The White Company
from the town of Rheims I met a very valiant and courteous cavalier of
France, with whom I had gentle and most honorable contention for upwards
of an hour. It hath ever grieved me that I had not his name, for he
smote upon me with a mace and went upon his way ere I was in condition
to have much speech with him; but his arms were an allurion in chief
above a fess azure. I was also on such an occasion thrust through the
shoulder by Lyon de Montcourt, whom I met on the high road betwixt
Libourne and Bordeaux. I met him but the once, but I have never seen
a man for whom I bear a greater love and esteem. And so also with the
squire Le Bourg Capillet, who would have been a very valiant captain had
he lived.”
“He is dead then?” asked Alleyne Edricson.
“Alas! it was my ill fate to slay him in a bickering which broke out in
a field near the township of Tarbes. I cannot call to mind how the
thing came about, for it was in the year of the Prince's ride through
Languedoc, when there was much fine skirmishing to be had at barriers.
By St. Paul! I do not think that any honorable cavalier could ask for
better chance of advancement than might be had by spurring forth before
the army and riding to the gateways of Narbonne, or Bergerac or Mont
Giscar, where some courteous gentleman would ever be at wait to do
what he might to meet your wish or ease you of your vow. Such a one at
Ventadour ran three courses with me betwixt daybreak and sunrise, to the
great exaltation of his lady.”
“And did you slay him also, my lord?” asked Ford with reverence.
“I could never learn, for he was carried within the barrier, and as I
had chanced to break the bone of my leg it was a great unease for me
to ride or even to stand. Yet, by the goodness of heaven and the pious
intercession of the valiant St. George, I was able to sit my charger
in the ruffle of Poictiers, which was no very long time afterwards. But
what have we here? A very fair and courtly maiden, or I mistake.”
It was indeed a tall and buxom country lass, with a basket of
spinach-leaves upon her head, and a great slab of bacon tucked under one
arm. She bobbed a frightened curtsey as Sir Nigel swept his velvet hat
from his head and reined up his great charger.
“God be with thee, fair maiden!” said he.
“God guard thee, my lord!” she answered, speaking in the broadest West
Saxon speech, and balancing herself first on one foot and then on the
other in her bashfulness.
“Fear not, my fair damsel,” said Sir Nigel, “but tell me if perchance
a poor and most unworthy knight can in any wise be of service to you.
Should it chance that you have been used despitefully, it may be that I
may obtain justice for you.”
“Lawk no, kind sir,” she answered, clutching her bacon the tighter, as
though some design upon it might be hid under this knightly offer. “I
be the milking wench o' fairmer Arnold, and he be as kind a maister as
heart could wish.”
“It is well,” said he, and with a shake of the bridle rode on down the
woodland path. “I would have you bear in mind,” he continued to his
squires, “that gentle courtesy is not, as is the base use of so many
false knights, to be shown only to maidens of high degree, for there
is no woman so humble that a true knight may not listen to her tale of
wrong. But here comes a cavalier who is indeed in haste. Perchance it
would be well that we should ask him whither he rides, for it may be
that he is one who desires to advance himself in chivalry.”
The bleak, hard, wind-swept road dipped down in front of them into a
little valley, and then, writhing up the heathy slope upon the other
side, lost itself among the gaunt pine-trees. Far away between the black
lines of trunks the quick glitter of steel marked where the Company
pursued its way. To the north stretched the tree country, but to the
south, between two swelling downs, a glimpse might be caught of the cold
gray shimmer of the sea, with the white fleck of a galley sail upon the
distant sky-line. Just in front of the travellers a horseman was urging
his steed up the slope, driving it on with whip and spur as one who
rides for a set purpose. As he clattered up, Alleyne could see that the
roan horse was gray with dust and flecked with foam, as though it had
left many a mile behind it. The rider was a stern-faced man, hard of
mouth and dry of eye, with a heavy sword clanking at his side, and a
stiff white bundle swathed in linen balanced across the pommel of his
saddle.
“The king's messenger,” he bawled as he came up to them. “The messenger
of the king. Clear the causeway for the king's own man.”
“Not so loudly, friend,” quoth the little knight, reining his horse half
round to bar the path. “I have myself been the king's man for thirty
years or more, but I have not been wont to halloo about it on a peaceful
highway.”
“I ride in his service,” cried the other, “and I carry that which
belongs to him. You bar my path at your peril.”
“Yet I have known the king's enemies claim to ride in his same,” said
Sir Nigel. “The foul fiend may lurk beneath a garment of light. We must
have some sign or warrant of your mission.”
“Then must I hew a passage,” cried the stranger, with his shoulder
braced round and his hand upon his hilt. “I am not to be stopped on the
king's service by every gadabout.”
“Should you be a gentleman of quarterings and coat-armor,” lisped Sir
Nigel, “I shall be very blithe to go further into the matter with you.
If not, I have three very worthy squires, any one of whom would take the
thing upon himself, and debate it with you in a very honorable way.”
The man scowled from one to the other, and his hand stole away from his
sword.
“You ask me for a sign,” he said. “Here is a sign for you, since you
must have one.” As he spoke he whirled the covering from the object
in front of him and showed to their horror that it was a newly-severed
human leg. “By God's tooth!” he continued, with a brutal laugh, “you ask
me if I am a man of quarterings, and it is even so, for I am officer
to the verderer's court at Lyndhurst. This thievish leg is to hang at
Milton, and the other is already at Brockenhurst, as a sign to all men
of what comes of being over-fond of venison pasty.”
“Faugh!” cried Sir Nigel. “Pass on the other side of the road, fellow,
and let us have the wind of you. We shall trot our horses, my friends,
across this pleasant valley, for, by Our Lady! a breath of God's fresh
air is right welcome after such a sight.”
“We hoped to snare a falcon,” said he presently, “but we netted a
carrion-crow. Ma foi! but there are men whose hearts are tougher than a
boar's hide. For me, I have played the old game of war since ever I had
hair on my chin, and I have seen ten thousand brave men in one day with
their faces to the sky, but I swear by Him who made me that I cannot
abide the work of the butcher.”
“And yet, my fair lord,” said Edricson, “there has, from what I hear,
been much of such devil's work in France.”
“Too much, too much,” he answered. “But I have ever observed that the
foremost in the field are they who would scorn to mishandle a prisoner.
By St. Paul! it is not they who carry the breach who are wont to sack
the town, but the laggard knaves who come crowding in when a way has
been cleared for them. But what is this among the trees?”
“It is a shrine of Our Lady,” said Terlake, “and a blind beggar who
lives by the alms of those who worship there.”
“A shrine!” cried the knight. “Then let us put up an orison.” Pulling
off his cap, and clasping his hands, he chanted in a shrill voice:
“Benedictus dominus Deus meus, qui docet manus meas ad proelium,
et digitos meos ad bellum.” A strange figure he seemed to his three
squires, perched on his huge horse, with his eyes upturned and the
wintry sun shimmering upon his bald head. “It is a noble prayer,” he
remarked, putting on his hat again, “and it was taught to me by the
noble Chandos himself. But how fares it with you, father? Methinks that
I should have ruth upon you, seeing that I am myself like one who looks
through a horn window while his neighbors have the clear crystal. Yet,
by St. Paul! there is a long stride between the man who hath a horn
casement and him who is walled in on every hand.”
“Alas! fair sir,” cried the blind old man, “I have not seen the blessed
blue of heaven this two-score years, since a levin flash burned the
sight out of my head.”
“You have been blind to much that is goodly and fair,” quoth Sir Nigel,
“but you have also been spared much that is sorry and foul. This very
hour our eyes have been shocked with that which would have left you
unmoved. But, by St. Paul! we must on, or our Company will think that
they have lost their captain somewhat early in the venture. Throw the
man my purse, Edricson, and let us go.”
Alleyne, lingering behind, bethought him of the Lady Loring's counsel,
and reduced the noble gift which the knight had so freely bestowed to a
single penny, which the beggar with many mumbled blessings thrust away
into his wallet. Then, spurring his steed, the young squire rode at the
top of his speed after his companions, and overtook them just at the
spot where the trees fringe off into the moor and the straggling hamlet
of Hordle lies scattered on either side of the winding and deeply-rutted
track. The Company was already well-nigh through the village; but, as
the knight and his squires closed up upon them, they heard the clamor of
a strident voice, followed by a roar of deep-chested laughter from
the ranks of the archers. Another minute brought them up with the
rear-guard, where every man marched with his beard on his shoulder and a
face which was agrin with merriment. By the side of the column walked
a huge red-headed bowman, with his hands thrown out in argument and
expostulation, while close at his heels followed a little wrinkled
woman who poured forth a shrill volley of abuse, varied by an occasional
thwack from her stick, given with all the force of her body, though she
might have been beating one of the forest trees for all the effect that
she seemed likely to produce.
“I trust, Aylward,” said Sir Nigel gravely, as he rode up, “that this
doth not mean that any violence hath been offered to women. If such a
thing happened, I tell you that the man shall hang, though he were the
best archer that ever wore brassart.”
“Nay, my fair lord,” Aylward answered with a grin, “it is violence which
is offered to a man. He comes from Hordle, and this is his mother who
hath come forth to welcome him.”
“You rammucky lurden,” she was howling, with a blow between each catch
of her breath, “you shammocking, yaping, over-long good-for-nought. I
will teach thee! I will baste thee! Aye, by my faith!”
“Whist, mother,” said John, looking back at her from the tail of his
eye, “I go to France as an archer to give blows and to take them.”
“To France, quotha?” cried the old dame. “Bide here with me, and I shall
warrant you more blows than you are like to get in France. If blows be
what you seek, you need not go further than Hordle.”
“By my hilt! the good dame speaks truth,” said Aylward. “It seems to be
the very home of them.”
“What have you to say, you clean-shaved galley-beggar?” cried the fiery
dame, turning upon the archer. “Can I not speak with my own son but you
must let your tongue clack? A soldier, quotha, and never a hair on
his face. I have seen a better soldier with pap for food and swaddling
clothes for harness.”
“Stand to it, Aylward,” cried the archers, amid a fresh burst of
laughter.
“Do not thwart her, comrade,” said big John. “She hath a proper spirit
for her years and cannot abide to be thwarted. It is kindly and homely
to me to hear her voice and to feel that she is behind me. But I must