’Twas a year and more after the overthrow of the Monkslayer in Blackpool Forest and the killing or scattering of most of his band that my father, the Lord of Mountjoy, with my lady mother and myself and Cedric the Forester, now my accredited squire, sat one day in the hall of Mountjoy talking of the news that had that day come in. There had been, it seemed, a most desperate and bloody revolt of the churls on the lands of Sir Hugh DeLancey, some ten leagues to the south of us. A hundred or more of the peasantry with some apprentices and hangers-on at the village, armed with axes, clubs and scythes, had taken the manor by surprise in the night, killed Sir Hugh and half a dozen of his men in the hall, driven out the lady, then sacked the place and burnt it to the ground.

We were fair horror-struck at such lawless and brutal doings; and for a time we vied with one another in calling vengeance down on the leaders of that guilty crew and in plans for assisting in their punishment. But in the midst of this an archer came from the courtyard with the word that one of Sir Hugh’s men-at-arms, who had been wounded in the onslaught, had managed to get him to horse and away after the death of his master, and was even now at the gate asking the hospitality of Mountjoy. My father at once gave orders for his welcome; and soon the man, who, after all, had escaped with wounds of no great moment, was sitting at our board with meat and drink before him. When his hunger and thirst were abated, he told us the tale of the churls’ revolt in a somewhat different seeming.

Sir Hugh DeLancey, though a loyal follower of the King, a resolute punisher of outlawry, and oft a comrade of my father’s at the jousts and in the battle line, had been a hard master to all his men in kitchen and hall and a heavy-handed overlord to the peasantry about him. Many a one had muttered curses after him when his back was turned; but he was ever quick with riding whip, or oaken cudgel at need, so that almost none dared gainsay him. Now it seemed that but the day before he had sent his steward to the cottage of Oswald, a farmer of his demesne, to say that Oswald was to make ready to receive for the night two of the grooms of Lord Westerby who were to accompany their master on a two-days’ deer hunt in Sir Hugh’s forests. By ill hap it chanced that Dame Margery, Oswald’s wife, was ill-a-bed at the time, and appeared to be nigh unto her death; and Oswald sent back the word to his master that on this account he could not receive the two men that were to be quartered on him. The steward, however, held an old grudge against Oswald; and so, returning to his master, spoke but the half of Oswald’s answer, saying only that the farmer refused to have the grooms in his cottage.

When Sir Hugh heard this, he flew into a rage, called for his horse and rode to Oswald’s door, followed at a little distance by this retainer who now told us the tale. Arrived before the cottage door, he drew his sword, and, taking it by the blade, pounded with might and main with the butt on the panel. Oswald came forth, and, angered by this unseemly noise at the door of what would soon be a house of mourning, spoke roughly to his liege lord, requesting him to withdraw and leave the dying in peace.

Sir Hugh’s own choler was so high that ’tis doubtful if he sensed the meaning of Oswald’s words, for he answered with a command to throw the door wide, as he would take the cot forthwith to stable his horse within, and it should be seen who was master on the lands of DeLancey. Oswald stood immovable, and as the knight advanced on him laid hold of a firewood stick to dispute his way. At this Sir Hugh struck right madly with the weapon which he still held by the blade. By a most unhappy chance the broadsword hilt came down, full force, upon the farmer’s temple, and in an instant he was stretched dead at the feet of his master. Then Sir Hugh took horse again and rode back to the manor.

Poor Dame Margery set up a piteous outcry, and soon there came two or three of the neighbor folk who heard her broken tale of the encounter. Ere night the bitter news was on every tongue within miles of DeLancey Manor; and when at dark the word went round that Margery had died also, a vengeful band soon formed itself, and those bloody deeds were done of which the earlier news had come to us.

Scarce had the DeLancey man finished his tale and been taken to his lodging where the leech should tend his hurts when a messenger rode up to our court-yard gate and demanded admittance in the name of the Lord High Constable. He brought us the news that the Constable was already in the saddle and with half a hundred lances at his back was riding to DeLancey Manor for the quelling of the mutiny and the punishment of Sir Hugh’s murderers. It seemed, however, that the Lord Constable had no archers with him and feared they might be sorely needed in the fighting to come. Therefore he asked of Lord Mountjoy that he send with the messenger half a dozen mounted cross-bow men,—men who could strike a fair target at two hundred paces; and he promised to reward bountifully any such who should do the Crown good service.

At this Lord Mountjoy turned to Cedric, saying:

“Now here’s the chance, Cedric, my lad, for thee to earn both gold and honor. Wilt thou pick five more Mountjoy cross-bow men and ride with them ’neath the Constable’s banner?”

But with a countenance of a sudden grown something pale, Cedric made reply:

“Good my lord, I pray you lay not your commands upon me to that effect. This expedition likes me not.”

“How now!” exclaimed my father, “this is a new temper for thee, Cedric. Thou’rt ever ready to be where shafts and quarrels fly. Surely thou’rt not frighted of peasants’ clubs and scythes.”

“Nay, my lord. But for this fighting I have indeed no stomach, and ’tis like I should make but a poor soldier in the Constable’s train. I pray you, if Mountjoy must furnish archers for this work, let some other lead them.”

My father’s face grew very red. He leaned far over the table toward Cedric, and seemed about to speak full loud and angrily. Then bethinking himself, he turned again to the Constable’s messenger, and said:

“Return thou to the Lord Constable with Mountjoy’s compliments; and say that within the half hour six good cross-bow men will set forth from here, and will o’ertake him on the road long before he reaches DeLancey Manor.”

The messenger bowed and withdrew. Soon we heard his horse’s hoofs on the drawbridge. Then Lord Mountjoy sent for one of the older of the Mountjoy archers from the court-yard below, and gave to him the commission just refused by my obstinate squire. This accomplished he turned again to Cedric, with a heavy frown on his brow, and said:

“Now tell us, if thou wilt, sirrah, why this sudden showing of the white feather. ’Tis not like thee, I’ll be bound, to shrink from any fray, whether with knight or clown, or to shame me as thou hast before the Constable’s messenger. What terrifies thee now in the thought of this rabble?”

“I have no fright of them, my lord. Rather I wist not to have any hand in their punishment for a deed which, lawless though it be, still had the sorest provoking.”

Lord Mountjoy gazed at the youth in amazement. My mother and I caught our breaths and one or the other of us would have interposed a word to blunt the edge of such wild-flung talk; but my father burst out again, and in a voice that echoed through the house:

“And would’st thou then let the murderers of my friend go free of punishment for that he had struck down a churl that refused him entrance to a house on his own domain?”

“The man did but defend his right,” returned the Forester, steadily. “The house was his, against all comers, e’en his liege lord, till he had been duly dispossessed.”

Such rebel doctrine had ne’er before been heard in Mountjoy Hall. ’Twas little wonder that my father’s face grew purple with wrath as he shouted:

“And where gettest thou such Jack Clown law as that? Is it from the books of chronicles thou hast learned to pore over by the hour, or from the monks at Kirkwald that lend them to thee?”

“Nay, my lord, ’tis from the ancient Saxon law that ne’er hath been abrogated in England, though many a time o’erridden. ‘A freeman’s house is his sole domain though it be no more than a forester’s cot.’”

Lord Mountjoy had risen and now stamped back and forth.

“Ne’er abrogated, forsooth! But it well should be. This is no law or custom for the descendants of the nobles that landed with William the Conqueror. ’Tis of a piece with the insolence of the churls on Grimsby’s lands, who would have a magistrate of their own choosing forsooth, to try their causes withal—reaching up to snatch the reins of governing from their lawful masters. What do such clowns know of law or governing? When did ever such make shift to guide or protect a state?”

“Those same chronicles, my lord, of which you spoke but now, tell us of a republic of Rome, where commoners ruled the city, and that that city grew so great in power as to rule half the world and more.”

My father gazed grimly at the youth who dared thus to question his wisdom; but for the moment he had naught to say, and Lady Mountjoy seized the chance to exclaim:

“Oh! in those chronicles there is a bonny tale of the saving of the city by the voice of geese. I will fetch them and read it you.”

Lord Mountjoy, not thus to be put aside, made an impatient gesture, and was about to take up again the argument when a knock was heard on the door of the hall, and a maid announced that Old Marvin, the archer, craved speech with Lord Mountjoy. Glad enough was I to see him admitted, for this quarrel that had flamed up so suddenly between my father and my friend and squire was a bitter thing to me and to my lady mother. More than once had Cedric saved my life in battle and skirmish; and Lord Mountjoy himself had stood forth as his champion when King Henry condemned Cedric to be hanged for the killing in fair fight of young Lionel of Carleton. Of all the Mountjoy retainers, Cedric had the steadiest hand and the clearest head. I had often prophesied that unless I rose in honors and preferment faster than I could rightly expect, I should not long be able to retain such a youth as a simple squire. But now I seemed like to lose him before ever my spurs had been won and he to part from us in bitterness.

As Cedric was the most valued among the younger retainers of our house, so was old Marvin, the cross-bow man, among the elders who had followed first my grandfather, then my father to the wars. His wondrous skill with his weapon had done yeoman service on many a field, and finally had struck down the old Gray Wolf, Lord Carleton in the midst of the desperate assault he made on the walls of Mountjoy. For two years now Marvin and his good wife had enjoyed the cottage and six acres of the Millfield, where we hoped he might have many years of peace as some measure of requital for a lifetime of toil and danger. ’Twas not likely that Lord Mountjoy, in the angry mood of the moment, would have admitted any other of his followers; but Marvin was a man of honor and privilege in Mountjoy Hall.

As soon as Marvin had entered, my mother rose and, calling Cedric to her, found some duty upon which to employ him, so that he left the hall, and was seen no more till late at night. Meanwhile the old archer had explained to us that a message had just come to him from his brother who was a forester on the lands of Lord Morton, a day’s journey to the north. Marvin had not seen his brother for twenty years; and when last they parted it was in some coldness; but now the other, who was a few years older than Marvin, was lying sick in his cottage at Morton, and asked his brother to come to him that they might be reconciled ere he died. He offered, if Marvin would come and stay with him to the end, to settle upon him as his heir any goods or savings he might have. Marvin now craved leave to join a merchants’ caravan which was just setting forth in that direction, that he might comply with his brother’s last request.

On hearing Marvin through, my father instantly gave his leave, and ordered furthermore that a good horse from the Mountjoy stables be placed at his disposal. Thereupon our faithful old retainer bade us a hasty good-by, for the caravan was already on the road; and we wished him a safe return.

My mother and I did hope and plan that Lord Mountjoy might easily forget the dispute he had with Cedric; and to that end found means to keep Cedric busily employed through the following morning; and at the midday meal did turn the talk toward the great tournament that was soon to be held at Shrewsbury. But some Imp of Mischief had his way at last, for at mid-afternoon my father entered the hall and found Cedric by the fireside, deep in the great book of chronicles. This was enough to bring to mind the heresies that Cedric had found therein; and in a moment all the anger of the day before flamed up again. Soon Lord Mountjoy was shouting in his wrath, declaring that the nation went to the dogs where curs and clowns were not duly subject to their lawful masters, and that if Cedric would mend his fortunes, he must first cast out such folly from his mind. Cedric replied, in lower tones indeed, but by no means meekly, upholding what he called the rights of English freemen to household and to peaceable assembly and to trial, when accused, by juries of their peers. At last my father checked his speaking, and said slowly and in cold anger:

“I tell thee, sirrah, thou’lt mend thy clownish ways of thinking if thou’rt to remain in Mountjoy Hall. We’ll have no rebel firebrands—no ale-house ranters with their crazy mouthings,—stirring up our yeomanry through thee. While I hold the fee of Mountjoy, every man-jack in cot or in castle must be a loyal subject of the King and of his liege lord.”

At this my squire made a low bow and said:

“I thank you then, my lord, for all your kindness, and will say farewell. I can say naught but the truth for either friend or foe.”

“Cedric!” cried my mother, “thou canst not mean it. Think what Mountjoy means to thy fortunes; and think again of the good-will we all bear thee. Say to Lord Mountjoy that those were but thoughtless words, and be our man again.”

Cedric shook his head, but trusted not his voice to speak. Thereat my father drew from his pouch a purse of gold and offered him.

“Thou hast given the Mountjoy right loyal service. Take this in token.”

But Cedric again shook his head.

“Nay, my lord, such service as I gave was not for gold, and I cannot receive it. With your leave, I will take the steed that was the Carleton’s, and since called mine, and ride away from Mountjoy where my words and thoughts are dangerous.”

More talk there was and further urgings from my mother and from me; but Cedric’s will remained unmoved. Lord Mountjoy paced back and forth before the hearth with hands clasped behind his back and with a deeply furrowed brow. The Forester bowed low again and left the hall; and soon thereafter we heard the tramp of his horse on the drawbridge. Then I took me to the battlements and watched my loyal squire and comrade till his figure grew dim and disappeared on the road that lay to the south and east, toward London town.

Three mournful days went by. Word came that the peasantry of DeLancey Manor had been herded up by the Constable and his lancers, and that two of the ringleaders had been hanged. Although my father gave the messenger who brought this news a broad piece of gold, it seemed to bring him but little cheer to know that the slayers of his friend had met their punishment. There was but little talk in Mountjoy Hall; the rain fell dismally without; the days were dark and cold; and e’en our good log fire seemed powerless to brighten them.

Then came, hard riding, a messenger from the Lord of Morton. He bore a letter from his lordship to my father; and filled it was with direful news. Old Marvin of Mountjoy had been sorely wounded at Morton in some fray for which Lord Morton blamed no other than his own son, who, it seems, had perished in the fighting. Lord Morton wrote in noble fashion of his grief that our retainer should have come to harm through any of his house, and said that Marvin had the best of care at Morton, and that, so soon as he should be sufficiently recovered, he should be borne to Mountjoy in a litter, and that all of the goods of his brother who had lately died should be honorably bestowed upon him.

The letter was brief withal; and when my father had finished reading it to us we yet remained sore puzzled at this happening. We turned again to the old serving man who had brought the message, and him Lord Mountjoy questioned sharply:

“Know’st thou aught of this affair, my man, save what is set forth in this letter?”

“Aye, my lord,” he answered heavily, “much of this sad work I saw. ’Twas an ill time indeed, for my Lord of Morton is far gone in years, and now this misfortune hath robbed him of his only son and heir.”

“Tell us of it, I pray thee,” said my father, eagerly, “if so be thou canst do so with full loyalty to thy house.”

“Nay. My Lord Morton conceals naught. It was Sir Boris, his son, that was to blame, and he denies it not. Lord Morton is an upright man and a just; but for years he hath tried in vain to curb the wildness of young Sir Boris. Drink and dice have been the young lord’s ruin as of many a better man before. Only a fortnight since, Lord Morton forbade him, on pain of his worst displeasure, to bring any dice, those tools of the Devil, into Morton Hall. More than that, he drove from the very door two of the young bloods from Shrewsbury who had been the young lord’s boon companions in drinking and gaming.”

“But how did this touch our Marvin? He was not lodged in Morton Hall, I trow.”

“Nay, my lord. Marvin came three days ago to the cottage in Morton Wood where his brother, the forester, lay in his last illness. ’Twas none too soon, i’ faith, for hardly more than a day later, Old Gilbert breathed his last. That was toward sundown; and Marvin, who had been joined by some stranger lad, prepared to spend one more night in the cottage to look after his brother’s body, which they planned to bury on the morrow. This I knew, for my Lord Morton had sent me there for word of the forester; and I brought back the news to the Hall.

“A little later I had commands from young Sir Boris to join him in his hunting lodge in the wood, for that he should meet some friends there in the evening, and I should wait on them with food and drink. I well knew that this was but a trick to set at naught the orders of my Lord Morton; and now I have sorrow that I did not instantly acquaint him with it. But Sir Boris was a willful man and very ill to oppose; so I obeyed him, thinking that ’twas better there should be at the lodge one man at least of sober head than that the party should be served by some of our young kitchen knaves who think of naught themselves but drink and lawless living.

“But alas! that night’s revel was far worse than ever I had thought. There was young Damian of Lancaster, Sir Henry Walcott and Guy De Montalvan—roistering and dissolute blades all of them—and two or three more whose names I knew not. I had brought a fair venison pasty to the lodge; but for this they nothing cared. ’Twas the love of drink and gaming that brought them there; and the fires were scarce lighted and the table spread ere they had broached a cask of wine and the dice were rattling on the boards. Their gaming soon was fast and furious; and the stakes grew ever higher. Young Boris at first won nearly every cast, till his pouch was bulging with gold pieces; but by ten o’ the clock his luck had turned and he lost and lost. All his winnings went, then all the gold he had or could borrow. Next he wagered the suit of armor which had been his father’s gift when he was knighted, then the great white horse which bore him in the tourney. In another hour all of these were lost and young Guy de Montalvan was richer far than e’er he had deserved. By now all of them were much the worse for wine; and when Sir Boris wished to continue the play when he had naught more to wager, they disputed him with oaths.

“Then my young master bethought him for a space whilst the others played on regardless. At last he burst out with a shout:

“‘I know the whereabouts of gold that is of right the Morton’s. Gilbert, the old churl who was our forester, hath died this day. At his cot he had, I doubt not, store of gold pieces which my father and I have given him from time to time. Now I have need of them, and will proceed to take what is mine own. Who follows me?’

“There were shouts and laughter at this and clapping of hands. Sir Boris started up and, sword in hand, ran out the door. Then before I could say or do aught to stay them, the whole rioting crew had seized cloaks and weapons and were streaming forth into the forest on the way to Gilbert’s cottage. I left the lodge and ran with all my might along the path to the castle to arouse Lord Morton. But ’twas half a mile and more, and when I reached there my master was deep in sleep. He roused him up at once, and soon, with half a dozen stout men-at-arms at his back, was running through the wood to put a stop to those mad doings.

“But alackaday! he was too late to do aught but view the scene of ruin and dishonor to his house and to gather up the bodies of the slain and those who lay in wounds and blood. The rest of the tale I had from old Marvin himself as I tended him but yesterday; and piteous it was, not for him only, who will recover of his hurts, but for all of us who love the name and fame of Morton.

“’Twas near midnight when he and the stranger youth who were lying on the floor, covered with their cloaks were roused by blows of sword hilts that rang upon the door and by shouts and drunken yells. The body of old Gilbert lay upon the bed; and doubtless this din and cursing at such a time struck horribly on Marvin’s ears.

“‘Who art thou, and what wilt thou have?’ he shouted.

“‘Sir Boris of Morton,’ came the answer, ‘get up, thou churl and open the door.’

“‘Not for thee nor any man in such guise as this. Know’st thou not that Gilbert, the forester, lieth dead here? Go thy ways, I pray thee, and leave this house in peace.’

“But at this there were more yells and calls and louder smiting on the door. Then spake the stranger youth:

“‘Go thy ways, whoe’er ye be. We be two armed men, and will suffer none to enter here this night.’”

“Well and bravely spoken!” exclaimed my father, “’twas a well-born youth, I warrant thee.”

“Nay,” answered the old servant, “he wore the hodden gray. But gentle or simple, he soon was forced to make good his words or swallow them, for my young master and his crew withdrew them for a brief space, then came rushing all together, bearing a huge log which they employed for a battering ram. At the very first thrust, it broke down the cottage door with a horrid crash. Then those that bore it instantly drew swords and poniards and essayed to enter in its wake.

“Old Marvin, it seemed, had his cross-bow ready drawn; and he shot young Montalvan through the face at the first onslaught. The stranger youth fought with broadsword, and well and truly too. He had at first some vantage in the shadow in which he stood; but soon the rioters were all around him. He felled one of them with his very first stroke; but then Sir Boris came opposite him, striking and cursing like a madman. Marvin was overthrown and sorely wounded, and still the youth fought on, beset by four of his enemies at once. In a moment he had thrust Sir Boris clean through the body, and an instant after, fell, wounded to the death.”

“Oh! By all the Saints!” cried Lord Mountjoy, “in hodden gray, say’st thou? I warrant ’twas a disguise, and that he was of noble strain. He could not have better died had he been a Huntingdon or a Montmorency.”

During this recital my mother’s face had grown white as wax. Now she asked in halting whispers, midst gasps for breath that came near to being sobs:

“Had’st thou—no word—of his name and degree?”

“Nay, my lady,” replied the old servant, “save that Marvin seemed to know him and called him Cedric.”

“Cedric!” cried my mother and I at once, while my father turned deadly pale and sat down heavily on a bench near by.

“Cedric!” I shouted again, “’tis Cedric of Mountjoy,—none other.”

Then my father found voice. ’Twas a low, weak tone—one scarce to be heard indeed:

“This is a judgment on me for my hardness. Cedric was right indeed. I see it clearly now that ’tis our own old Marvin whose rights were trampled on by those who called him churl and varlet. And what a battle the lad did make! And how he fell—like a prince of the blood beset by ruffians! Oh! Did he live to speak any words of farewell—to leave any message with Marvin or any other?”

“I know not, my lord,” replied the old serving man, “when I left Morton Hall this morning, ’twas said that he still breathed, but that he could scarcely last the day.”

My father started up and gave a furious pull to the bell cord. The clangor thus provoked sent the chief of our serving men hurrying in.

“Tell the grooms to saddle CÆsar,” shouted Lord Mountjoy, “and call Broderick and say that he and six armed and mounted men are to attend me. I ride at once to Morton.”

“And I also,” I cried, “Galvin, tell the grooms to make ready the black mare that I rode yesterday.”

“And my horse also,” shrilled my mother, the instant I was done. “I, too, will ride to Morton.”

’Twas fifteen leagues to Morton Hall; and much of the road was rough and wild, with many a stony hill to climb and many a stream to ford. The half of the journey we made by the light of the great round harvest moon that sent its silvered rays near level through the forest. Hard we rode, indeed, and with little mercy on our mounts; and ’twas scarce four hours after we left Mountjoy when, piloted by the old Morton serving man, we dismounted before the door of Gilbert’s cottage.

Praise be to the saints! We were not too late, for Cedric lay within, still breathing, though with closed eyes and with face of deathly paleness. Old Marvin lay on another couch hard by; and a leech and a nursing woman from Morton Hall were with them.

Marvin greeted us gladly, and seemed not surprised at our coming. His voice roused Cedric; and he looked upon us with knowing eyes and weakly uttered words of welcome. Lord Mountjoy knelt on the ground at his side, and clasped his hand.

“Cedric,” he whispered, painfully, “canst thou forgive me my words of harshness and my driving thee forth from thy home?”

Then a smile of great content o’erspread my comrade’s face; his eyes grew brighter, and a faintly ruddy color came to his cheeks.

“Lord Mountjoy,” he said, and his voice was far stronger than before, “I freely forgive you for any trifling slights you have offered. I pray you, make not too much of them.”

“Thou wert right, after all,” went on Lord Mountjoy, “in holding to the rights thy fathers had of old. I should well have known thou wert too staunch ever to be a breeder of trouble in the house of thy friends. Now would I give the half of my lands to have thee back, well and sound, at Mountjoy Hall.”

Then Cedric smiled again, now broadly as of old.

“No such price as that shall you pay, my lord, for somewhat which shall be granted without price whatsoever. I have two deep wounds, forsooth, but little thought of dying. The good leech here knows not of the strength that a plain-living forester can muster when his friends come all these leagues to bid him be of good cheer. I will ride again beneath the Mountjoy banner, my lord, and that before the spring.”

At that all three of us that had before knelt dry-eyed before his couch, began weeping copiously for very joy, and Old Marvin, from his bed offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. The leech now came forward, and closely noting the change in Cedric’s face, added his assurance to the stricken youth’s own testimony. Two hours later we came softly from the cottage where both our faithful men lay soundly sleeping. Into the forest the leech followed us to say that now the worst was past, and that he doubted not their full recovery.