  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover art [Illustration: "ROLAND WAS SAVAGELY ATTACKING HIM IN HIS TURN" Edgar the Ready A Tale of the Third BY W. P. SHERVILL Illustrated by Charles M. Sheldon BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED Contents CHAP.
Illustrations EDGAR THE READY CHAPTER I A Gallant Sacrifice "Now, lad, I will tell thee how it cometh that Sir John Chartris hath sent me down into Devon to seek thee and to bring thee back to his castle of Wolsingham. The road seemeth less rough and wild, and I can tell thee all that befell with the more comfort. I would, though, that I could have brought a spare horse. To have thee riding behind my saddle smacks of a farmer and his dame rather than of man-at-arms and fledgeling warrior." "No matter, Matthew," replied the soldier's companion, a lad of some fourteen or fifteen summers, "our road will take us along the borders of Exmoor, and I have hopes that we may be able to snare or capture one of the ponies that run wild thereabouts." "Perchance. Now, as thou hast already heard, 'twas at Sluys that thy father met his death--and a right gallant one it was--but of the fashion of it only rumours have reached thee. "I must start at the beginning, and thou wilt then understand the more thoroughly. Know, then, that the French fleet mustered two hundred sail and more, many of their ships being of a size unheard of before, while we could gather little more than half their number. Our ships were scraped together from the Five Ports and anywhere along the coast where a stray trader could be found. But I'll warrant thee the sailors of the Five Ports were little loath to lend their ships for the venture, for their rivalry with the mariners of the Norman coast is most exceeding bitter. When all that could be collected had been mustered in array, our good King Edward III filled them with his men-at-arms and archers, and we set sail. "Not a man of the whole company was more eager to get to grips with the enemy than Edward; and when we spied, over an intervening neck of land, a forest of masts clustering in the harbour of Sluys, he was overjoyed. However, for all his eagerness, he decided to anchor at sea for the night, and 'twas in the afternoon of the following day--the anniversary of Bannockburn, mark ye--that we stood in to fight the foe. "When they sighted us, the French sailed out a mile or so to meet us, and then anchored in four great lines across the bay and lashed their ships firmly together. We found it was a fourfold floating rampart that we had to assault, but--bah!--little enough shipman or soldier recked of that! "Full speed we bore down on the foremost line of ships and ground into them, our archers sending a storm of shafts in advance that raked them through and through. Many of their big ships had platforms high up filled with Genoese crossbowmen, and loaded with stones to fling down upon us; but our archers poured in a fire so fierce and fast that those who survived were glad to escape to deck as best they could. Then came the turn of knights and men-at-arms, and like a mountain torrent we poured upon the decks of the Frenchmen's ships. The fighting was hard and fierce--the struggle of men who had long ached to spring at one another's throats. "But our martial King's gallant example, and the knightly zest of his nobles, gave an eagerness to our men that soon forced the French, though they fought right well, to give back, and presently we had mastered the first line and began to burst through upon the next. 'Twas then that---- Ah! What have we here?" At the sudden exclamation, and the equally sudden reining in of the steed, the boy, who had been entirely absorbed in his companion's narrative, glanced quickly ahead to see the cause of the interruption. Two men, followed more leisurely by three others, had sprung into the roadway from behind a pile of rocks where they had been in hiding. They were men of wild and savage appearance, and bore weapons, which added not a little to their threatening looks. One man, whose head seemed a sheer mass of bristling red hair and beard, out of which his eyes gleamed like live coals, carried a heavy club studded with iron spikes, and this he swung to and fro as he awaited the coming of the wayfarers. "'Tis Red of Ordish!" whispered the lad. "He is known and dreaded for leagues around. Fly for thy life, Matthew--delay not!" The soldier glanced eagerly to right and left. His face fell: rocks piled in rough confusion, half-hidden by bushes, lined every inch of the way on either side. It was difficult country to traverse on foot, but for horsemen it was quite impossible. There was still, however, the way they had come, and half-turning his horse, the man-at-arms glanced back along the road. Alas, for his hopes! Another group of men had emerged into the roadway a few hundred yards behind, and were moving forward to take the travellers as in a trap! "Ha, ha, soldier," cried Red, with a hideous laugh, "thou seest thou art outwitted! Fling down thy purse and we harm thee not. 'Tis the lord of the manor, Red of Ordish to wit, who bids thee pay his toll." "Give me thy purse, Matthew," cried the boy aloud. He then went on in an urgent whisper: "Be quick, and I will jump down and hand it to the robbers whilst thou dost ride slowly past them. They may seek more than thy purse an they find little in it. I like not their looks or the tales I have heard of them." Slowly and unwillingly the soldier complied, and the lad flung his leg over the saddle to dismount. As he did so, however, with a quick movement he slid the contents of the purse into his hand. His movements were half-hidden by the soldier's back, and that there should be no chink of money to betray him, he held the purse closely while he secured the contents. Then he transferred the coins to his wallet, dropped to the ground, and advanced towards the red robber, purse in hand. "We are poor wayfarers," he said in a pleading tone, as he fumbled in the purse; "will ye not take toll of two silver pennies and let us hie on our journey?" "I will take four silver pennies, my young springald," cried Red of Ordish, striding forward and reaching out his great hand for the purse. The lad retreated as though frightened, and again fumbled as though unable to find the coins he sought. "Yield me the purse," cried the robber, snatching savagely at it. "Yield it me, boy, or I will clash out thy brains with this club." Springing lightly out of the angry ruffian's reach, the boy pretended to be quite scared, dropping the purse and running after the soldier as though in a sudden access of terror. Ignoring the boy, the leader of the robbers and one or two of his men made a mad rush for the purse. Red was first, and snatched it eagerly up; tore it open--and saw that it was empty! With a snarl like a wild beast, he sprang after the fugitive, shouting madly with inarticulate rage. Abandoning all disguise, the lad now ran with all his speed after the soldier, who had profited by the preoccupation of the robbers and had made his way safely past them. "On, Matthew, on!" he cried breathlessly as he sprang into the saddle behind him, and with a shout of angry defiance, Matthew put spurs to his horse and galloped furiously away. The convulsed face and savage cries of Red of Ordish, and the tumultuous shouts of his men as they pursued madly after, flinging stones, knives, and clubs in despairing endeavour to injure the youth who had so neatly tricked them, receded gradually into the distance until a turn of the road shut them altogether out of sight and hearing. "Why did I listen to thee, lad?" cried Matthew presently in a tone of resentment and vexation. "Why did I not ride at them and try to cut a way through? Why didst press me to yield up my purse without a fight? Hast so soon forgotten that thou art destined to become an esquire and an aspirant to knighthood? 'Tis a bad start to a warrior's career to counsel giving way without a fight to the first coward cut-throat we meet. Coward that I was to listen----" "Stay, Matthew," interposed the lad; "run not on so, but examine this wallet. Perchance the fledgeling esquire is not quite so base as thou thinkest." "What?" cried Matthew, taking the wallet and thrusting in his hand. "Did ye--why, yes, 'tis all here--truly thou art quick and bold. 'Twas well done, and I none the wiser. Thou art indeed Sir Richard Wintour's cub, and I can say nae better." "There was little enough in it, Matthew," returned the lad. "I hope that we may have many such adventures to while away the long journey to my new home. They will keep our wits from getting rusty." "They will indeed, lad, and I hope that Matthew the man-at-arms may show to better advantage at our next encounter. Now I will continue the story of our struggle at Sluys which the robbers interrupted in so ugly a fashion. We English, then, had overcome all resistance in the first line of the French ships and were attacking the next, when the adventure befell that touches thee so closely. The ships commanded by Sir John Chartris had again closed in and grappled, and once more we were hard at work hacking and thrusting upon the enemy's decks. Sir John had gained a footing upon the poop of the ship he had boarded, and was hewing away with right good will when, of a sudden, a gigantic Genoese dropped down upon his shoulders from the rigging. Sir John was borne to the deck, and would have been rapidly dispatched there had not thy father, Sir Richard Wintour, called upon one or two of us near by and hurried to his rescue. Our attack diverted the attention of those surrounding Sir John, and he was able to struggle to his feet. "The Genoese still clung to his back, however, and Sir John was unable to use his sword. To our horror, after a few moments' tottering upon the edge, both men, still clinging desperately to one another, pitched headlong over the side of the ship down into the sea in the space betwixt the prows of the grinding ships. Seeing what was coming, and knowing only too well that Sir John, clad in full armour, would sink like a stone, thy father snatched at a rope, and without a moment's hesitation sprang after him. So instant was he that he did not even stay to see that the other end of the rope was secured, and he must have left the ship before ever Sir John had touched the water. 'Twas a rash act, a gallant act, and it all but failed, for the end of the rope was free, and was just disappearing over the side when I pounced upon it. "The strain upon it was so heavy that I almost followed. Thomelin the archer, however, also seized hold of the rope, and we two pulled and tugged. In a moment or two the strain eased somewhat, and we guessed that the big Genoese had been compelled to leave go. Then we began to draw in hand over hand until two heads appeared above the surface. They belonged to Sir John and thy father. "Now came the heartrending part of the whole affair. A slight swell was gently heaving, and ever and anon the ships ground and clashed together. Knowing this, and fearing that we might not draw up the knights before one or other of the ships heaved inwards irresistibly, we pulled with all our might and shouted aloud for others to come to our aid. But the rush of fighting men had passed onwards, and the noise was so prodigious that we were unheard or unheeded. So we bent to the work, and soon had Sir John, who was uppermost, on a level with the decks. We had pulled him safe aboard, and were about to draw up Sir Richard, when--lad, it makes me sick to think of it--one of our own ships, falling on the swell, moved inwards and caught him by the legs against the ship on which we stood. He gave a gasp and let go his hold, but we seized him, and, the swell passing onwards, drew him aboard. "One glance was sufficient to tell us that his hours were numbered. Notwithstanding his armour, his legs and the lower part of his body were badly crushed. He was still conscious, however, and we laid him on the deck of the enemy's ship, now all but won, and Sir John knelt over him. "'Goodbye, Sir John!' he said faintly. 'I am gone. Leave me and renew the fight.' "'Nay, Richard, I cannot leave thee thus,' cried Sir John, weeping. 'Dear comrade, thou hast sacrificed thy life for mine. I will stay and do what little I still may towards that debt. The battle is won without another stroke from me.' "'I rejoice that all goes well. If thou wilt do aught for me, look to my boy Edgar. His mother died a year agone, and he is alone save for me. Place him with thy esquires, if I ask not too much.' "'Richard, it is done. Right gladly will I.' "'He will be landless, like his father, as thou know'st, and he must carve his way with his sword. Let him know this. Spoil him not. I think he will do well, though his mother has had his upbringing and not I.' "'If he is half as gallant as his father he will need little help from me,' responded Sir John. 'Is there naught else I can do? Here is water Matthew hath brought.' "Sir Richard revived a little when he had drunk, but very soon sank into a stupor from which he never regained consciousness. He seemed quite easy in his mind concerning thee, after Sir John had told him he would send me down into Devon to fetch thee as soon as an opportunity offered. He beckoned me to him and sent thee his dear love, and bade me conjure thee to strive thy hardest to be a true knight, brave in battle and chivalrous towards the weak and helpless. More he said, though his voice grew so faint at last that I could not catch all his words; but he meant thee to give all thy mind to the work of thy squirehood, to learn right well how to bear thyself knightly, and how to live a godly life. Thy father, lad, thou mayest well be proud of." "I know, Matthew," said Edgar in a low voice. "And I know, too, that if earnest striving of mine can compass it, his memory will not be disgraced by me. It shall be my aim to live as nobly and to die as gallantly." "Ye say well, lad. I hope thou wilt be as good as thy word. Now I will finish the story. "Very soon we had broken through the second line of the French ships, and as at that moment more ships arrived under Sir Robert Morley, a great panic fell upon the third line, and many of their men threw themselves into the sea and there perished miserably. The fourth line, however, still remained unbroken, and fought us right gallantly until nightfall, when those that were still able to set sail made good their escape. "Our losses were trifling; the losses of the French were tremendous. We had only two ships destroyed, while out of all the mighty French fleet but a few stragglers escaped. Their loss in men, too, they say, was no less than thirty thousand slain. 'Twill be years and years, lad, I warrant thee, before the French will again dare to oppose us on the ocean. We are now masters of the sea, and our ships can come and go as they please. Hurrah for our martial King Edward!" "Hurrah, indeed!" cried Edgar, catching something of his enthusiasm. "But how came our men to gain so great a victory over the French? Did they not fight well?" "Aye, they fought well enough, but they were outgeneralled. They had two leaders while we had one. And more--though I am a man-at-arms, and think most of my sort, yet can I give a meed of praise where 'tis due--'twas our archers did much to win the day. Aye, our bowmen gave the French a rude awakening--one, too, that will be repeated as roughly yet many a day. Our men shot so hard and fast that the air was streaked with shafts, and Frenchmen and Genoese fell dead on every hand. Even the knights were hard put to it to face so pitiless a hail. I mind me old Thomelin of Pontefract, one of the most famous of our marksmen, said to me as we passed a ship in the first line, where the battle still raged: 'See yon knight in golden armour, Matthew?' "'Aye,' said I. "'Watch him well.' "He drew his bow to the feather and held it motionless for a moment or two. The knight was opposing a party of English who were pouring along the deck of his ship. He swung his axe back and up, and Thomelin's bow twanged. The knight's nearest armpit sprouted feathers, his axe fell with a clang, and he rattled down after it. 'Twas thus that our archers taught even knights in full armour to fear them." "But are not crossbowmen equally to be feared?" cried Edgar. "I have heard that their heavy bolts can crash through the armour itself." "Mayhap; but when they have English bowmen to fight against they have little chance to show their powers. Ere ever they can loose a bolt a cloth-yard shaft hath laid them low. Our archers laugh at crossbowmen--and with good reason." "What befell after the battle, Matthew?" "We landed, and Edward led us to the city of Tournay. He drew his allies to his standard, and it was with a hundred thousand men that he commenced the siege. All goeth well so far, but Sir John sent me after thee before we had long encamped before its walls. And here I am, Master Edgar." "Aye, good Matthew," replied Edgar, who appeared to be slightly ill at ease, and had turned in his saddle two or three times during the latter part of the soldier's narrative. "Now, wilt thou rein in thy steed for a moment so that we may listen? Several times I have fancied I heard the sound of horses' hoofs dully in the distance." "What of that, lad? Red of Ordish and his band had nae horses." "None that we could see. But in some of the tales I have heard both Red and his band were mounted. Hearken now!" Dim and distant, but unmistakable, sounded the thud of horses' hoofs. "Quick, Matthew, we must leave the road and hide. Our horse, carrying a double burden, must soon be overtaken. Dismount and lead thy steed in amongst those rocks and bushes and, if thou canst, compel it to lie down." Without demur Matthew obeyed his young charge's orders, possibly because he could think of no better line of action. In a minute or two horse and riders were well hidden behind a tangle of rocks and bushes a dozen yards from the edge of the roadway. The clatter of horses' hoofs was now very close, and in a few moments a body of wild-looking horsemen burst into view round a turn of the road. "'Tis Red," muttered the lad at his first glimpse of the foremost man, as he shrank back yet more closely under cover. The horsemen clattered noisily by and vanished as quickly as they had come. For the time, at any rate, the fugitives were safe. "What now, lad?" grumbled Matthew, as he began to realize their sorry plight. "We cannot take to the road again, I trow." "Nay; we must, I fear, clamber on as best we can across these rocks. See yon hill? The country there is clearer, so mayhap if we struggle on a little we shall find it open out before us." For an hour the soldier and his companion scrambled along among the rocks, leading the horse between them. Then the way began to get easier until, at the end of some hours, they found themselves in fairly open country. The travelling had been very exhausting, and, well pleased to be quit of it, they mounted again and cantered gaily off until they reached cultivated land, and could see in the distance the lights of a dwelling. On a closer inspection this proved to be a large and straggling farmhouse. "Darkness falls," quoth Matthew; "I think we will rest the night here if the good man is not unwilling." Edgar gladly consented, and in a minute or two they were knocking at the farmhouse door. After a considerable delay and some parleying the door was opened, and they were conducted into the farmer's kitchen. Here they were served with plenty of rough but wholesome food, and were soon doing full justice to the viands. Under the influence of the good cheer, and more especially of the good man's home-brewed ale, Matthew waxed communicative, and related to the farmer with great gusto the incidents of their encounter with and escape from the redoubtable Red of Ordish. The recital seemed to disturb the farmer greatly. He grew pale and nervous, and presently left the room, muttering that if robbers were about it would be well for him to see that his barns and stables were well secured. The action seemed so natural an one that neither Edgar nor Matthew took any notice, although the man had not returned when, an hour or two later, his wife hinted that it was time to retire for the night. Readily enough they agreed, and the woman led them up a flight of crazy stairs to a low room lighted by a single small curtain-screened window which peeped out of the thickness of the thatch. The room contained a rough bed and plenty of skin rugs, and in a very few minutes the two wayfarers had flung themselves down and had fallen into a sound sleep. CHAPTER II An Ordeal of the Night It must have been well after midnight when Edgar awoke. What had awakened him he knew not, but he felt somehow a sense of uneasiness for which he vainly tried to account. All was as still as death within the house, save only for the regular breathing of his companion, who lay close by his side. For some moments Edgar lay without a movement, listening intently and wondering what it could be that made him feel so uneasy and even--he could not disguise it from himself--even fearful. He could hear absolutely nothing, but yet he felt a conviction steal over him that Matthew and he were not alone in the room. Who would dare to enter their room so stealthily at dead of night? And what might be their purpose? Softly Edgar pressed his companion in the side. He stirred ever so slightly, and Edgar pressed again as meaningly as he could. He felt the soldier start and stiffen himself as though on the alert. Waiting for no more, Edgar, who was light of touch and supple as an eel, stole softly from the bed and made for the corner of the room away from the window. He dreaded unspeakably that he might come into contact with something--he knew not what--on the way; but he reached his coign of vantage without mishap. Then he waited motionless for events to develop. Though he still heard no sound, he felt even more convinced than before that the room was occupied by other than themselves--and, by the strange feeling of fear that he could not thrust away from himself, thoroughly as he despised it, occupied by something grim and terrible. Presently he heard a slight rustling, as though Matthew were leaving his bed, and a moment later the curtain was jerked back, admitting into the room a stream of moonlight. Simultaneously with the pulling of the curtain three figures became visible to Edgar between him and the light. The upright figure nearest to the window was Matthew, he had no doubt, but the two other figures crouching low upon the floor he could not recognize, though the glint of steel he caught from one showed that their presence boded ill indeed. Silently, with a bound fierce as a tiger's, one of the men sprang upon Matthew. With a movement as quick the man-at-arms avoided the blow aimed at him and closed with his assailant. Simultaneously the other man stood up and swung a club up into the air and down behind his back as he prepared to strike down Matthew while he grappled with his foe. With the speed of an arrow Edgar sprang forward. Seizing the club he gave it a quick, wrenching pull and tore it from the man's grasp. Then as quickly he swung it heavily down upon the assassin's head. With a groan the man sank limply to the floor. Turning to the other combatants, Edgar saw that Matthew was holding his assailant's right hand with his left, and had wrenched his own hand free and grasped his dagger. There was a flash as the moonlight gleamed upon the bright steel, then the stroke fell heavily upon the ruffian's side. But though the blade pierced his clothing it snapped off short against his skin! "Bewitched! Bewitched!" shrieked Matthew in superstitious terror, as he let go his hold and fell upon his knees. Babbling incoherently and crossing himself convulsively, he seemed oblivious of his fearful danger. Fortunately the suddenness with which he had let go his hold sent the ruffian staggering back into a corner, but like a wild cat he was back again, and in another moment the knife must have been plunged into Matthew's body had not Edgar screamed piercingly as he dashed forward. "Shirt of mail, Matthew, shirt of mail!" Matthew heard and understood his meaning just in time. Plunging full length upon the floor, he avoided the murderous stroke, and the man, in the darkness, pitched over him into the wall. Ere he had recovered from the shock Edgar had sprung clean upon his back. Jabbing behind him with his knife the assassin tried to dislodge the lad, but although he received two or three flesh wounds, Edgar clung on tenaciously, and, by impeding the man's arm with one hand and gripping him by the throat with the other, did his best to hinder him, while he called repeatedly upon Matthew to renew the struggle. It was some moments before Matthew could respond. He was still unnerved by the grim midnight attack and what he had for the moment taken to be the supernatural character of his assailant. Edgar's warning cry had enabled him to shake off some of his paralysis, but precious moments had slipped away before he was himself again. At last Edgar's cries aroused him, and he rushed in and closed with the man, who was endeavouring with the utmost desperation to rid himself of the burden upon his back. Until then the man had fought in grim silence, but now he snarled and champed like a wild beast. In one of his twists and turns he staggered close to the little window, and for a moment the moonlight played upon his head. Though Edgar, from his position, could not see his face, one glimpse of the tangled mass of hair was sufficient. It was red. The ruffian fought with extraordinary fierceness and power. Once Matthew succeeded in possessing himself of his knife, but almost immediately lost it, and it was not until the man was almost strangled that his resistance was overcome. "Get me something wherewith to secure him, Edgar," gasped Matthew. "Strips of clothing--anything, lad." Edgar sprang to the bed and fumbled among the rugs and skins for something that he could tear into strips. As he did so his ear caught a sound outside the door that could not be mistaken. "Quick, Matthew--to the window--flee!" he cried, in an undertone that thrilled with desperate urgency. "The stairs creak beneath the tread of a dozen stealthy feet. 'Tis Red's band--away, away, or we are lost!" At a single bound Matthew sprang halfway through the window. Another moment and he had dropped to the ground. In his fumbles at the bedclothes Edgar's hand had come into contact with his own or Matthew's sword. The slight indefinable sound or feeling of pressure upon the door attracted his attention, and, like a streak, he drew the sword from its sheath. Then, with a single thrust, he drove it several inches through the centre of the door. There was a screech, and the pressure instantly ceased. Simultaneously the silent approach changed into a loud and angry clamour, and a rush was made at the door, and it was kicked violently open. But Edgar was already halfway to the window. Flinging his naked sword through in advance, he sprang lightly up and through, and dropped safely down upon the ground beneath. Matthew was awaiting him and had already snatched up the sword, and the two, with a single thought, rushed madly round to the front of the farmhouse. Their one aim was to get their horse from the stable before the robbers were upon them. As he rounded the side of the house, Edgar caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadow of some trees a dozen paces away. He looked again--they were horses!--and with a whoop he called to Matthew and fled to them. The horses were half-wild, and at the sudden approach reared and kicked furiously. There was no time to sooth and pacify the beasts, for already the shouts from behind showed that the pursuit had begun, so Edgar sprang recklessly at the nearest horse, flung his leg over its back, and grasped it by the mane. Then with his dagger he cut the rope that secured it. The horse reared madly and backed in amongst its fellows, but at every opportunity Edgar cut and slashed with his dagger at the ropes that fastened the other horses to the trees. Matthew had also succeeded in mounting, and seconded his efforts until all were freed. Then with a yell that sent the frightened troop clattering away into the darkness, Edgar and Matthew dug their heels into their horses' sides and galloped headlong after them. In a confused clump, horsemen and riderless horses careered over pasture and farmland until the farmhouse and the shouting robbers had been left far behind. Gradually Edgar gained some sort of control over his wild mount, which had, until then, tasked all his energies to keep it from flinging him from off its back. Then he guided it to Matthew's side. "We have covered miles, Matthew, and are safe." "Nay, let us ride on until our steeds are exhausted. Mine is still as much master as I." "Then let us ride together, and keep one of yon frightened animals in sight. If I can, I am going to capture a spare steed. 'Twill do to barter and replace the things we left behind in the robbers' hands." For a couple of hours longer they rode onward. Then their horses of themselves dropped into a walk and at last stopped altogether. Matthew and Edgar had kept close to two of the riderless horses, and Edgar promptly slipped from his seat and approached them. They were too dead-beat to resist, and he was able to lead them into a thick covert close at hand. Here, after some trouble, a light fencing of branches hacked from the trees was built around them, and Matthew and Edgar could begin to think of rest. They were almost as dead-beat as the horses, and, without troubling to make themselves any sort of couch, flung themselves down amongst the bushes and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion. CHAPTER III The Castle of Wolsingham Very soon after dawn Matthew and Edgar were astir again. Both felt the strain of their exertions during the preceding day and night, but neither felt that they were safe in remaining where they were. They had left behind nearly all their belongings, but in their stead they had four horses which, they hoped, would more than counterbalance the losses they had sustained. Tearing up part of his clothing into strips, and utilizing their belts, Matthew made shift to secure the two spare horses, and, mounting again, they rode on. For some time they purposely kept away from the high roads, not knowing how far the power of Red and his band might extend. But when they believed that they were too far from his haunts for there to be anything more to fear, they took to the highway again, and made more rapid progress. The spare horses were sold later in the day without difficulty, and provided a goodly sum from which they were able to purchase fresh cloaks and weapons, and enough being left to help them on their way. The journey was full of incidents, though none was so exciting as their encounter with the dreaded Red and his band of outlaws. In due course they arrived at Wolsingham, and Matthew resigned his charge into the hands of Geoffrey Fletcher, the Lieutenant of the Castle, in the absence of its master, Sir John Chartris. Geoffrey really ranked as an esquire, but he was a man of middle age who had failed through lack of influence and skill with the sword to obtain the honour of knighthood. He possessed little ambition, however, and was well content with his position in command of the retainers of the castle. After a few enquiries concerning the journey thither, and a sympathetic and kindly reference to his recent bereavement, Geoffrey suggested a visit to Edgar's fellow esquires. "They have heard that thou wert on the way to join us, and are ready indeed to see thee. The story of thy father's gallant sacrifice has disposed them and all of us greatly in thy favour. From the little Matthew hath told me of the adventures of thy journey, it seemeth that our expectations are not likely to be disappointed." "Ye are all most kind to me," said Edgar gratefully. "I have already promised in my heart to do all in my power to serve Sir John for the memory of my father's name." "Ye say well. Come now and I will make thee known to thy comrades. They are four--Philip Soames, Robert Duplessis, Aymery Montacute, and Roland Mortimer. They are all about thine age, for the eldest esquire hath followed his master to the wars. Doubtless thou wilt find them more to thy liking than they are to mine, for they are high-spirited youths, and accustomed to be more than a little reckless in their pranks. But such, I fear, is too often the wont of young men of noble birth and wide estates." Shaking his head with the air of a man who had suffered much at the hands of the said esquires, Geoffrey Fletcher opened a door and ushered Edgar into a room where the four esquires and some few pages were practising feats of skill and strength, or hacking at one another with blunted swords. The scene was a really spirited one, and Edgar felt a thrill of enthusiasm as he realized fully that he was now at last to begin in earnest to learn the trade of arms and the usages of chivalry. "Ha! Geoffrey, doubtless this young springald is our new comrade, Edgar Wintour?" cried Aymery Montacute, a slim, active-looking youth a little older than Edgar. "Come, we are right glad to see him, and right happy to welcome him in our midst." Edgar bowed his thanks. "He looketh keen," went on Aymery, speaking more to Geoffrey than to Edgar; "he looketh keen, and if I can cheer him on with a few friendly strokes with sword and buckler, let him don some gear and we will set to without more ado. At last, Geoffrey, I have succeeded in worsting Roland, and I feel so elated I could fight the world." "But nay, Aymery, scarcely would ye wish to show off thy prowess so soon upon your new comrade? How much can he know of the sword?" "Dissuade him not, Geoffrey," interposed Edgar hastily. "He meaneth not to be unfriendly, I am sure, and I would gladly receive a lesson at his hands. Come, comrade Aymery, teach me also how to beat friend Roland." There was a general laugh at the hit at Roland Mortimer; and that worthy, after a momentary frown, joined in the laugh, for Edgar's smile and tone were so frank and pleasant that anger was impossible. "Don these things and let us set to work," cried Aymery; and without the loss of a moment, Edgar drew on the leather jerkin and steel headpiece and snatched a sword and buckler from the wall. With a slight shrug of his shoulders and a smile of some amusement, Geoffrey turned on his heel and left the room. Though his charge was now left entirely to the tender mercies of his new comrades, he knew that there was no need to be anxious on his behalf, for their welcome, though rough, was not one whit the less sincere. The instant Edgar threw out his sword with a gesture of readiness, Aymery attacked with a bound like a young deer's. So swift was his attack that, before Edgar quite knew where he was, his head was singing from a hearty blow which fell full upon his steel headpiece. Warming to the work, he did his best to make a smart return, and to pay Aymery back with something to spare. The teaching he had received, however, was in no way equal to that given to the esquires at Wolsingham Castle, and in a few moments Aymery had demonstrated this so clearly that the other's body was smarting in a half-dozen places at once. Good-naturedly Aymery soon proposed a halt, and explained to Edgar wherein he had failed, and what were the chief faults of his style of defence. "Ye look quick and active, but make not enough use of your powers, friend Wintour. See how I fought--never still, constantly advancing or retreating. Ye should do the same." "I see that would be best for a light-armed contest such as this," replied Edgar; "but seeing that knights fight in full armour in battle, with little room or power to advance or retreat, would it not be best for us to learn to stand more to our ground likewise?" "There is some shrewdness in thy point," responded Aymery with a nod, "but pitched battles are rare, whilst there are many occasions on which a knight fights when not armed cap-À-pie. I am perhaps too prone to rely upon my activity; mayhap it were better if I sometimes fought knee to knee." "Do you never practise in full armour?" asked Edgar. "I have never had the opportunity, but again it seemeth to me that as we enter a battle or the lists in full armour, we should make it our chiefest aim to become quite accustomed to its weight and hindrance, and to watching our foes through our vizor-slits. Why leave all that to the day of battle, as so many seem to do?" "Ah! I cannot agree with thee there. Full armour is so irksome that we should never learn the finer strokes of fence. When thou hast felt the weight of it thou wilt the better understand." Edgar felt unconvinced, but did not care to go on with the discussion, as his knowledge of the subject was so slight that he felt far from sure of his ground. So he turned aside and watched the efforts of some of his other comrades as they engaged in gymnastic exercises or practised with various weapons. It was a sight of absorbing interest to him, and the call to supper when it came found him still reluctant to quit the scene. "Come, Edgar, put off thy headpiece and jerkin and join us at the board. I warrant thou wilt pronounce the cheer both good and plentiful, for Sir John hath never stinted us of our victuals. Wilt accompany me?" "Right willingly," cried Edgar, as he threw off his gear and followed the speaker, a sturdy youth named Robert Duplessis, into the next room, where a long table literally groaned beneath the weight of huge rounds of beef and other fare and big jugs of home-brewed ale. Whilst the supper was proceeding, Edgar took an early opportunity of inviting his companion to tell him something of the castle and its inmates. "Oh, as to the castle, thou art easily enlightened," cried Robert readily enough. "'Twas built in John's reign and, as thou hast seen, is strong enough for anything. It lieth not far from St. Albans and but twenty miles from London town. Sometimes we esquires take horse and ride into the city on pleasure bent, and a right good time we enjoy. Thou shouldst make one of our party the next time we ride thither." "The exercises I saw just now, and the encounters with sword and axe--are they all the teaching ye get when Sir John is abroad?" "Nay, nay, we should be sorry esquires were that so. No, twice a week Sir Percy Standish cometh to Wolsingham to give us instruction in the use of our weapons. He doth it out of friendship for Sir John, and lucky indeed are we to have a teacher so able. It is said, however, by some of the pertest of our pages that his visits are less on Sir John's account than because of an attraction amongst his household, but I hold that the report is baseless, seeing that Sir John's elder daughter is but seventeen." "I saw three ladies on the outer walls as I rode up to the gates of the castle," said Edgar. "Doubtless two were Sir John's daughters? Who was the third?" "Oh, she is Sir John's ward, Beatrice d'AlenÇon. She is only fifteen, but is heiress to wide lands in Kent and wider lands in Guienne. She will be greatly in request among the needy nobles when she cometh of age an the prophets mistake not. Even Aymery and Roland dispute one another's claims to wear her gage, and that is why they are so zealous to worst one another in fence. Asses!--when she careth naught for either!" Edgar smiled at the scorn with which Robert spoke. "At any rate," he said, "neither you nor I are likely to dispute the damsel with the twain. I hold such ideas to be rubbish, and far from befitting esquires aspiring to the honour of knighthood. My aim at least is single, and no maiden shall divide it." "Ha! ha! Edgar," laughed Robert, "I should love to hear thee make that declaration in the lady's hearing." Edgar did not care to join in the laugh, and merely shrugged his shoulders and turned the conversation into other channels. He was interested beyond all else in learning the details of his squirehood and how best he might find opportunity to advance himself in it. The other matters that apparently so interested Aymery and Roland had no charms for him. So earnest to succeed, it did not take Edgar long to learn his duties and to make rapid headway with his knowledge of martial accomplishments. The period of the next year or two was to him a time of continuous development. Applying himself with ardour to learn all that appertained to knightly prowess, in six months he had passed several of his comrades in skill and dexterity with arms, and could compel even Aymery Montacute to put out all his strength to worst him. It was then that he gave effect to a resolve half formed in his first talk with Aymery. His opinion at that time was that a knight or esquire should practise clothed in full armour if he desired to show himself at his best on the day of trial. As time went on and his knowledge increased, this opinion deepened into a firm conviction. His comrades, however, as Aymery had done at the first, laughed at the idea, and one or two suggested slyly that perhaps he was becoming tired of the hard knocks he was getting, now that he had worked his way into the front rank and none thought of sparing him. But Edgar cared as little for their ridicule and somewhat ungenerous suggestions as he really did for their hard knocks, and presently appeared at their practices clad in as full a suit of gear as he possessed. The natural result of the change was that his comrades easily worsted him, and from being almost a match for Aymery he passed down the line to Philip Soames, who stood last in order of prowess with the sword. Undismayed, however, by the fall, Edgar set himself to climb back to the position he had lost, and to become once more the equal of Aymery notwithstanding the armour which clogged and weighted his every movement. The labour was heavy and the task most irksome. Edgar was quite determined about it, however, and slowly, bit by bit, won his way upward. One of the greatest difficulties before him was that of getting used to wearing a helmet with vizor closed, and learning to watch his man as keenly and surely through its narrow slits as with the vizor open. Accomplish the task he did, however, and had the satisfaction of knowing that the fierce shock of battle or the exciting moments of the tourney would find him on as familiar ground as in the contests of the gymnasium or the tilts in the castle courtyard. As a result of the heavy and constant exercise and the good fare, his frame expanded and his muscles thickened, and from a sturdy lad of fifteen he grew to be a stalwart youth, strong as most grown men and as hardy as one of his Viking forefathers. After a couple of years of the teaching of Sir Percy Standish, their instructor, Edgar began to long for higher instruction, and for other opponents than his four companions and an occasional visitor from a neighbouring castle. He feared that when the time came for him to be cast into the wider circle of a camp of war, his skill, though it seemed considerable among his comrades at Wolsingham, might be dwarfed into insignificance by the higher skill of esquires from other parts of the country. Casting about for some means of obtaining other and more varied instruction, he made enquiries during one of the visits he and his comrades sometimes paid to the city of London. He then ascertained that there existed two or three schools of arms for the training, chiefly, of the sons of merchants, but oftentimes used by knights and esquires within the city bounds. One of these was pointed out to him as of especial excellence, as it was presided over by a Picard, named Gaspard Verillac, who was much famed for his skill with weapons. The very next day Edgar rode into London alone and called upon Verillac. "I wish to gain some skill in arms," he said, opening the conversation with his usual directness. Gaspard gave his youthful visitor a keen glance. "Thou hast already some skill in arms, if I mistake not," he remarked quietly. "But a little, I fear. I desire to learn much more." "Come into yon chamber. Take sword and engage with me for a few moments. I shall then know the more surely how much or how little thou dost know." Edgar obeyed, and, entering the chamber, eagerly scanned the walls, which were covered with what seemed to be the weapons of all nations. He then selected a sword of nearly the same length and weight as the sharpened weapon he bore strapped to his side. The two fenced together for a minute, and Edgar realized at once how widely his style differed from that of some at least of the world outside his own circle. Gaspard's swordplay was more free and open than he had been used to, and was perhaps rather more adapted for single combat than for pitched encounters. The point was used almost as much as the edge of the blade. "Thou art an esquire and no burgher's son," said Gaspard as he put up his sword. Edgar assented. "Thy skill is already considerable and giveth promise of vastly more. I can make thee a knight of rare skill and address if thou carest to become my pupil." "I will gladly do so," cried Edgar, who was greatly impressed by his new instructor and by the careless ease and power with which he fenced. "Thou wilt not only practise with me but with others of my pupils; and as they are of all ranks and hie from many countries, thou wilt learn to be at home with whomsoever the tide of war may bring thee into conflict. Come now, and I will take thee into the School of Arms." When, some two hours later, Edgar rode back to Wolsingham Castle, he felt well satisfied with the step he had taken. The prospect of adding to his prowess with the sword under the guidance of Gaspard Verillac seemed bright indeed. |
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