The White Company
“You will see anon, and indeed it is but a trifling matter. Alleyne, you
will come with me, and lead a spare horse by the bridle. I will have the
two archers who rode with us through France, for they are trusty men and
of stout heart. Let them ride behind us, and let them leave their bows
here among the bushes for it is not my wish that they should know that
we are Englishmen. Say no word to any whom we may meet, and, if any
speak to you, pass on as though you heard them not. Are you ready?”
“I am ready, my fair lord,” said Alleyne.
“And I,” “And I,” cried Aylward and John.
“Then the rest I leave to your wisdom, Sir William; and if God sends us
fortune we shall meet you again in this gorge ere it be dark.”
So saying, Sir Nigel mounted the white horse of the Spanish cavalier,
and rode quietly forth from his concealment with his three companions
behind him, Alleyne leading his master's own steed by the bridle. So
many small parties of French and Spanish horse were sweeping hither and
thither that the small band attracted little notice, and making its way
at a gentle trot across the plain, they came as far as the camp without
challenge or hindrance. On and on they pushed past the endless lines of
tents, amid the dense swarms of horsemen and of footmen, until the huge
royal pavilion stretched in front of them. They were close upon it when
of a sudden there broke out a wild hubbub from a distant portion of the
camp, with screams and war-cries and all the wild tumult of battle. At
the sound soldiers came rushing from their tents, knights shouted loudly
for their squires, and there was mad turmoil on every hand of bewildered
men and plunging horses. At the royal tent a crowd of gorgeously dressed
servants ran hither and thither in helpless panic for the guard
of soldiers who were stationed there had already ridden off in the
direction of the alarm. A man-at-arms on either side of the doorway were
the sole protectors of the royal dwelling.
“I have come for the king,” whispered Sir Nigel; “and, by Saint Paul! he
must back with us or I must bide here.”
Alleyne and Aylward sprang from their horses, and flew at the two
sentries, who were disarmed and beaten down in an instant by so furious
and unexpected an attack. Sir Nigel dashed into the royal tent, and was
followed by Hordle John as soon as the horses had been secured. From
within came wild screamings and the clash of steel, and then the two
emerged once more, their swords and forearms reddened with blood,
while John bore over his shoulder the senseless body of a man whose gay
surcoat, adorned with the lions and towers of Castile, proclaimed him
to belong to the royal house. A crowd of white-faced sewers and pages
swarmed at their heels, those behind pushing forwards, while the
foremost shrank back from the fierce faces and reeking weapons of the
adventurers. The senseless body was thrown across the spare horse, the
four sprang to their saddles, and away they thundered with loose reins
and busy spurs through the swarming camp.
But confusion and disorder still reigned among the Spaniards for Sir
William Felton and his men had swept through half their camp, leaving
a long litter of the dead and the dying to mark their course. Uncertain
who were their attackers, and unable to tell their English enemies
from their newly-arrived Breton allies, the Spanish knights rode wildly
hither and thither in aimless fury. The mad turmoil, the mixture of
races, and the fading light, were all in favor of the four who alone
knew their own purpose among the vast uncertain multitude. Twice ere
they reached open ground they had to break their way through small
bodies of horses, and once there came a whistle of arrows and singing of
stones about their ears; but, still dashing onwards, they shot out
from among the tents and found their own comrades retreating for the
mountains at no very great distance from them. Another five minutes of
wild galloping over the plain, and they were all back in their gorge,
while their pursuers fell back before the rolling of drums and blare of
trumpets, which seemed to proclaim that the whole army of the prince was
about to emerge from the mountain passes.
“By my soul! Nigel,” cried Sir Oliver, waving a great boiled ham over
his head, “I have come by something which I may eat with my truffles! I
had a hard fight for it, for there were three of them with their mouths
open and the knives in their hands, all sitting agape round the table,
when I rushed in upon them. How say you, Sir William, will you not try
the smack of the famed Spanish swine, though we have but the brook water
to wash it down?”
“Later, Sir Oliver,” answered the old soldier, wiping his grimed face.
“We must further into the mountains ere we be in safety. But what have
we here, Nigel?”
“It is a prisoner whom I have taken, and in sooth, as he came from the
royal tent and wears the royal arms upon his jupon, I trust that he is
the King of Spain.”
“The King of Spain!” cried the companions, crowding round in amazement.
“Nay, Sir Nigel,” said Felton, peering at the prisoner through the
uncertain light, “I have twice seen Henry of Transtamare, and certes
this man in no way resembles him.”
“Then, by the light of heaven! I will ride back for him,” cried Sir
Nigel.
“Nay, nay, the camp is in arms, and it would be rank madness. Who are
you, fellow?” he added in Spanish, “and how is it that you dare to wear
the arms of Castile?”
The prisoner was bent recovering the consciousness which had been
squeezed from him by the grip of Hordle John. “If it please you,” he
answered, “I and nine others are the body-squires of the king, and must
ever wear his arms, so as to shield him from even such perils as have
threatened him this night. The king is at the tent of the brave Du
Guesclin, where he will sup to night. But I am a caballero of Aragon,
Don Sancho Penelosa, and, though I be no king, I am yet ready to pay a
fitting price for my ransom.”
“By Saint Paul! I will not touch your gold,” cried Sir Nigel. “Go back
to your master and give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring of Twynham
Castle, telling him that I had hoped to make his better acquaintance
this night, and that, if I have disordered his tent, it was but in my
eagerness to know so famed and courteous a knight. Spur on, comrades!
for we must cover many a league ere we can venture to light fire or to
loosen girth. I had hoped to ride without this patch to-night, but it
seems that I must carry it yet a little longer.”
CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW SIR NIGEL TOOK THE PATCH FROM HIS EYE.
It was a cold, bleak morning in the beginning of March, and the mist was
drifting in dense rolling clouds through the passes of the Cantabrian
mountains. The Company, who had passed the night in a sheltered gully,
were already astir, some crowding round the blazing fires and others
romping or leaping over each other's backs for their limbs were chilled
and the air biting. Here and there, through the dense haze which
surrounded them, there loomed out huge pinnacles and jutting boulders
of rock: while high above the sea of vapor there towered up one gigantic
peak, with the pink glow of the early sunshine upon its snow-capped
head. The ground was wet, the rocks dripping, the grass and ever-greens
sparkling with beads of moisture; yet the camp was loud with laughter
and merriment, for a messenger had ridden in from the prince with words
of heart-stirring praise for what they had done, and with orders that
they should still abide in the forefront of the army.
Round one of the fires were clustered four or five of the leading men
of the archers, cleaning the rust from their weapons, and glancing
impatiently from time to time at a great pot which smoked over the
blaze. There was Aylward squatting cross-legged in his shirt, while he
scrubbed away at his chain-mail brigandine, whistling loudly the while.
On one side of him sat old Johnston, who was busy in trimming the
feathers of some arrows to his liking; and on the other Hordle John, who
lay with his great limbs all asprawl, and his headpiece balanced upon
his uplifted foot. Black Simon of Norwich crouched amid the rocks,
crooning an Eastland ballad to himself, while he whetted his sword upon
a flat stone which lay across his knees; while beside him sat Alleyne
Edricson, and Norbury, the silent squire of Sir Oliver, holding out
their chilled hands towards the crackling faggots.
“Cast on another culpon, John, and stir the broth with thy
sword-sheath,” growled Johnston, looking anxiously for the twentieth
time at the reeking pot.
“By my hilt!” cried Aylward, “now that John hath come by this great
ransom, he will scarce abide the fare of poor archer lads. How say you,
camarade? When you see Hordle once more, there will be no penny ale and
fat bacon, but Gascon wines and baked meats every day of the seven.”
“I know not about that,” said John, kicking his helmet up into the air
and catching it in his hand. “I do but know that whether the broth be
ready or no, I am about to dip this into it.”
“It simmers and it boils,” cried Johnston, pushing his hard-lined face
through the smoke. In an instant the pot had been plucked from the
blaze, and its contents had been scooped up in half a dozen steel
head-pieces, which were balanced betwixt their owners' knees, while,
with spoon and gobbet of bread, they devoured their morning meal.
“It is ill weather for bows,” remarked John at last, when, with a long
sigh, he drained the last drop from his helmet. “My strings are as limp
as a cow's tail this morning.”
“You should rub them with water glue,” quoth Johnston. “You remember,
Samkin, that it was wetter than this on the morning of Crecy, and yet I
cannot call to mind that there was aught amiss with our strings.”
“It is in my thoughts,” said Black Simon, still pensively grinding his
sword, “that we may have need of your strings ere sundown. I dreamed of
the red cow last night.”
“And what is this red cow, Simon?” asked Alleyne.
“I know not, young sir; but I can only say that on the eve of Cadsand,
and on the eve of Crecy, and on the eve of Nogent, I dreamed of a red
cow; and now the dream has come upon me again, so I am now setting a
very keen edge to my blade.”
“Well said, old war-dog!” cried Aylward. “By my hilt! I pray that your
dream may come true, for the prince hath not set us out here to drink
broth or to gather whortle-berries. One more fight, and I am ready to
hang up my bow, marry a wife, and take to the fire corner. But how now,
Robin? Whom is it that you seek?”
“The Lord Loring craves your attendance in his tent,” said a young
archer to Alleyne.
The squire rose and proceeded to the pavilion, where he found the knight
seated upon a cushion, with his legs crossed in front of him and a broad
ribbon of parchment laid across his knees, over which he was poring with
frowning brows and pursed lips.
“It came this morning by the prince's messenger,” said he, “and was
brought from England by Sir John Fallislee, who is new come from Sussex.
What make you of this upon the outer side?”
“It is fairly and clearly written,” Alleyne answered, “and it signifies
To Sir Nigel Loring, Knight Constable of Twynham Castle, by the hand of
Christopher, the servant of God at the Priory of Christchurch.”
“So I read it,” said Sir Nigel. “Now I pray you to read what is set
forth within.”
Alleyne turned to the letter, and, as his eyes rested upon it, his face
turned pale and a cry of surprise and grief burst from his lips.
“What then?” asked the knight, peering up at him anxiously. “There is
nought amiss with the Lady Mary or with the Lady Maude?”
“It is my brother--my poor unhappy brother!” cried Alleyne, with his
hand to his brow. “He is dead.”