’Twas a fortnight after the fray with the outlaws on the borders of Blackpool Forest, where, all unknowing, we had saved the life of young Sir Geoffrey of Carleton, heir of the house that for so long had been our bitterest enemy, that my father and I rode with Cedric, my comrade and squire, and six stout men-at-arms over the hill road to Mannerley. There our new-made friend, Sir Geoffrey, lay recovering from his wound.

Lord Mountjoy wore helmet and cuirass; and his good two-handed broadsword swung by his side, while both Cedric and I wore shirts of linked mail and our followers each a quilted, shaft-proof leathern jacket. Cedric carried the cross-bow which he had often used to such good purpose, and I the sword of Damascus steel which my father had riven from a Saracen noble in the Holy Land. Withal we made a brave array on the woodland roads and one of which the boldest band of outlaws with their bows and bills and coats of Lincoln green might well beware.

But no enemy gainsaid us on the road; and at two o’ the clock we rode across the drawbridge of our good friend and neighbor, the Lady of Mannerley. She bade us welcome in the courtly manner to which she was bred, and ushered us to the great hall. Geoffrey was reclining in a great chair before the fire, and rose to greet us with most joyous face. His wound was healing fast, as we had known from the messengers who had passed almost daily to and fro; but the young Lord of Carleton was still pale with the bloodletting, and could leave his chair no longer than the courtesy of a host demanded. As he shook hands with my father, the Lord of Mountjoy, his words of heartfelt welcome and the smile on his winsome face made amends for the weakness of his clasp; and I was filled with joy to see that my father warmed to him at once and for his sake willingly forgot the deeds of the old Gray Wolf, who had been Lord of Carleton.

When Geoffrey was again seated and we had found places on the benches around him, the Lady of Mannerley brought to us some most dainty cakes and cups of hot mulled wine, serving us with her own hands, as is the custom when guests of quality are welcomed. There ensued an hour of goodly talk, Geoffrey of Carleton plying my father with questions of that of which he loves best to speak,—the wars for the Holy Sepulcher’s recovery—and Cedric and I listening or putting in our words as occasion offered. Geoffrey heard from me the tale of our archer festival and of old Marvin’s and Cedric’s wondrous prowess with the cross-bow. Then by degrees we came to the story of the day whereon Cedric and I and poor old William came upon the outlaw band in Blackpool that sought to kill his two retainers and make him prisoner; and we lived over again in joy the battle at the forest’s edge and the bloody and desperate chase that followed.

When that tale had been fully told by us three youths, speaking sometimes in turn and sometimes, at the most perilous passages, crying out all together what had chanced, Geoffrey turned to me to say:

“But, Sir Richard,—in the forest where I first saw thee and Cedric at the fire,—that was a most sweet ballad you did sing. Can you not raise it again? I have a great mind to hear it.”

At this, nothing loath, I turned my eyes to the rafters and began the lay. Cedric, joining in with his sweet harmonizing, did give it a grace which else it had sadly lacked; and the hall of Mannerley rang with it even as had the little glade in the wood. Lady Mannerley came again to the door of the hall, and behind her a half dozen of her maids and serving men. Geoffrey and the others loudly cried “Encore”; and the second time my father took up the lay with us, so it went rousingly and to the delight of the whole company. When at last we ceased Geoffrey declared that the song and the gay and heartening talk withal had done for him more good than all the herbs and poultices of the leech, and that with one more day like to this he verily believed he could ride abroad whole and sound.

Our audience departed with the end of the singing; and then Lord Mountjoy spoke most seriously:

“What thou say’st, Sir Geoffrey, puts me in mind that in these rough times there is other work for us who are verily whole and sound than this chaffering and singing at a bonny fireside, most pleasant though it be. I must bestir myself to punish these greedy rascals of the greenwood that set upon to rob and murder all those that go the forest roads not armed to the teeth and in strong company. ’Tis said that this unhung varlet that so sorely beset thee hath now no less than seven score bowmen at his back. To-morrow I ride to enlist the aid of my lord of Pelham with his twenty archers, and as soon thereafter as may be to Dunwoodie of Grimsby. The good lady who is now our hostess will doubtless send some men-at-arms and foresters. We shall make up a company that can take Blackpool Wood from all its sides at once; and it shall go hard but we send a half hundred of the rogues to their reckoning.”

During this speech the eyes of the young Lord of Carleton had grown bright as with a fever; and he could hardly wait for my father to come to an end before crying out:

“Oh, good Mountjoy! My friend—if thou art my friend indeed, stay this goodly enterprise but a few short months—or weeks mayhap—and let me join with thee. This outlaw chief, whom now I learn is called the Monkslayer from certain of his bloody deeds, hath offered both injury and insult to the House of Carleton. Two of my faithful men he slew, and me he took prisoner, and would have held for high ransom, if indeed he spared my life, had it not been for Sir Richard and Cedric here and that worthy old archer of Mountjoy who met his death fighting in my behalf. Give me but two short months—I ask no more—to heal me of my wound and make some practice of arms; and I will ride with thee to the hunting of this outlaw and his band with forty men-at-arms and eight score archers from Carleton and Teramore. So shall we make short and sure work of it.”

My father gazed at the glowing face of our new-made friend; and plain it was to me that the liking he had at first conceived for the lad suffered nothing from this headlong eagerness to be up and doing with arms in his hands. Turning to Cedric and me, with a broad and happy smile, Lord Mountjoy said:

“Well, lads, ’twas your quarrel and Sir Geoffrey’s at the first. What say you? Shall we risk the scattering and ’scaping of these rogues by waiting till the fall for him? For I plainly see that, with all good will, he cannot rightly ride and fight before that time in such a rough campaign as this will be.”

“Oh, let us wait, Father!” I cried, “Sir Geoffrey hath the right in saying ’tis especially the Carleton’s quarrel; and ’twill be a fine sight for all the countryside to see the banners of Mountjoy and of Carleton waving together in so good a cause after all these years of enmity. Mayhap Sir Geoffrey will return with usury the arrow-shot he had from those scurvy knaves. If so, ’twill not be an ill beginning for his career in arms.”

Cedric, who was ever of few words, nodded his head at this speech of mine; and so ’twas settled among us. Through the summer months we would strike no blow at the outlaws save in defense, but at the fall of the leaf, when the woods made not so close a cover, we would fall upon them in their fastnesses with all our forces at once, and so destroy and scatter them that the woodland roads of the whole county would be free of their kind for years to come.

A week later Sir Geoffrey took his way to his great castle at Teramore under a strong escort of Carleton men-at-arms. Ten days thereafter Cedric and I rode thither to pay a promised visit and to talk of the outlaw hunt and our great plans for the days to follow. Sir Geoffrey showed himself a most gracious host; and we passed some goodly hours in the Carleton hall and in the courtyard where Cedric did try most manfully to impart to Geoffrey and me some measure of his cross-bow skill.

For my own handling of this weapon, I fear that all Cedric’s and old Marvin’s teachings are bootless, and that never shall I shoot with any certainty; but, to Cedric’s huge delight, Sir Geoffrey took to the exercise like one born in a forester’s cottage. In half an hour he was striking marks at fifty paces that were small enough for Cedric’s own aim at twice that distance, and his instructor was prophesying he would be a bonny archer long before he could well handle a broadsword. This I thought likely enough, for Geoffrey, though his age lacked but half a year of Cedric’s and mine, was somewhat lightly built and had not yet the reach and the forearm muscles that make a swordsman. ’Twas plain that among us three I should long remain the master with this best of weapons; and with this thought to console me, I took it not too ill that I should prove such a poor third at the archery.

That night, as Cedric and I sat at board with my father and mother, we were full of talk of the day’s doings; and I was already planning festival days and nights when the Carletons and the Mountjoys and all our friends of Pelham and of Mannerley should fore-gather at Mountjoy or at Teramore for feasts and dancing in such ways as had been in days of yore.

Suddenly my mother interrupted all this talk and planning with a sober question:

“And the Lady of Carleton—Geoffrey’s mother—did she greet thee full courteously to-day, Dickon?”

At once I felt as one who treads in icy water where he had thought to meet firm ground.

“Nay, mother. We saw her not at all—save for a glimpse at chamber window as we rode toward the drawbridge.”

“Ah! then she was not abroad, it seems.”

“Nay, she kept her chamber. Mayhap she was not well.”

“Did Sir Geoffrey make for her her excuse?”

My face, as I could feel, grew burning red as I made answer:

“Nay, he said no word of her.”

Then Lady Mountjoy turned to my father, who had been closely listening:

“It seems, my lord, that we shall not soon ride toward Teramore.”

My father sadly shook his head, and gazed at the board before him. He had been glad at heart at the thought of the healed breach between the two houses; and now it seemed that all such thoughts were vain.

“Mayhap Lady Carleton will ride over with Sir Geoffrey when next week he comes to Mountjoy as he promised,” I offered.

My father again shook his head.

“Mayhap she will, Dickon. If so be, she shall have the right hand of welcome; but much I misdoubt her coming to Mountjoy. When all is said, ’tis but natural she cannot bring herself to call us friends. It was we of Mountjoy that did to death her husband and her eldest son; and though we know well, and have maintained it by oath and by arms, that ’twas in fair battle, on our part at least, and that they brought their deaths upon themselves, yet perhaps ’tis too much to expect her to credit our words and deeds that give the lie to those of her own house. Nay, I see it now. She will never be a friend of Mountjoy.”

He sighed deeply and turned again to his carving. None of us had more words; and it seemed that a cold fog, like those that come from the Western Sea in springtime, had settled on our spirits.

Four days later Sir Geoffrey came to Mountjoy, attended by a well-armed retinue; but his lady mother was not with him; and again he said no word of her. We made the young heir of Carleton full welcome to Mountjoy, and spent the day with meat and drink and the practice of arms. With the cross-bow he did even better than before, and showed himself not too dull a learner at the foils. But the gayety we had had at Teramore was not with us at Mountjoy. ’Twas as if some shriveled witch had envied us our merriment and put a spell upon us to destroy it. Something of this Sir Geoffrey seemed to feel at last; and the sun was yet three hours high when he took horse for his return.

So passed the summer. We did not ride again to Teramore, nor did Sir Geoffrey come to Mountjoy. Once I learned that he visited the Lady of Mannerley; and Cedric and I took the same day to pay our own respects. We had much good talk of the outlaw band and of the great day that was now fast approaching, but of Lady Carleton and the new peace that reigned between Mountjoy and Carleton no word was spoken.

Came a day in fair October that minded me full sharply of that one a year agone whereon I had met Lionel of Carleton in the woods of Teramore. The men of Mountjoy were early astir, and four score strong, counting the men-at-arms, the cross-bow men and the foresters with their long-bows and cloth-yard shafts, were making toward their post on the hither side of Blackpool Wood. On our left, two furlongs off, were Lord Pelham and his archers; to the right the score or so of Mannerly retainers and Squire Dunwoodie with half a hundred yeomen. On the far side of the forest, three leagues away, we knew that young Sir Geoffrey with dour-faced old Hubert led nigh two hundred Carleton men-at-arms and bowmen, and Lionel of Montmorency a hundred more. We were to march in open line, converging toward the center of the wood at grim Blackpool. Any of the robbers found in hiding were to be captured or slain; and whichever leader first encountered the outlaws in force was to give three long notes on his hunting horn. Then half the forces of all the others were immediately to join him, leaving the remainder to guard all lines of possible escape. Our plans had been well kept secret amongst the leaders; not one of our own men knew them until that very morning. Withal it promised to be a most unlucky day for those cut-throat knaves who had so long cheated the gallows.

Our march was slow, as well might be in all those brakes and rocky glens. Now and again a lurking knave in Lincoln green was found and quickly made prisoner—or, if he made resistance, even more quickly disposed of. Some, however, were too fleet of foot for capture by our more heavily burdened men; and, after sending a shaft or two at the line of skirmishers, made good their escape into the wood before us.

’Twas ten by the sun when we heard, from Dunwoodie, far on our right, the three long blasts of the horn. Instantly my father and I took half our men, and leaving the rest under old Marvin, the archer, ran through the forest toward the fray. Afterward we learned to our cost that some of our leaders took not so careful thought of the places of their forces in the skirmish line, but rushed off at once to the alarm, followed by well nigh their whole companies, leaving in places gaps of a mile or more in what should have been our close-drawn cordon.

Be that as it might, ten minutes had not passed before Dunwoodie with his half hundred archers was reinforced by a gallant array of bowmen and men-at-arms. The outlaws, a hundred or more in number, and led by the Monkslayer himself, had been pressing Dunwoodie hard. The robber chief, carrying a sword and wearing the steel cap and breast-plate of a knight, stood forth from all shelter, commanding and exhorting his followers, apparently with no fear at all of flying shafts and quarrels. The men of Dunwoodie Manor fought from behind trees and rocks; and most of them had quilted, leathern jackets; but they were no match in archery, for the outlaws, many of whom, by virtue of their skill with the long-bow, had lived for years in the forest and never lacked for venison or greatly feared the sheriff and his men. Half a dozen Dunwoodie archers already lay weltering on the leaves, struck through throat or face with cloth-yard shafts; and only one or two of the robber knaves had been likewise served. Our coming, however, changed all in a twinkling. Mountjoy struck the outlaws on one flank just as Lionel of Montmorency came down upon the other. In the time a man would need to run a furlong’s length, a score or more of the varlets were slain by shafts and cross-bow quarrels or by the swords of our men-at-arms, fifty more had clasped their hands above their heads in token of surrender, and the Monkslayer and the remainder of his crew had taken flight toward the center of the forest.

My father, who had been chosen leader by the other nobles, now called a halt and sent out a half dozen messengers to right and left to see and report to him the state of our cordon. Some of these returned in half an hour with their news, while others made the entire circuit of the forest, bearing Lord Mountjoy’s commands for the reforming and tightening of the skirmish line and for the delaying of further advance till he should give the word. Since the scattering of the main body of the robbers a number of the fugitives had been creeping back with their hands tightly clasped over their heads and begging for quarter. It was my father’s thought that, in a day’s time, these desertions from the outlaw band would be so many that the task of surrounding and taking the remainder and the Monkslayer himself would be a light one.

At two o’clock Sir Geoffrey joined us with thirty of his men. The main body he had left under old Hubert on the other side of Blackpool. He was aching for a sight of the outlaws, and deemed our chances of encountering them again better than those along the line he had been guarding. Sir Geoffrey had grown brown and sturdy in the summer just past, and had added near an inch to his stature. Now he handled his cross-bow like a skilled archer, and was soon in eager talk with Cedric over the practice at moving marks.

Our camp was made in a fair and pleasant glen, some two or three miles from Blackpool. We had eaten of the bread and meat in our pouches, and sat at ease about our camp fires, my father having well seen to it that sentinels were posted against any sortie of the enemy. Suddenly one of these, half a furlong away in the wood, called out to us and pointed down a pathway to where it crossed a stream a bowshot below our camp. There were approaching two men in the Lincoln green, and bearing a cloth of white which had been tied to a rough pole standard.

“Ha!” cried Squire Dunwoodie, “here come two of the varlets with a message. We will hear it; and if we like it not, will hang them up to yonder limb.”

“Nay!” cried my father, angrily, “we shall do no violence to bearers of a flag of truce, be they honest men or thieves. ’Tis like the Monkslayer begs for mercy; but whate’er his message, the bearers of it shall return to him unscathed.”

The envoys now approached and, bowing low before Lord Mountjoy, delivered to him a folded parchment. My father bent his brows upon this for a moment, then exclaiming in wrath, bade me read it to the assembled company. These were the words of the scroll:

“To Robert, Lord of Mountjoy, Geoffrey, Heir of Carleton and other worshipful lords and gentlemen:

“Know that my men have this day taken prisoner, and now securely hold for ransom Elizabeth, Lady of Carleton with two of her attendants. Some three score of my greenwood rangers are now held captive by you, if indeed you have not already done violence upon them. These friends and followers of mine I now ask that you freely release, without injury or mutilation, and that they go free before the sunrise of to-morrow. Also that you then withdraw all your armed forces from Blackpool Forest. Then shall the Lady and her attendants likewise depart without harm from me or mine. If so be you refuse my terms, then when the sun is one hour high you shall receive a messenger from me who will bear with him the left hand of the aforesaid Lady of Carleton. If by sunset of to-morrow my men have not been suffered to freely return, another messenger shall bring you the lady’s right hand.

“My fastness you shall never take. If you attempt it, at the first alarm the prisoners shall die. Enough is said to make plain my will. Those who have had dealings with me will tell you that my word for good or for ill I always keep.

“William of Tyndale,

Called by some the Monkslayer.”

“Oh, the murderous varlets!” cried Sir Geoffrey; and I thought it no shame to him that tears streamed down his face, “they will cut off her hands. ’Twere better far that they slew her outright. Oh! to have that bloody villain for a moment within sure aim I would willingly die the instant after.”

“How could she have been taken?” asked Lord Mountjoy.

“I mind me now,” replied Geoffrey, wringing his hands in misery, “she ever went on Saturdays to tend my brother’s grave at Lanton, two miles from our gates and on the forest’s edge. She was used to take an ample guard; but to-day I have taken nearly all our men-of-arms for this expedition. She liked it not that I should come; and now she has ventured forth without escort and to my everlasting sorrow. Oh, that bloody villain!”

“Hush, Sir Geoffrey,” said my father quickly, his face working in sympathy with the lad’s sore distress, “they shall not harm thy lady mother. If need be, and no other way will serve, we will e’en release our prisoners and thus pay her ransom.”

A mutter of discontent from some of the other leaders followed this, and Dunwoodie spoke full surlily:

“Seven of my good yeomen have already been slain in this quarrel; divers of our friends have lost men also, and Lord Pelham hath been borne homewards with an arrow wound that came near to being mortal. Shall we have nothing for all this but the freeing of these varlets?”

“What would’st thou do then, Dunwoodie,—leave the Lady of Carleton in the hands of the outlaws?”

Dunwoodie only growled in reply; and soon my father spoke again, this time to the outlaw messengers:

“Go to your chief,” he said, “and say that we consider his offer, but that if the Lady of Carleton or her attendants be harmed one whit, we will hunt him and all his followers to the death e’en if that hunting takes a thousand men and a year’s campaigning. Let him look to it.”

The messengers bowed again and made their way into the deeps of the forest. My father and the nobles that were there gathered about the camp fire in deep discussion of this sore dilemma.