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Red Eve

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #3094 · 549,797 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Red Eve

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: April 6, 2006 [eBook #3094]
                Most recently updated: September 23, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3094

Credits: Produced by John Bickers; Dagny; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RED EVE ***




Produced by John Bickers; Dagny; David Widger





RED EVE

by H. Rider Haggard




First Published 1911.




DEDICATION

Ditchingham, May 27, 1911. My dear Jehu:

For five long but not unhappy years, seated or journeying side by side,
we have striven as Royal Commissioners to find a means whereby our
coasts may be protected from “the outrageous flowing surges of the
sea” (I quote the jurists of centuries ago), the idle swamps turned to
fertility and the barren hills clothed with forest; also, with small
success, how “foreshore” may be best defined!

What will result from all these labours I do not know, nor whether grave
geologists ever read romance save that which the pen of Time inscribes
upon the rocks. Still, in memory of our fellowship in them I offer to
you this story, written in their intervals, of Red Eve, the dauntless,
and of Murgh, Gateway of the Gods, whose dreadful galley still sails
from East to West and from West to East, yes, and evermore shall sail.
Your friend and colleague, H. Rider Haggard. To Dr. Jehu, F.G.S., St.
Andrews, N.B.





RED EVE



MURGH THE DEATH

They knew nothing of it in England or all the Western countries in those
days before Crecy was fought, when the third Edward sat upon the throne.
There was none to tell them of the doom that the East, whence come light
and life, death and the decrees of God, had loosed upon the world. Not
one in a multitude in Europe had ever even heard of those vast lands of
far Cathay peopled with hundreds of millions of cold-faced yellow
men, lands which had grown very old before our own familiar states and
empires were carved out of mountain, of forest, and of savage-haunted
plain. Yet if their eyes had been open so that they could see, well
might they have trembled. King, prince, priest, merchant, captain,
citizen and poor labouring hind, well might they all have trembled when
the East sent forth her gifts!

Look across the world beyond that curtain of thick darkness. Behold! A
vast city of fantastic houses half buried in winter snows and reddened
by the lurid sunset breaking through a saw-toothed canopy of cloud.
Everywhere upon the temple squares and open spaces great fires burning a
strange fuel--the bodies of thousands of mankind. Pestilence was king
of that city, a pestilence hitherto unknown. Innumerable hordes had died
and were dying, yet innumerable hordes remained. All the patient East
bore forth those still shapes that had been theirs to love or hate, and,
their task done, turned to the banks of the mighty river and watched.



Down the broad street which ran between the fantastic houses advanced a
procession toward the brown, ice-flecked river. First marched a company
of priests clad in black robes, and carrying on poles lanterns of black
paper, lighted, although the sun still shone. Behind marched another
company of priests clad in white robes, and bearing white lanterns, also
lighted. But at these none looked, nor did they listen to the dirges
that they sang, for all eyes were fixed upon him who filled the centre
space and upon his two companions.

The first companion was a lovely woman, jewel-hung, wearing false
flowers in her streaming hair, and beneath her bared breasts a kirtle of
white silk. Life and love embodied in radiance and beauty, she danced
in front, looking about her with alluring eyes, and scattering petals
of dead roses from a basket which she bore. Different was the second
companion, who stalked behind; so thin, so sexless that none could
say if the shape were that of man or woman. Dry, streaming locks of
iron-grey, an ashen countenance, deep-set, hollow eyes, a beetling,
parchment-covered brow; lean shanks half hidden with a rotting rag,
claw-like hands which clutched miserably at the air. Such was its awful
fashion, that of new death in all its terrors.

Between them, touched of neither, went a man, naked save for a red
girdle and a long red cloak that was fastened round his throat and hung
down from his broad shoulders. There was nothing strange about this man,
unless it were perhaps the strength that seemed to flow from him and the
glance of his icy eyes. He was just a burly yellow man, whose age none
could tell, for the hood of the red cloak hid his hair; one who seemed
to be far removed from youth, and yet untouched by time. He walked on
steadily, intently, his face immovable, taking no heed.

Only now and again he turned those long eyes of his upon one of the
multitude who watched him pass crouched upon their knees in solemn
silence, always upon one, whether it were man, woman, or child, with a
glance meant for that one and no other. And ever the one upon whom it
fell rose from the knee, made obeisance, and departed as though filled
with some inspired purpose.

Down to the quay went the black priests, the white priests, and the
red-cloaked man, preceded by rose life, followed by ashen death. Through
the funeral fires they wended, and the lurid sunset shone upon them all.

To the pillars of this quay was fastened a strange, high-pooped ship
with crimson sails set upon her masts. The white priests and the black
priests formed lines upon either side of the broad gangway of that
ship and bowed as the red-cloaked man walked over it between them quite
alone, for now she with the dead roses and she of the ashen countenance
had fallen back. As the sun sank, standing on the lofty stern, he cried
aloud:

“Here the work is done. Now I, the Eating Fire, I the Messenger, get me
to the West. Among you for a while I cease to burn; yet remember me, for
I shall come again.”

As he spoke the ropes of the ship were loosened, the wind caught her
crimson sails, and she departed into the night, one blood-red spot
against its blackness.

The multitude watched until they could see her no longer. Then they
flamed up with mingled joy and rage. They laughed madly. They cursed him
who had departed.

“We live, we live, we live!” they cried. “Murgh is gone! Murgh is gone!
Kill his priests! Make sacrifice of his Shadows. Murgh is gone bearing
the curse of the East into the bosom of the West. Look, it follows him!”
 and they pointed to a cloud of smoke or vapour, in which terrible shapes
seemed to move dimly, that trailed after the departing, red-sailed ship.

The black priests and the white priests heard. Without struggle, without
complaint, as though they were but taking part in some set ceremony,
they kneeled down in lines upon the snow. Naked from the waist up,
executioners with great swords appeared. They advanced upon the kneeling
lines without haste, without wrath, and, letting fall the heavy swords
upon the patient, outstretched necks, did their grim office till all
were dead. Then they turned to find her of the flowers who had danced
before, and her of the tattered weeds who had followed after, purposing
to cast them to the funeral flames. But these were gone, though none
had seen them go. Only out of the gathering darkness from some temple or
pagoda-top a voice spoke like a moaning wind.

“Fools,” wailed the voice, “still with you is Murgh, the second Thing
created; Murgh, who was made to be man’s minister. Murgh the Messenger
shall reappear from beyond the setting sun. Ye cannot kill, ye cannot
spare. Those priests you seemed to slay he had summoned to be his
officers afar. Fools! Ye do but serve as serves Murgh, Gateway of the
Gods. Life and death are not in your hands or in his. They are in the
hands of the Master of Murgh, Helper of man, of that Lord whom no eye
hath seen, but whose behests all who are born obey--yes, even the mighty
Murgh, Looser of burdens, whom in your foolishness ye fear.”



So spoke this voice out of the darkness, and that night the sword of the
great pestilence was lifted from the Eastern land, and there the funeral
fires flared no more.



CHAPTER I

THE TRYSTING-PLACE

On the very day when Murgh the Messenger sailed forth into that
uttermost sea, a young man and a maiden met together at the Blythburgh
marshes, near to Dunwich, on the eastern coast of England. In this, the
month of February of the year 1346, hard and bitter frost held Suffolk
in its grip. The muddy stream of Blyth, it is true, was frozen only in
places, since the tide, flowing up from the Southwold harbour, where
it runs into the sea between that ancient town and the hamlet of
Walberswick, had broken up the ice. But all else was set hard and fast,
and now toward sunset the cold was bitter.

Stark and naked stood the tall, dry reeds. The blackbirds and starlings
perched upon the willows seemed swollen into feathery balls, the fur
started on the backs of hares, and a four-horse wain could travel in
safety over swamps where at any other time a schoolboy dared not set his
foot.

On such an eve, with snow threatening, the great marsh was utterly
desolate, and this was why these two had chosen it for their meeting
place.

To look on they were a goodly pair--the girl, who was clothed in the red
she always wore, tall, dark, well shaped, with large black eyes and a
determined face, one who would make a very stately woman; the man broad
shouldered, with grey eyes that were quick and almost fierce, long
limbed, hard, agile, and healthy, one who had never known sickness, who
looked as though the world were his own to master. He was young, but
three-and-twenty that day, and his simple dress, a tunic of thick wool
fastened round him with a leathern belt, to which hung a short sword,
showed that his degree was modest.

The girl, although she seemed his elder, in fact was only in her
twentieth year. Yet from her who had been reared in the hard school of
that cruel age childhood had long departed, leaving her a ripened woman
before her time.

This pair stood looking at each other.

“Well, Cousin Eve Clavering,” said the man, in his clear voice, “why did
your message bid me meet you in this cold place?”

“Because I had a word to say to you, Cousin Hugh de Cressi,” she
answered boldly; “and the marsh being so cold and so lonesome I thought
it suited to my purpose. Does Grey Dick watch yonder?”

“Ay, behind those willows, arrow on string, and God help him on whom
Dick draws! But what was that word, Eve?”

“One easy to understand,” she replied, looking him in the
eyes--“Farewell!”

He shivered as though with the cold, and his face changed.

“An ill birthday greeting, yet I feared it,” he muttered huskily, “but
why more now than at any other time?”

“Would you know, Hugh? Well, the story is short, so I’ll let it out. Our
great-grandmother, the heiress of the de Cheneys, married twice, did she
not, and from the first husband came the de Cressis, and from the second
the Claverings. But in this way or in that we Claverings got the
lands, or most of them, and you de Cressis, the nobler stock, took to
merchandise. Now since those days you have grown rich with your
fishing fleets, your wool mart, and your ferry dues at Walberswick and
Southwold. We, too, are rich in manors and land, counting our acres by
the thousand, but yet poor, lacking your gold, though yonder manor”--and
she pointed to some towers which rose far away above the trees upon
the high land--“has many mouths to feed. Also the sea has robbed us at
Dunwich, where I was born, taking our great house and sundry streets
that paid us rent, and your market of Southwold has starved out ours at
Blythburgh.”

“Well, what has all this to do with you and me, Eve?”

“Much, Hugh, as you should know who have been bred to trade,” and she
glanced at his merchant’s dress. “Between de Cressi and Clavering there
has been rivalry and feud for three long generations. When we were
children it abated for a while, since your father lent money to mine,
and that is why they suffered us to grow up side by side. But then they
quarrelled about the ferry that we had set in pawn, and your father
asked his gold back again, and, not getting it, took the ferry, which I
have always held a foolish and strife-breeding deed, since from that day
forward the war was open. Therefore, Hugh, if we meet at all it must be
in these frozen reeds or behind the cover of a thicket, like a village
slut and her man.”

“I know that well enough, Eve, who have spoken with you but twice in
nine months.” And he devoured her beautiful face with hungry eyes. “But
of that word, ‘Farewell’----”

“Of that ill word, this, Hugh: I have a new suitor up yonder, a fine
French suitor, a very great lord indeed, whose wealth, I am told, none
can number. From his mother he has the Valley of the Waveney up to
Bungay town--ay, and beyond--and from his father, a whole county in
Normandy. Five French knights ride behind his banner, and with them ten
squires and I know not how many men-at-arms. There is feasting yonder at
the manor, I can tell you. Ere his train leaves us our winter provender
will be done, and we’ll have to drink small beer till the wine ships
come from France in spring.”

“And what is this lord’s name?”

“God’s truth, he has several,” she answered. “Sir Edmund Acour in
England, and in France the high and puissant Count of Noyon, and in
Italy, near to the city of Venice--for there, too, he has possessions
which came to him through his grandmother--the Seigneur of Cattrina.”

“And having so much, does he want you, too, as I have heard, Eve? And if
so, why?”

“So he swears,” she answered slowly; “and as for the reason, why, I
suppose you must seek it in my face, which by ill-fortune has pleased
his lordship since first he saw it a month ago. At the least he has
asked me in marriage of my father, who jumped at him like a winter pike,
and so I’m betrothed.”

“And do you want him, Eve?”

“Ay, I want him as far as the sun is from the moon or the world from
either. I want him in heaven or beneath the earth, or anywhere away from
me.”

At these words a light shone in Hugh’s keen grey eyes.

“I’m glad of that, Eve, for I’ve been told much of this fine
fellow--amongst other things that he is a traitor come here to spy on
England. But should I be a match for him, man to man, Eve?” he asked
after a little pause.

She looked him up and down; then answered:

“I think so, though he is no weakling; but not for him and the five
knights and the ten squires, and my noble father, and my brother, and
the rest. Oh, Hugh, Hugh!” she added bitterly, “cannot you understand
that you are but a merchant’s lad, though your blood be as noble as any
in this realm--a merchant’s lad, the last of five brothers? Why were
you not born the first of them if you wished for Eve Clavering, for then
your red gold might have bought me.”

“Ask that of those who begot me,” said Hugh. “Come now, what’s in
your mind? You’re not one to be sold like a heifer at a faring and go
whimpering to the altar, and I am not one to see you led there while I
stand upon my feet. We are made of a clay too stiff for a French lord’s
fingers, Eve, though it is true that they may drag you whither you would
not walk.”

“No,” she answered, “I think I shall take some marrying against my wish.
Moreover, I am Dunwich born.”

“What of that, Eve?”

“Go ask your godsire and my friend, Sir Andrew Arnold, the old priest.
In the library of the Temple there he showed me an ancient roll, a
copy of the charter granted by John and other kings of England to the
citizens of Dunwich.”

“What said this writing, Eve?”

“It said, among other things, that no man or maid of Dunwich can be
forced to marry against their will, even in the lifetime of their
parents.”

“But will it hold to-day?”

“Ay, I think so. I think that is why the holy Sir Andrew showed it to
me, knowing something of our case, for he is my confessor when I can get
to him.”

“Then, sweet, you are safe!” exclaimed Hugh, with a sigh of relief.

“Ay, so safe that to-morrow Father Nicholas, the French chaplain in his
train, has been warned to wed me to my lord Acour--that is, if I’m there
to wed.”

“And if this Acour is here, I’ll seek him out to-night and challenge
him, Eve,” and Hugh laid hand upon his sword.

“Doubtless,” she replied sarcastically, “Sir Edmund Acour, Count of
Noyon, Seigneur of Cattrina, will find it honour to accept the challenge
of Hugh de Cressi, the merchant’s youngest son. Oh, Hugh, Hugh! are your
wits frozen like this winter marsh? Not thus can you save me.”

The young man thought a while, staring at the ground and biting his
lips. Then he looked up suddenly and said:

“How much do you love me, Eve?”

With a slow smile, she opened her arms, and next moment they were
kissing each other as heartily as ever man and maid have kissed since
the world began, so heartily, indeed, that when at length she pushed him
from her, her lovely face was as red as the cloak she wore.

“You know well that I love you, to my sorrow and undoing,” she said, in
a broken voice. “From childhood it has been so between us, and till the
grave takes one or both it will be so, and for my part beyond it, if
the priests speak true. For, whatever may be your case, I am not one to
change my fancy. When I give, I give all, though it be of little worth.
In truth, Hugh, if I could I would marry you to-night, though you are
naught but a merchant’s son, or even----” And she paused, wiping her
eyes with the back of her slim, strong hand.

“I thank you,” he answered, trembling with joy. “So it is with me. For
you and no other woman I live and die; and though I am so humble I’ll
be worthy of you yet. If God keeps me in breath you shall not blush for
your man, Eve. Well, I am not great at words, so let us come to deeds.
Will you away with me now? I think that Father Arnold would find you
lodging for the night and an altar to be wed at, and to-morrow our ship
sails for Flanders and for France.”

“Yes, but would your father give us passage in it, Hugh?”

“Why not? It could not deepen the feud between our Houses, which already
has no bottom, and if he refused, we would take one, for the captain is
my friend. And I have some little store set by; it came to me from my
mother.”

“You ask much,” she said; “all a woman has, my life, perchance, as well.
Yet there it is; I’ll go because I’m a fool, Hugh; and, as it chances,
you are more to me than aught, and I hate this fine French lord. I tell
you I sicken at his glance and shiver when he touches me. Why, if he
came too near I should murder him and be hanged. I’ll go, though God
alone knows the end of it.”

“Our purpose being honest, the end will be good, Eve, though perhaps
before all is done we may often think it evil. And now let’s away,
though I wish that you were dressed in another colour.”

“Red Eve they name me, and red is my badge, because it suits my dark
face best. Cavil not at my robe, Hugh, for it is the only dowry you will
get with Eve Clavering. How shall we go? By the Walberswick ferry? You
have no horses.”

“Nay, but I have a skiff hidden in the reeds five miles furlongs off. We
must keep to the heath above Walberswick, for there they might know your
red cloak even after dark, and I would not have you seen till we are
safe with Sir Arnold in the Preceptory. Mother of Heaven! what is that?”

“A peewit, no more,” she answered indifferently.

“Nay, it is my man Dick, calling like a peewit. That is his sign when
trouble is afoot. Ah, here he comes.”

As he spoke a tall, gaunt man appeared, advancing towards them. His
gait was a shambling trot that seemed slow, although, in truth, he was
covering the ground with extraordinary swiftness. Moreover, he moved so
silently that even on the frost-held soil his step could not be heard,
and so carefully that not a reed stirred as he threaded in and out among
their clumps like an otter, his head crouched down and his long bow
pointed before him as though it were a spear. Half a minute more, and he
was before them--a very strange man to see. His years were not so many,
thirty perhaps, and yet his face looked quite old because of its lack
of colouring, its thinness, and the hard lines that marked where
the muscles ran down to the tight, straight mouth and up to the big
forehead, over which hung hair so light that at a little distance he
seemed ashen-grey. Only in this cold, rocky face, set very far apart,
were two pale-blue eyes, which just now, when he chose to lift their
lids that generally kept near together, as though he were half asleep,
were full of fire and quick cunning.

Reaching the pair, this strange fellow dropped to his knee and raised
his cap to Eve, the great lady of the Claverings--Red Eve, as they
called her through that country-side. Then he spoke, in a low, husky
voice:

“They’re coming, master! You and your mistress must to earth unless you
mean to face them in the open,” and the pale eyes glittered as he tapped
his great black bow.

“Who are coming, Dick? Be plain, man!”

“Sir John Clavering, my lady’s father; young John, my lady’s brother;
the fine French lord who wears a white swan for a crest; three of the
nights, his companions; and six--no seven--men-at-arms. Also from the
other side of the grieve, Thomas of Kessland, and with him his marsh men
and verderers.”

“And what are they coming for?” he asked again. “Have they hounds, and
hawk on wrist?”

“Nay, but they have swords and knife on thigh,” and he let his pale eyes
fall on Eve.

“Oh, have done!” she broke in. “They come to take me, and I’ll not be
taken! They come to kill you, and I’ll not see you slain and live. I had
words with my father this morning about the Frenchman and, I fear, let
out the truth. He told me then that ere the Dunwich roses bloomed again
she who loved you would have naught but bones to kiss. Dick, you know
the fen; where can we hide till nightfall?”

“Follow me,” said the man, “and keep low!”

Plunging into the dense brake of reeds, through which he glided like a
polecat, Dick led them over ground whereon, save in times of hard frost,
no man could tread, heading toward the river bank. For two hundred paces
or more they went thus, till, quite near to the lip of the stream, they
came to a patch of reeds higher and thicker than the rest, in the centre
of which was a little mound hid in a tangle of scrub and rushes. Once,
perhaps a hundred or a thousand years before, some old marsh dweller
had lived upon this mound, or been buried in it. At any rate, on its
southern side, hidden by reeds and a withered willow, was a cavity of
which the mouth could not be seen that might have been a chamber for the
living or the dead.

Thrusting aside the growths that masked it, Dick bade them enter and lie
still.

“None will find us here,” he said as he lifted up the reeds behind them,
“unless they chance to have hounds, which I did not see. Hist! be still;
they come!”



CHAPTER II

THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER

For a while Hugh and Eve heard nothing, but Grey Dick’s ears were
sharper than theirs, quick as these might be. About half a minute later,
however, they caught the sound of horses’ hoofs ringing on the hard
earth, followed by that of voices and the crackle of breaking reeds.

Two of the speakers appeared and pulled up their horses near by in a
dry hollow that lay between them and the river bank. Peeping between the
reeds that grew about the mouth of the earth-dwelling, Eve saw them.

“My father and the Frenchman,” she whispered. “Look!” And she slid back
a little so that Hugh might see.

Peering through the stems of the undergrowth, set as it were in a little
frame against the red and ominous sky, the eyes of Hugh de Cressi fell
upon Sir Edmund Acour, a gallant, even a splendid-looking knight--that
was his first impression of him. Broad shouldered, graceful, in age
neither young nor old, clean featured, quick eyed, with a mobile mouth
and a little, square-cut beard, soft and languid voiced, black haired,
richly dressed in a fur robe, and mounted on a fine black horse, such
was the man.

Staring at Acour, and remembering that he, too, loved Red Eve, Hugh grew
suddenly ashamed. How could a mere merchant compare himself with this
magnificent lord, this high-bred, many-titled favourite of courts and
of fortune? How could he rival him, he who had never yet travelled
a hundred miles from the place where he was born, save once, when he
sailed on a trading voyage to Calais? As well might a hooded crow try to
match a peregrine that swooped to snatch away the dove from beneath its
claws. Yes, he, Hugh, was the grey crow, Eve was the dove whom he had
captured, and yonder shifty-eyed Count was the fleet, fierce peregrine
who soon would tear out his heart and bear the quarry far away. Hugh
shivered a little as the thought struck him, not with fear for himself,
but at the dread of that great and close bereavement.

The girl at his side felt the shiver, and her mind, quickened by
love and peril, guessed its purport. She said nothing, for words were
dangerous; only turning her beautiful face she pressed her lips upon
her lover’s hand. It was her message to him; thereby, as he knew well,
humble as he might be, she acknowledged him her lord forever. I am with
you, said that kiss. Have no fear; in life or in death none shall divide
us. He looked at her with grateful eyes, and would have spoken had she
not placed her hand upon his mouth and pointed.

Acour was speaking in English, which he used with a strong French
accent.

“Well, we do not find your beautiful runaway, Sir John,” he said, in a
clear and cultivated voice; “and although I am not vain, for my part
I cannot believe that she has come to such a place as this to meet a
merchant’s clerk, she who should company with kings.”

“Yet I fear it is so, Sir Edmund,” answered Sir John Clavering, a stout,
dark man of middle age. “This girl of mine is very heady, as I give
warning you will find out when she is your wife. For years she has
set her fancy upon Hugh de Cressi; yes, since they were boy and girl
together, as I think, and while he lives I doubt she’ll never change
it.”

“While he lives--then why should he continue to live, Sir John?” asked
the Count indifferently. “Surely the world will not miss a chapman’s
son!”

“The de Cressis are my kin, although I hate them, Sir Edmund. Also they
are rich and powerful, and have many friends in high places. If this
young man died by my command it would start a blood feud of which none
can tell the end, for, after all, he is nobly born.”

“Then, Sir John, he shall die by mine. No, not at my own hands, since
I do not fight with traders. But I have those about me who are pretty
swordsmen and know how to pick a quarrel. Before a week is out there
will be a funeral in Dunwich.”

“I know nothing of your men, and do not want to hear of their quarrels,
past or future,” said Sir John testily.

“Of course not,” answered the Count. “I pray you, forget my words. Name
of God! what an accursed and ill-omened spot is this. I feel as though
I were standing by my own grave--it came upon me suddenly.” And he
shivered and turned pale.

Dick lifted his bow, but Hugh knocked the arrow aside ere he could loose
it.

“To those who talk of death, death often draws near,” replied Clavering,
crossing himself, “though I find the place well enough, seeing the hour
and season.”

“Do you--do you, Sir John? Look at that sky; look at the river beneath
which has turned to blood. Hark to the howl of the wind in the reeds and
the cry of the birds we cannot see. Ay, and look at our shadows on the
snow. Mine lies flat by a great hole, and yours rising against yonder
bank is that of a hooded man with hollow eyes--Death himself as I should
limn him! There, it is gone! What a fool am I, or how strong is that
wine of yours! Shall we be going also?”

“Nay, here comes my son with tidings. Well, Jack, have you found your
sister?” he added, addressing a dark and somewhat saturnine young man
who now rode up to them from over the crest of the hollow.

“No, sir, though we have beat the marsh through and through, so that
scarce an otter could have escaped us. And yet she’s here, for Thomas of
Kessland caught sight of her red cloak among the reeds, and what’s more,
Hugh de Cressi is with her, and Grey Dick too, for both were seen.”

“I am glad there’s a third,” said Sir John drily, “though God save me
from his arrows! This Grey Dick,” he added to the Count, “is a wild,
homeless half-wit whom they call Hugh de Cressi’s shadow, but the finest
archer in Suffolk, with Norfolk thrown in; one who can put a shaft
through every button on your doublet at fifty paces--ay, and bring down
wild geese on the wing twice out of four times, for I have seen him do
it with that black bow of his.”

“Indeed? Then I should like to see him shoot--at somebody else,”
 answered Acour, for in those days such skill was of interest to all
soldiers. “Kill Hugh de Cressi if you will, friend, but spare Grey Dick;
he might be useful.”

“Ay, Sir Edmund,” broke in the young man furiously, “I’ll kill him if I
can catch him, the dog who dares to bring scandal on my sister’s name.
Let the Saints but give me five minutes face to face with him alone,
with none to help either of us, and I’ll beat him to a pulp, and hang
what’s left of him upon the nearest tree to be a warning to all such
puppies.”

“I note the challenge,” said Sir Edmund, “and should the chance come my
way will keep the lists for you with pleasure, since whatever this Hugh
may be I doubt that from his blood he’ll prove no coward. But, young
sir, you must catch your puppy ere you hang him, and if he is in this
marsh he must have gone to ground.”

“I think so, too, Sir Edmund; but, if so, we’ll soon start the badger.
Look yonder.” And he pointed to smoke rising at several spots half a
mile or more away.

“What have you done, son?” asked Sir John anxiously.

“Fired the reeds,” he said with a savage laugh, “and set men to watch
that the game does not break back. Oh, have no fear, father! Red Eve
will take no harm. The girl ever loved fire. Moreover, if she is there
she will run to the water before it, and be caught.”

“Fool,” thundered Sir John, “do you know your sister so little? As like
as not she’ll stay and burn, and then I’ll lose my girl, who, when all
is said, is worth ten of you! Well, what is done cannot be undone, but
if death comes of this mad trick it is on your head, not mine! To the
bank, and watch with me, Sir Edmund, for we can do no more.”



Ten minutes later, and the fugitives in the mound, peeping out from
their hole, saw clouds of smoke floating above them.

“You should have let me shoot, Master Hugh,” said Grey Dick, in his
hard, dry whisper. “I’d have had these three, at least, and they’d have
been good company on the road to hell, which now we must walk alone.”

“Nay,” answered Hugh sternly, “I’ll murder none, though they strive
to murder us, and these least of all,” and he glanced at Eve, who sat
staring out of the mouth of the hole, her chin resting on her hand. “You
had best give in, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely. “Fire is worse than
foes, and it draws near.”

“I fear it less,” she answered. “Moreover, marriage is worse than
either--sometimes.”

Hugh took counsel with Grey Dick.

“This place will burn like tinder,” he said, pointing to the dry reeds
which grew thickly all about them, and to the masses of brushwood and
other rubbish that had drifted against the side of the little mound
in times of flood. “If the fire reaches us we must perish of flame, or
smoke, or both.”

“Ay,” answered Dick, “like old witch Sarah when they burned her in
her house. She screeched a lot, though some say it was her cat that
screeched and she died mum.”

“If we could get into the water now, Dick?”

He shook his ash-hued head.

“The pools are frozen. Moreover, as well die of heat as cold; I love not
ice-water.”

“What counsel, then, Dick?”

“You’ll not take the best, master--to loose my bow upon them. That fine
fellow did well to be afraid, for had you not knocked up my hand there’d
be an arrow sticking in his throat by now. He was right, Death walked
near to him.”

“It must not be, Dick, unless they strike first. What else?”

“Perchance, when the smoke begins to trouble them, which it must soon,
they’ll move. Then we will run for the river; ‘tis but fifty yards. The
Lady Eve can swim like a duck, and so can you. The tide has turned, and
will bear you to the point, and I’ll hold the bank against any who try
to follow, and take my chance. What say you of that plan, lady?”

“That it is good as another, or as bad,” she answered indifferently.
“Let’s bide where we are and do what we must when we must. Nay, waste no
more breath, Hugh. I’ll not yield and go home like a naughty child to be
married. It was you who snatched away Grey Dick’s shaft, not I; and now
I’ll save myself.”

“Red Eve!--that’s Red Eve!” muttered the henchman, with a dry chuckle of
admiration. “The dead trouble neither man nor woman. Ah, she knows, she
knows!”

After this there was silence for a while, save for the roar of the fire
that ever drew more near.

Eve held her cloak pressed against her mouth to filter the smoke, which
grew thick.

“It is time to move,” said Hugh, coughing as he spoke. “By Heaven’s
grace, we are too late! Look!”

As he spoke, suddenly in the broad belt of reeds which lay between them
and the river bank fire appeared in several places, caused doubtless
by the flaming flakes which the strong wind had carried from behind
the mound. Moreover, these new fires, burning up briskly and joining
themselves together, began to advance toward the three in the hole.

“The wind has turned,” said Dick. “Now it is fire, or water if you can
get there. How do you choose to die?” and as he spoke he unstrung his
bow and slipped it into its leathern case.

“Neither one way nor the other,” answered Eve. “Some may die to-night,
but we shall not.”

Hugh leapt up and took command.

“Cover your faces to the eyes, and run for it,” he said. “I’ll go first,
then you, Eve, and Dick behind. Make for the point and leap--the water
is deep there.”

They sprang to their feet and forward into the reeds. When they were
almost at the edge of the fire a shout told them that they had been
seen. Eve, the swift of foot, outpaced Hugh, and was the first to leap
into that circle of tall flames. She was through it! They were all
through it, scorched but unharmed. Thirty paces away was the little
point of land where nothing grew, for the spring tides washed it, that
jutted out into the waters of the Blythe, and, perhaps a hundred
to their right, the Claverings poured down on them, foot and horse
together.

Hugh caught his foot in a willow root and fell. Eve and Grey Dick sped
onward unknowing. They reached the point above the water, turned, and
saw. Dick slipped his bow from its case, strung it, and set an arrow on
the string. Hugh had gained his feet, but a man who had come up sprang,
and cast his arms about him. Hugh threw him to the ground, for he was
very strong, and shook himself free. Then he drew the short and heavy
sword that he wore, and, shouting out, “Make way!” to those who stood
between him and the little promontory, started to run again.

These opened to the right and left to let him pass, for they feared the
look in his eyes and the steel in his hand. Only young John Clavering,
who had leapt from his horse, would not budge. As Hugh tried to push
past him, he struck him in the face, calling out:

“We have caught the de Cressi thief! Take him and hang him!”

At the insult of the blow and words, Hugh stopped dead and turned quite
white, whereupon the men, thinking that he was afraid, closed in upon
him. Then in the silence the harsh, croaking voice of Grey Dick was
heard saying:

“Sir John of Clavering, bid your people let my master go, or I will send
an arrow through your heart!” and he lifted the long bow and drew it.

Sir John muttered something, thinking that this was a poor way to die,
and again the men fell back, except one French knight, who, perhaps, did
not catch or understand his words.

This man stretched out his hand to seize Hugh, but before ever it fell
upon his shoulder the bow twanged and Acour’s retainer was seen whirling
round and round, cursing with pain. In the palm of his hand was an arrow
that had sunk through it to the feathers.

“You are right; that knave shoots well,” said the Count to Sir John, who
made no answer.

Now again all fell back, so that Hugh might have run for it if he would.
But his blood was up, and he did not stir.

“John Clavering,” he said, addressing the young man, “just now, when
I lay hid in yonder hole, I heard you say that if you had five minutes
with me alone you’d beat me to a pulp and hang what was left of me on
the nearest tree. Well, here I stand, and there’s a tree. Having first
tried to burn me and your sister, you have struck me in the face. Will
you make good your words, or shall I strike _you_ in the face and go my
way? Nay, keep your dogs off me! Grey Dick yonder has more arrows.”

Now a tumult rose, some saying one thing and some another, but all
keeping an eye upon Grey Dick and his bent bow. At last Sir Edmund Acour
rode forward, and in his polished, stately way said to John:

“Young sir, this merchant is in the right, and whatever his trade may
be, his blood is as good as your own. After your brave words, either you
should fight him or take back the blow you gave.”

Then he leaned down and whispered into John’s ear:

“Your sword is longer than his. Make an end of him and of all his
trouble, lest men should laugh at you as an empty boaster.”

Now John, who was brave and needed but little urging, turned to his
father and said:

“Have I your leave to whip this fellow, sir?”

“You should have asked that before you struck him in the face,” replied
the knight. “You are a man grown. Do as best pleases you. Only if you
take the blow, begone from Blythburgh.”

Then Eve, who all this time had been listening, called out from where
she stood above the river.

“Brother John, if you fight your cousin Hugh, who is my affianced
husband, and fall, on your own head be it, for know, your blood shall
not stand between him and me, since it was you who struck him, and not
he you. Be warned, John, and let him go, lest he should send you farther
than you wish to travel. And to you, Hugh, I say, though it is much to
ask, if he throws down his sword, forget that unknightly blow and come
thither.”

“You hear,” said Hugh shortly to John. “Now, because she is your sister,
if it’s your will I’ll begone in peace.”

“Ay,” answered John, setting his thin lips, “because you are a coward,
woman-thief, and seek to live that you may bring shame upon our House.
Well, that will pass when you die presently!”

“John, John, boast not,” cried Eve. “Who has shown you where you will
sleep to-night?”

“Whether I shall live or die, God knows alone,” said Hugh solemnly. “But
what I seek to know is, should it chance to be your lot to die, whether
your people or this Frenchman will set on me, or raise a blood-feud
against me. Tell me now, Sir John Clavering.”

“If you kill my son in combat _à outrance_, he being the challenger,”
 answered the knight, “none shall lift hand against you for that deed
if I can hold them back. But know that I have other cause of quarrel
against you”--and he pointed to his daughter--“and that if you meddle
more with her, who is not for you, certainly you shall die.”

“And, young sir,” broke in Sir Edmund, “I pray you to understand that
this Lady Eve to-morrow becomes my wife with the will of her father and
her kin; and that if you try to stand between us, although I may not
fight you, seeing what I am and what you are, I’ll kill you like a rat
when and where I get the chance! Yes,” he added, in a savage snarl, “I
pledge my knightly honour that I will kill you like a rat, if I must
follow you across the world to do so!”

“You will not have need to travel far if I have my will,” answered the
young man sternly, “since Red Eve is mine, not yours, and, living or
dead, mine she will remain. As for your fine knightly honour, Sir Edmund
Acour, Count de Noyon, Seigneur of Cattrina, what has a traitor to his
King to do with honour, one who is here as a spy of Philip of France, as
the poor merchant’s lad knows well? Oh, take you hand from your sword,
of which you say I am not worthy, and, since you say also that I have so
many enemies, let me begin with a squire of my own degree.”

Now at these bold words arose a clamour of voices speaking in French and
English.

“What say you to this, Sir Edmund?” shouted Sir John Clavering above
them all. “You are a great lord and a wealthy, beloved by me also as the
affianced of my daughter, but I am a loyal Englishman who have no truck
with traitors to my King.”

“What say I?” asked Sir Edmund calmly. “I say that if this fellow can
fight as well as he can lie, your son has but a poor chance with him.
As you know well, I came hither from France to visit my estates, not to
learn what strength his Grace of England, my liege lord, gathers for the
new war with Philip.”

“Enough,” said Sir John; “though this is the first I have heard of such
a war, for it would seem that you know more of King Edward’s mind than
I do. The light begins to fail, there is no time for talk. Stand clear,
all men, and let these two settle it.”

“Ay,” croaked Grey Dick, “stand clear, all men, while my master cuts
the throat of his cousin Clavering, since he who stands not clear shall
presently lie straight!” and he tapped his terrible bow with his right
hand, then instantly seized the string again.

The two were face to face. Round them on horse and on foot, at a
distance perhaps of twenty paces, were gathered the Clavering men and
the French Count’s troop; for now all had come up from the far parts of
the marsh. Only toward the river side the ring was open, whether because
those who made it feared Grey Dick’s arrows, or in order that he and Red
Eve might see everything that chanced.

The pair were well matched, for though Hugh was the taller, John, his
senior by a year, was thicker set and better trained in arms. But the
sword of John was longer by a hand’s breadth than that Hugh carried as
a merchant, which was heavy, of such a make as the ancient Romans used,
and sharpened on either edge. Neither of them wore armour, since Hugh
had no right to do so, and John had not come out to fight.

They stood still for a moment in the midst of a breathless silence, the
red light of the stormy sunset striking across them both. Everything was
red, the smoke-clouds rising from the sullen, burning marsh, into which
the fire was still eating far away; the waters of the Blythe brimful
with the tide that had just turned toward the sea, the snow and ice
itself. Even the triangle of wild swans brought by the hard weather from
the northern lands looked red as they pursued their heavy and majestic
flight toward the south, heedless of man and his affairs beneath.

Not long did these remain heedless, however, since, either to show his
skill or for some other purpose of his own, Grey Dick lifted his bow and
loosed an arrow, almost, it seemed, at hazard. Yet that arrow pierced
the leader of the flock, so that down it came in wide circles, and in
a last struggle hovered for a moment over the group of men, then fell
among them with a thud, the blood from its pierced breast bespattering
Sir Edmund Acour and John Clavering’s black hair.

“An ill omen for those two, and especially for him who wears a white
swan for a crest,” said a voice. But at the moment none took much
notice, except Grey Dick, who chuckled at the success of his shot, since
all were intent on greater matters--namely, which of those two young men
should die.

Sir John, the father, rode forward and addressed them.

“To the death without mercy to the fallen,” he said grimly.

They bent their heads in answer.

“Now!” he cried, and reined back his horse.

“The first home thrust wins,” whispered Acour to him, as he wiped the
blood of the swan off his sleeve. “Thank God, your son’s sword is the
longer!”

Perhaps the pair heard this whisper, or, perhaps, being without mail,
they knew that it was so. At least for a while they circled round and
round each other, but out of reach.

Then at length John Clavering rushed in and thrust. Hugh sprang back
before his point. Again he rushed and thrust and again Hugh sprang
back. A third time and Hugh fairly ran, whereon a shout went up from the
Claverings.

“The chapman’s afraid!” cried one. “Give him a yard measure,” shouted
another; “he cannot handle steel!”

Eve turned her face, and her very eyes were sick with doubt.

“Is it true?” she gasped.

“Ay,” answered Dick the Archer, “it’s true that he draws him to the
river bank! Those who wait will learn why. Oh, the swan! He sees not the
swan!”

As he spoke, Hugh, in his retreat before another of John Clavering’s
rushes, struck his foot against the great dead bird, and staggered. John
leapt upon him, and he went down.

“Is he pierced?” muttered Eve.

“Nay, missed,” answered Dick, “by half an inch. Ah, I thought so!”

As the words left his lips Clavering fell sprawling on his back, for
Hugh had caught his leg with his left arm and thrown him, so that they
lay both together on the ground.

There they closed, rolling over each other, but too close to stab.

“Now good-night, John,” said Dick, with his hoarse chuckle. “Throat him,
master--throat him!”

The flurry in the snow was at an end. John lay on his back, de Cressi
knelt on him and lifted his short sword.

“Do you yield?” men heard him say.

“Nay,” answered Clavering. Then suddenly Hugh rose and suffered his
adversary to do likewise.

“I’ll not stick you like a hog!” he said, and some cried, “Well done!”
 for the act seemed noble. Only Acour muttered, “Fool!”

Next instant they were at it again, but this time it was Hugh who
attacked and John who gave back right to the river’s edge, for skill and
courage seemed to fail him at once.

“Turn your head, lady,” said Dick, “for now one must die.” But Eve could
not.

The swords flashed for the last time in the red light, then that of de
Cressi vanished. Clavering threw his arms wide, and fell backward. A
splash as of a great stone thrown into water, and all was done.

Hugh stood a moment on the river’s bank, staring at the stream beneath;
then he turned and began to walk slowly toward the dead swan.

Ere ever he reached it Sir John Clavering fell from his horse in a
swoon, and a shout of rage went up from all his people.

“Kill him!” they yelled, and leapt forward.

Now Hugh understood, and ran for the point of land. One man, a
Frenchman, got in front of him. He cut him down, and sped on.

“What now?” said Eve, as he joined them.

He did not answer, only pointed first to the Clavering folk and next to
the water, showing that she must choose between the two.

“Swim for it!” growled Grey Dick. “I’ll hold them back a while and then
join you,” and as he spoke his bow twanged.

For an instant Eve paused, then threw off her scarlet cloak.

“Remember, I slew your brother!” said Hugh hoarsely.

“I remember that he would have slain you,” she answered; and leapt
straight from the point into the icy flood, beneath which her head sank.

When it rose again there was another head beside it, that of dead John,
who appeared for one moment, to be seen no more for ever, since ere
morning the ocean had him.

Now Hugh leapt after her, and presently the pair of them were swimming
side by side to the river’s further shore. Then, as now, it was but a
narrow stream. Yet they did not reach it easily, for, cumbered as they
were with clothes, and numbed by the ice-cold water, the fierce tide
caught them and carried them beyond the bend. There they were lost in
the gathering darkness, so that most of those who watched believed that
they had sunk and drowned. But it was not so, for after a long struggle
they came safe to shore near to a clump of willows, and clambered over
the frozen mud to the heath beyond.

“First fire, then water,” said Hugh, in a mazed voice.

“You have missed out love and death,” answered the girl--“a full feast
for a day that is not done. But whither now?”

“To take sanctuary at the Preceptory and raise my kin. Forward, Eve, ere
you freeze.”

“I think there is that in me which will not freeze,” she answered; and
broke into a run.

Now night closed in, and the snow which had been threatening all day
began to fall, making their path over the heath difficult.

“We need Grey Dick to guide us; but alack, I fear he is dead!” muttered
Hugh.

“I think others will be dead, not Dick,” she answered.

Just then they heard a footstep behind them.

Hugh wheeled round and drew his sword, but almost before it had left the
scabbard a long figure glided out of the snow, and said:

“More to the left, master, more to the left, unless you would make your
peace on Blythburgh bridge, where some would be glad to meet you.”

“How went it?” asked Hugh shortly.

“Not well. I shot thrice and slew three men, two of the French knights,
and Thomas of Kessland, against whom I had a score that now is settled.
But the fourth time I missed.”

“Who?” asked Eve between her teeth as she ran beside him.

“The Frenchman who means to marry you. When the others fell back he came
at me on his horse as I was setting a fresh arrow, thinking to get me. I
had to shoot quick, and aimed low for his heart, because in that light
I could not make certain of his face. He saw, and jerked up the horses
head, so that the shaft took it in the throat and killed the beast
without hurting its rider. He was off in an instant and at me, with
others, before I could draw again. So I thought it time to go, which I
did, backward, as he thrust. Perhaps he thinks he killed me, as I meant
he should, only when he looks at his sword he’ll find it clean. That’s
all.”

And again Grey Dick chuckled.



CHAPTER III

FATHER ANDREW

None were abroad in the streets of Dunwich on that bitter winter night
when these three trudged wearily down Middlegate Street through the
driving snow to the door of the grey Preceptory of the Knights Templar.
In a window above the porch a light burned dimly, the only one to be
seen in any of the houses round about, for by now all men were abed.

“‘Tis Father Arnold’s room,” said Eve. “He sits there at his books. I’ll
knock and call him, but do you two go lay hold of the ring of the church
door,” and she nodded toward a grey pile that stood near by. “Then none
can touch you, and how know we who may be in this house?”

“I’ll go no step further,” answered Hugh sullenly. “All this Temple
ground is sanctuary, or at least we will risk it.” And, seizing the
knocker, he hammered at the door.

The light in the window vanished, and presently they heard a sound
of creaking bolts. Then the door opened, revealing a tall man,
white-bearded, ancient, and clad in a frayed, furred robe worn over a
priest’s cassock, who held a lantern in his hand.

“Who knocks?” he asked. “Does some soul pass that you disturb me after
curfew?”

“Ay, Father Andrew,” answered Hugh, “souls have passed, and souls are
near to passing. Let us in, and we will tell you all.”

Without waiting for an answer he entered with the others, pushed to the
massive door and bolted it again.

“What’s this? A woman?” said the old priest. “Eve of Clavering, by the
Saints!”

“Yes,” she answered calmly, though her teeth chattered; “Eve of
Clavering, Eve the Red, this time with the blood of men, soaked with the
waters of the Blythe, frozen with the snows of Dunwich Heath, where
she has lain hid for hours with a furze bush for shelter. Eve who seeks
shriving, a dry rag for her back, a morsel for her lips, and fire to
warm her, which in the Name of Christ and of charity she prays you will
not refuse to her.”

So she spoke, and laughed recklessly.

Almost before she had finished her wild words the old man, who looked
what he was, a knight arrayed in priestly robes, had run to a door at
the end of the hall and was calling through it, “Mother Agnes! Mother
Agnes!”

“Be not so hasty, Sir Andrew,” answered a shrill voice. “A posset must
have time to boil. It is meet now that you wear a tonsure that you who
are no longer a centurion should forget these ‘Come, and he cometh,’
ways. When the water’s hot----”

The rest of that speech was lost, for Father Arnold, muttering some word
belonging to his “centurion” days, dived into the kitchen, to reappear
presently dragging a little withered old woman after him who was dressed
in a robe of conventual make.

“Peace, Mother Agnes, peace!” he said. “Take this lady, dry her, array
her in your best gown, give her food, warm her, and bring her back to
me. Short? What care I if the robe be short? Obey, or it will not be
come, and he cometh, but go and she goeth, and then who will shelter one
who talks so much?”

He thrust the pair of them through the kitchen door and, returning, led
Hugh and Grey Dick up a broad oak stair to what had been the guest-hall
of the Preceptory on its first floor.

It was a very great chamber where, before their Order was dispersed, all
the Knights Templar had been wont to dine with those who visited them at
times of festival. Tattered banners still hung among the cobwebs of the
ancient roof, the shields of past masters with stately blazonings were
carved in stone upon the walls. But of all this departed splendour but
little could be seen, since the place was lit only by a single lamp of
whale’s oil and a fire that burned upon the wide stone hearth, a great
fire, since Father Arnold, who had spent many years of his life in the
East, loved warmth.

“Now, Hugh de Cressi,” he said, “what have you done?”

“Slain my cousin, John of Clavering, Father, and perhaps another man.”

“In fair fight, very fair fight,” croaked Grey Dick.

“Who doubts it? Can a de Cressi be a murderer?” asked the priest. “And
you, Richard the Archer, what have you done?”

“Shot a good horse and three bad men dead with arrows--at least they
should be dead--and another through the hand, standing one against
twenty.”

“A gallant--I mean--an evil deed,” broke in the old warrior priest,
“though once it happened to me in a place called Damascus--but you both
are wet, also. Come into my chamber; I can furnish you with garments of
a sort. And, Richard, set that black bow of yours near the fire, but not
too fire. As you should know well, a damp string is ill to draw with.
Nay, fear not to leave it; this is sanctuary, and to make sure I will
lock the doors.”



Half an hour was gone by, and a very strange company had gathered round
the big fire in the guest-chamber of the Temple, eating with appetite of
such food as its scanty larder could provide for them. First there was
Red Eve in a woollen garment, the Sunday wear of Mother Agnes for twenty
years past and more, which reached but little below her knees, and was
shaped like a sack. On her feet were no shoes, and for sole adornment
her curling black hair fell about her shoulders, for so she had arranged
it because the gown would not meet across her bosom. Yet, odd as it
might be, in this costume Eve looked wonderfully beautiful, perhaps
because it was so scant and the leathern strap about her waist caused it
to cling close to her shapely form.

By her stood Hugh, wearing a splendid suit of chain armour. It had been
Sir Andrew Arnold’s in his warlike years, and now he lent it to his
godson Hugh because, as he said, he had nothing else. Also, it may
have crossed the minds of both of them that such mail as this which
the Saracens had forged, if somewhat out of fashion, could still turn
swordcuts.

Then there was Grey Dick, whose garments seemed to consist of a sack
with holes in it tied round him with a rope, his quiver of arrows slung
over it for ornament. He sat by the fire on a stool, oiling his black
bow with a rind of the fat bacon that he had been eating.

All the tale had been told, and Father Arnold looked very grave indeed.

“I have known strange and dreadful stories in my time,” he said, “but
never, I think, one stranger or more dreadful. What would you do now,
godson?”

“Take sanctuary for myself and Grey Dick because of the slaying of John
Clavering and others, and afterward be married by you to Eve.”

“Be married to the sister with the brother’s blood upon your hands
without absolution from the Church or pardon from the King; and you but
a merchant’s younger son and she to-night one of the greatest heiresses
in East Anglia! Why, how may that be?”

“I blame him not,” broke in Eve. “John, whom I never loved, strove to
smoke us out like rats because he was in the pay of the Norman, my Lord
of Acour. John struck Hugh in the face with his hand and slandered him
with his tongue. John was given his life once, and afterwards slain
in fair fight. Oh, I say, I blame him not, nor shall John’s blood rise
between him and me!”

“Yet the world will blame him, and you, too, Eve; yes, even those who
love you both. A while must go by, say a year. At least I’ll not marry
you at once, and cannot, if I would, with both your fathers living and
unadvised, and the sheriff waiting at the gate. Tell me now, do any know
that you have entered here?”

“Nay,” said Dick, looking up from his bow. “The hunt came after us, but
I hid these two in a bush and led it away past Hinton to the Ipswich
road, keeping but just ahead in the snow and talking in three voices.
Then I gave them the slip and returned. They’ll not guess that we have
come to Dunwich for a while.”

“And when they do even the boldest will not enter this holy sanctuary
while the Church has terrors for men’s souls. Yet, here you must not
stay for long, lest in this way or in that your lives pay the price of
it, or a bloody feud break out between the Claverings of Blythburgh and
the de Cressis of Dunwich. Daughter Eve, get you to bed with old Agnes.
You are so weary that you will not mind her snores. To-morrow ere the
dawn I’ll talk with you, and, meanwhile, I have words for Hugh. Nay,
have no fear, the windows are all barred, and Archer Dick shall watch
the door.”

Eve went, unwillingly enough, although she could scarcely walk, flashing
a good-night to her lover with her fine eyes. Presently Grey Dick also
went to sleep, like a dog with one eye open, in the little ante-chamber,
near to the great door.

“Now, Hugh,” said Father Arnold, when they were left alone, “your case
is desperate, for if you stay here certainly these Claverings will have
your blood. Yet, if you can be got away safely, there is still a shaft
that you may shoot more deadly than any that ever left Grey Dick’s
quiver. But yesterday I told you for your comfort--when we spoke of his
wooing of Red Eve--that this Norman, for such he is, although his mother
was English and he was English born, is a traitor to King Edward, whom
he pretends to serve.”

“Ay, and I said as much to him this afternoon when he prated to me of
his knightly honour, and, though I had no time to take note of faces, I
thought he liked it little who answered hotly that I was a liar.”

“I am sorry, Hugh; it may put him on his guard, or perhaps he’ll pay no
heed. At least the words are said, and there’s an end. Now hearken. I
told neither you nor any one all the blackness of his treachery. Have
you guessed what this Acour is here to do?”

“Spy out the King’s power in these parts, I suppose.”

“More than that”--and he dropped his voice to a whisper--“spy out a safe
landing-place for fifty thousand Normans upon our Suffolk coast. They
are to sail hither this coming summer and set the crown of England
upon their Duke John, who will hold it as vassal to his sire, Philip of
France.”

“God’s name! Is that true?”

“Ay, though in such a devil’s business that Name is best left out. Look
you, lad, I had warning from overseas, where, although I am now nothing
but a poor old priest of a broken Order, I still have friends in high
places. Therefore I watched and found that messengers were passing
between Acour and France. One of these messengers, a priest, came a week
ago to Dunwich, and spent the night in a tavern waiting for his ship to
sail in the morning. The good wife who keeps that tavern--ask not her
name--would go far to serve me. That night this priest slept sound,
and while he slept a letter was cut from the lining of his cassock, and
another without writing sewn there in place of it, so that he’ll never
know the difference till he reaches John of Normandy, and then not where
he lost it. Stay, you shall see,” and he went to the wall and from some
secret place behind the hangings produced a writing, which he handed to
Hugh, who looked at it, then gave it back to him, saying:

“Read it to me, Father, English I can spell out, but this French puzzles
my eyes.”

So he read, Hugh listening eagerly to every word:

My Lord Duke:

This by a faithful hand that you know to tell you all goes well with
your Grace’s business, and with that of your royal father. While
pretending to hunt or hawk I have found three places along this seaboard
at any one of which the army can land next summer with little resistance
to fear, for though the land is rich in cattle and corn, the people are
few.

These places of which I have made survey have deep water up to the
beach. I will tell you of them more particularly when I return.
Meanwhile I linger here for sundry reasons, which you know, hoping to
draw those of whom you speak to me to your cause, which, God aiding me,
I shall do, since he of England has wronged one of them and slighted the
others, so that they are bitter against him, and ready to listen to the
promises which I make in your name.

As an excuse for my long stay that has caused doubts in some quarters, I
speak of my Suffolk lands which need my care. Also I court the daughter
of my host here, the Knight of Clavering, a stubborn Englishman who
cannot be won, but a man of great power and repute. This courtship,
which began in jest, has ended in earnest, since the girl is very
haughty and beautiful, and as she will not be played with I propose,
with your good leave, to make her my wife. Her father accepts my suit,
and when he and the brother are out of the way, as doubtless may happen
after your army comes, she will have great possessions.

I thank your Grace for the promise of the wide English lands of which I
spoke to you, and the title that goes with them. These I will do my best
to earn, nor will I ask for them till I kneel before you when you are
crowned King of England at Westminster, as I doubt not God will bring
about before this year is out. I have made a map of the road by which
your army should march on London after landing, and of the towns to be
sacked upon the way thither. This, however, I keep, since although not
one in ten thousand of these English swine can read French, or any other
tongue, should it chance to be lost, all can understand a map. Not that
there is any fear of loss, for who will meddle with a priest who carries
credentials signed by his Holiness himself.

I do homage to your Grace. This written with my hand from Blythburgh, in
Suffolk, on the twentieth day of February, 1346.

Edmund of Noyon.

Father Arnold ceased reading, and Hugh gasped out:

“What a fool is this knave-Count!”

“Most men are, my son, in this way or in that, and the few wise profit
by their folly. Thus this letter, which he thought so safe, will save
England to Edward and his race, you from many dangers, your betrothed
from a marriage which she hates--that is, if you can get safe away with
it from Dunwich.”

“Where to, Father?”

“To King Edward in London, with another that I will write for you ere
the dawn.”

“But is it safe, Father, to trust so precious a thing to me, who have
bitter enemies awaiting me, and may as like as not be crow’s meat by
to-morrow?”

Father Arnold looked at him with his soft and dreamy eyes, then said:

“I think the crow’s not hatched that will pick your bones, Hugh, though
at the last there be crows, or worms, for all of us.”

“Why not, Father? Doubtless, this morning young John of Clavering
thought as much, and now he is in the stake-nets, or food for fishes.”

“Would you like to hear, Hugh, and will you keep it to yourself, even
from Eve?”

“Ay, that I would and will.”

“He’ll think me mad!” muttered the old priest to himself, then went
on aloud as one who takes a sudden resolution. “Well, I’ll tell you,
leaving you to make what you will of a story that till now has been
heard by no living man.”

“Far in the East is the great country that we call Cathay, though in
truth it has many other names, and I alone of all who breathe in England
have visited that land.”

“How did you get there?” asked Hugh, amazed, for though he knew dimly
that Father Arnold had travelled much in his youth, he never dreamed
that he had reached the mystic territories of Cathay, or indeed that
such a place really was except in fable.

“It would take from now till morning to tell, son, nor even then would
you understand the road. It is enough to say that I went on a pilgrimage
to Jerusalem, where our blessed Saviour died. That was the beginning.
Thence I travelled with Arabs to the Red Sea, where wild men made a
slave of me, and we were blown across the Indian Ocean to a beauteous
island named Ceylon, in which all the folk are black.

“From this place I escaped in a vessel called a junk, that brought me
to the town of Singapore. Thence at last, following my star, I came to
Cathay after two years of journeyings. There I dwelt in honour for
three more years, moving from place to place, since never before had its
inhabitants seen a Western man, and they made much of me, always sending
me forward to new cities. So at length I reached the greatest of them
all, which is called Kambaluc, or Peking, and there was the guest of its
Emperor, Timur.

“All the story of my life and adventures yonder I have written down, and
any who will may read it after I am dead. But of these I have no time to
speak, nor have they anything to do with you. Whilst I dwelt in Kambaluc
as the guest of the Emperor Timur, I made study of the religion of this
mighty people, who, I was told, worshipped gods in the shape of men. I
visited a shrine called the Temple of Heaven, hoping that there I should
see such a god who was named Tien, but found in it nothing but splendid
emptiness.

“Then I asked if there was no god that I could see with my eyes,
whereon the Emperor laughed at me and said there was such a god, but
he counselled me not to visit him. I prayed him to suffer me to do so,
since I, who worshipped the only true God, feared no other. Whereon,
growing angry, he commanded some of his servants to ‘take this fool to
the house of Murgh and let him see whether his God could protect him
against Murgh.’ Having said this he bade me farewell, adding that though
every man must meet Murgh once, few met him twice, and therefore he did
not think that he should see me again.

“Now, in my heart I grew afraid, but none would tell me more of this
Murgh or what was likely to happen to me at his hands. Still, I would
not show any fear, and, strong in the faith of Christ, I determined to
look upon this idol, for such I expected him to be.

“That night the servants of Timur bore me out of the city in a litter,
and by the starlight I saw that we travelled toward a hill through great
graveyards, where people were burying their dead. At the foot of the
hill they set me down upon a road, and told me to walk up it, and that
at dawn I should see the House of Murgh, whereof the gates were always
open, and could enter there if I wished. I asked if they would wait for
my return, whereon they answered, smiling, that if I so desired they
would do so till evening, but that it seemed scarcely needful, since
they did not suppose that I should return.

“‘Do yonder pilgrims to the House of Murgh return?’ asked their captain,
pointing towards those graveyards which we had passed.

“I made no answer, but walked forward up a broad and easy road,
unchallenged of any, till I came to what, even in that dim light, I
could see was a great and frowning gateway, whereof the doors appeared
to be open. Now, at first I thought I would pass this gateway at once
and see what lay beyond. But from this I was held back by some great
fear, for which I could find no cause, unless it were bred of what
the Emperor and his servants had said to me. So I remembered their
words--namely, that I should tarry till dawn to enter the house.

“There, then, I tarried, seated on the ground before the gateway, and
feeling as though, yet alive, I had descended among the dead. Indeed,
the silence was that of the dead. No voice spoke, no hound barked, no
leaf stirred. Only far above me I heard a continual soughing, as though
winged souls passed to and fro. Never in my life had I felt so much
alone, never so much afraid.

“At length the dawn broke, and oh, glad was I to see its light, for fear
lest I should die in darkness! Now I saw that I was on a hilltop
where grew great groves of cedar trees, and that set amid them was a
black-tiled temple, surrounded by a wall built of black brick.

“It was not a great place, although the gateway, which was surmounted by
two black dragons of stone or iron, was very great, so great that a tall
ship could have sailed through it and left its arch untouched.

“I kneeled down and prayed to the blessed Saints and the guardian angels
to protect me. Then I arose, crossed myself to scare off all evil things
by that holy sign, and set forward toward the mighty gateway. Oh, never,
never till that hour had I understood how lowly a thing is man! On that
broad road, travelling toward the awful, dragon-guarded arch, beyond
which lay I knew not what, it seemed to me that I was the only man
left in the world, I, whose hour had come to enter the portals of
destruction.

“I passed into the cold shadow of the gateway, unchallenged by any
watchman, and found myself in a courtyard surrounded by a wall also
built of black brick, which had doors in it that seemed to be of dark
stone or iron. Whither these doors led I do not know, since the wall cut
off the sight of any buildings that may have lain beyond. In the centre
of this courtyard was a pool of still, black water, and at the head of
the pool a chair of black marble.”

Sir Andrew paused, and Hugh said:

“A plain place for a temple, Father, without adornments or images. But
perhaps this was the outer court, and the temple stood within.”

“Ay, son, the plainest temple that ever I saw, who have seen many in
all lands, though what was beyond it I do not know. And yet--terrible,
terrible, terrible!--I tell you that those black walls and that black
water were more fearsome to look on than any churchyard vault grim
with bones, or a torture-pit where victims quiver out their souls
midst shrieks and groanings. And yet I could see nothing of which to be
afraid, and hear nothing save that soughing of invisible wings whereof I
have spoken. An empty chair, a pool of water, some walls and doors, and,
above, the quiet sky. What was there to fear in such things as these?
Still, so greatly did I fear that I sank to my knees and began to pray
once more, this time to the blessed Saviour himself, since I was sure
that none else could help me.

“When I looked up again the chair was no longer empty. Hugh, a man sat
in it, of whom I thought at first only one thing--that he must be very
strong, though not bigger than other men. Strength seemed to flow from
him. I should not have wondered if he had placed his hands upon the
massive sides of that stone chair and torn it asunder.”

“What was he like, Father? Samson or Goliath?”

“I never saw either, son, so cannot say. But what was he like? Oh, I
cannot say that either, although still I see him in my heart. My mortal
lips will not tell the likeness of that man, perhaps because he seemed
to be like all men, and yet different from all. He had an iron brow,
beneath which shone deep, cold eyes. He was clean-shaven, or perchance
his face grew no hair. His lips were thick and still and his features
did not change like those of other men. He looked as though he could not
change; as though he had been thus for infinite ages, and yet remained
neither young nor old. As for his dress, he wore a cloak of flaming red,
such a cloak as your Eve loves to wear, and white sandals on his feet.
There was no covering on his shaven head, which gleamed like a skull.
His breast was naked, but across it hung one row of black jewels.
From the sheen of them I think they must have been pearls, which are
sometimes found of that colour in the East. He had no weapon nor staff,
and his hands hung down on either side of the chair.

“For a long while I watched him, but if he saw me he took no note. As
I watched I perceived that birds were coming to and leaving him in
countless numbers, and thought that it must be their wings which made
the constant soughing sound that filled all the still and dreadful air.”

“What kind of birds were they, Father?”

“I am not sure, but I think doves; at least, their flight was straight
and swift like to that of doves. Yet of this I am not sure either,
since I saw each of them for but a second. As they reached the man they
appeared out of nothingness. They were of two colours, snow-white and
coal-black. The white appeared upon his right side, the black upon
his left side. Each bird in those never-ceasing streams hovered for an
instant by his head, the white over his right shoulder, the black over
his left shoulder, as though they whispered a message to his ear, and
having whispered were gone upon their errand.”

“What was that errand, Father?”

“How can I know, as no one ever told me? Yet I will hazard a guess that
it had to do with the mystery of life and death. Souls that were born
into the world, and souls departing from the world, perchance, making
report to one of God’s ministers clothed in flesh. But who can say? At
least I watched those magic fowls till my eyes grew dizzy, and a sort of
slumber began to creep into my brain.

“How long I stayed thus I do not remember, for I had lost all sense of
time. In the end, however, I was awakened by a cold, soft voice, the
sound of which seemed to flow through my veins like ice, that addressed
me in our own rough English tongue, spoken as you and I learned it at
our nurses’ knees.

“‘To what god were you praying just now, Andrew Arnold?’

“‘Oh, sir,’ I answered, ‘how do you, who dwell in Cathay, where I am a
stranger, know my language and my name?’

“He lifted his cold eyes and looked at me, and I felt them pierce into
the depths of my soul. ‘In the same way that I know your heart,’ he
said. ‘But do not ask questions. Answer them, that I may learn whether
you are a true man or a liar.’

“‘I was praying to Christ,’ I faltered, ‘the Saviour of us all.’

“‘A great God, Andrew Arnold, and a pure, though His followers are few
in the world as yet. But do you think that He can save you from Me, as
you were asking Him to do?’

“‘He can save my soul,’ I replied, plucking up courage, who would not
deny the Lord even in a devil’s den.

“‘Ah! your soul. Well, I have nothing to do with souls, except to count
them as they pass through my dominion, and you are quite right to pray
to one of the lords of that into which you go. Now, man, what is your
business with me, and why do you visit one of whom you are so much
afraid?’

“‘O Murgh!’ I began, then ceased, for I knew not what to answer.

“‘So they have told you my name? Now I will tell you one of its
meanings. It is “Gate of the Gods.” Why did you dare to visit Gate of
the Gods? You fear to answer. Listen! You came forth to see some painted
idol, or some bedizened priest muttering rites he does not understand to
that which is not; and lo! you have found that which is behind all idols
and all priests. You sought an incensed and a golden shrine and you
have found only the black and iron portals which every man must pass but
which few desire to enter until they are called. Well, you are young and
strong, come try a fall with Murgh, and when he has thrown you, rise and
choose which of those ways you will,’ and he swept his hand toward the
doors around him. ‘Then forget this world and enter into that which you
have chosen.’

“Now, because I could not help myself, I rose from my knees and
advanced, or was drawn toward that dreadful man. As I came he, too, rose
from his chair, stretching out his arms as a wrestler does, and I knew
that within the circle of those arms lay my death. Still I, who in my
youth was held brave, went on and rushed, striving to clasp him. Next
moment, before ever I touched him--oh, well was it for me that I touched
him not!--some strength seized me and whirled me round and round as a
dead leaf is whirled by the wind, and tossed me up and cast me down and
left me prone and nerveless.

“‘Rise,’ said the cold voice above me, ‘for you are unhurt.’

“So I rose, and felt even then that I who thought that every bone in my
body must be broken, was stronger than I had ever been before. It was as
though the lamp which had burnt low was filled suddenly with a new and
purer oil.

“‘Man,’ said mine adversary, and I thought that in his cold eyes there
was something like a smile, ‘did you think to touch Murgh and live? Did
you think to wrestle with him as in a book of one of your prophets a
certain Jacob wrestled with an angel, and conquered--until it was his
turn to pass the Gate of the Gods?’

“Now I stared at this dweller in Cathay, who spoke my tongue and knew
the tale of Jacob in the ancient Book, then answered:

“‘Sir Murgh, or Sir Gate, or whatever your name may be, I thought to do
nothing. You drew me to you, you challenged me and, since by the rule
of my Order I may refuse no challenge from one who is not a Christian,
I came on to do my best. But before ever I laid hand on you I was cast
down by a wind. That is all the story, save that it has pleased you to
let me live, who evidently could have slain me, for which I thank you.’

“‘You are wrong, Sir Andrew,’ he answered, ‘I did not draw you to me.
Men come to Murgh at their appointed hour; Murgh does not come to them.
You sought him before your hour, and therefore he refused you. Yet you
will meet him again, as all flesh must when its hour comes, and because
you are bold and have not cringed before my strength, for your comfort
I will show you when and how. Stand by me, but lay no hand on me or my
robe, and look into my glass while for a moment, for your sake, I stay
the stream of time and show you what lies beneath its foam that blinds
the eyes of men.’

“He waved his arms and the black doves and the white doves ceased to
appear and disappear, and the eternal soughings of their wings was
silent. He pointed to the water at his feet and I saw, not a picture,
but a scene so real that I could have sworn it was alive about me. Yes,
those who took part in it stood in front of me as though the pool were
solid ground that their feet pressed. _You_ were one of them, son, _you_
were one of them,” and the old knight paused, supporting himself against
the mantel-shelf as though that recollection overcame him.

“What did you see?” whispered Hugh.

“By God’s holy name, I saw the Blythburgh Marshes deep in snow that was
red, blood-red with the light of sunrise. Oh! I could not be mistook,
and there ran the wintry river, there the church tower soared, there
were the frowning, tree-clad banks. There was the rough moorland over
which the east wind piped, for the dead bracken bent before it, and not
twenty paces from me leaped a hare, disturbed suddenly from its form by
a hungry fox, whose red head peeped through the reeds. Yes, yes, I saw
the brute’s white teeth gleam as it licked its disappointed lips, and
I felt glad that its prey had beaten it! When you look upon that scene,
Hugh, as one day you shall, remember the hare and the head of the hungry
fox, and by these judge my truth.”

“A fox and a hare!” broke in Hugh. “I’d show you such to-morrow; was
there no more?”

“Ay, much. For instance, a hollow in the Marsh, an open grave, and an
axe; yes, an axe that had delved it where the bog was soft beneath the
snow. Grey Dick held the axe in one hand and his black bow in the other,
while Red Eve, your Eve, stood at its edge and stared into it like one
in a dream. Then at the head of the grave an old, old man clad in mail
beneath his priestly robes, and that man _myself_, Hugh, grown very
ancient, but still myself, and no other.

“And at the foot of the grave _you_, Hugh de Cressi, you and no other,
wayworn and fierce, but also clad in mail, and wearing a knight’s crest
upon your shield. You with drawn sword in hand, and facing you,
also with drawn sword, rage and despair on his dark face, a stately,
foreign-looking man, whom mine eyes have never seen, but whom I should
know again midst a million, a man who, I think, was doomed to fill the
grave.

“Lastly, standing on a little mound near to the bank of the swirling
river, where jagged sheets of ice ground against each other like the
teeth of the wicked in hell, strangely capped and clad in black, his
arms crossed upon his breast and a light smile in his cold eyes, he who
was called Murgh in Cathay, he who named himself Gateway of the Gods!

“For a moment I saw, then all was gone, and I found myself--I know not
why--walking toward the mighty arch whereon sat the iron dragons. In its
shadow I turned and looked back. There at the head of the pool the man
was seated in his chair, and to right and to left of him came the black
doves and the white doves in countless multitudes, all the thousands
of them that had been stayed in their flight pouring down upon him at
once--or so I thought. They wheeled about his head, they hid his face
from me, and I--I departed into the shadow of the arch, and I saw him
and them no more.”



CHAPTER IV

THE PENANCE

The tale was done, and these two stood staring at one another from each
side of the glowing hearth, whose red light illumined their faces. At
length the heavy silence was broken by Sir Andrew.

“I read your heart, Hugh,” he said, “as Murgh read mine, for I think
that he gave me not only strength, but something of his wisdom also,
whereby I was able to win safe back to England and to this hour to walk
unharmed by many a pit. I read your heart, and in its book is written
that you think me mad, one who pleases his old age with tales of marvel
that others told him, or which his own brain fashioned.”

“Not so, Father,” answered Hugh uneasily, for in truth some such
thoughts were passing through his mind. “Only--only the thing is very
strange, and it happened so long ago, before Eve and I were born, before
those that begot us were born either, perchance.”

“Yes; more than fifty years ago--it may be sixty--I forget. In sixty
years the memory plays strange tricks with men, no doubt, so how can I
blame you if you believe--what you do believe? And yet, Hugh,” he went
on after a pause, and speaking with passion, “this was no dream of which
I tell you. Why do you suppose that among all those that have grown up
about me I have chosen you out to love, you and your Eve? Not because
a chance made me your godsire and her my pupil. I say that from your
infancy your faces haunted me. Ay, and when you had turned childhood’s
corner and once I met the pair of you walking hand in hand, then of a
sudden I knew that it was you two and no others whom that god or devil
had showed to me standing by the open grave upon the banks of Blythe. I
knew it of Dick the Archer also, and can I be mistaken of such a man as
that who has no fellow in England? But you think I dreamed it all, and
perhaps I should not have spoken, though something made me speak.
Well, in a day to come you may change your mind, since whatever dangers
threaten you will not die yet, Hugh. Tell me now, what is this Frenchman
like who would marry Eve? I have never seen him.”

Hugh, who was glad to get back to the things of earth, described Acour
as best he could.

“Ah!” said Sir Andrew. “Much such a man as stood face to face with you
by the grave while Murgh watched; and you are not likely to be friends,
are you? But I forgot. You have determined that it was but a dream and
now you are wondering how he who is called Gate of the Gods in Cathay
could come to Blythburgh. Well, I think that all the world is his
garden, given to him by God, but doubtless that’s only another face of
my dream whereof we’ll speak no more--at present. Now for your troubles,
which are no dream. Lie you down to sleep on the skin of that striped
beast. I killed it in Cathay--in my day of dreams, and now it shall
serve for yours, from which may the dead eyes of John Clavering be
absent! I go forth to seek your father and to arrange certain matters.
With Grey Dick at the door you’ll be safe for a while, I think. If not,
here’s a cupboard where you may hide.” And, drawing aside the arras, he
showed him a certain secret place large enough to hold a man, then left
the room.

Hugh laid himself upon the skin of the beast, which had been a tiger,
though he did not know it by that name. So weary was he that not all he
had gone through that day or even the old warrior-priest’s marvellous
tale, in which he and Eve played so wonderful a part, could keep his
eyes from closing. Presently he was fast asleep, and so remained until,
four hours later, something disturbed him, and he awoke to see Sir
Andrew writing at a desk.

“Rise, my son,” said the old priest without looking up from his paper.
“Early as it is you must be stirring if you would be clear of Dunwich by
daybreak and keep a whole skin. I have set a taper in my sleeping-closet
yonder, and there you’ll find water to wash with and a stool to kneel on
for your prayers, neither of which neglect, since you have blood on your
hands and great need for Heaven’s help.”

So Hugh arose, yawning, and stumbled heavily to the chamber, for he was
still faint with sleep, which would not leave him till he had plunged
his head into a basin of icy water. This done, he knelt and prayed as he
had been bidden, with a very earnest heart, and afterward came back to
the guest-hall.

Seeing folk gathered there as he entered he laid hand on sword, not his
own with which he had killed his cousin, but a long and knightly weapon
that Sir Andrew had given him with the armour. Drawing it, he advanced
boldly, for he thought that his enemies might have found him out, and
that his best safety lay in courage. Thus he appeared in the ring of the
lamplight clad in gleaming steel and with raised weapon.

“What, son!” asked a testy voice which he knew for that of his own
father, “is it not enough to have killed your cousin? Would you fall
on your brothers and me also, that you come at us clad in mail and with
bare steel in hand?”

Hearing these words Hugh sheathed the sword, and, advancing toward the
speaker, a handsome, portly man, who wore a merchant’s robe lined with
rich fur, sank to his knee before him.

“Your pardon, my father,” he said. “Sir Andrew here will have told you
the story; also that I am not to blame for this blood-shedding.”

“I think you need to ask it,” replied Master de Cressi, “and if you and
that lean henchman of yours are not to blame, then say who is?”

Now a tall, slim figure glided up to them. It was Eve, clothed in her
own robe again, and beautiful as ever after her short rest.

“Sir, I am to blame,” she said in her full, low voice. “My need was sore
and I sent a messenger to Hugh bidding him meet me in the Blythburgh
Marsh. There we were set on, and there John Clavering, my brother, smote
Hugh in the face. Would you, a de Cressi, have had him take the blow and
yield me up to the Frenchman?”

“By God and my forefathers, no! least of all from one of your
stock--saving your presence,” answered the merchant. “In truth, had he
done so, dead or living from that day I would have called him no son of
mine. Yet, Red Eve, you and he and your love-makings have brought much
trouble on me and my House. Look now what it means. A feud to the death
between our families of which no man can foresee the end. Moreover, how
can you marry, seeing that a brother’s blood runs between you?”

“It is on John’s head,” she answered sadly, “not on Hugh’s hand. I
warned him, and Hugh spared him once. What more could we do?”

“I know not, Eve; I only know what you have done, you and Hugh and Grey
Dick. Four dead and two wounded, that’s the bill I must discharge as
best I may. Doubtless too soon there will be more to follow, whether
they be Claverings or de Cressis. Well, we must take things as God sends
them, and leave Him to balance the account.

“But there is no time to lose if Hugh’s neck is to escape a halter.
Speak you, Father Andrew, who are wise and old, and have this matter in
hand. Oh! Hugh, Hugh, you were born a fighter, not a merchant like your
brethren,” and he pointed to three young men who all this while had
stood silently behind him looking upon their youngest brother with grave
disapproval. “Yes, the old Norman blood comes out in you, and the Norman
mail suits you well,” he added with a flash of pride, “and so there’s an
end--or a beginning. Now, Sir Andrew, speak.”

“Master de Cressi,” said the old priest, “your son Hugh rides to London
on an errand of mine which I think will save his neck from that halter
whereof you spoke but now. Are those four mounted men that you promised
me ready to companion him?”

“They will be within an hour, Father, but not before, since six good
horses cannot be laid hands on in the dead of night, being stabled
without the gates. But what is this message of yours, and to whom does
Hugh go?”

“To his Grace Edward the King, none less, Geoffrey de Cressi, with that
which shall earn pardon for him and Dick the Archer, or so I believe.
As for what it is I may not tell you or any man. It has to do with great
matters of State that are for the King’s ear alone; and I charge you,
every one, on your honour and your safety, to make no mention of this
mission without these walls. Do you swear, Geoffrey de Cressi, and you,
his sons?”

Then one by one they swore to be secret as the grave; and Eve swore
also, though of her he had sought no promise. When this was finished Sir
Andrew asked if any of his brothers accompanied Hugh, saying that if so
they must arm.

“No,” answered Master de Cressi, “one of the family is enough to risk
as well as four of our best servants. My sons bide here with me, who may
need their help, though they are not trained to arms.”

“Perhaps it is as well,” said Sir Andrew drily, “though were I their
age--well, let that be. Now, son Hugh, before you eat do you and Eve
come with me into the church.”

At these words Hugh flushed red with joy, and opened his lips to speak.

“Nay, nay,” broke in Sir Andrew, with a frown; “for a different purpose
to that which is in your mind. Man, is this a time for marrying and
giving in marriage? And if it were, could I marry you who are stained
with new-shed blood? ‘Tis that you both may be absolved from the guilt
of that blood and learn the penance which God decrees to you through
the mouth of me, His unworthy minister, in payment of its shedding. Thus
you, son, may go forth upon your great adventure with a clean heart, and
you, daughter, may await what shall befall with a quiet mind. Say, are
you willing?”

Now they bowed their heads and answered that they were, though Eve
whispered to Hugh that she misdoubted her of this talk of penance.

“So do I,” he replied, beneath his breath, “but he is a merciful
confessor and loves us. From some it might be harder.”

They passed down the stairs, followed by Master de Cressi and his sons,
into the entrance hall, where Grey Dick stood watching by the door.

“Whither go they?” he asked of Sir Andrew, “for their road is mine.”

“To confession at God’s altar,” answered the old priest. “Do you come
also, Richard?”

“Oh!” he replied, “I hoped it had been to breakfast. As for confession I
have naught upon my soul save that I shot too low at the Frenchman.”

“Bide where you are, O man of blood,” said Sir Andrew sternly: “and pray
that a better mood be given to you before it is too late.”

“Ay, Father,” he answered unabashed. “I’ll pray, and it is as well that
one should wait to watch the door lest you should all presently become
men of blood against your will.”

Turning to the right, Sir Andrew led them down steps to a passage
underground that joined the Temple to the Church of the Holy Virgin and
St. John. It was but short, and at the end of it they found a massive
door which he unbolted, and, passing this door, entered the great
building, whereof the silence and the icy cold struck them like blows.
They had but two lanterns between them, one of which Master de Cressi
and his elder sons took with them to the nave of the church. Bearing the
other, Sir Andrew departed into the vestry, leaving Hugh and Eve seated
together in the darkness of the chancel stalls.

Presently his light reappeared in the confessional, where he sat robed,
and thither at his summons went first Hugh and then Eve. When their
tales were told, those who watched in the nave of the splendid
building--which, reared by the Knights Templar, was already following
that great Order to decay and ruin--saw the star of light he bore ascend
to the high altar. Here he set it down, and, advancing to the rail,
addressed the two shadowy figures that knelt before him.

“Son and daughter,” he said, “you have made confession with contrite
hearts, and the Church has given you absolution for your sins. Yet
penance remains, and because those sins, though grievous in themselves,
were not altogether of your own making, it shall be light. Hugh de
Cressi and Eve Clavering, who are bound together by lawful love between
man and woman and the solemn oath of betrothal which you here renew
before God, this is the penance that I lay upon you by virtue of the
authority in me vested as a priest of Christ: Because between you runs
the blood of John Clavering, the cousin of one of you and the brother
of the other, slain by you, Hugh de Cressi, in mortal combat but yester
eve, I decree and enjoin that for a full year from this day you shall
not be bound together as man and wife in the holy bonds of matrimony,
nor converse after the fashion of affianced lovers. If you obey this her
command, faithfully, then by my mouth the Church declares that after
the year has gone by you may lawfully be wed where and when you will.
Moreover, she pronounces her solemn blessing on you both and her
dreadful curse upon any and upon all who shall dare to sunder you
against your desires, and of this blessing and this curse let all the
congregation take notice.”

Now Hugh and Eve rose and vanished into the darkness. When they had
gone the priest celebrated a short mass, but two or three prayers and a
blessing, which done, all of them returned to the Preceptory as they had
come.

Here food was waiting for them, prepared by the old Sister Agnes. It was
a somewhat silent meal of which no one ate very much except Grey Dick,
who remarked aloud that as this might be his last breakfast it should be
plentiful, since, shriven or unshriven, it was better to die upon a full
stomach.

Master de Cressi called him an impious knave. Then he asked him if he
had plenty of arrows, because if not he would find four dozen of the
best that could be made in Norwich done up in a cloak on the grey horse
he was to ride, and a spare bow also.

“I thank you for the arrows, Master, but as for the bow, I use none but
my own, the black bow which the sea brought to me and death alone shall
part from me. Perchance both will be wanted, since the Claverings will
scarcely let us out of the sanctuary if they can help it. Still, it is
true they may not know where we lie hid, and that is our best chance of
eating more good breakfasts this side the grave.”

“A pest on your evil talk,” said de Cressi with an uneasy laugh, for
he loved Hugh best of all his sons and was afraid of him. “Get through
safely, man, and though I like not your grim face and bloody ways you
shall lose little by it. I promise you,” he added in a whisper, “that if
you bring my boy safe home again, you shall not want for all your life;
ay, and if there is need, I’ll pay your blood-scot for you.”

“Thank you, master, thank you. I’ll remember, and for my part promise
you this, that if he does not return safe, Dick the Archer never will.
But I think I’ll live to shoot more than your four dozen of arrows.”

As he spoke there came a knock upon the outer door and every one sprang
up.

“Fear not,” said Sir Andrew; “doubtless it will be the men with the
horses. I’ll go look. Come you with me, Richard.”

Presently he returned, saying that it was so, and that Master de
Cressi’s servants were waiting with the beasts in the courtyard. Also
that they brought tidings that some of the Clavering party were now
at the Mayor’s house, rousing him from his sleep, doubtless to lay
information of the slayings and ask for warrant to take those who
wrought them, should they be in the borough.

“Then we had best be going,” said Hugh, “since soon they will be here
with or without their warrant.”

“Ay,” answered Sir Andrew. “Here are the papers. Take them, Hugh, and
hide them well; and if any accident should befall you, try to pass
them on to Richard that they may be delivered into the King’s hands at
Westminster. Say that Sir Andrew Arnold sends you on business that has
to do with his Grace’s safety, and neither of you will be refused a
hearing. Then act as he may command you, and maybe ere long we shall see
you back at Dunwich pardoned.”

“I think it is the Claverings and their French lord who need pardon, not
I,” said Hugh. “But be that as it may, what of Eve?”

“Fear not for Eve, son, for here she bides in sanctuary until the
Frenchman is out of England, or perchance,” he added grimly, “under
English soil.”

“Ay, ay, we’ll guard the maid,” broke in Master de Cressi. “Come! to
saddle ere you be trapped.”

So they descended to a back entrance, and through it into the courtyard,
where the four armed men waited with six good horses, one of them Hugh’s
own. Here he bade farewell to his brothers, to his father, who kissed
him on the brow, and to Sir Andrew, who stretched his hand above his
head in blessing. Then he turned to Eve and was about to embrace
her even before that company, when Sir Andrew looked at him, and,
remembering the penance that had been laid upon him, he but pressed her
hand, whispering:

“God be with you, sweetheart!”

“He is with us all, but I would that you could be with me also,” she
answered in the same low voice. “Still, man must forth to battle
and woman must wait and watch, for that is the world’s way. Whate’er
befalls, remember that dead or living I’ll be wife to no man but you.
Begone now ere my heart fails me, and guard yourself well, remembering
that you bear in your breast not one life, but two.”

Then Hugh swung himself to the saddle of which Grey Dick had already
tested the girths and stirrup leathers. In another minute the six of
them were clattering over the stones of Middlegate Street, while the
burgesses of Dunwich peeped from their window places, wondering what
knight with armed men rode through their town thus early.

Just as the grey dawn broke they passed the gate, which, there being
peace in the land, was already open. Fifteen minutes later they were
on the lonely Westleton Heath, where for a while naught was to be heard
save the scream of the curlew and the rush of the wings of the wild-duck
passing landward from the sea. Presently, however, another sound reached
their ears, that of horses galloping behind them. Grey Dick pulled rein
and listened.

“Seven, I think, not more,” he said. “Now, master, do you stand or run,
for these will be Clavering horses?”

Hugh thought for a moment. His aim was not to fight, but to get through
to London. Yet if he fled the pursuers would raise the country on them
as they came, so that in the end they must be taken, since those who
followed would find fresh horses.

“It seems best to stand,” he said.

“So say I,” answered Grey Dick; and led the way to a little hillock by
the roadside on which grew some wind-bent firs.

Here they dismounted and gave their horses into the keeping of one man,
while Grey Dick and the others drew their bows from the cases and strung
them. Scarcely had they done so when the mist, lifting in the morning
breeze, showed them their pursuers--seven of them, as Dick had
said--headed by one of the French knights, and riding scattered, between
two and three hundred yards away. At the same moment a shout told them
that they had been seen.

“Hark now all!” said Hugh. “I would shed no more blood if it may be so,
who have earned enough of penance. Therefore shoot at the horses, not
at the riders, who without them will be helpless. And let no man harm a
Clavering unless it be to save his own life.”

“Poor sport!” grunted Grey Dick.

Nevertheless, when the Norman knight who led came within two hundred
yards, shouting to them in French to surrender, Dick lifted his great
bow, drew and loosed carelessly, as though he shot at hazard, the others
holding their bows till the Claverings were nearer. Yet there was little
of hazard when Grey Dick shot, save to that at which he aimed. Away
rushed the arrow, rising high and, as it seemed, bearing somewhat to the
left of the knight. Yet when it drew near to that knight the wind told
on it and bent it inward, as he knew it would. Fair and full it struck
upon the horse’s chest, piercing through to the heart, so that down the
poor beast came, throwing its rider to the ground.

“A good shot enough,” grumbled Grey Dick. “Still, it is a shame to slay
nags of such a breed and let the rogues who ride them go.”

But his companions only stared at him almost in awe, while the other
Clavering men rode on. Before they had covered fifty paces, again the
great bow twanged, and again a horse was seen to rear itself up,
shaking the rider from its back, and then plunge away to die. Now Hugh’s
serving-men also lifted their bows, but Grey Dick hissed:

“Leave them to me! This is fine work, and you’d muddle it!”

Ere the words had ceased to echo another horse was down.

Then, as those who remained still came on, urged by the knight who ran
shouting behind them, all loosed, and though some arrows went wide, the
end of it was that ere they reached the little mound every Clavering
horse was dead or sore wounded, while on the heath stood or lay seven
helpless men.

“Now,” said Grey Dick, “let us go and talk with these foot-soldiers.”

So they went out, all of them, except he who had the horses, and Hugh
called aloud that the first man of the Claverings who lifted a bow or
drew a sword should die without mercy. And he pointed to Grey Dick, who
stood beside him, arrow on string.

The Claverings began to talk together excitedly.

“Throw down your weapons!” commanded Hugh.

Still they hesitated. Then, without further warning Dick sent an artful
arrow through the cap of one of them, lifting it from his head, and
instantly set another shaft to his string. After this, down went the
swords and bows.

“Daggers and knives, too, if it please you, masters!”

Then these followed.

Now Hugh spoke a word to his men, who, going to the dead and dying
horses, took from them the stirrup-leathers and bridle-reins and
therewith bound the Claverings back to back. But the French knight, in
acknowledgment of his rank, they trussed up by himself, having first
relieved him of his purse by way of fine. As it chanced, however, Hugh
turned and saw them in the act.

“God’s truth! Would you make common thieves of us?” he said angrily.
“Their weapons and harness are ours by right of war, but I’ll hunt the
man who steals their money out of my company.”

So the purse was restored. When it was safe in the knight’s pouch again
Hugh saluted him, begging his pardon that it should have been touched.

“But how are you named, sir?” he added.

“Sir Pierre de la Roche is my name,” replied the knight sadly, and in
French.

“Then, Sir Pierre de la Roche,” said Hugh, “here you and your people
must bide until some come to set you free, which, as this place is
lonely and little crossed in winter, may be to-day or may be to-morrow.
When at length you get back to Blythburgh Manor, however, or to Dunwich
town, I trust it to your honour to declare that Hugh de Cressi has dealt
well with you. For whereas he might have slain you every one, as you
would have slain him and his if you could, he has harmed no hair of your
heads. As for your horses, these, to his sorrow, he was obliged to kill
lest they should be used to ride him down. Will you do this of your
courtesy?”

“Ay,” answered the knight, “since to your gentleness we owe our lives.
But with your leave I will add that we were overcome not by men, but by
a devil”--and he nodded toward Grey Dick--“since no one who is only
man can have such hellish skill in archery as we saw yesterday, and now
again this morning. Moreover,” he went on, contemplating Dick’s ashen
hair and cold eyes set wide apart in the rocky face, like to those of a
Suffolk horse, “the man’s air shows that he is in league with Satan.”

“I’ll not render your words into our English talk, Sir Pierre,” replied
Hugh, “lest he of whom you speak should take them amiss and send you
where you might learn them false. For know, had he been what you
say, the arrow that lies in your horse’s heart would have nailed the
breastplate to your own. Now take a message from me to your lord, Sir
Edmund Acour, the traitor. Tell him that I shall return ere long, and
that if he should dare to attempt ill toward the Lady Eve, who is my
betrothed, or toward my father and brethren, or any of my House, I
promise, in Grey Dick’s name and my own, to kill him or those who may
aid him as I would kill a forest wolf that had slunk into my sheepfold.
Farewell! There is bracken and furze yonder where you may lie warm till
some pass your way. Mount, men!”

So they rode forward, bearing all the Clavering weapons with them, which
a mile or two further on Grey Dick hid in an empty fox’s earth where
he knew he could find them again. Only he kept the French knight’s
beautiful dagger that was made of Spanish steel, inlaid with gold, and
used it to his life’s end.

Here it may be told that it was not until thirty-six hours had gone by,
as Hugh learned afterward, that a countryman brought this knight and
his companions, more dead than alive, to Dunwich in his wain. As he was
travelling across Westleton Heath, with a load of corn to be ground at
the Dunwich mill, it seemed that he heard voices calling feebly, and
guided by them found these unhappy men half buried in the snow that had
fallen on that day, and so rescued them from death.

But when Sir Edmund Acour knew the story of their overthrow and of the
message that Hugh had sent to him, he raved at them, and especially
at Sir Pierre de la Roche, saying that the worst of young de Cressi’s
crimes against him was that he had left such cowardly hounds alive upon
the earth. So he went on madly till Sir John Clavering checked him,
bidding him wait to revile these men until he, and not his horse, had
met Grey Dick’s arrows and Hugh de Cressi’s sword.

“For,” he added, “it may happen then that you will fare no better than
they have done, or than did John, my son.”



On the morning of the third day after they left Dunwich, having been
much delayed by foul weather and fouler roads, Hugh de Cressi and his
company came at length to London. They had suffered no further adventure
on their way for, though the times were rough and they met many
evil-looking fellows, none ventured to lift hand against six men so well
armed and sturdy. Guided by one of their number who had often been
to London on Master de Cressi’s business, they rode straight to
Westminster. Having stabled their horses at an inn near by, and cleaned
the mire of the road from their mail and garments, they went up to the
palace, where Hugh told his errand to an officer whom he found on duty
at the gate.

“Then it is a fool’s errand,” said the captain, “seeing that his Grace
rode yesterday to his castle at Windsor to hunt and revel, and will be
gone eight days at the least.”

“Then to Windsor I must follow,” answered Hugh.



CHAPTER V

GREY DICK SHOWS HIS ARCHERY

So sorely did the horses need rest, that Hugh and his people could not
ride from London till the following morning, and evening was closing in
before they found themselves drawing near the gate of Windsor Castle. In
the market-place of the little town they pulled rein, while one of them
went to search for a good inn at which they might lie, for the place
seemed to be very full of people. Suddenly, as they stood there,
wondering at the mighty, new-built keep which towered above them, a
trumpet was blown and from round a corner appeared a gay procession of
noble-looking men, and with them some ladies, who carried hawk on wrist,
all mounted on splendid horses.

Now, the people who had gathered to study the strangers or tout for
their custom, took off their bonnets and bent low, saying: “The King!
The King! God save him!”

“Which is his Grace?” asked Hugh of one of them, whereon the man pointed
to a royal-eyed and bearded knight, still in early middle life, who rode
toward him, talking to a gallant youth at his side.

Now a thought came into Hugh’s mind that the present time is always the
best time to strike. Leaping from his horse, he advanced bowing, and
stood in the pathway of the King. Seeing this, two of the fine Court
lords spurred their horses and rode straight at him, thinking to drive
him back. But he held his ground, for their insolence made him angry,
and, catching the bridle of one of the horses, threw it on its haunches
so sharply that the knight who rode it rolled from his saddle into the
mire, whereupon every one laughed. In a moment he was on his feet again,
and shouting:

“Out of the road, jackanapes, dressed in your grandfather’s mail, unless
you would stop there in the stocks. Do you know whose path you block?”

“That of his Grace,” answered Hugh, “for whom I have a message that he
will be glad to hear, and, popinjay, this for yourself; were it not
for his presence it is you who should stop upon the road till you were
carried thence.”

Now, noting this disturbance, the King spoke to the youth at his side,
who came forward and said, in a pleasant, courteous voice, addressing
Hugh:

“Sir, why do you make trouble in these streets, and tumble the good Sir
Ambrose Lacey from his horse with such scant ceremony?”

“Sir,” answered Hugh, “because the good Sir Ambrose tried to ride his
horse over me for no offence save that I would deliver a message to his
Grace, which he will wish to hear.”

“This is scarcely a time for the giving of messages,” replied the young
man, “but what is your name, and who sends the message? I am the Prince
Edward,” he added modestly, “so you may speak to me without fear.”

“My name is Hugh de Cressi, your Highness, and I am sent by the Reverend
Father Sir Andrew Arnold, of Dunwich, and have followed his Grace from
Westminster, whither I and my men rode first.”

Now, the Prince went to the King and spoke to him, and, returning
presently, said:

“My father says that he knows both the names you give well enough and
holds them dear. He bids that you and your people should follow him
to the castle, where you will be entertained, with your horses. Sir
Ambrose,” he added, “the King desires that you should forget your
choler, since he saw what passed, and deems that this young stranger did
well to check your horse. Follow on, Hugh de Cressi, the officers will
show you where you and your men may lodge.”

So Hugh obeyed, and rode with the rest of the train and his folks
through the gates of Windsor Castle. Nor did they do so unobserved,
since many of the Court had no love for Sir Ambrose, and were glad to
see him tumbled in the mire.

After they had stabled their beasts, as Hugh, followed by Grey Dick,
was advancing toward a hall which he was told that he might enter, an
officer came up.

“His Grace desires your presence before you sup,” he said.

Pointing to Grey Dick, at whom the officer looked doubtfully, Hugh asked
that he might accompany him, as he had much to do with the message.
After some argument they were led through various passages to a chamber,
at the door of which the officer wished to take away Dick’s bow. But he
would not give it up.

“The bow and I do not part,” he said, in his croaking voice, “for we are
husband and wife, and live and sleep together as the married should.”

As Dick spoke the door was opened, and Prince Edward appeared.

“And do you eat together also, good fellow?” he asked, having overheard
the talk.

“Ay, sir, we feed full together,” replied Dick grimly; “or so thought
some on Blythburgh Marsh a few days gone.”

“I should like to hear that tale,” said the Prince. “Meanwhile, since
both my father and I love archers, let him pass with his bow. Only keep
his arrows lest it should happen to grow hungry here.”

Then they entered the chamber, led by the Prince. It was a fine place,
with a vaulted stone roof and windows of coloured glass, that looked
like the chancel of a church. Only at the head of it, where the altar
should have been, was a kind of dais. On this dais were set some
high-backed oaken chairs with many lanterns behind them in which burned
tapers that, together with a great wood fire, gave light to the chamber.

In one of these chairs sat a gracious lady, who was embroidering
something silken in a frame. This was Queen Philippa, and talking to
her stood the tall King, clad in a velvet robe lined with fur. Behind,
seated at a little table on which lay parchments, was a man in a
priest’s robe, writing. There was no one else in the room.

Hugh and Dick advanced to the foot of the dais, and stood there bowing.

“Who are these?” asked the King of the Prince. “Oh, I remember, the man
who overthrew Sir Ambrose and said he had a message!”

“Ay, Sire,” answered the Prince; “and this dust-coloured fellow is his
servant, who will not part with his bow, which he calls his wife and
says he sleeps with.”

“I would all Englishmen did the same,” broke in the King. “Say, man, can
you shoot straight?”

“I know not, Sire,” replied Grey Dick, “but perhaps straighter than
most, for God, Who withheld all else from me, gave me this gift. At
least, if I be not made drunk overnight, I’ll match myself against any
man at this Court, noble or simple, and stake twenty angels on it.”

“Twenty angels! Have you so much, fellow?”

“Nay, Sire, nor more than one; but as I know I shall win, what does that
matter?”

“Son,” said the King, “see that this man is kept sober to-night, and
to-morrow we will have a shooting match. But, sirrah, if you prove
yourself to be a boaster you shall be whipped round the walls, for I
love not tall words and small deeds. And now, young Master de Cressi,
what is this message of yours?”

Hugh thrust his hand into his bosom, and produced a sealed packet which
was addressed to “His Grace King Edward of England, sent from Andrew
Arnold, priest, by the hand of Hugh de Cressi.”

“Can you read?” the King asked of Hugh when he had spelt out this
superscription.

“Ay, Sire; at least if the writing be that of Sir Andrew Arnold, for he
was my master.”

“A learned one and a brave, Hugh de Cressi. Well, break seal; we
listen.”

Hugh obeyed, and read as follows:

“Your Grace:

“Mayhap, Sire, you will remember me, Andrew Arnold, late master of the
Templars in this town of Dunwich, in whose house, by your warrant for
certain services rendered to your grandsire, your sire, and to yourself,
I still dwell on as a priest ordained. Sire, the bearer of this, Hugh de
Cressi, my godchild, is the son of Geoffrey de Cressi, of this town, the
great wool-merchant, with whom your Highness has had dealings----”

“In truth I have!” interrupted the King, with a laugh. “Also I think the
account is still open--against myself. Well, it shall be paid some day,
when I have conquered France. Forward!”

“Sire, this Hugh is enamoured of Eve Clavering, daughter of Sir John
Clavering of Blythburgh, a cousin of his House, a very beauteous maiden,
commonly known as Red Eve, and she in turn is enamoured of and betrothed
to him----”

Here Queen Philippa suddenly became interested.

“Why is the lady called Red Eve, sir?” she asked in her soft voice.
“Because her cheeks are red?”

“No, Madam,” answered Hugh, blushing; “because she always loves to wear
red garments.”

“Ah, then she is dark!”

“That is so, Madam; her eyes and hair are black as ash-buds.”

“God’s truth! Lady,” interrupted King Edward, “is this young man’s
message of the colour of the eyes of his mistress, which, without doubt,
being in love, he describes falsely? On with the letter!”

“Out of this matter,” continued Hugh, “rose a feud yesterday, during
which Hugh de Cressi killed his cousin John, fighting _à outrance_, and
his servant, Richard the Archer, who accompanies him, commonly known as
Grey Dick, slew three men with as many arrows, two of them being Normans
whose names are unknown to us, and the third a grieve to Sir John
Clavering, called Thomas of Kessland. Also, he killed a horse, and when
another Frenchman tried to grasp his master, sent a shaft through the
palm of his hand.”

“By St. George,” said the King, “but here is shooting! Were they near to
you, Grey Dick?”

“Not so far away, Sire. Only the light was very bad, or I should have
had the fourth. I aimed low, Sire, fearing to miss his skull, and he
jerked up his horse’s head to take the arrow.”

“A good trick! I’ve played it myself. Well, let us have done with the
letter, and then we’ll come to archery.”

“Sire,” read on Hugh, “I ask your royal pardon to Hugh de Cressi and
Richard the Archer for these slayings, believing that when you have read
these letters it will be granted.”

“That remains to be seen,” muttered the King.

“Sire, Sir Edmund Acour, who has lands here in Suffolk, Count de Noyon
in Normandy, and Seigneur of Cattrina in Italy----”

“I know the man,” exclaimed Edward to the Queen, “and so do you. A
handsome knight and a pleasant, but one of whom I have always misdoubted
me.”

“--Is also enamoured of Eve Clavering, and with her father’s will
seeks to make her his wife, though she hates him, and by the charter of
Dunwich, of which she is a citizen, has the right to wed whom she will.”

“It is well there are not many such charters. The old story--brave men
done to death for the sake of a woman who is rightly named Red Eve,”
 mused the King.

“My Liege, I pray that you will read the letter herein enclosed. Hugh de
Cressi will tell you how it came to my hand, since I lack time to write
all the story. If it seems good to your Grace, I pray you scotch this
snake while he is in your garden, lest he should live to sting you when
you walk abroad. If it please you to give your royal warrant to the
bearer of this letter, and to address the same to such of your subjects
in Dunwich as you may think good, I doubt not but that men can be found
to execute the same. Thus would a great and traitorous plot be brought
to nothing, to your own glory and the discomfiture of your foes in
France, who hope to lay their murderous hands upon the throne of
England. “Your humble servant and subject,

“Andrew Arnold.”


“What’s this?” exclaimed the King starting from his seat. “To lay hands
upon the throne of England! Quick with the other letter, man!”

“I was charged that it is for your Grace’s eye alone,” said Hugh as he
unfolded the paper. “Is it your pleasure that I read it aloud, if I can,
for it is writ in French?”

“Give it me,” said the King. “Philippa, come help me with this crabbed
stuff.”

Then they withdrew to the side of the dais, and, standing under a
lantern, spelled out Sir Edmund Acour’s letter to the Duke of Normandy,
word by word.

The King finished the letter, and, still holding it in his hand, stood
for a minute silent. Then his rage broke out.

“‘He of England,’” he quoted. “That’s your husband, Edward, Lady, who is
to be overthrown and killed ‘that Philip’s son may take his seat and be
crowned King at Westminster,’ which God is to bring about before this
year is out. Yes; and my cities are to be sacked and my people slain,
and this French dog, Edmund Acour, who has sworn fealty to me, is to be
rewarded with wide English lands and high English titles. Well, by God’s
blood I swear that, dead or living, he shall be lifted higher than he
hopes, though not by Normandy or my brother of France! Let me think! Let
me think! If I send men-at-arms he’ll hear of it and slip away. Did not
good old Sir Andrew call him a snake? Now, where’s this girl, Red Eve?”

“In sanctuary, Sire, at the Temple Church in Dunwich,” answered Hugh.

“Ah, and she’s a great heiress now, for you killed her brother, and
Acour, although he has wide possessions in sundry lands, was ever a
spendthrift and deep in debt. No, he’ll not leave unless he can get
the girl; and old Sir Andrew will guard her well with the power of
the Church, and with his own right arm if need be, for he’s still more
knight than priest. So there’s no hurry. Tell me all you know of this
story, Hugh de Cressi, omitting nothing, however small. Nay, have no
fear, if you can vouch for your fellow there, all of us in this chamber
are loyal to England. Speak out, man.”

So Hugh began and told of the de Cressis and the Claverings and their
feud, and of how he and Eve had always loved each other. He told of
their meeting in the reeds of Blythburgh Fen, and of the death of John
de Clavering at his hand and of the others at the hand of Grey Dick, and
of the escape of Acour from the fourth arrow. He told how he and Eve
had swum the Blyth in flood though the ice cut them, and hid on the
moor while Grey Dick led the Claverings astray, and came at last safe to
sanctuary. He told how Acour’s letter had been won from his messenger
by Sir Andrew’s loyal guile. He told of the penance that Sir Andrew had
laid upon them because of the new-shed blood of John Clavering, of the
flight from Dunwich and the shooting of the horses of the Clavering men,
and of their ride to London and to Windsor. He told everything, save
only the tale of what Sir Andrew had seen in the House of Murgh in far
Cathay.

When at last he had finished, and though it was long none there grew
weary of that story, the King turned to the clerk, and said:

“Brother Peter, make out a full pardon to Hugh de Cressi of Dunwich and
Richard Archer his servant for all slayings or other deeds wrought by
them contrary to our general peace. Draw it wide, and bring the same to
me for execution ere I sleep to-night. Make out a commission also to
the Mayor of Dunwich--nay, I’ll think that matter over and instruct you
further. Hugh de Cressi, you have our thanks, and if you go on as you
have begun you shall have more ere long, for I need such men about me.
You also, strange and death-like man named Grey Dick, shall not lack
our favour if it proves that you can shoot but half as well as you have
boasted, and, unless you lie, both of you, as it seems that you have
done. And now to supper, though in truth this news does not kindle
appetite. Son, see that this gentleman is well served, and that none
mock him more about the fashion of his armour, above all Sir Ambrose,
for I’ll not suffer it. Plate and damascene do not make a man, and this,
it seems, was borrowed from as brave, ay, and as learned, a knight as
ever bestrode a horse in war. Come, Lady,” and taking the Queen by the
hand, he left the chamber.

That evening Hugh ate his food seated among the knights of the Household
at a high table in the great hall, at the head of which, for the King
supped in private, was placed the young Prince Edward. He noted that now
none laughed at him about the fashion of his mail or his country ways.
Indeed, when after supper Sir Ambrose Lacey came to him and asked his
pardon for the talk that he had used to him in the Windsor street--he
was sure that some word had been sent round that his business had
brought him favour with the King and that he must be treated with all
courtesy. Several of those who sat round him tried to discover what that
business was. But of this he would say nothing, parrying their questions
with others about the wars in France, and listening with open ears to
the tales of great deeds done there.

“Ah, would that I could see such things!” he said.

To which one of them answered:

“Well, why not? There’ll be chance enough ere long, and many of us would
be glad of a square built like you.”

Now, at lower tables, in that vast hall, Hugh’s servants, and with them
Grey Dick, sat among the men-at-arms of the King’s Guard, who were all
chosen for their courage, and skill in archery. These soldiers, noting
the strange-faced, ashen-haired fellow who ate with his bow resting on
the bench beside him, inquired about him from the other Dunwich men, and
soon heard enough to cause them to open their eyes. When the ale had got
hold of them they opened their mouths also, and, crowding round Dick,
asked if it were true that he could shoot well.

“As well as another,” he answered, and would say no more.

Then they looked at his bow, and saw that it was old-fashioned, like his
master’s mail, and of some foreign make and wood, but a mighty weapon
such as few could handle and hold straight. Lastly, they began to
challenge him to a match upon the morrow, to which he answered, who also
had been drinking ale and was growing angry, that he’d give the best of
them five points in fifty.

Now they mocked, for among them were some famous archers, and asked at
what range.

“At any ye will,” answered Grey Dick, “from twelve score yards down to
one score yards. Now trouble me no longer, who if I must shoot to-morrow
would sleep first and drink no more of your strong ale that breeds bad
humours in one reared upon dyke water.”

Then, seizing his bow, he glided away in his curious stoat-like fashion
to the hole where he had been shown that he should sleep.

“A braggart!” said one.

“I am not so sure,” answered a grizzled captain of archers, who had
fought in many wars. “Braggarts make a noise, but this fellow only spoke
when we squeezed him and perhaps what came out of those thin lips was
truth. At least, from his look I’d sooner not find him against me bow to
bow.”

Then they fell to betting which of them would beat Grey Dick by the
heaviest points.



Next morning about nine o’clock the King sent a messenger to Hugh,
bidding him and his servant Richard wait upon them. They went with
this messenger, who led them to a little chamber, where his Grace sat,
attended only by the clerk, Brother Peter, and a dark-browed minister,
whose name he never learned.

“Hugh de Cressi and Richard Archer,” said Edward, motioning to the
minister to hand Hugh a parchment to which hung a great seal, “here is
the pardon which I promised you. No need to stay to read it, since it
is as wide as Windsor Keep, and woe betide him who lifts hand against
either of you for aught you may have done or left undone in the past
contrary to the laws of our realm. Yet remember well that this grace
runs not to the future. Now that matter is ended, and we come to one
that is greater. Because of the faith put in you by our loyal and
beloved subject, Sir Andrew Arnold, your godsire, and because we like
the fashion of you, Hugh de Cressi, and hold you brave and honest, it
has pleased us to give you a commission under which we direct the Mayor
of Dunwich and all true and lawful men of that town and hundred to aid
you in the taking or, if need be, in the slaying of our subject, Sir
Edmund Acour, Count of Noyon and Seigneur of Cattrina. We command you to
bring this man before us alive or dead, that his cause may be judged
of our courts and the truth of the matter alleged against him by the
Reverend Father Sir Andrew Arnold therein determined. Nevertheless, we
command you not to wound or kill the said knight unless he resists the
authority of us by you conveyed and you cannot otherwise hold him
safe from escaping from out this our realm. This commission you will
presently go forth to execute, keeping its tenor and your aim secret
until the moment comes to strike, and, as you perform your duty, of
which you will return and make report to us, so shall we judge and
reward you. Do you understand?”

“Sire,” answered Hugh, bowing, “I understand, and I will obey to my last
breath.”

“Good! When the parchments are engrossed my officer here will read them
to you and explain aught that may need it. Meanwhile, we have an hour or
two during which your horses can eat, for there are no fresh beasts here
to give you, and it is best, to avoid doubts, that you should return as
you came, only showing your powers if any should attempt to arrest
you. So let us have done with these heavy matters, and disport us for
a while. This servant of yours has made a common boast that he will
outshoot any of our picked archers, and now we are ready to go forth
and put him to the proof of the butts. Let him know, however, that,
notwithstanding our words of yesterday, we shall not hold him to blame
if he fails, since many a man of higher degree promises more at night
than he can perform in the morning.”

“Sire, I’ll do my best. I can no more,” said Grey Dick. “Only I pray
that none may be suffered to hang about or pester me at the butts, since
I am a lonely man who love not company when I use my art.”

“That shall be so,” said the King. “And now to the sport.”

“The sport!” grumbled Grey Dick, when he and Hugh were alone together.
“Why, it is other sport we should be seeking, with Acour and his knaves
for targets. Go to the King, master, and show him that while we linger
here the Frenchman may slip away, or work more and worse treasons.”

“I cannot, Dick; the parchments are not written out, and his Grace
is bent upon this pleasure match. Moreover, man, all these archers
here--yes, and their betters also--would say that you had fled because
you were an empty boaster who dared not face the trial.”

“They’d say that, would they?” snarled Grey Dick. “Yes, they’d say that,
which would be bitter hearing for you and me. Well, they shall not say
it. Yet I tell you, master,” he added in a burst of words, “although
I know not why, I’d rather bear their scorn and be away on the road to
Dunwich.”

“It may not be, Dick,” replied Hugh, shaking his head doubtfully. “See,
here they come to fetch us.”



In a glade of the forest of Windsor situated near to the castle and
measuring some twenty-five score yards of open level ground, stood
Grey Dick, a strange, uncouth figure, at whom the archers of the guard
laughed, nudging each other. In his bony hand, however, he held that
at which they did not laugh, namely, the great black bow, six feet
six inches long, which he said had come to him “from the sea,” and was
fashioned, not of yew, but of some heavy, close-grained wood, grown
perhaps in Southern or even in far Eastern lands. Still, one of them,
who had tried to draw this bow to his ear and could not, said aloud that
“the Suffolk man would do naught with that clumsy pole.” Whereat, Grey
Dick, who heard him, grinning, showing his white teeth like an angry
dog.

Near by, on horseback and on foot, were the King, the young Prince
Edward, and many knights and ladies; while on the other side stood
scores of soldiers and other folk from the castle, who came to see this
ugly fellow well beaten at his own game.

“Dick,” whispered Hugh, “shoot now as you never shot before. Teach them
a lesson for the honour of Suffolk.”

“Let me be, master,” he grumbled. “I told you I would do my best.”

Then he sat himself down on the grass and began to examine his arrows
one by one, to all appearance taking no heed of anything else.

Presently came the first test. At a distance of five score yards was
set a little “clout,” or target, of white wood, not more than two feet
square. This clout had a red mark, or eye, three inches across, painted
in its centre, and stood not very high above the sward.

“Now, Richard,” said the King, “three of the best archers that we have
about us have been chosen to shoot against you and each other by their
fellows. Say, will you draw first or last?”

“Last, Sire,” he answered, “that I may know their mettle.”

Then a man stepped forward, a strong and gallant looking fellow, and
loosed his three arrows. The first missed the clout, the second pierced
the white wood, and the third hit the red eye.

The clout having been changed, and the old one brought to the King with
the arrows in it, the second man took his turn. This time all three
of the arrows hit the mark, one of them being in the red. Again it
was changed, and forth came the great archer of the guard, a tall and
clear-eyed man named Jack Green, and whom, it was said, none had ever
beaten. He drew, and the arrow went home in the red on its left edge.
He drew again, and the arrow went home in the red on its right edge. He
drew a third time, and the arrow went home straight in the very centre
of the red, where was a little black spot.

Now a great laugh went up, since clearly the Suffolk man was beaten ere
ever he began.

“Your Dick may do as well; he can do no better,” said the King, when the
target was brought to him.

Grey Dick looked at it.

“A boon, your Grace,” said Dick. “Grant that this clout may be set up
again with the arrows fast. Any may know them from mine since they are
grey, whereas those I make are black, for I am a fletcher in my spare
hours, and love my own handiwork.”

“So be it,” said the King, wondering; and the clout was replaced upon
its stand.

Now Grey Dick stretched himself, looked at the clout, looked at his bow,
and set a black-winged arrow on the string. Then he drew, it seemed but
lightly and carelessly, as though he thought the distance small. Away
flew the shaft, and sank into the red a good inch within the leftmost
arrow of Jack Green.

“Ah,” said the onlookers, “a lucky shot indeed!”

Again he drew, and again the arrow sank into the red, a good inch within
the rightmost shot of Jack Green.

“Oh!” said the onlookers, “this man is an archer; but Jack’s last he
cannot best, let the devil help him how he will.”

“In the devil’s name, then, be silent!” wheezed Grey Dick, with a flash
of his half-opened eye.

“Ay, be silent--be silent!” said the King. “We do not see such shooting
every day.”

Now Dick set his foot apart and, arrow on string, thrice he lifted his
bow and thrice let it sink again, perhaps because he felt some breath
of wind stir the still air. A fourth time he lifted, and drew, not as he
had before, but straight to the ear, then loosed at once.

Away rushed the yard-long shaft, and folk noted that it scarcely seemed
to rise as arrows do, or at least not half so high. It rushed, it smote,
and there was silence, for none could see exactly what had happened.
Then he who stood near the target to mark ran forward, and screamed out:

“By God’s name, he has shattered Jack Green’s centre arrow, and shot
_clean through the clout!_”

Then from all sides rose the old archer cry, “_He, He! He, He!_” while
the young Prince threw his cap on high, and the King said:

“Would that there were more such men as this in England! Jack Green, it
seems that you are beaten.”

“Nay,” said Grey Dick, seating himself again upon the grass, “there is
naught to choose between us in this round. What next, your Grace?”

Only Hugh, who watched him, saw the big veins swell beneath the pale
skin of his forehead, as they ever did when he was moved.

“The war game,” said the King; “that is, if you will, for here rough
knocks may be going. Set it out, one of you.”

Then a captain of the archers explained this sport. In short it was
that man should stand against man clad in leather jerkins, and wearing
a vizor to protect the face, and shoot at each other with blunt arrows
rubbed with chalk, he who first took what would have been a mortal wound
to be held worsted.

“I like not blunted arrows,” said Grey Dick; “or, for the matter of
that, any other arrows save my own. Against how many must I play? The
three?”

The captain nodded.

“Then, by your leave, I will take them all at once.”

Now some said that this was not fair, but in the end Dick won his point,
and those archers whom he had beaten, among them Jack Green, were placed
against him, standing five yards apart, and blunted arrows served out
to all. Dick set one of them on the string, and laid the two others in
front of them. Then a knight rode to halfway between them, but a little
to one side, and shouted: “Loose!”

As the word struck his ear Dick shot with wonderful swiftness, and
almost as the arrow left the bow flung himself down, grasping another
as he fell. Next instant, three shafts whistled over where he had stood.
But his found its mark on the body of him at whom he had aimed, causing
the man to stagger backward and throw down his bow, as he was bound to
do, if hit.

Next instant Dick was up again and his second arrow flew, striking full
and fair before ever he at whom it was aimed had drawn.

Now there remained Jack Green alone, and, as Dick set the third arrow,
but before he could draw, Jack Green shot.

“Beat!” said Dick, and stood quite still.

At him rushed the swift shaft, and passed over his shoulder within a
hairbreadth of his ear. Then came Dick’s turn. On Jack Green’s cap was
an archer’s plume.

“Mark the plume, lords,” he said, and lo! the feather leapt from that
cap.

Now there was silence. No one spoke, but Dick drew out three more
arrows.

“Tell me, captain,” he said, “is your ground marked out in scores; and
what is the farthest that any one of you has sent a flighting shot?”

“Ay,” answered the officer, “and twenty score and one yard is the
farthest, nor has that been done for many a day.”

Dick steadied himself, and seemed to fill his lungs with air. Then,
stretching his long arms to the full, he drew the great bow till the
horns looked as though they came quite close together, and loosed. High
and far flew that shaft; men’s eyes could scarcely follow it, and all
must wait long before a man came running to say where it had fallen.

“Twenty score and two yards!” he cried.

“Not much to win by,” grunted Dick, “though enough. I have done twenty
and one score once, but that was somewhat downhill.”

Then, while the silence still reigned, he set the second arrow on the
string, and waited, as though he knew not what to do. Presently, about
fifty paces from him, a wood dove flew from out a tree and, as such
birds do at the first breath of spring, for the day was mild and sunny,
hovered a moment in the air ere it dipped toward a great fir where
doubtless it had built for years. Never, poor fowl, was it destined to
build again, for as it turned its beak downward Dick’s shaft pierced it
through and through and bore it onward to the earth.

Still in the midst of a great silence, Dick took up his quiver and
emptied it on the ground, then gave it to the captain of the archers,
saying:

“And you will, step sixty, nay, seventy paces, and set this mouth upward
in the grass where a man may see it well.”

The captain did so, propping the quiver straight with stones and a
bit of wood. Then, having studied all things with his eyes, Dick shot
upward, but softly. Making a gentle curve, the arrow turned in the air
as it drew near the quiver, and fell into its mouth, striking it flat.

“Ill done,” grumbled Dick; “had I shot well, it should have been pinned
to earth. Well, yon shadow baulked me, and it might have been worse.”

Then he unstrung his bow, and slipped it into its case.

Now, at length, the silence was broken, and in good earnest. Men,
especially those of Dunwich, screamed and shouted, hurling up their
caps. Jack Green, for all jealousy was forgotten at the sight of this
wondrous skill, ran to Dick, clasped him in his arms, and, dragging the
badge from off his breast, tried to pin it to his rough doublet. The
young Prince came and clapped him on the shoulder, saying:

“Be my man! Be my man!”

But Dick only growled, “Paws off! What have I done that I have not done
a score of times before with no fine folk to watch me? I shot to please
my master and for the honour of Suffolk, not for you, and because some
dogs keep their tails too tightly curled.”

“A sulky fellow,” said the Prince, “but, by heaven, I like him!”

Then the King pushed his horse through the throng, and all fell back
before his Grace.

“Richard Archer,” he said, “never has such marksmanship as yours
been seen in England since we sat upon the throne, nor shall it go
unrewarded. The twenty angels that you said you would stake last night
shall be paid to you by the treasurer of our household. Moreover, here
is a gift from Edward of England, the friend of archers, that you may be
pleased to wear,” and taking his velvet cap from off his head, the King
unpinned from it a golden arrow of which the barbed head was cut from a
ruby, and gave it to him.

“I thank you, Sire,” said Dick, his pale skin flushing with pride and
pleasure. “I’ll wear it while I live, and may the sight of it mean death
to many of your enemies.”

“Without doubt it will, and that ere long, Richard, for know you that
soon we sail again for France, whence the tempest held us back, and it
is my pleasure that you sail with us. Therefore I name you one of our
fletchers, with place about our person in our bodyguard of archers. Jack
Green will show you your quarters, and instruct you in your duties, and
soon you shall match your skill against his again, but next time with
Frenchmen for your targets.”

“Sire,” said Dick, very slowly, “take back your arrow, for I cannot do
as you will.”

“Why, man? Are you a Frenchman?” asked the King, angrily, for he was not
wont to have his favours thus refused.

“My mother never told me so, Sire, although I don’t know for certain who
my father may have been. Still, I think not, since I hate the sight
of that breed as a farmer’s dog hates rats. But, Sire, I have a good
master, and do not wish to change him for one who, saving your presence,
may prove a worse, since King’s favour on Monday has been known to mean
King’s halter on Tuesday. Did you not promise to whip me round your
walls last night unless I shot as well as I thought I could, and now do
you not change your face and give me golden arrows?”

At these bold words a roar of laughter went up from all who heard them,
in which the King himself joined heartily enough.

“Silence!” he cried presently. “This yeoman’s tongue is as sharp as his
shafts. I am pierced. Let us hear whom he will hit next.”

“You again, Sire, I think,” went on Dick, “because, after the fashion of
kings, you are unjust. You praise me for my shooting, whereas you should
praise God, seeing that it is no merit of mine, but a gift He gave me at
my birth in place of much which He withheld. Moreover, my master there,”
 and he pointed to Hugh, “who has just done you better service than
hitting a clout in the red and a dow beneath the wing, you forget
altogether, though I tell you he can shoot almost as well as I, for I
taught him.”

“Dick, Dick!” broke in Hugh in an agony of shame. Taking no heed, Dick
went on imperturbably: “And is the best man with a sword in Suffolk, as
the ghost of John Clavering knows to-day. Lastly, Sire, you send this
master of mine upon a certain business where straight arrows may be
wanted as well as sharp swords, and yet you’d keep me here whittling
them out of ashwood, who, if I could have had my will, would have been
on the road these two hours gone. Is that a king’s wisdom?”

“By St. George!” exclaimed Edward, “I think that I should make you
councillor as well as fletcher, since without doubt, man, you have a
bitter wit, and, what is more rare, do not fear to speak the truth as
you see it. Moreover, in this matter, you see it well. Go with Hugh de
Cressi on the business which I have given him to do, and, when it is
finished, should both or either of you live, neglect not our command
to rejoin us here, or--if we have crossed the sea--in France. Edward of
England needs the service of such a sword and such a bow.”

“You shall have them both, Sire,” broke in Hugh, “for what they are
worth. Moreover, I pray your Grace be not angry with Grey Dick’s words,
for if God gave him a quick eye, He also gave him a rough tongue.”

“Not I, Hugh de Cressi, for know, we love what is rough if it be also
honest. It is smooth, false words of treachery that we hate, such words
as are ever on the lips of one whom we send you forth to bring to his
account. Now to your duty. Farewell till we meet again, whether it be
here or where all men, true or traitors, must foot their bill at last.”



CHAPTER VI

THE SNARE

About noon of the day on which Hugh and his company had ridden for
London, another company entered Dunwich--namely, Sir John Clavering and
many of his folk, though with him were neither Sir Edmund Acour nor any
of his French train. Sir John’s temper had never been of the best, for
he was a man who, whatever his prosperity, found life hard and made it
harder for all those about him. But seldom had he been angrier than he
was this day, when his rage was mingled with real sorrow for the loss of
his only son, slain in a fight brought about by the daughter of one of
them and the sister of the other and urged for honour’s sake by himself,
the father of them both.

Moreover, the marriage on which he had set his heart between Eve and the
glittering French lord whose future seemed so great had been brought to
naught, and this turbulent, hot-hearted Eve had fled into sanctuary. Her
lover, too, the youngest son of a merchant, had ridden away to London,
doubtless upon some mission which boded no good to him or his, leaving
a blood feud behind him between the wealthy de Cressis and all the
Clavering kin.

There was but one drop of comfort in his cup. By now, as he hoped, Hugh
and his death’s-head, Grey Dick, a spawn of Satan that all the country
feared, and who, men said, was a de Cressi bastard by a witch, were
surely slain or taken by those who followed upon their heels.

Sir John rode to the Preceptory and hammered fiercely on its oaken door.
Presently it was opened by Sir Andrew Arnold himself, who stood in the
entrance, grey and grim, a long sword girt about his loins and armour
gleaming beneath his monkish robe.

“What would you, Sir John Clavering, that you knock at this holy house
thus rudely?” he asked.

“My daughter, priest, who, they say, has sheltered here.”

“They say well, knight, she has sheltered here beneath the wings of St.
Mary and St. John. Begone and leave her in peace.”

“I make no more of such wings than if they were those of farmyard
geese,” roared the furious man. “Bring her or I will pluck her forth.”

“Do so,” replied Sir Andrew, “if you live to pass this consecrated
sword,” and he laid his hand upon its hilt. “Take with her also the
curse of the Mother of God, and His beloved Apostle, and that of the
whole Church of Christ, by me declared upon your head in this world and
upon your soul in the world to come. Man, this is sanctuary, and if you
dare to set foot within it in violence, may your body perish and your
soul scorch everlastingly in the fires of hell. And you,” he added,
raising his voice till it rang like a trumpet, addressing the followers
of Sir John, “on you also let the curse of excommunication fall. Now
slay me and enter if you will, but then every drop of blood in these
veins shall find a separate tongue and cry out for vengeance on you
before the judgment seat of God, where presently I summon you to meet
me.”

Then he crossed himself, drew the great sword, and, holding it in his
left hand, stretched out his right toward them in malediction.

The Clavering men heard and saw. They looked at each other, and, as
though by common consent, turned and rode away, crossing themselves
also. In truth, they had no stomach for the curse of the Church when it
was thundered forth from the lips of such a monk as Sir Andrew Arnold,
who, they knew well, had been one of the greatest and holiest warriors
of his generation, and, so said rumour, was a white wizard to boot with
all the magic of the East at his command.

“Your men have gone, Sir John,” said the old priest; “will you follow
them or will you enter?”

Now fear drove out the knight’s rage and he spoke in another voice.

“Sir Andrew, why do you bring all these wrongs upon me? My boy is dead
at the hand of Hugh de Cressi, your godson, and he has robbed me of my
daughter, whom I have affianced to a better and a nobler man. Now you
give her sanctuary and threaten me with the curse of the Church because
I would claim her, my own flesh and blood; ay, and my heiress too
to-day. Tell me, as one man to another, why do you do these things?”

“And tell me, Sir John Clavering, why for the sake of pelf and of
honours that you will never harvest do you seek to part those who love
each other and whom God has willed to bring together? Why would you sell
your child to a gilded knave whom she hates? Nay, stop me not. I’d call
him that and more to his face and none have ever known me lie. Why did
you suffer this Frenchman or your dead son, or both of them, to try
to burn out Hugh de Cressi and Red Eve as though they were rats in
rubbish?”

“Would you know, Father? Then I’ll tell you. Because I wish to see
my daughter set high among lords and princes and not the wife of a
merchant’s lad, who by law may wear cloth only and rabbit fur. Because,
also, I hate him and all his kin, and if this is true of yesterday, how
much more true is it now that he has killed my son, and by the arrows of
that wolf-man who dogs his heels, slain my guests and my grieve. Think
not I’ll rest till I have vengeance of him and all his cursed House.
I’ll appeal to the King, and if he will not give me justice I’ll take it
for myself. Ay, though you are old, I tell you you shall live to see the
de Cressi vault crowded with the de Cressi dead.”

Sir Andrew hid his eyes for a moment with his hand, then let it fall and
spoke in a changed voice.

“It comes upon me that you speak truth, Sir John, for since I met a
certain great Master in the East, at times I have a gift of foresight.
I think that much sorrow draws near this land; ay, and others. I think
that many vaults and many churchyards, too, will ere long be filled with
dead; also that the tomb of the Claverings at Blythburgh will soon be
opened. Mayhap the end of this world draws near to all men, as surely
it draws near to you and me. I know not--yet truth was in your lips just
now, and in mine as well, I think. Oh, man, man!” he went on after a
pause, “appeal not unto the world’s Cæsar lest Cæsar render different
judgment to that which you desire. Get you home, and on your knees
appeal unto God to forgive you your proud, vengeance-seeking heart.
Sickness draws near to you; death draws near to you, and after death,
hell--or heaven. I have finished.”

As he heard these words Sir John’s swarthy face grew pale and for a
little while his rage died down. Then it flared up again.

“Don’t dream to frighten me with your spells, old wizard,” he said.
“I’m a hale man yet, though I do lose my breath at times when my mind is
vexed with wrongs, and I’ll square my own account with God without your
help or counsel. So you’ll not give me my daughter?”

“Nay, here she bides in sanctuary for so long as it shall please her.”

“Does she in truth? Perhaps you married her to this merchant fellow ere
he rode this morning.”

“Nay, Sir John, they betrothed themselves before the altar and in
presence of his kin, no more. Moreover, if you would know, because of
your son’s blood which runs between them I, after thought and prayer,
speaking in the name of the Church, swore them to this penance--that for
a year from yesterday they should not wed nor play the part of lovers.”

“I thank you, priest, for this small grace,” answered Sir John, with
a bitter laugh, “and in my turn I swear this, that after the year they
shall not wed, since the one of them will be clay and the other the wife
of the man whom I have chosen. Now, play no tricks on me, lest I burn
this sanctuary of yours about your head and throw your old carcass to
roast among the flames.”

Sir Andrew made no reply, only, resting his long sword on the threshold,
he leant upon its hilt, and fixed his clear grey eyes upon Clavering’s
face. What Sir John saw in those eyes he never told, but it was
something which scared him. At least that shortening of the breath of
which he had spoken seemed to take a hold of him, for he swayed upon his
horse as though he were about to fall, then, recovering, turned and rode
straight for Blythburgh.



It was the second night after that day when Sir Andrew had looked John
Clavering in the eyes.

Secretly and in darkness those three whom Grey Dick had killed were
borne into the nave of Blythburgh church and there laid in the grave
which had been made ready for them. Till now their corpses had been kept
above ground in the hope that the body of John Clavering the younger
might be added to their number. But search as they would upon seashore
and river-bank, nothing of him was ever seen again. This funeral was
celebrated in the darkness, since neither Sir John nor Acour desired
that all men should see three bodies that had been slain by one archer,
aided by a merchant’s lad, standing alone against a score, and know, to
say naught of the wounded, that there was yet another to be added to
the tale. Therefore they interred them by night with no notice of the
ceremony.

It was a melancholy scene. The nave of the great church, lighted only
with the torches borne by the six monks of the black Augustines from the
neighbouring priory of St. Osyth; the candles, little stars of light,
burning far away upon the altar; the bearers of the household of the
Claverings and the uncoffined corpses lying on their biers by the edge
of the yawning graves; the mourners in their mail; the low voice of the
celebrating priest, a Frenchman, Father Nicholas, chaplain to Acour, who
hurried through the Latin service as though he wished to be done with
it; the deep shadows of the groined roof whereon the rain pattered--such
were the features of this interment. It was done at last, and the poor
dead, but a few days before so full of vigour and of passion, were left
to their last sleep in the unremembered grave. Then the mourners marched
back to the manor across the Middle Marsh and sought their beds in a sad
silence.

Shortly after daybreak they were called from them again by the news that
those who had followed Hugh de Cressi had returned. Quickly they rose,
thinking that these came back with tidings of accomplished vengeance, to
find themselves face to face with seven starved and miserable men who,
all their horses being dead, had walked hither from Dunwich.

The wretched story was learned at length, and then followed that violent
scene, which has been told already, when Acour cursed his followers as
cowards, and Clavering, sobered perhaps by the sadness of the midnight
burial or by the memory of Arnold’s words, reproved him. Lastly, stung
by the taunts that were heaped upon them, Sir Pierre de la Roche gave
Hugh’s message--that if they lifted hand against his love or his House
he would kill them like ravening wolves, “which I think he certainly
will do, for none can conquer him and his henchman,” he added shortly.

Then Sir John’s rage flared up again like fire when fresh fuel is thrown
on ashes. He cursed Hugh and Grey Dick; he cursed his daughter; he even
cursed Acour and asked for the second time how it came about that he who
had brought all this trouble on him was given the evil name of traitor.

“I know not,” answered Sir Edmund fiercely, and laying his hand upon his
sword, “but this I know, that you or any man will do well not to repeat
it if you value life.”

“Do you threaten me?” asked Sir John. “Because, if so, you will do well
to begone out of this house of shame and woe lest you be borne out feet
first. Nay, nay, I forgot,” he added slowly, clasping his head in his
hands, “you are my daughter’s affianced, are you not, and will give
her high place and many famous titles, and her son shall be called
Clavering, that the old name may not die but be great in England, in
France, and in Italy. You must bide to marry her, lest that cuckoo, Hugh
de Cressi, that cuckoo with the sharp bill, should creep into my nest.
I’ll not be worsted by a stripling clad in merchant’s cloth who slew
my only son. Take not my words ill, noble Noyon, for I am overdone with
grief for the past and fear for the future. You must bide to marry her
by fair means or by foul. Draw her from the sanctuary and marry her
whether she say you yea or nay. You have my leave, noble Noyon,” and so
speaking he swayed and fell prone upon the floor.

At first they thought that he was dead. But the chaplain, Nicholas, who
was a leech, bled him, and he came to himself again, although he still
wandered in his talk and lay abed.

Then Acour and Nicholas took counsel together.

“What is to be done?” said Sir Edmund, “for I am on fire for this maid,
and all her scorn and hate do but fan my flame. Moreover, she is now
very rich, for that old hot-head cannot live long. His violent
humours will kill him, and, as you know, Father, although I have great
possessions, my costs are large and I have still greater debts. Lastly,
shall de Noyon and his knights be worsted by a wool-merchant’s younger
son, a mere ‘prentice lad, and his henchman, a common archer of the
fens? Show me how to get her, Nicholas, and I’ll make an abbot of you
yet. This sanctuary, now? will it hold? If we stormed the place and took
her, would the Holy Father give us absolution, do you think?”

“No, my lord,” answered the fox-faced Nicholas. “The Church is great
because the Church is one, and what the priest does the Pope upholds,
especially when that priest is no mean man. This holy monk, Sir Andrew
Arnold, has reputation throughout Europe, and, though he seems so
humble, because of his wisdom is in the counsel of many great men whose
fathers or grandfathers were guided by him long ago. Commit what
crime you will, dip yourself to the lips in blood, and you may find
forgiveness, but touch not an ancient and acknowledged sanctuary of the
Church, since for this offence there will be none.”

“What then, Nicholas? Must I give up the chase and fly? To speak truth,
things seem to threaten me. Why has that Hugh twice called me traitor?
Have any of my letters fallen into strange hands, think you? I have
written several, and you know my mission here.”

“It is possible, lord; all things are possible, but I think not. I think
that he only draws the bow at a hazard, which is more than Grey Dick
does,” he added with a chuckle. “These brute English hate us French,
whom they know to be their masters in all that makes a man, and traitor
to their fool king is the least of the words they throw at us.”

“Well, priest, my mother was English, as my wife will be. Therefore stay
your tongue on that matter and tell me how I am to make her my wife,”
 answered Acour haughtily.

The chaplain cringed and bowed, rubbing his thin hands together.

“I thought you wished to speak of the English, my lord, otherwise I
should not have ventured--but as to the lady Eve, something comes to me.
Why does she stay in sanctuary who herself has committed no crime? Is it
not, such is her madness, because she would be out of reach of you and
your endearments? Now if she believed you gone far enough away, let us
say to France, and knew that her father lay ill, why then----” and he
paused.

“You mean that she might come out of sanctuary of her own accord?”

“Yes, lord, and we might set a springe to catch this bird so rare and
shy, and though she’d flutter, flutter, flutter, and peck, peck, peck,
what could she do when you smoothed her plumage with your loving hand,
and a priest was waiting to say the word that should cause her to forget
her doubts and that merchant bumpkin?”

“Ah, Nicholas, you have a good wit, and if all goes well you shall
certainly be an abbot. But would her father, do you think----”

“Lord, that beef-eating knight is in such a rage that he would do
anything. What did he say just before the stroke took him? That you were
to marry her by fair means or by foul. Yes, and he told me an hour ago
that if only he knew she was your wife, he would die happy. Oh, you have
his warrant for anything you do to bring about this end. Still there is
no need to tell him too much lest it should cause his good name to be
aspersed by the vulgar. Many, it seems, love this Red Eve for her high
spirit, and are friends to the de Cressis, an open-handed race who know
how to bind folk to them. Listen how it must be done.”



That day it was given out that Sir Edmund Acour, those of his knights
who remained alive and all his following were about to leave for London
and lay their cause before the King, having learned that Hugh de Cressi
had gone thither to prejudice his Grace on his own behalf. It was added,
moreover, that they would not return to Suffolk, but proposed when
they had found justice or the promise of it, to take ship at Dover for
France. Next morning, accordingly, they rode away from Blythburgh Manor
and passed through Dunwich with much pomp, where the citizens of that
town, who were friends of the de Cressis, stared at them with no kind
eyes. Indeed, one of these as they crossed the market-place called to
them to be careful not to meet Hugh de Cressi and Grey Dick upon their
journey, lest there should be more midnight burials and men-at-arms
turned into foot-soldiers, whereat all about him laughed rudely.

But Acour did not laugh. He ground his teeth and said into the ear of
Nicholas:

“Register this vow for me, priest, that in payment for that jest I’ll
sack and burn Dunwich when our army comes, and give its men and children
to the sword and its women to the soldiers.”

“It shall be done, lord,” answered the chaplain, “and should your heart
soften at the appointed time I’ll put you in memory of this solemn
oath.”

At the great house of the Mayor of Dunwich Sir Edmund drew rein and
demanded to see him. Presently this Mayor, a timid, uncertain-looking
man, came in his robes of office and asked anxiously what might be the
cause of this message and why an armed band halted at his gate.

“For no ill purpose, sir,” answered Acour, “though little of justice
have I found at your hands, who, therefore, must seek it at the Court of
my liege lord, King Edward. All I ask of you is that you will cause this
letter to be delivered safely to the lady Eve Clavering, who lies in
sanctuary at the Preceptory of St. Mary and St. John. It is one of
farewell, since it seems that this lady who, by her own will and her
father’s, was my affianced, wishes to break troth, and I am not a man
who needs an unwilling bride. I’d deliver it myself only that old knave,
half priest and half knight, but neither good----”

“You’d best speak no ill of Sir Andrew Arnold here,” said a voice in the
crowd.

“Only the master of the Preceptory,” went on Acour, changing his tone
somewhat, “might take fright and think I wished to violate his sanctuary
if I came there with thirty spears at my back.”

“And no fool either,” said the voice, “seeing that they are French
spears and his is an English sanctuary.”

“Therefore,” continued Acour, “I pray you, deliver the letter. Perchance
when we meet again, Master Mayor,” he added with a venomous glance of
his dark eyes, “you will have some boon to ask of me, and be sure I’ll
grant it--if I can.”

Then without waiting for an answer, for the mob of sturdy fishermen,
many of whom had served in the French wars, looked threatening, he
and his following rode away through the Ipswich gate and out on to the
moorlands beyond, which some of them knew but too well.

All the rest of that day they rode slowly, but when night came, having
halted their horses at a farm and given it out that they meant to push
on to Woodbridge, they turned up a by-track on the lonely heath, and,
unseen by any, made their through the darkness to a certain empty house
in the marshes not far from Beccles town. This house, called Frog Hall,
was part of Acour’s estate, and because of the ague prevalent there in
autumn, had been long unattended. Nor did any visit it at this season of
the year, when no cattle grazed upon these salt marshes.

Here, then, he and his people lay hid, cursing their fortunes, since,
notwithstanding the provisions that they had conveyed thither in secret,
the place was icy cold in the bitter, easterly winds which tore over
it from the sea. So lonely was it, also, that the Frenchmen swore that
their comrades slain by Grey Dick haunted them at nights, bidding them
prepare to join the number of the dead. Indeed, had not Acour vowed that
he would hang the first man who attempted to desert, some of them would
have left him to make the best of their way back to France. For always
as they crouched by the smoking hearth they dreamed of Grey Dick and his
terrible arrows.

Sir Edmund Acour’s letter came safely into the hands of Eve, brought to
her by the Mayor himself. It read thus:

Lady,

You will no more of me, so however much you should live to ask it, I
will have no more of you. I go hang your merchant lout, and afterward
away to France, who wish to have done with your cold Suffolk, where you
may buy my lands cheap if you will. Yet, should Master Hugh de Cressi
chance to escape me, I counsel you to marry him, for I can wish you no
worse fate, seeing what you will be, than to remember what you might
have been. Meanwhile it is my duty as a Christian to tell you, in case
you should desire to speak to him ere it be too late, that your father
lies at the point of death from a sickness brought on by his grief at
the slaying of his son and your cruel desertion of him, and calls for
you in his ravings. May God forgive you, as I try to do, all the evil
that you have wrought, which, perhaps, is not done with yet. Unless Fate
should bring us together again, for as aught I know it may, I bid you
farewell forever. Would that I had never seen your face, but well are
you named Red Eve, who, like the false Helen in a story you have never
heard, were born to bring brave men to their deaths. Again farewell,

De Noyon.

“Who is this Helen?” asked Eve of Sir Andrew when the letter had been
read.

“A fair Grecian, daughter, over whom nations fought when the world was
young, because of her beauty.”

“Ah, well! she did not make herself beautiful, did she? and, perchance,
was more sinned against than sinning, since women, having but one life
to live, must follow their own hearts. But this Helen has been dead
a long while, so let her rest, if rest she may. And now it seems that
Acour is away and that my father lies very sick. What shall I do? Return
to him?”

“First I will make sure that the Frenchman has gone, and then we will
see, daughter.”

So Sir Andrew sent out messengers who reported it to be true that Acour
had ridden straight to London to see the King and then sail for Dover.
Also they said that no Frenchmen were left at Blythburgh save those who
would never leave the place again, and that Sir John Clavering lay sick
in his bed at the manor.

“God fights for us!” said Sir Andrew with a little laugh. “This Acour’s
greeting at Court may be warmer than he thinks and at the least you and
Dunwich are well rid of him. Though I had sooner that you stayed here,
to-morrow, daughter, you shall ride to Blythburgh. Should your father
die, as I think he will ere long, it might grieve you in the after years
to remember that you had bid him no farewell. If he recovers or is harsh
with you it will be easy for you to seek sanctuary again.”



CHAPTER VII

THE LOVE PHILTRE

So it came about that on the morrow Eve and Sir Andrew, accompanied only
by a single serving man, fearing no guile since it seemed certain that
the Frenchmen were so far away, rode across the moor to Blythburgh. At
the manor-house they found the drawbridge up. The watchman at the gate
said also that his orders were to admit none, for the Frenchmen being
gone, there were but few to guard the place.

“What, good fellow,” asked Eve, “not even the daughter of the house who
has heard that her father lies so sick?”

“Ay, he lies sick, lady,” the man replied, “but such are his orders. Yet
if you will bide here a while, I’ll go and learn his mind.”

So he went and returned presently, saying that Sir John commanded that
his daughter was to be admitted, but that if Sir Andrew attempted to
enter he should be driven back by force.

“Will you go in or will you return with me?” asked her companion of Eve.

“God’s truth!” she answered, “am I one to run away from my father,
however bad his humour? I’ll go in and set my case before him, for
after all he loves me in his own fashion and when he understands will, I
think, relent.”

“Your heart is your best guide, daughter, and it would be an ill task
for me to stand between sire and child. Enter then, for I am sure that
the Saints and your own innocence will protect you from all harm. At the
worst you can come or send to me for help.”

So they parted, and the bridge having been lowered, Eve walked boldly
to her father’s sleeping chamber, where she was told he lay. As she
approached the door she met several of the household leaving it with
scared faces, who scarcely stayed to salute her. Among these were two
servants of her dead brother John, men whom she had never liked, and a
woman, the wife of one of them, whom she liked least of all.

Pushing open the door, which was shut behind her, she advanced toward
Sir John, who was not, as she had thought, in bed, but clad in a furred
robe and standing by the hearth, on which burnt a fire. He watched her
come, but said no word, and the look of him frightened her somewhat.

“Father,” she said, “I heard that you were sick and alone----”

“Ay,” he broke in, “sick, very sick here,” and he laid his hand upon his
heart, “where grief strikes a man. Alone, too, since you and your fellow
have done my only son to death, murdered my guests, and caused them to
depart from so bloody a house.”

Now Eve, who had come expecting to find her father at the point of death
and was prepared to plead with him, at these violent words took fire as
was her nature.

“You know well that you speak what is not true,” she said. “You and your
Frenchmen strove to burn us out of Middle Marsh; my brother John struck
Hugh de Cressi as though he were a dog and used words toward him that
no knave would bear, let alone one better born than we are. Moreover,
afterward once he spared his life, and Grey Dick, standing alone against
a crowd, did but use his skill to save us. Is it murder, then to protect
our honour and to save ourselves from death? And am I wrong to refuse to
marry a fine French knave when I chance to love an honest man?”

“And, pray, am I your father, girl, that you dare to scold at me thus?”
 shouted Sir John, growing purple with wrath. “If I choose a husband for
you, by what right do you refuse him, saying that you love a Dunwich
shop-boy? Down on your knees and beg my pardon, or you shall have the
whipping you have earned.”

Now Eve’s black eyes glittered dangerously.

“Ill would it go with any man who dared to lay a hand upon me,” she
said, drawing herself up and grasping the dagger in her girdle. “Yes,
very ill, even though he were my own father. Look at me and say am I one
to threaten? Ay, and before you answer bear in mind that there are those
at my call who can strike hard, and that among them I think you’ll find
the King of England.”

She paused.

“What hellish plot is this that you hatch against me?” asked Sir John,
with some note of doubt in his voice. “What have I to fear from my liege
lord, the King of England?”

“Only, sir, that you consort with and would wed me to one who, although
you may not know it, has, I am told, much to fear from him, so much that
I wonder that he has ridden to seek his Grace’s presence. Well, you are
ill and I am angered and together we are but as steel and flint, from
the meeting of which comes fire that may burn us both. Therefore, since
being better than I thought, you need me not and have only cruel words
for greeting, I’ll bid you farewell and get me back to those who are
kindlier. God be with you, and give you your health again.”

“Ah!” said or rather snarled Sir John, “I thought as much and am ready
for the trick. You’d win back to sanctuary, would you, and the company
of that old wizard, Andrew Arnold, thence to make a mock of me? Well,
not one step do you take upon that road while I live,” and pushing past
her he opened the door and shouted aloud.

Apparently the men and woman whom Eve had met in the passage were still
waiting there, for instantly they all reappeared.

“Now, fellows,” said Sir John, “and you, Jane Mell, take this rebellious
girl of mine to the chamber in the prisoners’ tower, whence I think
she’ll find it hard to fly to sanctuary. There lock her fast, feeding
her with the bread and water of affliction to tame her proud spirit, and
suffering none to go near her save this woman, Jane Mell. Stay, give
me that bodkin which she wears lest she, who has learned bloody ways of
late, should do some of you or herself a mischief.”

As he spoke one of the men deftly snatched the dagger from Eve’s girdle
and handed it to Sir John who threw it into the farthest corner of the
room. Then he turned and said:

“Now, girl, will you go, or must you be dragged?”

She raised her head slowly and looked him in the eyes. Mad as he was
with passion there was something in her face that frightened him.

“Can you be my father?” she said in a strained, quiet voice. “Oh! glad
am I that my mother did not live to see this hour.”

Then she wheeled round and addressed the men.

“Hearken, fellows. He who lays a finger on me, dies. Soon or late
assuredly he dies as he would not wish to die. Yes, even if you murder
me, for I have friends who will learn the truth and pay back coin for
coin with interest a hundredfold. Now I’ll go. Stand clear, knaves,
and pray to God that never again may Red Eve cross the threshold of
her prison. Pray also that never again may you look on Hugh de Cressi’s
sword or hear Grey Dick’s arrows sing, or face the curse of old Sir
Andrew.”

So proud and commanding was her mien and so terrible the import of her
words, that these rough hinds shrank away from her and the woman hid her
face in her hands. But Sir John thundered threats and oaths at them, so
that slowly and unwillingly they ringed Eve round. Then with head held
high she walked thence in the midst of them.

The prisoners’ chamber beneath the leads of the lofty tower was cold and
unfurnished save for a stool and a truckle-bed. It had a great door of
oak locked and barred on the outer side, with a grille in it through
which the poor wretch within could be observed. There was no window,
only high up beneath the ceiling were slits like loopholes that not a
child could have passed. Such was the place to which Eve was led.

Here they left her. At nightfall the door was opened and Jane Mell
entered, bearing a loaf of bread and a jug of water, which she set down
upon the floor.

“Would you aught else?” she asked.

“Ay, woman,” answered Eve, “my thick red woollen cloak from my chamber,
and hood to match. Also water to wash me, for this place is cold and
foul, and I would die warm and clean.”

“First I must get leave from my lord your father,” said the woman in a
surly voice.

“Get it then and be swift,” said Eve, “or leave it ungotten; I care
little.”

Mell went and within half an hour returned with the garments, the water
and some other things. Setting them down without a word she departed,
locking and bolting the door behind her.

While there remained a few rays of light to see by, Eve ate and drank
heartily, for she needed food. Then having prayed according to her
custom, she laid herself down and slept as a child sleeps, for she was
very strong of will and one who had always taught herself to make the
best of evil fortune. When she woke the daws were cawing around the
tower and the sun shone through the loopholes. She rose refreshed and
ate the remainder of her bread, then combed her hair and dressed herself
as best she could.

Two or three hours later the door was opened and her father entered.
Glancing at him she saw that little sleep had visited him that night,
for he looked old and very weary, so weary that she motioned to him
to sit upon the stool. This he did, breathing heavily and muttering
something about the steepness of the tower stairs. Presently he spoke.

“Eve,” he said, “is your proud spirit broken yet?”

“No,” she answered, “nor ever will be, living or dead! You may kill my
body, but my spirit is me, and that you will never kill. As God gave it
so I will return it to Him again.”

He stared at her, with something of wonder and more of admiration in his
look.

“Christ’s truth,” he said, “how proud I could be of you, if only you’d
let me! I deem your courage comes from your mother, but she never had
your shape and beauty. And now you are the only one left, and you hate
me with all your proud heart, you, the heiress of the Claverings!”

“Whose estate is this,” she answered, pointing to the bare stone walls.
“Think you, my father, that such treatment as I have met with at your
hands of late would breed love in the humblest heart? What devil drives
you on to deal with me as you have done?”

“No devil, girl, but a desire for your own good, and,” he added with a
burst of truth, “for the greatness of my House after I am gone, which
will be soon. For your old wizard spoke rightly when he said that I
stand near to death.”

“Will marrying me to a man I hate be for my good and make your House
great? I tell you, sir, it would kill me and bring the Claverings to
an end. Do you desire also that your broad lands should go to patch a
spendthrift Frenchman’s cloak? But what matters your desire seeing that
I’ll not do it, who love another man worth a score of him; one, too, who
will sit higher than any Count of Noyon ever stood.”

“Pish!” he said. “‘Tis but a girl’s whim. You speak folly, being young
and headstrong. Now, to have done with all this mummer’s talk, will you
swear to me by our Saviour and on the welfare of your soul to break with
Hugh de Cressi once and forever? For if so I’ll let you free, to leave
me if you will, and dwell where it pleases you.”

She opened her lips to answer, but he held up his hand, saying:

“Wait ere you speak, I have not done. If you take my offer I’ll not even
press Sir Edmund Acour on you; that matter shall stand the chance of
time and tide. Only while you live you must have no more to do with the
man who slew your brother. Now will you swear?”

“Not I,” she answered. “How can I who but a few days ago before God’s
altar and His priest vowed myself to this same Hugh de Cressi for all
his life?”

Sir John rose from the stool and walked, or, rather, tottered to the
door.

“Then stay here till you rot,” he said quite quietly, “for I’ll give
you no burial. As for this Hugh, I would have spared him, but you have
signed his death-warrant.”

He was gone. The heavy door shut, the bars clanged into their sockets.
Thus these two parted, for when they met once more no word passed
between them; and although she knew not how these things would end, Eve
felt that parting to be dreadful. Turning her face to the wall, for a
while she wept, then, when the woman Mell came with her bread and water,
wiped away her tears and faced her calmly. After all, she could have
answered no otherwise; her soul was pure of sin, and, for the rest, God
must rule it. At least she would die clean and honest.

That night she was wakened from her sleep by the clatter of horses’
hoofs on the courtyard stones. She could hear no more because a wind
blew that drowned all sound of voices. For a while a wild hope had
filled her that Hugh had come, or perchance Sir Andrew, with the Dunwich
folk, but presently she remembered that this was foolish, since these
would never have been admitted within the moat. So sighing sadly she
turned to rest again, thinking to herself that doubtless her father had
called in some of his vassal tenants from the outlying lands to guard
the manor in case it should be attacked.

Next morning the woman Jane Mell brought her better garments to wear,
of her best indeed, and, though she wondered why they were sent, for the
lack of anything else to do she arrayed herself in them, and braided
her hair with the help of a silver mirror that was among the garments. A
little later this woman appeared again, bearing not bread and water, but
good food and a cup of wine. The food she ate with thankfulness, but the
wine she would not drink, because she knew that it was French and had
heard Acour praise it.

The morning wore away to noon, and again the door opened and there stood
before her--Sir Edmund Acour himself, gallantly dressed, as she noticed
vaguely, in close-fitting tunic of velvet, long shoes that turned up
at the toes and a cap in which was set a single nodding plume. She rose
from her stool and set her back against the wall with a prayer to God in
her heart, but no word upon her lips, for she felt that her best refuge
was silence. He drew the cap from his head, and began to speak.

“Lady,” he said, “you will wonder to see me here after my letter to you,
bidding you farewell, but you will remember that in this letter I wrote
that Fate might bring us together again, and it has done so through no
fault or wish of mine. The truth is that when I was near to London
I heard that danger awaited me there on account of certain false
accusations, such danger that I must return again to Suffolk and seek
a ship at some eastern port. Well, I came here last night, and learned
that you were back out of sanctuary and also that you had quarrelled
with your father who in his anger had imprisoned you in this poor place.
An ill deed, as I think, but in truth he is so distraught with grief and
racked with sickness that he scarce knows what he does.”

Now he paused, but as Eve made no answer went on:

“Pity for your lot, yes, and my love for you that eats my heart out,
caused me to seek your father’s leave to visit you and see if perchance
I could not soften your wrath against me.”

Again he paused and again there was no answer.

“Moreover,” he added, “I have news for you which I fear you will think
sad and which, believe me, I pray you, it pains me to give, though the
man was my rival and my enemy. Hugh de Cressi, to whom you held yourself
affianced, is dead.”

She quivered a little at the words, but still made no answer, for her
will was very strong.

“I had the story,” he continued, “from two of his own men, whom we met
flying back to Dunwich from London. It seems that messengers from your
father reached the Court of the King before this Hugh, telling him of
the slaying in Blythburgh Marsh. Then came Hugh himself, whereon the
King seized him and his henchman, the archer, and at once put them
on their trial as the murderers of John Clavering, of my knights, and
Thomas of Kessland, which they admitted boldly. Thereon his Grace, who
was beside himself with rage, said that in a time of war, when every man
was needed to fight the French, he was determined by a signal example
to put a stop to the shedding of blood in these private feuds. So he
ordered the merchant to the block, and his henchman, the archer, to
the gallows, giving them but one hour to make their peace with God.
Moreover,” he went on, searching her cold impassive face with his eyes,
“I did not escape his wrath, for he gave command that I was to be seized
wherever I might be found and cast into prison till I could be put
upon my trial, and my knights with me. Of your father’s case he is
considering since his only son has been slain and he holds him in
regard. Therefore it is that I am obliged to avoid London and take
refuge here.”

Still Eve remained silent, and in his heart Acour cursed her
stubbornness.

“Lady,” he proceeded, though with somewhat less assurance--for now he
must leave lies and get to pleading, and never did a suit seem more
hopeless, “these things being so through no fault of mine whose hands
are innocent of any share in this young man’s end, I come to pray of
you, the sword of death having cut all your oaths, that you will have
pity on my love and take me as your husband, as is your father’s wish
and my heart’s desire. Let not your young life be swallowed up in grief,
but make it joyous in my company. I can give you greatness, I can give
you wealth, but most of all I can give you such tender adoration as
never woman had before. Oh! sweet Eve, your answer,” and he cast himself
upon the ground before her, and, snatching the hem of her robe, pressed
it to his lips.

Then at length Eve spoke in a voice that rang like steel:

“Get you gone, knave, whose spurs should be hacked from your heels by
scullions. Get you gone, traitor and liar, for well I know that Hugh de
Cressi is not dead, who had a certain tale to tell of you to the King of
England. Get you back to the Duke of Normandy and there ask the price of
your betrayal of your liege lord, Edward, and show him the plans of our
eastern coast and the shores where his army may land in safety.”

Acour sprang to his feet and his face went white as ashes. Thrice he
strove to speak but could not. Then with a curse he turned and left the
chamber.



“The hunt’s up,” said Father Nicholas when he had heard all this tale
a little later, “and now, lord, I think that you had better away to
France, unless you desire to stop without companions in the church
yonder.”

“Ay, priest, I’ll away, but by God’s blood, I’ll take that Red Eve with
me! For one thing she knows too much to leave her behind. For a second
I mean to pay her back, and for a third, although you may think it
strange, I’m mad for her. I tell you she looked wondrous standing with
her back against that wall, her marble face never wincing when I told
her all the lie about young de Cressi’s death--which will be holy truth
when I get a chance at him--watching me out of those great, dark eyes of
hers.”

“Doubtless, lord, but how did she look when she called you knave and
traitor? I think you said those were her wicked words. Oh!” he added
with a ring of earnestness in his smooth voice, “let this Red Eve be. At
bed or board she’s no mate for you. Something fights at her side, be it
angel or devil, or just raw chance. At the least she’ll prove your ruin
unless you let her be.”

“Then I’ll be ruined, Nicholas, for I’ll not leave her, for a while, at
any rate. What! de Noyon, whom they call Danger of Dames, beaten by a
country girl who has never seen London or Paris! I’d sooner die.”

“As well may chance if the country lad and the country archer come back
with Edward’s warrant in their pouch,” answered the priest, shrugging
his lean shoulders. “Well, lord, what is your plan?”

“To carry her off. Can’t we manage nine stone of womanhood between us?”

“If she were dead it might be done, though hardly--over these Suffolk
roads. But being very much alive with a voice to scream with, hands to
fight with, a brain to think with and friends who know her from here to
Yarmouth, or to Hull, and Monsieur Grey Dick’s arrows pricking us behind
perchance--well, I don’t know.”

“Friend,” said Acour, tapping him on the shoulder meaningly, “there must
be some way; there are always ways, and I pray you to hunt them out.
Come, find me one, or stay here alone to explain affairs, first to this
Dick whom you have so much upon the brain, and afterward to Edward of
England or his officers.”

Father Nicholas looked at the great Count’s face. Then he looked at the
ground, and, having studied it a while without result, turned his beady
eyes to the heavens, where it would seem that he found inspiration.

“I am a stranger to love, thank the Saints,” he said, “but, as you know,
lord, I am a master leech, and amongst other things have studied certain
medicines which breed that passion in the human animal.”

“Love philtres?” queried Acour doubtfully.

“Yes, that kind of thing. One dose, and those who hate become enamoured,
and those who are enamoured hate.”

“Then in God’s or Satan’s name, give her one. Only be careful it is the
right sort, for if you made a mistake so that she hated me any more than
she does at present, I know not what would happen. Also if you kill her
I’ll dig a sword point through you. How would the stuff work?”

“She’ll seem somewhat stupid for a while, perhaps not speak, but only
smile kindly. That will last twelve hours or so, plenty of time for you
to be married, and afterward, when the grosser part of the potion passes
off leaving only its divine essence, why, afterward she’ll love you
furiously.”

“A powerful medicine, truly, that can change the nature of woman.
Moreover, I’d rather that she loved me--well, as happy brides do. Still
I put up with the fury provided it be of the good kind. And now how is
it to be done?”

“Leave that to me, lord,” said Nicholas, with a cunning smile. “Give me
a purse of gold, not less than ten pieces, for some is needed to melt in
the mixture, and more to bribe that woman and others. For the rest, hold
yourself ready to become a husband before sunset to-morrow. Go see Sir
John and tell him that the lady softens. Send men on to King’s Lynn also
to bid them have our ship prepared to sail the minute we appear, which
with good fortune should be within forty-eight hours from now. Above
all, forget not that I run great risk to soul and body for your sake and
that there are abbeys vacant in Normandy. Now, farewell, I must to my
work, for this medicine takes much skill such as no other leech has save
myself. Ay, and much prayer also, that naught may hinder its powerful
working.”

“Prayer to the devil, I think,” said his master looking after him with
a shrug of his shoulders. “God’s truth! if any one had told me three
months gone that de Noyon would live to seek the aid of priests and
potions to win a woman’s favour, I’d have named him liar to his face.
What would those who have gone before her think of this story, I
wonder?”

Then with a bitter laugh he turned and went about his business, which
was to lie to the father as he had lied to the daughter. Only in this
second case he found one more willing to listen and easier to deceive.



On the following morning, as it chanced, Eve had no relish for the food
that was brought to her, for confinement in that narrow place had robbed
her of her appetite. Also she had suffered much from grievous fear and
doubt, for whatever she might say to Acour, how could she be sure that
his story was not true? How could she be sure that her lover did not, in
fact, now lie dead at the headsman’s hands? Such things often happened
when kings were wroth and would not listen. Or perhaps Acour himself
had found and murdered him, or hired others to do the deed. She did
not know, and, imprisoned here without a friend, what means had she of
coming at the truth? Oh! if only she could escape! If only she could
speak with Sir Andrew for one brief minute, she, poor fool, who had
walked into this trap of her own will.

She sent away the food and bade the woman Mell bring her milk, for that
would be easy to swallow and give her sustenance. After some hours it
came, Mell explaining that she had been obliged to send for it to the
farmsteading, as none drank milk in the manor-house. Being thirsty, Eve
took the pitcher and drained it to the last drop, then threw it down,
saying that the vessel was foul and made the milk taste ill.

The woman did not answer, only smiled a little as she left the chamber,
and Eve wondered why she smiled.

A while later she grew very sleepy, and, as it seemed to her, had
strange dreams in her sleep. She dreamed of her childhood, when she and
Hugh played together upon the Dunwich shore. She dreamed of her mother,
and thought dimly that she was warning her of something. She heard
voices about her and thought that they were calling her to be free. Yes,
and followed them readily enough, or so it seemed in her dream, followed
them out of that hateful prison, for the bolts clanged behind her, down
stairs and into the courtyard, where the sun’s light almost blinded her
and the fresh air struck her hot brow like ice. Then there were more
voices, and people moving to and fro and the drone of a priest praying
and a touch upon her hand from which she shrank. And oh! she wished that
dream were done, for it was long, long. It wearied her, and grasped her
heart with a cold clutch of fear.



CHAPTER VIII

TOO LATE

It was past three o’clock on this same day when Eve had drunk the milk
and some hours after she began to dream, that Hugh de Cressi and his
men, safe and sound but weary, halted their tired horses at the door of
the Preceptory of the Templars in Dunwich.

“Best go on to his worship the Mayor and serve the King’s writ upon
him, master,” grumbled Grey Dick as they rode up Middlegate Street. “You
wasted good time in a shooting bout at Windsor against my will, and now
you’ll waste more time in a talking match at Dunwich. And the sun grows
low, and the Frenchmen may have heard and be on the wing, and who can
see to lay a shaft at night?”

“Nay, man,” answered Hugh testily, “first I must know how she fares.”

“The lady Eve will fare neither better nor worse for your knowing about
her, but one with whom you should talk may fare further, for doubtless
his spies are out. But have your way and leave me to thank God that no
woman ever found a chance to clog my leg, perhaps because I was not born
an ass.”

It is doubtful if Hugh heard these pungent and practical remarks, for
ere Dick had finished speaking them, he was off his horse, and hammering
at the Preceptory door. Some while passed before any answer came, for
Sir Andrew was walking in the garden beyond the church, in no happy mind
because of certain rumours that had reached him, and the old nun Agnes,
spying armed men and not knowing who they were, was afraid to open. So
it came about that fifteen minutes or more went by before at length Hugh
and his godsire stood face to face.

“How is Eve and where? Why is she not with you, Father?” he burst out.

“One question at a time, son, for whose safe return I thank God. I know
not how she is, and she is not with me because she is not here. She has
returned to her father at Blythburgh.”

“Why?” gasped Hugh. “You swore to keep her safe.”

“Peace, and you shall learn,” and as shortly as he could he told him.

“Is that all?” asked Hugh doubtfully, for he saw trouble in Sir Andrew’s
face.

“Not quite, son. Only to-day I have learned that Acour and his folk
never went to London, and are back again at Blythburgh Manor.”

“So much the better, Father, for now I have the King’s warrant addressed
to the Mayor and all his Grace’s subject in Dunwich, to take these
Frenchmen, living or dead.”

“Ah! But I have learned also that her father holds Eve a prisoner,
suffering her to speak with none, and--one lamb among those wolves--Oh!
God! why didst Thou suffer my wisdom to fail me? Doubtless for some good
purpose--where is my faith? Yet we must act. Hie, you there,” he called
to one of the men-at-arms, “go to Master de Cressi’s house and bid him
meet us by the market-cross mounted and armed, with all his sons and
people. And, you, get out my horse. Mother Agnes, bring my armour,
since I have no other squire! We’ll go to the Mayor. Now, while I don my
harness, tell me all that’s passed, wasting no words.”

Another half-hour almost had gone by before Hugh met his father, two of
his brothers and some men riding into the market-place. They greeted in
haste but thankfulness, and something of the tale was told while they
passed on to the house of the Mayor, who, as they thought, had already
been warned of their coming by messengers. But here disappointment
awaited them, for this officer, a man of wealth and honour, was, as it
chanced, absent on a visit to Norwich, whence it was said that he would
not return for three full days.

“Now what shall we do?” asked Sir Andrew, his face falling. “It is
certain that the burgesses of Dunwich will not draw sword in an unknown
quarrel, except upon the direct order of their chief, for there is no
time to collect them and publish the King’s warrant. It would seem that
we must wait till to-morrow and prepare to-night.”

“Not I,” answered Hugh. “The warrant is to me as well as to the Mayor.
I’ll leave it with his clerk, which is good delivery, and away to
Blythburgh Manor on the instant with any who will follow me, or without
them. Come, Dick, for night draws on and we’ve lost much time.”

Now his father tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen, for the
fear in his heart urged him forward. So the end of it was that the whole
party of them--thirteen men in all, counting those that Master de Cressi
brought, rode away across the heath to Blythburgh, though the horses of
Hugh’s party being very weary, not so fast as he could have wished.

Just as the sun sank they mounted the slope of the farther hill on the
crest of which stood the manor-house backed by winds.

“The drawbridge is down, thanks be to God!” said Sir Andrew, “which
shows that no attack is feared. I doubt me, son, we shall find Acour
flown.”

“That we shall know presently,” answered Hugh.

“Now, dismount all and follow me.”

They obeyed, though some of them who knew old Sir John’s temper seemed
not to like the business. Leaving two of their people with the horses,
they crossed the bridge, thinking to themselves that the great house
seemed strangely silent and deserted. Now they were in the outer court,
on one side of which stood the chapel, and still there was no one to be
seen. Dick tapped Hugh upon the shoulder, pointing to a window of this
chapel that lay in the shadow, through which came a faint glimmering of
light, as though tapers burned upon the altar.

“I think there’s a burying yonder,” he whispered, “at which all men
gather.”

Hugh blanched, for might it not be Eve whom they buried? But Sir Andrew,
noting it, said:

“Nay, nay, Sir John was sick. Come, let us look.”

The door of the chapel was open and they walked through it as quietly
as they could, to find the place, which was not very large, filled with
people. Of these they took no heed, for the last rays of the sunlight
flowing through the western window, showed them a scene that held their
eyes.

A priest stood before the lighted altar holding his hands in benediction
over a pair who kneeled at its rail. One of these wore a red cloak down
which her dark hair streamed. She leaned heavily against the rail, as a
person might who is faint with sleep or with the ardour of her orisons.
It was Red Eve, no other!

At her side, clad in gleaming mail, kneeled a knight. Close by Eve stood
her father, looking at her with a troubled air, and behind the knight
were other knights and men-at-arms. In the little nave were all the
people of the

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