The White Company
smack across his rosy cheek. “Nay, take it not amiss,” he said, “since
all things are but thoughts, then that also is but a thought and may be
disregarded.”
This last argument, however, by no means commended itself to the pupil
of Ockham, who plucked a great stick from the ground and signified his
dissent by smiting the realist over the pate with it. By good fortune,
the wood was so light and rotten that it went to a thousand splinters,
but Alleyne thought it best to leave the twain to settle the matter at
their leisure, the more so as the sun was shining brightly once
more. Looking back down the pool-strewn road, he saw the two excited
philosophers waving their hands and shouting at each other, but their
babble soon became a mere drone in the distance, and a turn in the road
hid them from his sight.
And now after passing Holmesley Walk and the Wooton Heath, the forest
began to shred out into scattered belts of trees, with gleam of
corn-field and stretch of pasture-land between. Here and there by the
wayside stood little knots of wattle-and-daub huts with shock-haired
laborers lounging by the doors and red-cheeked children sprawling in
the roadway. Back among the groves he could see the high gable ends and
thatched roofs of the franklins' houses, on whose fields these men found
employment, or more often a thick dark column of smoke marked their
position and hinted at the coarse plenty within. By these signs Alleyne
knew that he was on the very fringe of the forest, and therefore no
great way from Christchurch. The sun was lying low in the west and
shooting its level rays across the long sweep of rich green country,
glinting on the white-fleeced sheep and throwing long shadows from the
red kine who waded knee-deep in the juicy clover. Right glad was the
traveller to see the high tower of Christchurch Priory gleaming in the
mellow evening light, and gladder still when, on rounding a corner, he
came upon his comrades of the morning seated astraddle upon a fallen
tree. They had a flat space before them, on which they alternately threw
little square pieces of bone, and were so intent upon their occupation
that they never raised eye as he approached them. He observed with
astonishment, as he drew near, that the archer's bow was on John's
back, the archer's sword by John's side, and the steel cap laid upon the
tree-trunk between them.
“Mort de ma vie!” Aylward shouted, looking down at the dice. “Never had
I such cursed luck. A murrain on the bones! I have not thrown a good
main since I left Navarre. A one and a three! En avant, camarade!”
“Four and three,” cried Hordle John, counting on his great fingers,
“that makes seven. Ho, archer, I have thy cap! Now have at thee for thy
jerkin!”
“Mon Dieu!” he growled, “I am like to reach Christchurch in my shirt.”
Then suddenly glancing up, “Hola, by the splendor of heaven, here is our
cher petit! Now, by my ten finger bones! this is a rare sight to mine
eyes.” He sprang up and threw his arms round Alleyne's neck, while
John, no less pleased, but more backward and Saxon in his habits, stood
grinning and bobbing by the wayside, with his newly won steel cap stuck
wrong side foremost upon his tangle of red hair.
“Hast come to stop?” cried the bowman, patting Alleyne all over in his
delight. “Shall not get away from us again!”
“I wish no better,” said he, with a pringling in the eyes at this hearty
greeting.
“Well said, lad!” cried big John. “We three shall to the wars together,
and the devil may fly away with the Abbot of Beaulieu! But your feet
and hosen are all besmudged. Hast been in the water, or I am the more
mistaken.”
“I have in good sooth,” Alleyne answered, and then as they journeyed
on their way he told them the many things that had befallen him, his
meeting with the villein, his sight of the king, his coming upon his
brother, with all the tale of the black welcome and of the fair damsel.
They strode on either side, each with an ear slanting towards him, but
ere he had come to the end of his story the bowman had spun round upon
his heel, and was hastening back the way they had come, breathing loudly
through his nose.
“What then?” asked Alleyne, trotting after him and gripping at his
jerkin.
“I am back for Minstead, lad.”
“And why, in the name of sense?”
“To thrust a handful of steel into the Socman. What! hale a demoiselle
against her will, and then loose dogs at his own brother! Let me go!”
“Nenny, nenny!” cried Alleyne, laughing. “There was no scath done. Come
back, friend”--and so, by mingled pushing and entreaties, they got his
head round for Christchurch once more. Yet he walked with his chin upon
his shoulder, until, catching sight of a maiden by a wayside well, the
smiles came back to his face and peace to his heart.
“But you,” said Alleyne, “there have been changes with you also. Why
should not the workman carry his tools? Where are bow and sword and
cap--and why so warlike, John?”
“It is a game which friend Aylward hath been a-teaching of me.”
“And I found him an over-apt pupil,” grumbled the bowman. “He hath
stripped me as though I had fallen into the hands of the tardvenus. But,
by my hilt! you must render them back to me, camarade, lest you bring
discredit upon my mission, and I will pay you for them at armorers'
prices.”
“Take them back, man, and never heed the pay,” said John. “I did but
wish to learn the feel of them, since I am like to have such trinkets
hung to my own girdle for some years to come.”
“Ma foi, he was born for a free companion!” cried Aylward, “He hath the
very trick of speech and turn of thought. I take them back then, and
indeed it gives me unease not to feel my yew-stave tapping against my
leg bone. But see, mes garcons, on this side of the church rises the
square and darkling tower of Earl Salisbury's castle, and even from here
I seem to see on yonder banner the red roebuck of the Montacutes.”
“Red upon white,” said Alleyne, shading his eyes; “but whether roebuck
or no is more than I could vouch. How black is the great tower, and
how bright the gleam of arms upon the wall! See below the flag, how it
twinkles like a star!”
“Aye, it is the steel head-piece of the watchman,” remarked the archer.
“But we must on, if we are to be there before the drawbridge rises at
the vespers bugle; for it is likely that Sir Nigel, being so renowned a
soldier, may keep hard discipline within the walls, and let no man enter
after sundown.” So saying, he quickened his pace, and the three comrades
were soon close to the straggling and broad-spread town which centered
round the noble church and the frowning castle.
It chanced on that very evening that Sir Nigel Loring, having supped
before sunset, as was his custom, and having himself seen that Pommers
and Cadsand, his two war-horses, with the thirteen hacks, the five
jennets, my lady's three palfreys, and the great dapple-gray roussin,
had all their needs supplied, had taken his dogs for an evening
breather. Sixty or seventy of them, large and small, smooth and
shaggy--deer-hound, boar-hound, blood-hound, wolf-hound, mastiff, alaun,
talbot, lurcher, terrier, spaniel--snapping, yelling and whining, with
score of lolling tongues and waving tails, came surging down the narrow
lane which leads from the Twynham kennels to the bank of Avon. Two
russet-clad varlets, with loud halloo and cracking whips, walked
thigh-deep amid the swarm, guiding, controlling, and urging. Behind
came Sir Nigel himself, with Lady Loring upon his arm, the pair walking
slowly and sedately, as befitted both their age and their condition,
while they watched with a smile in their eyes the scrambling crowd in
front of them. They paused, however, at the bridge, and, leaning their
elbows upon the stonework, they stood looking down at their own faces in
the glassy stream, and at the swift flash of speckled trout against the
tawny gravel.
Sir Nigel was a slight man of poor stature, with soft lisping voice and
gentle ways. So short was he that his wife, who was no very tall woman,
had the better of him by the breadth of three fingers. His sight having
been injured in his early wars by a basketful of lime which had been
emptied over him when he led the Earl of Derby's stormers up the breach
at Bergerac, he had contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking,
peering expression of face. His age was six and forty, but the constant
practice of arms, together with a cleanly life, had preserved his
activity and endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he seemed to
have the slight limbs and swift grace of a boy. His face, however, was
tanned of a dull yellow tint, with a leathery, poreless look, which
spoke of rough outdoor doings, and the little pointed beard which he
wore, in deference to the prevailing fashion, was streaked and shot with
gray. His features were small, delicate, and regular, with clear-cut,
curving nose, and eyes which jutted forward from the lids. His dress was
simple and yet spruce. A Flandrish hat of beevor, bearing in the band
the token of Our Lady of Embrun, was drawn low upon the left side to
hide that ear which had been partly shorn from his head by a Flemish
man-at-arms in a camp broil before Tournay. His cote-hardie, or tunic,
and trunk-hosen were of a purple plum color, with long weepers which
hung from either sleeve to below his knees. His shoes were of red
leather, daintily pointed at the toes, but not yet prolonged to the
extravagant lengths which the succeeding reign was to bring into
fashion. A gold-embroidered belt of knighthood encircled his loins, with
his arms, five roses gules on a field argent, cunningly worked upon the
clasp. So stood Sir Nigel Loring upon the bridge of Avon, and talked
lightly with his lady.
And, certes, had the two visages alone been seen, and the stranger been
asked which were the more likely to belong to the bold warrior whose
name was loved by the roughest soldiery of Europe, he had assuredly
selected the lady's. Her face was large and square and red, with fierce,
thick brows, and the eyes of one who was accustomed to rule. Taller and
broader than her husband, her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined
tippet, could not conceal the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her
figure. It was the age of martial women. The deeds of black Agnes of
Dunbar, of Lady Salisbury and of the Countess of Montfort, were still
fresh in the public minds. With such examples before them the wives of
the English captains had become as warlike as their mates, and ordered
their castles in their absence with the prudence and discipline of
veteran seneschals. Right easy were the Montacutes of their Castle
of Twynham, and little had they to dread from roving galley or French
squadron, while Lady Mary Loring had the ordering of it. Yet even in
that age it was thought that, though a lady might have a soldier's
heart, it was scarce as well that she should have a soldier's face.
There were men who said that of all the stern passages and daring deeds
by which Sir Nigel Loring had proved the true temper of his courage, not
the least was his wooing and winning of so forbidding a dame.
“I tell you, my fair lord,” she was saying, “that it is no fit training
for a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles singing a French
rondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de Mayence, as I found her
yesternight, pretending sleep, the artful, with the corner of the scroll
thrusting forth from under her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of
the priory, forsooth--that is ever her answer. How shall all this help
her when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all
agape for beef and beer?”
“True, my sweet bird, true,” answered the knight, picking a comfit from
his gold drageoir. “The maid is like the young filly, which kicks heels