The White Company
comrade had fallen. Quickly now he sprang from rock to rock until his
feet were on the ground, and he had his hand stretched out for the
horse's rein, when a sling-stone struck him on the head, and he dropped
senseless upon the ground.
An evil blow it was for Alleyne, but a worse one still for him who
struck it. The Spanish slinger, seeing the youth lie slain, and judging
from his dress that he was no common man, rushed forward to plunder him,
knowing well that the bowmen above him had expended their last shaft.
He was still three paces, however, from his victim's side when John
upon the cliff above plucked up a huge boulder, and, poising it for
an instant, dropped it with fatal aim upon the slinger beneath him. It
struck upon his shoulder, and hurled him, crushed and screaming, to the
ground, while Alleyne, recalled to his senses by these shrill cries in
his very ear, staggered on to his feet, and gazed wildly about him. His
eyes fell upon the horses, grazing upon the scanty pasture, and in an
instant all had come back to him--his mission, his comrades, the need
for haste. He was dizzy, sick, faint, but he must not die, and he must
not tarry, for his life meant many lives that day. In an instant he
was in his saddle and spurring down the valley. Loud rang the swift
charger's hoofs over rock and reef, while the fire flew from the stroke
of iron, and the loose stones showered up behind him. But his head was
whirling round, the blood was gushing from his brow, his temple, his
mouth. Ever keener and sharper was the deadly pain which shot like a
red-hot arrow through his side. He felt that his eye was glazing, his
senses slipping from him, his grasp upon the reins relaxing. Then with
one mighty effort, he called up all his strength for a single minute.
Stooping down, he loosened the stirrup-straps, bound his knees tightly
to his saddle-flaps, twisted his hands in the bridle, and then, putting
the gallant horse's head for the mountain path, he dashed the spurs
in and fell forward fainting with his face buried in the coarse, black
mane.
Little could he ever remember of that wild ride. Half conscious, but
ever with the one thought beating in his mind, he goaded the horse
onwards, rushing swiftly down steep ravines over huge boulders, along
the edges of black abysses. Dim memories he had of beetling cliffs, of a
group of huts with wondering faces at the doors, of foaming, clattering
water, and of a bristle of mountain beeches. Once, ere he had ridden
far, he heard behind him three deep, sullen shouts, which told him that
his comrades had set their faces to the foe once more. Then all was
blank, until he woke to find kindly blue English eyes peering down upon
him and to hear the blessed sound of his country's speech. They were but
a foraging party--a hundred archers and as many men-at-arms--but their
leader was Sir Hugh Calverley, and he was not a man to bide idle when
good blows were to be had not three leagues from him. A scout was sent
flying with a message to the camp, and Sir Hugh, with his two hundred
men, thundered off to the rescue. With them went Alleyne, still bound to
his saddle, still dripping with blood, and swooning and recovering, and
swooning once again. On they rode, and on, until, at last, topping a
ridge, they looked down upon the fateful valley. Alas! and alas! for the
sight that met their eyes.
There, beneath them, was the blood-bathed hill, and from the highest
pinnacle there flaunted the yellow and white banner with the lions and
the towers of the royal house of Castile. Up the long slope rushed ranks
and ranks of men exultant, shouting, with waving pennons and brandished
arms. Over the whole summit were dense throngs of knights, with no enemy
that could be seen to face them, save only that at one corner of the
plateau an eddy and swirl amid the crowded mass seemed to show that all
resistance was not yet at an end. At the sight a deep groan of rage and
of despair went up from the baffled rescuers, and, spurring on their
horses, they clattered down the long and winding path which led to the
valley beneath.
But they were too late to avenge, as they had been too late to save.
Long ere they could gain the level ground, the Spaniards, seeing them
riding swiftly amid the rocks, and being ignorant of their numbers, drew
off from the captured hill, and, having secured their few prisoners,
rode slowly in a long column, with drum-beating and cymbal-clashing, out
of the valley. Their rear ranks were already passing out of sight ere
the new-comers were urging their panting, foaming horses up the slope
which had been the scene of that long drawn and bloody fight.
And a fearsome sight it was that met their eyes! Across the lower end
lay the dense heap of men and horses where the first arrow-storm had
burst. Above, the bodies of the dead and the dying--French, Spanish, and
Aragonese--lay thick and thicker, until they covered the whole ground
two and three deep in one dreadful tangle of slaughter. Above them lay
the Englishmen in their lines, even as they had stood, and higher yet
upon the plateau a wild medley of the dead of all nations, where the
last deadly grapple had left them. In the further corner, under the
shadow of a great rock, there crouched seven bowmen, with great John
in the centre of them--all wounded, weary, and in sorry case, but still
unconquered, with their blood-stained weapons waving and their voices
ringing a welcome to their countrymen. Alleyne rode across to John,
while Sir Hugh Calverley followed close behind him.
“By Saint George!” cried Sir Hugh, “I have never seen signs of so stern
a fight, and I am right glad that we have been in time to save you.”
“You have saved more than us,” said John, pointing to the banner which
leaned against the rock behind him.
“You have done nobly,” cried the old free companion, gazing with a
soldier's admiration at the huge frame and bold face of the archer. “But
why is it, my good fellow, that you sit upon this man.”
“By the rood! I had forgot him,” John answered, rising and dragging
from under him no less a person than the Spanish caballero, Don Diego
Alvarez. “This man, my fair lord, means to me a new house, ten cows,
one bull--if it be but a little one--a grindstone, and I know not what
besides; so that I thought it well to sit upon him, lest he should take
a fancy to leave me.”
“Tell me, John,” cried Alleyne faintly: “where is my dear lord, Sir
Nigel Loring?”
“He is dead, I fear. I saw them throw his body across a horse and ride
away with it, but I fear the life had gone from him.”
“Now woe worth me! And where is Aylward?”
“He sprang upon a riderless horse and rode after Sir Nigel to save him.
I saw them throng around him, and he is either taken or slain.”
“Blow the bugles!” cried Sir Hugh, with a scowling brow. “We must back
to camp, and ere three days I trust that we may see these Spaniards
again. I would fain have ye all in my company.”
“We are of the White Company, my fair lord,” said John.
“Nay, the White Company is here disbanded,” answered Sir Hugh solemnly,
looking round him at the lines of silent figures. “Look to the brave
squire, for I fear that he will never see the sun rise again.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII. OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.
It was a bright July morning four months after that fatal fight in the
Spanish barranca. A blue heaven stretched above, a green rolling plain
undulated below, intersected with hedge-rows and flecked with grazing
sheep. The sun was yet low in the heaven, and the red cows stood in the
long shadow of the elms, chewing the cud and gazing with great vacant
eyes at two horsemen who were spurring it down the long white road which
dipped and curved away back to where the towers and pinnacles beneath
the flat-topped hill marked the old town of Winchester.
Of the riders one was young, graceful, and fair, clad in plain doublet
and hosen of blue Brussels cloth, which served to show his active and
well-knit figure. A flat velvet cap was drawn forward to keep the glare
from his eyes, and he rode with lips compressed and anxious face, as one
who has much care upon his mind. Young as he was, and peaceful as
was his dress, the dainty golden spurs which twinkled upon his heels
proclaimed his knighthood, while a long seam upon his brow and a
scar upon his temple gave a manly grace to his refined and delicate
countenance. His comrade was a large, red-headed man upon a great black
horse, with a huge canvas bag slung from his saddle-bow, which jingled
and clinked with every movement of his steed. His broad, brown face was
lighted up by a continual smile, and he looked slowly from side to
side with eyes which twinkled and shone with delight. Well might John
rejoice, for was he not back in his native Hampshire, had he not Don
Diego's five thousand crowns rasping against his knee, and above all was
he not himself squire now to Sir Alleyne Edricson, the young Socman of
Minstead lately knighted by the sword of the Black Prince himself, and
esteemed by the whole army as one of the most rising of the soldiers of
England.
For the last stand of the Company had been told throughout Christendom
wherever a brave deed of arms was loved, and honors had flowed in upon
the few who had survived it. For two months Alleyne had wavered betwixt
death and life, with a broken rib and a shattered head; yet youth and
strength and a cleanly life were all upon his side, and he awoke from
his long delirium to find that the war was over, that the Spaniards
and their allies had been crushed at Navaretta, and that the prince had
himself heard the tale of his ride for succor and had come in person to
his bedside to touch his shoulder with his sword and to insure that so
brave and true a man should die, if he could not live, within the order
of chivalry. The instant that he could set foot to ground Alleyne had
started in search of his lord, but no word could he hear of him, dead
or alive, and he had come home now sad-hearted, in the hope of raising
money upon his estates and so starting upon his quest once more. Landing
at London, he had hurried on with a mind full of care, for he had heard
no word from Hampshire since the short note which had announced his
brother's death.
“By the rood!” cried John, looking around him exultantly, “where have we
seen since we left such noble cows, such fleecy sheep, grass so green,
or a man so drunk as yonder rogue who lies in the gap of the hedge?”
“Ah, John,” Alleyne answered wearily, “it is well for you, but I never
thought that my home-coming would be so sad a one. My heart is heavy for
my dear lord and for Aylward, and I know not how I may break the news to
the Lady Mary and to the Lady Maude, if they have not yet had tidings of
it.”
John gave a groan which made the horses shy. “It is indeed a black
business,” said he. “But be not sad, for I shall give half these crowns
to my old mother, and half will I add to the money which you may have,
and so we shall buy that yellow cog wherein we sailed to Bordeaux, and
in it we shall go forth and seek Sir Nigel.”
Alleyne smiled, but shook his head. “Were he alive we should have had
word of him ere now,” said he. “But what is this town before us?”
“Why, it is Romsey!” cried John. “See the tower of the old gray church,
and the long stretch of the nunnery. But here sits a very holy man, and
I shall give him a crown for his prayers.”
Three large stones formed a rough cot by the roadside, and beside it,
basking in the sun, sat the hermit, with clay-colored face, dull eyes,
and long withered hands. With crossed ankles and sunken head, he sat
as though all his life had passed out of him, with the beads slipping
slowly through his thin, yellow fingers. Behind him lay the narrow cell,