over his
breastplate. To the crest of his helmet was tied a small brown
glove, nodding and swinging above him. He bore a long lance with
a red square banner at the end, charged with a black boar's head,
and the same symbol was engraved upon his shield. Slowly he rode
through the forest, ponderous, menacing, with dull thudding of his
charger's hoofs and constant clank of metal, while always in front
of him came the distant peal of the silver trumpet calling all men
to admit his majesty and to clear his path ere they be cleared
from it.
Never in his dreams had so perfect a vision come to cheer Nigel's
heart, and as he struggled with his clothes, glancing up
continually at this wondrous traveler, he pattered forth prayers
of thanksgiving to the good Saint Paul who had shown such loving-
kindness to his unworthy servant and thrown him in the path of so
excellent and debonair a gentleman.
But alas! how often at the last instant the cup is dashed from the
lips! This joyful chance was destined to change suddenly to
unexpected and grotesque disaster - disaster so strange and so
complete that through all his life Nigel flushed crimson when he
thought of it. He was busily stripping his hunting-costume, and
with feverish haste he had doffed boots, hat, hose, doublet and
cloak, so that nothing remained save a pink jupon and pair of
silken drawers. At the same time Aylward was hastily unbuckling
the load with the intention of handing his master his armor piece
by piece, when the Squire gave one last challenging peal from his
silver trumpet into the very ear of the spare horse.
In an instant it had taken to its heels, the precious armor upon
its back, and thundered away down the road which they had
traversed. Aylward jumped upon his mare, drove his prick spurs
into her sides and galloped after the runaway as hard as he could
ride. Thus it came about that in an instant Nigel was shorn of
all his little dignity, had lost his two horses, his attendant and
his outfit, and found himself a lonely and unarmed man standing in
his shirt and drawers upon the pathway down which the burly figure
of the Lord of Pons was slowly advancing.
The knight errant, whose mind had been filled by the thought of
the maiden whom he had left behind at St. Jean - the same whose
glove dangled from his helmet - had observed nothing that had
occurred. Hence, all that met his eyes was a noble yellow horse,
which was tethered by the track, and a small young man, who
appeared to be a lunatic since he had undressed hastily in the
heart of the forest, and stood now with an eager anxious face clad
in his underlinen amid the scattered debris of his garments. Of
such a person the high Lord of Pons could take no notice, and so
he pursued his inexorable way, his arrogant eyes looking out into
the distance and his thoughts set intently upon the maiden of St.
Jean. He was dimly aware that the little crazy man in the
undershirt ran a long way beside him in his stockings, begging,
imploring and arguing.
"Just one hour, most fair sir, just one hour at the longest, and a
poor Squire of England shall ever hold himself your debtor! Do
but condescend to rein your horse until my harness comes back to
me! Will you not stoop to show me some small deed of arms? I
implore you, fair sir, to spare me a little of your time and a
handstroke or two ere you go upon your way!"
Lord de Pons motioned impatiently with his gauntleted hand, as one
might brush away an importunate fly, but when at last Nigel became
desperate in his clamor he thrust his spurs into his great
war-horse, and clashing like a pair of cymbals he thundered off
through the forest. So he rode upon his majestic way, until two
days later he was slain by Lord Reginald Cobham in a field near
Weybridge.
When after a long chase Aylward secured the spare horse and
brought it back, he found his master seated upon a fallen tree,
his face buried in his hands and his mind clouded with humiliation
and grief. Nothing was said, for the matter was beyond words, and
so in moody silence they rode upon their way.
But soon they came upon a scene which drew Nigel's thoughts away
from his bitter trouble, for in front of them there rose the
towers of a great building with a small gray sloping village
around it, and they learned from a passing hind that this was the
hamlet and Abbey of Battle. Together they drew rein upon the low
ridge and looked down into that valley of death from which even
now the reek of blood seems to rise. Down beside that sinister
lake and amid those scattered bushes sprinkled over the naked
flank of the long ridge was fought that long-drawn struggle
betwixt two most noble foes with broad England as the prize of
victory. Here, up and down the low hill, hour by hour the grim
struggle had waxed and waned, until the Saxon army had died where
it stood, King, court, house-carl and fyrdsman, each in their
ranks even as they had fought. And now, after all the stress and
toil, the tyranny, the savage revolt, the fierce suppression, God
had made His purpose complete, for here were Nigel the Norman and
Aylward the Saxon with good-fellowship in their hearts and a
common respect in their minds, with the same banner and the same
cause, riding forth to do battle for their old mother England.
And now the long ride drew to an end. In front of them was the
blue sea, flecked with the white sails of ships. Once more the
road passed upward from the heavy-wooded plain to the springy turf
of the chalk downs. Far to the right rose the grim fortalice of
Pevensey, squat and powerful, like one great block of rugged
stone, the parapet twinkling with steel caps and crowned by the
royal banner of England. A flat expanse of reeded marshland lay
before them, out of which rose a single wooded hill, crowned with
towers, with a bristle of masts rising out of the green plain some
distance to the south of it. Nigel looked at it with his hand
shading his eyes, and then urged Pommers to a trot. The town was
Winchelsea, and there amid that cluster of houses on the hill the
gallant Chandos must be awaiting him.
