THE WINNING OF
THE GOLDEN SPURS

RAYMOND SAVES THE BLACK PRINCE

THE WINNING OF
THE GOLDEN SPURS

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

AUTHOR OF "A LAD OF GRIT," "THE SEA MONARCH,"
"THE TREASURE OF THE SAN PHILIPO," ETC.

LONDON
JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
22 BERNERS STREET, W.
1911

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

[CONTENTS]

THE WINNING OF THE
GOLDEN SPURS

[PROLOGUE]

IT was early morning on the 5th day of August, 1303, the Royal City of Winchester. The sun had not yet risen, but a cold grey light filtered in through a narrow window and dimly illumined a small, scantily-furnished room overlooking the city walls.

Seated on a rough wooden stool, his face buried in his hands, was a young fellow of about twenty years of age. His body swayed with uncontrollable grief, and, though dry-eyed, deep sobs of mingled remorse and despair showed the anguish that rent his body and distracted his mind.

In a corner of the room a torch, burnt low in its iron socket, threw a yellow light that was fast being overmastered by the growing dawn, yet the glimmer was sufficient to play upon the naked blade of a sword, the steel of which was discoloured towards its point by a dull, rust-coloured stain.

Suddenly the sound of a heavy footstep was heard on the stairs. The youth started to his feet and gazed wildly around, as if seeking a place of concealment or some means of escape. He was tall, well formed, and, in spite of his haggard looks, comely of face, and his clothes, though rent and covered with chalk and dust, showed that he was of no mean position.

Realising the impossibility of hiding himself, he stood erect and alert, awaiting the arrival of what he took to be his fate; but, instead of a thundering summons of the officers of the law, there came a gentle rap, and the door was slowly pushed ajar.

"Hist! Art there, Master Revyngton? 'Tis I, Nicholas Hobbes!"

"Enter, Nicholas! Certes I thought 'twas the watch."

The new arrival was a man some few years older than the fugitive. He was clad in a rough leather suit, frayed at elbows and knees, and to which shavings and feathers still clung—a silent witness to his trade of fletcher.

"'Tis a sorry pass, Master Revyngton. How came it about?"

"Ay, that I will say right willingly; but first tell me—how knowest thou that I am here?"

"Easily said! Dick Ford told me that thou wert a fugitive in his house, and asked me to use my scatterbrain wits to find a way to smuggle thee out of the city. That being so, 'twere best I saw thee, and to that purpose I am here. But, again, how came it to pass?"

"Faith! I can scarce say. 'Twas in the meads, yestereven. Young Stephen Scarsdale and Reginald, his brother, were on this side of the stream, I on the nether bank, with Wulf, my favourite hound. 'Ho there!' cried Stephen. 'What meanst thou by trespassing on the ground of my Lord Bishop?' 'I do not trespass,' I replied. 'The Mead hath ever been free to the men of this city, and no one hath yet said me nay.' 'I'll warrant thou art after my Lord Bishop's trout. By the rood, I'll send a bolt through the head of thy lurcher.' 'Thy aim must be more sure than when I beat thee at the butts,' I replied, little thinking but that he spoke in jest, but in answer he levelled his crossbow, and ere I was aware of it poor Wulf was lying transfixed on the ground."

"Then I was seized by a thousand devils, and sprang across the narrow plank bridge to hurl the slayer of my hound into the river, but Stephen, whipping out his blade, bade me do likewise. In less time than it takes to tell our swords crossed, though, mark ye, I meant not to harm him; yet, like a fool, he ran in upon my blade, and 'twas all over in an instant."

"And then?"

"The younger Scarsdale, who is a worthy gentleman compared with his witless brother, tried to stop me as I fled. There was no help for it, so he, too, went down, though I trow he is not much hurt. Hast heard aught of Stephen?"

"Naught save that he is as dead as a door-nail. But, Master Revyngton, 'tis, as I said, a sorry pass. What wilt thou do?"

"Do? Give myself into the hands of the law. What else wouldst thou have me do?"

"Anything but that. Consider! Thou art young and full of life. Why shouldst thou grace a halter if it can be avoided, for, mark well, the Scarsdales are a powerful family, and moreover Stephen was of the Bishop's household. How thinkst thou to make good thy case before thy peers when the weight of title and position is set against thee? Be sober, young master, and think on't."

"Ay, 'tis hard to die thus."

"No need to die at all—at any rate, just yet. Flee the country. France or the States of the Rhine ever offer an attraction for a roving blade, and peradventure in a few years the affair will have blown over."

"But how can I escape?"

"There thou hast me. Where is Dick Ford?"

"Gone to gather tidings. He will be here anon."

Both men relapsed into silence, staring moodily at the narrow window, through which could be seen the battlements of the city gilded by the rising sun, while ever and again came the sweet strains of a lark as it soared heavenwards from the dew-sodden meadows without the walls.

Again came the sound of footsteps, and Dick Ford, the bowyer, entered. He was a short, red-complexioned man, with a cheerful countenance, as if nothing could upset his good nature, though at times his looks belied him, and the worthy citizens of Winchester oft had cause to remember his tongue when it ran riot. Like the fletcher, his appearance betrayed him, for the sharp wittle that hung from his girdle, the daubs of beeswax, and the faint reek of varnish marked his calling as a maker of the famous English longbows.

"A pretty hornet's nest thou hast raised, Master Revyngton," he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Yesternight the city crier called thee at the market-cross, and on the Soke Bridge. The Bishop's Court hath claimed thee, and in default of thy appearance thou wilt be declared outlaw. Furthermore, the gates are doubly guarded, and men are even now in ambush on the road to the sanctuary at St. Cross if so be thou seekest refuge therein. By the saintly Swithun, I trow thou art the most sought-for man in Winton."

"He hath made up his mind, Dick," exclaimed Hobbes. "Better an outlaw with a heavy conscience than a corpse with none at all."

"Ay, let me but get once clear of the city and I'll reck not what I become."

"Bravely spoken, Master Revyngton! And now, how canst thou make good thine escape? Thou canst count on us to a surety, for 'twould ill requite thy father's kindness to us in times past if we let thee fall into the hands of the Bishop's men. Where is thine arrow-wain, Dick?"

"Below, in the barn."

"And laden?"

"Nay, but it soon could be. Wherefore?"

"Place Master Revyngton in the cart and cover him with arrows. 'Tis the day thou journeyest to Bishopstoke and Botley. He would then be well on his way to the abbey at Netley."

"Steady, Dick, steady! Should the guard at Kingsgate search the wain my neck is as good as if fitted with a halter. Yet I'll take the risk; but see to it, young master, if the plan goeth amiss, thou'lt bear me witness that I wot not of thy presence?"

"Ay, good Nicholas. But if they question thee and search the cart I must make a bid for freedom, so stand in the way, and I'll warrant I'll knock thee down just to give colour to the deceit."

"But strike not too hard, Master Revyngton, neither on the face, for I am in no mind to go home to my good wife with my nose awry or mine eyes closed up. A gentle tap, I pray thee—like this—and I'll warrant I'll fall as surely as if I were smitten with the club of the Southampton giant Ascupart."

"After all's said and done," remarked the fletcher, "there may be no need to smite thee, Nick, for 'tis unlikely that they will search thy cart. But the day groweth apace. If it is to be done, the sooner the better, say I."

"Then make a good meal, Master Revyngton," said Hobbes, setting a loaf of brown bread, some cheese, and a jack of ale, "for if not thou'lt feel the want of it ere long. Now set to like a good trencherman, though, being but plain men, our fare is likewise plain. Thou knowest the road?"

"Passably well, save the latter part."

"Then keep close, but not on it if perchance thou art pursued, for it is to Southampton that they'll think thou art bound. Take the by-road to Botley, whence the abbey lies but a league or so away."

While the fletcher and the bowyer were giving advice the younger man did justice to the food; then, at a sign from Ford, his companion stole softly down the rough ladder that did duty as a staircase, and peered cautiously up and down the street. Another moment, and the three men had darted across the narrow road to a small barn, the mutual property of several of the inhabitants of that quarter, and shortly afterwards a rough cart, laden with bundles of newly-feathered arrows, was jolting over the rough stones towards Kingsgate, Nicholas Hobbes leading the sorry nag and whistling a lively air as well as the anticipation of being floored would permit.

"Thou art early abroad, Nick," quoth one of the guards, as he made ready to throw open the heavy door. "There's naught but arrows in thy wain, I take it?"

"What meanest thou?"

"Why, hast heard naught of the slaying of Master Scarsdale, that tall youth belonging to the Bishop's household? Surely thou hast him in mind?"

"Ay, I knew him; is he dead?"

"Where hath been thine eyes and thine ears since yesternoon?"

"I have but small time for gossip, Tom, above all towards the end of the week, when my stock hath to be renewed. But I'll hear the story anon, for time is precious."

The heavy gate swung slowly open, the fletcher called to his horse, and the cart with its living burden moved towards the open country and safety.

"Hold!" cried a hoarse voice. "Tom, thou arrant rascal, wouldst let the cart through unsearched What were thine orders from the captain of the gate?"

And, to the fletcher's terror, a burly man-at-arms came down a flight of steps at the side of the gate, and advanced towards him.

The first soldier sullenly strolled over to the back of the cart, but, suddenly recovering himself, Nicholas Hobbes backed his horse, causing the man to be pinned between the wheel and the stonework of the arch. There was a sudden scattering of the arrows, an indistinct mass hurtling through the air, and the fletcher found himself, as he had foretold, lying prone in the dust. When he sat up the soldiers were calling wildly to the rest of the guard, while a fleeing figure, already growing small in the distance, showed that the fugitive Revyngton was well on his way to freedom.

With the din of the soldiers' shouts still ringing in his ears, Revyngton ran steadily onwards with a long, steady swing, his elbows pressed against his sides, and breathing easily, for he was no mean runner.

Away in front rose the gaunt outline of St. Catherine's Hill, with the square tower of the Hospital of St. Cross, which sanctuary he knew was denied him, slightly to the right. Between ran the swift-flowing river Itchen, and the fugitive realised that he would have to run the gauntlet of the watchers before the sanctuary ere he could reach the ford where the river swept the base of the hill. His way lay through the meadows where, but a few hours ago, he had wandered in blissful, though then unappreciated, freedom, and shudderingly, and with averted face, he raced past the scene of the fatal encounter. Fortunately his local knowledge prevented him from crossing the narrow plank bridge that led solely to a marshy meadow enclosed by two arms of the river, so, keeping close to the shadow of the pollard willows, he held steadily on his way, the babbling of the river as it flowed with sparkling eddies in the bright sunshine sounding like soothing music to the hunted man.

Just as he reached the ford his movements were observed by a party of the officers of the law who had been keeping a toilsome vigil around the outer wall of St. Cross, and a crossbow bolt, shot at a high angle, boomed through the air and buried itself less than twenty yards from him.

There was a general scene of confusion, some of the men running after him afoot, others rushing off to where their horses stood tethered in a clump of trees.

It being the hot season, the river was but ankle-deep at the ford, and, refreshed by the coldness of the water, Revyngton hastened his pace up the long, dusty road towards the hamlet of Twyford. As he ran he could not resist the inclination to look back, and from the elevated position of the highway he could see the whole of the distance betwixt him and the cathedral city.

To his satisfaction he saw that he was more than holding his own with those who pursued afoot, and even now they were giving up the pursuit and the horsemen of the party had not yet started, but away along the city road a number of dark, swiftly-moving objects showed that a troop of mounted soldiers and retainers of the episcopal authorities were rapidly covering the distance between them and their quarry.

The sun, though the morning was yet young, smote down upon him with relentless strength, and there was not the faintest zephyr to cool his heated frame, yet onwards he sped, though the strain of the pursuit was gradually yet surely telling upon him.

Through the almost deserted village of Twyford he ran, one or two of the earlier risers looking with open-mouthed astonishment at the fugitive, while a little way further a black-robed monk gazed amazedly at the approaching man, till, fearing violence, he gathered up his ragged gown and fled across a field at the roadside, his sandals clattering as he ran.

At length, worn out by his exertions, Revyngton reached a spot where a road branched off to his left, while between it and the highway he was following lay a large pond, surrounded by trees and fringed with clusters of reeds. Here he threw himself down on the spongy turf, thrust his head and arms in the limpid water, and lay panting on the grass, oblivious of his danger, till the regular thud of horses' hoofs roused his jaded energies.

Quickly he looked around, and to his joy he perceived the gnarled trunk of a tree that had fallen into a horizontal position over the pond, its branches forming a dark, shady shelter. Silently and swiftly as an eel he plunged into the water, and a few powerful strokes brought him to the friendly refuge. Secure from observation, he drew himself upon a branch and waited the arrival of the horsemen.

In a cloud of dust they appeared—five bronzed men-at-arms, with long, straight swords strapped against their thighs; four lay servants of the Bishop, with hard-set mouths and scowling faces that ill-matched their calling as members of an ecclesiastical house; and three of the city watch, more lightly armed than their companions, carrying crossbows across their backs. Revyngton realised that scant mercy could be expected at their hands.

At a word from their leader the party halted, there was a hurried consultation, and two of the men trotted their horses to the edge of the pond, while the rest resumed their headlong pursuit.

Then Revyngton felt that he stared death in the face, for less than five paces from him were the two soldiers, sitting motionless on their steeds and staring fixedly at the spot where he lay concealed, their reflections being clearly mirrored in the still water. To the fugitive it seemed as if his leafy bower were rent asunder, and that he lay exposed to his pursuers in utter helplessness; but at length, to his great relief, one of the men spoke.

"Why this fool's errand for the sake of a hot-blooded youth? Faith, I am not averse to earning the five marks reward, yet 'tis a useless quest. Far rather would I be in a snug inn, for my throat is as dry as a friar's sermon."

"There's drink for thee," replied the other, indicating the pond with a nod of his steel-capped head.

"Water!" exclaimed the first with an oath; "I like it not, neither inside nor out, to be plain-spoken. Art game to return to Twyford, where the ale is of the best?"

"Give them time to get out of hearing, thou dolt. Why doth the sheriff keep bloodhounds and use them not, eh, Giles?"

"'Twould have been the better way. But now, comrade, let's away!"

Revyngton waited till the sound of their horses' hoofs had died away, then, swimming softly back to the bank, he emerged and resumed his way.

Now the dangers were doubled, for not only had his pursuers placed themselves between him and his refuge, but he knew not but that every bush or hedge concealed a foe. Thus he was compelled to forsake the high road and follow it at some distance away, keeping as close as possible to the shelter of the coppices and dells that formed the chief features of the district.

As he neared the village of Fair Oak he struck the highway between Bishopstoke and the Bishop's hunting lodge at Waltham, and for a long time he lay hidden in the bracken ere the road was free from the seemingly endless cavalcade of huntsmen that journeyed towards the famous Waltham Chase, while hucksters from Southampton and Romsey, intent on doing a good business, were hurrying in the same direction.

At length the opportunity came, and the fugitive darted across the road and gained the fields beyond. Here the nature of the country changed, the ground offering less shelter, but away to the south rose the dark, fir-clad hills that lay close to his goal.

He had now left the Botley road well on his left, and he could perceive the haze of smoke that marked the hollow where the village lay. His clothes were long dried, and the heat was well-nigh unbearable, so, overcoming his fears, he turned aside to a cottage, the thatched roof of which rose amid a thicket. Here he found that another by-road or lane crossed his path, but there was no sign of any one passing; the cottage itself looked deserted.

As the fugitive approached a dog barked, and there was a sound of some one moving about in an outhouse, and to the tortured man the sight of several pails of milk was irresistible. The yelping of the cur brought a woman to the door of the shed, a strong-limbed, coarse-featured creature, with a face lined with innumerable wrinkles and a back bent with years of toil in the fields.

"What lack ye?" she demanded sourly.

"Am I on the right road for the abbey at Netley?"

"Yea. Turn to thy left hand at the cross-roads."

"Also, I prithee, give me a draught of milk."

"Begone, for a worthless clown! Begone, I say, or the dog shall fly at thee," she shrieked, wild with fury; but Revyngton heeded her not, and seizing a small earthenware pitcher, drained its contents, then turning on his heel, he resumed his fearsome journey.

"Haste, Tom, run up to the village and get help!" shouted the woman. "'Tis a gadabout churl, or a riever, or worse," and as the fugitive ran he heard the farm-servant making off towards Botley, while the woman unloosed the dog.

Ere Revyngton had gone a bowshot from the cottage the cur was barking and yelping at his heels, showing its teeth, but fearing to close, till at length it drew off, leaving the man to wonder at the churlishness of the hard-faced woman compared with the reception of wayfarers on his father's manor in Devon, where meat and drink were ever at the disposal of even the most humble stranger.

At the brow of the hill he saw the tower of the abbey amid the trees a mile or more away, with the beautiful expanse of Southampton Water as a fitting background to the peaceful scene. Yet the fugitive had neither time nor inclination to appreciate the natural surroundings; to him the abbey meant rest and safety, and with renewed hope he sped towards the monastic buildings.

Weary and footsore he reached the outer door, his senses reeling with the effects of his exertions. Seeing his plight the porter gave him wine, and sent a lay brother to summon the abbot.

As the venerable head of the establishment appeared, Revyngton raised himself with an effort and knelt before him.

"Thy blessing, father."

"Benedicite, my son; what wouldst thou?"

"Sanctuary, father."

The abbot shook his head sorrowfully.

"'Tis not permitted, my son; such blessed privileges belong only to our parent abbey at Beaulieu and to the Hospital of St. Cross. I trow there is no other within the jurisdiction of the Lord Bishop of Winchester. What crime bast thou committed?"

"I slew a man in anger, and even now my pursuers are hard at my heels."

The abbot turned to a lay brother.

"Tell Brother Balthazar to repair to the tower and to quickly bring me word if any soldiers appear." Then to the fugitive he added, "Confess thy sin and seek God's pardon; then perchance the means of thy earthly salvation may be vouchsafed to thee. Follow me, my son."

To the venerable abbot Revyngton told the whole of the circumstances of the case; then, having eased his soul, the abbot took care to relieve his body, causing food and drink to be set before him, while a brother washed his cut and travel-worn feet.

"Thou must make for the Abbey of the Blessed Mary at Beaulieu, where thou shalt find sanctuary. Knowest thou the way?"

"Nay, father," replied the man, sad at heart at the prospect of another journey at the peril of his life.

"Then listen, my son. Two of the brethren will take thee across the arm of the sea that thou canst see yonder. Thence it is but an hour's sharp travel across the heath to the abbey, the path being well worn by reason of many of the brethren who travel thereby. There are three ways from the spot where thou wilt land the one on the left hand goeth towards Fawley and the town of Lepe, the one on the right to the village of Hythe, but the way thou must take goeth neither right nor left, but leads towards the sun just before the hour of vespers——Ah! What is thy message, my son?"

The last question was addressed to a novice, who, panting breathlessly, was standing in the doorway with folded arms and bent head, awaiting the abbot's pleasure.

"Horsemen, father; a score or more have appeared on the hill and are making towards the abbey."

"Then summon Brother Angelique and Brother Petrox. Hasten, for 'tis no season for leisure."

Quickly the two brethren—tall, gaunt, yet sinewy men, with faces and arms tanned a deep red by reason of their calling as boatmen of the abbey—answered the behest, and with the reverence due to their superior awaited his commands.

"Take this man across and put him fairly on his way to our parent abbey. Tarry not on thy journey, for the matter is urgent."

"Is it thy wish, father, to land him at Ashlett or Cadland?" asked one of the monks.

"At Cadland, should the tide prove aright. Now, my son," he added to the refugee, "take mine earnest blessing and go, and may the blessed Saints Mary and Edward, the patrons of our abbey, be with thee."

There was little time to lose, for already the horsemen were within two bow-shots of the abbey, and with a loud clatter of sandals the two monks led the way, Revyngton following closely at their heels, the brethren of the abbey speeding him on his way with prayers and cries of encouragement.

At the end of a little causeway a boat, broadbeamed and lofty of head and stem, rode on the little wavelets. With a sign Brother Petrox motioned the fugitive to step aboard, then unfastening the rope that held the craft to the quay, he followed Brother Angelique and pushed off.

Both monks rolled the sleeves of their gowns above their elbows, seized the two heavy ash oars, and rowed with a will, Revyngton sitting on a rough fishing-tray at the stern of the boat and drinking in the cool sea breezes. The rush of events had well-nigh bewildered him, and listlessly he watched the rhythmical motion of the sinewy arms as the rowers urged the boat towards the opposite shore.

Suddenly his reveries were broken by an exclamation from one of the monks. "They follow us; pull thy hardest!"

Revyngton turned and looked astern. From the place they had left but a quarter of an hour before half a score of men were dragging a heavy boat down the steep beach.

"By the blessed Peter, my holy namesake," groaned one of the monks, "I had overlooked that, and the oars are in the boat. See, already they have launched it."

"'Tis after all but a crare."

"With a crew of lusty fellows to make amends for its weight. The saints forfend them!"

"Let us trust that they cannot handle the sails, for, mark well, the wind bloweth fair."

The rowers relapsed into silence, and with long, heavy strokes, that seemed far too slow to the hunted fugitive, they resolutely and unfalteringly lessened the distance betwixt them and the nether shore. The hour of noon had already passed, and the sun's rays attained a greater strength than they had previously in the day, yet, though streaming with moisture, the monks laboured in their efforts to shake off their pursuers.

"We hold our own," muttered one over his shoulder.

"Nay, I doubt it; but we must needs make for Ashlett Creek, for the other channel is yet uncovered."

Accordingly the boat's head was turned towards a distant opening in the mud-fringed shore, and the pursuing craft followed suit, thereby gaining considerably on the fugitive, who could now distinguish the dress of the men.

"They overtake us," quoth he, speaking for the first time since the abbey gates had closed behind him. "See, a bowman makes ready!"

Gradually the distance between the boats lessened, but the monks' craft was now close to the creek, and Revyngton saw in front an apparently closed-in basin surrounded by a high bank of slimy mud. A few more strokes and the boat was within the creek, which wound its sinuous way up to the shore, while the little waves caused by their rapid motion through the water lapped the sides of the narrow channel.

Just as they were about to round the first bend the bowman let loose, and an arrow sung over their heads and struck the mud with a dull swish. Revyngton instinctively bent his head, but his companions, though men of peace, barely took notice of the deadly shaft.

"Safe for the time," commented Brother Angelique, as the boat shot behind a sheltering bank.

"But how about thy safety?" asked the fugitive.

"By St. Edward, 'tis not to be thought of," replied the monk, thrusting back his sleeve, which in his exertions had slipped down. "They seek not us."

"But thou hast aided a fugitive from justice."

"Nay, that I wot not of. Besides, how am I to know that these men are the officers of justice They might well be but water-pikers for aught I know.... Oh!"

An exclamation of pain interrupted his words, for an arrow, shot haphazard from the bend of the creek over the intervening bank, had pierced his forearm betwixt elbow and wrist, while another shaft trembled with its head buried in the thwart.

"On, Brother Petrox! On! 'Tis but a small matter," he gasped, and as the other monk seized his companion's oar, the wounded man, shutting his eyes tightly, snapped off the head of the arrow with his free hand and drew the broken shaft from the wound.

A gush of blood followed, but the brave monk, gripping the wounded member to stop the crimson flow, never ceased to urge the rower to greater effort, while ever and again a shaft shot by their still invisible pursuers flew perilously close to their heads.

At length the boat grounded on the hard bed of the channel, and Brother Petrox called to Revyngton to jump out. Wading through the shallow water the two started for the shore, leaving the wounded monk calmly seated in the deserted craft.

From the mud hovels of the village of Ashlett wimpled women and rough-haired children looked interestedly at the two runners, the layman in his travel-stained apparel and the monk in his sombre garb. Men there were none, for the hours of toil had called them to the fields or out on the waters, where they sought a livelihood by fishing; but had there been, the sight of the two speeding along would hardly have excited anything but curiosity in the minds of these dull-witted sons of the soil.

"I can go with thee no farther," panted the monk, as they reached the cross-roads. "Follow yonder path, and God be with thee." And as Revyngton sped onwards towards the rolling expanse of purple heather, he saw the solitary figure of his benefactor waving encouragingly towards the distant and invisible goal.

Settling down to a steady pace, the fugitive kept doggedly on his way, his eyes fixed on a distant clump of trees that marked the brow of the hill overlooking the valley of the Exe where lay the abbey.

Narrower and narrower became the road, till it deteriorated into a mere footpath, the prickly gorse encroaching on either side and hurting his feet as he ran. Yet, spurred onward by renewed hope, his strength seemed well-nigh inexhaustible.

Suddenly, from behind a low heather-clad hillock at the side of the road, four wild-looking men sprang up and barred his progress.

"Hold, stranger!" shouted one, brandishing a club. "Whither goest thou? Hast aught in thy scrip that we would relieve thee of, for the lighter thou art the easier thou'lt run."

"I have nothing in the world. Let me pass, I pray; 'tis a matter that brooks no delay."

"Nay, not so fast, young master. What is thine errand?"

"My errand?" replied Revyngton, with a mirthless laugh. "I seek sanctuary."

"Art without the pale of the law?"

"Of that there is little doubt."

"Then throw in thy lot with us. A free life in the forest glades, with many a weighty scrip to balance the lightness of our minds, is better than being cooped up in yonder monastery."

The fugitive shook his head.

"Nay, 'tis not to my liking."

"Neither is the other, I trow, but look!"

Following the direction of his hand, Revyngton saw coming over the brow of a distant hill which he had crossed but a short while ago a number of his pursuers. Three had procured horses, while the rest, some five in number, ran by their side, holding on to the stirrups to aid their speed.

Instantly the robbers vanished into the tangle of bracken, leaving the fugitive alone on the narrow path, and once again he broke into a headlong pace, his pursuers thundering along but three arrow-flights behind him.

Fortunately the unevenness of the path prevented the horsemen from riding their hardest, and when at length Revyngton, exhausted and faint, reached the brow of the hill, he saw that the situation was still in his favour. Blindly plunging onwards, with laboured breathing and aching sides, he ran down the hill, at the foot of which clustered the extensive buildings of the abbey.

Through a gap in the trees on his left he caught a glimpse of the silvery river as it wound in majestic splendour towards the sea, but to the hunted man the beauty of the scene was lost; all that concerned him was the thought of the possibility of being overtaken ere he could cover the last stretch of dusty road.

He was dimly conscious of hearing a crash behind him, and of looking round for one brief moment, thereby catching a glimpse of two of the horsemen mingled in utter confusion on the rough path. And still the sound of the rapidly approaching hoofs of the remaining horse thudded in his ears.

Now he had gained the angle of the abbey wall. The gate, with its massive iron knocker, was within his grasp. The noise of the footfalls of the pursuer's steed ceased; there was a sharp hiss, and an arrow pierced the fugitive's leg just above the knee. Then, with a final effort, he thundered at the portal, and, as his head swam and his limbs gave way under him, he was dimly aware that he was surrounded by a group of grey-robed figures. He had found sanctuary.

[CHAPTER I]
THE ARCHER, REDWARD BUCKLAND

IT was early morning in the month of August, 1338, so early that the slanting rays of the sun still lit up the north side of the Norman church of St. Andrew, and cast a shadow seven times its height across the dew-soaked meadows.

Betwixt the high ground where stood the church and the narrow creek, known as the Hamble River, clustered the mud-walled and thatched-roof houses of the village of Hamble-le-Rice. Away to the north could be traced the course of the tree-fringed creek till it lost itself behind a range of low hills, while in the other direction lay the estuary of the river, where it mingled itself with the salt waves of Southampton Water, which, in its turn, was backed by the dark, dense masses of trees that formed that tract of country so well known in history and romance—the New Forest.

Peaceful, indeed, was the situation of this quiet little Hampshire village, and peaceful also was the general existence of its inhabitants. Situated on an out-of-the-way angle, far from the old Roman highway that led from Clausentum to Portchester, and at that period, as now, formed the highway between Southampton and Portsmouth, Hamble village was all but cut off from the rest of the world. Save for an occasional visit by the grey-robed monks from the Priory of St. Mary and St. Edward at Netley, a chance journey of a huckster or Chapman from Southampton or Winchester fairs, or the unpreventable arrival of some vessel driven by stress of weather to shelter in the estuary, strangers in the village were few and far between.

Slow in thought, slower in speech, and backward in giving or taking offence, yet terrible when roused to anger, the Hamble folk were typical examples of the mediaeval English peasant whose descendants have made history in all parts of the globe.

For years past the social condition of England had been in a deplorable state. The strife between King Edward II. and De Spenser on the one hand, and Queen Isabella and Mortimer on the other, had encouraged lawlessness in all grades of society. Robbers, thieves, murderers, and criminals of all kinds had multiplied to an enormous degree, and were openly protected by the great barons, as being useful tools in their hands. Guilds, founded for self-protective measures, became instruments of oppression, and, generally speaking, every man looked solely to his own interest.

But in the village of Hamble there was little to ruffle the even tenor of its existence. Little did it matter whether the seamen of Southampton had a feud with the men of the Cinque Ports, or whether the monks of Beaulieu or Netley had a difference with the Bishop of Winchester; but should a strange craft appear in the river, or a band of marauders attempt to swoop down from the leafy fastnesses of Waltham Chase, 'twas only necessary to ring the great bell of St. Andrew's, and instantly the peaceful villagers would be turned into an angry array of armed men, ready to sell their lives dearly in defence of their hearths and homes.

But the time was at hand when Englishmen would have to sink their differences and unite against a common foe. Edward III. had laid claim to the throne of France, and, though the stake was a great one, the enterprise was popular, inasmuch as the possibilities of individual gain in the shape of plunder held out great inducements to all classes of these island warriors.

On this particular morning early a man emerged from one of the houses on the outskirts of the village, which, by reason of being built of stone and being fair-sized, betokened that its owner was a man of position—as far as the place was concerned. The house lay some two hundred yards away from the rest, occupying the summit of an even-crested ridge, and was surrounded by a palisade of stout pointed stakes, that afforded complete protection against the attacks of any ordinary band of adventurers.

The man was a tall, well-made individual, with a bronzed face surmounted by a thick crop of reddish hair, and partially concealed by a heavy beard, that grew high upon his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows helped to further conceal his face, but any one could see from the grey glint of his blue eyes that the profusion of hair covered a comely countenance.

A well-worn leather jerkin, that had once been of a vivid red colour, but was now nearly black with hard usage, failed to conceal the mighty expanse of his chest, while the short sleeves of the garment fitted tightly over the gnarled muscles of his arms. His lower limbs were also covered by leathern hose, which, by reason of exposure to salt water and the rough wear and tear of daily toil, were now colourless and frayed till all semblance of dressed leather was lacking. His legs, however, though of great size, did not betoken an equality with the strength of his arms, and, moreover, he walked with a slight limp.

A crimson scarf, bound tightly round his head, did duty for a head-dress, while from a narrow black belt hung a short dagger on his right side, counterbalanced by a leather purse or pouch on his left.

Over his shoulder he bore a pair of long ash oars, their blades still covered with a deposit of dry mud, while in his left hand he carried a six-foot yew-bow, which, unstrung, was as straight as a lance.

Redward Buckland, for such was his name, was not a Hamble man in the strict sense of the word, yet so good-natured and easy-going was he, so upright in his dealings, and withal a man of such great bodily strength, that he was a popular member of the little community.

Of his past he said little, and was asked but little. He had been master bowman in a company, had served against the Scots at Bannockburn, with the Gascons in their feudal bickerings, and there was hardly a castle in Normandy, Maine, Touraine, Anjou, Poitou, or Limousin that he did not know.

Eleven years prior to the time of this story he suddenly appeared at Hamble, bringing with him his son Raymond, then a child five years of age. Men often talked of their coming; the bowman, in rusty brigandine and dented headpiece, the boy, a lusty, laughing youngster, perched on his shoulder, a wain jogging behind with a heavy load of rich stuff—booty from many a foreign part—the like of which had never before been seen in Hamble.

Thereupon he purchased a farmhouse, and settled down with the intention of passing the rest of his days in comfort. Being a highly religious man—though, like most of his companions in arms, he could swear roundly at times—Redward Buckland acted in accordance with the custom of the times. Four marks and a seven-pound candle of pure wax he gave to the priory at Netley, and a gold-embroidered cloth to the church of St. Andrew at Hamble.

These presents he accounted sufficient atonement and thank-offering alike for delinquencies and deliverances from peril during his sojourn abroad, and thence-forth he meant to live a quiet, well-ordered life, though, unable to resist the call to arms, he had served in short campaigns against the Scots, and had but a year previously crossed the Channel to take part in the Battle of Cadsand. Yet Hamble was his home, and to Hamble he returned as soon as each particular expedition had ended.

Raymond Buckland, now a lad of sixteen, had little in common with his father as far as appearance went. He was tall, slim, yet well-knit, with curly flaxen hair, though the colour had a redeeming tinge of reddish-gold that is necessary to impart a warmth to what would otherwise be a lustreless head of hair. He moved with a grace and ease that contrasted vividly with his father's comparatively awkward gait, but his limbs were not wanting in strength.

A vigorous outdoor life had done much to develop his frame. Mentally Raymond was well educated, according to the standard of the age, having but recently returned from the Cistercian priory at Netley, where for the last seven years he had been a novice. His long intercourse with a monastic life had somewhat deadened his natural inclinations, but since his return to the outside world the active delights of youth seemed sweeter still.

"Hasten, Raymond," said his father, pausing to look back towards the house, where the youth still lingered. "The young flood hath just begun, and tide tarries for no man! And," he added, "fail not to bring my quiver with the black-feathered arrows."

"And can I bring my crossbow?" inquired Raymond.

His father gave a gruff yet good-natured assent, and, resuming his walk, sauntered gently towards the river.

Before he had passed the church Raymond had overtaken him, carrying the quiver in his left hand, while across his back was slung a short yet powerful crossbow, his own quiver with its stock of heavy quarrels hanging from his belt.

"Ha! That crossbow again!" exclaimed Redward, in good-natured contempt. "'Tis strange that an English boy should lean towards a windlac-drawn weapon rather than a sturdy yew-bow. An thou wert a Provençal or Genoese I could have understood it."

"Why, father?"

"Why, forsooth! Thou wert made a sturdy Englishman, with sinews and muscles wherewith to bend an honest longbow—not to have to turn a handle, like a butter-making wench, ere the bolt can be shot. And, moreover, suppose thou wert matched against an archer; before thy weapon were levelled I'll warrant there would be a dozen cloth-yard shafts bristling in thine hide—though one would be enough, I trow!"

"But the Genoese?"

"The Genoese, my son, were ever underhanded fighters, preferring to cause a gaping wound with a quarrel rather than a wholesome hole with an arrow. 'Tis said that on more than one occasion the Pope hath forbidden the use of the crossbow, and that the Second Lateran Council, a hundred years ago, did likewise."

"How, then, do we find the crossbow still in use?"

"I cannot tell, Raymond, save it be the natural perversity of men. But here we are at the shore."

They had passed through the village, between rows of thatched cottages. Smoke was already beginning to issue from the hole in the roof that did duty for a chimney, showing that the inhabitants were early astir. The narrow road plunged sharply down to the mud-fringed shores of the river, for the tide was low, and long flats of treacherous slime extended almost from bank to bank, save for a channel of deep water midway between.

With the air of a man who is thoroughly acquainted with the place, Redward Buckland followed an almost invisible path—termed throughout uncountable ages a Hard—that led across the mud flats to the edge of the water, Raymond treading carefully at his heels. At the end of the Hard lay a large, bluff-bowed boat, and, pulling the craft ashore by a length of rope, the archer tossed the oars into it and beckoned to his son to jump on board.

"Whither are we going, father?" asked Raymond, as his sire pushed off, stepped awkwardly into the boat, and began to haul on board the heavy stone that served as an anchor.

"Up the river to Botley, my son there to see Master Nicholas Hobbes."

"And who is he?" rejoined Raymond with the inquisitiveness of youth.

"Master Hobbes, of the city of Winton, is a fletcher, and his arrows are well known as the very best in the country. Also he brings with him a stock of bows made by Master Ford, whose fame as a bowyer extends well beyond the borders of Hamptonshire."

"But why buy arrows, father; surely thou canst make thine own?"

"Ah, Raymond! Raymond!" replied his father, shaking his head doubtfully, "thou hast yet to learn that though I could fashion mine own weapons, yet custom demands that I get them from a member of the honourable guild of bowyers and fletchers. Didst ever hear of a belted knight welding his own coat of mail?"

The boy, in truth, had yet to learn of the existence of the powerful guilds, or combinations of trades, which, founded for the purpose of self-protection against the rapacity of the barons and the lawlessness of their retainers, became strong enough to be regarded with respect by these turbulent personages. As the guilds grew they obtained charters from their sovereign, till they reached a state that enabled them to deal harshly with those without the pale. Thus, for instance, any man following the occupation of a tanner "not being free"—i.e. made a member of a guild—was amerced, or fined, or even subjected to corporal punishment.

Urged by the archer's long, powerful strokes the boat shot up-stream with the tide, passing between steeply rising banks, where the freshly leafed trees cast dark shadows across the verdant fields. Raymond sat on the stern-thwart, looking with silent admiration on the scene, for, as far as he could remember, it was his first experience of a journey by water.

At length they came to a place where on the western side a smaller creek joined the river. Redward rested on his oars and looked towards the mud banks, which were even now nearly covered by the rising water.

"We have hurried apace," he remarked, "and 'tis even too soon to go right up to the town. This is called Badnam Creek, and, by St. George, I'll wager we'll find some waterfowl amongst the reeds. Take thy crossbow, Raymond, and I'll pit my six-foot bow against it."

Eagerly the boy took his weapon and wound the windlac till the highly-drawn string clicked against the catch. Then he fitted a bolt, and, having done so, turned to watch his sire's movements. The archer had already notched the cord, and the bow, with a couple of arrows, lay on the thwart by his side.

"Steady, my son!" exclaimed the archer in alarm. "Be careful where thou pointest that hell-designed toy. 'Tis bad enough to have a foeman's shaft through one leg without having mine own son's bolt through the other. Hold it over the side, I pray thee!"

The boat was run amid a cluster of reeds, and the twain waited silently and eagerly for some sign of feathered life. They were not kept long in suspense, for from a marsh hard by came two wild geese, their necks extended and their wings flapping noisily as they flew.

"Quick, Raymond!" whispered his father, "loose directly they are overhead!"

In his excitement the youth sprang to his feet, and poised his crossbow.

But alas for his inexperience! Unaccustomed to the swaying of the boat he lost his balance and fell backwards across the thwart; his crossbow twanged, and with a deep humming sound the quarrel flew aimlessly into space.

In a moment Raymond raised himself into a sitting position, only to see his father loose his second arrow.

"And thou hast missed also!" he exclaimed in a tone of reproach.

"Peace, lad; wait and see!"

The birds still continued their passage, one gliding with wings outstretched, the other still beating the air with redoubled haste; then, even as they looked, both birds swayed in their flight, and fell into the water within two score paces of each other.

Without further remark Redward pushed the boat clear of the reeds, and rowed towards his spoil. One of the geese was still transfixed by an arrow, the other's neck had a small wound, showing that the shaft had passed completely through it.

"Another groat gone!" exclaimed the archer, ruefully contemplating the bird that had failed to stop the arrow. "But that was a grand shot of thine, Raymond, I trow," he added in a bantering tone; "'twas not learned of the monks of Netley?"

Then, observing a flush of mortification overspread the boy's features, he continued, "Never mind, my son, even the best archer in the kingdom would be at a loss in a small boat at first."

Presently they rounded an abrupt spur of land on their left, and came to a spot where the creek narrowed considerably, being enclosed by lofty hills on either side. A broad white road descended these hills to the water's edge, where it was broken by the flowing tide. A rough wooden hut, with a large open boat close at hand, marked the spot where wayfarers were ferried across to the opposite side, where a horn, chained to a post, was blown as a signal to attract the ferryman.

"This is the road 'twixt Southampton and Portsmouth," said the archer, indicating the dusty streak by a nod of his head. "At Bursledon, on this side, is the fortalice of the Hewitts, though from here 'tis hidden by the trees. On the other side is Swanwick Shore, whence come some of the best mariners who man the cogs of Southampton. But, mark ye! Here comes a great company of armed men; by St. Etienne of Tours, it makes my heart glad to hear the clatter of harness once more! I wonder under whose banners they march?"

And resting on his oars, Redward Buckland shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun, and peered steadfastly up the hill where the white road was now alive with men, a grey cloud of dust hanging over them like a marsh mist in autumn, through which the Cross of St. George blazoned on the white surcoats of the archers stood out bravely against the dark foliage.

When the vanguard reached the foot of the hill, a bowshot from where the watchers sat in their little craft, a tucket sounded and the company halted.

Then Redward's accustomed eyes lighted upon their banner, which bore a golden half-moon on an azure field, and unable to contain himself, he stood upright, waving his cap in boisterous delight.

"By Our Lady, 'tis as I thought—the company of the Governor of Portchester! Haste we to the shore, Raymond, that I may welcome mine old comrades!"

[CHAPTER II]
THE SHADOW OF WAR

A FEW strokes and the boat's keel grated on the shingle. Redward sprang out, hastily secured the craft, and strode towards the crowd of armed men, Raymond following closely at his heels.

Again a tucket sounded, and the ranks broke, most of the archers throwing themselves down by the roadside, as if weary of foot; the mounted men-at-arms led their horses to the grassy glades of the wood, while a couple of squires rode towards the water's edge to summon the ferryman.

On reaching the outskirts of the throng the old archer looked around to try and recognise some of his former comrades; nor did he look in vain.

"Red Buckland, by the Rood!" exclaimed a bronzed and bearded man-at-arms, seizing him vigorously by the hand. "Right glad am I to see thee again. Ho, Giles, Wat, Dick!" he shouted to some of his comrades, "come hither and greet an old friend!"

The pair were instantly surrounded by a mob of archers—burly, bearded men, rough in speech and coarse in manner, yet full-hearted, honest soldiers, the backbone of the feudalism of mediaeval England.

Raymond stood at the edge of the circle of men, gazing open-mouthed at the unusual sight and listening with youthful eagerness, not unmixed with feelings of awe, as the archers talked, fighting their battles o'er again, or discussed their future movements.

"'Twill be Francewards again ere long," remarked one, a man-at-arms, who, having removed his headpiece, disclosed a close crop of hair furrowed by a long white mark, the legacy of a Norman's axe. "Word came yesternight that we had to repair to Hampton to join the army that the King leads across the Channel."

"Would I were with you, comrades," said Redward, wistfully gazing on the accoutrements of the troops, the sight of which roused old memories of camp and battlefield.

"And wherefore not," replied another. "There's more to be made in a week's march in France than ten years' delving in Merry England. Ay, and I'll warrant that ere long there'll be nought but old men, women, and babes left to guard our hearths."

"Then I must be reckoned amongst the old men," replied Redward, with a mirthful laugh. "Though, methinks, at two score and fifteen years, I am not yet too aged to strike a shrewd blow or to receive hard knocks!"

"Then why tarry?"

"Didst ever have a son, Dickon?"

"Nay," replied the man, shaking his head. "Neither kith nor kin have I in this world, save my comrades."

"Then thou knowest not how a man's whole being can be wrapped up in his child. I have a son—he stands yonder. How could I leave him—a boy of sixteen—to fare for himself while I follow the banners of England in foreign parts?"

"But thou hast done so aforetimes?"

"Ay, but then the boy was in safe keeping in the abbey of Netley. Now that he is too old, seeing that it is my wish and his desire not to remain within the priory walls, I must needs stay with him."

"Red Buckland, thou art becoming chicken-hearted in thine old age. The boy—a lusty youth he looks—cannot remain with thee for ever," argued the soldier. "Now, what say you; join our company once again, and bring him with thee? Methinks there are many such, nay, even younger and of less frame and brawn, who have already set out for the wars. Come, now; again I ask thee, wilt join?"

"Dickon, thou dost press me hard so that I can scarce refuse. Yet no answer will I give till I have spoken with my boy."

At that moment a trumpet sounded, and the men stood to their arms, forming up in two lines on either side of the road. The archers, armed with short swords or axes in addition to the deadly longbow, faced the men-at-arms, who, protected with breastplate, iron helmet, gorget and greaves, grasped their twelve-foot spears, gazing steadfastly in front as their leader rode slowly between the lines.

Sir John Hacket, Constable of the King's Castle at Portchester, and Governor of the Town of Portsmouth (to give him his official title), was then in his fortieth year, yet, from the effects of campaigning under exceptional circumstances in all parts of Western Europe, he looked considerably older, his hair being a snowy white, contrasting vividly with his brick-red complexion.

He was accoutred cap-à-pie in banded mail with aillettes, rerebraces, vambraces, and roundels, his richly embroidered surcoat being emblazoned with his arms.

By his left side hung a long falchion, while over the right hip was the misericorde, or dagger, with which a knight demanded his dismounted adversary's surrender or else gave him a coup de grâce.

On his head he wore a flat cap of crimson velvet, his steel bascinet being carried by a squire; while a mounted man-at-arms bore his lance.

As he proceeded between the lines of armed men, noting with undisguised satisfaction their martial bearing, Sir John's glance fell upon Redward and his son as they stood, with a knot of spectators from the neighbouring village, a little way behind the archers.

"Certes," he cried to one of his attendant squires, "'tis my old master-bowman! Bring him hither."

Thus Redward, with doffed cap, found himself once again before his beloved chief.

"Ah, Buckland, I see the blood of a good old stock still flows in thy veins," he said, after questioning him over various matters pertaining to his welfare, "I trust I shall see thee again under my banner anon!" And setting spurs to his charger the knight rode to the edge of the river, leaving the old archer tormented with thoughts of the rival claims of home and camp.

The work of transporting the detachment across the Hamble river proceeded apace, the whole of the operations being under the personal supervision of the Constable; and, true to the usages of warfare, the task was carried out in strictly military fashion.

First a vanguard of archers and men-at-arms was ferried across, the party taking up an extended formation on the opposite shore. Then came the main body, with the mounted men-at-arms, the horses being conveyed across in a large flat-bottomed boat. Leaving only a rear-guard, Sir John and his personal attendants then crossed, and finally the rear-guard followed, leaving Redward Buckland and his son gazing wistfully after them from the other shore.

"Heart alive, Raymond," said his father. "We, too, must be on the move, for the tide will not serve much longer." And pushing off, they turned the boat's head up-stream and continued their journey.

"Didst hear what the archers said but now?" inquired Redward, resting on his oars, and looking doubtfully at his son, as if half afraid that the fighting strain would not manifest itself.

"Ay, father!"

"And what thinkest thou?"

"I would go Francewards with thee."

"Heaven be praised, my son! I was afraid that the monks of Netley had made thee fitted for nought but a life within a monastery; yet thou wouldst do well to ponder over this matter, for a life midst the sound of arms is not lightly taken up. Thou hast seen but little of the world, and look only on the glowing side of a soldier's life. The risks and hardships of forced marches, famine, sickness, ay, and possibly defeat, cannot be lightly put aside, though, when once passed, one is apt to look back upon them as but trifling adventures."

"Nevertheless, I would fain go to France and fight for our King to help him in his just enterprise."

Poor Raymond! little did he think that there would be fighting in plenty in store for him ere he set foot on French soil!

There were nearly four miles to be covered ere their destination was reached, and, though favoured by the tide, the work of pulling a heavy boat began to tell even on the hardy frame of the archer, so, in reply to Raymond's entreaty to be allowed to take the oars, his sire consented and relinquished the heavy sticks.

But his son's attempt at rowing failed to please his exacting father, especially when the blades threw up showers of spray under the vigorous yet inexperienced efforts of the young man.

"Steady, Raymond! I would fain arrive at Botley with a dry skin, and methinks, a little less strength would avail better! Put thy back into it, my boy, rather than thine arms—so! I call to mind when I rowed down the Scheldt in a pitch-dark night, when the splash of an oar or the creaking of a thole would have loosened a hail of arrows from five hundred archers on either bank."

"Tell me about it, father?"

"Nay, lad; the story will keep. But look ahead. Dost mark a row of black posts standing above the water on yonder side?"

Raymond looked.

"Yes; but what are they?"

"All that is left of what was once a Danish galley, the scourge of our shore. There she lies, much the same as when burned by the great Alfred, now five hundred years or more ago. May a like fate befall every foreign craft that comes to harry our coasts!"

Soon the channel became yet narrower, till the trees on the opposite banks met overhead. Redward had resumed the oars, and bend after bend of the river soon slipped past.

"There's Botley Mill," said he, pointing to a low building, thatched-roofed and enclosed by walls of timber and mud, while above the rustle of the trees could be heard the dull roar of the stream as it swept under the water-wheel.

At a landing-place close to the road they left the boat and walked up a short, steep incline to where the houses of the town encompassed the market-place.

"Ah, there is Master Hobbes," said Redward, indicating a short, full-bodied man, clad in a suit of green cloth, who, surrounded by a crowd of yeomen and villagers, was disposing of his stock of arrows to the accompaniment of the latest news of the city of Winchester, and the prospects of the war against the French.

"Ho, gossip!" cried the archer. "Hast aught of thy stock left for me?"

"Ay, Master Buckland," replied the other, "'twould be an evil day for me if I failed to supply the good folk of Hamble with arrows—particularly thy noble self," he added with a servile bow.

"Tut! tut!" growled the archer deprecatingly. "A truce to such compliments. These the arrows? A goodly bundle! But—stand aside with me a moment—how fares it with him?" he added in a mysterious manner.

"As before no better, though perchance a trifle worse!"

"But has he ceased to——"

"Nay, nay! Far from it."

"Ah!" muttered the archer moodily, "'tis as I feared, though not for myself. Then, perchance he has had tidings?"

"That I cannot say."

"That being so, Nick, I had best be on the move overseas, under Sir John Hacket's banner once again. That I'll do, and take Raymond with me! Thanks, good Master Hobbes," he added in a louder tone. "'Tis as I said before, a goodly bundle. God speed you!"

And taking the arrows from the fletcher's hand, Redward called to his son to follow him and strode rapidly back to the boat.

During the return journey Raymond noticed that something was amiss. His sire relapsed into a stony silence, treating any question with an unusual disregard that showed that his thoughts were far away. This puzzled Raymond, and he strove to find some reason for this unlooked-for reticence, the reference to the mysterious "he" which he had overheard persistently coming uppermost in his mind. Yet never a word on the subject did the boy let fall, and it was in no little bewilderment that he followed his father from the Hard back to the house on the hill-top.

The interior of Buckland's home was plainly yet well furnished after the style of the age. Glass in the windows there was none, oiled linen doing duty for that then costly material. The floor of the living-room was strewn with rushes, the walls hung with woven material and skins of animals. Portions of armour such as were worn by men-at-arms, a few bucklers, and a medley of arms also found places on the walls, while in a corner was a bundle of bows and two cases of arrows. In the centre was a log fire, the sweet-smelling reek of the pine logs finding its way through a hole in the roof. The sleeping apartment opened out of this room, the building being but one-storeyed.

As darkness set in Redward secured the doors with a massive bar of wood, heaped more logs on the fire, and lighted a couple of rushlights.

His fit of depression had passed, and he resumed his usual cheerfulness of manner. Going into one of the adjoining rooms he caught hold of a huge oak chest, which, in spite of his strength, took all the power at his command to move. At length the chest was dragged across the threshold into the larger room; then, sitting down on a settle, the archer breathlessly gazed upon it with evident satisfaction.

"Since it is fated that we go to the wars together," said he, "'tis fitting that thou shouldst be properly attired and armed. Let us see what this chest will provide."

And, unlocking a strange yet strongly made clasp, Redward threw open the lid, and for a moment the boy's eyes were dazzled with the martial nature of its contents. There was a complete suit of armour, similar to that worn by the Constable of Portchester, though lacking the rich ornamentations, other portions of armour, and a small store of equipments such as were worn by mounted men-at-arms and soldiers of superior quality.

Redward noticed the flash of excitement in his son's eyes as they lighted upon the suit of armour.

"Nay, my son," said he, "'tis not for thee—at least, not till thou hast proved worthy of it. Here is a suitable garb, a quilted and padded coat—a trifle large for thee, perhaps, yet 'tis better to err on the generous side. This I found at the sack of Tournay, and 'tis warranted to turn a sword-cut or to stop an arrow at two score paces. This breastplate will also serve—and this steel cap. Now as to thy arms. Here is a sword, slightly heavy for thee, yet anon thou'lt become accustomed to the feel of it, though a bowman stands an ill chance should he suffer a troop of lances to come within striking distance! Now into yonder corner throw thy crossbow, for, as I have shown, 'tis but a clumsy and unwieldy tool for an Englishman. Here is a better—a full-sized English longbow; that is the king of weapons! To-morrow we'll hie to the butts, and ere a week hath passed a sturdy archer thou'lt be or thou art no son of mine!"

Raymond took the proffered articles and, with the pride of youth, fitted them on, to the no small satisfaction of his sire. Still garbed in his martial attire, he remained for a space listening to his father's tales of past campaigns, till at length, worn out with excitement, he retired for the night.

When he had gone, Redward pored over the contents of the chest, handling each article with an almost reverent care, then replacing everything save Raymond's accoutrements, he relocked the heavy box, and was soon tossing uneasily on his rough couch.

For over an hour Redward lay awake pondering over the events of the day, but just as sleep was about to gain the mastery, a hoarse shout fell upon his ear. Another followed, and a veritable babel of shrieks betokened that something untoward was happening in the village.

[CHAPTER III]
OF THE MIDNIGHT DESCENT OF THE FRENCH INVADERS

THE first shout was enough to rouse the old archer into active alertness, for, with his experience of camp life, he was accustomed to awaken readily at the least noise. Hastily springing up, he rushed to the window, swung aside the wooden flap and the flimsy fabric that served to admit the light, and looked out. The darkness was intense, save for some small tongues of dark red flame that were beginning to shoot up from one of the houses near the waterside, the fire casting a dull glare upon the neighbouring buildings and serving but to intensify the inky blackness of the night.

"A fire," he said aloud, yet on second thoughts the ever-increasing shrieks, groans, shouts, and curses that were borne on the air belied his surmise. Moreover, his quick ear detected commands and ejaculations in a foreign language—the tongues of Picardy, Normandy, and Spain.

His ready brain grasped the situation—it must be a raid by the French and Spaniards, who at that time swarmed in the English Channel.