Edgar the Ready: A Tale of the Third Edward's Reign
by W. P. Shervill · English · Gutenberg #49283 · 421,384 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Edgar the Ready: A Tale of the Third Edward's Reign
Author: W. P. Shervill
Illustrator: Charles Mills Sheldon
Release date: June 25, 2015 [eBook #49283]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49283
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDGAR THE READY: A TALE OF THE THIRD EDWARD'S REIGN ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
*[Illustration: "ROLAND WAS SAVAGELY ATTACKING HIM IN HIS TURN"
(missing from book)]*
*Edgar the Ready*
A Tale of the Third
Edward's Reign
BY
W. P. SHERVILL
_Illustrated by Charles M. Sheldon_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
1914
*Contents*
CHAP.
I. A Gallant Sacrifice
II. An Ordeal of the Night
III. The Castle of Wolsingham
IV. The Winning of Peter
V. The Fracas
VI. Sir John's Esquire
VII. To Guienne
VIII. The Lists of Bordeaux
IX. The Encounter with Sir Gervaise
X. News of Sir John
XI. In Pursuit
XII. Castle Ruthenes
XIII. Prisoners
XIV. A Desperate Venture
XV. Ill News at Bordeaux
XVI. A New Quest
XVII. The Opening of the Attack
XVIII. The Plight of Beatrice
XIX. The Assault
XX. The Last Hope
XXI. Through the Darkness
XXII. The Last of Ruthenes
XXIII. Sir John's Choice
*Illustrations*
"Roland was savagely attacking him in his turn" (missing from book) . .
. _Frontispiece_
"Sir Gervaise sprang towards his adversary, thirsting to retrieve his
fallen fortunes"
"A torch was thrust close to Edgar's face"
"The torch fell upon the bottom steps, revealing the three crouching
figures" (missing from book)
"'Bah! These walls laugh thee and thy rabble to scorn!'"
"'Come, Beatrice, I will strive yet to save thee'" (missing from book)
*EDGAR THE READY*
*CHAPTER I*
*A Gallant Sacrifice*
"Now, lad, I will tell thee how it cometh that Sir John Chartris hath
sent me down into Devon to seek thee and to bring thee back to his
castle of Wolsingham. The road seemeth less rough and wild, and I can
tell thee all that befell with the more comfort. I would, though, that
I could have brought a spare horse. To have thee riding behind my
saddle smacks of a farmer and his dame rather than of man-at-arms and
fledgeling warrior."
"No matter, Matthew," replied the soldier's companion, a lad of some
fourteen or fifteen summers, "our road will take us along the borders of
Exmoor, and I have hopes that we may be able to snare or capture one of
the ponies that run wild thereabouts."
"Perchance. Now, as thou hast already heard, 'twas at Sluys that thy
father met his death--and a right gallant one it was--but of the fashion
of it only rumours have reached thee.
"I must start at the beginning, and thou wilt then understand the more
thoroughly. Know, then, that the French fleet mustered two hundred sail
and more, many of their ships being of a size unheard of before, while
we could gather little more than half their number. Our ships were
scraped together from the Five Ports and anywhere along the coast where
a stray trader could be found. But I'll warrant thee the sailors of the
Five Ports were little loath to lend their ships for the venture, for
their rivalry with the mariners of the Norman coast is most exceeding
bitter. When all that could be collected had been mustered in array,
our good King Edward III filled them with his men-at-arms and archers,
and we set sail.
"Not a man of the whole company was more eager to get to grips with the
enemy than Edward; and when we spied, over an intervening neck of land,
a forest of masts clustering in the harbour of Sluys, he was overjoyed.
However, for all his eagerness, he decided to anchor at sea for the
night, and 'twas in the afternoon of the following day--the anniversary
of Bannockburn, mark ye--that we stood in to fight the foe.
"When they sighted us, the French sailed out a mile or so to meet us,
and then anchored in four great lines across the bay and lashed their
ships firmly together. We found it was a fourfold floating rampart that
we had to assault, but--bah!--little enough shipman or soldier recked of
that!
"Full speed we bore down on the foremost line of ships and ground into
them, our archers sending a storm of shafts in advance that raked them
through and through. Many of their big ships had platforms high up
filled with Genoese crossbowmen, and loaded with stones to fling down
upon us; but our archers poured in a fire so fierce and fast that those
who survived were glad to escape to deck as best they could. Then came
the turn of knights and men-at-arms, and like a mountain torrent we
poured upon the decks of the Frenchmen's ships. The fighting was hard
and fierce--the struggle of men who had long ached to spring at one
another's throats.
"But our martial King's gallant example, and the knightly zest of his
nobles, gave an eagerness to our men that soon forced the French, though
they fought right well, to give back, and presently we had mastered the
first line and began to burst through upon the next. 'Twas then
that---- Ah! What have we here?"
At the sudden exclamation, and the equally sudden reining in of the
steed, the boy, who had been entirely absorbed in his companion's
narrative, glanced quickly ahead to see the cause of the interruption.
Two men, followed more leisurely by three others, had sprung into the
roadway from behind a pile of rocks where they had been in hiding. They
were men of wild and savage appearance, and bore weapons, which added
not a little to their threatening looks. One man, whose head seemed a
sheer mass of bristling red hair and beard, out of which his eyes
gleamed like live coals, carried a heavy club studded with iron spikes,
and this he swung to and fro as he awaited the coming of the wayfarers.
"'Tis Red of Ordish!" whispered the lad. "He is known and dreaded for
leagues around. Fly for thy life, Matthew--delay not!"
The soldier glanced eagerly to right and left. His face fell: rocks
piled in rough confusion, half-hidden by bushes, lined every inch of the
way on either side. It was difficult country to traverse on foot, but
for horsemen it was quite impossible. There was still, however, the way
they had come, and half-turning his horse, the man-at-arms glanced back
along the road. Alas, for his hopes! Another group of men had emerged
into the roadway a few hundred yards behind, and were moving forward to
take the travellers as in a trap!
"Ha, ha, soldier," cried Red, with a hideous laugh, "thou seest thou art
outwitted! Fling down thy purse and we harm thee not. 'Tis the lord of
the manor, Red of Ordish to wit, who bids thee pay his toll."
"Give me thy purse, Matthew," cried the boy aloud. He then went on in
an urgent whisper: "Be quick, and I will jump down and hand it to the
robbers whilst thou dost ride slowly past them. They may seek more than
thy purse an they find little in it. I like not their looks or the
tales I have heard of them."
Slowly and unwillingly the soldier complied, and the lad flung his leg
over the saddle to dismount. As he did so, however, with a quick
movement he slid the contents of the purse into his hand. His movements
were half-hidden by the soldier's back, and that there should be no
chink of money to betray him, he held the purse closely while he secured
the contents. Then he transferred the coins to his wallet, dropped to
the ground, and advanced towards the red robber, purse in hand.
"We are poor wayfarers," he said in a pleading tone, as he fumbled in
the purse; "will ye not take toll of two silver pennies and let us hie
on our journey?"
"I will take four silver pennies, my young springald," cried Red of
Ordish, striding forward and reaching out his great hand for the purse.
The lad retreated as though frightened, and again fumbled as though
unable to find the coins he sought.
"Yield me the purse," cried the robber, snatching savagely at it.
"Yield it me, boy, or I will clash out thy brains with this club."
Springing lightly out of the angry ruffian's reach, the boy pretended to
be quite scared, dropping the purse and running after the soldier as
though in a sudden access of terror.
Ignoring the boy, the leader of the robbers and one or two of his men
made a mad rush for the purse. Red was first, and snatched it eagerly
up; tore it open--and saw that it was empty! With a snarl like a wild
beast, he sprang after the fugitive, shouting madly with inarticulate
rage.
Abandoning all disguise, the lad now ran with all his speed after the
soldier, who had profited by the preoccupation of the robbers and had
made his way safely past them.
"On, Matthew, on!" he cried breathlessly as he sprang into the saddle
behind him, and with a shout of angry defiance, Matthew put spurs to his
horse and galloped furiously away.
The convulsed face and savage cries of Red of Ordish, and the tumultuous
shouts of his men as they pursued madly after, flinging stones, knives,
and clubs in despairing endeavour to injure the youth who had so neatly
tricked them, receded gradually into the distance until a turn of the
road shut them altogether out of sight and hearing.
"Why did I listen to thee, lad?" cried Matthew presently in a tone of
resentment and vexation. "Why did I not ride at them and try to cut a
way through? Why didst press me to yield up my purse without a fight?
Hast so soon forgotten that thou art destined to become an esquire and
an aspirant to knighthood? 'Tis a bad start to a warrior's career to
counsel giving way without a fight to the first coward cut-throat we
meet. Coward that I was to listen----"
"Stay, Matthew," interposed the lad; "run not on so, but examine this
wallet. Perchance the fledgeling esquire is not quite so base as thou
thinkest."
"What?" cried Matthew, taking the wallet and thrusting in his hand.
"Did ye--why, yes, 'tis all here--truly thou art quick and bold. 'Twas
well done, and I none the wiser. Thou art indeed Sir Richard Wintour's
cub, and I can say nae better."
"There was little enough in it, Matthew," returned the lad. "I hope
that we may have many such adventures to while away the long journey to
my new home. They will keep our wits from getting rusty."
"They will indeed, lad, and I hope that Matthew the man-at-arms may show
to better advantage at our next encounter. Now I will continue the
story of our struggle at Sluys which the robbers interrupted in so ugly
a fashion. We English, then, had overcome all resistance in the first
line of the French ships and were attacking the next, when the adventure
befell that touches thee so closely. The ships commanded by Sir John
Chartris had again closed in and grappled, and once more we were hard at
work hacking and thrusting upon the enemy's decks. Sir John had gained
a footing upon the poop of the ship he had boarded, and was hewing away
with right good will when, of a sudden, a gigantic Genoese dropped down
upon his shoulders from the rigging. Sir John was borne to the deck,
and would have been rapidly dispatched there had not thy father, Sir
Richard Wintour, called upon one or two of us near by and hurried to his
rescue. Our attack diverted the attention of those surrounding Sir
John, and he was able to struggle to his feet.
"The Genoese still clung to his back, however, and Sir John was unable
to use his sword. To our horror, after a few moments' tottering upon
the edge, both men, still clinging desperately to one another, pitched
headlong over the side of the ship down into the sea in the space
betwixt the prows of the grinding ships. Seeing what was coming, and
knowing only too well that Sir John, clad in full armour, would sink
like a stone, thy father snatched at a rope, and without a moment's
hesitation sprang after him. So instant was he that he did not even
stay to see that the other end of the rope was secured, and he must have
left the ship before ever Sir John had touched the water. 'Twas a rash
act, a gallant act, and it all but failed, for the end of the rope was
free, and was just disappearing over the side when I pounced upon it.
"The strain upon it was so heavy that I almost followed. Thomelin the
archer, however, also seized hold of the rope, and we two pulled and
tugged. In a moment or two the strain eased somewhat, and we guessed
that the big Genoese had been compelled to leave go. Then we began to
draw in hand over hand until two heads appeared above the surface. They
belonged to Sir John and thy father.
"Now came the heartrending part of the whole affair. A slight swell was
gently heaving, and ever and anon the ships ground and clashed together.
Knowing this, and fearing that we might not draw up the knights before
one or other of the ships heaved inwards irresistibly, we pulled with
all our might and shouted aloud for others to come to our aid. But the
rush of fighting men had passed onwards, and the noise was so prodigious
that we were unheard or unheeded. So we bent to the work, and soon had
Sir John, who was uppermost, on a level with the decks. We had pulled
him safe aboard, and were about to draw up Sir Richard, when--lad, it
makes me sick to think of it--one of our own ships, falling on the
swell, moved inwards and caught him by the legs against the ship on
which we stood. He gave a gasp and let go his hold, but we seized him,
and, the swell passing onwards, drew him aboard.
"One glance was sufficient to tell us that his hours were numbered.
Notwithstanding his armour, his legs and the lower part of his body were
badly crushed. He was still conscious, however, and we laid him on the
deck of the enemy's ship, now all but won, and Sir John knelt over him.
"'Goodbye, Sir John!' he said faintly. 'I am gone. Leave me and renew
the fight.'
"'Nay, Richard, I cannot leave thee thus,' cried Sir John, weeping.
'Dear comrade, thou hast sacrificed thy life for mine. I will stay and
do what little I still may towards that debt. The battle is won without
another stroke from me.'
"'I rejoice that all goes well. If thou wilt do aught for me, look to
my boy Edgar. His mother died a year agone, and he is alone save for
me. Place him with thy esquires, if I ask not too much.'
"'Richard, it is done. Right gladly will I.'
"'He will be landless, like his father, as thou know'st, and he must
carve his way with his sword. Let him know this. Spoil him not. I
think he will do well, though his mother has had his upbringing and not
I.'
"'If he is half as gallant as his father he will need little help from
me,' responded Sir John. 'Is there naught else I can do? Here is water
Matthew hath brought.'
"Sir Richard revived a little when he had drunk, but very soon sank into
a stupor from which he never regained consciousness. He seemed quite
easy in his mind concerning thee, after Sir John had told him he would
send me down into Devon to fetch thee as soon as an opportunity offered.
He beckoned me to him and sent thee his dear love, and bade me conjure
thee to strive thy hardest to be a true knight, brave in battle and
chivalrous towards the weak and helpless. More he said, though his
voice grew so faint at last that I could not catch all his words; but he
meant thee to give all thy mind to the work of thy squirehood, to learn
right well how to bear thyself knightly, and how to live a godly life.
Thy father, lad, thou mayest well be proud of."
"I know, Matthew," said Edgar in a low voice. "And I know, too, that if
earnest striving of mine can compass it, his memory will not be
disgraced by me. It shall be my aim to live as nobly and to die as
gallantly."
"Ye say well, lad. I hope thou wilt be as good as thy word. Now I will
finish the story.
"Very soon we had broken through the second line of the French ships,
and as at that moment more ships arrived under Sir Robert Morley, a
great panic fell upon the third line, and many of their men threw
themselves into the sea and there perished miserably. The fourth line,
however, still remained unbroken, and fought us right gallantly until
nightfall, when those that were still able to set sail made good their
escape.
"Our losses were trifling; the losses of the French were tremendous. We
had only two ships destroyed, while out of all the mighty French fleet
but a few stragglers escaped. Their loss in men, too, they say, was no
less than thirty thousand slain. 'Twill be years and years, lad, I
warrant thee, before the French will again dare to oppose us on the
ocean. We are now masters of the sea, and our ships can come and go as
they please. Hurrah for our martial King Edward!"
"Hurrah, indeed!" cried Edgar, catching something of his enthusiasm.
"But how came our men to gain so great a victory over the French? Did
they not fight well?"
"Aye, they fought well enough, but they were outgeneralled. They had
two leaders while we had one. And more--though I am a man-at-arms, and
think most of my sort, yet can I give a meed of praise where 'tis
due--'twas our archers did much to win the day. Aye, our bowmen gave
the French a rude awakening--one, too, that will be repeated as roughly
yet many a day. Our men shot so hard and fast that the air was streaked
with shafts, and Frenchmen and Genoese fell dead on every hand. Even
the knights were hard put to it to face so pitiless a hail. I mind me
old Thomelin of Pontefract, one of the most famous of our marksmen, said
to me as we passed a ship in the first line, where the battle still
raged: 'See yon knight in golden armour, Matthew?'
"'Aye,' said I.
"'Watch him well.'
"He drew his bow to the feather and held it motionless for a moment or
two. The knight was opposing a party of English who were pouring along
the deck of his ship. He swung his axe back and up, and Thomelin's bow
twanged. The knight's nearest armpit sprouted feathers, his axe fell
with a clang, and he rattled down after it. 'Twas thus that our archers
taught even knights in full armour to fear them."
"But are not crossbowmen equally to be feared?" cried Edgar. "I have
heard that their heavy bolts can crash through the armour itself."
"Mayhap; but when they have English bowmen to fight against they have
little chance to show their powers. Ere ever they can loose a bolt a
cloth-yard shaft hath laid them low. Our archers laugh at
crossbowmen--and with good reason."
"What befell after the battle, Matthew?"
"We landed, and Edward led us to the city of Tournay. He drew his
allies to his standard, and it was with a hundred thousand men that he
commenced the siege. All goeth well so far, but Sir John sent me after
thee before we had long encamped before its walls. And here I am,
Master Edgar."
"Aye, good Matthew," replied Edgar, who appeared to be slightly ill at
ease, and had turned in his saddle two or three times during the latter
part of the soldier's narrative. "Now, wilt thou rein in thy steed for
a moment so that we may listen? Several times I have fancied I heard the
sound of horses' hoofs dully in the distance."
"What of that, lad? Red of Ordish and his band had nae horses."
"None that we could see. But in some of the tales I have heard both Red
and his band were mounted. Hearken now!"
Dim and distant, but unmistakable, sounded the thud of horses' hoofs.
"Quick, Matthew, we must leave the road and hide. Our horse, carrying a
double burden, must soon be overtaken. Dismount and lead thy steed in
amongst those rocks and bushes and, if thou canst, compel it to lie
down."
Without demur Matthew obeyed his young charge's orders, possibly because
he could think of no better line of action. In a minute or two horse
and riders were well hidden behind a tangle of rocks and bushes a dozen
yards from the edge of the roadway. The clatter of horses' hoofs was
now very close, and in a few moments a body of wild-looking horsemen
burst into view round a turn of the road.
"'Tis Red," muttered the lad at his first glimpse of the foremost man,
as he shrank back yet more closely under cover.
The horsemen clattered noisily by and vanished as quickly as they had
come. For the time, at any rate, the fugitives were safe.
"What now, lad?" grumbled Matthew, as he began to realize their sorry
plight. "We cannot take to the road again, I trow."
"Nay; we must, I fear, clamber on as best we can across these rocks.
See yon hill? The country there is clearer, so mayhap if we struggle on
a little we shall find it open out before us."
For an hour the soldier and his companion scrambled along among the
rocks, leading the horse between them. Then the way began to get easier
until, at the end of some hours, they found themselves in fairly open
country. The travelling had been very exhausting, and, well pleased to
be quit of it, they mounted again and cantered gaily off until they
reached cultivated land, and could see in the distance the lights of a
dwelling. On a closer inspection this proved to be a large and
straggling farmhouse.
"Darkness falls," quoth Matthew; "I think we will rest the night here if
the good man is not unwilling."
Edgar gladly consented, and in a minute or two they were knocking at the
farmhouse door. After a considerable delay and some parleying the door
was opened, and they were conducted into the farmer's kitchen. Here
they were served with plenty of rough but wholesome food, and were soon
doing full justice to the viands. Under the influence of the good
cheer, and more especially of the good man's home-brewed ale, Matthew
waxed communicative, and related to the farmer with great gusto the
incidents of their encounter with and escape from the redoubtable Red of
Ordish.
The recital seemed to disturb the farmer greatly. He grew pale and
nervous, and presently left the room, muttering that if robbers were
about it would be well for him to see that his barns and stables were
well secured. The action seemed so natural an one that neither Edgar
nor Matthew took any notice, although the man had not returned when, an
hour or two later, his wife hinted that it was time to retire for the
night. Readily enough they agreed, and the woman led them up a flight
of crazy stairs to a low room lighted by a single small curtain-screened
window which peeped out of the thickness of the thatch. The room
contained a rough bed and plenty of skin rugs, and in a very few minutes
the two wayfarers had flung themselves down and had fallen into a sound
sleep.
*CHAPTER II*
*An Ordeal of the Night*
It must have been well after midnight when Edgar awoke. What had
awakened him he knew not, but he felt somehow a sense of uneasiness for
which he vainly tried to account. All was as still as death within the
house, save only for the regular breathing of his companion, who lay
close by his side.
For some moments Edgar lay without a movement, listening intently and
wondering what it could be that made him feel so uneasy and even--he
could not disguise it from himself--even fearful. He could hear
absolutely nothing, but yet he felt a conviction steal over him that
Matthew and he were not alone in the room. Who would dare to enter
their room so stealthily at dead of night? And what might be their
purpose?
Softly Edgar pressed his companion in the side. He stirred ever so
slightly, and Edgar pressed again as meaningly as he could. He felt the
soldier start and stiffen himself as though on the alert.
Waiting for no more, Edgar, who was light of touch and supple as an eel,
stole softly from the bed and made for the corner of the room away from
the window. He dreaded unspeakably that he might come into contact with
something--he knew not what--on the way; but he reached his coign of
vantage without mishap. Then he waited motionless for events to
develop. Though he still heard no sound, he felt even more convinced
than before that the room was occupied by other than themselves--and, by
the strange feeling of fear that he could not thrust away from himself,
thoroughly as he despised it, occupied by something grim and terrible.
Presently he heard a slight rustling, as though Matthew were leaving his
bed, and a moment later the curtain was jerked back, admitting into the
room a stream of moonlight.
Simultaneously with the pulling of the curtain three figures became
visible to Edgar between him and the light. The upright figure nearest
to the window was Matthew, he had no doubt, but the two other figures
crouching low upon the floor he could not recognize, though the glint of
steel he caught from one showed that their presence boded ill indeed.
Silently, with a bound fierce as a tiger's, one of the men sprang upon
Matthew. With a movement as quick the man-at-arms avoided the blow
aimed at him and closed with his assailant. Simultaneously the other
man stood up and swung a club up into the air and down behind his back
as he prepared to strike down Matthew while he grappled with his foe.
With the speed of an arrow Edgar sprang forward. Seizing the club he
gave it a quick, wrenching pull and tore it from the man's grasp. Then
as quickly he swung it heavily down upon the assassin's head. With a
groan the man sank limply to the floor.
Turning to the other combatants, Edgar saw that Matthew was holding his
assailant's right hand with his left, and had wrenched his own hand free
and grasped his dagger. There was a flash as the moonlight gleamed upon
the bright steel, then the stroke fell heavily upon the ruffian's side.
But though the blade pierced his clothing it snapped off short against
his skin!
"_Bewitched! Bewitched!_" shrieked Matthew in superstitious terror, as
he let go his hold and fell upon his knees. Babbling incoherently and
crossing himself convulsively, he seemed oblivious of his fearful
danger. Fortunately the suddenness with which he had let go his hold
sent the ruffian staggering back into a corner, but like a wild cat he
was back again, and in another moment the knife must have been plunged
into Matthew's body had not Edgar screamed piercingly as he dashed
forward.
"_Shirt of mail_, Matthew, _shirt of mail!_"
Matthew heard and understood his meaning just in time. Plunging full
length upon the floor, he avoided the murderous stroke, and the man, in
the darkness, pitched over him into the wall. Ere he had recovered from
the shock Edgar had sprung clean upon his back.
Jabbing behind him with his knife the assassin tried to dislodge the
lad, but although he received two or three flesh wounds, Edgar clung on
tenaciously, and, by impeding the man's arm with one hand and gripping
him by the throat with the other, did his best to hinder him, while he
called repeatedly upon Matthew to renew the struggle.
It was some moments before Matthew could respond. He was still unnerved
by the grim midnight attack and what he had for the moment taken to be
the supernatural character of his assailant. Edgar's warning cry had
enabled him to shake off some of his paralysis, but precious moments had
slipped away before he was himself again. At last Edgar's cries aroused
him, and he rushed in and closed with the man, who was endeavouring with
the utmost desperation to rid himself of the burden upon his back.
Until then the man had fought in grim silence, but now he snarled and
champed like a wild beast. In one of his twists and turns he staggered
close to the little window, and for a moment the moonlight played upon
his head. Though Edgar, from his position, could not see his face, one
glimpse of the tangled mass of hair was sufficient. It was red.
The ruffian fought with extraordinary fierceness and power. Once
Matthew succeeded in possessing himself of his knife, but almost
immediately lost it, and it was not until the man was almost strangled
that his resistance was overcome.
"Get me something wherewith to secure him, Edgar," gasped Matthew.
"Strips of clothing--anything, lad."
Edgar sprang to the bed and fumbled among the rugs and skins for
something that he could tear into strips. As he did so his ear caught a
sound outside the door that could not be mistaken.
"Quick, Matthew--to the window--flee!" he cried, in an undertone that
thrilled with desperate urgency. "The stairs creak beneath the tread of
a dozen stealthy feet. 'Tis Red's band--away, away, or we are lost!"
At a single bound Matthew sprang halfway through the window. Another
moment and he had dropped to the ground.
In his fumbles at the bedclothes Edgar's hand had come into contact with
his own or Matthew's sword. The slight indefinable sound or feeling of
pressure upon the door attracted his attention, and, like a streak, he
drew the sword from its sheath. Then, with a single thrust, he drove it
several inches through the centre of the door.
There was a screech, and the pressure instantly ceased. Simultaneously
the silent approach changed into a loud and angry clamour, and a rush
was made at the door, and it was kicked violently open.
But Edgar was already halfway to the window. Flinging his naked sword
through in advance, he sprang lightly up and through, and dropped safely
down upon the ground beneath.
Matthew was awaiting him and had already snatched up the sword, and the
two, with a single thought, rushed madly round to the front of the
farmhouse. Their one aim was to get their horse from the stable before
the robbers were upon them.
As he rounded the side of the house, Edgar caught a glimpse of something
moving in the shadow of some trees a dozen paces away. He looked
again--they were horses!--and with a whoop he called to Matthew and fled
to them. The horses were half-wild, and at the sudden approach reared
and kicked furiously.
There was no time to sooth and pacify the beasts, for already the shouts
from behind showed that the pursuit had begun, so Edgar sprang
recklessly at the nearest horse, flung his leg over its back, and
grasped it by the mane. Then with his dagger he cut the rope that
secured it. The horse reared madly and backed in amongst its fellows,
but at every opportunity Edgar cut and slashed with his dagger at the
ropes that fastened the other horses to the trees. Matthew had also
succeeded in mounting, and seconded his efforts until all were freed.
Then with a yell that sent the frightened troop clattering away into the
darkness, Edgar and Matthew dug their heels into their horses' sides and
galloped headlong after them. In a confused clump, horsemen and
riderless horses careered over pasture and farmland until the farmhouse
and the shouting robbers had been left far behind.
Gradually Edgar gained some sort of control over his wild mount, which
had, until then, tasked all his energies to keep it from flinging him
from off its back. Then he guided it to Matthew's side.
"We have covered miles, Matthew, and are safe."
"Nay, let us ride on until our steeds are exhausted. Mine is still as
much master as I."
"Then let us ride together, and keep one of yon frightened animals in
sight. If I can, I am going to capture a spare steed. 'Twill do to
barter and replace the things we left behind in the robbers' hands."
For a couple of hours longer they rode onward. Then their horses of
themselves dropped into a walk and at last stopped altogether. Matthew
and Edgar had kept close to two of the riderless horses, and Edgar
promptly slipped from his seat and approached them. They were too
dead-beat to resist, and he was able to lead them into a thick covert
close at hand. Here, after some trouble, a light fencing of branches
hacked from the trees was built around them, and Matthew and Edgar could
begin to think of rest. They were almost as dead-beat as the horses,
and, without troubling to make themselves any sort of couch, flung
themselves down amongst the bushes and slept the sleep of utter
exhaustion.
*CHAPTER III*
*The Castle of Wolsingham*
Very soon after dawn Matthew and Edgar were astir again. Both felt the
strain of their exertions during the preceding day and night, but
neither felt that they were safe in remaining where they were. They had
left behind nearly all their belongings, but in their stead they had
four horses which, they hoped, would more than counterbalance the losses
they had sustained.
Tearing up part of his clothing into strips, and utilizing their belts,
Matthew made shift to secure the two spare horses, and, mounting again,
they rode on. For some time they purposely kept away from the high
roads, not knowing how far the power of Red and his band might extend.
But when they believed that they were too far from his haunts for there
to be anything more to fear, they took to the highway again, and made
more rapid progress. The spare horses were sold later in the day
without difficulty, and provided a goodly sum from which they were able
to purchase fresh cloaks and weapons, and enough being left to help them
on their way.
The journey was full of incidents, though none was so exciting as their
encounter with the dreaded Red and his band of outlaws. In due course
they arrived at Wolsingham, and Matthew resigned his charge into the
hands of Geoffrey Fletcher, the Lieutenant of the Castle, in the absence
of its master, Sir John Chartris. Geoffrey really ranked as an esquire,
but he was a man of middle age who had failed through lack of influence
and skill with the sword to obtain the honour of knighthood. He
possessed little ambition, however, and was well content with his
position in command of the retainers of the castle.
After a few enquiries concerning the journey thither, and a sympathetic
and kindly reference to his recent bereavement, Geoffrey suggested a
visit to Edgar's fellow esquires.
"They have heard that thou wert on the way to join us, and are ready
indeed to see thee. The story of thy father's gallant sacrifice has
disposed them and all of us greatly in thy favour. From the little
Matthew hath told me of the adventures of thy journey, it seemeth that
our expectations are not likely to be disappointed."
"Ye are all most kind to me," said Edgar gratefully. "I have already
promised in my heart to do all in my power to serve Sir John for the
memory of my father's name."
"Ye say well. Come now and I will make thee known to thy comrades.
They are four--Philip Soames, Robert Duplessis, Aymery Montacute, and
Roland Mortimer. They are all about thine age, for the eldest esquire
hath followed his master to the wars. Doubtless thou wilt find them
more to thy liking than they are to mine, for they are high-spirited
youths, and accustomed to be more than a little reckless in their
pranks. But such, I fear, is too often the wont of young men of noble
birth and wide estates."
Shaking his head with the air of a man who had suffered much at the
hands of the said esquires, Geoffrey Fletcher opened a door and ushered
Edgar into a room where the four esquires and some few pages were
practising feats of skill and strength, or hacking at one another with
blunted swords.
The scene was a really spirited one, and Edgar felt a thrill of
enthusiasm as he realized fully that he was now at last to begin in
earnest to learn the trade of arms and the usages of chivalry.
"Ha! Geoffrey, doubtless this young springald is our new comrade, Edgar
Wintour?" cried Aymery Montacute, a slim, active-looking youth a little
older than Edgar. "Come, we are right glad to see him, and right happy
to welcome him in our midst."
Edgar bowed his thanks.
"He looketh keen," went on Aymery, speaking more to Geoffrey than to
Edgar; "he looketh keen, and if I can cheer him on with a few friendly
strokes with sword and buckler, let him don some gear and we will set to
without more ado. At last, Geoffrey, I have succeeded in worsting
Roland, and I feel so elated I could fight the world."
"But nay, Aymery, scarcely would ye wish to show off thy prowess so soon
upon your new comrade? How much can he know of the sword?"
"Dissuade him not, Geoffrey," interposed Edgar hastily. "He meaneth not
to be unfriendly, I am sure, and I would gladly receive a lesson at his
hands. Come, comrade Aymery, teach me also how to beat friend Roland."
There was a general laugh at the hit at Roland Mortimer; and that
worthy, after a momentary frown, joined in the laugh, for Edgar's smile
and tone were so frank and pleasant that anger was impossible.
"Don these things and let us set to work," cried Aymery; and without the
loss of a moment, Edgar drew on the leather jerkin and steel headpiece
and snatched a sword and buckler from the wall. With a slight shrug of
his shoulders and a smile of some amusement, Geoffrey turned on his heel
and left the room. Though his charge was now left entirely to the
tender mercies of his new comrades, he knew that there was no need to be
anxious on his behalf, for their welcome, though rough, was not one whit
the less sincere.
The instant Edgar threw out his sword with a gesture of readiness,
Aymery attacked with a bound like a young deer's. So swift was his
attack that, before Edgar quite knew where he was, his head was singing
from a hearty blow which fell full upon his steel headpiece. Warming to
the work, he did his best to make a smart return, and to pay Aymery back
with something to spare. The teaching he had received, however, was in
no way equal to that given to the esquires at Wolsingham Castle, and in
a few moments Aymery had demonstrated this so clearly that the other's
body was smarting in a half-dozen places at once.
Good-naturedly Aymery soon proposed a halt, and explained to Edgar
wherein he had failed, and what were the chief faults of his style of
defence.
"Ye look quick and active, but make not enough use of your powers,
friend Wintour. See how I fought--never still, constantly advancing or
retreating. Ye should do the same."
"I see that would be best for a light-armed contest such as this,"
replied Edgar; "but seeing that knights fight in full armour in battle,
with little room or power to advance or retreat, would it not be best
for us to learn to stand more to our ground likewise?"
"There is some shrewdness in thy point," responded Aymery with a nod,
"but pitched battles are rare, whilst there are many occasions on which
a knight fights when not armed cap-a-pie. I am perhaps too prone to
rely upon my activity; mayhap it were better if I sometimes fought knee
to knee."
"Do you never practise in full armour?" asked Edgar. "I have never had
the opportunity, but again it seemeth to me that as we enter a battle or
the lists in full armour, we should make it our chiefest aim to become
quite accustomed to its weight and hindrance, and to watching our foes
through our vizor-slits. Why leave all that to the day of battle, as so
many seem to do?"
"Ah! I cannot agree with thee there. Full armour is so irksome that we
should never learn the finer strokes of fence. When thou hast felt the
weight of it thou wilt the better understand."
Edgar felt unconvinced, but did not care to go on with the discussion,
as his knowledge of the subject was so slight that he felt far from sure
of his ground. So he turned aside and watched the efforts of some of
his other comrades as they engaged in gymnastic exercises or practised
with various weapons. It was a sight of absorbing interest to him, and
the call to supper when it came found him still reluctant to quit the
scene.
"Come, Edgar, put off thy headpiece and jerkin and join us at the board.
I warrant thou wilt pronounce the cheer both good and plentiful, for Sir
John hath never stinted us of our victuals. Wilt accompany me?"
"Right willingly," cried Edgar, as he threw off his gear and followed
the speaker, a sturdy youth named Robert Duplessis, into the next room,
where a long table literally groaned beneath the weight of huge rounds
of beef and other fare and big jugs of home-brewed ale. Whilst the
supper was proceeding, Edgar took an early opportunity of inviting his
companion to tell him something of the castle and its inmates.
"Oh, as to the castle, thou art easily enlightened," cried Robert
readily enough. "'Twas built in John's reign and, as thou hast seen, is
strong enough for anything. It lieth not far from St. Albans and but
twenty miles from London town. Sometimes we esquires take horse and ride
into the city on pleasure bent, and a right good time we enjoy. Thou
shouldst make one of our party the next time we ride thither."
"The exercises I saw just now, and the encounters with sword and
axe--are they all the teaching ye get when Sir John is abroad?"
"Nay, nay, we should be sorry esquires were that so. No, twice a week
Sir Percy Standish cometh to Wolsingham to give us instruction in the
use of our weapons. He doth it out of friendship for Sir John, and
lucky indeed are we to have a teacher so able. It is said, however, by
some of the pertest of our pages that his visits are less on Sir John's
account than because of an attraction amongst his household, but I hold
that the report is baseless, seeing that Sir John's elder daughter is
but seventeen."
"I saw three ladies on the outer walls as I rode up to the gates of the
castle," said Edgar. "Doubtless two were Sir John's daughters? Who was
the third?"
"Oh, she is Sir John's ward, Beatrice d'Alencon. She is only fifteen,
but is heiress to wide lands in Kent and wider lands in Guienne. She
will be greatly in request among the needy nobles when she cometh of age
an the prophets mistake not. Even Aymery and Roland dispute one
another's claims to wear her gage, and that is why they are so zealous
to worst one another in fence. Asses!--when she careth naught for
either!"
Edgar smiled at the scorn with which Robert spoke. "At any rate," he
said, "neither you nor I are likely to dispute the damsel with the
twain. I hold such ideas to be rubbish, and far from befitting esquires
aspiring to the honour of knighthood. My aim at least is single, and no
maiden shall divide it."
"Ha! ha! Edgar," laughed Robert, "I should love to hear thee make that
declaration in the lady's hearing."
Edgar did not care to join in the laugh, and merely shrugged his
shoulders and turned the conversation into other channels. He was
interested beyond all else in learning the details of his squirehood and
how best he might find opportunity to advance himself in it. The other
matters that apparently so interested Aymery and Roland had no charms
for him.
So earnest to succeed, it did not take Edgar long to learn his duties
and to make rapid headway with his knowledge of martial accomplishments.
The period of the next year or two was to him a time of continuous
development. Applying himself with ardour to learn all that appertained
to knightly prowess, in six months he had passed several of his comrades
in skill and dexterity with arms, and could compel even Aymery Montacute
to put out all his strength to worst him.
It was then that he gave effect to a resolve half formed in his first
talk with Aymery. His opinion at that time was that a knight or esquire
should practise clothed in full armour if he desired to show himself at
his best on the day of trial. As time went on and his knowledge
increased, this opinion deepened into a firm conviction. His comrades,
however, as Aymery had done at the first, laughed at the idea, and one
or two suggested slyly that perhaps he was becoming tired of the hard
knocks he was getting, now that he had worked his way into the front
rank and none thought of sparing him. But Edgar cared as little for
their ridicule and somewhat ungenerous suggestions as he really did for
their hard knocks, and presently appeared at their practices clad in as
full a suit of gear as he possessed.
The natural result of the change was that his comrades easily worsted
him, and from being almost a match for Aymery he passed down the line to
Philip Soames, who stood last in order of prowess with the sword.
Undismayed, however, by the fall, Edgar set himself to climb back to the
position he had lost, and to become once more the equal of Aymery
notwithstanding the armour which clogged and weighted his every
movement.
The labour was heavy and the task most irksome. Edgar was quite
determined about it, however, and slowly, bit by bit, won his way
upward. One of the greatest difficulties before him was that of getting
used to wearing a helmet with vizor closed, and learning to watch his
man as keenly and surely through its narrow slits as with the vizor
open. Accomplish the task he did, however, and had the satisfaction of
knowing that the fierce shock of battle or the exciting moments of the
tourney would find him on as familiar ground as in the contests of the
gymnasium or the tilts in the castle courtyard. As a result of the
heavy and constant exercise and the good fare, his frame expanded and
his muscles thickened, and from a sturdy lad of fifteen he grew to be a
stalwart youth, strong as most grown men and as hardy as one of his
Viking forefathers.
After a couple of years of the teaching of Sir Percy Standish, their
instructor, Edgar began to long for higher instruction, and for other
opponents than his four companions and an occasional visitor from a
neighbouring castle. He feared that when the time came for him to be
cast into the wider circle of a camp of war, his skill, though it seemed
considerable among his comrades at Wolsingham, might be dwarfed into
insignificance by the higher skill of esquires from other parts of the
country.
Casting about for some means of obtaining other and more varied
instruction, he made enquiries during one of the visits he and his
comrades sometimes paid to the city of London. He then ascertained that
there existed two or three schools of arms for the training, chiefly, of
the sons of merchants, but oftentimes used by knights and esquires
within the city bounds. One of these was pointed out to him as of
especial excellence, as it was presided over by a Picard, named Gaspard
Verillac, who was much famed for his skill with weapons.
The very next day Edgar rode into London alone and called upon Verillac.
"I wish to gain some skill in arms," he said, opening the conversation
with his usual directness.
Gaspard gave his youthful visitor a keen glance. "Thou hast already some
skill in arms, if I mistake not," he remarked quietly.
"But a little, I fear. I desire to learn much more."
"Come into yon chamber. Take sword and engage with me for a few
moments. I shall then know the more surely how much or how little thou
dost know."
Edgar obeyed, and, entering the chamber, eagerly scanned the walls,
which were covered with what seemed to be the weapons of all nations.
He then selected a sword of nearly the same length and weight as the
sharpened weapon he bore strapped to his side. The two fenced together
for a minute, and Edgar realized at once how widely his style differed
from that of some at least of the world outside his own circle.
Gaspard's swordplay was more free and open than he had been used to, and
was perhaps rather more adapted for single combat than for pitched
encounters. The point was used almost as much as the edge of the blade.
"Thou art an esquire and no burgher's son," said Gaspard as he put up
his sword.
Edgar assented.
"Thy skill is already considerable and giveth promise of vastly more. I
can make thee a knight of rare skill and address if thou carest to
become my pupil."
"I will gladly do so," cried Edgar, who was greatly impressed by his new
instructor and by the careless ease and power with which he fenced.
"Thou wilt not only practise with me but with others of my pupils; and
as they are of all ranks and hie from many countries, thou wilt learn to
be at home with whomsoever the tide of war may bring thee into conflict.
Come now, and I will take thee into the School of Arms."
When, some two hours later, Edgar rode back to Wolsingham Castle, he
felt well satisfied with the step he had taken. The prospect of adding
to his prowess with the sword under the guidance of Gaspard Verillac
seemed bright indeed.
*CHAPTER IV*
*The Winning of Peter*
Regularly twice a week Edgar rode into London and waged strenuous
warfare with Gaspard's most promising pupils. So earnest was his
purpose and so able the tuition that he made rapid progress, and
presently, as he grew in strength and stature, Gaspard was hard put to
it to find pupils either ready or able to oppose him.
Indeed, Gaspard soon learned to turn the visits of the young esquire to
good account. Oftentimes knights, and even nobles, desirous of
obtaining a little private practice before setting out for the wars,
were attracted to the school by the reputation of its founder; and on
these occasions, instead of wielding the sword himself, Gaspard
preferred to call Edgar in and set his pupil to work, contenting himself
with administering instruction and reproof as the combat proceeded. To
being made use of in this manner Edgar raised not the smallest
objection. The heavier and the more desperate the encounter, the
greater, he felt, was his chance of onward progress.
It was some twelve months after his visit to Gaspard's school that an
adventure befell which influenced considerably Edgar's after career. It
had been his habit, when he had stayed unusually late, to take a short
cut to the open country through the poorer quarter at the eastward end
of the city. The denizens of its narrow alleys and filthy courts were
indeed a fierce and lawless crew, but Edgar, in the reliance born of his
hard-won prowess with the sword, cared not one straw whether or no his
way might lie through the haunts even of criminals and desperadoes.
Certain it is that they never ventured to molest him.
But one day, as he was cantering along an alley just wide enough to give
free passage to a mounted man, he heard, as he passed the entrance to a
narrow court, a sudden burst of piercing screams. Turning his steed and
clattering into the court, Edgar surprised a group of rough-looking men
crowding round a lad or young man who was being most cruelly beaten by
one of their number. The lad was thin and frail and half-starved
looking, and his assailant was a burly ruffian of the most brutal type.
The lad's screams so worked upon Edgar that, without a moment's
hesitation, he urged his horse right amongst the group of men, and, by
causing it to kick and plunge violently, scattered them in all
directions. The lad's tormentor he treated to a heavy blow with the
flat of his sword, just as he was disappearing, scowling horribly,
through an open doorway close by.
Dismounting, Edgar hastily assisted the lad to rise, and then for the
first time saw that he was a cripple. One of his legs was apparently
somewhat shorter than the other, and the limb itself was partially
withered.
"Come, lad, let me take thee to thy home," said Edgar gently. "These
brutes shall molest thee no more."
"Thank you, sir," gasped the boy gratefully, as he tried to struggle to
his feet. "But I have no home save this court. I fear, too, that I
cannot stand."
"Tell me which is thy house. I will carry thee and lay thee on thy
bed."
"This is where I live when he will let me," said the lad, indicating the
house into which his assailant had disappeared. "But do not tarry here,
sir, or thou wilt be attacked. Quick, I hear them calling to one
another, and if thou wouldst escape alive, thou must go at once."
"Nay, lad, I cannot leave thee thus. After the rough shaking I have
given them I fear the ruffians will illtreat thee worse than before.
Come, I will mount and carry thee out of this den before me."
Springing into the saddle, Edgar stooped and lifted the lad, placing him
in the saddle before him. Then, sword in hand, he rode down the court
straight to the entrance, where he could see men gathering armed with
knives, clubs, and stones. A volley of missiles sang through the air as
he approached, and, bending before the storm, Edgar charged full into
the enemy. The men scattered as he bore down upon them, some dodging
into doorways and others throwing themselves down flat against the
walls. But as he passed, knives darted out from this side and that, and
it was only with the greatest difficulty that Edgar could avoid them.
Emerging into the alley he found it thick with men hurrying to the
scene. The whole district seemed to have been aroused, and the instant
he appeared a howl of execration went up, followed almost instantly by
another and heavier volley of stones.
Setting spurs to his horse, Edgar again darted full at the crowd. The
men were now too numerous to avoid him, and a dozen were flung headlong
to the ground, whilst several more fell back with heads ringing from
blows given sharply with the flat of the sword. Though bleeding from
several cuts inflicted by the stones, Edgar had almost won through to
safety when suddenly, just as he was striking at a man who had tried to
hamstring his horse on his right, a ruffian on his left, more determined
than his fellows, sprang close up and buried a dagger in the animal's
side. The poor beast gave a convulsive spring and then sank to the
ground where it lay writhing in agony. As the horse fell beneath him,
Edgar took the cripple lad in his arms. It needed but a glance to tell
him that his horse was doomed, and his ears told him as surely that his
own life was in equal peril did he not make good his escape without an
instant's loss of time.
A closed door was by him, and he kicked it open with one foot.
Springing in, he closed it after him. The sound of the shrieking horde
outside was momentarily deadened, but, as he rushed along the passage to
the back of the house, the door flew violently open again, and a wave of
sound with a note so fierce and cruel swept in that most men, even in
those martial days, would have been completely unnerved.
A door led from the passage into a yard at the back of the house, and
through this Edgar sped with his burden as rapidly as he could. The
yard was separated from the next by a low wall, and over this he
pressed, making for the door at the back of the house opposite to him.
This door, however, was fast, and was too strongly made to be readily
battered down; so without a moment's hesitation Edgar sprang at the
single-shuttered window on the ground floor. Placing the cripple lad
down for a moment, he seized a corner of the shutter with both hands,
and, exerting all his strength, tore it bodily away. Flinging it to the
ground with a clatter, he again lifted the cripple lad, placed him on
the sill, and leaped up after him. Not until then did he pause to glance
inside the room, but now he saw that it contained four men, who had
evidently been drinking and playing at cards when disturbed by the
sudden wrenching of the shutter from off its hinges.
They were rough-looking men, and stared fiercely, albeit with some
alarm, at the two figures perched upon the window sill.
"Who are ye?" challenged one in a rough and threatening tone.
"Speak--what want ye?"
Edgar would have retreated had there been time, but already some of his
pursuers were dropping over the low wall behind, shouting in fierce
exultation as they saw their prey almost within their grasp. In another
moment or two he would have to defend himself in the rear, whilst his
front was threatened by these four men, who looked as ripe for mischief
as any of the ruffians closing in behind. Desperate measures alone could
save him.
Whispering to the cripple to cling to his back and so free both arms,
Edgar flung his legs over the sill, sprang into the room, and dashed for
the door. Two of the men drew their knives and made as though to stop
him, but Edgar, who still carried his sword naked in his hand, instantly
attacked them. Two rapid thrusts from his practised hand and the men
fell back, shrieking and snarling, leaving him free to pass unmolested
through the door and down a passage into another alley on the farther
side.
Edgar's exertions in running and climbing, burdened by the cripple lad,
had been so great that he felt he must at once find a refuge, even if
only a temporary one, or resign himself to selling his life as dearly as
he could. Eagerly he glanced up and down the alley. At one end was a
blank wall, and at the other were a number of men, who raised a shout
the instant they caught sight of him. In front were what appeared to be
the backs of a number of solidly-built warehouses, and these, Edgar
felt, could and must provide his only refuge.
The lowest windows were too high to be reached, and the doors were
unusually strong, doubtless owing to the poverty of the neighbourhood.
There was, however, no choice open, so Edgar again put the lad down and
turned to the nearest door.
Throughout the flight the cripple lad had not spoken once, but now,
noticing perhaps how his rescuer panted, and how their escape seemed as
far off as ever, he found his tongue.
"Leave me behind, sir. Thou canst not escape burdened with me. Seek
thine own safety. What need for both to perish?"
"I cannot leave thee, lad, once I have taken the task upon me. Fear
not; while I still possess a sword I will never lose hope."
As he spoke Edgar drove the blade of his sword through the top panel of
the door, tore it out, and again and again drove it back. Then with the
hilt he hammered the splintered woodwork inwards with quick sharp blows
until a hole gaped the full length and breadth of the panel.
"Now, lad, thine escape at least is assured. Come; I am going to pass
thee through this hole." Lifting the lad, Edgar thrust him through the
cavity and lowered him gently down. And not one whit too soon, for the
advance guard of the men from the end of the alley and those who had
followed him through the houses was now upon the scene. Making a sudden
rush at the nearest of them, Edgar wounded two and momentarily drove the
rest headlong back. Then retreating as suddenly as he had advanced, he
sprang to the broken door and swung himself quickly through the gap.
Inside he found himself in a dark passage, between stacks of goods piled
to the ceiling. Followed by the cripple, who had awaited his coming,
and who could now limp slowly along, he traversed the passage and
mounted some steps to what appeared to be the inhabited part of the
building. In a minute or two he came to the door of a room, inside
which he could hear the sound of laughter and the clink of cups and
platters. Here at least seemed hope of succour.
It was indeed high time, for the noise of axes and hammers pounding at
the outer door and the yells of the savage mob outside reverberated
threateningly along the passage. In a minute or two the remnants of the
door must give way and allow them free ingress. Already some of the
cut-throats might have ventured singly through the gap and be stealing
along in the darkness.
Opening the door without ceremony, Edgar pressed eagerly in, followed by
the lad. The sight which met them, fresh from the hurly-burly, seemed
strange in its dissimilarity, and almost made them momentarily doubt the
reality of what they had gone through. The room was comfortably
furnished and brightly lit, and at a large table in its centre sat a
merchant, his wife, and several daughters at supper. All rose to their
feet, as with a single impulse, as Edgar, panting and blood-streaked,
and with a naked and reddened sword in his hand, strode impetuously in.
"Sirrah, what is this?" cried the merchant hastily. "What dost thou in
my dwelling?"
"To seek aid. We are fugitives," panted Edgar.
"From the law? Come not to me for succour, but begone!"
"Nay, we flee from bands of thieves and cut-throats. Even now they are
doubtless pressing in at thy broken door. Summon aid, for our need is
sore."
"What--what is it thou art saying? Bands of cut-throats entering my
house! Thou hast led them upon us, and we are ruined. What defence
have I against such ruffians?"
Edgar leaned upon his sword and panted. His exertions had been
tremendous, but a few moments' breathing space would, he knew, do much
to restore him.
"They are stealing along the passage, sir. I hear them," whispered the
cripple. "They are fierce and stubborn when once they are roused, and
fear the Justice and his men but little. I know them well."
"Come, sir," said Edgar, lifting himself upright. "The cut-throats are
even now stealing along yon passage, and----"
Shrill cries of alarm from the merchant's wife and daughters interrupted
him, and turning hastily round, Edgar saw that two or three
savage-looking figures were even now actually at the door. The merchant
snatched a knife from the table, and, though pale and trembling, moved
towards the door, as though prepared to defend his womenfolk to the
last.
With a sickening shock Edgar realized his responsibility in drawing the
ruffians in pursuit of him into the home of a peaceful and innocent
merchant. Though he was the one they sought, it was not to be supposed
for a moment that the merchant's family would, even though he gave
himself up, remain unmolested. Furious with himself, and desperate to
defend the innocent from the consequences of his thoughtlessness, Edgar
sprang through the doorway upon the ruffians who were gathering there.
His sword rose and fell with the rapidity and unerring precision he had
learned in so many hard-fought encounters at Gaspard's school, and in
the space of a few seconds three lay wounded upon the ground and the
others were in full flight. More men were stealing up behind, but at
the screeching of the wounded and the headlong flight of the remainder
they too turned and hastily retreated. For some distance Edgar followed
them up, and, by sundry thrusts at the hindmost, sent them racing down
the stairs to the passage through the warehouse. Here he stopped, for
the way was dark, and he could not know but that many might be lurking
among the bales, ready to spring out as he passed by, and, by stabbing
him in the back, render themselves masters of the merchant's dwelling.
Returning to the door of the room, Edgar beckoned to the merchant, who
was engaged in calming the fears of his wife and daughters, to come
outside for a moment.
"Canst not fetch aid?"
"How dare I leave my wife and daughters, young sir? At any moment thou
mayst be overcome, leaving them at the mercy of these ruffians."
"Nay, if thou wilt give me a lighted lantern fixed upon a short pole, I
will, I promise thee, rid thy house of these cut-throats until such time
as thou canst bring help. But I cannot fight to advantage in the dark."
"Thou shalt have the lanthorn. See thou keep'st thy promise."
The lantern was brought, and bearing it high up with his left hand, and
holding his sword in his right, Edgar returned along the way he had
come, searching for any trace of lurking foes. He encountered none
until he had nearly reached the broken door, but here he found them
gathered in force, and had to make another attack. His determined front
and darting sword, however, quickly cowed the men, and after a very
short struggle they gave back, and, rushing for the door, fought their
way out in absolute panic.
Edgar did not trouble to follow up his advantage, but contented himself
with placing his lantern where its light would shine upon the broken
door, sitting down himself in a shadow and resting, while he watched and
listened.
Half an hour passed away without any change. He could tell his pursuers
still lurked outside, but not once did they dare to return to the
attack. Then he heard cries of alarm and the sound of rapid footsteps.
A moment or two later a face appeared at the broken door, and he
recognized the merchant.
"Is all well within?" he called breathlessly.
"All is well," cried Edgar, coming forward.
"God be praised!" cried the merchant in a voice of deep relief. "I have
brought an officer and ten men, and at the sight of us the vagabonds
made off."
"'Tis well. We are safe from attack now."
"Did the ruffians molest thee?"
"Nay. And now, sir, I must make the best of my way back to my home at
Castle Wolsingham without loss of time. But before I go I pray thee
forgive me for the alarm I have caused thee and the ladies of thy
household. Thou know'st 'twas all done in the heat and extremity of the
moment, and wilt excuse my thoughtlessness."
"I cannot regret aught that has gained me the acquaintance of one so
gallant," cried the merchant warmly. "Come with me, for I am sure the
ladies will desire an opportunity to thank thee for themselves."
The gratitude of the merchant and his wife and daughters, now that their
alarm had subsided, was very great, and they united in praising Edgar
for what they termed his bravery. But Edgar laughed at them, and would
have no such term applied to what he called an afternoon's useful
practice with the sword. One destined to the trade of arms, he
disclaimed banteringly, must regard such a brush as of no more moment
than the merchant's assistants did the measuring of a bale of cloth.
But the merchant's daughters would not be denied, and showed their
admiration of the young esquire by pressing food and dainties upon him,
and by washing and tending the cripple lad, the unhappy cause of all the
disturbance.
An offer of the loan of a horse gave Edgar an excuse to be gone and to
escape from irksome thanks and embarrassingly bright eyes. So as soon
as they had finished tending the cripple lad, whose name they soon found
out to be Peter, he bade them all goodbye, and, mounting the steed and
taking Peter up behind him, set off for Wolsingham once more.
His strange and exciting adventure had ended in the loss of a horse and
the winning of a lad. How the latter was to be provided for, Edgar knew
no more than he knew, when he set out in the morning, that he would
return saddled with such a dependent. It was all very strange, but his
mind was fully made up that he could not readily part with a lad for
whom he had risked and ventured so much.
*CHAPTER V*
*The Fracas*
It was late when Edgar reached the vicinity of Wolsingham, and,
preferring to obtain Geoffrey Fletcher's permission before he brought
Peter into the castle, he left him for the night at the farmhouse of one
of the tenants on the Wolsingham lands. He then rode on to the castle,
and, learning that Geoffrey was still up, made his way to him, and
related in detail all that had befallen that eventful afternoon.
Geoffrey was concerned at the loss of the horse, but made little of the
difficulty of the cripple lad. He could, he said, easily find
employment for him among the tenantry if he found it impossible to take
him into service within the castle. The latter would depend upon his
inspection of the lad on the morrow. He congratulated Edgar warmly upon
coming out of so serious a fracas with a whole skin, and strongly
advised him, if he were still bent upon continuing his lessons with
Gaspard, to choose a more public route until such time as the affair was
likely to have been forgotten.
During the homeward journey, Edgar had learned from Peter all that he
could tell him of his life and parents. As he had expected, the lad's
parents were both dead--his mother but a few months since--and he had
only been allowed shelter in the house where his parents had lived by
the kindness of one of the women of the place. Her husband, however,
was of another mind, and, finding that the boy could give nothing in
payment, had turned him out of the house.
Again and again he had stolen back, however, and the man's wrath had
increased beyond measure as he found him there time after time, until it
ended in the more than usually brutal beating which Edgar was
fortunately just in time to prevent becoming something worse. Of
relations, Peter had none--that he knew of; and without help, sympathy,
or hope he would in all probability, if he had survived and had remained
in those evil surroundings, have drifted imperceptibly into evil and
vicious courses.
From this Edgar's intervention had saved him, and though as yet he did
not realize all that it meant, he was deeply grateful for the timely
succour.
On the morrow Edgar took Peter in to Geoffrey, and then and there he was
placed in charge of the armourer, who had for some time been wanting a
boy to work his bellows. With healthy surroundings, good food, and fair
treatment, he soon lost much of his frail and ill-nourished appearance,
and but for his infirmity would in time have passed muster with other
youths of his rank and station. Indeed, even his infirmity gradually
lessened, until at last his limp, though still noticeable, marred his
appearance rather than his usefulness.
The recollection of the stirring scenes they had been through together
always remained a bond of union between Edgar and Peter the armourer's
lad, and the desire to aid and the desire to serve remained with them
even after months and years had passed by. If Edgar wanted someone to
go on an errand, it was Peter who was only too delighted to go; and if
Peter had ever any desire beyond his work, it was always to Edgar that
he came for advice or permission. If anything, the bond between them
increased with the lapse of time, and it became a recognized thing in
the castle that Peter was the special protege and retainer of Edgar
Wintour.
Three or four years passed without any change of note taking place in
the affairs of the castle. Then its lord, Sir John Chartris, returned
from the wars, and an alteration was made that had a considerable
influence in the lives of more than one of its inmates. Sir John had
previously paid several visits to his home but had soon departed, for he
was constantly campaigning in Flanders, the south of France, or
elsewhere. On this occasion he returned alone, for his esquire had
recently been knighted, and had left him to take service under another
banner.
As soon as the news that the office of personal esquire to Sir John was
vacant became known, the excitement and rivalry between Aymery
Montacute, Roland Mortimer, Robert Duplessis, Philip Soames, and Edgar
became intense. That such a contingency was likely soon to arise had
been known for some time, and each of them had nursed within himself the
secret hope that he might be the fortunate one and follow his master to
the wars. Rivalry had always existed between them, but naturally this
increased tenfold at the thought that a selection must soon be made, for
Sir John had so far steadily refused to take with him more than one
esquire.
In prowess with weapons, both on foot and on horseback, Aymery, Roland,
and Edgar were generally considered to be about equal. But this
estimate was based on their performances in the castle courtyard and
gymnasium, and little account, if any, was taken of the fact that Edgar
always wore full armour, and, more even than this, wore his vizor down
in those encounters. His comrades, however, had become so used to
meeting him in this fashion, and made so little of it beyond a few half
good-humoured gibes at his supposed dislike for cuts and bruises, that
they overlooked the heavy handicap under which he laboured. Edgar,
however, had not forgotten it, and resolved that when a trial was made
to qualify one of their number for the coveted position, he would fight
unencumbered, in the hopes of being able easily to overcome all his
opponents.
The lessons he had learned at Gaspard's, too, would then very largely
come into play for the first time. Several of the best strokes he had
there learnt and practised he never used at Wolsingham, partly because
he did not wish to accentuate the rivalry that already existed by easily
worsting his comrades, and partly because he had had from the first a
vague idea that a knowledge of new modes of attack or defence, about
which they knew nothing, might prove useful to him in the days to come.
Several times the rivalry between him and one or two of his comrades had
led perilously near to an open quarrel; but Edgar so far had, by the
exercise of tact and a certain amount of forbearance, generally managed
to keep the peace. Twice, however, he had had high words with Aymery
and Roland over the rough manner in which they had treated Peter when
sending him on their errands. Even this had blown over, though it
remained an understood thing that if anyone wanted to annoy Edgar it was
a safe and sure plan to bully the cripple lad.
A few weeks after Sir John's return home, it leaked out that it was
likely that he would take part in an expedition which was being
dispatched to Guienne under the leadership of the Earl of Derby. Much
was hoped for from this expedition, and it seemed certain that those
fortunate ones who took part in it would be in a fair way towards
winning much renown. It happened also that the greater part of the
lands to which Sir John's ward, Beatrice d'Alencon, was heiress, lay not
far from the probable scene of the expedition, and presently the further
news transpired that Sir John contemplated taking her with him,
accompanied by his elder daughter, Gertrude, with the object of seizing
an early opportunity of looking into the condition of her estates.
As has already been explained, both Aymery and Roland had for years past
proudly worn the gage of Beatrice, with or without her permission, and
not unnaturally this news sent them nearly wild with the desire to
follow Sir John as his esquire. To take part in a famous campaign
beneath her very eyes would, they felt certain, be a sure means towards
gaining her admiration.
From the moment this news leaked out their rivalry was fanned to
boiling-point, and the quarrels between them became constant. Only
Edgar's tact and self-control kept him from embroilment also; for though
they knew he was no rival so far as Beatrice was concerned, for he
openly scoffed at all such notions, they both feared his swordsmanship,
which might defeat their ambitions to follow Sir John to the wars. All
indeed that was needed to drag him within the circle of their strife was
something which would rouse his antagonism to the pitch at which theirs
normally stood. An explosion would then be inevitable. Unfortunately
this spark was presently supplied, and the unhappy cause of the mishap
was Peter, the armourer's lad.
It happened that one day Aymery had set Peter to work to burnish up his
armour, which he had carelessly left exposed to the rain after he had
been going over it and fondly trying it on on the walls of the keep.
Peter went to work willingly enough, but the havoc was so great that by
the time he should have returned to the armourer it was only half done.
Hastily completing it, in a rough-and-ready fashion, he put it back in
the esquires' chamber and went on his way to the forge, intending to
finish the work as soon as he was again free. Presently two or three of
the pages entered the chamber, and Aymery's armour spread out on the
table was the first object to attract their attention. Not knowing or
caring to whom it belonged, and ripe for any sort of mischief, they
proceeded to amuse themselves by kicking and throwing the pieces about
the room.
Tiring of the fun, the armour was left lying where it had fallen, and
remained there until Aymery and several of the esquires entered.
"He refuses, Aymery," Roland was saying as they entered. "He saith that
the responsibility of looking after one esquire is enough for him, and
that the others must seek other opportunity of winning their spurs--at
the tourney, I think he meant."
"Didst press thy claims to accompany him?" enquired Aymery sourly.
"They need no pressing," responded Roland haughtily. "And 'tis not
_thy_ claims I fear."
Aymery was about to make an angry retort when he noticed the pieces of
armour he so highly prized lying about the floor in all parts of the
room.
"Who hath flung my armour here?" he cried, with a sudden burst of wrath.
"I will trounce him finely--upon my sword, I swear it--whoever the
varlet may be. Was't any of ye?" he ended fiercely, as he glared at the
shamefaced pages.
The boys looked at one another uneasily, and then one more brazen than
the rest replied coolly:
"Why dost not look after thy property, Aymery? Where didst leave it?
Not with any of us, I'll warrant."
"Ah, I recollect! 'Twas with the armourer's boy I left it. Doubtless
he still thinketh 'tis only Edgar's bidding he must do. It seemeth I
must teach him another well-merited lesson. Bid him come to me at once,
Maurice--be off with thee!"
The page sped off upon his errand, and the others waited, eyeing Aymery
expectantly, for they felt that something more than the chastisement of
an unruly youth was in the wind. At any moment Edgar Wintour might come
in, for it was nigh upon his time, and none thought that he would see
Aymery flog Peter without interfering. The angry esquire spent the
minute or two which elapsed before the boy's arrival in examining the
pieces of armour strewn about the floor, and the inspection apparently
did nothing to improve his temper.
Peter had evidently been told what was afoot, for he went straight up to
Aymery immediately he entered.
"You want me, sir," he said quietly.
"Aye, varlet," cried Aymery, grasping him roughly by the collar, "dost
see my armour strewn about the floor? What dost mean by it? I will
break every bone in thy body, dog that thou art!" and he gave emphasis
to his savage words by shaking Peter with all his strength.
"I placed them not there," cried Peter, twisting himself free. "I know
nothing of it."
"Know nothing of it!" cried Aymery, still more incensed. "The work is
only half done--dost know nothing of that? Knave, get thee to work at
once and do it over again, or I will beat thee so thou canst not stand."
Peter hesitated a moment, for the armourer was busy, and was, he knew,
awaiting his return with some impatience. Misunderstanding his
reluctance to do his behest, Aymery's wrath boiled up and over, and,
seizing the boy by the shoulders, he flung him across the table.
"Come, Roland, aid me administer a sound thrashing to this obstinate
varlet. He thinketh 'tis only Wintour's bidding he must do, and hangeth
back when we command."
Roland was only too ready, and grasped and held Peter while Aymery
snatched up a couple of armour buckles and belaboured him with all his
strength. There could be no doubt that Aymery was almost beside himself
with rage, for the buckles tore away Peter's clothing until they reached
and began to score deeply into the bare flesh--and still he went on.
At first the lad bore the beating in silence, but as the buckles began
to cut into his back he commenced to scream with ever-increasing
intensity.
It was in the midst of this that Edgar suddenly entered. The screams
and the sight of Peter, face downwards on the table and covered with
blood, smote him as a blow, and his face blanched in a way that none had
ever seen before.
"Get thee gone, Wintour," cried Aymery recklessly. "This is well-merited
punishment, and interfere thou shalt not."
For answer, Edgar sprang at the speaker, seized him round the waist, and
flung him heavily against the wall. Then he turned fiercely upon
Roland; but that worthy shrank back before his pale face and flashing
eyes, and, letting go Peter, fled to the wall and tore down a sword.
Finding himself free, Peter crawled from the table and dragged himself
into the inner room, the door of which Edgar flung open while he faced
and kept watch upon his furious comrades. He, too, had snatched a sword
from the wall, and he now placed himself squarely in the doorway and
waited. The moment Aymery had recovered his balance, he felt at his side
and grasped the hilt of his sword. But Duplessis laid firm hand upon his
arm and whispered an urgent warning, and Aymery was not so mad but that
he was able to realize the dangerous folly of attacking Edgar with
sharpened and pointed weapon. Abandoning his first impulse, he followed
Roland's example, and, possessing himself of one of the blunted,
pointless weapons used in their practices, instantly attacked the figure
standing in the doorway of the room in which the cripple lad had taken
refuge, standing with ready poise as though prepared to dispute with all
present their right to pass unchallenged.
The encounter that ensued was so reckless and desperate that none
present had seen the like before. Aymery at first seemed too angry to
trouble about defending, and hacked at his adversary with a fierce
rapidity that gave Edgar little time for other than parrying. In a
minute or two, however, he managed to give Aymery so strong a thrust
with his pointless weapon against his unjerkined chest that he was
compelled to cease pressing in to close quarters and to pay some
attention to defence.
"Smite home, Aymery," cried Roland, thinking his friend was giving back.
"Smite home, or let me have my fling at the braggart!"
Stung into more reckless activity, Aymery sprang again to the attack,
leaving his head for the moment unguarded. Before his own blow had
fallen, the flat of Edgar's weapon caught him heavily upon the side of
the head, and he fell back against the table, sick and half-fainting.
Edgar had scarcely stepped back into position before Roland was savagely
attacking him in his turn, secure in the possession of headpiece and
jerkin, which he had cautiously donned whilst the fight with Aymery was
proceeding.
"Once thou didst gibe at me for fearing the weight of my comrades'
blows," laughed Edgar, as their blades ground together. "Why then this
jerkin? Why then this headpiece? Methinks 'tis another that most fears
the shock of blows upon skull and body."
"Bah!" cried Roland, "if thou thinkest I care for thy blows I will tear
them off."
"The result will be the same," retorted Edgar. "I care neither way.
Look to thy guard, or I vow thy headpiece will help thee little."
Though fighting keenly, Edgar kept an eye upon the room as well as upon
his adversary. Aymery, he could see, was recovering from the blow he
had received, and in a moment might be expected to renew the fight with
temper little improved by the sharpness of his punishment. Others of
his comrades were whispering together, and he fancied they meditated an
attack to overcome his resistance and put an end to the conflict.
Thinking it time to rid himself of Roland, for Aymery had given himself
a shake and grasped his sword anew, Edgar put into effect a trick he had
learned of Gaspard some years before. As their swords grated together
he locked his blade in the hilt of his opponent's sword, and, with a
sharp wrench, tore the weapon from his grasp. With a shout of pain, for
his wrist had been severely twisted, Roland jumped swiftly back out of
reach; then, recovering from his surprise, he seized another weapon from
the wall and sprang to the attack once more. Aymery was now also
attacking, and the two made such an onslaught that Edgar was compelled
to fence as he had never fenced before.
Suddenly the door opened and Geoffrey Fletcher entered, followed by a
couple of men-at-arms.
"Hold!" he cried. "Hold! Cease this brawling, or ye shall cool your
heels in the guardroom."
But neither Aymery nor Roland paid any heed to his words; they were too
intent upon beating down Edgar's resistance. Roland had already
inflicted a severe blow upon his unprotected head, and, dizzy from the
effects, Edgar had retired a pace or two into the doorway, where the two
blades could play upon him less easily.
"Men-at-arms, arrest these brawlers!" cried Geoffrey sternly, and
striding forward, followed by the two men, he seized Roland roughly by
the shoulder and struck down his sword with his own weapon. One of the
men-at-arms seized Aymery, and the other approached Edgar, who
immediately flung his sword upon the floor, and, folding his arms,
looked the man in the face.
"There, Matthew!" he said, as quietly as his heaving chest would allow,
"take it--it has done its work so far. Then come with me and help me to
take poor Peter to his bed. He is the innocent cause of all this
unhappy mischief."
Matthew picked up the weapon and went and looked at Peter, who was
supporting himself, half-fainting, against the wall. Then, recalled by
the stern voice of Geoffrey, he whispered: "I will return and see to
him, or send someone in my place."
"Men-at-arms, march the prisoners to the guard-room, and keep them close
till Sir John's pleasure is known," commanded Geoffrey; and the
esquires, sobered by the recollection of their folly now that the heat
of the conflict was evaporating, marched unresistingly out of the
chamber down the stairs to the guardroom adjoining the castle gates.
*CHAPTER VI*
*Sir John's Esquire*
The three esquires were kept closely confined the rest of the day and
all night in a cell leading out of the guardroom, watched over by a
man-at-arms, to see that there was no renewal of hostilities. The
interval gave them time for quiet reflection, and doubtless the first
conclusion they came to was that such a fracas was hardly likely to
commend any one of them to Sir John Chartris as being a suitable
candidate for the position of his personal esquire, especially at a time
when he was about to start for Guienne and Gascony accompanied by a
portion of his household. It was obvious that he would wish for an
esquire who possessed prudence as well as fighting capacity, when at any
time it might be necessary to leave him in sole charge of his affairs.
To Edgar, at any rate, the thought was torture. Though he could scarcely
see how he could have acted otherwise--for the rescue of Peter he never
for a moment regretted--he yet felt angry with himself that he had not
somehow avoided a collision at a time so critical in his career.
However his comrades may have got on, he himself scarcely slept a wink
all night.
It was nearly midday when a summons came to the prisoners that they were
to prepare themselves for an interview with Sir John. Half an hour
later Geoffrey appeared, again accompanied by a guard of men-at-arms,
and the three esquires were marched across the courtyard to the council
chamber of Sir John, high up in the walls of the keep. Curious eyes
watched them pass by, for the news that there had been a serious fracas
in the esquires' quarters had spread like wildfire through the castle.
Some commiseration was expressed at their ill luck in the affair
happening whilst Sir John was at the castle, and, consequently, in their
having to appear before him, for he was known to be something of a
martinet.
As they approached the door of Sir John's chamber it opened, and a youth
stepped out. It was Peter, the armourer's assistant. Aymery and Roland
looked at one another gloomily. His presence hardly augured well for
them.
The first thing the three young men noticed as they were ushered into
the room was that Sir Percy Standish as well as Sir John Chartris was
present. Both knights were seated at a table fronting the doorway, and
Geoffrey ranged the three esquires facing them, with a man-at-arms on
either flank. He then took a seat at Sir Percy's side.
"What am I to think of my esquires," began Sir John in a stern,
upbraiding voice, as he fixed his steel-grey eyes upon each of the young
men in turn, "what am I to think of the example they set to my
men-at-arms and retainers when they brawl thus amongst themselves? How
can I entrust to them the command of soldiers when they have no command
over themselves and less knowledge of discipline?"
"But, Sir John----" began Aymery hotly.
"Cease, boy!--I will hear no excuses. There can be no excuse for the
men I command to fight amongst themselves. Had this breach of
discipline occurred in face of the enemy I would surely have sent ye
back to your homes--disgraced esquires. Now ye shall spend the rest of
the day and night in the guard chamber, to meditate upon my words and
your own folly; and for two weeks more the sentinel at the gate will
have orders to refuse you exit. Dost understand?"
The three esquires murmured assent.
"Then, Geoffrey, remove the prisoners, and see that my commands are
obeyed."
The three esquires were marched back to their cell, gloomy and cast
down. Sir John's words and the sentence had sounded the death knell of
all their hopes of becoming Sir John's esquire and accompanying him to
the wars, and Aymery and Roland, at least, felt with bitter certainty
that it was their own cruelty and overbearing conduct they had to thank
for it. In their distress of mind a truce was patched up between the
three esquires, and though Edgar could not yet forget the others'
cruelty to poor Peter, and they could not so soon forget their heavy
defeat, they tacitly agreed to let the matter rest and to be as friendly
as they could.
At the end of the fortnight of confinement within the precincts of the
castle Sir John sent for Edgar. Wondering what the summons might mean,
coming so close upon his disgrace, Edgar made speed to obey.
"This quarrel of thine," began Sir John abruptly, though in a not
unkindly tone; "I have made enquiries, and I am not disposed to make too
much of thy mischance. Perhaps, even, I may think that thou didst not
altogether ill to break my rules and to defend the lad. Geoffrey hath
told me how it came about that thou didst save the lad at peril of thine
own life, and doubtless 'twould be too hard to expect thee to hold thy
peace when thy comrades were mishandling him."
Sir John paused for a moment and looked at him thoughtfully, and Edgar,
thinking something required of him, murmured: "Thank you, Sir John."
"But how didst come to learn that trick with the sword that hath set thy
comrades wondering?" went on the knight in a brisker tone. "I mean that
catch of thy weapon that tore Roland's from his grasp?"
"'Twas learned at Gaspard's, Sir John."
"Gaspard's? And who is Gaspard?"
"He is the founder of a school of arms in London town to which I have
been going twice in every week. I thought perhaps Geoffrey had told
thee that it was on the return from one of my visits to Gaspard's that I
rescued Peter."
"Ha, yes! He did mention it, but I paid no heed. Didst not then feel
satisfied with Sir Percy's teaching?"
"Yes, sir; but after a time I thought that I might learn more, and might
obtain a knowledge of more varied forms of attack and defence, did I
seek other practices."
"Thou wert right. 'Tis well not to move in too narrow a circle. I
found that out, overlate, in my first battle, and for the lack I paid
heavily in blood and pain. However, I learned my lessons in time. But
how dost fare at Gaspard's? Art put quite in the shade?"
"He tells me," replied Edgar slowly, and flushing slightly, "that I am
his most promising pupil. Oftentimes he asks me to have a bout with
visitors who have heard of his school and who would try how far his
instruction extends."
"Ha! That sounds vastly to thy credit. And dost win these bouts or
dost lose?"
"I lose sometimes," replied Edgar evasively, wishing the knight would
not press the point so far.
"I must see this Gaspard," said Sir John reflectively. "My sword hath
been idle of late, and 'twould not come amiss to practise on his pupils
ere I join our forces in Guienne; but, ha! at any rate I can practise on
his most promising pupil. Get thy sword, Edgar, and I will test thy
prowess for myself."
"Nay, sir, I beg thou wilt not; 'twere scarce seemly for esquire----"
"Ho! ho! Thou fearest to beat me?--or dost fear to be put to the test?
Nay, 'tis not the latter; I wrong thee there, I am sure. Well, never
mind, lad, I have other matters to think of for the moment. I purpose
to make thee my esquire. What dost think of it?"
Edgar gave a start for sheer joy.
"Think of it, Sir John? It is all I could desire in all the world. I
will serve thee--I do not say well, but as well as it is in my power to
do."
"There are other things than fighting and riding to be done, Edgar.
Thou mayst have to stay behind when I go campaigning, to look after the
ladies and to see to my interests. For this I need a cool head and a
devoted heart. Canst fulfil these conditions?"
"I will try so to do, Sir John."
"Very well. I appoint thee my esquire. Every morning thou wilt come to
me for thy instructions. In three weeks, if the weather favours our
projects, we set sail for Guienne, and in those three weeks we must have
furbished up our arms, selected the men-at-arms and archers who are to
accompany us, and hied us to the coast."
Edgar's joy was so great that he could scarcely collect his thoughts,
but at last he managed to stammer out his thanks.
"Say no more, Edgar. Now go, and see thou keep'st the peace with thy
comrades. They will be sorely disappointed, but thou hast earned thy
reward and they have not. I am glad 'tis thee, Edgar Wintour, who wilt
accompany me, for thy father's sake as well as for thine own. Thou
know'st what he did for me? Well, he desired that thou shouldst make
thy way by thine own efforts, without help from me, and so far thou hast
done so indeed. Now go, and bear thyself generously towards thy less
fortunate comrades."
The next two weeks were weeks of delight to Edgar. In all that
appertained to the expedition to Guienne he became Sir John's
lieutenant; and when, some three days before the time came to march for
the coast, Sir John was called away to London to consult with the Earl
of Derby, Edgar was left in sole charge of the contingent of twenty men
and the ladies of the household who were to accompany them.
On the day on which it had been arranged for the march to the coast to
commence Sir John had not returned. Word soon arrived, however, that he
had been detained, and would make the journey direct in the train of the
Earl of Derby. Edgar was to set out at once with the Wolsingham
men-at-arms and ladies, and was to meet him at Dover.
Gaily the company mustered. The men-at-arms were all picked men, well
armed, and in the best of spirits at the prospect of the stirring times
before them. The ladies were wild with delight at the change from the
dull round of their life, spent mainly behind the walls of the castle.
The glitter of weapons and the gleam of armour, the bright dresses of
the ladies and the glossy coats of the horses, made a pretty picture
against the sombre, massive walls of the castle, and Edgar, as he slowly
convinced himself that he really was, for the time at any rate, to
command this little force, was dazzled at his wonderful good fortune.
Looking as unconcerned as he could, however, he bade his comrades and
Geoffrey a most cordial farewell, and then gave the word to march. With
deafening fanfare of trumpets the cavalcade wound round the courtyard,
under the frowning portcullis, and across the drawbridge to the sunny
countryside. All seemed to smile in happiness to Edgar as he rode in
the rear, his heart bounding with gladness and hope. Could he have
looked forward a few months and become aware of the strange vicissitudes
and heart-shaking adventures he would have to face in the sunny south of
France, it may be that he would have been less glad and a little more
thoughtful.
*CHAPTER VII*
*To Guienne*
"What wouldst do, Sir Edgar?" enquired Beatrice d'Alencon in a tone of
formality, but with a lurking air of mock respect, as Edgar, in riding
towards the front of the column, passed by the steeds of the two ladies.
"What wouldst do an we were to disobey thy commands? Oh, I know thou
art said to be wonderful with thy sword, but though that may impress the
men-at-arms, it is naught to us."
Edgar smiled and made as though to pass on without speaking.
"Answer me, sir, for I have a mind to go my own way now that we are free
from Sir John and that odious Geoffrey."
"Thou wilt not disobey," replied Edgar quietly.
"Oho!--that is soon decided. Dost see yon hill, Edgar Wintour? I am
tired of trotting along this dusty lane, and have made up my mind to a
gallop across these fields to its summit. The view is doubtless
charming. Come, Gertrude--let us see who will reach it first."
"Maiden, do no such thing," cried Edgar, quickly grasping the young
girl's bridle as she turned her steed.
Quick as lightning Beatrice gave his horse a sharp cut with her whip,
and the animal plunged so violently that Edgar involuntarily let go his
hold.
With a ringing laugh of triumph, Beatrice urged on her steed, bounded
across the low bushes which bordered the roadway, and made straight for
the hill.
Stung to anger at being tricked, and still more so at sundry sly
chuckles from one or two of the men-at-arms, Edgar gave instant chase
and galloped furiously after. But though he did not spare his steed,
the fugitive was not overtaken until she had reached the summit of the
hill and had drawn rein to admire the prospect.
"'Tis fine, is it not, Edgar?" enquired the young girl, flushed and
sparkling with the sharp gallop, as she pretended to admire the prospect
while glancing furtively at the young esquire.
"I will not have it, Beatrice," cried Edgar, as he grasped her bridle
with a grip that he did not mean to be shaken off. "What catastrophe
may I not have to report to Sir John if thou goest on so wilfully?"
"Release my bridle," commanded Beatrice indignantly. "Thou wilt make me
wish that Aymery or Roland were Sir John's esquire instead of thee,
Edgar Wintour."
"'Twould be strange if thou didst not do so a'ready," replied Edgar
calmly. "I have no claims to their flattering tongues or courtly ways.
But if ever a time of stress cometh mayhap thou wilt then be the less
discontented."
"Art going to lead me back to our party with hand on my bridle?" cried
Beatrice haughtily, albeit with a hint of pleading in her voice.
"Nay, I will not so humiliate thee. But remember, Beatrice, ours is an
expedition of war, and not a pleasure excursion. Obedience must needs
be given."
"Surely thou art taking thy first command over-seriously," replied
Beatrice scoffingly. "What need is there to exact obedience from
Gertrude and me? We are not men-at-arms."
"This reason, Beatrice. At our last stop I was informed that the
district was infested with robbers and brigands, who had become much
emboldened since interest had been so centred in the war. What then if
ye had become lost and had fallen into their hands?"
"I would that the robbers would capture thee, Edgar Wintour," cried
Beatrice quickly, as she galloped back to Gertrude's side.
Edgar laughed, though somewhat ruefully, and followed her example.
The rest of the journey passed without incident. Oftentimes, however,
Edgar found his energies taxed to the utmost to keep the spirits of his
young charges within reasonable bounds. Sometimes they scoffed at him
and sometimes defied him, but with the aid of a half hint that if the
worst came to the worst they would have to ride behind a man-at-arms, he
managed to keep them in fair order. It was with a sigh of relief, so
far as they were concerned, however, that he rode into Dover town.
Sir John had arrived and was awaiting their coming at the rendezvous
agreed upon. After the first greetings were over, and the ladies were
as comfortably disposed of as the crowded state of the inns would allow,
he led Edgar aside.
"How went the journey hither? Are the ladies well and the men-at-arms
of good hap? I hope thou didst maintain a firm discipline, Edgar."
"The ladies are well and the journey passed without mishap. I had no
trouble with the men, though I fear the ladies were inclined to be
somewhat unruly. I hope thou art well also, Sir John?"
"Well enough, lad. We embark to-morrow, and all told the Earl of Derby
will muster a force of three thousand men. We shall land at Bayonne,
and probably march on to Bordeaux. That is as much as it behoves me to
tell thee of the expedition at present. There is, however, one other
thing I must acquaint thee of at once, as it is closely concerned, I do
greatly fear, with mine own personal safety. During this expedition, it
is like enough that my life will be in constant jeopardy, not from the
enemy but from one amongst my own side. The truth is, I have an enemy,
and I look to thee, lad, to aid me to frustrate his evil designs."
"I will indeed do all I can, Sir John. But who is this dastard who in
time of war would aim at the life of one of his own countrymen? Tell me
his name, I pray thee, so that I may know him and thus be able to guard
thee the more certainly."
"'Tis Sir Gervaise de Maupas. He is unknown to thee at present, but
before we are through with this expedition thou art likely to know him
only too well. He is a man of evil character, unless my judgment and
that of some others are at fault, though he well knoweth how to
ingratiate himself into the good opinion of those in authority. He hath
already gained the ear of the earl, and that alone bodeth ill for me.
The cause of our enmity dateth back many years, to the time when his
father was dispossessed of his estates for treason and they were
bestowed upon my father. He hath been trained from childhood to
consider me and mine as his most bitter enemies, and he seemeth to have
learned his lesson well. More than that, we have had high words on two
occasions, and once we have met in single combat. He was worsted, and
since then he hath lost no opportunity of revenging himself most fully.
"I have been stabbed in the back on English soil by a miscreant whose
object was certainly not robbery. I was turning as he struck or I
should not be here now. The man escaped, but I caught a fleeting
glimpse of him, and two months later I saw talking with Sir Gervaise a
man who resembled him most uncomfortably. Until now, fortunately for
me, I have never been in the same quarter of the field as Sir Gervaise,
but now that we are thrown together it behoves us to keep watch and
ward--Hist! This is he, Edgar."
Startled by the sudden change of tone, Edgar glanced quickly in the
direction in which Sir John was looking and saw a tall and somewhat
gaunt knight sauntering easily towards them. He was dressed in silks in
the height of fashion and made a brave show, though the expression of
his strongly marked features seemed to Edgar to consort but ill with his
dainty attire. As he came closer, his evil expression intensified and
became so ugly and insolent a scowl that Edgar saw Sir John's hand steal
involuntarily to his sword hilt. Noticing the action, Sir Gervaise's
face relaxed into a smile hardly less forbidding than his frown, as he
snarled:
"Never fear, thou shalt soon have opportunity an thou dost desire it."
"I do desire it, De Maupas. Thine insolence alone merits chastisement,
but besides and above all that there is a matter between us that can
never be wiped away until thou hast bit the dust."
"Thou art right, Sir John. The deeds of thy grasping forbears stand
between us, and one of us, I swear, shall be humiliated before many
months are past."
"I speak of far viler things than those, things too of more recent
date--things that, could I but prove them, would send thee hotfoot to a
felon's cell."
Sir Gervaise ground his teeth as he glanced uneasily from Sir John to
his esquire.
"Darest thou make such shameful allegations against me openly? Darest
thou speak out boldly to the earl, or must thou, like a baseborn coward,
hint darkly and secretly against mine honour?"
"Thou well knowest I can prove nothing, Sir Gervaise, until I prove it
on thy body. Wilt meet me in single combat _a outrance_?"
"I will. And I swear to punish thee. The earl purposes a tourney when
he doth enter Bordeaux. Then thy chance will come unless thou hast
thought better of it. Ha! Ha! Perchance when the time cometh, Sir
John Chartris may not be so eager to meet Sir Gervaise de Maupas face to
face and lance to lance in a fight to the death?"
"Thou wilt see. At Bordeaux I will challenge thee publicly, and thou
wilt be compelled to answer for thy ill deeds with lance, sword, and
dagger."
With a smile which seemed to Edgar one of malicious triumph, Sir
Gervaise turned on his heel and sauntered slowly away. Sir John looked
after him for a minute with a frowning face which showed plainly how
deeply his anger had been stirred. Then he turned to Edgar and said:
"I would not miss meeting Sir Gervaise for all I possess, Edgar. What I
fear most, however, is that he may find some pretext for avoiding a
conflict, so do thou make it public that at the earl's tourney Sir John
Chartris will issue a challenge to Sir Gervaise de Maupas to a combat _a
outrance_. Thus only, when all are agog with expectation, can we be sure
that he will not disappoint us."
"I will see to it, Sir John. I will make the encounter so public that
it will be hard indeed for De Maupas to find a way out with honour."
The next day the whole of the expeditionary force embarked, and sail was
set for the south of France. Edgar was kept very busy, for Sir John,
who was often in attendance on the Earl of Derby, left in his hands all
the arrangements for the accommodation of the Wolsingham ladies and
their maids on shore and afloat, the victualling of the Wolsingham
men-at-arms and their horses during the voyage, and the responsibility
of seeing to the general comfort and wellbeing of the whole of the
party.
He carried out his many duties, however, with a thoroughness that soon
earned him the respect and affection of all concerned, except perhaps of
the ladies, who may have missed the gallantries of Aymery and Roland and
have found Edgar's directness not altogether to their liking. Certainly
the lady Beatrice more than once rallied him severely upon a devotion to
duty that scarce, she said, permitted him to smile at a merry thrust.
But Edgar lightly passed the matter off, for he was indeed far too
absorbed in the coming campaign to care to take the place of either
Aymery or Roland. The mention of a tourney, too, had given him much
food for thought. It seemed possible that some place might be found for
esquires in the proceedings, and might not he as well as his master
figure in the conflicts? Full of the idea, and dreading lest he might
be getting somewhat out of practice with the sword--for since he had
been esquire to Sir John he had been so busy that he had had fewer
opportunities for practising than formerly--Edgar set Peter to make
enquiries and to find out if any men-at-arms or esquires of especial
note for skill with weapons were accompanying the expedition.
After a voyage swift and pleasant, though quite devoid of incident, the
fleet arrived at Bayonne, where the earl's force landed and marched
along the coast to Bordeaux. Here the army encamped, and, having joined
forces with the available troops of the province, mustered quite a
goodly array. To Sir John's stern delight, it was not long before the
Earl of Derby proposed a tournament, with the object of interesting the
townspeople in the campaign and of strengthening the warlike spirit of
his men in readiness for active operations. His proposals were received
with general acclamation, and, a date being fixed, the arrangements
proceeded with the greatest speed and enthusiasm.
From the first day of his arrival at the camp Edgar had put into
operation his scheme for obtaining useful practice, and several old
campaigners among both the English and Gascon forces had been induced by
offers of sundry good cheer to venture a bout with the eager esquire.
Most of the men he found were hardly up to their reputations, but from
some he was able to glean useful knowledge of yet more varied modes of
attack and defence. At the same time the practices served excellently
to keep him in perfect trim and fitness.
The reward for this diligence came when it was presently announced that
the tourney would open with a contest of esquires before the more
serious work of the day was entered upon.
The contest of honour between Sir John Chartris and Sir Gervaise de
Maupas was fixed for the afternoon, immediately after the contest
between knights on foot. By general consent this encounter was regarded
as the most important and interesting of the whole tourney, partly
because of the well-established reputations of the two knights, but more
especially because the bad blood existing between them made it certain
that the encounter would be fought out to the bitter end.
Some three days before the date fixed for the tourney, Peter drew Edgar
aside.
"I fear there is something afoot, Master Edgar, that bodeth ill for
someone."
"Oh, and what is that, Peter?"
"There have been two men of hangdog looks haunting this end of the camp
for several days. As thou know'st, I have lived in the midst of
cutthroats and ruffians and know something of their ways, and methinks
these men are seeking an opportunity to plunder."
"But to plunder whom?"
"Sir John, I fear. Know'st thou if he hath brought much money or
valuables with him?"
"I have not heard of it, and if _I_ know not I see not how others can
have learned it."
"Then I must be mistaken. It is doubtless some other knight they wish
to rob, for that they are after something of the sort I am wellnigh
certain."
Suddenly Edgar recollected what Sir John had told him of the attempt
upon his life which had, he thought, been planned by Sir Gervaise. It
seemed improbable that De Maupas would again make such an attempt,
especially as he would so soon have ample opportunity for revenge in the
encounter in the lists. Still, it would be well that no stone should be
left unturned that might affect his master's safety.
"After all, Peter, keep a close watch upon these men. Though their evil
designs may not be directed against us, I would still frustrate them an
we can. Keep an eye upon them without being thyself seen, and find out
whether they have any friends within the camp."
"I will, sir;" and Peter limped off with the air of one setting about a
task especially congenial to him.
Nothing, however, occurred in any way suspicious until the very eve of
the tournament. By that time everything in connection with the
arrangements had been settled, and the esquires of the English army had
been rendered wild with excitement at the news that the proceedings
would be opened by a melee between seven esquires chosen from amongst
their number and a like number selected from among their Gascon allies.
Originally this spectacular encounter had been intended for knights,
but, fearing that the victory of either side might lead to jealousy and
hinder the harmonious working of the two branches of his army, the Earl
of Derby prohibited the engagement in the form proposed, and substituted
for it a general melee in which the members of the two competing bodies
were drawn promiscuously from amongst the knights of both nations.
The projectors of the original scheme, however, unwilling to abandon
their proposal altogether, urged that the objections brought against it
hardly applied to a contest amongst esquires. To this the earl
assented, and it was finally arranged that in the esquires' melee the
two sides should be drawn from amongst the English and Gascon troops
respectively. The news was received with acclamation, and it soon
became abundantly evident that, although the contest was one for
esquires only, its unusual character had invested it with much more than
the usual interest.
On the English side some thirty of the better-known esquires were
quickly selected, and invited to compete among themselves for the honour
of representing their nation in the coming contest. Edgar was one of
those invited to compete, and, doing well in all his encounters,
eventually found himself one of the seven chosen representatives of the
squirehood of the English army.
Scarcely had he had time to receive the congratulations of his friends
upon his good fortune, and to indulge in pleasant dreams of the stirring
encounters and ultimate victory that he confidently believed awaited his
side, before an event happened that drove the whole thing from his mind
almost as completely as though it had never been even mooted.
It has already been observed that it was not until the very eve of the
tournament that Edgar had any suspicions that aught was in any way amiss
with Sir John or his affairs. He was in his tent at the time, about to
retire for the night somewhat earlier than usual, in anticipation of the
trying ordeal of the morrow, when someone tapped at the canvas.
"Enter," responded Edgar.
Peter entered, and from his heaving chest and anxious face Edgar saw at
once that something had happened.
"What is it, Peter?" he cried quickly.
"The ladies Gertrude and Beatrice have sent me hither to enquire whether
aught hath been seen of Sir John. He hath not yet returned, though he
was expected long since. As thou know'st, he always sups with them at
their inn in the town before he returns to the camp for the night."
"I know. So he hath not yet returned? He went for his usual ride about
the countryside this afternoon, and, not seeing him more, I thought he
must be in the town with the ladies. What can have occurred to keep
him?"
"Dost think those evilly-disposed men have had aught to do with it,
Master Edgar?"
The same thought had occurred to Edgar, but, dreading it, he had tried
to put it away from him. It came back with the force of a blow when he
found that the same idea had struck Peter.
"It may be so, Peter," he replied reluctantly. "I hope it may only be
that he hath been detained--perchance because his horse hath cast a
shoe--but I cannot help a feeling of dread lest it be that those men
have had something to do with it. Didst ever find out aught concerning
them?"
"Nothing, save that one of them spoke one day to Sir Gervaise de Maupas;
but as he flew into a violent rage at the man accosting him, I did not
think there could be any connection between them."
"Ah!" groaned Edgar. "Then I fear the worst. I have not told thee,
Peter--and heavy is my responsibility for it--that emissaries of Sir
Gervaise did once attempt Sir John's life. Sir John told me in order
that I might the better watch over his safety, and right badly have I
done it!"
"But scarce could we have prevented this, Master Edgar. None would have
thought of watching over Sir John while he was in the saddle and fully
armed."
"Nay, but I might have warned him that assassins were on the lurk. But
this is no time for self-reproachings. I must do all I can to repair
the mischief done. Bring me a spare horse, Peter, and tell Matthew to
be in the saddle and ready waiting for me outside the north gate of the
town in a quarter of an hour. Late as it is, we must scour the
countryside. Sir John may be lying wounded in some lonely wood, or be
yet defending himself against cowardly adversaries. Quickly, Peter, for
thy master's life!"
Peter limped away at the top of his speed, and Edgar quickly threw off
his outer clothes and put on a light shirt of mail made of tiny links of
interlaced steel, similar to that which Sir John, as a precaution
against his enemy, usually wore when not in armour. The shirt of mail
fitted closely, and when his doublet was donned once more no one would
have guessed that so thorough a protection lay hidden beneath its folds.
Quick as he was, the lad was back with his horse as soon as he was
ready, and Edgar instantly mounted and rode off into the town of
Bordeaux, first bidding Peter set to work to find, if possible, some
trace of the suspected men.
On arriving at the inn where the ladies Gertrude and Beatrice were
staying, Edgar found them still up, anxiously awaiting news.
"He hath not yet returned, then?" he cried, as he saw their anxious
faces.
"No. Surely someone hath seen him?" cried Gertrude in alarm.
"No one. But do not distress thyself so soon. I am going to sally out
with Matthew to scour the countryside, and if Sir John is anywhere near,
surely we shall come upon him. Doubtless he hath merely met with some
trifling accident that keepeth him back for a few hours."
"Yes, Gertrude," put in Beatrice, laying her hand on her friend's arm,
"thy father is too hardy and experienced a warrior and horseman easily
to come to harm. I will warrant he will be back ere day dawns.
Nevertheless," she went on, turning to Edgar, "thou hadst better make
search as thou hast purposed, Master Wintour, unless, indeed, thou art
fearful of spoiling thy chances in the melee to-morrow by passing the
night thus."
"I care not a fig for the melee, so be it I can see Sir John back safe
and sound," cried Edgar hastily, considerably nettled at the smile which
accompanied the last remark, and, saluting, he turned on his heel and
strode from the room. Here he paused for a moment, and, retracing his
steps, told the ladies it would be useless for them to wait up longer,
as the gates of the city would shortly close, and no one would be able
to pass either in or out before daybreak.
For some hours the night was moonlit, and Edgar and Matthew, dividing
the countryside between them, scoured it for miles and miles around.
Full of anxiety, for Edgar had communicated his fears to the
man-at-arms, they rode hard and fast, with little regard for their own
necks or the limits of the horses they bestrode, and by the time the sky
clouded over so that further real progress was impossible, they had
become convinced that Sir John was nowhere in the vicinity. Returning
to the camp, Edgar called Peter to him.
"Well, Peter, didst find out aught?"
"Nay, sir. None hath seen the two men of late, so perchance they know
naught of this matter, after all."
"That, at least, is good news, and it may well turn out that nothing
serious hath happened to Sir John. Now, Peter, I am going to lie down
for an hour or two. Rouse me at daybreak, for I must acquaint the
ladies Gertrude and Beatrice of the poor success of my search as soon as
the city gates are open."
Peter nodded and retired, and Edgar flung himself down just as he was,
and almost instantly fell into a deep slumber.
It was long after sunrise when he awoke, and furious with Peter for
letting him sleep so long, he hurried to the lad's tent.
"Why did ye not call me, Peter?" he cried angrily.
"All is well, Master Edgar. I have been into the town, and have told
the ladies that there is no news, and that thou wert worn out with
searching, and sleeping heavily. I have hopes that thou wilt make thy
name in the melee to-day; but what chance would there be of thy doing
thyself justice after wearing thyself out riding all night long?"
Too angry to bandy words with the lad, and realizing, too, that it was
out of regard for him that he had disobeyed his orders, Edgar strode
back to his tent, hastily washed himself, and then rode into the town.
He had no good news to tell, and the ladies could not help but feel that
something serious must be keeping Sir John, or he would certainly have
either appeared in person or have sent someone to tell them of his
detention elsewhere. It was for them a time of anxiety and perplexity,
and Edgar could do little save suggest all sorts of accidents that might
have kept the knight back for a few hours.
One thing besides his master's life, however, Edgar felt he had to
consider, and that was his honour. With the contest of the afternoon
Sir John's honour was now closely bound up. The utmost publicity had
been given to the affair, and did he not appear and answer to the
challenge of Sir Gervaise de Maupas, he would be regarded on all sides
as a dishonoured knight. Edgar felt this most keenly, and resolved that
at all costs he would keep the secret of Sir John's disappearance from
becoming known, so that if he returned at the last moment, as he might
well do, idle tongues would have had no cause to wag against him.
No one besides the ladies, Matthew, and Peter knew that Sir John was
missing, and all these he swore to silence. They were ready enough to
agree, for none could think that so experienced a warrior as Sir John
could have been overcome so easily as to disappear and leave no trace.
In fact, Matthew roundly declared that an hour or so before the contest
with Sir Gervaise was timed to commence would see him back, and the
others fervently hoped that he might prove to be right.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*The Lists of Bordeaux*
Completely forgetting that he was one of the seven chosen to do battle
for the English esquires against the best of their Gascon allies, Edgar
spent the little time left of the morning in making enquiries of all who
might have seen Sir John at any point during his afternoon's
ride--countrymen coming in with carts laden with farm produce, the men
who had kept watch during the afternoon and evening along the outer side
of the camp, and any others who might possibly have some news to tell,
however meagre. His enquiries were quite fruitless, however, and his
fears that there might have been foul play gradually returned to him as
the morning wore on. At last he returned to the camp and sent for
Peter.
"Peter," he said, "I want thee now to keep close watch to see who doth
visit Sir Gervaise de Maupas. I begin to feel once more that he is at
the bottom of the mischief; and it hath occurred to me that if his
emissaries have waylaid Sir John they will, if they have not done so
already, come to him to report the result of their vile plot. Keep
watch, then, and see who the men are, and if thou canst do so quietly,
call Matthew and scruple not to seize them on some pretext or another.
Pick a quarrel with them--anything, so long as ye lay hands on them and
keep them till I come."
Peter nodded, as though in entire approval, and limped off upon his
errand, and Edgar turned to find Arthur Pomeroy, mounted and armed,
waiting for him with every sign of impatience a pace or two away.
"So this is the way thou dost spend the precious moments--gibbering with
stableboys and camp followers, Edgar Wintour," he cried in a voice of
disgust. "'Tis but twenty minutes short of noon, and thou not in the
saddle and not a piece of thine armour girded on. Hast gone daft, man,
or forgotten that the onset sounds at noon?"
"I have been busy, Arthur, and could wish that thou wouldst find some
other to take my place. Let the best of those who were tried and passed
over take the lance in my stead--each of them was well worthy to
represent our squirehood to-day."
"Tush, Edgar, talk not such nonsense! Rather would I hold back our
whole band until thou wert ready, though 'twere an hour. Get on thine
armour without more ado. Where is thy boy?"
"I have sent him upon an errand of great import to me. Give me a hand
and I will soon be ready."
With an angry snort Arthur set spurs to his horse and galloped away
through the camp like a whirlwind. In half a minute he was back, and
two lads following at top speed proclaimed that he had not been idle.
"Come hither, varlets, and gird on this armour. Quickly, now, unless ye
wish the Frenchmen to get the better of us."
Rapidly the pieces of armour were strapped and buckled on until Edgar
stood complete, a wall of shining steel.
"Where is thy gage?"
"I have none."
"What? Hast thou no damsel to watch for thine entry into the lists?"
"Nay."
Arthur shrugged his shoulders in perplexity. "Well, every man to his
taste. Where is now thy horse? Where dost stable it?"
"Straight along the lines a furlong. Let the youths bring the gear, and
for the nonce I will walk to it."
It was still five minutes short of noon when Edgar mounted and, closely
shepherded by Arthur Pomeroy, who seemed to fear he might yet escape,
rode off to the competitors' enclosure adjoining the lists.
"Thou must know," said Arthur, "that I have agreed with the leader of
the Gascon esquires that our men shall be placed facing opponents of the
same relative powers. 'Twould be a poor spectacle if our best were
pitted against their weakest and their strongest against our tail end;
so we have, for the first onset only, arranged that best shall meet
best, and so forth. Thou art matched against Gaston Dugarde."
"I know nothing of him," replied Edgar. "Is he weak?"
"Weak! Thou wilt see. We have not thrown thee away."
Exactly how to take the reply Edgar hardly knew, but he was too full of
his great trouble and too anxious to be through with the present
encounter to care to enquire further. The intense eagerness with which
he had looked forward to so thrilling a melee had gone, and he now only
wished it over, that he might continue his enquiries respecting Sir
John.
As they cantered into the enclosure, however, he felt his enthusiasm
revive. No one could view the glittering scene unmoved, and to Edgar,
who had never been to a tournament before, the scene was full of meaning
and interest. The wide sweep of the lists, the towering stands at the
middle, the dense masses of spectators--a large proportion of whom were
soldiers--the glitter of armour, and the tramp of spirited chargers, all
struck the fullest note of chivalry and warriorhood.
"Come, Arthur," cried one of the English esquires impatiently, "thou art
behindhand. Guy de Parfrey hath marshalled his men, and awaits us."
"No matter, Stephen, since we are now seven. Now, comrades all, wheel
into line in the order agreed upon. Forget not the rules--I would not
that we scored by transgressing them. Strike home, and remember 'tis
St. George for England!"
The English esquires wheeled into their places and, headed by their
captain, Arthur Pomeroy, cantered gaily into the lists in single file
simultaneously with their adversaries. Amidst a gay fanfare of
trumpets, the two lines of steel-clad horsemen filed, saluting, before
the Earl of Derby. Then, without a pause, they diverged to their own
ends of the lists, each man halting his steed and turning as the line
passed his own position. In a very few seconds the files of prancing
horsemen became two lines of motionless figures with lances couched,
facing one another watchfully.
There was but a slight pause, and then the marshals gave the signal for
the onset. And loud the trumpets blared!
With a thunder of hoofs, the two walls of steel dashed swiftly inwards,
as though drawn by a gigantic magnet, and met in the centre of the lists
with a crash that could be heard for miles. Indeed, men passing to and
fro in the city streets and alleys heard the noise, and stopped to
question one another as to what it portended.
Five men--two English and three Gascons--bit the dust in that first
terrific onset, and the survivors, with few thoughts for the vanquished,
rode at one another fiercely, and with sword, lance, or axe, whichever
was most to their user's liking, hewed and thrust at one another with
heartiest goodwill.
Edgar struck his opponent full on the shield with the point of his
lance, and, to his surprise, the impact lifted his opponent out of the
saddle and sent him crashing backwards to the ground. The shock must
have been great, for the unfortunate esquire lay just where he had
fallen, motionless, and apparently senseless. Fearing lest he might be
trampled upon in the melee, for the dust was rising and the combatants
could scarce see what was under their horses' feet, Edgar slipped
quickly from his saddle, raised the fallen man, and bore him away out of
the press.
His temporary withdrawal made the two forces again equal, but this
equality was of very short duration, for one of the Gascons, who was
known as Guilbert "Strongarm", was an esquire of great bulk and
tremendous strength, and with two successive swings of his huge
battleaxe smote two of the English esquires so strongly that they
dropped half-fainting from their saddles.
Arthur Pomeroy, who, as captain, kept watch over what was happening to
others of his force while fighting his own battle, saw that his side was
in immediate peril of being vanquished offhand, and called loudly to
Edgar to resume the combat.
"Mount, Edgar! Mount and aid us!"
Though he had not seen the deadly strokes that had so altered the
complexion of affairs, Edgar guessed that things were going ill, and
hastily handed the stricken man to pages who hovered on the outskirts of
the fight. His horse had followed him, and, vaulting into the saddle,
he spurred once more into the conflict.
His re-entry was somewhat unexpected to the Gascons, and, still
possessing the lance that had already done such good service, he could
easily have unhorsed Guilbert from the rear. But disdaining to defeat a
foe so ingloriously, Edgar smartly tapped his lance upon his backplate
and waited. Guilbert and one of his comrades were busily hacking at
Arthur Pomeroy, who was fighting desperately and wheeling his steed
continuously in his efforts to keep the twain at bay. Astounded at the
buffet from the rear, Guilbert hastily turned and rode at Edgar, leaning
over in his saddle and swinging his great battleaxe in readiness for a
telling blow.
Dropping his lance, Edgar drew his sword and, as Guilbert came within
reach and aimed a blow at him, turned his horse and avoided the stroke
by a hairbreadth. The axe, meeting no resistance, swung down nearly to
the ground, drawing Guilbert downward with it. Simultaneously Edgar
turned in his saddle, and, reaching out, smote his adversary so shrewdly
on the wrist that he was compelled to drop his axe. Ere he could draw
his sword with his left hand--for his right was bruised and almost
useless--Edgar had twice gently smitten him upon headpiece and
breastplate, and, acknowledging defeat, Guilbert rode sullenly out of
the conflict.
Another man on either side had by this time fallen, and of the fourteen
men who had entered upon the melee only two English and two Gascons
remained.
Arthur Pomeroy was the second survivor of the English esquires, and in
spite of the exertions he had made, was still in good fighting trim.
Edgar had not received a scratch, and was virtually as fresh as when he
started. The two Gascons, on the other hand, were both bleeding, and
one appeared to be scarce fit to continue the combat.
"Come now, Edgar," cried Arthur exultingly, "one more charge and the
battle is ours. St. George for England! On! on!"
Side by side the two esquires rode down upon their adversaries, who,
wounded as they were, made ready to meet them right gallantly.
Suddenly the earl raised his hand.
"Desist, desist!" he cried.
At a signal from the marshals the trumpets again blared, and all knew
that the conflict was at an end.
Cheering and counter-cheering had been well-nigh continuous all the time
the stirring encounter had been proceeding, but at the signal for the
cessation of hostilities the burst of sound threatened to rend the
skies. For some minutes it continued unabated, and it was not until the
earl stood up as though about to speak that the volume of sound died
gradually away.
"Ye have all done right well," cried the earl warmly, "and I have no
wish that ye should push matters to extremities in your friendly
rivalries. Ye started equal and ye have finished equal; right nobly doth
the result speak for the valour of both wings of our army. I hail it as
the happiest augury for the campaign that lies before us."
Loud and hearty cheers greeted his words. His politic intervention had
relaxed the tension between the English and Gascon spectators, and, with
the honour of both well saved, they could cheer the well-fought fight
without bitterness and without stint.
"Let the victors approach," commanded the earl, and the four esquires
cantered to the stand and dismounted.
Pages assisted them to unhelm, and they were led forward by the marshal
up the steps to the platform where the earl stood. It was remarked by
all those near enough to observe that while the faces of the two Gascon
esquires were pale and blood-streaked, and Pomeroy's was flushed with
exertion, Edgar's showed no sign of the conflict whatever.
With a few words of hearty commendation, the earl presented each esquire
with a jewelled dagger and a purse of gold as tokens of the esteem in
which their victorious emergence from the conflict had caused them to be
held. Then they again mounted and, with heads still uncovered, made a
full circuit of the lists before withdrawing to their own enclosure.
Loud cheers and shouts of approval followed them, and Edgar, preoccupied
as he had again become at the uncertainty of his master's fate now that
the combat was over, could not help feeling a thrill of pleasure at
having borne his part in upholding his country's fair renown in the
domains of chivalry.
"Grammercy, my fair Edgar, thou didst almost lose us the fight," cried
Arthur Pomeroy, as the two filed across to their comrades' side of the
greensward. "I thought our friend the 'strong-arm' had me of a surety
when thou didst call him off just in time. 'Twas a near thing betwixt
victory and defeat."
"Not victory, Arthur. 'Tis an honourable draw."
"We held the winning position--that is enough for me. Come now, where
art bound? Let us first go and congratulate our comrades the Gascons on
the stout fight they provided us withal. Then, if they agree, perchance
we may retire to the esquires' pavilion and celebrate the melee in a
manner fitting to the occasion."
"Right willingly will I join in thy congratulations of our friends the
enemy," cried Edgar; "but I must beg thee to excuse me from taking part
in any celebrations. I have not time, even had I the inclination, to
join thee there. I have matters on foot that claim attention without
delay, and I must be off the instant I have added my meed of praise to
thine."
In a few minutes the esquires of both bands were clustered together,
eagerly discussing the many exciting incidents of the encounter, and
Edgar was presently able to make good his exit without attracting
special attention.
*CHAPTER IX*
*The Encounter with Sir Gervaise*
When Edgar reached his tent, he found that Peter had not yet returned
since he had sent him off to keep watch upon all who came and went at
Sir Gervaise's quarters. A meal had, however, been laid for him,
probably by Matthew, so, hardly knowing what was to be his next move and
feeling that he might soon need all his strength, Edgar sat down and ate
a hearty dinner. Then, as Peter had still not put in an appearance, he
returned to the scene of the tournament and made his way to the stand
where seats had been allotted to Sir John and his party. Somewhat to
his surprise, he found both Gertrude and Beatrice in their places.
"Hath any news good or ill reached you?" he asked, as he took his place
by their side.
"None," replied Beatrice quickly. "We came hither because we could not
rest at the inn, and, besides, we thought that news might be most
plentiful where so many people were gathered together. We feel little
like enjoying the tourney, brilliant though it is, but we both were glad
to see thee gain the day in thine encounters."
"I had not intended to take part," replied Edgar, "but our captain,
Arthur Pomeroy, sought me out and dragged me with him to the lists.
Nevertheless, while it lasted, I enjoyed it right well."
"Thy part was well done, but best of all, to my mind, was thy succouring
of poor Gaston Dugarde and the chance thou didst give to the mighty
Guilbert to meet thee face to face. Those deeds have been the talk of
the stand--far more so than thy powers with lance and sword. The one
rings of true chivalry, the other is known by a lesser name."
"Mayhap," replied Edgar, "but, even so, skill is not to be despised, for
often 'tis that that makes the other possible. But 'twas not of the
fight I wished to speak. I have forebodings that Sir Gervaise de Maupas
knoweth something of Sir John's disappearance. I have set Peter to
watch his tent and to let me know who hath called upon him this morning.
He hath not yet returned, and, feeling impatient, I came to tell you and
to learn if perchance you had aught of news for me."
"If thou thinkest 'tis De Maupas, wilt thou not denounce him to the
earl?" cried both Gertrude and Beatrice with one voice. "Surely so
dastardly a deed----"
"Nay, nay, ladies, there is no evidence upon which I could cast such an
aspersion upon the name of a knight of fair fame. 'Twould be useless,
and would but put him upon his guard. Nay, I must proceed much more
cautiously."
"But why should Sir Gervaise seek to do him harm in secret when he hath
full chance to defeat him in the lists?" objected Beatrice.
"But could he defeat him? And even if he did, would Sir John's honour
have received so foul a blow as when he fails to answer to Sir
Gervaise's challenge? No, the thing is planned to ruin Sir John's
honour, and right well do I fear it will do so."
"He will come," cried Gertrude in desperation. "He will strain every
nerve to be in his place at the appointed time. Still will I look for
him."
"I too hope--but surely, Edgar Wintour, there is something to be done!"
cried Beatrice impetuously. "Thou canst act well and strongly in the
lists--art lost when the real need comes outside? Thou art Sir John's
esquire--appointed in the face of all thy comrades--and he looks to thee
for aid. Prove thy title. Once thou didst boast that when a time of
stress came upon us thou wouldst show thy worth."
"I have done all that man could do," cried Edgar, flushing deeply at the
bitter rebuke.
"Sir John must be found," cried Beatrice, giving a reckless stamp of her
little foot.
Deeply mortified and not a little angry, Edgar bowed low, retired from
the stand, and strode wrathfully back to his tent. His way took him not
far from Sir Gervaise's quarters, and as he went it occurred to him that
he might pass by and see what he could of Peter. As he drew near he saw
that Sir Gervaise stood at the door already half-armed, for the hour of
his encounter approached apace; and Edgar looked steadily at him to
discern, if possible, some sign of consciousness of villainy in his
strongly-marked features. Their eyes met, and Sir Gervaise beckoned him
to approach.
"See that thy master is ready and well equipped," he said, with a smile
that maddened Edgar, "for I will humble his proud spirit this day--mark
well my words."
Gulping back the torrent of speech that rushed to his lips, Edgar turned
and hurried on his way. In the second that he had met Sir Gervaise eye
to eye, a half-formed idea had hardened and tempered into a firm
resolve. Sir John's life should be saved and Sir John's honour should
not be lost.
Peter was awaiting him at his tent, his face aflame with eagerness and
excitement.
"Sir," he cried breathlessly, "one of the men we suspected rode in from
the country but a half-hour agone and had speech with Sir Gervaise. I
lay down at the tent door as though sleeping in the sun, but could hear
naught. When the man came out, however, he was clinking money in his
hand and smiling."
"Didst follow him?"
"I did; and I have learned both his name and his haunts."
"Good! Say no more now, Peter, but call Matthew, for other and starker
work lieth before us."
In a moment Matthew appeared.
"Saddle Sir John's best charger, 'Furore', and fetch it hither," cried
Edgar. "Then bring out its armour and trappings, and make it ready for
the lists."
"Ha," cried Matthew joyously, "then thou hast news of Sir John!" and he
hurried off to do the esquire's bidding.
"Now, Peter," cried Edgar, flinging off his outer garments, "aid me to
don Sir John's armour--quickly, lad, on thy life!"
"But Sir John----"
"_I_ am Sir John this day. See thou sayest no more to anyone save
Matthew. Sir John's honour must be saved, and saved it shall be if my
utmost efforts can compass it. With vizor down, who shall know that the
well-known horse and coat-armour hold not the knight, and that the
shield that beareth his blazonings is borne by another?"
Speechless with amazement, Peter strapped and buckled with might and
main, and Edgar was almost ready when Matthew entered for the horse's
trappings.
When he saw who it was that was donning Sir John's armour, he gave a
gasp of astonishment. Then gathering from Edgar's set face the full
significance of the proceeding, his own took on a grim smile as, without
a word, he seized the horse's gear and hurried from the tent.
"Wilt take thine own weapons?" enquired Peter presently.
"Nay. I will take Sir John's and give no loophole to suspicion. Their
weight is little more than mine, and I feel strung to a pitch that would
make them feel light were they twice the weight."
"And for gage? Wilt wear the lady Gertrude's colours?"
"Nay. I fear I cannot do that, or she will be sure 'tis Sir John. I
will wear none, as in the melee. See now if 'Furore' be ready."
The horse was ready, and, carefully closing his vizor, Edgar stepped
outside and vaulted into the saddle. Shield and lance were handed up to
him, and after testing his charger's gear to see that all was fast, he
prepared to start. Sir John's armour was somewhat heavier than his own,
but he was so accustomed to wearing armour in his practices and so tense
with excitement and determination that he scarcely noticed it.
Edgar was now nineteen, and well grown and well developed. Though Sir
John was a man of more weighty build, he was no broader and but a
fraction taller. The armour, therefore, fitted the esquire well, and,
mounted upon "Furore" and with vizor closed, scarce his most intimate
friend would have known him from his master. The horse was a splendid
animal, far better than Edgar's, and bore the weight of armour and rider
with ease and spirit.
It was now the hour for the encounter with Sir Gervaise, and in the
distance Edgar could hear the trumpets of the heralds announcing the
combat. He could picture De Maupas riding majestically into the lists,
confident of adding to his prestige by a victory by default against so
well-known an antagonist as Sir John Chartris. How he would make his
steed curvet and prance before the populace, as he rode round the lists
waiting in vain for his foe to answer to the challenge!
A second time the trumpets of the heralds rang out, and, setting spurs
to his horse, Edgar rode straight for the enclosure. "Furore" seemed to
enter fully into the spirit of the enterprise, and it was at a swinging
gallop that Edgar dashed suddenly into the lists.
A roar of applause arose from the whole circle of the spectators, who
were just beginning to wonder where Sir John Chartris might be. Without
a pause, Edgar rode to the earl's stand and saluted. Then he paced on
down to his own end of the lists, saluting the Wolsingham ladies as he
passed them by.
"He hath come!" cried Gertrude, tense with excitement, the instant horse
and man appeared in the lists.
Beatrice followed her gaze, and for one instant joyfully agreed. Then
she began to doubt.
"Nay, nay, Gertrude, this cannot be Sir John. Where are thy colours?"
"He hath had no time----"
"But Sir John is waxing on in years, and rideth heavily in his saddle.
This man rideth with an ease and spring as though younger and of a
lighter make. Hush--cry not out--'tis Edgar Wintour, of a certainty!
'Tis to this that I have goaded him on!"
"But why should----?"
"To save Sir John's honour. Didst not feel as though even death were
better than his dishonour a moment agone when the heralds cried his name
in vain? Hurrah--I could cry aloud to think that that vile Sir Gervaise
will not gain a bloodless victory! But yet--after all--surely he cannot
fail to conquer one who is but an esquire?"
Gertrude answered not, and both maidens sat still and held their breaths
as the stirring scenes passed before their gaze.
It was observed by more than one that on the sudden entry of his
antagonist Sir Gervaise showed signs of excitement. He seemed agitated
and shook--with gusts of anger, those who noticed it supposed--and for
some moments his charger reared and backed unmanageably, as though
sharing his master's fierce emotions.
After a moment or two, however, the knight regained control over his
steed, and with cruel jabs of the spur urged him back into position. The
charger had been celebrated in the past for its unusual power and
strength, and to this fact the reputation of Sir Gervaise was in a great
measure due. It had now, however, passed its prime, and De Maupas could
no longer count upon its excellence giving him the advantage of his
competitors.
Edgar had profited by the moments occupied by Sir Gervaise in regaining
the mastery over his steed, and had settled down quietly into position.
His thoughts had flown back to the sacrifice his father had made to save
Sir John at Sluys, and he resolved that he would be as ready as his
father to lay down his life, if necessary, in this his own moment of
call. Firmly grasping his lance, he fixed his eyes warily upon his
adversary through his vizor slits. Horse and man seemed as steady and
immovable as a rock, in striking contrast to Sir Gervaise, who fidgeted
with his weapons and seemed impatient during the trying pause before the
onset sounded: "_Laissez aller_".
With the speed of arrows the steel-clad warriors crashed together in the
middle of the lists. Each man aimed his lance at the centre of his
opponent's shield, and both struck fair and true. The impact hurled the
chargers violently back upon their haunches and forced their riders
backwards to the limit of endurance, while their stout ash lances were
bent and split from end to end! De Maupas, for the moment, kept his
seat successfully, but his horse, pawing the air and snorting
frantically, struggled in vain to regain its balance, and presently
rolled over ignominiously upon the ground. Edgar, on the other hand,
though the shock had been just as severe, managed, by dint of voice and
spur, to aid his steed's recovery, and in a few seconds it was on its
feet, with its rider ready for the foe.
Disentangling himself from his horse's trappings, Sir Gervaise drew
sword, and, furious at his undignified mischance, sprang towards his
adversary, thirsting to retrieve his fallen fortunes.
[Illustration: "SIR GERVAISE SPRANG TOWARDS HIS ADVERSARY, THIRSTING
TO RETRIEVE HIS FALLEN FORTUNES"]
Disdaining to meet him at any advantage, Edgar flung away the fragments
of his lance, seized Sir John's heavy battleaxe, and slipped lightly
from the saddle. Scarce had he faced Sir Gervaise when the furious
knight was upon him with sword up-raised. Knowing that his battleaxe
was almost useless for defence, Edgar heeded not the blow, but,
half-turning, swung his own heavy weapon sideways at his opponent's
head. The knight's blow fell first with a stroke that bit deep into
Edgar's casque, but before De Maupas could spring back out of reach, the
axe stroke smote him on the side of his helmet with a weight and
momentum that sent him crashing headlong to the ground.
A dull roar of applause arose from the whole circle of the lists.
Dropping his axe, Edgar snatched his dagger from his belt and sprang
towards the fallen man. Kneeling upon his chest he cried aloud:
"Yield thee vanquished, Sir Gervaise de Maupas!" Then in a low voice,
but in tones thrilling with resolve, he went on, "_Tell me where Sir
John if, or thy life is forfeit!_"
There was no response.
"Desist, Sir John," cried one of the marshals of the lists, hurriedly
approaching, "he is stunned, if not dead. Thou art acknowledged
victor--retire while we see to the stricken man."
Heavy with disappointment at being thwarted at the moment when he hoped
all might be won, Edgar mechanically mounted and rode slowly round the
lists. The air still rang with the plaudits of the spectators, and, as
he passed along, loud cries reached him, some, wishing to do him the
more honour, calling upon him to unhelm.
Fearing that his refusal at least to lower his vizor might cause some
adverse comment, Edgar dropped it an inch or so and left it, hoping that
it might be thought that the blow his headpiece had received had damaged
the hinges of his vizor. With a final salute, first to the earl and then
to the Wolsingham ladies, he rode dully from the lists. The cheers of
the spectators fell on deaf ears, for though he had defeated Sir
Gervaise and upheld Sir John's honour, he felt that he was still as far
as ever from solving the mystery of his master's disappearance.
As he reached the door of his tent, Matthew and Peter came running up,
their faces wreathed with smiles at their young master's victory.
"Aid me to strip off this armour," cried Edgar, the moment he had
entered the tent, "and remember that Sir John is gone--gone upon the
visit to Faucigny Castle, in the lands of the lady Beatrice, that he has
had all along in mind. He gained the earl's permission some time since,
as he told me himself. Thus at least we gain some precious days in
which to continue our enquiries."
"Pardon, Master Edgar," cried Peter, suddenly stopping, "with thy
permission I will hie me to Sir Gervaise's tent. It may well be that
this is a time when it might advantage us to keep close watch upon those
about him."
"Go, Peter. His esquire will be bringing him back in a few minutes. He
is but stunned. Listen for what thou canst hear. Who knows but that a
few chance words may tell us all?"
Waiting for no more, Peter sped off upon his errand, and when, a
half-hour later, Sir Gervaise was carried into his tent, he was snugly
ensconced beneath a pile of horse's trappings at the very door.
*CHAPTER X*
*News of Sir John*
The dusk of evening was falling as Sir Gervaise raised himself from the
couch upon which he had been restlessly tossing ever since he had been
carried in. His head was swathed in bandages, and the light of the
single lamp showed a face pale beneath its sunburn, in which a pair of
fierce black eyes burned with an unnatural brightness.
"I have waited in suspense long enough," he muttered to himself. Then,
in a louder key, he called to his esquire who was in attendance upon
him.
"Arnaud, I have business that I must transact this night. Fetch me
hither, then, the varlet James Baulch, and then betake thyself to thy
tent. Stay, first fill up my cup, for my head still throbs consumedly
from the blow that trickster Chartris gave me."
The esquire obeyed, and in a minute the wounded knight was alone. Freed
from the restraint of his esquire's presence, Sir Gervaise groaned aloud
with the pain of his bruised and swollen head, and muttered savagely to
himself what sounded like threats and imprecations against his
successful foe and also the varlet James, who seemed somehow to have
incurred his especial displeasure.
Presently the man arrived escorted by the esquire, who seemed to look
somewhat askance at his charge. He glanced significantly at his master
as he was about to leave the tent, and, interpreting the look, the
knight cried as he scowled savagely at the man: "Yes, Arnaud, remain
outside within call. I may require thy services."
Arnaud bowed and retired, and the knight, raising himself, not without
difficulty, into a sitting posture and placing a dagger ready to his
hand, beckoned the man to approach.
"So thou hast played me false, James Baulch, murderer and vagabond?" he
cried in a voice thick with rage. "Thou, whom I have but to lift a
finger to consign to the gibbet--thou hast dared to lie to me."
The man cowered before the knight's pallid face and gleaming eyes.
"There is some mistake," he stammered, "I----"
"Aye--thou art right," cried the knight savagely, "'tis the mistake I
made when, with a trumped-up tale, I snatched thee from the sheriff's
men. I had better have let thee hang and moulder--but 'tis not yet too
late. The arm of the law is strong and swift even in Gascony, and on
the word of a knight thy shrift----"
"My lord! My lord!" cried the man, grovelling in terror on the floor.
"I swear there is some mistake. With mine own eyes at dawn this morning
I saw Sir John, bound and helpless, lying at the bottom of a wagon. I
rode straight hither, and he who fought with thee must be some other.
My lord, it must be so."
"Bah! Scoundrel! That is but a tale--another lie--to save thy wretched
neck from the gallows."
"It is not--it is not!" almost shrieked the man. "Didst not mark--but
thou wert senseless--has not, then, thine esquire told thee that he who
fought as Sir John did not drop his vizor even when he saluted the
earl?"
"Say'st thou so?" cried the knight, startled. "Strange!" he went on,
muttering to himself. "I seemed to feel a difference as he entered the
lists. Both horse and man seemed doubly full of fire, while Sir John
always rode heavily."
"Yes, yes," cried the man eagerly. "It was noticed by others. I heard
two men say that Sir John was riding lighter in the saddle than he used
to."
"Can this be the explanation?" went on De Maupas, still speaking half to
himself. "I never thought of such a daring ruse being played upon me.
Who can the man be? Doubtless one of Sir John's friends--but who?
'Twill be the worse for him an I find out the truth," he ended darkly,
clenching his teeth with suppressed rage.
"Give me leave to find out the knight's name, my lord," interrupted
Baulch in an eager voice.
Sir Gervaise for a minute or two made no reply, but gazed at his
accomplice with so gloomy and menacing a look that the man literally
shook with fear.
"Very well, Baulch," he said sternly after a pause, "thy neck may rest
at peace on thy shoulders for a space, while thou art finding out who it
was that masqueraded as Sir John. Find out, I say, find out! Dare to
bungle a second time, and the gallows that gape for thee shall have thee
fast!"
With trembling lips the man hastily promised to find out the truth.
Nodding carelessly, Sir Gervaise went on to talk of other matters.
There could be no doubt that his confidence in the ascendancy he had
obtained over the man was not misjudged. The man was obviously under a
spell, mastered by a hidden terror so great that all else was completely
swallowed up.
* * * * *
It was noon the following day when the man again made his appearance and
requested Arnaud to tell Sir Gervaise that James Baulch craved a few
minutes' further speech. Arnaud complied, though from the expression of
his face it might have been inferred that the desire to kick the man was
the feeling uppermost in his mind.
"Well, Baulch?" growled the knight, who still reclined upon a couch, and
whose temper seemed in no way improved by his night's rest. "Hast news
to tell? If not 'twill be the worse for thee."
"I have news, my lord--strange news. Whether 'twill please thee or not,
I cannot say, but----"
"Peace, knave! Tell thy news and madden me not with thy thoughts of
what pleases me."
"'Twas Edgar Wintour fought with thee in the lists," blurted out the man
hurriedly. "I have heard words let fall that make the matter clear."
"Edgar Wintour--and who is Edgar Wintour?" cried the knight with savage
impatience.
"He is Sir John's esquire."
The look that came into the knight's face made Baulch regret the success
of his enquiries. De Maupas gasped, grew even paler than before, and
clutched convulsively at the couch on which he lay. Then a sudden
passion seemed to galvanize him into activity and he rose to his feet
almost with a bound.
"What!" he thundered. "Dare ye tell me that----?"
But his strength was unequal to the effort, and clutching at his
bandages with both hands, as though his head were about to split in
twain, he sank slowly and painfully back upon the couch.
"A pretty debt I owe the boy if thy tale is true," he muttered at last
in a changed voice. "Art sure of thy facts?"
"Sure, my lord. I saw him mounted upon Sir John's charger early this
morning, and the way he rode made me think at once of the spring and
fire of thine adversary yesterday. Then I heard some words let drop by
one Matthew, a man-at-arms of Sir John, and I knew 'twas so."
"So that was what was in his mind when he gave me that strange look
yesterday," muttered De Maupas to himself. "It was on my lips to demand
an explanation. Would I had done so! I might have forced the quarrel
then and there with the advantage on my side, mailed and ready for a
conflict as I was."
"Canst not let the good earl know of the trick he played?" said the man
presently. "Surely he would punish him for daring so to dupe the
marshals of the lists?"
"Be silent, fool! Dost think I want all the world to know that I, a
knight, was beaten by an unfledged esquire? See to it that no word of
it is breathed by thee."
For some time Sir Gervaise remained silent, staring viciously at the
ground the while. The expression on his face was not good to see, and
it might have been as well had Edgar Wintour been there to see it.
"Baulch," said the knight at last, "Baulch, I gave thee money for Sir
John Chartris--alive. I offer thee double the sum for this Edgar
Wintour--dead. Dost understand?"
The tone of the knight's voice was low and measured, but the expression
of his face was so deadly that the blackest rage would have seemed less
implacable. Baulch seemed to have no great stomach for the task put to
him, but one furtive look at the knight's face was sufficient, and he
answered hastily:
"I understand, my lord."
"Then begone."
* * * * *
"Couldst hear no more than that, Peter? Nothing save a few words of
angry reproach against the man when De Maupas's voice rang highest?"
"No, sir. I could get no nearer, for De Maupas's esquire, Arnaud, paced
to and fro outside, doubtless by his master's orders. Most of the time
the two spake only of the tournament, though once I feel sure they
talked of Sir John, but they dropped their voices and only formless
words reached my ears."
"Ah! Then I fear it behoves us to find out," cried Edgar in a decided
tone. "We cannot afford to go on like this, Peter. The Wolsingham
ladies are becoming most anxious, and if we cannot soon get news, we
must acquaint the earl of the truth and implore his aid, though I fear
it will bring us little comfort. Ye say ye know where this man Baulch
lives?"
"Yes, he lives at a low inn in the lowest and most rascally quarter of
the town."
"Good! 'Tis the better for our purpose. At nightfall, Peter, I must
visit this inn, and see what stratagem or the sword will accomplish.
Tell me how I may find it, and then be off and get me some peasant's
clothing, old and soiled with use, and have it ready an hour or two
before the gates are closed."
At the time appointed Peter produced a bundle of clothing, and Edgar was
soon well disguised as a young countryman on a visit to the town to make
his purchases. The clothing was somewhat malodorous, but as this added
considerably to the realistic effect, Edgar recked little of that. His
own sword was far too well made and well finished to be taken, so Peter
obtained for him the least pretentious amongst those carried by Sir
John's men-at-arms. This was buckled on in an awkward and clumsy manner,
so as to give as unwarlike an air to a warlike weapon as possible.
Foreseeing the possibility of a fight in a locality of such unsavoury
reputation, Edgar took the precaution to don his light flexible shirt of
steel mail before putting on the peasant's garments, and to have a
dagger concealed beneath his clothes ready to hand in case of an attack
too sudden and at too close quarters to allow him to draw his sword.
It was a few minutes short of the hour at which the gates of the city
closed when, as a peasant, he rapped loudly at the door of a low-lying,
rambling, single-story structure overlooking the river Garonne. The
street was in complete darkness, save for the dim light emitted through
the shuttered windows of one or two of the hovels and crazy dwellings
which huddled together along each side of the narrow roadway.
After a short delay the door opened, and one of the most
villainous-looking men Edgar had ever set eyes on made his appearance.
"What seek ye?" he enquired, peering suspiciously first at the newcomer
and then over his shoulder, as though to find out whether he was alone.
"Some of thy good cheer, landlord. I was seeking another inn which a
neighbour of mine speaks well of, but lost my way, and a man I chanced
upon by good hap outside sent me to thee. Give me sup of thy best; I
have money and can pay," and Edgar, assuming an air of pride and
importance, flaunted a handful of coins under the man's eyes.
"Thou shalt have it, noble sir," cried the landlord, with a leer which
was meant to encourage his guest, and he led the way into a long room,
bare of furniture save for a couple of tables and some rough benches.
The room was fairly lofty, but numbers of smoked hams and other objects
hanging from the rafters made it appear low and gloomy. Half a dozen
men, amongst whom Edgar was quick to discern James Baulch, lounged upon
the benches drinking and dicing.
Edgar took stock of his surroundings as the landlord led him to the end
of the room farthest from the other occupants, and, fetching a chair
from a side room and carefully placing it in position at the table,
invited his guest to take a seat.
In a few minutes some food, rough and unpalatable, was brought, and
Edgar made shift to eat it, as though with a good appetite. Then he
leaned back in his chair, and, half-shutting his eyes, pretended to be
nearly asleep. He hoped that most of the men would soon leave, and that
he might have an opportunity of accosting Baulch alone or of following
him to his room, wherever that might be.
Presently he missed one of the men, and shortly after the others broke
into a rough drinking song. Edgar then realized, with something of a
shock, that instead of being the pursuer he was now the pursued. It was
not the mere withdrawal of one of the men that made him think this, but
the quiet, stealthy manner in which the man must have left, and the way
in which the other men began their song simultaneously, as though at a
signal. It almost seemed that the song was intended to cloak something,
perhaps the arrival of a further band of ruffians. Edgar began to
regret that he had exhibited his money so freely--or could it be that
Baulch had seen through his disguise?
A slight rustling noise close to him attracted his attention, and giving
up the pretence of being nearly asleep, he opened his eyes wide and
looked warily about him. The men had stopped their song, and were
gazing in his direction with an air of covert expectation. Something
was going on--that much was clear as noonday. Another slight rustle,
and Edgar looked quickly above him into the blackness beyond the hams
and other objects hanging from the rafters. He was just in time to
catch a glimpse of something as it dropped down over his head. It was a
rope!
Before he had time to spring to his feet and fling it off his shoulders,
it was drawn tightly round his neck with a quick jerk, and he was lifted
almost off his feet. The peril was extreme, and realizing in a flash
that only the most desperate exertions could save him, Edgar grasped the
rope above the slip knot with his left hand, while with his right he
drew his dagger and reached up to cut the rope, straining on tiptoe to
get a purchase.
Suddenly a trapdoor, upon which his chair had evidently been placed,
gave way beneath his feet, and the whole of his weight fell upon his
left arm. Choking, half-strangled, with eyes starting from his head,
Edgar strove to cut the rope with his dagger. One stroke, feeble from
his straining position and reeling brain--a second stroke--then a third,
into which all his remaining strength was put--and like a stone he fell
half-fainting through the trapdoor into a cellar below.
For a moment or two he was unable to move. Half-strangled and half-dazed
by the dread attack and sudden fall, he was in so helpless a condition
that he could not have lifted a hand to save his life. The noise of
footsteps on the stone stairs leading to the cellar and the harsh
grating of a key in the lock roused him a little, however, and he feebly
extricated himself from the legs of the chair upon which he had fallen.
Scarcely had he done so before two men, one of whom bore a torch, ran
hurriedly in and rushed at him with knives upraised. The man bearing
the light Edgar recognized as James Baulch.
Against their attack Edgar at first could defend himself but feebly.
His hand still clutched the dagger with which he had severed the rope,
but before he was in a condition to use it he had received several body
thrusts that would have dispatched him outright had it not been for the
shirt of steel mail he wore beneath his clothing.
Every moment, however, his strength came back, and, watching his chance,
presently he parried a blow from Baulch's companion, and brought the
hilt of his own dagger down upon the ruffian's head with all his
strength. The man dropped prone in his tracks amid a yell of wrath from
the men in the room above, who were eagerly peering down at the conflict
from the opening in the floor.
Feeling that his chance had come, Edgar sprang fiercely upon Baulch and
flung him to the floor, the torch spinning from his hand to the other
end of the cellar. Kneeling upon the man's chest and placing his dagger
at his throat, Edgar cried sternly:
"Tell me where is Sir John Chartris, or thou shall die."
The man gasped with amazement and fear, and cried hastily: "At
Ruthenes."
"Where is this Ruthenes?" cried Edgar quickly.
But the man seemed already to have repented that he had told so much,
and with an effort made shift to grasp the hand that held the
threatening dagger. Doubtless he had seen the faces of his four friends
above disappear from the trap, and had heard the scurry of their feet as
they rushed across the room and made for the stairs. It could be but a
matter of seconds before they were on the scene. Edgar, too, had heard
the scurry of feet, and realized at once that he could get no more
information before it would be too late. Wrenching himself free from
Baulch's grasp and springing to his feet, he seized the chair and placed
it upright beneath the trapdoor.
The instant he was free Baulch scrambled to his feet, and, emboldened by
the approach of help--for the others' footsteps now sounded loudly upon
the stairs--rushed at Edgar with a yell, and tried to prevent him
mounting upon the chair.
"We will have thee yet, Edgar Wintour," he cried exultingly.
Edgar had flung away his dagger, but at this attack he turned and shot
out his arm with all his strength. The blow caught the man full in the
face, and felled him headlong.
The first of the men, leaping down the stairs, burst into the cellar
just as Edgar, seizing the edge of the floor above with his hands,
sprang off the chair, head and shoulders, into the room overhead.
Flinging up his right leg and making another effort, he lifted himself
until he stood upright upon the floor.
For the moment the room was empty, but the men below, mad with rage at
being again tricked, were already in pursuit, shouting like wild beasts,
and there was no time to be lost. Without an instant's delay,
therefore, Edgar sprang to the window, flung aside the shutters, and
looked eagerly out. As he expected, the gleam of water met his gaze,
and, placing one hand upon the sill, he sprang headlong out and vanished
into the waters of the Garonne.
*CHAPTER XI*
*In Pursuit*
An hour later a weary-looking, soaked figure knocked loudly and
insistently at the door of the inn which sheltered the ladies Gertrude
and Beatrice. It was Edgar, exhausted by a long swim in sodden garments
and shirt of mail, which had well nigh dragged him to the bottom of the
river. After a short parley the landlord admitted him, and, seeing his
sorry condition, proceeded to light a fire to dry his wet garments, and
good-naturedly lent him others until they were ready for use.
"Dost wish me to tell Sir John's ladies that thou art come?" he asked
presently.
"Nay, I will spend the night before this fire, and speak to them early
in the morning. Tell me when ye hear them stirring."
Long before Edgar awoke in the morning Peter had arrived, anxious to
know if anything had been heard of his master. Seeing him asleep, and
hearing of the exhausted condition in which he had arrived, he sat down
patiently to wait until he should awake.
"Hast learned aught?" he cried as soon as Edgar opened his eyes.
"Aye, though what 'tis worth I know not;" and Edgar related the
incidents of the attack and escape the night before. "Baulch said that
Sir John was at Ruthenes, or a place that sounded much like it. Whatever
that name may be worth to us, it would seem that Sir John is at least
still alive."
"Ruthenes!" echoed Peter thoughtfully. "Methinks I have heard a word
that sounded like that before. Yes, I have it; it was a word spoken
more than once by De Maupas to that rascal Baulch. I could not catch it
fully, but now I know the word, I feel sure it was that they were
repeating."
"Then we are on the right track," cried Edgar joyfully. "Now we must
find where Ruthenes is. Call mine host."
The landlord was called and asked if he knew of a place called Ruthenes.
After a moment's thought he announced that he had heard of it as a
castle of evil reputation situated on the lower slopes of the Pyrenees
many leagues distant. It belonged to a knight named Eustace de Brin,
who appeared to be better known amongst the country folk and peasantry
as Black Eustace. Exactly why he should have earned so terrible a name,
however, the landlord was unable to say.
Satisfied that Baulch had not lied to him, Edgar desired the landlord to
send someone to arouse the ladies, and to tell them that Sir John's
esquire begged a few minutes' audience with them upon a matter of great
importance. Then he turned to Peter and instructed him to return to the
camp, to saddle Sir John's two best horses, and to make all ready for a
long journey. On his way through the town he was to obtain more
countrymen's clothes of a better cut and quality than his last
purchase--such, indeed, as might be worn by small traders travelling on
business from one part of the country to another.
Very shortly both the ladies appeared, eager to know why Edgar had come
to them so early in the day, and guessing that he must have news to
tell.
In a few brief sentences Edgar described the scene at the inn, and the
means by which he had extracted one single word from Baulch, which, he
hoped, contained the key to Sir John's whereabouts. Then he announced
that he had made up his mind to set out forthwith for Castle Ruthenes,
accompanied only by Peter, and to do all in his power to deliver Sir
John from his captors.
"But will not this Eustace offer him to ransom?" cried Beatrice. "We
will gladly pay a ransom, however great, so long as we can get him
safely back."
"I much misdoubt me whether Sir John would consent to a ransom being
paid to dishonourable captors," replied Edgar. "'Tis not as though he
had been captured in fair fight. Besides, would De Maupas consider
himself avenged by a share in a ransom, for, of course, he must be in
league with this Black Eustace?"
"I know not," cried Beatrice, stamping her foot in vexation. "But what
seek ye to do? How can ye two carry Sir John away by force from a
stronghold such as Castle Ruthenes seems to be?"
"By stratagem, backed by force if need be. There is naught else to be
done. The earl is not yet ready to move, and even if he were, he could
not move for months into so remote a part of the enemy's country as the
district in which Ruthenes lies."
"Well, then, go, Edgar. Gertrude and I will pray for thy success even
more heartily than in the combat with De Maupas. But trust not to thy
sword too much. Ye hotheaded esquires think far too much of prowess in
arms."
"I thank thee, maiden. I will try to remember thy counsels," replied
Edgar, with a slight smile.
"But what are we to tell those who enquire for my father?" cried
Gertrude.
"That is already settled. A day or two before he disappeared Sir John
obtained leave from the earl to visit the lands of the lady Beatrice in
Faucigny. Many called to congratulate him on his defeat of De Maupas,
but hearing that he had left, supposed that he had already gone thence.
I think it would be best if the lady Beatrice went to Faucigny for a
time, and that thou didst return to Wolsingham."
"Nay, I shall not return home until I know what hath befallen my
father," cried Gertrude decidedly. "Beatrice may please herself whether
she visits her tenants at Faucigny, but I remain here. If the earl
moves forward in thy absence the men-at-arms must go, but Matthew I
shall keep with me."
A few more words and Edgar bade the ladies adieu, bidding them be of
good cheer for the news he had brought showed that at any rate Sir John
was alive. A rescue would, he trusted, only be a matter of time.
Though the ladies were unable to accept so hopeful a statement, yet they
felt a real thrill of hope. The dash and daring of the young esquire in
the lists outside Bordeaux, the determination displayed by him in his
onslaught upon the miscreant Baulch in the riverside inn, and the not
less striking success which had attended both ventures gave them a
ground for hoping at which they would have laughed a week ago.
Two hours later Edgar left the camp, accompanied by Peter, and took the
road which led in the direction of Ruthenes. Both were dressed as small
traders, though it must be confessed that their mounts were vastly
superior to the steeds such men usually bestrode. Both carried sword
and dagger, and Edgar wore beneath his outer garments the light shirt of
steel mail which had already done him such good service. Permission to
leave had readily been granted to him on the understanding that he was
_en route_ to rejoin Sir John Chartris.
Before he left, Edgar called Matthew and gave him strict instructions to
keep vigilant watch and ward over the Wolsingham ladies, and especially
to see that neither went abroad unaccompanied by a proper escort. His
fears for them, however, largely vanished when Matthew told him that De
Maupas had recovered sufficiently to leave the camp for a destination
which he had been unable to discover. The man Baulch appeared to have
been left behind.
After a three-days' journey over rough roads, oftentimes mere tracks,
Edgar and Peter reached a village in the vicinity of the castle of
Ruthenes. Their arrival created something of a stir, for the village and
district were so remote from the trade routes and highways that
strangers were hardly ever seen. Somewhat disturbed that they were not
able, as they wished, to pass unnoticed about their business, Edgar
enquired whether the village boasted an inn. It did not, but the house
which performed the nearest approach to that office was pointed out to
him, and they made their way there and dismounted. A target for
curiosity, and also, apparently, for barely concealed hostility, the two
sat down to the poor hospitality the place afforded, feeling that the
difficulties before them were greater even than they had anticipated.
It was evening when they arrived, and they had scarcely been there half
an hour before no less a personage than the village priest called,
ostensibly as a chance visitor, but really, as Edgar shrewdly suspected,
to examine the two strangers, and to ascertain, if possible, what their
visit portended.
"Ye are strangers here," remarked the priest, as he brought a mess of
soup to the table at which Edgar and Peter were seated, and sat down
himself.
Edgar assented and went on with his meal, though he kept a watchful eye
upon the priest. The man was past middle age, tall and well built to all
appearances, and had a kindly and pleasant, though careworn, face.
Kindly as he looked, Edgar felt anxious to keep the real object of his
visit there a secret from this man more than any other, for of all those
in the village it was most probable that the local priest was on
friendliest terms with the lord of the soil at Castle Ruthenes.
"Doubtless 'tis to visit the castle, and not us poor villagers, that ye
are come," said the priest quietly, after a few minutes' pause.
"Nay, we know not Sir Eustace, and though we should like to see so fine
a castle before we pass on, we shall not seek his hospitality."
"Are ye for us or against us?" asked the priest suddenly, fixing a pair
of steady grey eyes upon Edgar.
"I know not what ye mean," said Edgar uncomfortably.
"I mean, are ye for the downtrodden and oppressed, or do ye uphold those
who grind and ill-use the weak and helpless?"
"Certainly not the latter," cried Edgar quickly.
"Then join thyself to us, and make thyself famous in aiding a noble
cause," cried the priest, his face flushing and his eyes sparkling like
those of a zealot.
"What is this cause of which ye speak?" asked Edgar warily.
"It is to deliver these downtrodden folk amongst whom it is my sad lot
to work. Have ye not heard of the ill fame of this Black Eustace, as he
is called--and rightly called? Tell me that ye are not of his
party--but I am sure ye are not, otherwise I would not have spoken so
plainly."
"I am not. 'Tis but three days since I heard his name for the first
time."
"Ah! then ye know not that he is the scourge of all this land, and doth
kill and burn and flay without let or hindrance? He hath powerful
friends, and never a thing is done when he ill-uses the poor ignorant
folk who inhabit the land he calls his own. I have seen things with my
own eyes that call aloud to heaven for vengeance, and yet the time
cometh not."
"The country folk would then like to be rid of Sir Eustace?"
"Aye, they would like to rid themselves of him if only it were possible
to poor and ill-armed men. Woe to me, a priest, that I should have to
uphold the meeting of violence by violence! but I have tried to find
another way and failed. I have been told that such a state as exists
here exists in many other parts of France. If that be so, terrible
things will be witnessed in the years to come.[1#] I cannot believe,
however, that things can be so bad elsewhere as they are here, for
whereas we are poor and ignorant, in other places the people are rich
and powerful, and can resist oppression in many ways."
[#] The priest was right. In the rising of the "Jacquerie", which took
place a few years later, dreadful scenes of violence and bloodshed were
witnessed.
"Undoubtedly," murmured Edgar, nodding his head in agreement.
"But what we most lack is leaders," went on the priest in a still more
earnest tone. "There is no one here, save myself, who stands out from
the herd of poor miserable folk, and without leaders men with no
knowledge of warfare are doubly useless. We want leaders," he
reiterated in a meaning tone, fixing his eyes upon Edgar in a way that
made that young man feel most uncomfortable.
"Yes, yes," replied Edgar in a soothing tone. "Doubtless the leaders ye
need will be forthcoming when the time comes."
"The time has come, but the leaders are absent," cried the priest; and
he was apparently about to say more when he stopped suddenly, as though
with a great effort, and stared frowningly at the table.
Devoutly hoping that the priest had done and would spare them any
further confidences, Edgar turned towards Peter and began to talk upon
other topics. In a minute or two, however, the priest raised his head
and went on:
"But what are ye here for? Ye say ye are not visitors to the castle.
Yet art thou, sir, if I am not mistaken, a man trained to war, and your
steeds tell the same tale. What else can there be in this remote spot
that would attract thee save the castle? Thy patois is strange and
unfamiliar to me, for I have travelled little; but undoubtedly thou hast
journeyed here from afar."
Edgar smiled. His knowledge of the French tongue had been for the most
part acquired at Wolsingham, where several had a good knowledge of it.
On to this, however, had been grafted, since his arrival, a strong
Gascon flavour that more than possibly assorted somewhat ill with his
previous acquirements.
The priest was waiting for a reply, and Edgar quickly made up his mind
to confide in him the true reason for his presence there. It was
practically certain that did he not do so the priest would have him
watched, and that, he felt, would be disastrous.
"Yes," he said, "I have travelled here from afar. Like you, I am at
enmity with those who shelter behind the walls of Castle Ruthenes, and,
like you, I seek to outmanoeuvre them. They hold prisoner one whom I
must rescue at all costs." Then Edgar went on to describe briefly what
had happened to Sir John, and how he had come to believe that he had
been carried away to Ruthenes.
The priest listened attentively to the end. "Then your interests are
identical with ours," he said in a voice which rang with triumph. "Why
should ye not throw in your lot with us and aid us to fling down yon
frowning battlements? Your knight shall thus be saved and my poor
downtrodden folk delivered from the oppressor. Ye are trained to war,
to the siege of castles, and to the command of men: take command of my
people jointly with me. 'Tis a righteous cause--unhesitatingly I
proclaim it."
Moved in spite of himself by the priest's deep earnestness and
sincerity, Edgar for some moments could find no words with which to
reply. He had heard many tales of the misery and degradation of the
poorer classes of France, and their truth had been brought home by the
sights that had met his gaze on the long journey thither. There could
be little doubt that that unhappy condition was due in a very large
measure to unjust extortion and oppression by the ruling classes. But
his first duty was to Sir John.
"I fear it cannot be," he said presently. "I must accomplish the rescue
of my master at once, or I may find it too late. Then, when I have
delivered him, I shall be at his disposal, and can therefore make no
promise of aid to thee. Your folk, if I mistake not, are not yet ready
for the rising ye project. They are not organized, they have not been
taught to obey any given set of signals, and they have no belief in one
another. There must be weeks of patient work ere they can be led to
attack a fortalice defended by trained and resolute men. Nay, victory
cannot be snatched by a rising on the spur of the moment. There must be
much work of patient preparation."
There was a long pause. Then the priest, his face full of trouble, rose
from the bench on which he had been sitting, and began feverishly to
pace the room.
"It is so," he said. "I feel it, though I am impatient to get to grips
with the evildoers. I must begin at once, though when we are ready we
shall still lack leaders. But mayhap ye will have failed to succour
your knight, and will be glad to fall back upon our aid. Who knows?"
"Who knows, indeed? But I hope and believe not. If I have not rescued
my master by then, I fear it will be because I am either dead or
captured. But canst tell me aught of this castle? Is it strong? Doth it
consist of a single donjon, or hath it outer walls?"
"It is an ancient castle, the origin of which is buried in the obscurity
of the past. It hath a central donjon and also outer walls, most of it
and all the stronger parts being built in its later days in imitation of
the castles built by the Northmen in other parts of France. 'Tis
strong, I know, for I have studied it with intent to discover its
weakest spots."
"Hast discovered aught? I would fain learn, Sir Priest, any points that
would help me in my quest. In return I will joyfully impart to you such
knowledge as may come to me in my enterprise."
"I fear it hath no weak spots worthy of the name. Nothing save hard
fighting can win yon fortalice, unless, as has of late been the case,
the garrison wax careless from long inaction and freedom from alarums."
"Stratagem might effect its capture. It is on stratagem that I rely
most for my own venture. But I would now fain bid thee good night, Sir
Priest, and thank thee for thy kindly information. Perchance we shall
meet again. Come, Peter!"
"Good night, Sir Squire! May ye prosper and win your way both in and
out of the blood-stained lair of Black Eustace! God speed!"
*CHAPTER XII*
*Castle Ruthenes*
Early on the following day Edgar, accompanied by Peter, reconnoitred
Castle Ruthenes from the shelter of the thick woods which stretched to
within less than a hundred yards of its walls. In the light of his
knowledge of the castles of the time, Edgar could study the stronghold
with a real appreciation of its strong and weak points. Its chief
characteristic was a square central donjon, apparently of great age,
which towered high above the outer walls. These were somewhat low,
though of a very massive build, and appeared to belong to a later date
than the donjon, having probably been thrown out as an additional screen
against a surprise attack.
About the walls ran a moat, fairly wide and apparently deep, formed by a
stream from the mountains being dammed back and looped, so as to
complete the circumference of the walls. The castle stood in a hollow,
and the moat ran sluggishly at a level with the surrounding land, which
was boggy and springy, as though the water often overflowed and covered
it inches deep. The place seemed to reek with moisture, the walls being
mossgrown and discoloured; while the thick woods, encroaching closely
upon the narrow patch of grassy plain, seemed to add to the forbidding,
cheerless air of the gloomy fortalice.
The outer walls were pierced in one spot only, and that was at the main
gateway. Here the moat was spanned by a drawbridge of modern
appearance, but Edgar could see no traces of a portcullis, its place
being taken by heavy oaken gates faced with plates of iron.
Struck by the gloomy, unhealthy look of the castle, Edgar could not help
exclaiming in a voice of deep concern:
"I hope, Peter, they have treated Sir John well. The dungeons of such
castles usually lie deep below the level of the moat. If they have
immured him in one of those I fear for him. Sir John's health hath
suffered much from his many campaigns."
"I hope not, Master Edgar. But we must hasten the more to release him,
though how 'tis to be done I know not."
"We, or I, might perhaps gain entrance in disguise, though that would
mean a daylight entry, and we should be under observation, and could
hardly hope to effect much. Besides, since the simple old priest so
quickly penetrated our disguise, I have lost faith in our abilities in
that direction--our tongue, I fear, betrayeth us all too quickly."
Peter nodded in agreement.
"Come, let us make the full circuit of the walls, Peter, keeping well
within the shadow of the woods. So far, I can see no way in save by
scaling the walls themselves."
"By a ladder?" queried Peter.
"Nay, a ladder would betray us, if not before we entered, certainly at
dawn the following morning. Nay, but a rope and grapnel in patient hands
should win an entrance."
"A rope and grapnel!" cried Peter. "A rope we can doubtless obtain from
someone among the country folk, but where may we obtain a grapnel?"
"We can improvise one. A sword wrapped in cloths might be well lodged
in the spaces betwixt those blocks on the summit of the wall--thy steel
scabbard, Peter, with the rope tied to its middle, flung up and properly
lodged, would easily take the weight of one of us. Ha, 'tis easy after
all!"
"But could we fling scabbard and rope to the summit of the wall from the
distance of the edge of the moat?"
"'Twill certainly be a long throw. Is there no place where a bank at
the bottom of the wall will give us a footing? Look closely, Peter, and
see if thou canst discern such a bank anywhere. If we can see none we
must, when the time comes, swim the whole circle of the walls and feel
for one. A footing in mud and water will serve our turn."
"I see something, Master Edgar. See--where that clump of reeds shows a
foot above the water against the walls--the bottom must be near the
surface there."
"Maybe--unless there be but soft mud. Look again, Peter--we must, if we
can, find a place where we can swing our rope full freely."
Before the circuit of the walls had been completed, a place had been
found where a low bank lay between the moat and the foot of the wall.
This was hailed with satisfaction as a step in the direction of scaling
the outer defences of the castle, and during the remainder of the day
Edgar and Peter sat down to watch all that went on, and particularly
what sentries were posted and how far their observation extended.
Ere the day was out they had made up their minds that a good watch was
kept, and that the slackness referred to by the priest had either never
existed or had recently, from one cause or another, been entirely
removed. Two men-at-arms were always upon the walls, keeping watch from
opposite angles, from which the whole extent of the outer defences could
be easily surveyed. Another man was posted at the gateway, to operate
the drawbridge and to keep a lookout upon all who came to claim
admittance. These sentries, too, were not only present, but appeared to
be watchful and alert to all that went forward. Depressed at the
evidence of the keen watch kept, but elated at finding a bank from which
the rope and grapnel might be cast with some chance of success, Edgar
and Peter returned to the poor dwelling at which they had obtained
temporary shelter, there to await the time when their first attempt
should be made.
As on the evening before, the priest appeared and supped with them, more
for company's sake on this occasion, it seemed, than with any desire to
keep watch upon them and their movements. Feeling a good deal of
confidence in the kindly, careworn face with the steady grey eyes, Edgar
told the priest what they had learned and how he proposed to effect an
entrance. The news that the garrison was keeping a careful watch seemed
to fill the priest with surprise and some concern.
"Can it be that they have heard of your arrival?" he said. "And yet if
that were so 'twould not be the posting of extra guards that I should
expect, but the sally of a score of their blood-stained men-at-arms, who
would pour into this village in an iron stream as they have done so
often before. Ye would have been routed out, and within five minutes the
branches of the nearest tree would have groaned beneath your weight.
That is what has been before. Why, then, have they posted sentinels?
Nothing else hath occurred save the arrival at the castle of a man who
must indeed be of some consequence, seeing that he was accompanied by an
escort of two men-at-arms."
"When did this man arrive?" asked Edgar quickly.
"On the morning of the day of your arrival--that is, yesterday."
"Canst describe him to me?"
"I did not see the man, and those who reported it to me, as all do the
most trifling events, said that they could see little of him, as his
head was swathed in bandages."
"It is he," murmured Edgar half to himself.
"Who? Whom dost mean? Dost know the man?" cried the priest sharply.
"I fear so. I think it must be this evil knight of whom I have told
thee. The blow with which I worsted him in the lists at Bordeaux was
severe, and I know that his head had to be much bandaged. Then before I
left I learned that he had already gone. 'Tis he of a surety. He hath
followed his victim."
"Can he know that thou art here?"
"I think not; but one cannot be sure, and he will guess that I would not
remain idle."
"Then it is this knight, this enemy of thine, who hath caused the watch
to be doubled. 'Twill be the harder for thee to find a way in by thy
stratagem. Hast brought a rope with thee?"
"No. I must make enquiries and obtain one."
"I will do so for thee. Thou wilt only arouse suspicion and make folk
talk. Leave it to me, Sir Squire."
Edgar thanked the priest warmly, and stipulated that it should be both
light and strong. Then they went on to talk of other things, and the
priest told Edgar stories of his work amongst the poor peasantry. Some
were humoursome, others bright stories illustrating the homely virtues
of the folk and their generosity one to another; but the greater part
were tales of cruelty and oppression, which made Edgar's blood
boil--tales of men tortured into revealing where their little store of
worldly wealth, laid by with much self-denial, had been hidden away; and
tales of men done to death for their "obstinacy", when they had no store
whose whereabouts they could reveal to satisfy their relentless
persecutors. It all seemed almost incredible to Edgar, until he
recollected the stories he had heard handed down of the deeds done in
his own land but a century or two before.
It was three days before Edgar obtained a rope that he thought gave him
the least hope of success in the venture he had in hand. The good
priest did all in his power, and scarce a rope in the neighbourhood but
was brought in and tried. But the ropes that the peasants possessed
were rough and heavy and in no way suited to Edgar's purpose. In
despair, at last he saddled his steed and rode away to the nearest town
and purchased one there, returning by a forced march the same day.
That same night Peter and he, accompanied by the priest, made their way
into the woods surrounding Castle Ruthenes. By a stroke of good fortune
the night was a favourable one. Heavy clouds shrouded the light of the
moon, and made even the biggest objects loom black and indistinct. A
watcher on the walls would need the sharpest eyes to see a figure at the
foot, and with the comforting feeling that all was so far going in their
favour the two young men took leave of the priest at the edge of the
wood and stole across the narrow strip of sward.
"God be with thee!" the priest had whispered, and with a pressure of the
hand that Edgar now knew to be the hand of a friend, he had bade them
adieu.
The point at which they left the woods was, they knew, in a line with
that part of the moat where the low bank rose at the foot of the wall,
and as soon as they reached the edge of the water, both slipped
noiselessly in and swam gently towards the castle walls.
Both were good swimmers, even Peter, in spite of his infirmity, having
long since learned to keep himself afloat without difficulty. Edgar
carried the line and the improvised grapnel, which had been well swathed
in cloths to ensure its falling dully wherever it struck. He also, wore
his shirt of mail and his sword. The weight was considerable, but he
was too practised a swimmer for that to trouble him for a few dozen
yards, and he had a decided objection to being quite defenceless when he
had gained entry into the enemy's quarters.
The water struck chill. Heavy weeds that appeared almost to choke the
stream clung to their legs and impeded their progress. They could see
nothing save a wall of blackness that rose before them forbiddingly.
All seemed to be as silent as the tomb.
They were slow in making the passage, as their one desire was to make no
sound, but presently they reached the side. Touching bottom in several
feet of mud, they slowly raised themselves out of the water and began to
crawl up the bank.
Suddenly they were startled beyond measure by a tremendous screech and
flutter which arose from right under their very noses. In their
amazement and alarm they sprang back a couple of feet into deep water
with a splash, and then saw, or rather heard, a flock of frightened
ducks rise with a whirr and cackle from the bank and fly above their
heads round the angle of the castle walls.
Deeply chagrined, the two young men crawled from the moat upon the bank
and lay there listening intently. Such a mischance they had never
dreamed of, and it seemed more than possible that it might have alarmed
one of the guards and brought him to the spot to learn the cause of the
birds' alarm. With deepest annoyance Edgar upbraided himself for not
observing that a flock of half-wild ducks belonging to the castle had
made a home on the bank he had counted upon in his plans.
For half an hour the two lay in the mud and water without stirring,
listening with all their ears and gazing up at the outline of the top of
the walls, which they could discern dimly against the sky. But the
peering figures of the sentinels that they half-expected to appear never
came.
"All is well after all, I think, Peter," said Edgar at last. "That was
a bad start indeed, and had I not thought Sir John's need a most urgent
one, I should have been tempted to try another night. But as 'tis, if
any have marked the flutter and scare they have doubtless thought them
due to winged enemies of the wild fowl, and not to those with intent to
disturb the peace of the castle. Now let us try the powers of the line
and grapnel we obtained after so much time and trouble. 'Twould be hard
indeed to find them fail us now."
The outer walls were comparatively low, little more than twenty feet or
so in height, and the throw of the grapnel was not a very difficult one.
But it proved exceedingly difficult to obtain a lodgment with it. Time
after time it was thrown with success well over the wall, but the
darkness of the night forced them to fling it at random, and as soon as
a strain was put upon it, down it fell again.
At last, however, it held fast even when the weight of both was tried
upon it, and, overjoyed, Edgar instantly began to haul himself up hand
over hand until he reached the top. Here he rested arms and shoulders
on the wall while he paused a moment to listen. All was quiet, however,
and drawing himself right up he signalled to Peter with the rope that
all was clear for him to ascend in his turn.
In a few minutes both were safely on the wall, crouching in the deepest
shadows they could find. The first stage of their enterprise had been
successfully accomplished, and though cold and wet and shivering as with
the ague, they felt elated that they were well on the way to the
accomplishment of their formidable task.
"Draw up and coil the rope, Peter. We must take it with us, for
doubtless we shall need it 'gainst our return."
Peter silently obeyed.
"Now follow me quietly, lad," and
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