"HE DEALT A CRASHING BLOW AT THE RECREANT KNIGHT."
Frontispiece.

UNDER KING HENRY'S
BANNERS

A STORY OF THE DAYS OF AGINCOURT

By

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Author of

"The Winning of the Golden Spurs,"

etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN CAMPBELL

LONDON

THE PILGRIM PRESS

16, PILGRIM STREET, E.C.

Fair stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main

At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,

With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort

Furnish'd in warlike sort

March'd towards Agincourt

In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stop'd his way,

Where the French Gen'ral lay

With all his power.

Upon Saint Crispin's day

Fought was this noble fray,

Which fame did not delay

To England to carry;

O when shall Englishmen

With such acts fill a pen,

Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?

Michael Drayton (1563-1631.)

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

UNDER KING HENRY'S
BANNERS

CHAPTER I
HOW NEWS CAME TO WARBLINGTON CASTLE

It was shortly after dawn, on the morning of March 21, 1413, that a grizzled man-at-arms climbed the spiral staircase in the south-west angle of the keep of Warblington Castle.

He was dressed in a leathern suit, much soiled and frayed by the frequent wearing of armour, while on his head was a close-fitting cap, quilted and padded to ease the weight of a steel headpiece. He was unarmed, save for a long knife that was counterbalanced by a horn slung from a shoulder-strap of undressed hide.

Under his left arm he bore a flag, its folds gathered closely to his side, as if he feared to injure the cherished fabric by contact with the rough stone walls of the staircase; for the flag he had charge of was the banner of the renowned knight, Sir Oliver Lysle, of the Castle of Warblington, in the county of Southampton, and of the Château of Taillemartel, in the Duchy of Normandy.

At the one hundred and eleventh step the man-at-arms paused, and, raising his arm, thrust with all his might against an oaken trap-door, sheeted on the outside with lead. With a dull thud the door was flung backwards, and the old soldier gained the summit of the turret, which stood ten feet above the rest of the battlemented keep.

Sheltering from the strong north-westerly breeze that whistled over the machicolated battlements, the man-at-arms gazed steadily—not in a landward direction, where an almost uninterrupted view extends as far as the rolling South Downs, neither to the east, where the tall, needle-like shaft of Chichester Cathedral spire was gradually rearing itself heavenwards, nor to the west, where the sea and land blended in the dreary mud banks of Langstone Harbour—but southwards, where, partially hidden in wreaths of fleecy vapour, the almost landlocked waters of Chichester Harbour met the open expanse of the English Channel.

The sound of footsteps on the stone stairs caused the watcher to turn his attention to the newcomer.

"Good morning, fair sir," he exclaimed, as a lad of about fourteen years of age climbed actively through the trap-door.

"And to thee, Arnold Gripwell. But how goes it? Dost see aught of the ship?"

"Nay, Master Geoffrey; this wind, which is most unseasonable for the time o' year, hath stirred up much mist, so that the sea cannot be clearly discerned."

"'Tis passing strange. Sir Oliver, my father, hath sent word that, God willing, he would cross the seas from Harfleur on the eve of the Feast of St. Perpetua. Already fourteen days are spent, and yet he cometh not."

"The reason is not far to seek," replied Gripwell, pointing towards the distant Portsdown Hills. "So long as this wind holdeth the ship is bound to tarry."

"But how long, think you, will it blow thus? Thou art a man skilled in such matters."

"Nay, I cannot forecast, fair sir. For now, when the husbandman looketh for the east wind to break the ground, this most unwholesome air doth hold. Mark my words, Master Geoffrey, when it turneth we shall have another winter. But the sun is rising. I must display my lord's banner."

So saying, he bent the flag to the halyards, and soon the emblem of the Lysles was fluttering bravely in the breeze—azure, a turbot argent, surmounted by an estoile of the last—in other words, a silver turbot, with a silver star above, both on a field of blue.

Geoffrey knew well the meaning of this device. The first denoted that the Lord of Warblington was one of the coastwise guardians of the Channel; the star was in recognition of a former Lysle's service under Edward I, on the occasion of a desperate night attack upon the Scots.

Always ready on the first summons, the Lysles placed duty to their king as the highest of their earthly devoirs, and it was their proud boast that no important expedition had crossed the Channel without the head of the Manor of Warblington in its ranks.

Like many an English knight of that period, Sir Oliver Lysle had interests in France. Through his mother he inherited the seigneurie of Taillemartel in Normandy.

France was in a deplorable condition. The country was torn by a fierce strife betwixt the Orleanists—or Armagnacs, as they were oft-times termed—and the Burgundians. Every baron and knight did as he might, trade was paralyzed, the poor were oppressed, and from Picardy to Provence, and from Brittany to Dauphiné, chaos prevailed.

In his own interest Sir Oliver had frequently to cross to France, for his turbulent neighbours, coveting the fair fields surrounding the feudal castle of Taillemartel, did not hesitate to encroach upon his lands. Thus, much to the English knight's regret, he found himself embroiled in the affairs of a foreign country.

"There is a boat coming up the rithe," exclaimed Geoffrey, pointing to a small, indistinct object slowly moving against the strong tide that ebbed through the many channels by which Chichester Harbour is intersected.

"Methinks thou'rt right," replied the man-at-arms, shading his eyes with his hand, for the sun had broken through the mist and its rays were dazzling on the water. "Yea, 'tis a craft of sorts. Would my sight were as good as in the time of the affray of Otterburn."

"'Tis but a fisherman," replied the lad, after some minutes had elapsed. "Yet he roweth as if he bore tidings."

"Ay; I wot when first I saw him that 'twas not thy father's cog," replied Gripwell, unwilling to admit the inferiority of his sense of vision, although he had recently confessed it. "But, certes, he is not one of the men of Warblington, and since he cometh herewards methinks his errand is no idle one," he added.

"Then let us hasten to the wharf and learn his tidings," said Geoffrey, as he turned towards the stairway.

With the rising of the sun the portcullis had been drawn up and the drawbridge lowered. So, passing the vigilant sentinel who kept watch and ward at the gate of the outer bailey, the lad and his companion made their way across the mead, past the church that, by a strange strategical blunder, stood betwixt the castle and the sea, and at length reached the little stone quay which, at all but the lowest tides, permitted the approach of the largest vessels of that period.

"'Tis Wat, of Sinah," exclaimed Geoffrey, as the rower turned his head to make sure of his sinuous course 'twixt the mud banks that were already showing above the ebbing waters.

"How now, Wat?" quoth the man-at-arms, as the boat rubbed sides with the landing-place, and the fisherman, well-nigh breathless with his exertions, tossed his oars into the little craft and scrambled up a rough wooden ladder.

"Sir Oliver!" he gasped.

"And what of him? Stand not babbling like a child. Out with it, gossip."

"The Grâce à Dieu lies off the Poles yonder," continued Wat, pointing towards the invisible sandbanks that encumbered the mouth of the harbour. "She hath come in betimes this morning, and even now is anchored beyond the bar."

Geoffrey gave a cry of delight at the glad news; but Gripwell was far from satisfied.

"And why has not the cog stood in? And how goeth it with Sir Oliver?"

"The ebb maketh strongly," replied the fisherman. "'Twas only with much ado that I gained the harbour, my craft being but light. As thou knowest, gossip, there be none to touch her, not even at Bosham or Emsworth. And then concerning Sir Oliver. I saw him not, neither was I able to draw nigh to the Grâce. It served my purpose but to come hither and claim the guerdon that my lady hath promised to him who brought the news of Sir Oliver's return."

"Then get thee to the castle, Wat. As for thy craft, it must needs take ground, since the rithe dries within an hour. But that will pass, I'll warrant, for thy welcome will not be a hasty one."

Already Geoffrey had sped to bear the news to his mother, the Lady Bertha, while the fisherman and the man-at-arms followed, Wat inwardly chafing at the measured stride of the old warrior.

Sir Oliver's wife was a tall, dignified matron of forty years; stern, almost masculine in manner, yet devoted to her husband and son. During Sir Oliver's frequent absences the care and maintenance of the castle were entirely in her hands, and, from the merest detail concerning the domestic ordering of the numerous household to the weighty questions appertaining to its defence, the Lady Bertha ruled with firmness and discretion.

Nor was she backward in maintaining her authority. Once, and once only, did the youthful Geoffrey take upon himself to give certain orders to the warriors of the outer bailey.

"Geoffrey, my son," quoth his mother, "when thou dost attain the age of sixteen it is thy father's purpose to entrust thee with the care of this castle during his sojournings overseas. When that time cometh I shall willingly give place to thee in the matter, but so long as my lord thinketh fit to make me châtelaine of Warblington I, and I only, must have the ordering o' it."

The Lady Bertha was not slow to act on hearing the good tidings that were now brought to her. In a few minutes the castle was in a state of bustle. The nineteen men-at-arms donned their plates and headpieces, and stood to their arms, ready to prove to the Lord of Warblington that they kept good watch and ward; the two score archers, putting on their quilted coats and iron caps, in addition to their everyday dress, rushed hither and thither, gathering evergreens, heaping piles of faggots in the centre of the courtyard, and bedecking the gateway with the arms and pennons of bygone days. Old Giles, the cellarer, hied him to his subterranean retreat, there to broach casks of the best vintages that Gascony and Burgundy could produce, while the kitchen staff were busy with two whole oxen.

Then from the adjacent church tower the bells rang out a merry peal. Almost at the first note the toilers in the fields dropped their hoes and unyoked the horses from the ploughs. They knew the meaning of the peal; to them it meant, as it did on each and every occasion that Sir Oliver returned in safety from the troublous Duchy of Normandy, that the day was to be given up to feasting and merrymaking.

In the thatch-roofed houses of the little hamlet housewives left their hearths, tarrying only to thrust a bough from their upper windows as a sign of welcome, and trooped towards the castle to share with their husbands the joys of their feudal lord's homecoming.

And now from the summit of the keep a keen-eyed sentinel espied the bluff, black bows of the Grâce à Dieu, as, labouring slowly under oars, she crept up the tedious Emsworth channel with the young flood-tide.

The gunners, with port fires lighted and linstocks ready to hand, were clustering round their cumbersome, iron-hooped bombards, gazing the while towards the steadily-approaching vessel. The minstrels, with harp, pipe, and lute, foregathered on the green within the outer bailey, while the Lady Bertha—who, in order to show that she held the castle, refrained from leaving the shelter of the battlements—awaited her husband at the barbican.

Everything was ready for Sir Oliver Lysle's welcome home.

So intent upon the approach of the expected vessel were the crowds that thronged the castle that none perceived a horseman riding from the direction of the city of Chichester. In hot haste, he spared not spur, and, scorning to keep to the road that led from the highway to the castle, he urged his steed across the newly-ploughed fields, while a bowshot in the rear a group of mounted men-at-arms followed at a more leisurely pace.

Skirting the moat, he gained the barbican, then, drawing in his horse, he looked, with an expression of mingled anger and surprise, upon the preparations of welcome.

The newcomer was attired in a blue doublet, amber cloak with fur trimmings, slashed trunks, and long pointed buskins of undressed leather, while from elbow to wrist his arms were swathed in black cloth. That he had ridden far and fast was evident by the exhausted state of his steed and the numerous splashes of mud and chalk that clung tenaciously to man and beast. By his left side he wore a long, straight sword, with a plain cross-hilt and a black leather scabbard, while from the right side of his belt hung a short dagger and a large leather wallet.

Geoffrey recognized the newcomer as the seneschal of the Castle of Arundel. Nor was he long in ignorance of the rider's errand, for, in a loud voice, the officer exclaimed—

"To the Châtelaine of Warblington greeting; but methinks 'tis neither time nor place for expressions of gladness."

"How so, Sir Scudamour?" asked the Lady Bertha haughtily, for she took the seneschal's mien with disfavour.

"By this, fair dame," and, pointing to one of the men-at-arms who had meanwhile arrived at the barbican, he called attention to a shield-like object the soldier was bearing. It was a hatchment, or escutcheon of a deceased noble, and the arms were those of King Henry IV—three lions passant quartered with fleurs-de-lys.

Drawing a soiled parchment from his pouch the seneschal presented it to the Lady Bertha with a courteous bow, then, giving a meaning look of displeasure at the preparations for Sir Oliver's return, he wheeled his horse and galloped away.

Slowly the châtelaine broke the seals and drew out the missive. Silence had fallen upon the crowd. Instinctively soldier and peasant knew that King Henry was no more.

The men-at-arms and archers doffed their steel caps, the peasants, bareheaded and with mouths agape, crowded silently around the stately figure of the Lady Bertha, as in a loud voice she began to read the momentous news—

"To all to whom these present letters shall come: Whereas God hath been pleased to call unto Himself the soul of Henry, King of England, France——"

"An empty title," muttered a voice. Geoffrey turned; it was Gripwell who had uttered these words. Fortunately for him the châtelaine heard him not, and went on reading.

"——Lord of Ireland, and Suzerain of the Kingdom of Scotland, it is hereby ordained that on the day following his most lamented decease his worthy son, Henry, Prince of Wales, Earl of Cornwall and Carnarvon, and Governor of Calais, be proclaimed King of England, France, Lord of Ireland, and Suzerain of Scotland. Oyez, oyez, oyez. God save King Henry the Fifth!"

CHAPTER II
THE RETURN OF THE GRÂCE À DIEU

For the nonce all thoughts of the expected arrival of Sir Oliver Lysle were forgotten, save by the Lady Bertha and her son.

The pennons and garlands were already being removed, the minstrels trooped silently back to the great hall, and the banner of the Lysles was lowered to half-mast.

Yet, although all outward signs of merrymaking had disappeared, the feast provided for the tenantry was to be partaken of on the arrival of the Grâce à Dieu.

Soldiers and peasants gathered in small knots, eagerly discussing the events that were likely to ensue consequent upon the late monarch's decease.

"But Prince Henry was ever a young gallivant," observed Arnold Gripwell. "I' faith, 'tis no great advancement to have seen the inside of a gaol."

"Have a care, gossip, or thine ears will suffer for it," remonstrated a bearded master-archer. "Boys will be boys, they say. Perchance our King has put off all his ill-deeds."

"They do say that he hath made absolute confession," said another. "I have it on authority of a member of Sir Thomas Erpingham's household that the Prince hath repaired to the chapel of a recluse, and, laying bare to him the misdeeds of his whole life, hath put off the mantle of vice, and hath returned decently adorned with the cloak of virtue."

"So be it," replied Gripwell stoutly. "The late King, though his title to the throne were but a hollow one, was ever a soldier and a man. Give me a man whom I can serve and follow to the wars, say I."

"Then perchance thy wish will be gratified, Arnold," remarked Sampson, the master-bowman. "Prince Henry bore himself like a man at Homildon fight, as thou knowest. Who knows but that ere long we shall follow him to France to win back his own?"

"Pray Heaven it be so," returned the master-at-arms heartily. "For my part, I'd as lief cross the narrow seas as a common soldier. Well I remember my grandsire's tales of how the manhood of England crossed thither in the time of the great Edward. Every mean archer, who went as poor as a church mouse and did not lay his bones on French soil, returned laden with rich booty. Did not my grandsire purchase the copyhold of the farm at Nutbourne out of his ransom of a French knight?"

"But what think you, Master Sampson?" asked an archer eagerly. "Dost think that the new King will make war?"

"He hath by far a better opportunity than Henry of Lancaster, the saints rest his soul," replied the bowman. "That base rebel, Glendower, hath been driven from the Welsh marches, and lies in hiding in the wilds of that leek-ridden country. The Scots, too, are kept well in hand, so that peace on the borders is to be depended upon. The King hath but to raise his hand, and from the length and breadth of the realm the yeomen of England will flock to his banner."

Sir Oliver's retainers were not far from the mark. Like the household of many another knight, his men-at-arms and archers were tolerably well versed in the affairs affecting the kingdom's welfare. To them war was both a trade and the means of following an honourable profession.

Meanwhile the Grâce à Dieu had gained the mouth of the little rithe leading up to the quay, and was preparing to anchor.

Again the excitement rose, but in the midst of the hum of suppressed anticipation an archer called attention to a significant fact: Sir Oliver's shield was not displayed from the ship's quarter.

"Heaven forfend that he be dead," exclaimed Gripwell. "See, the Lady Bertha hath noticed the omission."

Unable to conceal her agitation, the châtelaine, quitting the post of honour, had crossed the drawbridge, and, accompanied by Geoffrey, was hastening towards the wharf, a crowd of archers and men-at-arms following at a respectful distance.

Already the small craft that belonged to the manor had put off to the newly-arrived ship, which, for want of water, could not approach within a bowshot of the shore.

"Where is thy master, Sir Oliver, Simeon?" asked the Lady Bertha, trying the while to maintain her composure, as a burly, bow-legged man stepped out of the boat and scrambled up the steps of the wharf.

Simeon Cross was the master-shipman of the Grâce à Dieu. For more than two-score years had he earned his bread on the waters, being more used to the heaving planks of a ship than to hard ground.

Awkwardly he shuffled with his feet, scarce daring to raise his eyes to meet the stern, expectant look of the Châtelaine of Warblington.

"Answer me, rascal. Where is Sir Oliver?"

"Lady, I have ever been unshipshape with my tongue; were I to talk much my words would trip like a scowed anchor. Ere long black would be white, and white black, and——"

"Cease thy babbling, Simeon, and answer yea or nay. Is Sir Oliver alive and well?"

"Lady, yea and nay. Yea, since he is still in the flesh, and nay, by reason of——"

"The saints be praised!" ejaculated the fair questioner, reassured by the old seaman's reply. "But stand aside, I pray you, for I perceive that Oswald Steyning draws near. Tell me, Oswald, how comes it that thou hast deserted thy master? Is it meet that a squire should return without his lord?"

"Sweet lady, I had no choice in the matter," replied the squire, a fair-haired youth of about sixteen years of age. "By the express command of Sir Oliver and of the Lord of Malevereux I stand here this day. Sir Oliver is alive and, I wot, in health, but, alas! a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

"Ay, fair lady, of the Lord of Malevereux, otherwise known as the Tyrant of Valadour, who sends this letter by my hand."

Drawing from his pouch a sealed packet, the squire knelt and presented it to the châtelaine.

"From Yves, Baron of Malevereux, Lord of the High, the Middle, and the Low, to the Lady Bertha, Châtelaine of the Castle of Warblington, greeting:—

"Whereas, by the grace of the blessed Saint Hilary, Sir Oliver Lysle, thy husband, hath fallen into my hands, be it known that this is my will and pleasure: Him will I have and hold until a ransom of ten thousand crowns be paid for the release of the said Sir Oliver. It is my request that this sum be paid on or before the eve of the Feast of the blessed Saint Silvester, failing which Sir Oliver must suffer death."

Twice the châtelaine read the missive, then, turning to the squire, she asked—

"Knowest aught of this letter?"

"Nay, fair lady, though I wot 'tis of cold comfort."

"How came Sir Oliver to be taken?"

"By stealth, madame. They of Malevereux seized him as he lay abed in a hostel on the road 'twixt Rouen and Taillemartel. Me they also took, but the Tyrant set me free in order that I might bear tidings to Warblington."

"And did Sir Oliver charge thee by word of mouth?"

"Yea, 'twas thus:—'Present my humblest respects to my dear lady, thy mistress, and say that not a groat is to be paid as ransom for me.' No more, no less."

"That I will bear in mind," replied the châtelaine resolutely. "Meanwhile I must devise some answer to this Tyrant of Malevereux. Hast promise of safe conduct?"

"The word of the Lord of Malevereux is but a poor bond, sweet lady. Yet, since I have his promise, I will right willingly take the risk."

"'Tis well. Now to return to the castle. Arnold, see to the ordering of the men-at-arms, the archers, and the tenants. Let them have their feast, e'en though it be a sad one. Simeon, see to it that the Grâce à Dieu is warped up to the quay at high tide, and take steps to set a goodly store of provisions on board, since to France thou must sail once more. Now, Oswald, bear me company, for there is much on which I must question thee."

All this time Geoffrey had been a silent yet eager listener. Already he had grasped the main points of the situation, and, quick to act, he had made up his mind that the time had come for the son of Sir Oliver Lysle to prove himself worthy of the ancient and honourable name.

"Tell me all thou knowest concerning this Tyrant of Malevereux, Oswald," began Lady Bertha, as the châtelaine and the two lads gained the comparative seclusion of the hall.

"He is the most puissant rogue in all Normandy, ay, in the whole of France," replied the squire. "Though I perceive he has written in a courteous style, worthy of a knight of Christendom, he is but a base robber and oppressor of the poor, and a treacherous enemy to all true gentlemen of coat armour. He hath declared that he fears neither God, man, nor devil, yet withal he is of a craven disposition, and full of superstitious fears."

"It is said that on one day of the year he throws open his Castle of Malevereux to all who would fain partake of his hospitality?"

"That is so, sweet lady. On the Feast of Saint Silvester—in commemoration of a deliverance from a great peril—the Lord of Malevereux doth hold a joust to which all men may come, saving that they leave their arms at the gate. Beyond that 'tis said that no man, other than the Tyrant's retainers, hath set foot within the castle save as a captive."

"The Feast of Saint Silvester!" exclaimed the Lady Bertha. "On that day this base knight would fain receive ransom for Sir Oliver."

"Might I not be permitted to go to France?" asked Geoffrey, speaking for the first time during the conversation. "I would desire to have some small chance of advancement 'gainst this villainous baron."

"Thou'rt but a lad, Geoffrey," replied his mother. "I commend thy courage and determination; they do thee honour, but the task is beyond thee."

"I am almost of the same age as that most puissant knight, Edward the Black Prince, when he fought at Crécy, and as old as our new King when he crossed swords with Lord Percy at Otterburn," asserted Sir Oliver's son. "Oswald hath followed my father Francewards these two years. Therefore, saving your presence, I ought to be up and doing."

"'Tis a matter that demands careful consideration, Geoffrey, though I do perceive that thou art not like a girl that hath to stay at home. Even as a young hawk hath to leave the nest, a knight's son must, sooner or later, quit the shelter of his parents' roof. But of that more anon. It is in my mind that the good knight, Sir Thomas Carberry, who holds the Castle of Portchester should hear of the mishap that hath befallen my lord."

"Wouldst that I ride thither?" asked Geoffrey eagerly, for the doughty knight was ever a favourite of the lad.

"That is my desire, Geoffrey. The day is but young, and thou canst return ere sundown. Oswald shall bear thee company."

CHAPTER III
HOW A FRIAR AND A LOLLARD MET ON THE
HIGHWAY

In a few moments the lads had donned their cloaks, girded on their swords—since none of quality ever ventured upon the highway save with a weapon ready to hand—and given orders for their horses to be saddled and brought to the gate.

"Have I to bear a letter?" asked Geoffrey, as he came to announce his departure.

"Nay, my son; word of mouth will suffice. Now, get thee gone, and the saints preserve thee."

Swinging easily into the saddle, the lads applied spur; and at a steady trot they crossed the drawbridge and gained the open country.

It was but a distance of some seven miles 'twixt the Castles of Warblington and Portchester, while, being part of the great southern highway between the populous borough of Southampton and the coast towns of Sussex, there was generally a small number of travellers to be met.

For a while the two lads chatted eagerly, Geoffrey questioning his companion concerning his adventures beyond the seas, and of the events that led up to Sir Oliver's captivity. And as they talked Geoffrey's resolution was rapidly becoming stronger. Gaining confidence from Oswald's unassuming self-reliance, he realized that with a good heart youth is capable of overcoming many obstacles.

At length, hard by the hamlet of Bedhampton, the road began to ascend a spur of chalk down. From the summit a splendid view greeted the lads. As far as the eye could see was a flat plain, intersected by two large harbours, while away on the left, beyond a silver streak of sea, rose the rolling down of the Isle of Wight. Ahead, at a distance of over four miles, a massive square tower proudly reared itself hard by the head of the furthermost harbour. It was the Castle of Portchester.

Barely had the two riders gained the foot of the ridge when they suddenly came upon a grey-cloaked figure bending over a heap of rubbish by the wayside. Evidently it had been thrown there from a neighbouring smithy, for scraps of old iron horseshoes predominated.

"'Tis a friar," exclaimed Oswald, as the man, hearing the sound of horses' hoofs, drew himself up and began to amble along the chalky road.

Doffing reverentially as they passed, the two lads cast a furtive glance at the cloaked and hooded friar, as he fumbled beneath his garments as if to conceal something. The man's face was far from pleasant. Shifty eyes, sharp pointed nose, loose lip, and flabby jowl gave him a crafty, foxlike appearance, yet to the two unworldly lads a friar could be nought else but a holy member of the Church.

Ere they had ridden another quarter of a mile something prompted the lads to look over their shoulders, and to their surprise they perceived that the friar had returned to the rubbish heap.

"'Tis a strange occupation for a holy man," observed Oswald. "To what purpose doth he tarry at yonder spot?"

"Nay, I know not," replied Geoffrey. "Perchance he finds it a fitting place for meditation."

With this the subject was dismissed, and the two riders urged their steeds to a brisker pace.

At length they arrived at the castle of Sir Thomas Carberry, where, on being announced, they were ushered into the knight's presence.

"Yves of Malevereux, dost say?" exclaimed Sir Thomas. "Alack-a-day that Sir Oliver should fall into the toils of such a caitiff. I know the Tyrant well, having had a slight bickering with him, not once nor twice."

"Is there indeed no means of securing my father's release save by ransom? The payment of ransom he hath forbidden," said Geoffrey.

"Perchance, should war ensue and an English army again set foot on French soil, the King might see fit to send a troop of lances and a body of archers to rid the world of the pest. Would that I could adventure myself on Sir Oliver's behalf, yet I fear that affairs of the realm will prevent my so doing. Nevertheless, I'll do my devoirs to the Lady Bertha. Convey her my most humble regards, and say that I will ride over to Warblington to-morrow morn."

"I have asked my mother to give me leave to journey to France," said Geoffrey. "Couldst thou not throw in thy weighty word for me, Sir Thomas?"

"Certes! How canst thou hope to overcome the Lord of Malevereux, Geoffrey? Nevertheless, 'tis right and meet that the son of Sir Oliver should see to his affairs at Taillemartel. There thou couldst be of service. Say no more now, but on the morrow I'll broach the matter."

"Sir, I crave your pardon and your opinion," said Oswald. "Dost think that the King will advance his claim to the French throne?"

"Without a doubt."

"I am right glad to hear of it," replied Oswald. "There is much advancement to be made in such matters."

"Not without losses, hunger, and discomforts," added the knight, smiling at the youth's ardent words. "Young men are apt to look upon only the bright side of war. Such views I myself have held, but as time runs on we elders know more of the dark side of the picture. Nevertheless, at the first call to arms I, amongst many, will not be found wanting."

"What think ye of our new King?" asked Geoffrey, more bluntly than he intended.

The knight shook his head.

"'Tis not meet that a soldier should offer an opinion of his liege lord," he replied. "Henry V is my King, and to me that is sufficient reasoning for unswerving loyalty. A true Englishman's duty is to serve loyally, be he knight or commoner; therefore, I counsel you, reject all reports to the belittlement of King Harry, strive to live upright and true to those set in authority, and all will go well."

With this advice Sir Thomas dismissed his visitors, renewing his assurance that on the morrow he would journey to see the Châtelaine of Warblington in person.

"Since Sir Thomas hath promised to speak in my favour my hopes are raised," remarked Geoffrey. "Who knows but that ere the Feast of St. Mark I may be upon French soil."

"Since the Lady Bertha hath charged me to convey her reply to Malevereux we may bear one another company," replied Oswald. "But what have we here?"

The travellers had now reached the outskirts of the little hamlet of Cosham. Outside a mud-and-wattle cottage a large crowd, comprising nearly all the inhabitants and a sprinkling of strangers, had collected. That something was amiss was apparent by the low murmur that reached the lads' ears as they approached.

"If 'tis some slight affray 'tis our duty to aid the weaker side," said Oswald, his right hand flying to his sword-hilt. "See to it that thou dost strike yarely should occasion arise."

Urging their horses through the fringe of the crowd, the two youthful champions of oppressed right came upon a scene they had not bargained for.

Standing in the doorway was a woman, middle-aged and comely, whose face was a study of mingled perplexity, indignation, and fright.

In the middle of a semicircle formed by the crowd towered a powerfully made man of commanding and noble aspect, dressed in plain yet rich garments of sober russet cloth tipped with fur. Save for a short dagger he was unarmed, a vellum-bound book hanging by a steel chain occupying the place of a sword.

Held at arm's length by the stranger's muscular arm was the friar whom the lads had seen at Bedhampton that same morning. The man's hang-dog face was convulsed with fury, though it was evident that he was in terror of the stranger, whose anger was as apparent as that of his captive.

Ignoring the hurried undertone remonstrances of a merchant, the stranger addressed the throng in a loud voice.

"My good people," he exclaimed, "how much longer will ye suffer yourselves to be deluded by such cloaked and cowled rascals as this? By what authority doth the friar claim the right to sell pardons and absolutions for every sin that besets us? Not by that of One above, I'll warrant. And how can a parcel of so-called relics possess the power of imparting nameless virtues to the dupe who hath purchased them? Hold up the trickster's wares," he continued, addressing a sheepish-looking countryman. "Nay, do not hesitate; if so be a murrain falls upon the unbeliever, on my head be it."

Thus encouraged the peasant stooped and picked up something from the ground.

"Hold them up," commanded the stranger authoritatively. "Raise them high above thy head that all may see."

The man obeyed, and, to Geoffrey's astonishment, displayed a piece of a horseshoe and a bent and rusted nail.

"Now, dame," continued the stranger, speaking in a kindlier tone. "Tell me how named your friar this fragment of horseshoe?"

"'Tis a piece of the shoe of the ass that bore the Blessed Virgin into Egypt," quavered the woman.

"Nay, say not ''tis', but ''twas' told me," corrected the stranger. "Now, once again, whence comes this twisted clout?"

"A nail from the tree on which was crucified the blessed St. Edmund," replied the dame.

"That savours less of the lie," quoth her interrogator, "seeing that 'tis said that at the town of Bury the tree still stands. Answer me, did your friar also say 'twas the very nail that pierced the martyred King's limbs?"

"Ay, an' it please thee," replied the woman.

"Then there I have him," exclaimed the stranger. "How can a nail of this length pierce a man's palm and hold him to a tree? See for yourselves, my masters, that 'tis beyond reason. Tell me, dame, what price did'st thou pay for these baubles?"

"A silver groat."

"Then lest it be said that I despoiled the Church, I will reimburse thee. Now, friends, one more question; since when hath it been the custom to shoe an ass with a horseshoe?"

A roar of laughter from the crowd greeted this hit. Then with a rapid motion of his arm the stranger flung the fragments of iron far across an adjoining field.

"Hence," he thundered, relaxing his grasp on the terrified friar, and with a tremendous buffet on the ear he sent the wretched man reeling through a lane betwixt the amazed spectators.

"Have a care, my Lord Cobham," whispered the merchant, plucking at the knight's sleeve. "Affront not the Church. Already 'tis said that my Lord Archbishop hath applied to proceed against thee. Do not, I pray thee, give thine enemies more cause for offence."

"I have no quarrel with the Church, but with the Church's flagrant offences, Master Pearce. As for my lord the Archbishop, let him do his worst. The King, a grandson of John of Gaunt, will see to it that justice to the Lollards be done. Moreover, I have the honour of being a friend of Harry Monmouth. Shall he, as King, think fit to abandon me to mine enemies, then God's will be done. I am not the first to suffer for truth's sake.

"And now, friends," he continued, addressing the crowd once more, "I trust that this slight bickering hath been to your souls' advantage. Try to use the wits that have been given you for your advancement; be not led by the nose by such as ye have just seen. Here is the lamp that guideth your way, though I must fain admit 'tis at present but a feeble glimmer." And he touched the Book that was hanging from his belt.

"Soon," he continued, "the day will come when all men shall hear the Word in the vulgar tongue, and to that set purpose hath Wycliffe laboured and his followers are toiling still."

Thereupon the Lollard proceeded to read a chapter from the English translation of the Bible, and for the first time his listeners heard it read in a simple and familiar language.

This done, my Lord Cobham went on his way, gravely returning the lads' salutation as they, too, proceeded on their journey.

"This meeting hath opened my eyes," observed Oswald. "E'en though I saw yon friar in the rubbish heap I little thought his purpose was to trick his listeners."

"Yet though I felt admiration for the knight, I cannot believe that his doctrine is wholly right," replied Geoffrey. "Methinks it savours of rebellion."

"Mark well, he said not a word against the Church."

"That I noticed. Yet it is to be hoped that the friar is but one of a few black sheep. Father Hilarius is not of that style."

"Nay, a more broad-minded, upright priest I do not wish to meet," replied Oswald. "But concerning the Lord Cobham, is he not the same as Sir John Oldcastle? He is a sturdy Lollard and a friend of the King to boot."

"Methinks thou'rt right," assented Geoffrey. "'Tis the same Oldcastle of whom my father hath ofttimes spoken. Now reason with thyself a space; this knight seemeth to be a right godly man. Therefore it follows, since he is an admitted friend of the King's, that he would not have mentioned the matter were the King, while Prince of Wales, the rascal—save the term—that men would make him out to be.

"We know," went on Geoffrey, "that Judge Gascoigne committed the Prince to prison. That was for an offence done in the heat of anger. Lord Cobham was angry even now, when he buffeted the friar, but I wot he is not a man to consort with drunkards and dissolute persons. Mark well, also, that Sir Thomas Carberry had not a word to say against the King: therefore I shall believe that all their stories concerning him are baseless.

"But come," he added, "we must hasten, for already the sun is low in the sky."

In silence the lads proceeded on their journey. Both were thoughtful, for the events of the day had added another perplexity to their small store of worldly difficulties. Thus pondering, they returned to the Castle of Warblington, where the châtelaine was eagerly awaiting to hear the result of their fateful errand.

CHAPTER IV
HOW GEOFFREY LYSLE CROSSED THE CHANNEL

Sir Thomas Carberry was as good as his word. He rode over to Warblington betimes on the following morning, where he was welcomed by the châtelaine and her assembled household.

Being a man of action, the knight lost no time in dealing with the matter that had brought him thither.

"I can well understand Sir Oliver's wishes in this matter," he remarked. "Since he will not have a ransom paid on his behalf, and on the other hand the Tyrant of Malevereux doth threaten him with death should the gold not be forthcoming, it is certain that we are in a strait. Thou sayest that the garrison of Taillemartel is not strong enough to assail the baron's stronghold? Then some other plan must be considered. Methinks the great thing is to gain time with this recreant Lord of Malevereux. To that end it would be well to reply guardedly to his letter."

"But not to promise payment of the ransom?"

"Not in plain words. Write that ere the Feast of Saint Silvester the demands of the Lord of Malevereux will be met. That need be all; thy husband's squire can deliver the message, since he hath been promised safe conduct."

"But will the Tyrant keep to his word concerning the good treatment of Oswald?" demurred the Lady Bertha. "It is hardly meet that the lad should be placed in the power of this recreant knight."

"For my part I care but little, fair lady," said Sir Oliver's squire. "Since my place is with my lord—and 'twas not my doing that I was compelled to leave him at Malevereux—I'll bear the letter to Sir Yves in person. Should he think fit to keep his word, well and good; otherwise I must rest content that I am to be kept in durance with Sir Oliver."

"Well spoken, squire," exclaimed Sir Thomas Carberry. "See to it that thy actions are as brave as thy speech. Now, there is yet another point. Who holds the Castle of Taillemartel in Sir Oliver's absence?"

The châtelaine did not reply. Instinctively she realized the motive of the question.

"Hath my son said aught to thee concerning his wish to go Franceward?" she asked.

"Fair lady, he hath," replied the knight. "Moreover, 'tis right and meet that he, as Sir Oliver's son, should hold Taillemartel in his father's absence. Thrust aside thy feelings as a mother, Lady Bertha, and make a sacrifice to duty. The lad, from what I know of him—and that is not a little—hath courage, wisdom, and discretion beyond his years. Let him have the ordering of Taillemartel, and I'll warrant he'll prove a right worthy limb of the old Lysle stock."

"And what can be done towards the actual setting free of my husband?"

"Concerning myself, this affair could not have happened at a more inopportune time. Until I learn King Harry's wishes I am tied to my Castle of Portchester; otherwise would I right gladly take a troop of lances, add them to the garrison of Taillemartel, and together they would have the Castle of Malevereux about its owner's ears in less than a week. Did Sir Oliver ever mention the name of Sir Raoul d'Aulx, seigneur of Maissons?"

"I cannot call the name to mind."

"This Sir Raoul is a Burgundian knight, a right worthy gentleman of good repute. Sir Oliver and I fought side by side with him 'gainst the Paynims of Barbary, under the late King, when he was but Henry of Lancaster. Now it is in my mind to write to the Seigneur of Maissons that he should beleaguer the Castle of Malevereux; knowing that he hath just cause 'gainst Sir Yves, and that he hath great regard for Sir Oliver, this request may find favour in Sir Raoul's eyes. To that end I'll send my squire, Richard Ratclyffe, with thy son and Sir Oliver's squire, Oswald Steyning. When will Geoffrey be ready for the journey?"

"The Grâce à Dieu lies in the harbour fit to take the sea within an hour," replied the châtelaine with a sigh, for, although she was resigned to Sir Thomas Carberry's plan, the thought of parting with her son seemed well-nigh unbearable.

"Then the sooner the better, since the wind holds fair. I'll send my squire to thee this night. Now, bear up, fair lady, for by the blessing of the saints, Sir Oliver will sit at his ease in Warblington Castle ere the feast of St. Silvester."

So saying Sir Thomas took his leave, while the châtelaine busied herself with preparations for her son's journey.

That night Geoffrey kept vigil in the little church of St. Thomas à Becket, vowing to be courageous and honourable in warfare, courteous to women, and just towards those under his authority, as befitting the son of a true knight who himself aspired to the gilded spurs. But when he prayed that he might take vengeance upon the Lord of Malevereux, Father Hilarius gently reproved him.

"Vengeance, my son, hath no place within the mind of a gentleman of quality; leave that in the hands of One above, who, if He think fit, will grind the oppressor between the upper and nether millstones of His wrath. In thy dealings with thy fellow-men see to it that justice is ever tempered with mercy."

At length the eventful day dawned. At the head of the rithe lay the Grâce à Dieu, her huge square sail, emblazoned with the arms of the Lysles, being loosely furled ready to be sheeted home at the shipmaster's call.

Geoffrey and the two squires, Oswald Steyning and Richard Ratclyffe, attended by the stout old man-at-arms, Arnold Gripwell, and three trusty archers, boarded the skiff that was to take them off to the larger vessel. The hour of parting had come and gone, and with heavy heart Sir Oliver's son saw the crowd of tenantry on the shore grow less and less distinct.

But the moment the lads set foot upon the deck of the Grâce à Dieu the bustle and excitement of setting sail dispelled for the time their feeling of sadness.

Old Simeon Cross, the master-shipman, was standing by the long tiller, shouting orders at the seamen to the accompaniment of a string of expletives uttered in half a dozen different tongues.

"Yarely, now, yarely with the cable! Dick, do you attend to the vang; Tom, thou rapscallion, haul handsomely on yonder brace. Avast heaving there! Now she feels it!"

Before the steady north-westerly breeze the Grâce à Dieu bore rapidly down the Emsworth Channel; the low-lying islands of Thorney and Hayling were quickly passed, and, after a buffeting on the wind-swept bar, the staunch vessel was curtseying to the long, heavy swell of the English Channel.

Ere noon the Sussex Downs were but a low, indistinct line of blue against the northern sky, while the rounded hills of the Isle of Wight were fading away on the starboard quarter.

Then, having given the helmsman the course by means of the lodestone that did duty for a compass, Simeon went below to rest, since he must needs be on deck throughout the coming night.

"The English shore is well-nigh lost to view," remarked Oswald. "Ere morning we ought to see the coast of France, an this wind hold."

"Aye, an we are not molested by any of the sea rovers that infest the Channel," added Gripwell. "Now, young sirs, I'll wager that old Simeon will descry the French coast ere either of your young eyes can do so."

"I have heard it said that a shipmaster's vision is better by far than a landsman's," replied Richard Ratclyffe. "Yet I call to mind a device that my master, Sir Thomas, purchased from a monk of Limoges. It was but a tube of wood filled with sundry pieces of glass, yet one could distinguish a man's features a league away."

"By St. George, Master Ratclyffe," exclaimed Gripwell, "thou art trying to befool us, saving thy presence. See a man's face a league off, forsooth! Certes, next thou'lt say that it is possible for a person in England to clap a trumpet to his mouth and speak to another in France. Go to, Master Ratclyffe, Arnold Gripwell is not to be caught by such reports."

"Yet such is the truth, Gripwell," replied the squire.

"When I see it I'll believe it," retorted the man-at-arms sturdily.

Ere nightfall the wind dropped, and the Grâce à Dieu floundered sluggishly in the long rolling swell. Under the influence of this unaccustomed motion Richard Ratclyffe was the first to succumb to the woeful malady of sea-sickness. Geoffrey was soon in like case. The others, having crossed the sea beforetimes, were more hardened to its usages.

"Go below and lie down awhile," counselled Arnold Gripwell. "Ere ye wake the evil will have left you."

"I would there were some other way of crossing to France," said Geoffrey miserably.

"'Tis part of the game, and must be borne with a good heart," replied Gripwell. "This is the only way, and ever will be the only way, as far as I can see, unless men devise a means of flying thither through the air. How think ye, Master Ratclyffe," he added slyly, but the squire was beyond the sting of banter.

Lulled by the motion of the vessel, Geoffrey sank into a deep yet troubled slumber, nor did he awake till he was aroused by the man-at-arms shaking him by the shoulder.

"Up with ye, Master Geoffrey," he exclaimed. "There's foul work without, and if so be we can play our part every man jack will be wanted."

"What's amiss?" asked the lad, sitting up. All feelings of sea-sickness had left him; excitement had conquered the landsman's arch-enemy.

"On deck, and thou'lt see," replied Gripwell curtly as he hastened to rouse the other lads.

It was a strange sight that greeted Geoffrey Lysle as he gained the deck. Day had just broken, and the pale grey light revealed the presence of two ships lying a mile or so to leeward of the Grâce à Dieu.

One, a tall wall-sided ship, was striving to keep at bay a long, low-lying galley, from which showers of arrows, quarrels, stones, and spears were being hurled by the crowd of men who thronged her low fo'c'sle and towering poop.

"What are we to do, good Master Gripwell?" asked Simeon, the shipmaster, anxiously. "Yonder lies the ship Brothers of Lymington. I know her well. She is a stout merchantman, but slow; though, by St. Peter, the Grâce à Dieu could scarce gain a bow-shot length on her in an hour. The galley, if mine eyes do not deceive me, belongs to the Republic of Genoa, and scant mercy shall we receive at her hands. What are we to do?"

"Do?" exclaimed Gripwell in high disdain. "Why, Simeon, trick her. If we flee we are lost, since she can sail two yards to our one. Art willing to leave this matter in my hands?"

"Ay, good Arnold," replied the shipmaster nervously.

"Then, do you steer straight for yonder ships. Ho there, Wat! Bring forth every spear and every steel cap that is in the ship. Thomas of Gosport, do you wind your horn and blow a rousing blast. The rest of you, shipmen and archers all, don steel caps and stand fast in the waist till I give ye word."

So saying, Gripwell left the deck and went below. Meanwhile Geoffrey and his two comrades were struggling into their plates and steel casques, knowing that there was hot work afoot, yet wondering what the man-at-arms was about.

Presently Gripwell re-appeared, bearing six large shields of painted canvas, emblazoned with the arms of the principal knights of Hampshire.

"Now ye be each two knights," he shouted light-heartedly. "Sixteen years ago come Martinmas these devices hung in the great hall of Warblington when Sir Oliver was wed. Ever since that day have I kept them. Whenever I journey by water they go with me. Now, Sir Geoffrey, take thy place on the poop with Sir Oswald; Sir Richard, the waist is under thy charge. I am for the fo'c'sle."

So saying the man-at-arms proceeded to hang the shields over the ship's sides, according to the custom when knights adventured themselves on the high seas. Every man had donned a steel cap, and was grasping two and sometimes three lances, so that the rays of the rising sun glittered upon a small forest of steel.

"Turn her aside, I pray thee, Simeon, and let yonder rogues see our knights' shields," ordered Gripwell, and obediently the master-shipman thrust the helm hard over so that the Grâce à Dieu exposed the whole of her broadside to the two antagonists.

"Now, wind thy horn once more, Thomas," he continued as the ship resumed her course straight for the Genoese galley. "Heaven help us if they see through the trick," he added in an undertone.

The Lymington ship, taking heart at the prospect of a rescue, redoubled her fire of arrows and stones, but withal the galley stuck doggedly to her prey. Nearer and nearer came the Grâce à Dieu, the lead-coloured water hissing from her bluff bows as her huge sail caught the rising breeze.

"We must fight them," quoth Oswald, "unless they give way. If we are to die 'tis better to fall in the heat of the fight than to have our throats cut in cold blood, for yon rascals give quarter to none—not even a gentleman of coat-armour."

"Give the Lymington men a rousing cheer, lads," shouted Gripwell. "Then stand to your arms and fight as you have never done before. Now, together!"

From five-and-twenty lusty throats a hoarse shout ascended in a roar of defiance.

This was too much for the Genoese. Thinking they had a shipload of valiant knights and their followers to reckon with, they sheered off, the huge sail was run up, and fifty oars splashed in the water. Once on the move the galley did not stop till it was a mere dot on the skyline.

"A wax candle as thick as my arm shall burn on the altar of the Church of St. Thomas à Becket at Warblington for this great deliverance," exclaimed the master-shipman fervently. "I' faith, methought I had lost both ship and life when the rogues held on."

"Bear up, that we may have speech with the Brothers of Lymington," said Gripwell. "Seeing that she sails but a trifle slower than the Grâce à Dieu it would be fitting that both sailed in company."

As the Grâce à Dieu drew up close alongside the succoured merchant ship the bellowing voice of the shipmaster of the Brothers was heard thanking these gentle and courteous knights for their timely aid.

"And though I be little skilled in reading the devices of gentlemen of coat-armour," added a voice, "I do perceive that the shield of my Lord Bishop of Winchester is displayed. Bear my humble respects to his Grace, and say that out of gratitude, I, Paul Roche, of the honourable company of Goldsmiths of the free borough of Southampton, do hereby promise a bar of virgin gold to the service of the Dean and Chapter of the See of Winchester."