Sir Nigel Read online

  XIII. HOW THE COMRADES JOURNEYED DOWN THE OLD, OLD ROAD

  And now the season of the moonless nights was drawing nigh and theKing's design was ripe. Very secretly his preparations were made.Already the garrison of Calais, which consisted of five hundred archersand two hundred men-at-arms, could, if forewarned, resist any attackmade upon it. But it was the King's design not merely to resist theattack, but to capture the attackers. Above all it was his wish to findthe occasion for one of those adventurous passages of arms which hadmade his name famous throughout Christendom as the very pattern andleader of knight-errant chivalry.

  But the affair wanted careful handling. The arrival of any,reinforcements, or even the crossing of any famous soldier, would havealarmed the French and warned them that their plot had been discovered.Therefore it was in twos and threes in the creyers and provision shipswhich were continually passing from shore to shore that the chosenwarriors and their squires were brought to Calais. There they werepassed at night through the water-gate into the castle where they couldlie hidden, unknown to the townsfolk, until the hour for action hadcome.

  Nigel had received word from Chandos to join him at "The Sign of theBroom-Pod" in Winchelsea. Three days beforehand he and Aylward rode fromTilford all armed and ready for the wars. Nigel was in hunting-costume,blithe and gay, with his precious armor and his small baggage trussedupon the back of a spare horse which Aylward led by the bridle. Thearcher had himself a good black mare, heavy and slow, but strong enoughto be fit to carry his powerful frame. In his brigandine of chain mailand his steel cap, with straight strong sword by his side, his yellowlong-bow jutting over his shoulder, and his quiver of arrows supportedby a scarlet baldric, he was such a warrior as any knight might wellbe proud to have in his train. All Tilford trailed behind them, as theyrode slowly over the long slope of heath land which skirts the flank ofCrooksbury Hill.

  At the summit of the rise Nigel reined in Pommers and looked back at thelittle village behind him. There was the old dark manor house, with onebent figure leaning upon a stick and gazing dimly after him from besidethe door. He looked at the high-pitched roof, the timbered walls, thelong trail of swirling blue smoke which rose from the single chimney,and the group of downcast old servants who lingered at the gate, Johnthe cook, Weathercote the minstrel, and Red Swire the broken soldier.Over the river amid the trees he could see the grim, gray tower ofWaverley, and even as he looked, the iron bell, which had so oftenseemed to be the hoarse threatening cry of an enemy, clanged out itscall to prayer. Nigel doffed his velvet cap and prayed also--prayed thatpeace might remain at home, and good warfare, in which honor and fameshould await him, might still be found abroad. Then, waving his handto the people, he turned his horse's head and rode slowly eastward. Amoment later Aylward broke from the group of archers and laughing girlswho clung to his bridle and his stirrup straps, and rode on, blowingkisses over his shoulder. So at last the two comrades, gentle andsimple, were fairly started on their venture.

  There are two seasons of color in those parts: the yellow, when thecountry-side is flaming with the gorse-blossoms, and the crimson, whenall 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 trackwhere the ferns and the ling brushed his feet on either side, and as helooked it seemed to him that wander where he might he would never see afairer scene than that of his own home. Far to the westward, glowingin the morning light, rolled billow after billow of ruddy heather land,until they merged into the dark shadows of Woolmer Forest and the paleclear green of the Butser chalk downs. Never in his life had Nigelwandered far beyond these limits, and the woodlands, the down and theheather were dear to his soul. It gave him a pang in his heart now ashe turned his face away from them; but if home lay to the westward, outthere to the eastward was the great world of adventure, the noble stagewhere each of his kinsmen in turn had played his manly part and left aproud name behind.

  How often he had longed for this day! And now it had come with no shadowcast behind it. Dame Ermyntrude was under the King's protection. The oldservants had their future assured. The strife with the monks of Waverleyhad 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 gallanterrand with the bravest knight in England as his leader. All thesethoughts surged together in his mind, and he whistled and sang, as herode, out of the joy of his heart, while Pommers sidled and curveted insympathy with the mood of his master. Presently, glancing back, hesaw from Aylward's downcast eyes and Puckered brow that the archer wasclouded with trouble. He reined his horse to let him come abreast ofhim.

  "How now, Aylward?" said he. "Surely of all men in England you and Ishould be the most blithe this morning, since we ride forward with allhopes of honorable advancement. By Saint Paul! ere we see these heatherhills once more we shall either worshipfully win worship, or we shallventure our persons in the attempt. These be glad thoughts, and whyshould you be downcast?"

  Aylward shrugged his broad shoulders, and a wry smile dawned upon hisrugged face. "I am indeed as limp as a wetted bowstring," said he. "Itis the nature of a man that he should be sad when he leaves the woman heloves."

  "In truth, yes!" cried Nigel, and in a flash the dark eyes of MaryButtesthorn rose before him, and he heard her low, sweet, earnest voiceas he had heard it that night when they brought her frailer sister backfrom Shalford Manor, a voice which made all that was best and noblestin a man thrill within his soul. "Yet, bethink you, archer, that whata woman loves in man is not his gross body, but rather his soul, hishonor, 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 thewars."

  "It may be so," said Aylward; "but indeed it goes to my heart to see thepretty 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 girlfrom the mill--when she held tight to my baldric it was like snapping myheart-string to pluck myself loose."

  "You speak of one name and then of another," said Nigel. "How is shecalled then, this maid whom you love?"

  Aylward pushed back his steel cap and scratched his bristling head withsome embarrassment. "Her name," said he, "is Mary Dolly Martha SusanJane Cicely Theodosia Agnes Johanna Kate."

  Nigel laughed as Aylward rolled out this prodigious title. "I had noright to take you to the wars," said he; "for by Saint Paul! it is veryclear that I have widowed half the parish. But I saw your aged fatherthe franklin. Bethink you of the joy that will fill his heart when hehears that you have done some small deed in France, and so won honor inthe eyes of all."

  "I fear that honor will not help him to pay his arrears of rent to thesacrist 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 Icould win a ransom or be at the storming of a rich city, then indeed theold 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 forhim and for all if I could ride back with a saddle-bag full of goldpieces, and please God, I shall dip my hand in somebody's pocket beforeI see Crooksbury Hill once more!"

  Nigel shook his head, for indeed it seemed hopeless to try to bridge thegulf between them. Already they had made such good progress along thebridle-path through the heather that the little hill of Saint Catharineand the ancient shrine upon its summit loomed up before them. Herethey crossed the road from the south to London, and at the crossingtwo wayfarers were waiting who waved their hands in greeting, the onea tall, slender, dark woman upon a white jennet, the other a very thickand red-faced old man, whose weight seemed to curve the back of thestout gray cob which he bestrode.

  "What how, Nigel!" he cried. "Mary has told me that you make a startthis morning, and we have waited here this hour and more on the chanceof seeing you pass. Come, lad, and have a last stoup of English ale, formany a time amid the sour French wines you will long for the white foamunder your no
se, 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 thatthey should climb the path to the old shrine and offer a last orisontogether. The knight and Aylward waited below with the horses; and so itcame about that Nigel and Mary found themselves alone under the solemnold Gothic arches, in front of the dark shadowed recess in which gleamedthe golden reliquary of the saint. In silence they knelt side by sidein prayer, and then came forth once more out of the gloom and the shadowinto the fresh sunlit summer morning. They stopped ere they descendedthe path, and looked to right and left at the fair meadows and the blueWey 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 willsend me back from France in such a fashion that I may dare to come toyou and to claim you for my own."

  "Bethink you well what it is that you say, Nigel," said she. "What youare to me only my own heart can tell; but I would never set eyes uponyour face again rather than abate by one inch that height of honor andworshipful achievement to which you may attain."

  "Nay, my dear and most sweet lady, how should you abate it, since it isthe 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 whichyou have said. Let it be as the breeze which blows past our faces andis heard of no more. Your soul yearns for honor. To that has it everturned. Is there room in it for love also? or is it possible that bothshall live at their highest in one mind? Do you not call to mind thatGalahad and other great knights of old have put women out of their livesthat they might ever give their whole soul and strength to the winningof honor? May it not be that I shall be a drag upon you, that your heartmay shrink from some honorable task, lest it should bring risk and painto me? Think well before you answer, my fair lord, for indeed my veryheart would break if it should ever happen that through love of me yourhigh hopes and great promise should miss fulfilment."

  Nigel looked at her with sparkling eyes. The soul which shone throughher dark face had transformed it for the moment into a beauty morelofty and more rare than that of her shallow sister. He bowed before themajesty of the woman, and pressed his lips to her hand. "You are likea star upon my path which guides me on the upward way," said he. "Oursouls are set together upon the finding of honor, and how shall we holdeach other back when our purpose is the same?"

  She shook her proud head. "So it seems to you now, fair lord, but it maybe otherwise as the years pass. How shall you prove that I am indeed ahelp and not a hindrance?"

  "I will prove it by my deeds, fair and dear lady," said Nigel. "Here atthe 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 myhigh love before I set eyes upon your face again, and these three deedsshall stand as a proof to you that if I love you dearly, still I willnot 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," saidshe, "and I do it in the name of the holy Catharine whose shrine is hardby. I swear that I will hold myself for you until these three deeds bedone 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 nunneryand 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 andfastened it upon his sunburnt wrist, reading aloud to him the engravedmotto in old French: "Fais ce que dois, adviegne que pourra--c'estcommande au chevalier." Then for one moment they fell into each other'sarms and with kiss upon kiss, a loving man and a tender woman, theyswore their troth to each other. But the old knight was callingimpatiently from below and together they hurried down the winding pathto where the horses waited under the sandy bluff.

  As far as the Shalford crossing Sir John rode by Nigel's arm, and manywere the last injunctions which he gave him concerning woodcraft, andgreat his anxiety lest he confuse a spay with a brocket, or either witha hind. At last when they came to the reedy edge of the Wey the oldknight and his daughter reined up their horses. Nigel looked back atthem ere he entered the dark Chantry woods, and saw them still gazingafter him and waving their hands. Then the path wound amongst the treesand they were lost to sight; but long afterwards when a clearing exposedonce more the Shalford meadows Nigel saw that the old man upon the graycob was riding slowly toward Saint Catharine's Hill, but that the girlwas still where he had seen her last, leaning forward in her saddle andstraining her eyes to pierce the dark forest which screened her loverfrom her view. It was but a fleeting glance through a break in thefoliage, and yet in after days of stress and toil in far distant landsit was that one little picture--the green meadow, the reeds, the slowblue-winding river, and the eager bending graceful figure upon the whitehorse--which was the clearest and the dearest image of that Englandwhich he had left behind him.

  But if Nigel's friends had learned that this was the morning of hisleaving, his enemies too were on the alert. The two comrades had justemerged from the Chantry woods and were beginning the ascent of thatcurving path which leads upward to the old Chapel of the Martyr whenwith a hiss like an angry snake a long white arrow streaked underPommers and struck quivering in the grassy turf. A second whizzed pastNigel's ear, as he tried to turn; but Aylward struck the great war-horsea sharp blow over the haunches, and it had galloped some hundreds ofyards before its rider could pull it up. Aylward followed as hard as hecould ride, bending low over his horse's neck, while arrows whizzed allaround 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 frighteddoe. Archer, how dare you to lash my horse when I would have turned andridden 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 glancedround I saw a dozen of them at the least amongst the brushwood. See nowhow the light glimmers upon their steel caps yonder in the brackenunder the great beech-tree. Nay, I pray you, my fair lord, do not rideforward. What chance has a man in the open against all these who lieat their ease in the underwood? If you will not think of yourself, thenconsider your horse, which would have a cloth-yard shaft feathered inits hide ere it could reach the wood."

  Nigel chafed in impotent anger. "Am I to be shot at like a popinjay at afair, 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 intothe matter. Help me to untruss, I pray you!"

  "Nay, my fair lord, I will not help you to your own downfall. It is amatch with cogged dice betwixt a horseman on the moor and archers amidthe forest. But these men are no outlaws, or they would not dare to drawtheir bows within a league of the sheriff of Guildford."

  "Indeed, Aylward, I think that you speak truth," said Nigel. "It maybe that these are the men of Paul de la Fosse of Shalford, whom Ihave given little cause to love me. Ah! there is indeed the very manhimself."

  They sat their horses with their backs to the long slope which leads upto the old chapel on the hill. In front of them was the dark ragged edgeof the wood, with a sharp twinkle of steel here and there in its shadowswhich spoke of these lurking foes. But now there was a long moot upona horn, and at once a score of russet-clad bowmen ran forward from amidthe trees, spreading out into a scattered line and closing swiftly inupon the travelers. In the midst of them, upon a great gray horse, sat asmall 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 hisbowmen onward up the slope.

  "Draw them on, my fair lord! Draw them on until we have them out on thedown!" cried Aylward, his eyes shining with joy. "Five hundred pacesmore, and then we may be on terms with them. Nay, linger not, but keepthem always just clear of arrowshot until our turn has co
me."

  Nigel shook and trembled with eagerness, as with his hand on hissword-hilt he looked at the line of eager hurrying men. But it flashedthrough his mind what Chandos had said of the cool head which is betterfor the warrior than the hot heart. Aylward's words were true and wise.He turned Pommers' head therefore, and amid a cry of derision frombehind them the comrades trotted over the down. The bowmen broke intoa 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. "Thewind is towards them and the fools have forgot that I can overshoot themby fifty paces. Now, my good lord, I pray you for one instant to holdthe 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 oncemore."

  He had sprung from his horse, and with a downward wrench of his arm anda push with his knee he slipped the string into the upper nock of hismighty war-bow. Then in a flash he notched his shaft and drew it tothe pile, his keen blue eyes glowing fiercely behind it from under hisknotted brows. With thick legs planted sturdily apart, his body laidto the bow, his left arm motionless as wood, his right bunched into adouble curve of swelling muscles as he stretched the white well-waxedstring, he looked so keen and fierce a fighter that the advancing linestopped for an instant at the sight of him. Two or three loosed offtheir arrows, but the shafts flew heavily against the head wind, andsnaked along the hard turf some score of paces short of the mark. Oneonly, a short bandy-legged man, whose squat figure spoke of enormousmuscular strength, ran swiftly in and then drew so strong a bow that thearrow quivered in the ground at Aylward's very feet.

  "It is Black Will of Lynchmere," said the bowman. "Many a match have Ishot with him, and I know well that no other man on the Surrey marchescould 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 damnationupon my soul."

  He raised his bow as he spoke, and the string twanged with a rich deepmusical note. Aylward leaned upon his bow-stave as he keenly watched thelong swift flight of his shaft, skimming smoothly down the wind.

  "On him, on him! No, over him, by my hilt!" he cried. "There is morewind than I had thought. Nay, nay, friend, now that I have the length ofyou, you can scarce hope to loose again."

  Black Will had notched an arrow and was raising his bow when Aylward'ssecond shaft passed through the shoulder of his drawing arm. With ashout of anger and pain he dropped his weapon, and dancing in his furyhe 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 spreadinground on either side, and if once they get behind us, then indeed ourjourney has come to a sudden end. But ere we go I would send a shaftthrough 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 someother weapon than thine."

  "As you will," said Aylward, with a clouded brow. "I have been told thatin the late wars many a French prince and baron has not been too proudto take his death wound from an English yeoman's shaft, and that noblesof 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 itis no new thing, for that good knight Richard of the Lion Heart met hisend in such a lowly fashion, and so also did Harold the Saxon. But thisis a private matter, and I would not have you draw your bow againsthim. Neither can I ride at him myself, for he is weak in body, thoughdangerous in spirit. Therefore, we will go upon our way, since there isneither profit nor honor to be gained, nor any hope of advancement."

  Aylward, having unstrung his bow, had remounted his horse during thisconversation, and the two rode swiftly past the little squat Chapel ofthe Martyr and over the brow of the hill. From the summit they lookedback. The injured archer lay upon the ground, with several of hiscomrades gathered in a knot around him. Others ran aimlessly up thehill, but were already far behind. The leader sat motionless upon hishorse, and as he saw them look back he raised his hand and shrieked hiscurses at them. An instant later the curve of the ground had hid themfrom view. So, amid love and hate, Nigel bade adieu to the home of hisyouth.

  And now the comrades were journeying upon that old, old road which runsacross the south of England and yet never turns toward London, for thegood reason that the place was a poor hamlet when first the road waslaid. From Winchester, the Saxon capital, to Canterbury, the holy cityof Kent, ran that ancient highway, and on from Canterbury to the narrowstraits where, on a clear day, the farther shore can be seen. Along thistrack as far back as history can trace the metals of the west have beencarried and passed the pack-horses which bore the goods which Gaul sentin exchange. Older than the Christian faith and older than the Romans,is the old road. North and south are the woods and the marshes, sothat only on the high dry turf of the chalk land could a clear track befound. The Pilgrim's Way, it still is called; but the pilgrims were thelast who ever trod it, for it was already of immemorial age before thedeath of Thomas a Becket gave a new reason why folk should journey tothe scene of his murder.

  From the hill of Weston Wood the travelers could see the long white bandwhich dipped and curved and rose over the green downland, its coursemarked even in the hollows by the line of the old yew-trees whichflanked it. Neither Nigel nor Aylward had wandered far from their owncountry, and now they rode with light hearts and eager eyes taking noteof all the varied pictures of nature and of man which passed beforethem. To their left was a hilly country, a land of rolling heaths andwoods, broken here and there into open spaces round the occasionalfarm-house of a franklin. Hackhurst Down, Dunley Hill, and RanmoreCommon swelled and sank, each merging into the other. But on the right,after passing the village of Shere and the old church of Gomshall, thewhole south country lay like a map at their feet. There was the hugewood of the Weald, one unbroken forest of oak-trees stretching away tothe South Downs, which rose olive-green against the deep blue sky. Underthis great canopy of trees strange folk lived and evil deeds were done.In its recesses were wild tribes, little changed from their heathenancestors, who danced round the altar of Thor, and well was it for thepeaceful traveler that he could tread the high open road of the chalkland 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 greatforest-hidden plain upon the right, there was much upon the road itselfto engage the attention of the wayfarers. It was crowded with people.As far as their eyes could carry they could see the black dots scatteredthickly upon the thin white band, sometimes single, sometimes severalabreast, sometimes in moving crowds, where a drove of pilgrims heldtogether for mutual protection, or a nobleman showed his greatness bythe number of retainers who trailed at his heels. At that time the mainroads were very crowded, for there were many wandering people in theland. Of all sorts and kinds, they passed in an unbroken stream beforethe eyes of Nigel and of Aylward, alike only in the fact that one andall were powdered from their hair to their shoes with the gray dust ofthe chalk.

  There were monks journeying from one cell to another, Benedictines withtheir black gowns looped up to show their white skirts, Carthusiansin white, and pied Cistercians. Friars also of the three wanderingorders--Dominicans in black, Carmelites in white and Franciscans ingray. There was no love lost between the cloistered monks and the freefriars, each looking on the other as a rival who took from him theoblations of the faithful; so they passed on the high road as cat passesdog, with eyes askance and angry faces.

  Then besides the men of the church there were the men of trade, themerchant in dusty broadcloth and Flanders hat riding at the head ofhis line of pack-horses. He carried Cornish tin, Welt-country wool,or Sussex iron if he traded eastward, or if his head should be turnedwestward then h
e bore with him the velvets of Genoa, the ware of Venice,the wine of France, or the armor of Italy and Spain. Pilgrims wereeverywhere, poor people for the most part, plodding wearily along withtrailing feet and bowed heads, thick staves in their hands and bundlesover their shoulders. Here and there on a gaily caparisoned palfrey, orin the greater luxury of a horse-litter, some West-country lady might beseen making her easy way to the shrine of Saint Thomas.

  Besides all these a constant stream of strange vagabonds drifted alongthe road: minstrels who wandered from fair to fair, a foul and pestilentcrew; jugglers and acrobats, quack doctors and tooth-drawers, studentsand beggars, free workmen in search of better wages, and escapedbondsmen who would welcome any wages at all. Such was the throng whichset the old road smoking in a haze of white dust from Winchester to thenarrow sea.

  But of all the wayfarers those which interested Nigel most werethe soldiers. Several times they passed little knots of archers ormen-at-arms, veterans from France, who had received their discharge andwere now making their way to their southland homes. They were half drunkall of them, for the wayfarers treated them to beer at the frequentinns and ale-stakes which lined the road, so that they cheered and sanglustily as they passed. They roared rude pleasantries at Aylward, whoturned in his saddle and shouted his opinion of them until they were outof hearing.

  Once, late in the afternoon, they overtook a body of a hundred archersall marching together with two knights riding at their head. They werepassing from Guildford Castle to Reigate Castle, where they were ingarrison. Nigel rode with the knights for some distance, and hinted thatif either was in search of honorable advancement, or wished to do somesmall deed, or to relieve himself of any vow, it might be possible tofind some means of achieving it. They were both, however, grave andelderly men, intent upon their business and with no mind for fondwayside adventures, so Nigel quickened his pace and left them behind.

  They had left Boxhill and Headley Heath upon the left, and the towers ofReigate were rising amid the trees in front of them, when they overtooka large, cheery, red-faced man, with a forked beard, riding upon a goodhorse and exchanging a nod or a merry word with all who passed him. Withhim they rode nearly as far as Bletchingley, and Nigel laughed much tohear him talk; but always under the raillery there was much earnestnessand 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 furnishhim for the road. He could speak all the three languages of England, thenorth, the middle and the south, so that he was at home with the peopleof every shire and could hear their troubles and their joys. In allparts in town and in country there was unrest, he said; for the poorfolk were weary of their masters both of the Church and State, and soonthere would be such doings in England as had never been seen before.

  But above all this man was earnest against the Church its enormouswealth, its possession of nearly one-third of the whole land of thecountry, its insatiable greed for more at the very time when it claimedto be poor and lowly. The monks and friars, too, he lashed with histongue: their roguish ways, their laziness and their cunning. He showedhow their wealth and that of the haughty lord must always be foundedupon the toil of poor humble Peter the Plowman, who worked and strovein rain and cold out in the fields, the butt and laughing-stock ofeveryone, 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 repeatedsome of the verses, chanting them and marking time with his forefinger,while Nigel and Aylward on either side of him with their heads inclinedinward listened with the same attention, but with very differentfeelings--Nigel shocked at such an attack upon authority, and Aylwardchuckling as he heard the sentiments of his class so shrewdly expressed.At last the stranger halted his horse outside the "Five Angels" atGatton.

  "It is a good inn, and I know the ale of old," said he. "When I hadfinished that 'Dream of Piers the Plowman' from which I have recited toyou, 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. Butgive me your name, my friend, for indeed we have passed a merry hourlistening to your words."

  "Have a care!" the stranger answered, shaking his head. "You and yourclass will not spend a merry hour when these words are turned into deedsand Peter the Plowman grows weary of swinking in the fields and takes uphis 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 alsothose who have put such evil thoughts into his head," said Nigel. "Soonce more I ask your name, that I may know it if ever I chance to hearthat 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 truename, 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-dayto you, Squire, and to you also, archer, and may you find your way backwith whole bones from the wars!"

  That night the comrades slept in Godstone Priory, and early next morningthey were well upon their road down the Pilgrim's Way. At Titsey it wassaid that a band of villeins were out in Westerham Wood and had murderedthree 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 theirway to ride their horses along the edges of the forest. Farther on theyfound traces of their work, for the path ran along the hillside at thebase 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 hehad been thrown over from above, while his pockets turned outward showedthe reason for his murder. The comrades rode past without too closea survey, for dead men were no very uncommon objects on the King'shighway, and if sheriff or bailiff should chance upon you near the bodyyou might find yourself caught in the meshes of the law.

  Near Sevenoaks their road turned out of the old Canterbury way andpointed south toward the coast, leaving the chalk lands and coming downinto the clay of the Weald. It was a wretched, rutted mule-track runningthrough thick forests with occasional clearings in which lay the smallKentish villages, where rude shock-headed peasants with smocks andgalligaskins stared with bold, greedy eyes at the travelers. Once on theright they caught a distant view of the Towers of Penshurst, and oncethey heard the deep tolling of the bells of Bayham Abbey, but for therest of their day's journey savage peasants and squalid cottages wereall that met their eyes, with endless droves of pigs who fed upon thelitter of acorns. The throng of travelers who crowded the old roadwere all gone, and only here and there did they meet or overtake someoccasional merchant or messenger bound for Battle Abbey, Pevensey Castleor 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 vigorouslyand cursed with fervor. Nigel lay without movement or sound. To the manwho had learned the old rule of chivalry there were no small ills inlife. 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 thegentleman. The armor of his soul was so complete that it was proof notonly against the great ills of life but even against the small ones; sothe flea-bitten Nigel lay grimly still while Aylward writhed upon hiscouch.

  They were now but a short distance from their destination; but they hadhardly started on their journey through the forest next morning, when anadventure befell them which filled Nigel with the wildest hopes.

  Along the narrow winding path between the great oak trees there rodea dark sallow man in a scarlet tabard who blew so loudly upon a silvertrumpet that they heard the clanging call long before they set eyes onhim. Slowly he advanced, pulling up every fifty paces to make the forestring with another warlike blast. The comrades rode forward to meet him.

  "I pray you," sa
id Nigel, "to tell me who you are and why you blow uponthis trumpet."

  The fellow shook his head, so Nigel repeated the question in French, thecommon language of chivalry, spoken at that age by every gentleman inWestern Europe.

  The man put his lips to the trumpet and blew another long note before heanswered. "I am Gaston de Castrier," said he, "the humble Squire ofthe most worthy and valiant knight Raoul de Tubiers, de Pestels, deGrimsard, de Mersac, de Leoy, de Bastanac, who also writes himself Lordof Pons. It is his order that I ride always a mile in front of him toprepare all to receive him, and he desires me to blow upon a trumpet notout of vainglory, but out of greatness of spirit, so that none may beignorant of his coming should they desire to encounter him."

  Nigel sprang from his horse with a cry of joy, and began to unbutton hisdoublet. "Quick, Aylward, quick!" he said. "He comes, a knight errantcomes! Was there ever such a chance of worshipfully winning worship?Untruss the harness whilst I loose my clothes! Good sir, I beg you towarn your noble and valiant master that a poor Squire of England wouldimplore him to take notice of him and to do some small deed upon him ashe passes."

  But already the Lord of Pons had come in sight. He was a huge man uponan enormous horse, so that together they seemed to fill up the wholelong dark archway under the oaks. He was clad in full armor of a brazenhue with only his face exposed, and of this face there was littlevisible save a pair of arrogant eyes and a great black beard, whichflowed through the open visor and down over his breastplate. To thecrest of his helmet was tied a small brown glove, nodding and swingingabove 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 uponhis shield. Slowly he rode through the forest, ponderous, menacing, withdull thudding of his charger's hoofs and constant clank of metal, whilealways in front of him came the distant peal of the silver trumpetcalling all men to admit his majesty and to clear his path ere they becleared 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 thiswondrous traveler, he pattered forth prayers of thanksgiving to the goodSaint Paul who had shown such loving-kindness to his unworthy servantand 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 andgrotesque disaster--disaster so strange and so complete that throughall his life Nigel flushed crimson when he thought of it. He was busilystripping his hunting-costume, and with feverish haste he had doffedboots, hat, hose, doublet and cloak, so that nothing remained save apink jupon and pair of silken drawers. At the same time Aylward washastily unbuckling the load with the intention of handing his masterhis armor piece by piece, when the Squire gave one last challenging pealfrom his silver trumpet into the very ear of the spare horse.

  In an instant it had taken to its heels, the precious armor upon itsback, and thundered away down the road which they had traversed. Aylwardjumped upon his mare, drove his prick spurs into her sides and gallopedafter the runaway as hard as he could ride. Thus it came about that inan instant Nigel was shorn of all his little dignity, had lost his twohorses, his attendant and his outfit, and found himself a lonely andunarmed man standing in his shirt and drawers upon the pathway downwhich the burly figure of the Lord of Pons was slowly advancing.

  The knight errant, whose mind had been filled by the thought of themaiden whom he had left behind at St. Jean--the same whose glove dangledfrom his helmet--had observed nothing that had occurred. Hence, all thatmet his eyes was a noble yellow horse, which was tethered by thetrack, and a small young man, who appeared to be a lunatic since hehad undressed hastily in the heart of the forest, and stood now with aneager anxious face clad in his underlinen amid the scattered debrisof his garments. Of such a person the high Lord of Pons could take nonotice, and so he pursued his inexorable way, his arrogant eyes lookingout into the distance and his thoughts set intently upon the maiden ofSt. Jean. He was dimly aware that the little crazy man in the undershirtran a long way beside him in his stockings, begging, imploring andarguing.

  "Just one hour, most fair sir, just one hour at the longest, and a poorSquire of England shall ever hold himself your debtor! Do but condescendto rein your horse until my harness comes back to me! Will you not stoopto show me some small deed of arms? I implore you, fair sir, to spare mea 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 mightbrush away an importunate fly, but when at last Nigel became desperatein his clamor he thrust his spurs into his great war-horse, and clashinglike a pair of cymbals he thundered off through the forest. So herode upon his majestic way, until two days later he was slain by LordReginald Cobham in a field near Weybridge.

  When after a long chase Aylward secured the spare horse and brought itback, he found his master seated upon a fallen tree, his face buried inhis hands and his mind clouded with humiliation and grief. Nothing wassaid, for the matter was beyond words, and so in moody silence they rodeupon their way.

  But soon they came upon a scene which drew Nigel's thoughts away fromhis bitter trouble, for in front of them there rose the towers of agreat building with a small gray sloping village around it, and theylearned from a passing hind that this was the hamlet and Abbey ofBattle. Together they drew rein upon the low ridge and looked down intothat valley of death from which even now the reek of blood seems torise. Down beside that sinister lake and amid those scattered bushessprinkled over the naked flank of the long ridge was fought thatlong-drawn struggle betwixt two most noble foes with broad England asthe prize of victory. Here, up and down the low hill, hour by hour thegrim struggle had waxed and waned, until the Saxon army had died whereit stood, King, court, house-carl and fyrdsman, each in their ranks evenas they had fought. And now, after all the stress and toil, the tyranny,the savage revolt, the fierce suppression, God had made His purposecomplete, for here were Nigel the Norman and Aylward the Saxon withgood-fellowship in their hearts and a common respect in their minds,with the same banner and the same cause, riding forth to do battle fortheir 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 upwardfrom the heavy-wooded plain to the springy turf of the chalk downs. Farto the right rose the grim fortalice of Pevensey, squat and powerful,like one great block of rugged stone, the parapet twinkling with steelcaps and crowned by the royal banner of England. A flat expanse ofreeded marshland lay before them, out of which rose a single woodedhill, crowned with towers, with a bristle of masts rising out of thegreen plain some distance to the south of it. Nigel looked at it withhis hand shading his eyes, and then urged Pommers to a trot. The townwas Winchelsea, and there amid that cluster of houses on the hill thegallant Chandos must be awaiting him.