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St. George for England

by G. A. Henty · English · Gutenberg #3429 · 570,700 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: St. George for England

Author: G. A. Henty


        
Release date: September 1, 2002 [eBook #3429]
                Most recently updated: March 11, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3429

Credits: Produced by Martin Robb


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND ***




Produced by Martin Robb





SAINT GEORGE FOR ENGLAND

By G. A. Henty




PREFACE.


MY DEAR LADS,

You may be told perhaps that there is no good to be obtained from tales
of fighting and bloodshed,--that there is no moral to be drawn from such
histories. Believe it not. War has its lessons as well as Peace. You
will learn from tales like this that determination and enthusiasm
can accomplish marvels, that true courage is generally accompanied by
magnanimity and gentleness, and that if not in itself the very highest
of virtues, it is the parent of almost all the others, since but few
of them can be practised without it. The courage of our forefathers has
created the greatest empire in the world around a small and in itself
insignificant island; if this empire is ever lost, it will be by the
cowardice of their descendants.

At no period of her history did England stand so high in the eyes
of Europe as in the time whose events are recorded in this volume. A
chivalrous king and an even more chivalrous prince had infected the
whole people with their martial spirit, and the result was that their
armies were for a time invincible, and the most astonishing successes
were gained against numbers which would appear overwhelming. The
victories of Cressy and Poitiers may be to some extent accounted for by
superior generalship and discipline on the part of the conquerors; but
this will not account for the great naval victory over the Spanish fleet
off the coast of Sussex, a victory even more surprising and won against
greater odds than was that gained in the same waters centuries later
over the Spanish Armada. The historical facts of the story are all
drawn from Froissart and other contemporary historians, as collated
and compared by Mr. James in his carefully written history. They may
therefore be relied upon as accurate in every important particular.

Yours sincerely,

G. A. HENTY.




CHAPTER I: A WAYFARER


It was a bitterly cold night in the month of November, 1330. The rain
was pouring heavily, when a woman, with child in her arms, entered the
little village of Southwark. She had evidently come from a distance, for
her dress was travel-stained and muddy. She tottered rather than walked,
and when, upon her arrival at the gateway on the southern side of London
Bridge, she found that the hour was past and the gates closed for the
night, she leant against the wall with a faint groan of exhaustion and
disappointment.

After remaining, as if in doubt, for some time, she feebly made her way
into the village. Here were many houses of entertainment, for travelers
like herself often arrived too late to enter the gates, and had to abide
outside for the night. Moreover, house rent was dear within the walls of
the crowded city, and many, whose business brought them to town, found
it cheaper to take up their abode in the quiet hostels of Southwark
rather than to stay in the more expensive inns within the walls. The
lights came out brightly from many of the casements, with sounds of
boisterous songs and laughter. The woman passed these without a pause.
Presently she stopped before a cottage, from which a feeble light alone
showed that it was tenanted.

She knocked at the door. It was opened by a pleasant-faced man of some
thirty years old.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I am a wayfarer,” the woman answered feebly. “Canst take me and my
child in for the night?”

“You have made a mistake,” the man said; “this is no inn. Further up the
road there are plenty of places where you can find such accommodation as
you lack.”

“I have passed them,” the woman said, “but all seemed full of
roisterers. I am wet and weary, and my strength is nigh spent. I can pay
thee, good fellow, and I pray you as a Christian to let me come in and
sleep before your fire for the night. When the gates are open in
the morning I will go; for I have a friend within the city who will,
methinks, receive me.”

The tone of voice, and the addressing of himself as good fellow, at once
convinced the man that the woman before him was no common wayfarer.

“Come in,” he said; “Geoffrey Ward is not a man to shut his doors in
a woman's face on a night like this, nor does he need payment for such
small hospitality. Come hither, Madge!” he shouted; and at his voice a
woman came down from the upper chamber. “Sister,” he said; “this is a
wayfarer who needs shelter for the night; she is wet and weary. Do you
take her up to your room and lend her some dry clothing; then make her
a cup of warm posset, which she needs sorely. I will fetch an armful
of fresh rushes from the shed and strew them here: I will sleep in the
smithy. Quick, girl,” he said sharply; “she is fainting with cold and
fatigue.” And as he spoke he caught the woman as she was about to fall,
and laid her gently on the ground. “She is of better station than she
seems,” he said to his sister; “like enough some poor lady whose husband
has taken part in the troubles; but that is no business of ours. Quick,
Madge, and get these wet things off her; she is soaked to the skin. I
will go round to the Green Dragon and will fetch a cup of warm cordial,
which I warrant me will put fresh life into her.”

So saying, he took down his flat cap from its peg on the wall and went
out, while his sister at once proceeded to remove the drenched
garments and to rub the cold hands of the guest until she recovered
consciousness. When Geoffrey Ward returned, the woman was sitting in a
settle by the fireside, dressed in a warm woolen garment belonging to
his sister.

Madge had thrown fresh wood on the fire, which was blazing brightly now.
The woman drank the steaming beverage which her host brought with him.
The colour came faintly again into her cheeks.

“I thank you, indeed,” she said, “for your kindness. Had you not taken
me in I think I would have died at your door, for indeed I could go no
further; and though I hold not to life, yet would I fain live until I
have delivered my boy into the hands of those who will be kind to him,
and this will, I trust, be tomorrow.”

“Say nought about it,” Geoffrey answered; “Madge and I are right glad
to have been of service to you. It would be a poor world indeed if one
could not give a corner of one's fireside to a fellow-creature on such
a night as this, especially when that fellow creature is a woman with
a child. Poor little chap! He looks right well and sturdy, and seems to
have taken no ill from his journey.”

“Truly, he is well and sturdy,” the mother said, looking at him proudly;
“indeed I have been almost wishing today that he were lighter by a few
pounds, for in truth I am not used to carry him far, and his weight has
sorely tried me. His name is Walter, and I trust,” she added, looking at
the powerful figure of her host, “that he will grow up as straight and
as stalwart as yourself.” The child, who was about three years old,
was indeed an exceedingly fine little fellow, as he sat, in one scanty
garment, in his mother's lap, gazing with round eyes at the blazing
fire; and the smith thought how pretty a picture the child and mother
made. She was a fair, gentle-looking girl some two-and-twenty years old,
and it was easy enough to see now from her delicate features and soft
shapely hands that she had never been accustomed to toil.

“And now,” the smith said, “I will e'en say good night. The hour is
late, and I shall be having the watch coming along to know why I keep a
fire so long after the curfew. Should you be a stranger in the city,
I will gladly act as your guide in the morning to the friends whom
you seek, that is, should they be known to me; but if not, we shall
doubtless find them without difficulty.”

So saying, the smith retired to his bed of rushes in the smithy, and
soon afterwards the tired visitor, with her baby, lay down on the rushes
in front of the fire, for in those days none of the working or artisan
class used beds, which were not indeed, for centuries afterwards, in
usage by the common people.

In the morning Geoffrey Ward found that his guest desired to find one
Giles Fletcher, a maker of bows.

“I know him well,” the smith said. “There are many who do a larger
business, and hold their heads higher; but Giles Fletcher is well
esteemed as a good workman, whose wares can be depended upon. It is
often said of him that did he take less pains he would thrive more; but
he handles each bow that he makes as if he loved it, and finishes and
polishes each with his own hand. Therefore he doeth not so much trade as
those who are less particular with their wares, for he hath to charge
a high price to be able to live. But none who have ever bought his bows
have regretted the silver which they cost. Many and many a gross of
arrowheads have I sold him, and he is well-nigh as particular in
their make as he is over the spring and temper of his own bows. Many a
friendly wrangle have I had with him over their weight and finish, and
it is not many who find fault with my handiwork, though I say it myself;
and now, madam, I am at your service.”

During the night the wayfarer's clothes had been dried. The cloak was of
rough quality, such as might have been used by a peasant woman; but the
rest, though of sombre colour, were of good material and fashion. Seeing
that her kind entertainers would be hurt by the offer of money, the lady
contented herself with thanking Madge warmly, and saying that she hoped
to come across the bridge one day with Dame Fletcher; then, under the
guidance of Geoffrey, who insisted on carrying the boy, she set out from
the smith's cottage. They passed under the outer gate and across the
bridge, which later on was covered with a double line of houses and
shops, but was now a narrow structure. Over the gateway across the
river, upon pikes, were a number of heads and human limbs. The lady
shuddered as she looked up.

“It is an ugly sight,” the smith said, “and I can see no warrant for
such exposure of the dead. There are the heads of Wallace, of three of
Robert Bruce's brothers, and of many other valiant Scotsmen who fought
against the king's grandfather some twenty years back. But after all
they fought for their country, just as Harold and our ancestors against
the Normans under William, and I think it a foul shame that men who have
done no other harm should be beheaded, still less that their heads and
limbs should be stuck up there gibbering at all passers-by. There are
over a score of them, and every fresh trouble adds to their number; but
pardon me,” he said suddenly as a sob from the figure by his side called
his attention from the heads on the top of the gateway, “I am rough and
heedless in speech, as my sister Madge does often tell me, and it may
well be that I have said something which wounded you.”

“You meant no ill,” the lady replied; “it was my own thoughts and
troubles which drew tears from me; say not more about it, I pray you.”

They passed under the gateway, with its ghastly burden, and were soon in
the crowded streets of London. High overhead the houses extended, each
story advancing beyond that below it until the occupiers of the attics
could well-nigh shake hands across. They soon left the more crowded
streets, and turning to the right, after ten minutes walking, the smith
stopped in front of a bowyer shop near Aldgate.

“This is the shop,” he said, “and there is Giles Fletcher himself trying
the spring and pull of one of his bows. Here I will leave you, and will
one of these days return to inquire if your health has taken ought of
harm by the rough buffeting of the storm of yester-even.”

So saying he handed the child to its mother, and with a wave of the hand
took his leave, not waiting to listen to the renewed thanks which his
late guest endeavoured to give him.

The shop was open in front, a projecting penthouse sheltered it from the
weather; two or three bows lay upon a wide shelf in front, and several
large sheaves of arrows tied together stood by the wall. A powerful man
of some forty years old was standing in the middle of the shop with a
bent bow in his arm, taking aim at a spot in the wall. Through an open
door three men could be seen in an inner workshop cutting and shaping
the wood for bows. The bowyer looked round as his visitor entered the
shop, and then, with a sudden exclamation, lowered the bow.

“Hush, Giles!” the lady exclaimed; “it is I, but name no names; it were
best that none knew me here.”

The craftsman closed the door of communication into the inner room.
“My Lady Alice,” he exclaimed in a low tone, “you here, and in such a
guise?”

“Surely it is I,” the lady sighed, “although sometimes I am well-nigh
inclined to ask myself whether it be truly I or not, or whether this be
not all a dreadful dream.”

“I had heard but vaguely of your troubles,” Giles Fletcher said, “but
hoped that the rumours were false. Ever since the Duke of Kent was
executed the air has been full of rumours. Then came news of the killing
of Mortimer and of the imprisonment of the king's mother, and it was
said that many who were thought to be of her party had been attacked and
slain, and I heard--” and there he stopped.

“You heard rightly, good Giles, it is all true. A week after the slaying
of Mortimer a band of knights and men-at-arms arrived at our castle and
demanded admittance in the king's name. Sir Roland refused, for he had
news that many were taking up arms, but it was useless. The castle was
attacked, and after three days' fighting, was taken. Roland was killed,
and I was cast out with my child. Afterwards they repented that they
had let me go, and searched far and wide for me; but I was hidden in the
cottage of a woodcutter. They were too busy in hunting down others whom
they proclaimed to be enemies of the king, as they had wrongfully said
of Roland, who had but done his duty faithfully to Queen Isabella, and
was assuredly no enemy of her son, although he might well be opposed to
the weak and indolent king, his father. However, when the search relaxed
I borrowed the cloak of the good man's wife and set out for London,
whither I have traveled on foot, believing that you and Bertha would
take me in and shelter me in my great need.”

“Aye, that will we willingly,” Giles said. “Was not Bertha your nurse?
and to whom should you come if not to her? But will it please you to
mount the stairs, for Bertha will not forgive me if I keep you talking
down here. What a joy it will be to her to see you again!”

So saying, Giles led the way to the apartment above. There was a scream
of surprise and joy from his wife, and then Giles quietly withdrew
downstairs again, leaving the women to cry in each other's arms.

A few days later Geoffrey Ward entered the shop of Giles Fletcher.

“I have brought you twenty score of arrowheads, Master Giles,” he said.
“They have been longer in hand than is usual with me, but I have been
pressed. And how goes it with the lady whom I brought to your door last
week?”

“But sadly, Master Ward, very sadly, as I told you when I came across to
thank you again in her name and my own for your kindness to her. She
was but in poor plight after her journey; poor thing, she was little
accustomed to such wet and hardship, and doubtless they took all
the more effect because she was low in spirit and weakened with much
grieving. That night she was taken with a sort of fever, hot and cold
by turns, and at times off her head. Since then she has lain in a high
fever and does not know even my wife; her thoughts ever go back to the
storming of the castle, and she cries aloud and begs them to spare her
lord's life. It is pitiful to hear her. The leech gives but small hope
for her life, and in troth, Master Ward, methinks that God would deal
most gently with her were He to take her. Her heart is already in her
husband's grave, for she was ever of a most loving and faithful nature.
Here there would be little comfort for her--she would fret that her boy
would never inherit the lands of his father; and although she knows
well enough that she would be always welcome here, and that Bertha would
serve her as gladly and faithfully as ever she did when she was her
nurse, yet she could not but greatly feel the change. She was tenderly
brought up, being, as I told you last week, the only daughter of
Sir Harold Broome. Her brother, who but a year ago became lord of
Broomecastle at the death of his father, was one of the queen's men, and
it was he, I believe, who brought Sir Roland Somers to that side. He was
slain on the same night as Mortimer, and his lands, like those of Sir
Roland, have been seized by the crown. The child upstairs is by right
heir to both estates, seeing that his uncle died unmarried. They will
doubtless be conferred upon those who have aided the young king in
freeing himself from his mother's domination, for which, indeed,
although I lament that Lady Alice should have suffered so sorely in the
doing of it, I blame him not at all. He is a noble prince and will make
us a great king, and the doings of his mother have been a shame to
us all. However, I meddle not in politics. If the poor lady dies, as
methinks is well-nigh certain, Bertha and I will bring up the boy as our
own. I have talked it over with my wife, and so far she and I are not of
one mind. I think it will be best to keep him in ignorance of his birth
and lineage, since the knowledge cannot benefit him, and will but render
him discontented with his lot and make him disinclined to take to my
calling, in which he might otherwise earn a living and rise to be a
respected citizen. But Bertha hath notions. You have not taken a wife to
yourself, Master Geoffrey, or you would know that women oft have fancies
which wander widely from hard facts, and she says she would have him
brought up as a man-at-arms, so that he may do valiant deeds, and win
back some day the title and honour of his family.”

Geoffrey Ward laughed. “Trust a woman for being romantic,” he said.
“However, Master Fletcher, you need not for the present trouble about
the child's calling, even should its mother die. At any rate, whether he
follows your trade, or whether the blood in his veins leads him to take
to martial deeds, the knowledge of arms may well be of use to him, and I
promise you that such skill as I have I will teach him when he grows
old enough to wield sword and battle-axe. As you know I may, without
boasting, say that he could scarce have a better master, seeing that I
have for three years carried away the prize for the best sword-player
at the sports. Methinks the boy will grow up into a strong and stalwart
man, for he is truly a splendid lad. As to archery, he need not go far
to learn it, since your apprentice, Will Parker, last year won the prize
as the best marksman in the city bounds. Trust me, if his tastes lie
that way we will between us turn him out a rare man-at-arms. But I must
stand gossiping no longer; the rumours that we are likely ere long to
have war with France, have rarely bettered my trade. Since the wars in
Scotland men's arms have rusted somewhat, and my two men are hard at
work mending armour and fitting swords to hilts, and forging pike-heads.
You see I am a citizen though I dwell outside the bounds, because house
rent is cheaper and I get my charcoal without paying the city dues. So I
can work somewhat lower than those in the walls, and I have good custom
from many in Kent, who know that my arms are of as good temper as those
turned out by any craftsman in the city.”

Giles Fletcher's anticipations as to the result of his guest's illness
turned out to be well founded. The fever abated, but left her prostrate
in strength. For a few weeks she lingered; but she seemed to have little
hold of life, and to care not whether she lived or died. So, gradually
she faded away.

“I know you will take care of my boy as if he were your own, Bertha,”
 she said one day; “and you and your husband will be far better
protectors for him than I should have been had I lived. Teach him to be
honest and true. It were better, methinks, that he grew up thinking you
his father and mother, for otherwise he may grow discontented with
his lot; but this I leave with you, and you must speak or keep silent
according as you see his disposition and mind. If he is content to
settle down to a peaceful life here, say nought to him which would
unsettle his mind; but if Walter turn out to have an adventurous
disposition, then tell him as much as you think fit of his history, not
encouraging him to hope to recover his father's lands and mine, for that
can never be, seeing that before that time can come they would have been
enjoyed for many years by others; but that he may learn to bear himself
bravely and gently as becomes one of good blood.”

A few days later Lady Alice breathed her last, and at her own request
was buried quietly and without pomp, as if she had been a child of the
bowman, a plain stone, with the name “Dame Alice Somers”, marking the
grave.

The boy grew and throve until at fourteen years old there was no
stronger or sturdier lad of his age within the city bounds. Giles had
caused him to be taught to read and write, accomplishments which were
common among the citizens, although they were until long afterwards rare
among the warlike barons. The greater part of his time, however, was
spent in sports with lads of his own age in Moorfields beyond the walls.
The war with France was now raging, and, as was natural, the boys in
their games imitated the doings of their elders, and mimic battles,
ofttimes growing into earnest, were fought between the lads of
the different wards. Walter Fletcher, as he was known among his
play-fellows, had by his strength and courage won for himself the proud
position of captain of the boys of the ward of Aldgate.

Geoffrey Ward had kept his word, and had already begun to give the lad
lessons in the use of arms. When not engaged otherwise Walter would,
almost every afternoon, cross London Bridge and would spend hours in the
armourer's forge. Geoffrey's business had grown, for the war had caused
a great demand for arms, and he had now six men working in the forge. As
soon as the boy could handle a light tool Geoffrey allowed him to work,
and although not able to wield the heavy sledge Walter was able to do
much of the finer work. Geoffrey encouraged him in this, as, in the
first place, the use of the tools greatly strengthened the boy's
muscles, and gave him an acquaintance with arms. Moreover, Geoffrey was
still a bachelor, and he thought that the boy, whom he as well as Giles
had come to love as a son, might, should he not take up the trade of
war, prefer the occupation of an armourer to that of a bowmaker, in
which case he would take him some day as his partner in the forge. After
work was over and the men had gone away, Geoffrey would give the lad
instructions in the use of the arms at which he had been at work, and so
quick and strong was he that he rapidly acquired their use, and Geoffrey
foresaw that he would one day, should his thoughts turn that way, prove
a mighty man-at-arms.

It was the knowledge which he acquired from Geoffrey which had much to
do with Walter's position among his comrades. The skill and strength
which he had acquired in wielding the hammer, and by practice with the
sword rendered him a formidable opponent with the sticks, which
formed the weapons in the mimic battles, and indeed not a few were the
complaints which were brought before Giles Fletcher of bruises and hurts
caused by him.

“You are too turbulent, Walter,” the bowyer said one day when a
haberdasher from the ward of Aldersgate came to complain that his son's
head had been badly cut by a blow with a club from Walter Fletcher. “You
are always getting into trouble, and are becoming the terror of other
boys. Why do you not play more quietly? The feuds between the boys of
different wards are becoming a serious nuisance, and many injuries have
been inflicted. I hear that the matter has been mentioned in the Common
Council, and that there is a talk of issuing an order that no boy not
yet apprenticed to a trade shall be allowed to carry a club, and that
any found doing so shall be publicly whipped.”

“I don't want to be turbulent,” Walter said; “but if the Aldersgate boys
will defy us, what are we to do? I don't hit harder than I can help, and
if Jonah Harris would leave his head unguarded I could not help hitting
it.”

“I tell you it won't do, Walter,” Giles said. “You will be getting
yourself into sore trouble. You are growing too masterful altogether,
and have none of the quiet demeanour and peaceful air which becomes an
honest citizen. In another six months you will be apprenticed, and then
I hope we shall hear no more of these doings.”

“My father is talking of apprenticing me, Master Geoffrey,” Walter said
that evening. “I hope that you will, as you were good enough to promise,
talk with him about apprenticing me to your craft rather than to his. I
should never take to the making of bows, though, indeed, I like well
to use them; and Will Parker, who is teaching me says that I show rare
promise; but it would never be to my taste to stand all day sawing, and
smoothing, and polishing. One bow is to me much like another, though my
father holds that there are rare differences between them; but it is a
nobler craft to work on iron, and next to using arms the most pleasant
thing surely is to make them. One can fancy what good blows the sword
will give and what hard knocks the armour will turn aside; but some day,
Master Geoffrey, when I have served my time, I mean to follow the army.
There is always work there for armourers to do, and sometimes at a pinch
they may even get their share of fighting.”

Walter did not venture to say that he would prefer to be a man-at-arms,
for such a sentiment would be deemed as outrageous in the ears of a
quiet city craftsman as would the proposal of the son of such a man
nowadays to enlist as a soldier. The armourer smiled; he knew well
enough what was in Walter's mind. It had cost Geoffrey himself a hard
struggle to settle down to a craft, and deemed it but natural that
with the knightly blood flowing in Walter's veins he should long to
distinguish himself in the field. He said nothing of this, however, but
renewed his promise to speak to Giles Fletcher, deeming that a few years
passed in his forge would be the best preparation which Walter could
have for a career as a soldier.



CHAPTER II: THE HUT IN THE MARSHES


A week later a party of knights and court gallants, riding across the
fields without the walls, checked their horses to look at a struggle
which was going on between two parties of boys. One, which was
apparently the most powerful, had driven the other off from a heap of
rubbish which had been carried without the walls. Each party had a flag
attached to a stick, and the boys were armed with clubs such as those
carried by the apprentice boys. Many of them carried mimic shields made
of wood, and had stuffed their flat caps with wool or shavings, the
better to protect their heads from blows. The smaller party had just
been driven from the heap, and their leader was urging them to make
another effort to regain it.

“That is a gallant-looking lad, and a sturdy, my Lord de Vaux,” a boy of
about ten years of age said. “He bears himself like a young knight, and
he has had some hard knocks, for, see, the blood is streaming down his
face. One would scarcely expect to see these varlets of the city playing
so roughly.”

“The citizens have proved themselves sturdy fighters before now, my
prince,” the other said; “they are ever independent, and hold to their
rights even against the king. The contingent which the city sends to the
wars bears itself as well as those of any of the barons.”

“See!” the boy interrupted, “they are going to charge again. Their
leader has himself seized the flag and has swung his shield behind him,
just as a knight might do if leading the stormers against a place of
strength. Let us stop till we see the end of it.”

With a shout of “Aldgate! Aldgate!” the leader of the assailants dashed
forward, followed by his comrades, and with a rush reached the top of
the heap.

“Well done!” the young prince exclaimed, clapping his hands. “See how
he lays about him with that club of his. There, he has knocked down the
leader of the defenders as if his club had been a battle-axe. Well done,
young sir, well done! But his followers waver. The others are too strong
for them. Stand, you cowards, rally round your leader!” and in his
enthusiasm the young prince urged his horse forward to the scene of
conflict.

But the assailants were mastered; few of them could gain the top of the
heap, and those who did so were beaten back from it by the defenders.
Heavy blows were exchanged, and blood flowed freely from many of their
heads and faces, for in those days boys thought less than they do now
of hard knocks, and manliness and courage were considered the first of
virtues. Their leader, however, still stood his ground on the crest,
though hardly pressed on all sides, and used his club both to strike and
parry with a skill which aroused the warmest admiration on the part of
the prince. In vain his followers attempted to come to his rescue; each
time they struggled up the heap they were beaten back again by those on
the crest.

“Yield thee prisoner,” the assailants of their leader shouted, and the
prince in his excitement echoed the cry. The lad, however, heard or
heeded them not. He still kept his flag aloft in his left hand. With a
sudden spring he struck down one of his opponents, plucked up their flag
from the ground, and then fought his way back through his foes to the
edge of the battleground; then a heavy blow struck him on the temple,
and, still holding the flags, he rolled senseless to the foot of the
heap. The defenders with shouts of triumph were rushing down when the
prince urged his horse forward.

“Cease!” he said authoritatively. “Enough has been done, my young
masters, and the sport is becoming a broil.”

Hitherto the lads, absorbed in their strife, had paid but little heed
to the party of onlookers; but at the word they at once arrested their
arms, and, baring their heads, stood still in confusion.

“No harm is done,” the prince said, “though your sport is of the
roughest; but I fear that your leader is hurt, he moves not; lift his
head from the ground.” The boy was indeed still insensible. “My lords,”
 the prince said to the knights who had now ridden up, “I fear that this
boy is badly hurt; he is a gallant lad, and has the spirit of a true
knight in him, citizen's son though he be. My Lord de Vaux, will you bid
your squire ride at full speed to the Tower and tell Master Roger, the
leech, to come here with all haste, and to bring such nostrums as may be
needful for restoring the boy to life.”

The Tower was but half a mile distant, but before Master Roger arrived
Walter had already recovered consciousness, and was just sitting up when
the leech hurried up to the spot.

“You have arrived too late, Master Roger,” the prince said; “but I doubt
not that a dose of cordials may yet be of use, for he is still dazed,
and the blow he got would have cracked his skull had it been a thin
one.”

The leech poured some cordial from a vial into a small silver cup and
held it to the boy's lips. It was potent and nigh took his breath away;
but when he had drunk it he struggled to his feet, looking ashamed and
confused when he saw himself the centre of attention of so many knights
of the court.

“What is thy name, good lad?” the prince asked.

“I am known as Walter Fletcher.”

“You are a brave lad,” the prince said, “and if you bear you as well as
a man as you did but now, I would wish no better to ride beside me
in the day of battle. Should the time ever come when you tire of the
peaceable life of a citizen and wish to take service in the wars, go to
the Tower and ask boldly for the Prince of Wales, and I will enroll you
among my own men-at-arms, and I promise you that you shall have your
share of fighting as stark as that of the assault of yon heap. Now, my
lords, let us ride on; I crave your pardon for having so long detained
you.”

Walter was some days before he could again cross London Bridge to
inform his friend Geoffrey of the honour which had befallen him of being
addressed by the Prince of Wales. During the interval he was forced to
lie abed, and he was soundly rated by Master Giles for again getting
into mischief. Geoffrey was far more sympathetic, and said “Well,
Walter, although I would not that Gaffer Giles heard me say so, I think
you have had a piece of rare good fortune. It may be that you may never
have cause to recall the young prince's promise to him; but should
you some day decide to embrace the calling of arms, you could wish for
nothing better than to ride behind the Prince of Wales. He is, by all
accounts, of a most noble and generous disposition, and is said, young
as he is, to be already highly skilled in arms. Men say that he will be
a wise king and a gallant captain, such a one as a brave soldier might
be proud to follow; and as the king will be sure to give him plenty of
opportunities of distinguishing himself, those who ride with him may be
certain of a chance of doing valorous deeds. I will go across the bridge
tomorrow, and will have a talk with Master Fletcher. The sooner you are
apprenticed, the sooner you will be out of your time; and since Madge
married eight years since I have been lonely in the house and shall be
glad to have you with me.”

Geoffrey Ward found his friend more ready to accede to his request, that
Walter should be apprenticed to him, than he had expected. The bowyer,
indeed, was a quiet man, and the high spirits and somewhat turbulent
disposition of his young charge gave him so much uneasiness, that he
was not sorry the responsibility of keeping him in order should be
undertaken by Geoffrey. Moreover, he could not but agree with the
argument, that the promise of the Prince of Wales offered a more
favourable opportunity for Walter to enter upon the career of arms and
so, perhaps, someday to win his way back to rank and honours than
could have been looked for. Therefore, on the following week Walter
was indentured to the armourer, and, as was usual at the time, left his
abode in Aldgate and took up his residence with his master. He threw
himself with his whole heart into the work, and by the time he was
fifteen was on the way to become a skilful craftsman. His frame and
muscles developed with labour, and he was now able to swing all save the
very heaviest hammers in the shop. He had never abated in his practice
at arms, and every day when work was over, he and his master had a
long bout together with cudgel or quarterstaff, sword or axe; Walter of
course used light weapons, but so quick was he with them that Geoffrey
Ward acknowledged that he needed to put out all his skill to hold his
own with his pupil. But it was not alone with Geoffrey that Walter had
an opportunity of learning the use of arms. Whenever a soldier, returned
from the wars, came to have a weapon repaired by the armourer, he would
be sure of an invitation to come in in the evening and take a stoup of
ale, and tell of the battles and sieges he had gone through, and in the
course of the evening would be asked to have a bout of arms with the
young apprentice, whom Geoffrey represented as being eager to learn how
to use the sword as well as how to make it.

Thus Walter became accustomed to different styles of fighting, but found
that very few, indeed, of their visitors were nearly so well skilled
with their arms as his master. Some of the soldiers were mortified at
finding themselves unable to hold their own with a boy; others would
take their reverses in good part and would come again, bringing with
them some comrade known to be particularly skilled with his weapons,
to try the temper of the armourer's apprentice. At the age of fifteen
Walter had won the prize at the sports, both for the best cudgel play
and the best sword-and-buckler play among the apprentices, to the great
disgust of many who had almost reached the age of manhood and were just
out of their time.

On Sundays Walter always spent the day with Giles Fletcher and his wife,
going to mass with them and walking in the fields, where, after service,
the citizens much congregated. Since Walter had gone to work he had
taken no part in the fights and frolics of his former comrades; he was
in fact, far too tired at the end of his day's work to have any desire
to do aught but to sit and listen to the tales of the wars, of the many
old soldiers who pervaded the country. Some of these men were disabled
by wounds or long service, but the greater portion were idle scamps, who
cared not for the hard blows and sufferings of a campaign, liking better
to hang about taverns drinking, at the expense of those to whom they
related fabulous tales of the gallant actions they had performed. Many,
too, wandered over the country, sometimes in twos or threes, sometimes
in large bands, robbing and often murdering travelers or attacking
lonely houses. When in one part or another their ill deeds became too
notorious, the sheriffs would call out a posse of men and they would be
hunted down like wild beasts. It was not, however, easy to catch them,
for great tracts of forests still covered a large portion of the country
and afforded them shelter.

In the country round London these pests were very numerous, for here,
more than anywhere else, was there a chance of plunder. The swamps on
the south side of the river had an especially evil reputation. From
Southwark to Putney stretches a marshy country over which, at high
tides, the river frequently flowed. Here and there were wretched huts,
difficult of access and affording good hiding-places for those pursued
by justice, since searchers could be seen approaching a long way off,
and escape could be made by paths across the swamp known only to the
dwellers there, and where heavily-armed men dared not follow. Further
south, in the wild country round Westerham, where miles of heath and
forest stretched away in all directions, was another noted place where
the robber vagrants mustered thickly, and the Sheriff of Kent had much
trouble with them.

The laws in those days were extremely severe, and death was the penalty
of those caught plundering. The extreme severity of the laws, however,
operated in favour of its breakers, since the sympathy of the people who
had little to lose was with them, and unless caught red-handed in
the act they could generally escape, since none save those who had
themselves been robbed would say aught that would place the pursuers
on their traces, or give testimony which would cost the life of a
fellow-creature. The citizens of London were loud in their complaints
against the discharged soldiers, for it was upon them that the loss
mainly fell, and it was on their petitions to the king that the sheriffs
of Middlesex and Hertford, Essex, Surrey, and Kent, were generally
stirred up to put down the ill-doers.

Sometimes these hunts were conducted in a wholesale way, and the whole
posse of a county would be called out. Then all found within its limits
who had not land or visible occupation were collected. Any against whom
charges could be brought home were hung without more ado, and the rest
were put on board ship and sent across the sea to the army. Sometimes,
when they found the country becoming too hot for them, these men would
take service with some knight or noble going to the war, anxious to take
with him as strong a following as might be, and not too particular as to
the character of his soldiers.

Walter, being of an adventurous spirit, was sometimes wont of a summer
evening, when his work was done, to wander across the marshes, taking
with him his bow and arrows, and often bringing home a wild duck or two
which he shot in the pools. More than once surly men had accosted him,
and had threatened to knock him on the head if they again found him
wandering that way; but Walter laughed at their threats, and seeing,
that though but an apprentice lad, he might be able to send an arrow as
straight to the mark as another, they were content to leave him alone.

One day when he was well-nigh in the heart of the swamp of Lambeth he
saw a figure making his way across. The hour was already late and the
night was falling, and the appearance of the man was so different
from that of the usual denizens of the swamp that Walter wondered what
business there might be. Scarcely knowing why he did so, Walter threw
himself down among some low brushwood and watched the approaching
figure. When he came near he recognized the face, and saw, to his
surprise, that it was a knight who had but the day before stopped at
the armourer's shop to have two rivets put in his hauberk. He had
particularly noticed him because of the arrogant manner in which he
spoke. Walter had himself put in the rivets, and had thought, as he
buckled on the armour again, how unpleasant a countenance was that of
its wearer. He was a tall and powerful man, and would have been handsome
had not his eyes been too closely set together; his nose was narrow, and
the expression of his face reminded Walter of a hawk. He had now laid
aside his helmet, and his figure was covered with a long cloak.

“He is up to no good,” Walter said to himself, “for what dealings could
a knight honestly have with the ruffians who haunt these swamps. It is
assuredly no business of mine, but it may lead to an adventure, and I
have had no real fun since I left Aldgate. I will follow and see if I
can get to the bottom of the mystery.”

When he came close to the spot where Walter was lying the knight paused
and looked round as if uncertain of his way. For four or five minutes
he stood still, and then gave a shout of “Humphrey” at the top of
his voice. It was answered by a distant “Hallo!” and looking in the
direction from which the answer had come, Walter saw a figure appear
above some bushes some four hundred yards distant. The knight at once
directed his steps in that direction, and Walter crept cautiously after
him.

“A pest upon these swamps and quagmires,” the knight said angrily as he
neared the other. “Why didst not meet me and show me the way through, as
before?”

“I thought that as you had come once you would be able to find your way
hither again,” the man said. “Had I thought that you would have missed
it I would have come ten times as far, rather than have had my name
shouted all over the country. However, there is no one to hear, did you
shout thrice as loud, so no harm is done.”

“I thought I saw a figure a short time since,” the knight said.

The man looked round in all directions.

“I see none,” he said, “and you may have been mistaken, for the light is
waning fast. It were ill for anyone I caught prying about here. But come
in, sir knight; my hovel is not what your lordship is accustomed to, but
we may as well talk there as here beneath the sky.”

The two men disappeared from Walter's sight. The latter in much surprise
crept forward, but until he reached the spot where he had last seen the
speakers he was unable to account for their disappearance. Then he saw
that the spot, although apparently a mere clump of bushes no higher
than the surrounding country, was really an elevated hummock of ground.
Anyone might have passed close to the bushes without suspecting that
aught lay among them. In the centre, however, the ground had been cut
away, and a low doorway, almost hidden by the bushes, gave access into a
half subterranean hut; the roof was formed of an old boat turned bottom
upwards, and this had been covered with brown turf. It was an excellent
place of concealment, as searchers might have passed within a foot of
the bushes without suspecting that aught lay concealed within them.

“A clever hiding place,” Walter thought to himself. “No wonder the posse
search these swamps in vain. This is the lowest and wettest part of the
swamp, and would be but lightly searched, for none would suspect that
there was a human habitation among these brown ditches and stagnant
pools.”

To his disappointment the lad could hear nothing of the conversation
which was going on within the hut. The murmur of voices came to his ear,
but no words were audible; however, he remained patiently, thinking that
perhaps as they came out a word might be said which would give him a
clue to the object of the mysterious interview between a knight and one
who was evidently a fugitive from justice.

His patience was rewarded. In the half hour which he waited the night
had fallen, and a thick fog which was rising over the swamps rendered it
difficult to discern anything at the distance of a few paces.

“You are quite sure that you can manage it?” a voice said as the two men
issued from the hut.

“There is no difficulty in managing it,” the other replied, “if the boat
is punctual to the hour named. It will be getting dusk then, and if one
boat runs into another no one need be surprised. Such accidents will
happen.”

“They will be here just before nightfall,” the other said, “and you will
know the boat by the white mantle the lady will wear. The reward will be
fifty pieces of gold, of which you have received ten as earnest. You
can trust me, and if the job be well done I shall take no count of the
earnest money.

“You may consider it as good as done,” the other replied. “If the boat
is there the matter is settled. Now I will lead you back across the
swamps. I would not give much for your life if you tried to find the way
alone. Who would have thought when you got me off from being hung,
after that little affair at Bruges, that I should be able to make myself
useful to your worship?”

“You may be sure,” the knight replied, “that it was just because I
foresaw that you might be useful that I opened the doors of your cell
that night. It is always handy in times like these to be able to lay
one's hand on a man whom you can hang if you choose to open your mouth.”

“Did it not strike you, sir knight, that it might enter my mind that
it would be very advisable for me to free myself from one who stands
towards me in that relation?”

“Certainly it did,” the knight replied; “but as I happen to be able to
make it for your interest to serve me, that matter did not trouble me.
I knew better than to bring money into this swamp of yours, when I
might be attacked by half a dozen ruffians like yourself; and I took
the precaution of informing Peter, the captain of my men-at-arms, of the
spot to which I was going, bidding him, in case I came not back, to set
a hue and cry on foot and hunt down all who might be found here, with
the especial description of your worthy self.”

Walter could hear no more; he had taken off his shoes and followed them
at a distance, and their voices still acted as a guide to him through
the swamp. But he feared to keep too close, as, although the darkness
would conceal his figure, he might at any moment tread in a pool or
ditch, and so betray his presence. Putting his foot each time to the
ground with the greatest caution, he moved quietly after them. They
spoke little more, but their heavy footsteps on the swampy ground were a
sufficient guidance for him. At last these ceased suddenly. A few words
were spoken, and then he heard returning steps. He drew aside a few
feet and crouched down, saw a dim figure pass through the mist, and then
resumed his way. The ground was firmer now, and, replacing his shoes, he
walked briskly on. As he neared the higher ground along which the road
ran he heard two horsemen galloping away in the distance. He now turned
his face east, and after an hour's walking he reached the armourer's.

“Why, Walter, you are late,” the smith said. “The men are in bed this
hour or more, and I myself can scarce keep awake. Where hast thou been,
my boy?”

“I have been in the swamps and lost my way,” Walter replied.

“It is a bad neighbourhood, lad, and worse are the people who live
there. If I had my way the whole posse should be called out, and the
marshes searched from end to end, and all found there should be knocked
on head and thrown into their own ditches. There would be no fear of any
honest man coming to his end thereby; but now to bed, lad. You can tell
me all about it tomorrow; but we have a rare day's work before us, and
the fire must be alight at daybreak.”

On his way back Walter had debated with himself whether to inform
his master of what had happened. He was, however, bent upon having an
adventure on his own account, and it was a serious thing in those days
for an apprentice lad to bring an accusation against a noble. The city
would not indeed allow even an apprentice to be overridden, and although
Geoffrey Ward's forge stood beyond the city walls it was yet within the
liberties, the city allowing its craftsmen to open shops just outside
the gates, and to enjoy the same privileges as if dwelling actually
within the walls.

On the following afternoon Walter asked leave to cease work an hour
earlier than usual, as he wished to go across into the city. The
armourer was surprised, since this was the first time that such a thing
had happened since the lad had worked for him.

“What are you up to, Walter?--some mischief, I will be bound. Go, lad;
you have worked so steadily that you have well earned more than an
hour's holiday should you want it.”

Walter crossed the bridge, and seeking out four or five of his old
companions, begged them to bring their bows and clubs and rejoin him
at the stairs by London Bridge. To their laughing inquiries whether he
meant to go a-shooting of fish, he told them to ask no questions until
they joined him. As soon as work was over the boys gathered at the
steps, where Walter had already engaged a boat. There were some mocking
inquiries from the watermen standing about as to where they were going
shooting. Walter answered with some light chaff, and, two of the party
taking oars, they started up the river.

“Now I will tell you what we are bent on,” Walter said. “From some words
I overheard I believe that some of the ruffians over in the marshes
are this evening going to make an attack upon a boat with a lady in
it coming down the river. We will be on the spot, and can give them a
reception such as they do not expect.”

“Do you know who the lady is, Walter?”

“I have not the least idea. I only caught a few words, and may be wrong;
still, it will do no harm should I be mistaken.”

The tide was running down strongly, for there had been a good deal of
rain during the preceding week, and all night it had poured heavily. It
was fine now, but the stream was running down thick and turbid, and it
needed all the boys' efforts to force the wherry against it. They rowed
by turns; all were fairly expert at the exercise, for in those days the
Thames was at once the great highway and playground of London. To the
wharves below the bridge ships brought the rich merchandise of Italy and
the Low Countries; while from above, the grain, needed for the wants of
the great city was floated down in barges from the west.

Passing the Temple, the boys rowed along by the green banks and fields
as far as Westminster, which at that time was almost a rival of the
city, for here were the abbey and great monastery; here were the king's
palace and court, and the houses of many of his nobles. Then they went
along by the low shores of Millbank, keeping a sharp lookout for boats
going down with the stream. It was already getting dark, for Walter had
not allowed for the strength of the stream, and he was full of anxiety
lest he should arrive too late.



CHAPTER III: A THWARTED PLOT


A boat was rowing rapidly down the stream. It had passed the village of
Chelsea, and the men were doing their best to reach their destination
at Westminster before nightfall. Two men were rowing; in the stern sat
a lady with a girl about eleven years old. A woman, evidently a servant,
sat beside the lady, while behind, steering the boat, was an elderly
retainer.



“It is getting dark,” the lady said; “I would that my cousin James had
not detained us so long at Richmond, and then after all he was unable to
accompany us. I like not being out on the river so late.”

“No, indeed, my lady,” the woman replied; “I have heard tell lately much
of the doings of the river pirates. They say that boats are often picked
up stove in and broken, and that none know what had become of their
occupants, and that bodies, gashed and hewn, are often found floating in
the river.

“How horrible,” the girl said; “your tale makes me shiver, Martha; I
would you had said nothing about it till we were on land again.

“Do not be afraid, Edith,” the lady said cheerfully; “we shall soon be
safe at Westminster.”

There were now only two or three boats to be seen on the river. They
were nearing the end of their journey now, and the great pile of the
Abbey could be seen through the darkness. A boat with several men in
it was seen rowing across the river towards the Lambeth side. It was
awkwardly managed.

“Look out!” the steersman of the boat coming down stream shouted; “you
will run into us if you don't mind.”

An order was given in the other boat, the men strained to their oars,
and in an instant the boat ran with a crash into the side of the other,
cutting it down to the water's edge. For a minute there was a wild scene
of confusion; the women shrieked, the watermen shouted, and, thinking
that it was an accident, strove, as the boat sank from under them, to
climb into that which had run them down. They were speedily undeceived.
One was sunk by a heavy blow with an oar, the other was stabbed with
a dagger, while the assailants struck fiercely at the old man and the
women.

At this moment, however, a third boat made its appearance on the scene,
its occupants uttering loud shouts. As they rowed towards the spot their
approach was heralded by a shower of arrows. Two of the ruffians were
struck--one fell over mortally wounded, the other sank down into the
boat.


“Row, men, row,” their leader shouted, “or we shall all be taken.”

Again seizing their oars, the rowers started at full speed towards the
Lambeth shore. The arrows of their pursuers still fell among them, two
more of their number being wounded before they reached the opposite
shore. The pursuit was not continued, the newcomers ceasing to row at
the spot where the catastrophe had taken place. Walter stood up in the
boat and looked round. A floating oar, a stretcher, and a sheepskin
which had served as a cushion, alone floated.

Suddenly there was a choking cry heard a few yards down stream, and
Walter leapt into the river. A few strokes took him to the side of the
girl, and he found, on throwing his arm round her, that she was still
clasped in her mother's arms. Seizing them both, Walter shouted to his
comrades. They had already turned the boat's head, and in a minute were
alongside.

It was a difficult task to get the mother and child on board, as the
girl refused to loose her hold. It was, however, accomplished, and
the child sat still and quiet by Walter's side, while his comrades
endeavoured to stanch the blood which was flowing from a severe wound in
her mother's head. When they had bound it up they rubbed her hands, and
by the time they had reached the steps at Westminster the lady opened
her eyes. For a moment she looked bewildered, and then, on glancing
round, she gave a low cry of delight at seeing her child sitting by
Walter's side.

On reaching the steps the boys handed her over to the care of the
watermen there, who soon procured a litter and carried her, she being
still too weak to walk, to the dwelling of the Earl of Talbot, where
she said she was expected. The apprentices rowed back to London Bridge,
elated at the success of their enterprise, but regretting much that they
had arrived too late to hinder the outrage, or to prevent the escape of
its perpetrators.



Walter on his return home related the whole circumstance to his master.

“I would you had told me, Walter,” the latter said, “since we might have
taken precautions which would have prevented this foul deed from
taking place. However, I can understand your wanting to accomplish the
adventure without my aid; but we must think now what had best be said
and done. As the lady belongs to the court, there is sure to be a fine
pother about the matter, and you and all who were there will be examined
touching your share of the adventure, and how you came to be upon the
spot. The others will, of course, say that they were there under your
direction; and we had best think how much of your story you had better
tell.”

“Why should I not tell it all?” Walter asked indignantly.

“You should never tell a lie, Walter; but in days like these it is safer
sometimes not to tell more than is necessary. It is a good rule in life,
my boy, to make no more enemies than may be needful. This knight, who
is doubtless a great villain, has maybe powerful friends, and it is as
well, if it can be avoided, that you should not embroil yourself with
these. Many a man has been knocked on head or stabbed on a dark night,
because he could not keep his tongue from wagging. 'Least said, the
sooner mended,' is a good proverb; but I will think it over tonight, and
tell you in the morning.”

When they met again in the workshop the armourer said: “Clean yourself
up after breakfast, Walter, and put on your best clothes. I will go with
you before the mayor, and then you shall tell him your story. There is
sure to be a stir about it before the day is done. As we walk thither we
can settle how much of your story it is good to tell.”

On their way over the bridge Geoffrey told Walter that he thought he had
better tell the whole story exactly as it had occurred, concealing only
the fact that he had recognized the knight's face. “You had best too,”
 he said, “mention nought about the white cloak. If we can catch the man
of the hut in the swamp, likely enough the rack will wring from him
the name of his employer, and in that case, if you are brought up as a
witness against him you will of course say that you recognize his face;
but 'tis better that the accusation should not come from you. No great
weight would be given to the word of a 'prentice boy as against that of
a noble. It is as bad for earthen pots to knock against brass ones, as
it is for a yeoman in a leathern jerkin to stand up against a knight in
full armour.

“But unless the lady knows her enemy she may fall again into his snares.

“I have thought of that,” Geoffrey said, “and we will take measures to
prevent it.”

“But how can we prevent it?” Walter asked, surprised.

“We must find out who this knight may be, which should, methinks, not
be difficult. Then we will send to him a message that his share in this
night's work is known to several, and that if any harm should ever again
be attempted against the lady or her daughter, he shall be denounced
before King Edward himself as the author of the wrong. I trust, however,
that we may capture the man of the swamp, and that the truth may be
wrung from him.”

By this time they had arrived at the Guildhall, and making their way
into the court, Geoffrey demanded private speech with the Lord Mayor.

“Can you not say in open court what is you business?” the Lord Mayor
asked.



“I fear that if I did it would defeat the ends of justice.”

Retiring with the chief magistrate into an inner room, Geoffrey
desired Walter to tell his story. This he did, ending by saying that
he regretted much that he had not at once told his master what he had
heard; but that, although he deemed evil was intended, he did not know
that murder was meant, and thought it but concerned the carrying off of
some damsel, and that this he had intended, by the aid of his comrades,
to prevent.

“You have done well, Master Walter, since that be your name,” the
magistrate said. “That you might have done better is true, for had you
acted otherwise you might have prevented murder from being done. Still,
one cannot expect old heads upon young shoulders. Give me the names of
those who were with you, for I shall doubtless receive a message from
Westminster this morning to know if I have heard aught of the affair.
In the meantime we must take steps to secure these pirates of the marsh.
The ground is across the river, and lies out of my jurisdiction.”

“It is for that reason,” Geoffrey said, “that I wished that the story
should be told to you privately, since the men concerned might well
have sent a friend to the court to hear if aught was said which might
endanger them.”

“I will give you a letter to a magistrate of Surrey, and he will
despatch some constables under your guidance to catch these rascals. I
fear there have been many murders performed by them lately besides that
in question, and you will be doing a good service to the citizens by
aiding in the capture of these men.

“I will go willingly,” the smith assented.

The Lord Mayor said, after a moment's thought. “It will be quicker; I
will tell the justice that if he will come to the meeting of the roads
on Kennington Common, at seven this evening, you will be there with your
apprentice to act as a guide.”

“I will,” the armourer said, “and will bring with me two or three of my
men who are used to hard blows, for, to tell you the truth, I have no
great belief in the valour of constables, and we may meet with a stout
resistance.”

“So be it,” the Lord Mayor said; “and luck be with you, for these men
are the scourges of the river.”

That evening the armourer shut up his shop sooner than usual, and
accompanied by Walter and four of his workmen, and all carrying stout
oaken cudgels, with hand-axes in their girdles, started along the lonely
road to Kennington. Half an hour after their arrival the magistrate,
with ten men, rode up. He was well pleased at the sight of the
reinforcement which awaited him, for the river pirates might be expected
to make a desperate resistance. Geoffrey advised a halt for a time until
it should be well-nigh dark, as the marauders might have spies set to
give notice should strangers enter the marsh.

They started before it was quite dark, as Walter doubted whether he
should be able to lead them straight to the hut after the night had
completely fallen. He felt, however, tolerably sure of his locality, for
he had noticed that two trees grew on the edge of the swamp just at the
spot where he had left it. He had no difficulty in finding these, and
at once led the way. The horses of the magistrate and his followers were
left in charge of three of their number.

“You are sure you are going right?” the magistrate said to Walter.
“The marsh seems to stretch everywhere, and we might well fall into a
quagmire, which would swallow us all up.

“I am sure of my way,” Walter answered; “and see, yonder clump of
bushes, which you can just observe above the marsh, a quarter of a mile
away, is the spot where the house of their leader is situated.”

With strict injunctions that not a word was to be spoken until the bush
was surrounded, and that all were to step noiselessly and with caution,
the party moved forward. It was now nearly dark, and as they approached
the hut sounds of laughter and revelry were heard.

“They are celebrating their success in a carouse,” Geoffrey said. “We
shall catch them nicely in a trap.”

When they came close, a man who was sitting just at the low mouth of the
hut suddenly sprang to his feet and shouted, “Who goes there?” He had
apparently been placed as sentry, but had joined in the potations going
on inside, and had forgotten to look round from time to time to see that
none were approaching.

At his challenge the whole party rushed forward, and as they reached the
hut the men from within came scrambling out, sword in hand. For two or
three minutes there was a sharp fight, and had the constables been alone
they would have been defeated, for they were outnumbered and the pirates
were desperate.

The heavy clubs of the armourers decided the fight. One or two of the
band alone succeeded in breaking through, the rest were knocked down and
bound; not, however, until several severe wounds had been inflicted on
their assailants.

When the fray was over, it was found that nine prisoners had been
captured. Some of these were stunned by the blows which the smiths had
dealt them, and two or three were badly wounded; all were more or less
injured in the struggle. When they recovered their senses they were made
to get on their feet, and with their hands tied securely behind them
were marched between a double line of their captors off the marsh.

“Thanks for your services,” the justice said when they had gained the
place where they had left their horses. “Nine of my men shall tie each
one of these rascals to their stirrups by halters round their necks, and
we will give them a smart run into Richmond, where we will lodge them in
the jail. Tomorrow is Sunday; on Monday they will be brought before me,
and I shall want the evidence of Master Walter Fletcher and of those who
were in the boat with him as to what took place on the river. Methinks
the evidence on that score, and the resistance which they offered to us
this evening, will be sufficient to put a halter round their necks; but
from what I have heard by the letter which the Lord Mayor sent me, there
are others higher in rank concerned in the affair; doubtless we shall
find means to make these ruffians speak.”

Accordingly, at the justice's orders, halters were placed round the
necks of the prisoners, the other ends being attached to the saddles,
and the party set off at a pace which taxed to the utmost the strength
of the wounded men. Geoffrey and his party returned in high spirits to
Southwark.


On the Monday Walter went over to Richmond, accompanied by the armourers
and by the lads who had been in the boat with him. The nine ruffians,
strongly guarded, were brought up in the justice room. Walter first
gave his evidence, and related how he had overheard a portion of the
conversation, which led him to believe that an attack would be made upon
the boat coming down the river.

“Can you identify either of the prisoners as being the man whom you saw
at the door of the hut?”

“No,” Walter said. “When I first saw him I was too far off to make out
his face. When he left the hut it was dark.”

“Should you know the other man, the one who was addressed as sir knight,
if you saw him again?”

“I should,” Walter replied. He then gave an account of the attack upon
the boat, but said that in the suddenness of the affair and the growing
darkness he noticed none of the figures distinctly enough to recognize
them again. Two or three of the other apprentices gave similar testimony
as to the attack.

A gentleman then presented himself, and gave his name as Sir William
de Hertford. He said that he had come at the request of the Lady Alice
Vernon, who was still suffering from the effects of the wound and
immersion. She had requested him to say that at some future occasion she
would appear to testify, but that in the confusion and suddenness of
the attack she had noticed no faces in the boat which assailed them, and
could identify none concerned in the affair.

The justice who had headed the attack on the hut then gave his evidence
as to that affair, the armourer also relating the incidents of the
conflict.


“The prisoners will be committed for trial,” the justice said. “At
present there is no actual proof that any of them were concerned in
this murderous outrage beyond the fact that they were taken in the place
where it was planned. The suspicion is strong that some at least were
engaged in it. Upon the persons of all of them were valuable daggers,
chains, and other ornaments, which could not have been come by honestly,
and I doubt not that they form part of the gang which has so long been a
terror to peaceful travelers alike by the road and river, and it may
be that some who have been robbed will be able to identify the articles
taken upon them. They are committed for trial: firstly, as having been
concerned in the attack upon Dame Alice Vernon; secondly, as being
notorious ill-livers and robbers; thirdly, as having resisted lawful
arrest by the king's officers. The greatest criminal in the affair is
not at present before me, but it may be that from such information as
Dame Vernon may be able to furnish, and from such confessions as justice
will be able to wring from the prisoners, he will at the trial stand
beside his fellows.”

Walter returned to town with his companions. On reaching the armourer's
they found a retainer of the Earl of Talbot awaiting them, with the
message that the Lady Alice Vernon wished the attendance of Walter
Fletcher, whose name she had learned from the Lord Mayor as that of
the lad to whom she and her daughter owed their lives, at noon on the
following day, at the residence of the Earl of Talbot.

“That is the worst of an adventure,” Walter said crossly, after the
retainer had departed. “One can't have a bit of excitement without being
sent for, and thanked, and stared at. I would rather fight the best
swordsman in the city than have to go down to the mansion of Earl Talbot
with my cap in my hand.”

Geoffrey laughed. “You must indeed have your cap in your hand, Walter;
but you need not bear yourself in that spirit. The 'prentice of a London
citizen may have just as much honest pride and independence as the
proudest earl at Westminster; but carry not independence too far.
Remember that if you yourself had received a great service you would
be hurt if the donor refused to receive your thanks; and it would be
churlish indeed were you to put on sullen looks, or to refuse to accept
any present which the lady whose life you have saved may make you. It
is strange, indeed, that it should be Dame Vernon, whose husband, Sir
Jasper Vernon, received the fiefs of Westerham and Hyde.”

“Why should it be curious that it is she?” Walter asked.

“Oh!” Geoffrey said, rather confusedly. “I was not thinking--that
is--I mean that it is curious because Bertha Fletcher was for years
a dependant on the family of Sir Roland Somers, who was killed in the
troubles when the king took the reins of government in his hands, and
his lands, being forfeit, were given to Sir Jasper Vernon, who aided the
king in that affair.”

“I wish you would tell me about that,” Walter said. “How was it that
there was any trouble as to King Edward having kingly authority?”

“It happened in this way,” Geoffrey said. “King Edward II, his father,
was a weak prince, governed wholly by favourites, and unable to hold in
check the turbulent barons. His queen, Isabella of France, sister of
the French king, a haughty and ambitious woman, determined to snatch the
reins of power from the indolent hands of her husband, and after a
visit to her brother she returned with an army from Hainault in order to
dethrone him. She was accompanied by her eldest son, and after a short
struggle the king was dethroned. He had but few friends, and men thought
that under the young Edward, who had already given promise of virtue and
wisdom, some order might be introduced into the realm. He was crowned
Edward III, thus, at the early age of fifteen, usurping the throne of
his father. The real power, however, remained with Isabella, who was
president of the council of regency, and who, in her turn, was governed
by her favourite Mortimer. England soon found that the change which had
been made was far from beneficial. The government was by turns weak
and oppressive. The employment of foreign troops was regarded with
the greatest hostility by the people, and the insolence of Mortimer
alienated the great barons. Finally, the murder of the dethroned king
excited throughout the kingdom a feeling of horror and loathing against
the queen.

“All this feeling, however, was confined to her, Edward, who was but a
puppet in her hands, being regarded with affection and pity. Soon after
his succession the young king was married to our queen, Philippa of
Hainault, who is as good as she is beautiful, and who is loved from one
end of the kingdom to the other. I can tell you, the city was a sight
to see when she entered with the king. Such pageants and rejoicing
were never known. They were so young, he not yet sixteen, and she but
fourteen, and yet to bear on their shoulders the weight of the state. A
braver looking lad and a fairer girl mine eyes never looked on. It was
soon after this that the events arose which led to the war with France,
but this is too long a tale for me to tell you now. The Prince of Wales
was born on the 15th of June, 1330, two years after the royal marriage.

“So far the king had acquiesced quietly in the authority of his mother,
but he now paid a visit to France, and doubtless the barons around
him there took advantage of his absence from her tutelage to shake her
influence over his mind; and at the same time a rising took place at
home against her authority. This was suppressed, and the Earl of Kent,
the king's uncle, was arrested and executed by Isabella. This act
of severity against his uncle, no doubt, hastened the prince's
determination to shake off the authority of his haughty mother and to
assume the reins of government himself. The matter, however, was not
easy to accomplish. Mortimer having the whole of the royal revenue at
his disposal, had attached to himself by ties of interest a large number
of barons, and had in his pay nearly two hundred knights and a large
body of men-at-arms. Thus it was no easy matter to arrest him. It was
determined that the deed should be done at the meeting of the parliament
at Nottingham. Here Mortimer appeared with Isabella in royal pomp. They
took their abode at the castle, while the king and other members of the
royal family were obliged to content themselves with an inferior place
of residence.

“The gates of the castle were locked at sunset, and the keys brought by
the constable, Sir William Eland, and handed to the queen herself. This
knight was a loyal and gallant gentleman, and regarded Mortimer with no
affection, and when he received the king's commands to assist the barons
charged to arrest him he at once agreed to do so. He was aware of the
existence of a subterranean communication leading from the interior of
the castle to the outer country, and by this, on the night of the 19th
of October, 1330, he led nine resolute knights--the Lords Montague,
Suffolk, Stafford, Molins, and Clinton, with three brothers of the name
of Bohun, and Sir John Nevil--into the heart of the castle. Mortimer was
found surrounded by a number of his friends. On the sudden entry of the
knights known to be hostile to Mortimer his friends drew their swords,
and a short but desperate fight took place. Many were wounded, and Sir
Hugh Turpleton and Richard Monmouth were slain. Mortimer was carried
to London, and was tried and condemned by parliament, and executed for
felony and treason. Several of his followers were executed, and others
were attacked in their strongholds and killed; among these was Sir
Roland Somers.

“Queen Isabella was confined in Castle Risings where she still remains
a prisoner. Such, Walter, were the troubles which occurred when King
Edward first took up the reins of power in this realm; and now, let's
to supper, for I can tell you that my walk to Kingston has given me a
marvellous appetite. We have three or four hours' work yet before we
go to bed, for that Milan harness was promised for the morrow, and the
repairs are too delicate for me to entrust it to the men. It is good to
assist the law, but this work of attending as a witness makes a grievous
break in the time of a busy man. It is a pity, Walter, that your mind
is so set on soldiering, for you would have made a marvellous good
craftsman. However, I reckon that after you have seen a few years of
fighting in France, and have got some of your wild blood let out,
you will be glad enough to settle down here with me; as you know, our
profits are good, and work plentiful; and did I choose I might hold mine
head higher than I do among the citizens; and you, if you join me,
may well aspire to a place in the common council, aye, and even to an
alderman's gown, in which case I may yet be addressing you the very
worshipful my Lord Mayor.”

“Pooh!” Walter laughed; “a fig for your lord Mayors! I would a thousand
times rather be a simple squire in the following of our young prince.”



CHAPTER IV: A KNIGHT'S CHAIN


The following morning Walter put on the sober russet dress which he
wore on Sundays and holidays, for gay colours were not allowed to the
apprentices, and set out for Westminster. Although he endeavoured to
assume an air of carelessness and ease as he approached the dwelling of
Earl Talbot, he was very far from feeling comfortable, and wished in his
heart that his master had accompanied him on his errand. Half a dozen
men-at-arms were standing on the steps of the mansion, who looked with
haughty surprise at the young apprentice.

“Dame Alice Vernon has sent to express her desire to have speech with
me,” he said quietly, “and I would fain know if she can receive me.”

“Here, Dikon,” one of the men cried to another within the hall. “This is
the lad you were sent to fetch yesterday. I wondered much who the city
apprentice was, who with such an assured air, marched up to the door;
but if what thou sayest be true, that he saved the life of Dame Vernon
and her little daughter, he must be a brave lad, and would be more in
place among men and soldiers than in serving wares behind the counter of
a fat city tradesman.

“I serve behind no counter,” Walter said indignantly. “I am an armourer,
and mayhap can use arms as well as make them.”

There was a laugh among the men at the boy's sturdy self-assertion, and
then the man named Dikon said: “Come along, lad. I will take you to Dame
Vernon at once. She is expecting you; and, my faith, it would not be
safe to leave you standing here long, for I see you would shortly be
engaged in splitting the weasands of my comrades.”

There was another roar of laughter from the men, and Walter, somewhat
abashed, followed his conductor into the house. Leading him through the
hall and along several corridors, whose spaciousness and splendour quite
overpowered the young apprentice, he handed him over to a waiting woman,
who ushered him into an apartment where Dame Vernon was reclining on a
couch. Her little daughter was sitting upon a low stool beside her, and
upon seeing Walter she leapt to her feet, clapping her hands.

“Oh! mother, this is the boy that rescued us out of the river.”

The lady looked with some surprise at the lad. She had but a faint
remembrance of the events which occurred between the time when she
received a blow from the sword of one of her assailants and that when
she found herself on a couch in the abode of her kinsman; and when
she had been told that she had been saved by a city apprentice she had
pictured to herself a lad of a very different kind to him who now stood
before her.

Walter was now nearly sixteen years old. His frame was very powerful
and firmly knit. His dark brown hair was cut short, but, being somewhat
longer than was ordinary with the apprentices, fell with a slight wave
back on his forehead. His bearing was respectful, and at the same time
independent. There was none of that confusion which might be expected on
the part of a lad from the city in the presence of a lady of rank. His
dark, heavy eyebrows, resolute mouth, and square chin gave an expression
of sternness to his face, which was belied by the merry expression of
his eyes and the bright smile when he was spoken to.

“I have to thank you, young sir,” she said, holding out her hand, which
Walter, after the custom of the time, raised to his lips, bending upon
one knee as he did so, “for the lives of myself and my daughter, which
would surely have been lost had you not jumped over to save us.

“I am glad that I arrived in time to be of aid,” Walter said frankly;
“but indeed I am rather to be blamed than praised, for had I, when I
heard the plotting against the safety of the boat, told my master of
it, as I should have done, instead of taking the adventure upon mine own
shoulders, doubtless a boat would have been sent up in time to prevent
the attack from taking place. Therefore, instead of being praised for
having arrived a little too late, I should be rated for not having come
there in time.”

Dame Vernon smiled.

“Although you may continue to insist that you are to blame, this does
not alter the fact that you have saved our lives. Is there any way in
which I can be useful to you? Are you discontent with your state? For,
in truth, you look as if Nature had intended you for a gallant soldier
rather than a city craftsman. Earl Talbot, who is my uncle, would, I
am sure, receive you into his following should you so choose it, and I
would gladly pay for the cancelling of your indentures.”

“I thank you, indeed, lady, for your kind offices,” Walter said
earnestly; “for the present I am well content to remain at my craft,
which is that of an armourer, until, at any rate, I have gained such
manly strength and vigour as would fit me for a man-at-arms, and my good
master, Geoffrey Ward, will, without payment received, let me go when I
ask that grace of him.”

“Edith, go and look from the window at the boats passing along the
river; and now,” she went on, as the girl had obeyed her orders, “I
would fain ask you more about the interview you overhead in the marshes.
Sir William de Hertford told me of the evidence that you had given
before the justice. It is passing strange that he who incited the other
to the deed should have been by him termed 'Sir Knight'. Maybe it was
merely a nickname among his fellows.”

“Before I speak, lady,” Walter said quietly, “I would fain know whether
you wish to be assured of the truth. Sometimes, they say, it is wiser to
remain in ignorance; at other times forewarned is forearmed. Frankly, I
did not tell all I know before the court, deeming that peradventure
you might wish to see me, and that I could then tell the whole to your
private ear, should you wish to know it, and you could then bid me
either keep silence or proclaim all I knew when the trial of these
evil-doers comes on.”

“You seem to me to be wise beyond your years, young sir,” the lady said.

“The wisdom is not mine, lady, but my master's. I took counsel with him,
and acted as he advised me.

“I would fain know all,” the lady said. “I have already strange
suspicions of one from whom assuredly I looked not for such evil
designs. It will grieve me to be convinced that the suspicions are well
founded; but it will be better to know the truth than to remain in a
state of doubt.”

“The person then was a knight, for I had seen him before when he came in
knightly harness into my master's shop to have two rivets put into
his hauberk. I liked not his face then, and should have remembered it
anywhere. I knew him at once when I saw him. He was a dark faced knight,
handsome, and yet with features which reminded me of a hawk.”

Dame Vernon gave a little exclamation, which assured the lad that she
recognized the description.

“You may partly know, lady, whether it is he whom you suppose, for he
said that he would detain your boat so that it should not come along
until dark, and, moreover, he told them that they would know the boat
since you would be wrapt in a white mantle.”

The lady sat for some time with her face hidden in her hands.

“It is as I feared,” she said at last, “and it grieves me to the heart
to think that one who, although not so nearly related in blood, I
regarded as a brother, should have betrayed me to death. My mind is
troubled indeed, and I know not what course I shall take, whether to
reveal this dreadful secret or to conceal it.”

“I may say, madam,” Walter said earnestly, “that should you wish the
matter to remain a secret, you may rely upon it that I will tell no
more at the trial than I revealed yesterday; but I would remind you that
there is a danger that the leader of yon ruffians, who is probably alone
acquainted with the name of his employer, may, under the influence of
the torture, reveal it.”

“That fear is for the present past, since a messenger arrived from
Kingston but a few minutes since, saying that yester-even, under the
threat of torture, the prisoners had pointed out the one among their
number who was their chief. This morning, however, it was found that the
warder who had charge of them had been bribed; he was missing from his
post, and the door of the cell wherein the principal villain had been
immured, apart from the others, was opened, and he had escaped.”

“Then,” Walter said, “it is now open to you to speak or be silent as you
will. You will pardon my forwardness if I say that my master, in talking
the matter over with me, suggested that this evil knight might be scared
from attempting any future enterprise against you were he informed that
it was known to several persons that he was the author of this outrage,
and that if any further attempts were at any time made against you, the
proofs of his crime would be laid before the king.”

“Thanks, good lad,” the lady said, “for your suggestion. Should I decide
to keep the matter secret, I will myself send him a message to that
effect, in such guise that he would not know whence it comes. And now, I
would fain reward you for what you have done for us; and,” she went on,
seeing a flush suddenly mount upon the lad's face, as he made a half
step backwards, “before I saw you, had thought of offering you a purse
of gold, which, although it would but poorly reward your services, would
yet have proved useful to you when the time came for you to start as a
craftsman on your own account; but now that I have seen you, I feel that
although there are few who think themselves demeaned by accepting gifts
of money in reward for services, you would rather my gratitude took some
other form. It can only do that of offering you such good services that
I can render with Earl Talbot, should you ever choose the profession of
arms; and in the meantime, as a memento of the lives you have saved, you
will, I am sure, not refuse this chain,” and she took a very handsome
one of gold from her neck; “the more so since it was the gift of her
majesty, our gracious queen to myself. She will, I am sure, acquit me of
parting with her gift when I tell her that I transferred it to one who
had saved the lives of myself and my daughter, and who was too proud to
accept other acknowledgment.”

Colouring deeply, and with tears in his eyes at the kindness and
thoughtful consideration of the lady, Walter knelt on one knee before
her, and she placed round his neck the long gold chain which she had
been wearing.

“It is a knight's chain,” the lady said, smiling, “and was part of the
spoil gained by King Edward from the French. Maybe,” she added kindly,
“it will be worn by a knight again. Stranger things have happened, you
know.”

Walter flushed again with pleasure.

“Maybe, lady,” he said modestly, “even apprentices have their dreams,
and men-at-arms may always hope, by deeds of valour, to attain a
knight's spurs even though they may not be of noble blood or have served
as page and squire to a baron; but whether as a 'prentice or soldier, I
hope I shall never do discredit to your gift.”

“Edith, come here,” Dame Vernon said, “I have done talking now. And
what are you going to give this brave knight of ours who saved us from
drowning.”

The girl looked thoughtfully at Walter. “I don't think you would care
for presents,” she said; “and you look as if a sword or a horse would
suit you better than a girl's gift. And yet I should like to give you
something, such as ladies give their knights who have done brave deeds
for them. It must be something quite my own, and you must take it as a
keepsake. What shall it be, mamma?”

“Give him the bracelet which your cousin gave you last week,” her mother
said; “I would rather that you did not keep it, and I know you are not
very fond of him.”

“I can't bear him,” the girl said earnestly, “and I wish he would not
kiss me; he always looks as if he were going to bite, and I will gladly
give his bracelet to this brave boy.”

“Very well, Edith, fetch the bracelet from that coffer in the corner.”

The girl went to the coffer and brought out the little bracelet, then
she approached Walter.

“You must go down on your knee,” she said; “true knights always do that
to receive their lady's gifts. Now hold out your hand. There,” she
went on in a pretty imperious way, “take this gage as a reward of your
valour, and act ever as a true knight in the service of your lady.”

Bending down she dropt a kiss upon Walter's glowing cheek, and then,
half frightened at her own temerity, ran back to her mother's side.

“And now,” Dame Vernon went on, “will you thank your five comrades for
their service in the matter, and give them each two gold pieces to spend
as they will.”

“He is a noble lad,” Dame Vernon had said to herself when Walter had
taken his leave. “Would he had been the son of one of the nobles of the
court! It might have been then, if he distinguished himself in war, as
he would surely do, that the king might have assigned Edith to him. As
her lord and guardian he is certain to give her hand as a reward for
valour in the field, and it may well be to a man with whom she would
be less happy than with this 'prentice lad; but there, I need not be
troubling myself about a matter which is five or six years distant yet.
Still the thought that Edith is a ward of the crown, and that her hand
must go where the king wills, often troubles me. However, I have a good
friend in the queen, who will, I know, exert what influence she has in
getting me a good husband for my child. But even for myself I have some
fears, since the king hinted, when last he saw me, that it was time I
looked out for another mate, for that the vassal of Westerham and Hyde
needed a lord to lead them in the field. However, I hope that my answer
that they were always at his service under the leading of my cousin
James will suffice for him. Now, what am I to do in that matter? Who
would have thought that he so coveted my lands that he would have slain
me and Edith to possess himself of them? His own lands a thrice as broad
as mine, though men say that he has dipped deeply into them and owes
much money to the Jews. He is powerful and has many friends, and
although Earl Talbot would stand by me, yet the unsupported word of
an apprentice boy were but poor evidence on which to charge a powerful
baron of such a crime as this. It were best, methinks, to say nought
about it, but to bury the thought in my own heart. Nevertheless, I will
not fail to take the precaution which the lad advised, and to let Sir
James know that there are some who have knowledge of his handiwork. I
hear he crosses the seas tomorrow to join the army, and it may be long
ere he return. I shall have plenty of time to consider how I had best
shape my conduct towards him on his return; but assuredly he shall never
be friendly with me again, or frighten Edith with his kisses.”

“Well, Walter, has it been such a dreadful business as you expected?”
 the armourer asked the lad when he re-entered the shop. “The great folks
have not eaten you at any rate.”

“It has not been dreadful,” Walter replied with a smile, “though I own
that it was not pleasant when I first arrived at the great mansion; but
the lady put me quite at my ease, and she talked to me for some time,
and finally she bestowed on me this chain, which our lady, the queen,
had herself given her.”

“It is a knight's chain and a heavy one,” Geoffrey said, examining
it, “of Genoese work, I reckon, and worth a large sum. It will buy you
harness when you go to the wars.”

“I would rather fight in the thickest melee in a cloth doublet,” Walter
said indignantly, “than part with a single link of it.”

“I did but jest, Walter,” Geoffrey said laughing; “but as you will not
sell it, and you cannot wear it, you had best give it me to put aside in
my strong coffer until you get of knightly rank.”

“Lady Vernon said,” the lad replied, “that she hoped one day it might
again belong to a knight; and if I live,” he added firmly, “it shall.”

“Oh! she has been putting these ideas into your head; nice notions truly
for a London apprentice! I shall be laying a complaint before the lord
mayor against Dame Vernon, for unsettling the mind of my apprentice, and
setting him above his work. And the little lady, what said she? Did she
give you her colours and bid you wear them at a tourney?”

Walter coloured hotly.

“Ah! I have touched you,” laughed the armourer; “come now, out with the
truth. My lad,” he added more gravely, “there is no shame in it; you
know that I have always encouraged your wishes to be a soldier, and have
done my best to render you as good a one as any who draws sword 'neath
the king's banner, and assuredly I would not have taken all these pains
with you did I think that you were always to wear an iron cap and trail
a pike. I too, lad, hope some day to see you a valiant knight, and have
reasons that you wot not of, for my belief that it will be so. No man
rises to rank and fame any the less quickly because he thinks that
bright eyes will grow brighter at his success.”

“But, Geoffrey, you are talking surely at random. The Lady Edith Vernon
is but a child; a very beautiful child,” he added reverently, “and such
that when she grows up, the bravest knight in England might be proud
to win. What folly for me, the son of a city bowyer, and as yet but an
apprentice, to raise mine eyes so high!”

“The higher one looks the higher one goes,” the armourer said
sententiously. “You aspire some day to become a knight, you may well
aspire also to win the hand of Mistress Edith Vernon. She is five years
younger than yourself, and you will be twenty-two when she is seventeen.
You have time to make your way yet, and I tell you, though why it
matters not, that I would rather you set your heart on winning Mistress
Edith Vernon than any other heiress of broad lands in merry England. You
have saved her life, and so have made the first step and a long one.
Be ever brave, gentle, and honourable, and, I tell you, you need not
despair; and now, lad, we have already lost too much time in talking;
let us to our work.”

That evening Walter recalled to Geoffrey his promise to tell him the
causes which had involved England in so long and bloody a war with
France.

“It is a tangled skein,” Geoffrey said, “and you must follow me
carefully. First, with a piece of chalk I will draw upon the wall the
pedigree of the royal line of France from Phillip downwards, and then
you will see how it is that our King Edward and Phillip of Valois came
to be rival claimants to the throne of France.

“Now, you see that our King Edward is nephew of Charles le Bel, the last
King of France, while Phillip of Valois is only nephew of Phillip le
Bel, the father of Charles. Edward is consequently in the direct line,
and had Isabella been a man instead of a woman his right to the throne
would be unquestionable. In France, however, there is a law called
the 'Salic' law, which excludes females from the throne; but it is
maintained by many learned in the law, that although a female is held to
be incompetent to reign because from her sex she cannot lead her armies
to battle, yet she no ways forfeits otherwise her rights, and that her
son is therefore the heir to the throne. If this contention, which
is held by all English jurists, and by many in France also, be well
founded, Edward is the rightful King of France. Phillip of Valois
contends that the 'Salic law' not only bars a female from ascending the
throne, but also destroys all her rights, and that the succession goes
not to her sons but to the next heir male; in which case, of course,
Phillip is rightful king. It is not for me to say which view is the
right one, but certainly the great majority of those who have been
consulted have decided that, according to ancient law and usage, the
right lies with Edward. But in these matters 'right is not always
might.' Had Isabella married a French noble instead of an English
king it is probable that her son's claim to the throne would have been
allowed without dispute, but her son is King of England, and the French
nobles prefer being ruled by one of themselves to becoming united with
England under one king.

“At the time of the death of the last king, Edward was still but a boy
under the tuition of his mother, Phillip was a man, and upon the spot,
therefore he was able to win support by presence and promises, and so
it came that the peers of France declared Phillip of Valois to be their
rightful monarch. Here in England, at parliament held at Northampton,
the rights of Edward were discussed and asserted, and the Bishops of
Worcester and Coventry were despatched to Paris to protest against the
validity of Phillip's nomination. As, however, the country was not in
a position to enforce the claim of their young king by arms, Phillip
became firmly seated as King of France, and having shown great energy in
at once marching against and repressing the people of Flanders, who were
in a state of rebellion against their count, one of the feudatories of
the French crown, the nobles were well satisfied with their choice, and
no question as to his right was ever henceforth raised in France. As
soon as the rebellion in Flanders was crushed, Phillip summoned the King
of England to do homage for Aquitaine, Ponthieu and Montreuil, fiefs
held absolutely from the crown of France. Such a proceeding placed
Edward and his council in a great embarrassment. In case of a refusal
the whole of the possessions of the crown in France might be declared
forfeited and be seized, while England was in no condition to defend
them; on the other hand, the fact of doing homage to Phillip of Valois
would be a sort of recognition of his right to the throne he had
assumed. Had Edward then held the reins of power in his hands, there
can be little doubt that he would at once have refused, and would have
called out the whole strength of England to enforce his claim. The
influence of Isabella and Mortimer was, however, all powerful, and
it was agreed that Edward should do homage as a public act, making a
private reservation in secret to his own councillors, taking exception
to the right of Phillip.

“Edward crossed to France and journeyed to Amiens, where Phillip with
a brilliant court awaited him, and on the appointed day they appeared
together in the cathedral. Here Edward, under certain protestations, did
homage for his French estates, leaving certain terms and questions open
for the consideration of his council. For some time the matter remained
in this shape; but honest men cannot but admit that King Edward did, by
his action at the time, acknowledge Phillip to be King of France, and
that he became his vassal for his estates there; but, as has happened
scores of times before, and will no doubt happen scores of times again,
vassals, when they become powerful enough, throw off their allegiance to
their feudal superiors, and so the time came to King Edward.

“After the death of Mortimer and the imprisonment of Isabella, the king
gave rein to his taste for military sports. Tournaments were held at
Dartford and other places, one in Westcheape. What a sight was that, to
be sure! For three days the king, with fourteen of his knights, held the
list against all comers, and in the sight of the citizens and the ladies
of the court, jousted with knights who came hither from all parts of
Europe. I was there each day and the sight was a grand one, though
England was well-nigh thrown into mourning by an accident which took
place. The gallery in which the queen and her attendants were viewing
the sports had been badly erected, and in the height of the contests
it gave way. The queen and her ladies were in great peril, being thrown
from a considerable height, and a number of persons were severely
injured. The king, who was furious at the danger to which the queen had
been exposed, would have hung upon the spot the master workman whose
negligence had caused the accident, but the queen went on her knees
before him and begged his life of the king. The love of Edward for
warlike exercises caused England to be regarded as the most chivalrous
court in Europe, and the frequent tournaments aroused to the utmost the
spirits of the people and prepared them for the war with France. But of
the events of that war I will tell you some other night. It is time now
for us to betake us to our beds.”



CHAPTER V: THE CITY GAMES



The next evening the armourer, at Walter's request, continued his
narrative.

“Soon after the tournament we began to fight again with Scotland. For
some years we had had peace with that country, and under the regency
a marriage was made between David, King of Scotland, son of Robert the
Bruce, and the Princess Joan, sister to our king, and a four years'
truce was agreed to.”

“But why should we always be fighting with Scotland?” Walter asked.

“That is more than I can tell you, Walter. We were peaceful enough with
them until the days of Edward I; but he set up some claim to the throne
of Scotland, the rights of which neither I nor anyone else, so far as I
know, have ever been able to make out. The fact was he was strong,
and thought that he could conquer Scotland. The quarrels between
her nobles--most of them were allied by blood with our own and held
possessions in both kingdoms--gave Edward an excuse to interfere.
Scotland was conquered easily enough, but it was a hard task to hold it.
Sir William Wallace kept the country in a turmoil for many years, being
joined by all the common people. He inflicted one heavy defeat upon us
at Stirling, but receiving no support from the nobles he was defeated at
Falkirk, and some years afterwards was captured and executed here. His
head you may see any day over London Bridge. As he fought only for his
country and had ever refused allegiance to our king, it seems to me that
his fate was a cruel one. Then when all appeared quiet, Robert Bruce
raised Scotland again, and was crowned king. There was war for many
years, but at last, at Bannockburn he inflicted such a defeat upon us
as we have never had before. After that there were skirmishes and
excursions, but Edward II was a weak prince, and it seemed that the
marriage of David and the Princess Joan would bring about a permanent
peace between the two countries; but it was not to be so.”

“Many of the English nobles held claims by marriage or grants upon
lands in Scotland. They had, of course, been driven from these when the
English were turned out by Bruce. By the terms of the marriage treaty
in 1328 it was agreed that they should be reinstated. It was a foolish
clause, because it was plain that the King of Scotland could not take
these lands again from the Scotch nobles who had possession of them,
many of them being well-nigh as powerful as himself. At this time Edward
Baliol, son of the great rival of Robert Bruce, was in England. He still
claimed the throne of Scotland as his right. Round him gathered a number
of the English nobles who claimed lands in Scotland. The king offered
no hindrance to the gathering of this force, for I doubt not that he
was glad to see dissension in Scotland, which might give him some such
pretext for interference as that which Edward I had seized to possess
himself of that country. At first Baliol was successful, and was crowned
at Scone, but he was presently defeated and driven out of Scotland.
The Scots now made an eruption across the frontier as a retaliation
for Edward's having permitted Baliol to gather a force here for his war
against Bruce. King Edward was on the point of starting for Ireland,
and he at once hastened north. He defeated the Scots at Halidon Hill,
captured Berwick, and placed Baliol upon the throne. Bruce fled to
France, where he was supported and encouraged by the French king.”

“The ill feeling between Edward and Phillip of Valois had gone on
increasing ever since the former had been compelled to take the oath of
allegiance to the latter, but outwardly the guise of friendship was
kept up, and negotiations went on between the two courts for a marriage
between the little Prince of Wales and Joanna, daughter of the French
king.”

“The aid which Phillip gave to Bruce increased the bad feeling, and
Edward retaliated for Phillip's patronage of Bruce by receiving with
the greatest honour and courtesy Robert of Artois, a great feudatory of
France, who had been banished by King Phillip. For a time, although
both countries were preparing for war, peace was not broken, as Edward's
hands were full in Scotland, where Baliol having bestowed immense
possessions upon the English nobles who had assisted him, the country
again rose in favour of Bruce. During the three years that followed King
Edward was obliged several times to go to Scotland to support Baliol,
who held the crown as his feudal vassal. He was always successful in
the field, but directly his army recrossed the frontier the Scotch rose
again. In 1330 a new crusade was preached, and in October of that year
King Phillip solemnly received the cross and collected an immense army
nominally for the recovery of Jerusalem. Whether his intentions were
honest or not I cannot say, but certainly King Edward considered that
Phillip's real aim in creating so great an army was to attack England.
Whether this was so or not would need a wiser head than mine, Walter, to
tell. Certainly Phillip of Valois invited Edward to cooperate with
him in the crusade. The king in reply stated his belief that the
preparations were intended for war in Europe rather than in Asia; but
that if the King of France would agree to conclude a firm league of
amity between the two countries, to restore the castles and towns
of Aquitaine, whose surrender had been frequently promised but never
carried out, and would bind himself by oath to give no assistance,
direct or indirect, to Scotland, he would join him in his war for the
delivery of the Holy Land.”

“I must say that King Edward's demands were reasonable, for it was clear
that he could not march away from England with his whole force and leave
Baliol unsupported against the assaults of his Scotch enemies, aided by
France. Phillip was willing to accede to the first two conditions; but
in regard to the third positively declined treating until David Bruce
should be restored to the throne of his father. Now, had the French king
openly supported Bruce from the first, none could have said that his
conduct in befriending a dethroned monarch was aught but noble and
generous; but he had all along answered Edward's complaints of the aid
afforded by Frenchmen to the Bruce by denials that he himself supported
him; and this declaration in his favour now certainly seemed to show
that he had at last determined openly to throw off the veil, and that
his great army was really collected against England. Robert of Artois
craftily seized a moment when the king's indignation against Phillip was
at the highest. At a great banquet held by King Edward, at which all
his warlike nobles were present, Robert entered, preceded by two noble
maidens carrying a heron, which, as you know, Walter, is considered the
most cowardly of birds. Then in loud tones he called upon the knights
present each to swear on the bird to perform some deed of chivalrous
daring. First he presented it to King Edward himself, giving him to
understand that he regarded him but as little braver than the heron for
resigning without a blow the fair heritage of France.”

“The moment was well chosen, for Edward was smarting under the answer
he had just received from Phillip. He at once rose and took an oath to
enter France in arms; to wait there a month in order to give Phillip
time to offer him battle, and to accept the combat, even should the
French outnumber him ten to one. Every knight present followed the
example of the king, and so the war with France, which had been for
years a mere question of time, was at last suddenly decided upon.
You yourself, Walter, can remember the preparations which were made
throughout England: men were enrolled and arms prepared. We armourers
were busy night and day, and every man felt that his own honour, as well
as that of the country, was concerned in winning for King Edward the
heritage of which he had been unlawfully robbed by the King of France.”

“On the 17th of March, 1337, at the parliament at Westminster, the king
created the little prince, then seven years of age, Duke of Cornwall;
and the prince immediately, in exercise of his new dignity, bestowed
upon twenty of the most distinguished aspirants the honour of
knighthood. Immense supplies were voted by the parliaments held at
Nottingham, Westminster, and Northamton. Half the wool shorn in the
summer following was granted to the king, with a variety of other
taxes, customs, and duties. The revenues of all the foreign priories in
England, a hundred and ten in number, were appropriated to the crown.
Provisions of bacon, wheat, and oats were granted, and the king pawned
his own jewels, and even the crown itself, to hire soldiers, and
purchase him allies on the Continent. So great did the scarcity of money
become in the country that all goods fell to less than half their value.
Thus a vast army was raised, and with this King Edward prepared to try
his strength with France.”

“Phillip on his part was making great preparations. While Edward had
purchased the assistance of many of the German nobles Phillip raised
large armaments in the maritime states of Italy. Spain also contributed
a number of naval adventurers, and squadrons were fitted out by his
vassals on the sea coasts of Normandy, Brittany, and Picardy. King
Edward had crossed over into Belgium, and after vast delays in
consequence of the slowness of the German allies, at last prepared to
enter France at the end of September, 1339. Such, my lad, is the story,
as far as I know, of the beginning of that war with France which is now
raging, and whose events you know as well as I do, seeing that they are
all of late occurrence. So far, although the English have had the best
of it, and have sorely mauled the French both in the north and south, we
have not gained any such advantages as would lead to a belief that there
is any likelihood of an early termination, or that King Edward will
succeed for a long time in winning back his inheritance of the throne of
France.”

“There is no doubt that the war weighs heavily upon the people at large.
The taxes are doubled, and the drain of men is heavy. We armourers, of
course, have a busy time of it, and all trades which have to do with the
furnishing of an army flourish exceedingly. Moreover, men of mettle and
valour have an opportunity of showing what they are composed of, and
England rings with the tales of martial deeds. There are some, Walter,
who think that peace is the greatest of blessings, and in some ways,
lad, they are no doubt right; but there are many compensations in war.
It brings out the noble qualities; it raises men to think that valour
and fortitude and endurance and honour are qualities which are something
above the mere huckstering desire for getting money, and for ignoble
ease and comfort. Some day it may be that the world will change, and
that war may become a thing of the past; but to my mind, boy, I doubt
whether men will be any happier or better for it. The priests, no doubt,
would tell you otherwise; but then you see I am an armourer, and so
perhaps am hardly a fair judge on the matter, seeing that without wars
my craft would come to an end.”

Walter remained in thought for some time. “It seems to me, Master
Geoffrey, that while wars may suit strong and courageous men, women
would rejoice were such things to be at an end.”

“Women suffer most from wars, no doubt,” Geoffrey said, “and yet do you
mark that they are more stirred by deeds of valour and chivalry than
are we men; that they are ever ready to bestow their love upon those
who have won honour and glory in war, even although the next battle may
leave them widows. This has been always somewhat of a marvel to me;
but I suppose that it is human nature, and that admiration for deeds of
valour and bravery is ingrained in the heart of man, and will continue
until such times come that the desire for wealth, which is ever on the
increase, has so seized all men that they will look with distaste upon
everything which can interfere with the making of money, and will regard
the man who amasses gold by trading as a higher type than he who does
valiant deeds in battle.”

“Surely that can never be,” Walter said indignantly.

“There is no saying,” the armourer answered; “at any rate, Walter,
it will matter little to you or to me, for many generations must pass
before such a state of things can come about.”

Two days later Walter, who had been across into the city, returned in a
state of excitement.

“What do you think, Geoffrey? The king, with the Prince of Wales and all
his court, are coming to the games next month. They say that the
king himself will adjudge the prizes; and there is to be a grand
assault-at-arms between ten of the 'prentices with a captain, and an
equal number of sons of nobles and knights.”

“That will be rare,” Geoffrey Ward exclaimed; “but there will be some
broken limbs, and maybe worse. These assaults-at-arms seldom end without
two or three being killed. However, you youngsters will not hit as hard
as trained knights; and if the armour be good, no great damage should be
done.”

“Do you think that I shall be one of the ten?” Walter asked anxiously.

“Just as if you did not know you would,” Geoffrey replied, laughing.
“Did you not win the prize for swordplay last year? And twelve months
have added much to the strength of your arm, to say nothing of your
skill with weapons. If you win this year again--and it will be strange
if you do not--you are like enough to be chosen captain. You will
have tough fighting, I can tell you, for all these young aspirants to
knighthood will do their best to show themselves off before the king and
queen. The fight is not to take place on horseback, I hope; for if so,
it will be settled as soon as it begins.”

“No, it is to be on foot; and the king himself is to give orders as to
the fighting.”

“You had best get out that helmet and coat of mail of yours,” Geoffrey
said, “I warrant me that there will be none of finer make or of truer
metal in the tourney, seeing that I made them specially for you. They
are light, and yet strong enough to withstand a blow from the strongest
arm. I tried them hard, and will warrant them proof, but you had best
see to the rivets and fastenings. They had a rough handling last year,
and you have not worn them since. There are some other pieces that
I must put in hand at once, seeing that in such a melee you must be
covered from head to foot.”

For the next week nothing was talked of in London but the approaching
sports, and the workmen were already engaged in the erection of the
lists and pavilions in the fields between the walls and Westminster. It
was reported that the king would add valuable prizes to those given to
the winners by the city; that there would be jousting on horseback by
the sons of the court nobles, and that the young Prince of Wales would
himself ride.


The king had once before taken part in the city sports, and with ten of
the citizens had held his own against an equal number of knights. This
was at the commencement of his reign; but the accident to the queen's
stand had so angered him that he had not again been present at the
sports, and his reappearance now was considered to be an act of approval
of the efforts which the city had made to aid him in the war, and as an
introduction of the young prince to the citizens.

When the day arrived there was a general flocking out of the citizens to
the lists. The scene was a picturesque one; the weather was bright and
warm; the fields were green; and Westminster, as well as London, sent
out large numbers to the scene. The citizens were all in their best;
their garments were for the most part of somber colours--russet, murrey,
brown, and gray. Some, indeed, of the younger and wealthier merchants
adopted somewhat of the fashion of the court, wearing their shoes long
and pointed, and their garments parti-coloured. The line of division was
down the centre of the body; one leg, arm, and half the body would be
blue, the other half russet or brown. The ladies' dresses were similarly
divided. Mingling with the citizens, as they strolled to and fro upon
the sward, were the courtiers. These wore the brightest colours, and
their shoes were so long that the points were looped up to the knees
with little gold chains to enable them to walk. The ladies wore
headdresses of prodigious height, culminating in two points; and
from these fell, sweeping to the ground, streamers of silk or lighter
material. Cloths of gold and silver, rich furs, silks, and velvets, were
worn both by men and women.

None who saw the nobles of the court walking in garments so tight that
they could scarce move, with their long parti-coloured hose, their silk
hoods buttoned under the chin, their hair braided down their back, would
have thought that these were the most warlike and courageous of knights,
men whose personal prowess and gallantry were the admiration of Europe.
Their hair was generally cut close upon the forehead, and the beard was
suffered to grow, but was kept trimmed a moderate length. Many of the
ladies had the coat-of-arms of their family embroidered upon their
dresses, giving them the appearance of heralds' tabards. Almost all wore
gold or silver girdles, with embroidered pouches, and small daggers.

Thus the appearance of the crowd who moved about among the fields near
the lists was varied and brilliant indeed. Their demeanour was quiet,
for the London merchants deemed a grave demeanour to belong to their
calling, and the younger men and apprentices restrained their spirits
in the presence of their superiors. For their special amusement, and in
order, perhaps, to keep them from jostling too freely against the court
gallants and ladies, the city authorities had appointed popular sports
such as pleased the rougher classes; and bull baiting, cock-fighting,
wrestling for a ram, pitching the bar, and hand ball, were held in
a field some distance away. Here a large portion of the artisans and
apprentices amused themselves until the hour when the king and queen
were to arrive at their pavilion, and the contests were to commence.

Presently a sound of trumpets was heard, and the royal procession was
seen moving up from Westminster. Then the minor sports were abandoned;
the crowd gathered round the large fenced-in space, and those who,
by virtue of rank or position in the city, had places in the various
stands, took their places there.

There was a flourish of trumpets as the king and queen appeared in front
of the pavilion, accompanied by the Prince of Wales and many of the
nobles of the court, and a shout of welcome arose from the crowd. The
shooting at a mark at once began. The preliminary trials had been shot
off upon the preceding day, and the six chosen bowmen now took their
places.

Walter had not entered for the prizes at archery. He had on previous
years shot well; but since he had fully determined to become a
man-at-arms he had given up archery, for which, indeed, his work at the
forge and his exercises at arms when the fires were out, left him but
little time. The contest was a close one, and when it was over the
winner was led by the city marshal to the royal pavilion, where the
queen bestowed upon him a silver arrow, and the king added a purse of
money. Then there were several combats with quarterstaff and broadsword
between men who had served among the contingents sent by the city to
aid the king in his wars. Some good sword-play was shown and many stout
blows exchanged, two or three men were badly hurt, and the king and all
present were mightily pleased with the stoutness with which they fought.

The apprentices then came forward to compete for the prizes for
sword-play. They wore light iron caps and shirts of thickly quilted
leather, and fought with blunted swords, for the city fathers deemed
wisely that with these weapons they could equally show their skill, and
that with sharpened swords not only would severe wounds be given, but
bad blood would be created between the apprentices of the various wards.
Each ward sent its champion to the contest, and as these fought in
pairs, loud was the shouting which rose from their comrades at each blow
given or warded, and even the older citizens joined sometimes in the
shouting and took a warm interest in the champions of their respective
wards.

The iron caps had stout cheek-pieces which defended the sides of the
face and neck, for even a blunted sword can deliver a terrible blow if
it fall upon the naked flesh. It took a long time to get through the
combats; the pairs were drawn by lot, and fought until the king decided
which was the superior. Some were speedily beaten, at other times
the contests were long and severe. It was generally thought by the
apprentices that the final contest lay between Walter Fletcher of
Aldgate and Ralph Smith of Ludgate. The former was allowed to be
superior in the use of his weapon, but the latter was also skilful, was
two years older, and greatly superior in strength. He had not taken part
in the contest in the preceding year, as he had been laid up with a hurt
in his hand which he had got in his employment as a smith, and the
lads of Ludgate were confident that he would turn the tables upon the
champion of the eastern ward. Both had defeated with ease the various
opponents whom they had met, but it chanced that they had not drawn
together until the last round, when they remained alone to struggle for
the first and second prizes.

The interest in the struggle had increased with each round, and wagers
were freely laid upon the result. According to custom the two champions
had laid aside their leathern shirts and had donned mail armour, for it
was considered that the crowning contest between the two picked young
swordsmen of the city would be a severe one, and greater protection to
the limbs was needed.

Before taking their places they were led up to the royal pavilion, where
they were closely inspected by the king and his nobles.

“You are sure that this man is still an apprentice?” the king asked
the Lord Mayor, who was seated next to him; “he has the appearance of a
man-at-arms, and a stout one too; the other is a likely stripling, and
is, as I have seen, marvellously dexterous with his sword, but he is but
a boy while the other is a grown man.

“He is an apprentice, my liege, although his time will be up in a few
days, while the other has yet three years to serve, but he works for
an armourer, and is famed through the city, boy as he is, for his skill
with weapons.”

After a few words to each, exhorting them to do their best in the sight
of the queen and her ladies, the king dismissed them.

“I know the young one now!” the Prince of Wales said, clapping his hands
as the apprentices turned away to take their places. “My Lord Talbot, I
will wager a gold chain with you upon the smaller of the two.”

“I will take your wager,” the noble answered; “but I am by no means sure
that I shall win it, for I have watched your champion closely, and
the downright blows which he struck would seem to show that he has the
muscle and strength of a man though still but a boy.”

The event justified the Prince of Wales's confidence; at the
commencement of the struggle Ralph Smith tried to beat down his opponent
by sheer strength as he had done his prior opponents, but to his
surprise he found that all his efforts could not break down his
opponent's guard. Walter indeed did not appear to take advantage of his
superior lightness and activity, but to prefer to prove that in strength
as well as skill he was equal to his antagonist. In the latter respect
there was no comparison, for as soon as the smith began to relax his
rain of blows Walter took the offensive and with a sweeping blow given
with all his strength broke down his opponent's guard and smote him with
such force upon his steel cap that, blunted as the sword was, it clove
through the iron, and stretched the smith senseless on the ground. A
loud shout broke from the assemblage. The marshal came up to Walter,
and removing his helmet, led him to the royal pavilion, while Ralph was
carried to a tent near, where a leech attended his wound.



CHAPTER VI: THE MELEE



“You have won your prize stoutly and well, sir 'prentice,” the king said.
“I should not have deemed it possible that one of your age could have
smitten such a blow, and right glad should I be of a few hundred lads of
your mettle to follow me against the French. What is your calling?”

“I am an armourer, my liege,” Walter answered.

“And you are as good at mending armour as you are at marring it,” the
king said, “you will be a rare craftsman one of these days. 'Tis a rare
pity so promising a swordsman should be lost to our army. Wouldst like
to change your calling, boy, and take to that of arms?”

“It is my hope to do so, sir,” Walter answered modestly, “and his grace
the Prince of Wales has already promised me that I shall some day ride
behind him to the wars.”

“Ah! Edward,” the king ejaculated, “how is this? Have you been already
enlisting a troop for the wars?”

“No, sir,” the young prince replied, “but one day, now some four years
since, when I was riding with my Lord Talbot and others in the fields
near the Tower I did see this lad lead his play-fellows to the assault
of an earthen castle held by others, and he fought so well and gallantly
that assuredly no knight could have done better, until he was at last
stricken senseless, and when he recovered I told him that should he
choose to be a man-at-arms I would enlist him in my following to the
wars.”

The king laughed.

“I deemed not that the lads of the city indulged in such rough sports;
but I wonder not, seeing that the contingent which my good city of
London furnishes me is ever one of the best in my army. We shall see
the lad at work again tomorrow and will then talk more of it. Now let us
bestow upon him the prize that he has so well earned.”

Walter bent on one knee, and the queen handed to him a sword of the best
Spanish steel, which was the prize given by the city to the victor. The
king handed him a heavy purse of gold pieces, saying:

“This may aid in purchasing your freedom.”

Walter bowed deeply and murmured some words of thanks, and was then led
off by the marshal. After this many of the young nobles of the court
jousted on horseback, ran at the ring, and performed other feats of
knightly exercise to the great pleasure of the multitude. The marshal on
leading Walter away said to him, “You will be captain of the city band
tomorrow, and I must therefore tell you what the king purports. He
has prepared a surprise for the citizens, and the present show will
be different to anything ever before seen in London. Both to show them
somewhat of the sieges which are taking place on the borders of France
and the Low Countries, in which Sir Walter Manny and many other gallant
knights have so greatly distinguished themselves, and as an exercise
for the young nobles, he has determined that there shall be a castle
erected. It will be built of wood, with battlements and towers, with a
moat outside. As soon as the lists are over a large number of workmen
will commence its erection; the pieces are all sawn and prepared. There
will be machines, ladders, and other appliances. The ten champions on
either side will fight as knights; you will have a hundred apprentices
as men-at-arms, and the court party will have an equal number of young
esquires. You, as winner of today's tourney, will have the choice of
defence or attack. I should advise you to take the defence, since it is
easier and requires less knowledge of war, and many of the other party
have accompanied their fathers and masters in the field and have seen
real sieges carried out.”

“Can you show me a plan of the castle,” Walter said, “if it be not
contrary to the rules, in order that I may think over tonight the plan
of fighting tomorrow?”

“Here it is,” the marshal said. “You see that the walls are 200 feet
long, they are 12 feet in height, with a tower at the end and one over
the gateway in the centre six feet high. There is a drawbridge defended
by an outwork of palisades six feet high. The moat will be a dry one,
seeing that we have no means of filling it with water, but it will be
supposed to be full, and must be crossed on planks or bridges. Two small
towers on wheels will be provided, which may be run up to the edge of
the moat, and will be as high as the top of the towers.

“Surely they cannot make all this before morning?” Walter said.

“They will do so,” the marshal replied. “The castle has been put
together in the king's courtyard, and the pieces are all numbered.
Two hundred carpenters will labour all night at it, besides a party of
labourers for the digging of the moat. It will be a rare show, and will
delight both the citizens and the ladies of the court, for such a thing
has never before been attempted. But the king grudges not the expense
which it will cost him, seeing that spectacles of this kind do much to
arouse the warlike spirit of the people. Here is a list of the various
implements which will be provided, only it is understood that the
mangonels and arblasts will not be provided with missiles, seeing that
many would assuredly be killed by them. They will be employed, however,
to show the nature of the work, and parties of men-at-arms will be told
off to serve them. Crossbows and arrows will be used, but the weapons
will be blunted. You will see that there are ladders, planks for making
bridges, long hooks for hauling men down from the wall, beams for
battering down the gate, axes for cutting down the palisades, and all
other weapons. The ten who will serve under you as knights have already
been nominated, and the city will furnish them with full armour. For
the others, the apprentices of each ward will choose sufficient
representatives to make up the hundred, who will fight as men-at-arms;
these will wear steel caps and breastpieces, with leather jerkins,
and vizors to protect their faces, for even a blunted arrow or wooden
quarrel might well kill if it struck true.”

On leaving the marshal Walter joined Giles Fletcher and Geoffrey Ward,
who warmly congratulated him upon his success. He informed them of the
spectacle which the king had prepared for the amusement of the citizens
on the morrow.

“In faith,” Geoffrey said, “the idea is a good one, and promises rare
sport, but it will be rough, and we may expect many broken limbs, for it
be no joke to be thrown down with a ladder from a wall even twelve feet
high, and there will be the depth of the moat besides.”

“That will only be two feet,” Walter said, “for so it is marked on the
plan.”

“And which do you mean to take, Walter, the attack or the defence?
Methinks the king has erred somewhat in making the forces equal, for
assuredly the besiegers should outnumber the besieged by fully three to
one to give them a fair chance of success.”

“I shall take the assault,” Walter answered; “there is more to be done
that way than in the defence. When we get home, Geoffrey, we will look
at the plans, and see what may be the best manner of assault.”

Upon examining the plan that evening they found that the wall was
continued at an angle at either end for a distance of some twenty feet
back so as to give a postern gate behind each of the corner towers
through which a sortie might be made. Geoffrey and Walter talked
the matter over, and together contrived a plan of operation for the
following day.

“You will have one great advantage,” Geoffrey said. “The apprentices are
all accustomed to the use of the bow, while the young nobles will
know but little of that weapon; therefore your shooting will be far
straighter and truer, and even a blunt-headed arrow drawn from the
shoulder will hit so smart a blow that those on the wall will have
difficulty in withstanding them.”

After the talk was ended Walter again crossed London Bridge, and made
his way to Ludgate, where he found his late antagonist, whose head had
been plastered up, and was little the worse for the conflict.

“There is no ill-will between us, I hope,” Walter said, holding out his
hand.

“None in the world,” the young smith said frankly. He was a
good-tempered-looking young giant, with closely-cropped hair, light-blue
eyes, and a pleasant but somewhat heavy face.

“My faith but what a blow was that you gave me; why, one would think
that your muscles were made of steel. I thought that I could hit a good
downright blow, seeing that I have been hammering at the anvil for
the last seven years; but strike as I would I could not beat down your
guard, while mine went down, as if it had been a feather, before yours.
I knew, directly that I had struck the first blow, and felt how firm was
your defence, that it was all up with me, knowing that in point of skill
I had no chance whatever with you.

“I am glad to see that you bear no malice, Ralph,” Walter said, “and
hope that we shall be great friends henceforth, that is, if you will
take me as such, seeing that you are just out of your apprenticeship,
while I am not yet half through mine. But I have come to talk to you
about tomorrow. Have you heard that there is to be a mimic siege?”

“I have heard about it,” Ralph said. “The city is talking of nothing
else. The news was published at the end of the sports. It will be rare
fun, surely.”

“It will be pretty rough fun,” Walter replied; “and I should not be much
surprised if some lives are lost; but this is always so in a tournament;
and if knights and nobles are ready to be killed, we apprentices need
not fear to hazard our lives. But now as to tomorrow. I, as the winner
today, am to be the leader of the party, and you, as second, will of
course be captain under me. Now I want to explain to you exactly what
I propose to do, and to arrange with you as to your share in the
business.”

The young smith listened attentively to Walter's explanation, and, when
he had done, exclaimed admiringly: “Why, Walter, you seem to be made for
a general. How did it all come to you, lad? I should never have thought
of such a scheme.”

“I talked it over with my master,” Walter said, “and the idea is his as
much as mine. I wonder if it will do.”

“It is sure to do,” the smith said enthusiastically. “The castle is as
good as taken.”

The next day all London poured out to the scene of the sports, and the
greatest admiration and wonder were expressed at the castle, which had
risen, as if by magic, in the night. It was built at one end of the
lists, which had been purposely placed in a hollow, so that a great
number of people besides those in the pavilions could obtain a view
from the surrounding slopes. The castle was substantially built of heavy
timber painted gray, and looked at a little distance as if constructed
of stone. A flag floated from the central tower, and the building looked
so formidable that the general opinion was freely expressed that the
task of the assailants, whoever they might be--for at present this was
unknown--was quite impossible. At ten o'clock the king and his court
arrived. After they had taken their places the two bands, headed by
their leaders, advanced from the lower end of the lists, and drew up
in front of the royal pavilion. The leaders took their places in front.
Behind them stood ten chosen followers, all of whom, as well as their
chiefs, were encased in full armour. Behind, on one side, were 100
apprentices, on the other 100 esquires, all attired as men-at-arms. The
court party were led by Clarence Aylmer, son of the Earl of Pembroke.
His companions were all young men of noble family, aspirants for the
order of knighthood. They were, for the most part, somewhat older than
the apprentices, but as the latter consisted chiefly of young men nearly
out of their term the difference was not great. Walter's armour was a
suit which the armourer had constructed a year previously for a young
knight who had died before the armour could be delivered. Walter had
wondered more than once why Geoffrey did not endeavour to sell it
elsewhere, for, although not so decorated and inlaid as many of the
suits of Milan armour, it was constructed of the finest steel, and the
armourer had bestowed special care upon its manufacture, as the young
knight's father had long been one of his best customers. Early that
morning Geoffrey had brought it to his room and had told him to wear it
instead of that lent by the city.

“But I fear it will get injured,” Walter had urged. “I shall not spare
myself, you know, Geoffrey, and the blows will be hard ones.

“The more need for good armour, Walter. These city suits are made for
show rather than use. You may be sure that young Pembroke and his band
will fight their hardest rather than suffer defeat at the hands of those
whom they consider a band of city varlets.”

Before issuing from the tent where he and his companions had put on
their mail Walter carefully fastened in the front of his helmet a tiny
gold bracelet. Upon taking their places before the pavilion the king
ordered the two leaders to advance, and addressed them and the multitude
in the following words:

“Brave leaders, and you, my people, I have contrived the pastime today
that I may show you on a mimic scale the deeds which my brave soldiers
are called upon to perform in France. It is more specially suited for
the combatants of today, since one party have had but small opportunity
of acquiring skill on horseback. Moreover, I wish to teach the lesson
that fighting on foot is as honourable as fighting on horseback, for
it has now been proved, and sometimes to our cost, in Scotland, that
footmen can repulse even the bravest chivalry. Today each party will
fight his best. Remember that, even in the heat of conflict, matters
must not be carried to an extreme. Those cut off from their friends will
be accounted prisoners, as will those who, being overpowered, throw
down their arms. Any wounded on either side will not be accounted as
prisoners, but may retire with honour from the field. You,” he said,
looking at Walter, “as the conqueror of yesterday, have the choice
of either the attack or defence; but I should advise you to take the
latter, seeing it is easier to defend a fortress than to assault it.
Many of your opponents have already gained credit in real warfare, while
you and your following are new to it. Therefore, in order to place the
defence on fair terms with the assault, I have ordered that both sides
shall be equal in numbers.”

“If your liege will permit me,” Walter said bowing, “I would fain take
the assault. Methinks that, with my following, I could do better thus
than in defence.”

The king looked somewhat displeased.

“As you will,” he said coldly; “but I fear this will somewhat mar the
effect of the spectacle seeing that you will have no chance whatever
against an equal force, more accustomed to war than your party, and
occupying so superior a position. However,” he went on, seeing that
Walter made no sign of changing his mind, “as you have chosen, so be
it; and now it is for you to choose the lady who shall be queen of the
tourney and shall deliver the prizes to the victors. Look round you;
there are many fair faces, and it is for you to choose among them.”

Smiles passed between many of the courtly dames and ladies at the choice
that was to be made among them by the apprentice lad; and they thought
that he would be sorely puzzled at such a duty. Walter, however, did
not hesitate an instant. He ran his eye over the crowd of ladies in the
royal gallery, and soon saw the object of his search.

“Since I have your majesty's permission,” he said, “I choose, as queen
of the tournament, Mistress Edith Vernon.”

There was a movement of surprise and a general smile. Perhaps to all
who thought that they had a chance of being chosen the selection was a
relief, as none could be jealous of the pretty child, who, at the king's
order, made her way forward to the front, and took her seat in a chair
placed between the king and queen. The girl coloured brightly; but she
had heard so much of tourneys and jousts that she knew what was her
duty. She had been sitting far back on the previous day, and the
apprentice, when brought up before the king, was too far below for her
to see his features. She now recognized him.

“Sir Knights,” she said in a loud, clear, childish voice, “you will both
do your duty today and show yourselves worthy cavaliers. Methinks that,
as queen of the tourney, I should be neutral between you, but as one of
you carries my gage in his helm, my good wishes must needs go with him;
but bright eyes will be fixed on you both, and may well stir you to
deeds of valour.”

So saying, she resumed her seat with a pretty air of dignity.

“Why, sweetheart,” the king said, “how is it that this 'prentice lad
knows your name, and how is it that he wears your gage, for I know that
the young Pembroke wears the glove of the Earl of Surrey's daughter?”

“He saved my life, sir, mine and my mother's,” the child said, “and I
told him he should be my true knight, and gave him my bracelet, which
you see he wears in his helm.”

“I recall somewhat of the story,” the king said, “and will question
my Lady Vernon further anon; but see, the combatants are filing off to
their places.”

With flags flying and trumpets blowing young Pembroke led his forces
into the castle. Each of his ten knights was followed by an esquire
bearing his banner, and each had ten men-at-arms under his immediate
order. Two of them, with twenty men, remained in the outwork beyond the
drawbridge. The rest took their station on the walls, and towers,
where a platform had been erected, running along three feet below the
battlements. The real men-at-arms with the machines of war now advanced,
and for a time worked the machines, which made pretence at casting great
stones and missiles at the walls. The assailants then moved forward and,
unslinging their bows, opened a heavy fire of arrows at the defenders,
who, in turn, replied with arrows and cross-bows.

“The 'prentices shoot well,” the king said; “by our lady, it would be
hot work for the defenders were the shafts but pointed! Even as it
is the knocks must be no child's play, for the arrows, although not
pointed, are all tipped with iron, without which, indeed, straight
shooting would be impossible.”

The return fire from the walls was feeble, and the king said, laughing,
“So far your knight, fair mistress, has it all his own way. I did not
reckon sufficiently upon the superiority of shooting of the London lads,
and, indeed, I know not that I ought not in fairness to order some of
the defenders off the walls, seeing, that in warfare, their numbers
would be rapidly thinned. See, the assailants are moving up to the two
towers under shelter of the fire of the archers.”

By this time Aylmer, seeing that his followers could make no effectual
reply to the arrow fire, had ordered all, save the leaders in full
armour, to lie down behind the parapet. The assailants now gathered
thickly round each tower, as if they intended to attempt to cross by the
bridges, which could be let down from an opening in the tower level with
the top of the wall, while archers upon the summit shot fast and thick
among the defenders who were gathering to oppose them.

“If the young Pembroke is wise,” the king said, “he will make a strong
sally now and fall upon one or other of the parties.”

As he spoke there was a sudden movement on the part of the assailants,
who, leaving the foot of the towers, made a rush at the outwork in the
centre. The instant they arrived they fell to work with axes upon
the palisades. Many were struck down by the blows dealt them by the
defenders, but others caught up the axes and in less than a minute
several of the palisades were cut down and the assailants poured in. The
defenders fought gallantly, but they were overpowered by numbers. Some
were struck down, others taken prisoners by main force, and the
rest driven across the drawbridge, just as the gates were opened and
Pembroke, at the head of the defenders, swarmed out to their assistance.

There was a desperate fight on the bridge, and it was well that the
armour was stout, and the arms that wielded the weapons had not yet
attained their full strength. Several were knocked off the bridge into
the moat, and these were, by the rules, obliged at once to retire and
take no further part in the contest. Walter and Ralph the smith, fought
in front of their men, and hard as Pembroke and his followers struggled,
they could not drive them back a foot. The court party were galled by
the heavy fire of arrows kept up by the apprentices along the side of
the moat, and finding all his efforts to regain the earth-work useless,
Pembroke withdrew his forces into the castle, and in spite of the
efforts of the besiegers managed to close the gates in their faces. The
assailants, however, succeeded in severing the chains of the drawbridge
before it could be raised.

From the tower above, the defenders now hurled over great stones,
which had been specially placed there for the purpose of destroying
the drawbridge should the earthwork be carried. The boards were soon
splintered, and the drawbridge was pronounced by the Earl of Talbot, who
was acting as judge, to be destroyed. The excitement of the spectators
was worked up to a great pitch while the conflict was going on, and the
citizens cheered lustily at the success of the apprentices.

“That was gallantly done,” the king said to Queen Philippa, “and the
leader of the assailants is a lad of rare mettle. Not a captain of
my army, no, not Sir Walter Manny himself, could have done it more
cleverly. You see, by placing his forces at the ends of the wall he drew
all the garrison thither to withstand the assaults from them, and thus
by his sudden movement he was able to carry the outwork before they
could recover from their surprise, and come down to its aid. I am
curious to know what he will do next. What thinkst thou, Edward?” he
asked his son, who was standing by his side.

“He will win the day,” the young prince said; “and in faith, although
the others are my comrades, I should be glad to see it. He will make a
gallant knight, sir, one of these days, and remember he is engaged to
follow my banner, so you must not steal him from me. See, my liege, they
are taking planks and ladders to the outwork.”

“They are doing wrongly then,” the king said, “for even should they
bridge the moat where the drawbridge is, they cannot scale the wall
there, since the tower defends it, and the ladders are but long enough
to reach the lower wall. No, their leader has changed his mind, they are
taking the planks along the edge of the moat towards the tower on the
left, and will aid the assault by its bridge by a passage of the moat
there.”

It seemed, indeed, that this was the plan. While some of the assailants
kept up the arrow fire on the wall others mounted the tower, while a
party prepared to throw a bridge of planks across the moat. The bridge
from the tower was now lowered; but a shout of triumph rose from the
defenders when it was seen that by some mistake of the carpenters this
was too short, and when lowered did not reach within six feet of the
wall.

“All the better,” the king said, while the prince gave an angry
exclamation. “Accidents of this kind will happen, and give an
opportunity to a leader to show his resources. Doubtless he will carry
planks up to the tower and so connect the bridge and the wall.”

This, indeed, was what the assailants tried to do, while a party threw
planks across the moat, and rushing over placed ladders against the
wall and strove to climb. They strove in vain, however. The ladders were
thrown down as fast as they were placed, while the defenders, thickly
clustered on the walls, drove back those who tried to cross from the
tower.

“I do not see the leader of the assailants,” the prince said.

“He has a white plume, but it may have been shorn off,” the king said.
“Look, the young Pembroke is making a sortie!”

From the sortie gate behind the tower the defenders now poured out,
and running down to the edge of the moat fell upon the stormers. These,
however, received them with great steadiness, and while some continued
the attack the rest turned upon the garrison, and, headed by Ralph the
smith, drove them gradually back.

“They fight well and steadily,” the king said. “One would have thought
that they had reckoned on the sortie, so steadily did they receive it.”

As only a portion of the garrison had issued out they were unable to
resist long the pressure of the apprentices, who drove them back step
by step to the sally-port, and pressing them hard endeavoured to force
their way in at their heels.



CHAPTER VII: THE YOUNG ESQUIRE


While the attention of the whole of the spectators and combatants was
fixed upon the struggle at the right-hand angle of the castle, a party
of twenty 'prentices suddenly leapt to their feet from among the
broken palisades of the outwork. Lying prone there they had escaped the
attention of the spectators as well as of the defenders. The reason
why the assailants carried the planks and ladders to this spot was
now apparent. Only a portion had been taken on to the assault of the
right-hand tower; those who now rose to their feet lifted with them
planks and ladders, and at a rapid pace ran towards the left angle
of the castle, and reached that point before the attention of the few
defenders who remained on the wall there was attracted to them, so
absorbed were they in the struggle at the other angle. The moment that
they saw the new assailants they raised a shout of alarm, but the din of
the combat, the shouts of the leaders and men were so loud, that their
cries were unheard. Two or three then hurried away at full speed to give
the alarm, while the others strove to repel the assault. Their efforts
were in vain. The planks were flung across the moat, the ladders placed
in position, and led by Walter the assailants sprang up and gained a
footing on the wall before the alarm was fairly given. A thundering
cheer from the spectators greeted the success of the assailants.
Springing along the wall they drove before them the few who strove to
oppose them, gained the central tower, and Walter, springing up to the
top, pulled down the banner of the defenders and placed that of the city
in its place. At this moment the defenders, awakened too late to the
ruse which had been played upon them, came swarming back along the wall
and strove to regain the central tower. In the confusion the assault by
the flying tower of the assailants was neglected, and at this point also
they gained footing on the wall. The young nobles of the court, furious
at being outwitted, fought desperately to regain their lost laurels. But
the king rose from his seat and held up his hand. The trumpeter standing
below him sounded the arrest of arms, which was echoed by two others who
accompanied Earl Talbot, who had taken his place on horseback close to
the walls. At the sound swords dropt and the din abruptly ceased, but
the combatants stood glaring at each other, their blood too heated to
relinquish the fray readily.

Already much damage had been done. In spite of armour and mail many
serious wounds had been inflicted, and some of the combatants had
already been carried senseless from the field. Some of the assailants
had been much shaken by being thrown backward from the ladders into
the moat, one or two were hurt to death; but as few tourneys took place
without the loss of several lives, this was considered but a small
amount of damage for so stoutly fought a melee, and the knowledge
that many were wounded, and some perhaps dying, in no way damped the
enthusiasm of the spectators, who cheered lustily for some minutes at
the triumph which the city had obtained. In the galleries occupied by
the ladies and nobles of the court there was a comparative silence.
But brave deeds were appreciated in those days, and although the ladies
would far rather have seen the victory incline the other way, yet they
waved their handkerchiefs and clapped their hands in token of their
admiration at the success of an assault which, at the commencement,
appeared well-nigh hopeless.

Lord Talbot rode up to the front of the royal pavilion.

“I was about to stop the fight, sire, when you gave the signal. Their
blood was up, and many would have been killed had the combat continued.
But the castle was fairly won, the central tower was taken and the flag
pulled down, a footing had been gained at another point of the wall,
and the assailants had forced their way through the sally-port. Further
resistance was therefore hopeless, and the castle must be adjudged as
fairly and honourably captured.”

A renewed shout greeted the judge's decision. The king now ordered the
rival hosts to be mustered before him as before the battle, and when
this was done Earl Talbot conducted Walter up the broad steps in front
of the king's pavilion. Geoffrey Ward, who had, after fastening on
Walter's armour in the tent, before the sports began, taken his place
among the guards at the foot of the royal pavilion, stept forward and
removed Walter's helmet at the foot of the steps.

“Young sir,” the king said, “you have borne yourself right gallantly
today, and have shown that you possess the qualities which make a great
captain. I do my nobles no wrong when I say that not one of them could
have better planned and led the assault than you have done. Am I not
right, sirs?” and he looked round. A murmur of assent rose from the
knights and nobles, and the king continued: “I thought you vain and
presumptuous in undertaking the assault of a fort held by an equal
number, many of whom are well accustomed to war, while the lads who
followed you were all untrained in strife, but you have proved that
your confidence in yourself was not misplaced. The Earl of Talbot has
adjudged you victor, and none can doubt what the end of the strife would
have been. Take this chain from your king, who is glad to see that his
citizens of London are able to hold their own even against those of our
court, than whom we may say no braver exist in Europe. Kneel now to the
queen of the tourney, who will bestow upon you the chaplet which you
have so worthily earned.”

Walter bent his knee before Edith Vernon. She rose to her feet, and with
an air of pretty dignity, placed a chaplet of laurel leaves, wrought in
gold and clasped with a valuable ruby, on his head.

“I present to you,” she said, “the chaplet of victory, and am proud that
my gage should have been worn by one who has borne himself so bravely
and well. May a like success rest on all your undertakings, and may you
prove a good and valiant knight!”

“Well said, Mistress Edith,” Queen Philippa said smiling. “You may well
be proud of your young champion. I too must have my gift,” and drawing a
ring set with brilliants from her finger she placed it in Walter's hand.

The lad now rose to his feet. “The prince my son,” the king said, “has
promised that you shall ride with his men-at-arms when he is old enough
to take the field. Should you choose to abandon your craft and do so
earlier I doubt not that one of my nobles, the brave Sir Walter Manny,
for example, will take you before that time.”

“That will I readily enough,” Sir Walter said, “and glad to have so
promising a youth beneath my banner.”

“I would that you had been of gentle blood,” the king said.

“That makes no difference, sire,” Sir Walter replied. “I will place him
among the young gentlemen, my pages and esquires, and am sure that they
will receive him as one of themselves.”

Geoffrey Ward had hitherto stood at the foot of the steps leading to
the royal pavilion, but doffing his cap he now ascended. “Pardon my
boldness, sire,” he said to the king, “but I would fain tell you
what the lad himself has hitherto been ignorant of. He is not, as he
supposes, the son of Giles Fletcher, citizen and bowmaker, but is the
lawfully born son of Sir Roland Somers, erst of Westerham and Hythe, who
was killed in the troubles at the commencement of your majesty's reign.
His wife, Dame Alice, brought the child to Giles Fletcher, whose wife
had been her nurse, and dying left him in her care. Giles and his wife,
if called for, can vouch for the truth of this, and can give you proofs
of his birth.”

Walter listened with astonishment to Geoffrey's speech. A thrill of
pleasure rushed through his veins as he learned that he was of gentle
blood and might hope to aspire to a place among the knights of King
Edward's court. He understood now the pains which Geoffrey had bestowed
in seeing that he was perfected in warlike exercises, and why both he
and Giles had encouraged rather than repressed his love for martial
exercises and his determination to abandon his craft and become a
man-at-arms when he reached man's estate.

“Ah is it so?” the king exclaimed. “I remember Sir Roland Somers, and
also that he was slain by Sir Hugh Spencer, who, as I heard on many
hands, acted rather on a private quarrel than, as he alleged, in my
interest, and there were many who avowed that the charges brought
against Sir Roland were unfounded. However, this matter must be inquired
into, and my High Justiciar shall see Master Giles and his wife, hear
their evidence, and examine the proofs which they may bring forward.
As to the estates, they were granted to Sir Jasper Vernon and cannot
be restored. Nevertheless I doubt not that the youth will carve out for
himself a fortune with his sword. You are his master, I suppose? I would
fain pay you to cancel his apprenticeship. Sir Walter Manny has promised
to enroll him among his esquires.”

“I will cancel his indentures willingly, my liege,” the armourer
answered, “and that without payment. The lad has been to me as a son,
and seeing his high spirit, and knowing the gentle blood running in his
veins, I have done my best so to teach him and so to put him in the way
of winning back his father's rank by his sword.”

“He hath gone far towards it already,” the king said, “and methinks
may yet gain some share in his father's inheritance,” and he glanced
at little Mistress Edith Vernon and then smiled at the queen. “Well,
we shall see,” he went on. “Under Sir Walter Manny he will have brave
chances of distinguishing himself, and when my son takes the field he
shall ride with him. But I am keeping the hosts waiting. Bring hither,”
 he said to Earl Talbot, “Clarence Aylmer.”

The young noble was led up to the king. “You have done well, Clarence;
though you have been worsted you fought bravely, but you were deceived
by a ruse which might have taken in a more experienced captain. I trust
that you will be friends with your adversary, who will be known to you
henceforth as Walter Somers, son of Sir Roland of that name, and who
will ride to the wars, whither you also are shortly bound, under the
standard of Sir Walter Manny.”

The cloud which had hung over the face of the young noble cleared. It
had indeed been a bitter mortification to him that he, the son of one
of the proudest of English nobles, should have been worsted by a London
apprentice, and it was a relief to him to find that his opponent was one
of knightly blood. He turned frankly to Walter and held out his hand.
“I greet you as a comrade, sir,” he said, “and hope some day that in our
rivalry in the field I may do better than I have done today.”

“That is well spoken,” the king said. Then he rose and in a loud voice
addressed the combatants, saying, that all had borne themselves well and
bravely, and that he thanked them, not only for the rare pastime which
they had made, but for the courage and boldness which had been displayed
on both sides. So saying, he waved his hand as a token that the
proceedings were ended, and returned with the court to Westminster;
while the crowd of spectators overflowed the lists, those who had
friends in the apprentice array being anxious to know how they had
fared. That evening there was a banquet given by the lord-mayor.
Walter was invited to be present, with Giles and Geoffrey, and many
complimentary things were said to him, and he was congratulated on the
prospects which awaited him. After dinner all the 'prentices who had
taken part in the sports filed through the hall and were each presented
with a gold piece by the lord-mayor, in the name of the corporation, for
having so nobly sustained the renown of the city.

After the entertainment was over Walter returned with Geoffrey to the
bowyer's house, and there heard from his two friends and Bertha the
details of his mother's life from the time that she had been a child,
and the story of her arrival with him, and her death. He had still
difficulty in believing that it was all true, that Giles and Bertha,
whom he had so long regarded as father and mother, were only his kind
guardians, and that he was the scion of two noble families. Very warmly
and gratefully he thanked his three friends for the kindness which they
had shown to him, and vowed that no change of condition should ever
alter his feelings of affection towards them. It was not until the late
hour of nine o'clock that he said goodbye to his foster parents, for he
was next day to repair to the lodging of Sir Walter Manny, who was to
sail again before the week was out for the Low Countries, from which he
had only returned for a few days to have private converse with the king
on the state of matters there. His friends would have delivered to him
his mother's ring and other tokens which she had left, but thought it
better to keep these, with the other proofs of his birth, until his
claim was established to the satisfaction of the lord justiciaries.

The next morning early, when Walter descended the stairs, he found Ralph
Smith waiting for him. His face was strapped up with plaster and he wore
his arm in a sling, for his armour had been twice cut through as he led
his party in through the sally-port.

“How goes it with you, Ralph?” Walter said. “Not much the worse, I hope,
for your hard knocks?”

“Not a whit,” Ralph replied cheerfully, “and I shall be all right again
before the week is out; but the leech made as much fuss over me as if I
had been a girl, just as though one was not accustomed to hard knocks in
a smithy. Those I got yesterday were not half so hard as that which you
gave me the day before. My head rings yet with the thought of it. But I
have not come to talk about myself. Is the story true which they tell of
you, Master Walter, that you are not the son of Giles the bowyer, but of
a great noble?”

“Not of a great noble, Ralph, but of a gallant knight, which is just
as good. My father was killed when I was three years old, and my mother
brought me to Bertha, the wife of Giles the bowyer, who had been her
nurse in childhood. I had forgotten all that had passed, and deemed
myself the son of the good citizen, but since I have heard the truth my
memory has awakened somewhat, and I have a dim recollection of a lordly
castle and of my father and mother.”

“And they say, Walter, that you are going with Sir Walter Manny, with
the force which is just sailing to the assistance of Lady De Montford.”

“That is so, Ralph, and the good knight has taken me among his esquires,
young as I am, although I might well have looked for nothing better than
to commence, for two years at least, as a page, seeing that I am but
eighteen now. Now I shall ride with him into the battles and shall have
as good a chance as the others of gaining honour and winning my spurs.”

“I have made up my mind that I will go with you, Master Walter, if you
will take me; each squire has a man-at-arms who serves him, and I will
give you good and faithful service if you will take me with you. I spoke
to the smith, my master, last night when I heard the news, and as my
apprenticeship is out next week he was willing enough to give me the
few days which remain. Once out of my apprenticeship I may count to be
a man, and seeing that I am nineteen, and as I may say well grown of
my years, methinks I am fit for service as a man-at-arms, and I would
rather fight behind you than labour all my life in the smithy.”

“I shall be glad indeed, Ralph, to have you with me if such be really
your wish, and I do not think that Sir Walter Manny will say nay, for
they have been beating up for recruits through the kingdom, and we
proved yesterday that you have courage as well as strength. If he will
consent I should be glad indeed to have so brave a comrade with me, so
we may consider that settled, and if you will come down to Westminster,
to Sir Walter Manny's lodging, this afternoon, I will tell you what he
says touching the matter. You will, of course, need arms and armour.”

“I can provide that,” Ralph replied, “seeing that his worshipful the
lord-mayor bestowed upon me yesterday five gold pieces as the second in
command in the sports. I have already a steel cap and breast and back
pieces, which I have made for myself in hours of leisure, and warrant
will stand as hard a knock as the Frenchmen can give them.”

Going across into the city with Geoffrey, Walter purchased, with the
contents of the purse which the king had given him, the garments suited
for his new position. He was fortunate in obtaining some which fitted
him exactly. These had been made for a young esquire of the Earl of
Salisbury; but the tailor, when he heard from Geoffrey for whom they
were required, and the need for instant despatch, parted with them to
Walter, saying that he for whom they were made could well wait a few
days, and that he would set his journeymen to work at once to make some
more of similar fit and fashion.

Walter felt strange in his new attire, and by no means relished the
tightness of the garments, which was strictly demanded by the fashion of
the day. His long hose, one of which was of a deep maroon, the other
a bright yellow, came far up above the knee, then came a short pair
of trunks of similar colours divided in the middle. The tight-fitting
doublet was short and circled at the waist by a buff belt mounted in
silver, and was of the same colours as the hose and trunks. On his
head was a cap, peaked in front; this was of maroon, with a short
erect feather of yellow. The long-pointed shoes matched the rest of the
costume. There were three other suits similar in fashion, but different
in colour; two like the first were of cloth, the third was of white and
blue silk, to be worn on grand occasions.


“You look a very pretty figure, Walter,” Geoffrey said, “and will be
able to hold your own among the young gallants of the court. If you lack
somewhat of courtly manners it will matter not at all, since you are
leaving so soon for the wars.

“The dress sets off your figure, which is fully two years in advance of
your age, seeing that hard work has widened you out and thickened your
muscles. I need not tell you, lad, not to be quarrelsome, for that was
never your way; but just at first your companions may try some jests
with you, as is always the manner of young men with newcomers, but take
them in a good spirit and be sure that, seeing the strength of arm and
skill which you showed yesterday and the day before, none will care to
push matters with you unduly.”

One of the journeymen accompanied Walter to Westminster to carry up from
the boat the valise with his clothes and the armour which he had worn
in the sports. Sir Walter received the lad with much kindness and
introduced him to his future companions. They were five in number;
the eldest was a man of some thirty years old, a Hainaulter, who had
accompanied Sir Walter Manny to England at the time when the latter
first came over as a young squire in the suite of the Princess Philippa.
He was devotedly attached to the knight, his master, and although he
might several times have received the rank of knighthood for his bravery
in the field, he preferred remaining in his position as esquire and
faithful friend of his master.

The other four were between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, and all
belonged to the families of the highest nobility of England, it being
deemed a distinguished honour to be received as a squire by the most
gallant knight at the court of England. Their duties were, as Walter
soon learned, almost nominal, these being discharged almost exclusively
by John Mervaux. Two of the young esquires, Richard Coningsby and Edward
Clifford, had fought in the melee, having been among the ten leaders
under Clarence Aylmer. They bore no malice for the defeat, but received
Walter with cordiality and kindness, as did the other young men. Walter
on his arrival acquainted the knight with Ralph's wish to follow him,
and requested permission for him to do so. This was readily granted,
Sir Walter Manny telling the lad that although esquires were supposed
to wait entirely upon themselves, to groom their horses, and keep their
armour and arms bright and in good order, yet, in point of fact, young
men of good families had the greater part of these duties performed for
them by a retainer who rode in the ranks of their master's following as
a man-at-arms.

“The other esquires have each one of their father's retainers with them,
and I am glad that you should be in the same position. After you have
taken your midday meal you had best go across to the Earl of Talbot's
and inquire for the Lady Vernon, who is still staying with him. She told
me at the king's ball last night that she wished to have speech with
you, and I promised to acquaint you with her desire. By the way, dost
know aught of riding?”

“I have learnt to sit on a horse, Sir Walter,” the lad answered. “My
good friend Geoffrey, the armourer, advised that I should learn, and
frequently hired from the horse-dealer an animal for my use. I have
often backed half-broken horses which were brought up by graziers from
Kent and Sussex for use in the wars. Many of them abode at the hostels
at Southwark, and willingly enough granted me permission to ride their
horses until they were sold. Thus I have had a good deal of practice,
and that of a rough kind; and seeing that latterly the horses have, for
the most part, found it difficult to fling me when sitting barebacked
across them, I think I could keep my seat in the high-peaked saddles on
the most vicious, but I have had no practice at tilting, or at the ring,
or other knightly exercises.”

“That matters not at all,” the knight said. “All these knightly
exercises which you speak of are good in time of peace, for they give
proficiency and steadiness, but in time of war he who can sit firmly
in his saddle and wield sword and battle-axe lustily and skillfully is
equal to the best; but never fear, when this expedition is over, and we
have time for such things, I will see that you are instructed in them.
One who has achieved so much martial skill as you have done at so early
an age will have little difficulty in acquiring what may be termed the
pastime of chivalry.”

Ralph arrived just as Walter was setting out. The latter presented
him to the knight, who spoke with praise of the gallantry which he had
displayed on the previous day, and then handed him over to John Mervaux,
with instructions to enroll him as a man-at-arms among his followers, to
inform him of his duties, and to place him with those who attended upon
the other esquires.

After seeing Ralph disposed of, Walter went across to the Earl of Talbot
and was again conducted to the presence of Dame Vernon.

“You have changed since we met last, young sir,” she said with a smile,
“though it is but a month since. Then you were a 'prentice boy, now you
are an esquire of Sir Walter Manny, and on the highway to distinction.
That you will win it I am well assured, since one who risked his life to
rescue a woman and child whose very names were unknown to him is sure to
turn out a noble and valiant knight. I little thought when my daughter
called you her knight, that in so short a time you might become an
aspirant to that honour. I hope that you do not look askance at us,
now that you know I am in possession of the lands of your parents. Such
changes of land, you know, often occur, but now I know who you are, I
would that the estates bestowed upon Sir Jasper had belonged to some
other than you; however, I trust that you will hold no grudge against
us, and that you may win as fair an estate by the strength of your arm
and the king's favour.”

“Assuredly I feel no grudge, madam,” Walter replied, “and since the
lands were forfeited, am pleased that of all people they should have
gone to one so kind and so fair as yourself.”

“What, learning to be a flatterer already!” Dame Vernon laughed. “You
are coming on fast, and I predict great things from you. And now, Edith,
lay aside that sampler you are pretending to be so busy upon and speak
to this knight of yours.”

Edith laid down her work and came forward. She was no longer the
dignified little queen of the tournament, but a laughing, bright-faced
girl.

“I don't see that you are changed,” she said, “except in your dress. You
speak softly and naturally, just as you used to do, and not a bit like
those little court fops, Uncle Talbot's pages. I am afraid you will
not want to be my knight any more, now that you are going to get great
honours at the war; for I heard my Uncle Talbot tell my lady mother that
he was sure you would gain great credit for yourself.”

“I shall be always your knight,” Walter said earnestly; “I told you I
should, and I never break my word. That is,” he went on, colouring, “if
Dame Vernon makes no objection, as she well might.”

“If I did not object before, Walter,” she said smiling, “why should I do
so now?”

“It is different, my lady; before, it was somewhat of a jest, a sort
of childish play on the part of Mistress Edith, though so far as I was
concerned it was no play, but sober earnest.

“It needs no permission from me,” Dame Vernon replied, “for you to wear
my daughter's colours. Any knight may proclaim any lady he chooses the
mistress of his heart, and a reigning beauty will often have a dozen
young knights who wear her colours. However, I am well content that one
who has done me such great service and who has shown such high promise
should be the first to wear the gage of my little daughter, and if in
after years your life fulfils the promise of your youth, and you remain
true to her gage, there is none among all the youths of the court whom
I would so gladly see at her feet. Remember,” she said, as Walter was
about to speak, “her hand will not be at my disposal, but at that of the
king. His majesty is wont to bestow the hands of his wards upon those
who most distinguish themselves in the field. You have already attracted
his royal attention and commendation. Under Sir Walter Manny you will be
sure of opportunities of distinguishing yourself, and the king may well
be glad some day at once to reward your services and to repair a cruel
injustice by bestowing upon you the hand of the heiress of your father's
lands. If I mistake not, such a thought has even now crossed his
majesty's mind, unless I misinterpreted a glance which yesterday passed
between him and our sweet queen. I need not tell you to speak of your
hopes to none, but let them spur you to higher exertions and nobler
efforts. Loving my little Edith as I do, I naturally consider the prize
to be a high one. I have often been troubled by the thought that her
hand may be some day given to one by years or temper unsuited for
her, and it will be a pleasure to me henceforth to picture her future
connected with one who is, I am sure, by heart and nature fitted for
her. And now, farewell, young sir. May God protect you in the field, and
may you carry in the battle which awaits you the gage of my daughter as
fairly and successfully as you did in the mimic fray of yesterday!”



CHAPTER VIII: OFF TO THE WARS


Two days later Walter started with Sir Walter Manny, with a large number
of knights, squires, men-at-arms, and archers, for the Orwell. Walter
was mounted, as were the other squires and men-at-arms, and indeed
many of the archers. Ralph Smith, in the attire of a man-at-arms, rode
behind.

Walter was in the highest spirits. A brilliant career was open to him
under the most favourable circumstances; he had already distinguished
himself, and had gained the attention of the highest personages in the
realm, his immediate lord was one of the bravest and most chivalrous
knights in Europe, and he had to sustain and encourage him the hopes
that Lady Vernon had given him, of regaining some day the patrimony of
his father. It was a satisfaction to him that he was as well born as
those who surrounded him, and his purse was well lined as any in the
company. Although he had spent the largess which had been bestowed upon
him at the tournament in procuring clothes fitted for his rank, he was
yet abundantly supplied with money, for both Geoffrey Ward and Giles
Fletcher, having no children of their own and being both well-to-do men,
had insisted upon his accepting a sum which would enable him to make a
good appearance with the best.

A large number of squires followed the banner of Sir Walter Manny. The
records of the time show that the barons were generally accompanied in
the field by almost as many squires as men-at-arms. The former were men
of good family, sons of knights and nobles, aspirants for the honour of
knighthood, and sons of the smaller gentry. Many were there from pure
love of a life of excitement and adventure, others in fulfilment of the
feudal tenure by which all land was then held, each noble and landowner
being obliged to furnish so many knights, squires, men-at-arms, and
archers, in accordance with the size of his holding. The squires fought
in the field in the front rank of the men-at-arms, save those who, like
Walter, were attached to the person of their leader, and who in the
field fought behind him or bore his orders to the companies under his
banner.

In the field all drew pay, and it may be interesting in the present
day to know what were the rates for which our forefathers risked their
lives. They were as follows: each horse archer received 6 deniers, each
squire 12 deniers or 1 sol, each knight 2 sols, each knight banneret 4
sols. 20 sols went to the pound, and although the exact value of money
in those days relative to that which it bears at the present time is
doubtful, it may be placed at twelve times the present value. Therefore
each horse archer received an equivalent to 6s. a day, each squire 12s.,
each knight 24s., and each knight banneret 48s. per day.

Upon their arrival at the Orwell, where many troops from other parts
had been gathered, the expedition at once embarked on board the numerous
ships which had been collected. As that in which Sir Walter sailed also
carried several of his knights there was not room for all his young
esquires, and Walter and the three other juniors were told off into
another ship. She was a smaller vessel than most of those which composed
the expedition, and only carried twelve men-at-arms and as many archers,
together with the four young squires, and a knight, Sir John Powis, who
was in command of the whole.

“Your craft is but a small one,” the knight said to the captain.

“She is small, but she is fast,” the latter answered. “She would sail
round and round the best part of the fleet. I had her built according to
my own fancy. Small though she be, I warrant you she will be one of the
first to arrive at Hennebon, and the sooner the better say I, since I am
but paid by the trip, and would fain be back again at my regular work.
It pays better carrying merchants' goods between London and Holland than
taking his majesty's troops over to France.”

“Your speed will not be of much avail,” Sir John Powis said, “seeing
that the fleet will keep together.”

“Yes, I know that is the order,” the captain answered; “but accidents
happen sometimes, you know”--and his eye twinkled. “Vessels get
separated from fleets. If they happen to be slow ones so much the worse
for those on board; if they happen to be fast ones so much the better,
seeing that those they carry will arrive long before their comrades, and
may be enabled to gain credit and renown while the others are whistling
for a wind in mid-ocean. However, we shall see.”

The next morning the fleet sailed from the Orwell. It contained 620
men-at-arms, among whom were many of the noblest and bravest of the
country, and 6000 picked archers in the pay of the king. The whole were
commanded by Sir Walter. The scene was a very gay one. The banners of
the nobles and knights floated from the lofty poops, and the sun shone
on bright armour and steel weapons. Walter, who had never seen the
sea before, was delighted. The wind was fair, and the vessels glided
smoothly along over the sea. At evening the knight and his four young
companions gathered in the little cabin, for it was in the first week in
March, and the night was cold.

“Will you please tell me, Sir John,” Walter said to the knight, “the
merits of this quarrel in which we are going to fight? I know that we
are going in aid of the Countess of Montford; but why she is in a sore
strait I know not.”

“The matter is a mixed one, Walter, and it requires a herald to tell you
all the subtleties of it. John III, Duke of Brittany, was present with
his liege lord, Phillip of Valois, in the last war with England, on the
border of the low country. When the English retired from before Tournay
Phillip dismissed his nobles. The Duke of Burgundy was taken ill, and
died at Caen, in Normandy, on the 30th of April, 1341. Arthur II, his
father, had been twice married. By his first wife he had three sons,
John, Guy, and Peter. John and Peter left no issue. Guy, who is also
dead, left a daughter, Joan. By his second wife, Jolande de Dieux, Duke
Arthur had one son, John, Count of Montford. Thus it happened, that
when Duke John died, his half-brother, the Count of Montford, and
Joan, daughter of his second brother Guy, were all that survived of
the family. These were the rival claimants for the vacant dukedom. In
England we have but one law of succession, which rules through the whole
land. In France it is different. There the law of succession depends
entirely upon the custom of the county, dukedom, or lordship, which is
further affected both by the form of grant by which the territory was
conveyed to its first feudal possessors and by the mode in which the
province had been acquired by the kings of France. This is important,
as upon these circumstances alone it depended whether the son or the
granddaughter of Arthur II should inherit the dukedom.

“Joan claimed the duchy as the daughter of the elder brother. The Salic
law of France, which barred females from the right of succession, and in
virtue of which Philip of Valois succeeded to the throne instead of King
Edward, certainly did not obtain in Brittany. Duke John regarded Joan as
his heiress, and married her to Charles of Blois, nephew of the King of
France, thus strengthening her in her position; and he also induced
the provincial parliament of Brittany to acknowledge her husband as his
successor in the dukedom. Altogether it would seem that right is upon
Joan's side; but, on the other hand, the Count of Montford is the son
of Jolande, a great heiress in Brittany. He is an active and energetic
noble. The Bretons love not too close a connection with France, and
assuredly prefer to be ruled by a duke whom they regard as one of
themselves rather than by Charles of Blois, nephew of the French
king. Directly Duke John was dead the Count of Montford claimed the
inheritance. Assuming the title of duke he rode to Nantes, where the
citizens did him homage, and then proceeded to Limoges with a large
train of men-at-arms, and there took possession of the immense treasures
which the late duke had accumulated in the course of a long and tranquil
reign. With these sinews of war at his command he turned to Nantes,
where he had left his wife the countess, who was a sister of the Count
of Flanders. He immediately invited the nobility of Brittany to a grand
banquet, but only one knight of any renown presented himself at the
feast, the rest all holding aloof. With the wealth of which he had
possessed himself he levied large forces and took the field. He first
marched against Brest, where the garrison, commanded by Walter de
Clisson, refused to acknowledge him. After three days' hard fighting the
place was taken. Rennes was next besieged, and presently surrendered.
Other towns fell into his hands, and so far as Brittany was concerned
all opposition, except in one or two fortresses, ceased. In the
meanwhile Charles of Blois sought assistance from his uncle the King
of France; the Count de Montford, therefore, crossed to England and
besought the aid of King Edward, and did homage to him as King of
France. Edward, on his part, promised to assist him. The fact that
Phillip was sure to espouse the opposite side was in itself sufficient
to decide him; besides which, the dukes of Brittany have always been in
a special way connected with England and bear the English title of Earls
of Richmond.

“Believing that his journey, which had been a secret one, was unknown to
the King of France, De Montford went boldly to Paris, where he had been
summoned by the king to an assembly of peers called to decide upon the
succession. He found, however, that Phillip had already obtained news
of his journey to England. His manner convinced De Montford that it was
unsafe to remain in Paris, and he secretly made his escape. Fifteen days
afterwards the peers gave judgment in favour of Charles of Blois. The
Dukes of Normandy, Burgundy, and Bourbon, the Counts of Alencon, Eu, and
Guisnes, and many other French nobles, prepared to lead an army into
the field to support Charles, and the king added a body of 3000 Genoese
mercenaries in his pay.

“Knowing the storm that was preparing to break upon him, De Montford put
every town and castle in a state of defence. He himself, confiding in
the affection of the inhabitants of Nantes, remained in that city, while
his wife repaired to Rennes.

“The Duke of Normandy advanced from Angiers with an army of 5000
men-at-arms and a numerous infantry, and after capturing the castle of
Chantoceaux marched to Nantes and laid siege to the city. A sortie was
made by the besieged, led by Henry de Leon, but, being attacked by the
whole of the French army, they were driven back into the town, a great
many of the citizens being killed. A warm altercation took place between
Henry de Leon and De Montford, who attributed to him the evil result
of the sortie. The result was that a large number of the citizens whose
friends had been captured by the French conspired to deliver up the
place to Charles of Blois, and Henry de Leon also entered into private
negotiations with the Duke of Normandy. De Montford, finding that he
could rely neither upon the citizens nor the soldiers, surrendered to
the duke on condition that his life was spared. He was sent to Paris,
where he still remains a prisoner. Winter was coming on, and after
putting Nantes in a fresh state of defence and leaving Charles of Blois
there, the Duke of Normandy dismissed his forces, engaging them to
reassemble in the spring. Had he pushed on at once he would have
experienced no resistance, so great was the panic which the surrender
of Nantes and the capture of De Montford had caused among the latter's
partisans.

“In Rennes, especially, the deepest despondency was felt. The countess,
however, showed the greatest courage and firmness. Showing herself,
with her infant in her arms, she appealed to the citizens, and by her
courageous bearing inspired them with new hopes. Having restored
heart at Rennes she traveled from garrison to garrison throughout the
province, and filled all with vigour and resolution. Feeling, however,
the hopelessness of her struggle against all France, she despatched Sir
Almeric de Clisson, who had lately joined her party, to England, to ask
the aid which the king had promised. He arrived a month since, and, as
you see, our brave king has not been long in despatching us to her aid;
and now, youngsters, to bed, for methinks that the sea is rougher than
it was and that the wind is getting up.”

“Aye, that is it,” the captain, who heard the knight's closing words,
exclaimed. “We are in for a storm, and a heavy one, or my name is not
Timothy Martin, and though with plenty of sea-room the Kitty makes not
much ado about a storm more or less, it's a very different thing in the
middle of a fleet of lubberly craft, which may run one down at any time.
I shall edge out of them as soon as I can, you may be sure.”

Before morning a serious gale was blowing, and for the next three or
four days Walter and his companions knew nothing of what was going on.
Then the storm abated, and they staggered out from their cabin. The sea
was still high, but the sun shone brightly overhead. In front of them
the land was visible. They looked round, but to their astonishment not a
sail was in sight.

“Why, where is the fleet?” Walter exclaimed in astonishment.

“Snug in the Thames, I reckon,” the captain said. “Soon after the storm
came on one of the sailors pretended he saw the lights of recall on the
admiral's ship; but I was too busy to look that way, I had enough to do
to look after the safety of the ship. Anyhow, I saw no more of them.”

“And what land is that ahead?” Walter asked.

“That is Brittany, young sir, and before nightfall we shall be in the
port of Hennebon; as to the others, it may be days and it may be weeks
before they arrive.”

The lads were not sorry at the chance which had taken them to their
destination before their companions and had given them a chance of
distinguishing themselves. Late in the afternoon the ship dropped anchor
off the castle of Hennebon, and Sir John Powis and his following were
conveyed in the ship's boats to shore. The countess received them most
graciously, and was delighted at the news that so strong a force was on
its way to her aid.

“In the absence of Sir Walter Manny, madam, I place myself and my men at
your orders. Our horses will be landed the first thing in the morning,
and we will then ride whithersoever you may bid us.”

“Thanks, Sir John,” the countess replied. “In that case I would that
you ride by Rennes, towards which the army of the Duke of Normandy is
already advancing. The garrison there is commanded by Sir William of
Caddoudal, a good and valiant knight.”

The horses were landed on the following morning, and accompanied by
the four young squires and the men-at-arms, and followed by the twenty
archers on foot, Sir John Powis set out for Rennes. They arrived there,
but just in time, for the assailants were closing round the city. They
were received with the greatest cordiality by the governor, who assigned
apartments to Sir John and the squires, and lodged the men-at-arms and
archers near them.


In a day or two the whole of the French army came up, and the siege
commenced. Sir John Powis, at his own request, was posted with his men
for the defence of a portion of the wall which was especially open to
the assaults of the enemy. These soon commenced in earnest, and the
Genoese and Spanish mercenaries endeavoured to carry the place by
assault. Sometimes one point would be attacked, at others points far
distant. Covered by the fire of the French crossbowmen, the Spaniards
and Germans came on to the assault, carrying ladders, with which they
strove to climb the walls, but the defenders plied them so vigorously
with quarrels from their cross-bows and flights of arrows that they
frequently desisted before reaching the walls. When they pushed on, and
strove to ascend, their luck was no better. Great stones were hurled
down, and boiling oil poured upon them. The ladders were flung back, and
many crushed by the fall, and in none of the assaults did they gain any
footing in the town. Machines were used, but these were not sufficiently
powerful to batter down the walls, and at the end of April the city was
as far from being captured as it was on the day of the commencement of
the siege.

Walter bore his full share in the fighting, but he had no opportunity
of especially distinguishing himself, although Sir John several times
commended him for his coolness when the bolts of the crossbow-men and
the stones from the machines were flying most thickly. But although as
yet uninjured by the enemy's attacks, the prospect of the city holding
out was not bright. The burghers, who had at first fought valiantly,
were soon wearied of the strife, and of the hardships it entailed upon
them. The siege had continued but a short time when they began to murmur
loudly. The force under the command of the governor was but a small
one, and it would have been impossible for him to resist the will of
the whole population. For a time his exhortations and entreaties were
attended with success, and the burghers returned to their positions on
the walls; but each time the difficulty became greater, and it was
clear to Caddoudal and Sir John Powis that ere long the citizens would
surrender the place in spite of them. The English knight was furious at
the cowardliness of the citizens, and proposed to the governor to summon
twenty of the leading burghers, and to hang them as a lesson to the
others; but the governor shook his head.

“I have but two hundred men on whom I can rely, including your
following, Sir John. We could not keep down the inhabitants for an hour;
and were we to try to do so, they would open the gates and let in the
French. No; I fear that we must await the end.”

The following morning Sir John was awoke with the news that in the night
Caddoudal had been seized and thrown into prison by the burghers, and
that a deputation of citizens had already gone out through the gate to
treat with the Duke of Normandy for the surrender of the city.

The English knight was furious, but with his little band he could do
nothing, especially as he found that a strong guard of burghers had been
placed at the door of the apartments occupied by him and the esquires,
and he was informed that he must consider himself a prisoner until the
conclusion of the negotiations.

Cowardly and faithless as the burghers of Rennes showed themselves to
be, they nevertheless stipulated with the Duke of Normandy, as one of
the conditions of the surrender, that Caddoudal, Sir John Powis, and the
troops under them should be permitted to pass through the French lines
and go whithersoever they would. These terms were accepted. At mid-day
the governor was released, and he with his men-at-arms and the band of
Englishmen filed out from the city gate, and took their way unmolested
through the lines of the French army to Hennebon.

They had been for a month in ignorance of all that had passed outside
the walls, and had from day to day been eagerly looking for the arrival
of Sir Walter Manny with his army to their relief. Once past the French
lines they inquired of the peasantry, and heard to their surprise that
the English fleet had not yet arrived.

“We were in luck indeed,” Walter said to his companions, “that Captain
Timothy Martin was in a hurry to get back to his tradings with the
Flemings. Had he not been so, we should all this time have been kicking
our heels and fretting on board a ship.”

On nearing Hennebon, Sir William Caddoudal, with Sir John Powis and the
squires, rode forward and met the countess. They were the first bearers
of the news of the surrender of Rennes, and the countess was filled with
consternation at the intelligence. However, after her first burst of
indignation and regret had passed, she put a brave face on it.

“They shall meet with another reception at Hennebon,” she said. “This
is but a small place, and my garrison here, and the soldiers you have
brought, will well-nigh outnumber the burghers; and we need have no fear
of such faintheartedness as that which has given Nantes and Rennes into
the hands of my enemy. The English aid cannot tarry long. Until it come
we can assuredly hold the place.”

All was now bustle in Hennebon. Sir John Powis took charge of a part of
the walls, and busied himself with his men in placing the machines in
position, and in preparing for defence. The countess, attired in armour,
rode through the streets haranguing the townspeople. She urged the men
to fight till the last, and bade the women and girls cut short their
dresses so that they could the better climb the steps to the top of the
walls, and that one and all should carry up stones, chalk, and baskets
of lime to be cast down upon the assailants. Animated by her words and
gestures, the townspeople set to work, and all vied with each other,
from the oldest to the youngest, in carrying up stores of missiles to
the walls. Never did Hennebon present such a scene of life and bustle.
It seemed like an ant-hill which a passer-by has disturbed.

Absorbed in their work, none had time to think of the dangers which
threatened them, and a stranger would rather have thought from their
cheerful and animated countenances that they were preparing for a
great fete than for a siege by an army to which the two chief towns in
Brittany had succumbed.

Ere long the French army was seen approaching. The soldiers, who had
been labouring with the rest, buckled on their armour. The citizens
gathered on the walls to hurl down the piles of stones which had been
collected, and all prepared for the assault.

“Sir John Powis,” the countess said, “I pray you to grant me one of your
esquires, who may attend me while I ride about, and may bear my messages
for me. He will not be idle, nor will he escape his share of the
dangers; for, believe me, I do not intend to hide myself while you and
your brave soldiers are fighting for me.

“Willingly, lady,” Sir John answered. “Here is Walter Somers, the son of
a good knight, and himself brave and prudent beyond his years; he will,
I am sure, gladly devote himself to your service.”

The French, encouraged by their successes, thought that it would be a
comparatively easy task to capture so small a place as Hennebon, and as
soon as their camp was pitched they moved forward to the attack.

“Come with m

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