The White Company
been so long at Montaubon, that there would be little there worth the
taking. Then as they have already been in the south, they would come
north to the country of the Aveyron.”
“We shall follow the Lot until we come to Cahors, and then cross the
marches into Villefranche,” said Sir Nigel. “By St. Paul! as we are but
a small band, it is very likely that we may have some very honorable
and pleasing adventure, for I hear that there is little peace upon the
French border.”
All morning they rode down a broad and winding road, barred with the
shadows of poplars. Sir Nigel rode in front with his squires, while the
two archers followed behind with the sumpter mule between them. They
had left Aiguillon and the Garonne far to the south, and rode now by
the tranquil Lot, which curves blue and placid through a gently rolling
country. Alleyne could not but mark that, whereas in Guienne there had
been many townlets and few castles, there were now many castles and few
houses. On either hand gray walls and square grim keeps peeped out at
every few miles from amid the forests while the few villages which
they passed were all ringed round with rude walls, which spoke of the
constant fear and sudden foray of a wild frontier land. Twice during the
morning there came bands of horsemen swooping down upon them from the
black gateways of wayside strongholds, with short, stern questions as to
whence they came and what their errand. Bands of armed men clanked
along the highway, and the few lines of laden mules which carried the
merchandise of the trader were guarded by armed varlets, or by archers
hired for the service.
“The peace of Bretigny hath not made much change in these parts,”
quoth Sir Nigel, “for the country is overrun with free companions and
masterless men. Yonder towers, between the wood and the hill, mark the
town of Cahors, and beyond it is the land of France. But here is a man
by the wayside, and as he hath two horses and a squire I make little
doubt that he is a knight. I pray you, Alleyne, to give him greeting
from me, and to ask him for his titles and coat-armor. It may be that I
can relieve him of some vow, or perchance he hath a lady whom he would
wish to advance.”
“Nay, my fair lord,” said Alleyne, “these are not horses and a squire,
but mules and a varlet. The man is a mercer, for he hath a great bundle
beside him.”
“Now, God's blessing on your honest English voice!” cried the stranger,
pricking up his ears at the sound of Alleyne's words. “Never have I
heard music that was so sweet to mine ear. Come, Watkin lad, throw the
bales over Laura's back! My heart was nigh broke, for it seemed that I
had left all that was English behind me, and that I would never set eyes
upon Norwich market square again.” He was a tall, lusty, middle-aged
man with a ruddy face, a brown forked beard shot with gray, and a
broad Flanders hat set at the back of his head. His servant, as tall as
himself, but gaunt and raw-boned, had swung the bales on the back of
one mule, while the merchant mounted upon the other and rode to join
the party. It was easy to see, as he approached, from the quality of
his dress and the richness of his trappings, that he was a man of some
wealth and position.
“Sir knight,” said he, “my name is David Micheldene, and I am a burgher
and alderman of the good town of Norwich, where I live five doors from
the church of Our Lady, as all men know on the banks of Yare. I have
here my bales of cloth which I carry to Cahors--woe worth the day that
ever I started on such an errand! I crave your gracious protection upon
the way for me, my servant, and my mercery; for I have already had
many perilous passages, and have now learned that Roger Club-foot, the
robber-knight of Quercy, is out upon the road in front of me. I hereby
agree to give you one rose-noble if you bring me safe to the inn of the
'Angel' in Cahors, the same to be repaid to me or my heirs if any harm
come to me or my goods.”
“By Saint Paul!” answered Sir Nigel, “I should be a sorry knight if I
ask pay for standing by a countryman in a strange land. You may ride
with me and welcome, Master Micheldene, and your varlet may follow with
my archers.”
“God's benison upon thy bounty!” cried the stranger. “Should you come to
Norwich you may have cause to remember that you have been of service to
Alderman Micheldene. It is not very far to Cahors, for surely I see the
cathedral towers against the sky-line; but I have heard much of this
Roger Clubfoot, and the more I hear the less do I wish to look upon his
face. Oh, but I am sick and weary of it all, and I would give half that
I am worth to see my good dame sitting in peace beside me, and to hear
the bells of Norwich town.”
“Your words are strange to me,” quoth Sir Nigel, “for you have the
appearance of a stout man, and I see that you wear a sword by your
side.”
“Yet it is not my trade,” answered the merchant. “I doubt not that if
I set you down in my shop at Norwich you might scarce tell fustian from
falding, and know little difference between the velvet of Genoa and the
three-piled cloth of Bruges. There you might well turn to me for help.
But here on a lone roadside, with thick woods and robber-knights, I turn
to you, for it is the business to which you have been reared.”
“There is sooth in what you say, Master Micheldene,” said Sir Nigel,
“and I trust that we may come upon this Roger Clubfoot, for I have heard
that he is a very stout and skilful soldier, and a man from whom much
honor is to be gained.”
“He is a bloody robber,” said the trader, curtly, “and I wish I saw him
kicking at the end of a halter.”
“It is such men as he,” Sir Nigel remarked, “who give the true knight
honorable deeds to do, whereby he may advance himself.”
“It is such men as he,” retorted Micheldene, “who are like rats in
a wheat-rick or moths in a woolfels, a harm and a hindrance to all
peaceful and honest men.”
“Yet, if the dangers of the road weigh so heavily upon you, master
alderman, it is a great marvel to me that you should venture so far from
home.”
“And sometimes, sir knight, it is a marvel to myself. But I am a man who
may grutch and grumble, but when I have set my face to do a thing I
will not turn my back upon it until it be done. There is one, Francois
Villet, at Cahors, who will send me wine-casks for my cloth-bales, so to
Cahors I will go, though all the robber-knights of Christendom were to
line the roads like yonder poplars.”
“Stoutly spoken, master alderman! But how have you fared hitherto?”
“As a lamb fares in a land of wolves. Five times we have had to beg and
pray ere we could pass. Twice I have paid toll to the wardens of the
road. Three times we have had to draw, and once at La Reolle we stood
over our wool-bales, Watkin and I, and we laid about us for as long as a
man might chant a litany, slaying one rogue and wounding two others. By
God's coif! we are men of peace, but we are free English burghers, not
to be mishandled either in our country or abroad. Neither lord, baron,
knight, or commoner shall have as much as a strike of flax of mine
whilst I have strength to wag this sword.”
“And a passing strange sword it is,” quoth Sir Nigel. “What make you,
Alleyne, of these black lines which are drawn across the sheath?”
“I cannot tell what they are, my fair lord.”
“Nor can I,” said Ford.
The merchant chuckled to himself. “It was a thought of mine own,”
said he; “for the sword was made by Thomas Wilson, the armorer, who is
betrothed to my second daughter Margery. Know then that the sheath is
one cloth-yard, in length, marked off according to feet and inches to
serve me as a measuring wand. It is also of the exact weight of two
pounds, so that I may use it in the balance.”
“By Saint Paul!” quoth Sir Nigel, “it is very clear to me that the sword
is like thyself, good alderman, apt either for war or for peace. But
I doubt not that even in England you have had much to suffer from the
hands of robbers and outlaws.”
“It was only last Lammastide, sir knight, that I was left for dead near
Reading as I journeyed to Winchester fair. Yet I had the rogues up at
the court of pie-powder, and they will harm no more peaceful traders.”
“You travel much then!”
“To Winchester, Linn mart, Bristol fair, Stourbridge, and Bartholomew's
in London Town. The rest of the year you may ever find me five doors
from the church of Our Lady, where I would from my heart that I was at
this moment, for there is no air like Norwich air, and no water like the
Yare, nor can all the wines of France compare with the beer of old Sam
Yelverton who keeps the 'Dun Cow.' But, out and alack, here is an evil
fruit which hangs upon this chestnut-tree!”
As he spoke they had ridden round a curve of the road and come upon a
great tree which shot one strong brown branch across their path. From
the centre of this branch there hung a man, with his head at a horrid
slant to his body and his toes just touching the ground. He was naked
save for a linen under shirt and pair of woollen drawers. Beside him
on a green bank there sat a small man with a solemn face, and a great
bundle of papers of all colors thrusting forth from the scrip which lay
beside him. He was very richly dressed, with furred robes, a scarlet
hood, and wide hanging sleeves lined with flame-colored silk. A great
gold chain hung round his neck, and rings glittered from every finger of
his hands. On his lap he had a little pile of gold and of silver, which
he was dropping, coin by coin, into a plump pouch which hung from his
girdle.
“May the saints be with you, good travellers!” he shouted, as the
party rode up. “May the four Evangelists watch over you! May the twelve
Apostles bear you up! May the blessed army of martyrs direct your feet
and lead you to eternal bliss!”
“Gramercy for these good wishes!” said Sir Nigel. “But I perceive,
master alderman, that this man who hangs here is, by mark of foot, the
very robber-knight of whom we have spoken. But there is a cartel pinned
upon his breast, and I pray you, Alleyne, to read it to me.”
The dead robber swung slowly to and fro in the wintry wind, a fixed
smile upon his swarthy face, and his bulging eyes still glaring down the
highway of which he had so long been the terror; on a sheet of parchment
upon his breast was printed in rude characters;
ROGER PIED-BOT.
Par l'ordre du Senechal de
Castelnau, et de l'Echevin de
Cahors, servantes fideles du
tres vaillant et tres puissant
Edouard, Prince de Galles et
d'Aquitaine.
Ne touchez pas,
Ne coutez pas,
Ne depechez pas.
“He took a sorry time in dying,” said the man who sat beside him. “He
could stretch one toe to the ground and bear himself up, so that I
thought he would never have done. Now at last, however, he is safely in
paradise, and so I may jog on upon my earthly way.” He mounted, as he
spoke, a white mule which had been grazing by the wayside, all gay
with fustian of gold and silver bells, and rode onward with Sir Nigel's
party.
“How know you then that he is in paradise?” asked Sir Nigel. “All things
are possible to God, but, certes, without a miracle, I should scarce
expect to find the soul of Roger Clubfoot amongst the just.”
“I know that he is there because I have just passed him in there,”
answered the stranger, rubbing his bejewelled hands together in placid
satisfaction. “It is my holy mission to be a sompnour or pardoner. I am
the unworthy servant and delegate of him who holds the keys. A contrite
heart and ten nobles to holy mother Church may stave off perdition; but
he hath a pardon of the first degree, with a twenty-five livre benison,