So sorely did the horses need rest, that Hugh and his people could not ride from London till the following morning, and evening was closing in before they found themselves drawing near the gate of Windsor Castle. In the market-place of the little town they pulled rein, while one of them went to search for a good inn at which they might lie, for the place seemed to be very full of people. Suddenly, as they stood there, wondering at the mighty, new-built keep which towered above them, a trumpet was blown and from round a corner appeared a gay procession of noble-looking men, and with them some ladies, who carried hawk on wrist, all mounted on splendid horses.
Now, the people who had gathered to study the strangers or tout for their custom, took off their bonnets and bent low, saying: “The King! The King! God save him!”
“Which is his Grace?” asked Hugh of one of them, whereon the man pointed to a royal-eyed and bearded knight, still in early middle life, who rode toward him, talking to a gallant youth at his side.
Now a thought came into Hugh’s mind that the present time is always the best time to strike. Leaping from his horse, he advanced bowing, and stood in the pathway of the King. Seeing this, two of the fine Court lords spurred their horses and rode straight at him, thinking to drive him back. But he held his ground, for their insolence made him angry, and, catching the bridle of one of the horses, threw it on its haunches so sharply that the knight who rode it rolled from his saddle into the mire, whereupon every one laughed. In a moment he was on his feet again, and shouting:
“Out of the road, jackanapes, dressed in your grandfather’s mail, unless you would stop there in the stocks. Do you know whose path you block?”
“That of his Grace,” answered Hugh, “for whom I have a message that he will be glad to hear, and, popinjay, this for yourself; were it not for his presence it is you who should stop upon the road till you were carried thence.”
Now, noting this disturbance, the King spoke to the youth at his side, who came forward and said, in a pleasant, courteous voice, addressing Hugh:
“Sir, why do you make trouble in these streets, and tumble the good Sir Ambrose Lacey from his horse with such scant ceremony?”
“Sir,” answered Hugh, “because the good Sir Ambrose tried to ride his horse over me for no offence save that I would deliver a message to his Grace, which he will wish to hear.”
“This is scarcely a time for the giving of messages,” replied the young man, “but what is your name, and who sends the message? I am the Prince Edward,” he added modestly, “so you may speak to me without fear.”
“My name is Hugh de Cressi, your Highness, and I am sent by the Reverend Father Sir Andrew Arnold, of Dunwich, and have followed his Grace from Westminster, whither I and my men rode first.”
Now, the Prince went to the King and spoke to him, and, returning presently, said:
“My father says that he knows both the names you give well enough and holds them dear. He bids that you and your people should follow him to the castle, where you will be entertained, with your horses. Sir Ambrose,” he added, “the King desires that you should forget your choler, since he saw what passed, and deems that this young stranger did well to check your horse. Follow on, Hugh de Cressi, the officers will show you where you and your men may lodge.”
So Hugh obeyed, and rode with the rest of the train and his folks through the gates of Windsor Castle. Nor did they do so unobserved, since many of the Court had no love for Sir Ambrose, and were glad to see him tumbled in the mire.
After they had stabled their beasts, as Hugh, followed by Grey Dick, was advancing toward a hall which he was told that he might enter, an officer came up.
“His Grace desires your presence before you sup,” he said.
Pointing to Grey Dick, at whom the officer looked doubtfully, Hugh asked that he might accompany him, as he had much to do with the message. After some argument they were led through various passages to a chamber, at the door of which the officer wished to take away Dick’s bow. But he would not give it up.
“The bow and I do not part,” he said, in his croaking voice, “for we are husband and wife, and live and sleep together as the married should.”
As Dick spoke the door was opened, and Prince Edward appeared.
“And do you eat together also, good fellow?” he asked, having overheard the talk.
“Ay, sir, we feed full together,” replied Dick grimly; “or so thought some on Blythburgh Marsh a few days gone.”
“I should like to hear that tale,” said the Prince. “Meanwhile, since both my father and I love archers, let him pass with his bow. Only keep his arrows lest it should happen to grow hungry here.”
Then they entered the chamber, led by the Prince. It was a fine place, with a vaulted stone roof and windows of coloured glass, that looked like the chancel of a church. Only at the head of it, where the altar should have been, was a kind of dais. On this dais were set some high-backed oaken chairs with many lanterns behind them in which burned tapers that, together with a great wood fire, gave light to the chamber.
In one of these chairs sat a gracious lady, who was embroidering something silken in a frame. This was Queen Philippa, and talking to her stood the tall King, clad in a velvet robe lined with fur. Behind, seated at a little table on which lay parchments, was a man in a priest’s robe, writing. There was no one else in the room.
Hugh and Dick advanced to the foot of the dais, and stood there bowing.
“Who are these?” asked the King of the Prince. “Oh, I remember, the man who overthrew Sir Ambrose and said he had a message!”
“Ay, Sire,” answered the Prince; “and this dust-coloured fellow is his servant, who will not part with his bow, which he calls his wife and says he sleeps with.”
“I would all Englishmen did the same,” broke in the King. “Say, man, can you shoot straight?”
“I know not, Sire,” replied Grey Dick, “but perhaps straighter than most, for God, Who withheld all else from me, gave me this gift. At least, if I be not made drunk overnight, I’ll match myself against any man at this Court, noble or simple, and stake twenty angels on it.”
“Twenty angels! Have you so much, fellow?”
“Nay, Sire, nor more than one; but as I know I shall win, what does that matter?”
“Son,” said the King, “see that this man is kept sober to-night, and to-morrow we will have a shooting match. But, sirrah, if you prove yourself to be a boaster you shall be whipped round the walls, for I love not tall words and small deeds. And now, young Master de Cressi, what is this message of yours?”
Hugh thrust his hand into his bosom, and produced a sealed packet which was addressed to “His Grace King Edward of England, sent from Andrew Arnold, priest, by the hand of Hugh de Cressi.”
“Can you read?” the King asked of Hugh when he had spelt out this superscription.
“Ay, Sire; at least if the writing be that of Sir Andrew Arnold, for he was my master.”
“A learned one and a brave, Hugh de Cressi. Well, break seal; we listen.”
Hugh obeyed, and read as follows:
“Your Grace:
“Mayhap, Sire, you will remember me, Andrew Arnold, late master of the Templars in this town of Dunwich, in whose house, by your warrant for certain services rendered to your grandsire, your sire, and to yourself, I still dwell on as a priest ordained. Sire, the bearer of this, Hugh de Cressi, my godchild, is the son of Geoffrey de Cressi, of this town, the great wool-merchant, with whom your Highness has had dealings——”
“In truth I have!” interrupted the King, with a laugh. “Also I think the account is still open—against myself. Well, it shall be paid some day, when I have conquered France. Forward!”
“Sire, this Hugh is enamoured of Eve Clavering, daughter of Sir John Clavering of Blythburgh, a cousin of his House, a very beauteous maiden, commonly known as Red Eve, and she in turn is enamoured of and betrothed to him——”
Here Queen Philippa suddenly became interested.
“Why is the lady called Red Eve, sir?” she asked in her soft voice. “Because her cheeks are red?”
“No, Madam,” answered Hugh, blushing; “because she always loves to wear red garments.”
“Ah, then she is dark!”
“That is so, Madam; her eyes and hair are black as ash-buds.”
“God’s truth! Lady,” interrupted King Edward, “is this young man’s message of the colour of the eyes of his mistress, which, without doubt, being in love, he describes falsely? On with the letter!”
“Out of this matter,” continued Hugh, “rose a feud yesterday, during which Hugh de Cressi killed his cousin John, fightingà outrance, and his servant, Richard the Archer, who accompanies him, commonly known as Grey Dick, slew three men with as many arrows, two of them being Normans whose names are unknown to us, and the third a grieve to Sir John Clavering, called Thomas of Kessland. Also, he killed a horse, and when another Frenchman tried to grasp his master, sent a shaft through the palm of his hand.”
“By St. George,” said the King, “but here is shooting! Were they near to you, Grey Dick?”
“Not so far away, Sire. Only the light was very bad, or I should have had the fourth. I aimed low, Sire, fearing to miss his skull, and he jerked up his horse’s head to take the arrow.”
“A good trick! I’ve played it myself. Well, let us have done with the letter, and then we’ll come to archery.”
“Sire,” read on Hugh, “I ask your royal pardon to Hugh de Cressi and Richard the Archer for these slayings, believing that when you have read these letters it will be granted.”
“That remains to be seen,” muttered the King.
“Sire, Sir Edmund Acour, who has lands here in Suffolk, Count de Noyon in Normandy, and Seigneur of Cattrina in Italy——”
“I know the man,” exclaimed Edward to the Queen, “and so do you. A handsome knight and a pleasant, but one of whom I have always misdoubted me.”
“—Is also enamoured of Eve Clavering, and with her father’s will seeks to make her his wife, though she hates him, and by the charter of Dunwich, of which she is a citizen, has the right to wed whom she will.”
“It is well there are not many such charters. The old story—brave men done to death for the sake of a woman who is rightly named Red Eve,” mused the King.
“My Liege, I pray that you will read the letter herein enclosed. Hugh de Cressi will tell you how it came to my hand, since I lack time to write all the story. If it seems good to your Grace, I pray you scotch this snake while he is in your garden, lest he should live to sting you when you walk abroad. If it please you to give your royal warrant to the bearer of this letter, and to address the same to such of your subjects in Dunwich as you may think good, I doubt not but that men can be found to execute the same. Thus would a great and traitorous plot be brought to nothing, to your own glory and the discomfiture of your foes in France, who hope to lay their murderous hands upon the throne of England. “Your humble servant and subject,
“Andrew Arnold.”
“What’s this?” exclaimed the King starting from his seat. “To lay hands upon the throne of England! Quick with the other letter, man!”
“I was charged that it is for your Grace’s eye alone,” said Hugh as he unfolded the paper. “Is it your pleasure that I read it aloud, if I can, for it is writ in French?”
“Give it me,” said the King. “Philippa, come help me with this crabbed stuff.”
Then they withdrew to the side of the dais, and, standing under a lantern, spelled out Sir Edmund Acour’s letter to the Duke of Normandy, word by word.
The King finished the letter, and, still holding it in his hand, stood for a minute silent. Then his rage broke out.
“‘He of England,’” he quoted. “That’s your husband, Edward, Lady, who is to be overthrown and killed ‘that Philip’s son may take his seat and be crowned King at Westminster,’ which God is to bring about before this year is out. Yes; and my cities are to be sacked and my people slain, and this French dog, Edmund Acour, who has sworn fealty to me, is to be rewarded with wide English lands and high English titles. Well, by God’s blood I swear that, dead or living, he shall be lifted higher than he hopes, though not by Normandy or my brother of France! Let me think! Let me think! If I send men-at-arms he’ll hear of it and slip away. Did not good old Sir Andrew call him a snake? Now, where’s this girl, Red Eve?”
“In sanctuary, Sire, at the Temple Church in Dunwich,” answered Hugh.
“Ah, and she’s a great heiress now, for you killed her brother, and Acour, although he has wide possessions in sundry lands, was ever a spendthrift and deep in debt. No, he’ll not leave unless he can get the girl; and old Sir Andrew will guard her well with the power of the Church, and with his own right arm if need be, for he’s still more knight than priest. So there’s no hurry. Tell me all you know of this story, Hugh de Cressi, omitting nothing, however small. Nay, have no fear, if you can vouch for your fellow there, all of us in this chamber are loyal to England. Speak out, man.”
So Hugh began and told of the de Cressis and the Claverings and their feud, and of how he and Eve had always loved each other. He told of their meeting in the reeds of Blythburgh Fen, and of the death of John de Clavering at his hand and of the others at the hand of Grey Dick, and of the escape of Acour from the fourth arrow. He told how he and Eve had swum the Blyth in flood though the ice cut them, and hid on the moor while Grey Dick led the Claverings astray, and came at last safe to sanctuary. He told how Acour’s letter had been won from his messenger by Sir Andrew’s loyal guile. He told of the penance that Sir Andrew had laid upon them because of the new-shed blood of John Clavering, of the flight from Dunwich and the shooting of the horses of the Clavering men, and of their ride to London and to Windsor. He told everything, save only the tale of what Sir Andrew had seen in the House of Murgh in far Cathay.
When at last he had finished, and though it was long none there grew weary of that story, the King turned to the clerk, and said:
“Brother Peter, make out a full pardon to Hugh de Cressi of Dunwich and Richard Archer his servant for all slayings or other deeds wrought by them contrary to our general peace. Draw it wide, and bring the same to me for execution ere I sleep to-night. Make out a commission also to the Mayor of Dunwich—nay, I’ll think that matter over and instruct you further. Hugh de Cressi, you have our thanks, and if you go on as you have begun you shall have more ere long, for I need such men about me. You also, strange and death-like man named Grey Dick, shall not lack our favour if it proves that you can shoot but half as well as you have boasted, and, unless you lie, both of you, as it seems that you have done. And now to supper, though in truth this news does not kindle appetite. Son, see that this gentleman is well served, and that none mock him more about the fashion of his armour, above all Sir Ambrose, for I’ll not suffer it. Plate and damascene do not make a man, and this, it seems, was borrowed from as brave, ay, and as learned, a knight as ever bestrode a horse in war. Come, Lady,” and taking the Queen by the hand, he left the chamber.
That evening Hugh ate his food seated among the knights of the Household at a high table in the great hall, at the head of which, for the King supped in private, was placed the young Prince Edward. He noted that now none laughed at him about the fashion of his mail or his country ways. Indeed, when after supper Sir Ambrose Lacey came to him and asked his pardon for the talk that he had used to him in the Windsor street—he was sure that some word had been sent round that his business had brought him favour with the King and that he must be treated with all courtesy. Several of those who sat round him tried to discover what that business was. But of this he would say nothing, parrying their questions with others about the wars in France, and listening with open ears to the tales of great deeds done there.
“Ah, would that I could see such things!” he said.
To which one of them answered:
“Well, why not? There’ll be chance enough ere long, and many of us would be glad of a square built like you.”
Now, at lower tables, in that vast hall, Hugh’s servants, and with them Grey Dick, sat among the men-at-arms of the King’s Guard, who were all chosen for their courage, and skill in archery. These soldiers, noting the strange-faced, ashen-haired fellow who ate with his bow resting on the bench beside him, inquired about him from the other Dunwich men, and soon heard enough to cause them to open their eyes. When the ale had got hold of them they opened their mouths also, and, crowding round Dick, asked if it were true that he could shoot well.
“As well as another,” he answered, and would say no more.
Then they looked at his bow, and saw that it was old-fashioned, like his master’s mail, and of some foreign make and wood, but a mighty weapon such as few could handle and hold straight. Lastly, they began to challenge him to a match upon the morrow, to which he answered, who also had been drinking ale and was growing angry, that he’d give the best of them five points in fifty.
Now they mocked, for among them were some famous archers, and asked at what range.
“At any ye will,” answered Grey Dick, “from twelve score yards down to one score yards. Now trouble me no longer, who if I must shoot to-morrow would sleep first and drink no more of your strong ale that breeds bad humours in one reared upon dyke water.”
Then, seizing his bow, he glided away in his curious stoat-like fashion to the hole where he had been shown that he should sleep.
“A braggart!” said one.
“I am not so sure,” answered a grizzled captain of archers, who had fought in many wars. “Braggarts make a noise, but this fellow only spoke when we squeezed him and perhaps what came out of those thin lips was truth. At least, from his look I’d sooner not find him against me bow to bow.”
Then they fell to betting which of them would beat Grey Dick by the heaviest points.
Next morning about nine o’clock the King sent a messenger to Hugh, bidding him and his servant Richard wait upon them. They went with this messenger, who led them to a little chamber, where his Grace sat, attended only by the clerk, Brother Peter, and a dark-browed minister, whose name he never learned.
“Hugh de Cressi and Richard Archer,” said Edward, motioning to the minister to hand Hugh a parchment to which hung a great seal, “here is the pardon which I promised you. No need to stay to read it, since it is as wide as Windsor Keep, and woe betide him who lifts hand against either of you for aught you may have done or left undone in the past contrary to the laws of our realm. Yet remember well that this grace runs not to the future. Now that matter is ended, and we come to one that is greater. Because of the faith put in you by our loyal and beloved subject, Sir Andrew Arnold, your godsire, and because we like the fashion of you, Hugh de Cressi, and hold you brave and honest, it has pleased us to give you a commission under which we direct the Mayor of Dunwich and all true and lawful men of that town and hundred to aid you in the taking or, if need be, in the slaying of our subject, Sir Edmund Acour, Count of Noyon and Seigneur of Cattrina. We command you to bring this man before us alive or dead, that his cause may be judged of our courts and the truth of the matter alleged against him by the Reverend Father Sir Andrew Arnold therein determined. Nevertheless, we command you not to wound or kill the said knight unless he resists the authority of us by you conveyed and you cannot otherwise hold him safe from escaping from out this our realm. This commission you will presently go forth to execute, keeping its tenor and your aim secret until the moment comes to strike, and, as you perform your duty, of which you will return and make report to us, so shall we judge and reward you. Do you understand?”
“Sire,” answered Hugh, bowing, “I understand, and I will obey to my last breath.”
“Good! When the parchments are engrossed my officer here will read them to you and explain aught that may need it. Meanwhile, we have an hour or two during which your horses can eat, for there are no fresh beasts here to give you, and it is best, to avoid doubts, that you should return as you came, only showing your powers if any should attempt to arrest you. So let us have done with these heavy matters, and disport us for a while. This servant of yours has made a common boast that he will outshoot any of our picked archers, and now we are ready to go forth and put him to the proof of the butts. Let him know, however, that, notwithstanding our words of yesterday, we shall not hold him to blame if he fails, since many a man of higher degree promises more at night than he can perform in the morning.”
“Sire, I’ll do my best. I can no more,” said Grey Dick. “Only I pray that none may be suffered to hang about or pester me at the butts, since I am a lonely man who love not company when I use my art.”
“That shall be so,” said the King. “And now to the sport.”
“The sport!” grumbled Grey Dick, when he and Hugh were alone together. “Why, it is other sport we should be seeking, with Acour and his knaves for targets. Go to the King, master, and show him that while we linger here the Frenchman may slip away, or work more and worse treasons.”
“I cannot, Dick; the parchments are not written out, and his Grace is bent upon this pleasure match. Moreover, man, all these archers here—yes, and their betters also—would say that you had fled because you were an empty boaster who dared not face the trial.”
“They’d say that, would they?” snarled Grey Dick. “Yes, they’d say that, which would be bitter hearing for you and me. Well, they shall not say it. Yet I tell you, master,” he added in a burst of words, “although I know not why, I’d rather bear their scorn and be away on the road to Dunwich.”
“It may not be, Dick,” replied Hugh, shaking his head doubtfully. “See, here they come to fetch us.”
In a glade of the forest of Windsor situated near to the castle and measuring some twenty-five score yards of open level ground, stood Grey Dick, a strange, uncouth figure, at whom the archers of the guard laughed, nudging each other. In his bony hand, however, he held that at which they did not laugh, namely, the great black bow, six feet six inches long, which he said had come to him “from the sea,” and was fashioned, not of yew, but of some heavy, close-grained wood, grown perhaps in Southern or even in far Eastern lands. Still, one of them, who had tried to draw this bow to his ear and could not, said aloud that “the Suffolk man would do naught with that clumsy pole.” Whereat, Grey Dick, who heard him, grinning, showing his white teeth like an angry dog.
Near by, on horseback and on foot, were the King, the young Prince Edward, and many knights and ladies; while on the other side stood scores of soldiers and other folk from the castle, who came to see this ugly fellow well beaten at his own game.
“Dick,” whispered Hugh, “shoot now as you never shot before. Teach them a lesson for the honour of Suffolk.”
“Let me be, master,” he grumbled. “I told you I would do my best.”
Then he sat himself down on the grass and began to examine his arrows one by one, to all appearance taking no heed of anything else.
Presently came the first test. At a distance of five score yards was set a little “clout,” or target, of white wood, not more than two feet square. This clout had a red mark, or eye, three inches across, painted in its centre, and stood not very high above the sward.
“Now, Richard,” said the King, “three of the best archers that we have about us have been chosen to shoot against you and each other by their fellows. Say, will you draw first or last?”
“Last, Sire,” he answered, “that I may know their mettle.”
Then a man stepped forward, a strong and gallant looking fellow, and loosed his three arrows. The first missed the clout, the second pierced the white wood, and the third hit the red eye.
The clout having been changed, and the old one brought to the King with the arrows in it, the second man took his turn. This time all three of the arrows hit the mark, one of them being in the red. Again it was changed, and forth came the great archer of the guard, a tall and clear-eyed man named Jack Green, and whom, it was said, none had ever beaten. He drew, and the arrow went home in the red on its left edge. He drew again, and the arrow went home in the red on its right edge. He drew a third time, and the arrow went home straight in the very centre of the red, where was a little black spot.
Now a great laugh went up, since clearly the Suffolk man was beaten ere ever he began.
“Your Dick may do as well; he can do no better,” said the King, when the target was brought to him.
Grey Dick looked at it.
“A boon, your Grace,” said Dick. “Grant that this clout may be set up again with the arrows fast. Any may know them from mine since they are grey, whereas those I make are black, for I am a fletcher in my spare hours, and love my own handiwork.”
“So be it,” said the King, wondering; and the clout was replaced upon its stand.
Now Grey Dick stretched himself, looked at the clout, looked at his bow, and set a black-winged arrow on the string. Then he drew, it seemed but lightly and carelessly, as though he thought the distance small. Away flew the shaft, and sank into the red a good inch within the leftmost arrow of Jack Green.
“Ah,” said the onlookers, “a lucky shot indeed!”
Again he drew, and again the arrow sank into the red, a good inch within the rightmost shot of Jack Green.
“Oh!” said the onlookers, “this man is an archer; but Jack’s last he cannot best, let the devil help him how he will.”
“In the devil’s name, then, be silent!” wheezed Grey Dick, with a flash of his half-opened eye.
“Ay, be silent—be silent!” said the King. “We do not see such shooting every day.”
Now Dick set his foot apart and, arrow on string, thrice he lifted his bow and thrice let it sink again, perhaps because he felt some breath of wind stir the still air. A fourth time he lifted, and drew, not as he had before, but straight to the ear, then loosed at once.
Away rushed the yard-long shaft, and folk noted that it scarcely seemed to rise as arrows do, or at least not half so high. It rushed, it smote, and there was silence, for none could see exactly what had happened. Then he who stood near the target to mark ran forward, and screamed out:
“By God’s name, he has shattered Jack Green’s centre arrow, and shotclean through the clout!”
Then from all sides rose the old archer cry, “He, He! He, He!” while the young Prince threw his cap on high, and the King said:
“Would that there were more such men as this in England! Jack Green, it seems that you are beaten.”
“Nay,” said Grey Dick, seating himself again upon the grass, “there is naught to choose between us in this round. What next, your Grace?”
Only Hugh, who watched him, saw the big veins swell beneath the pale skin of his forehead, as they ever did when he was moved.
“The war game,” said the King; “that is, if you will, for here rough knocks may be going. Set it out, one of you.”
Then a captain of the archers explained this sport. In short it was that man should stand against man clad in leather jerkins, and wearing a vizor to protect the face, and shoot at each other with blunt arrows rubbed with chalk, he who first took what would have been a mortal wound to be held worsted.
“I like not blunted arrows,” said Grey Dick; “or, for the matter of that, any other arrows save my own. Against how many must I play? The three?”
The captain nodded.
“Then, by your leave, I will take them all at once.”
Now some said that this was not fair, but in the end Dick won his point, and those archers whom he had beaten, among them Jack Green, were placed against him, standing five yards apart, and blunted arrows served out to all. Dick set one of them on the string, and laid the two others in front of them. Then a knight rode to halfway between them, but a little to one side, and shouted: “Loose!”
As the word struck his ear Dick shot with wonderful swiftness, and almost as the arrow left the bow flung himself down, grasping another as he fell. Next instant, three shafts whistled over where he had stood. But his found its mark on the body of him at whom he had aimed, causing the man to stagger backward and throw down his bow, as he was bound to do, if hit.
Next instant Dick was up again and his second arrow flew, striking full and fair before ever he at whom it was aimed had drawn.
Now there remained Jack Green alone, and, as Dick set the third arrow, but before he could draw, Jack Green shot.
“Beat!” said Dick, and stood quite still.
At him rushed the swift shaft, and passed over his shoulder within a hairbreadth of his ear. Then came Dick’s turn. On Jack Green’s cap was an archer’s plume.
“Mark the plume, lords,” he said, and lo! the feather leapt from that cap.
Now there was silence. No one spoke, but Dick drew out three more arrows.
“Tell me, captain,” he said, “is your ground marked out in scores; and what is the farthest that any one of you has sent a flighting shot?”
“Ay,” answered the officer, “and twenty score and one yard is the farthest, nor has that been done for many a day.”
Dick steadied himself, and seemed to fill his lungs with air. Then, stretching his long arms to the full, he drew the great bow till the horns looked as though they came quite close together, and loosed. High and far flew that shaft; men’s eyes could scarcely follow it, and all must wait long before a man came running to say where it had fallen.
“Twenty score and two yards!” he cried.
“Not much to win by,” grunted Dick, “though enough. I have done twenty and one score once, but that was somewhat downhill.”
Then, while the silence still reigned, he set the second arrow on the string, and waited, as though he knew not what to do. Presently, about fifty paces from him, a wood dove flew from out a tree and, as such birds do at the first breath of spring, for the day was mild and sunny, hovered a moment in the air ere it dipped toward a great fir where doubtless it had built for years. Never, poor fowl, was it destined to build again, for as it turned its beak downward Dick’s shaft pierced it through and through and bore it onward to the earth.
Still in the midst of a great silence, Dick took up his quiver and emptied it on the ground, then gave it to the captain of the archers, saying:
“And you will, step sixty, nay, seventy paces, and set this mouth upward in the grass where a man may see it well.”
The captain did so, propping the quiver straight with stones and a bit of wood. Then, having studied all things with his eyes, Dick shot upward, but softly. Making a gentle curve, the arrow turned in the air as it drew near the quiver, and fell into its mouth, striking it flat.
“Ill done,” grumbled Dick; “had I shot well, it should have been pinned to earth. Well, yon shadow baulked me, and it might have been worse.”
Then he unstrung his bow, and slipped it into its case.
Now, at length, the silence was broken, and in good earnest. Men, especially those of Dunwich, screamed and shouted, hurling up their caps. Jack Green, for all jealousy was forgotten at the sight of this wondrous skill, ran to Dick, clasped him in his arms, and, dragging the badge from off his breast, tried to pin it to his rough doublet. The young Prince came and clapped him on the shoulder, saying:
“Be my man! Be my man!”
But Dick only growled, “Paws off! What have I done that I have not done a score of times before with no fine folk to watch me? I shot to please my master and for the honour of Suffolk, not for you, and because some dogs keep their tails too tightly curled.”
“A sulky fellow,” said the Prince, “but, by heaven, I like him!”
Then the King pushed his horse through the throng, and all fell back before his Grace.
“Richard Archer,” he said, “never has such marksmanship as yours been seen in England since we sat upon the throne, nor shall it go unrewarded. The twenty angels that you said you would stake last night shall be paid to you by the treasurer of our household. Moreover, here is a gift from Edward of England, the friend of archers, that you may be pleased to wear,” and taking his velvet cap from off his head, the King unpinned from it a golden arrow of which the barbed head was cut from a ruby, and gave it to him.
“I thank you, Sire,” said Dick, his pale skin flushing with pride and pleasure. “I’ll wear it while I live, and may the sight of it mean death to many of your enemies.”
“Without doubt it will, and that ere long, Richard, for know you that soon we sail again for France, whence the tempest held us back, and it is my pleasure that you sail with us. Therefore I name you one of our fletchers, with place about our person in our bodyguard of archers. Jack Green will show you your quarters, and instruct you in your duties, and soon you shall match your skill against his again, but next time with Frenchmen for your targets.”
“Sire,” said Dick, very slowly, “take back your arrow, for I cannot do as you will.”
“Why, man? Are you a Frenchman?” asked the King, angrily, for he was not wont to have his favours thus refused.
“My mother never told me so, Sire, although I don’t know for certain who my father may have been. Still, I think not, since I hate the sight of that breed as a farmer’s dog hates rats. But, Sire, I have a good master, and do not wish to change him for one who, saving your presence, may prove a worse, since King’s favour on Monday has been known to mean King’s halter on Tuesday. Did you not promise to whip me round your walls last night unless I shot as well as I thought I could, and now do you not change your face and give me golden arrows?”
At these bold words a roar of laughter went up from all who heard them, in which the King himself joined heartily enough.
“Silence!” he cried presently. “This yeoman’s tongue is as sharp as his shafts. I am pierced. Let us hear whom he will hit next.”
“You again, Sire, I think,” went on Dick, “because, after the fashion of kings, you are unjust. You praise me for my shooting, whereas you should praise God, seeing that it is no merit of mine, but a gift He gave me at my birth in place of much which He withheld. Moreover, my master there,” and he pointed to Hugh, “who has just done you better service than hitting a clout in the red and a dow beneath the wing, you forget altogether, though I tell you he can shoot almost as well as I, for I taught him.”
“Dick, Dick!” broke in Hugh in an agony of shame. Taking no heed, Dick went on imperturbably: “And is the best man with a sword in Suffolk, as the ghost of John Clavering knows to-day. Lastly, Sire, you send this master of mine upon a certain business where straight arrows may be wanted as well as sharp swords, and yet you’d keep me here whittling them out of ashwood, who, if I could have had my will, would have been on the road these two hours gone. Is that a king’s wisdom?”
“By St. George!” exclaimed Edward, “I think that I should make you councillor as well as fletcher, since without doubt, man, you have a bitter wit, and, what is more rare, do not fear to speak the truth as you see it. Moreover, in this matter, you see it well. Go with Hugh de Cressi on the business which I have given him to do, and, when it is finished, should both or either of you live, neglect not our command to rejoin us here, or—if we have crossed the sea—in France. Edward of England needs the service of such a sword and such a bow.”
“You shall have them both, Sire,” broke in Hugh, “for what they are worth. Moreover, I pray your Grace be not angry with Grey Dick’s words, for if God gave him a quick eye, He also gave him a rough tongue.”
“Not I, Hugh de Cressi, for know, we love what is rough if it be also honest. It is smooth, false words of treachery that we hate, such words as are ever on the lips of one whom we send you forth to bring to his account. Now to your duty. Farewell till we meet again, whether it be here or where all men, true or traitors, must foot their bill at last.”
About noon of the day on which Hugh and his company had ridden for London, another company entered Dunwich—namely, Sir John Clavering and many of his folk, though with him were neither Sir Edmund Acour nor any of his French train. Sir John’s temper had never been of the best, for he was a man who, whatever his prosperity, found life hard and made it harder for all those about him. But seldom had he been angrier than he was this day, when his rage was mingled with real sorrow for the loss of his only son, slain in a fight brought about by the daughter of one of them and the sister of the other and urged for honour’s sake by himself, the father of them both.
Moreover, the marriage on which he had set his heart between Eve and the glittering French lord whose future seemed so great had been brought to naught, and this turbulent, hot-hearted Eve had fled into sanctuary. Her lover, too, the youngest son of a merchant, had ridden away to London, doubtless upon some mission which boded no good to him or his, leaving a blood feud behind him between the wealthy de Cressis and all the Clavering kin.
There was but one drop of comfort in his cup. By now, as he hoped, Hugh and his death’s-head, Grey Dick, a spawn of Satan that all the country feared, and who, men said, was a de Cressi bastard by a witch, were surely slain or taken by those who followed upon their heels.
Sir John rode to the Preceptory and hammered fiercely on its oaken door. Presently it was opened by Sir Andrew Arnold himself, who stood in the entrance, grey and grim, a long sword girt about his loins and armour gleaming beneath his monkish robe.
“What would you, Sir John Clavering, that you knock at this holy house thus rudely?” he asked.
“My daughter, priest, who, they say, has sheltered here.”
“They say well, knight, she has sheltered here beneath the wings of St. Mary and St. John. Begone and leave her in peace.”
“I make no more of such wings than if they were those of farmyard geese,” roared the furious man. “Bring her or I will pluck her forth.”
“Do so,” replied Sir Andrew, “if you live to pass this consecrated sword,” and he laid his hand upon its hilt. “Take with her also the curse of the Mother of God, and His beloved Apostle, and that of the whole Church of Christ, by me declared upon your head in this world and upon your soul in the world to come. Man, this is sanctuary, and if you dare to set foot within it in violence, may your body perish and your soul scorch everlastingly in the fires of hell. And you,” he added, raising his voice till it rang like a trumpet, addressing the followers of Sir John, “on you also let the curse of excommunication fall. Now slay me and enter if you will, but then every drop of blood in these veins shall find a separate tongue and cry out for vengeance on you before the judgment seat of God, where presently I summon you to meet me.”
Then he crossed himself, drew the great sword, and, holding it in his left hand, stretched out his right toward them in malediction.
The Clavering men heard and saw. They looked at each other, and, as though by common consent, turned and rode away, crossing themselves also. In truth, they had no stomach for the curse of the Church when it was thundered forth from the lips of such a monk as Sir Andrew Arnold, who, they knew well, had been one of the greatest and holiest warriors of his generation, and, so said rumour, was a white wizard to boot with all the magic of the East at his command.
“Your men have gone, Sir John,” said the old priest; “will you follow them or will you enter?”
Now fear drove out the knight’s rage and he spoke in another voice.
“Sir Andrew, why do you bring all these wrongs upon me? My boy is dead at the hand of Hugh de Cressi, your godson, and he has robbed me of my daughter, whom I have affianced to a better and a nobler man. Now you give her sanctuary and threaten me with the curse of the Church because I would claim her, my own flesh and blood; ay, and my heiress too to-day. Tell me, as one man to another, why do you do these things?”
“And tell me, Sir John Clavering, why for the sake of pelf and of honours that you will never harvest do you seek to part those who love each other and whom God has willed to bring together? Why would you sell your child to a gilded knave whom she hates? Nay, stop me not. I’d call him that and more to his face and none have ever known me lie. Why did you suffer this Frenchman or your dead son, or both of them, to try to burn out Hugh de Cressi and Red Eve as though they were rats in rubbish?”
“Would you know, Father? Then I’ll tell you. Because I wish to see my daughter set high among lords and princes and not the wife of a merchant’s lad, who by law may wear cloth only and rabbit fur. Because, also, I hate him and all his kin, and if this is true of yesterday, how much more true is it now that he has killed my son, and by the arrows of that wolf-man who dogs his heels, slain my guests and my grieve. Think not I’ll rest till I have vengeance of him and all his cursed House. I’ll appeal to the King, and if he will not give me justice I’ll take it for myself. Ay, though you are old, I tell you you shall live to see the de Cressi vault crowded with the de Cressi dead.”
Sir Andrew hid his eyes for a moment with his hand, then let it fall and spoke in a changed voice.
“It comes upon me that you speak truth, Sir John, for since I met a certain great Master in the East, at times I have a gift of foresight. I think that much sorrow draws near this land; ay, and others. I think that many vaults and many churchyards, too, will ere long be filled with dead; also that the tomb of the Claverings at Blythburgh will soon be opened. Mayhap the end of this world draws near to all men, as surely it draws near to you and me. I know not—yet truth was in your lips just now, and in mine as well, I think. Oh, man, man!” he went on after a pause, “appeal not unto the world’s Cæsar lest Cæsar render different judgment to that which you desire. Get you home, and on your knees appeal unto God to forgive you your proud, vengeance-seeking heart. Sickness draws near to you; death draws near to you, and after death, hell—or heaven. I have finished.”
As he heard these words Sir John’s swarthy face grew pale and for a little while his rage died down. Then it flared up again.
“Don’t dream to frighten me with your spells, old wizard,” he said. “I’m a hale man yet, though I do lose my breath at times when my mind is vexed with wrongs, and I’ll square my own account with God without your help or counsel. So you’ll not give me my daughter?”
“Nay, here she bides in sanctuary for so long as it shall please her.”
“Does she in truth? Perhaps you married her to this merchant fellow ere he rode this morning.”
“Nay, Sir John, they betrothed themselves before the altar and in presence of his kin, no more. Moreover, if you would know, because of your son’s blood which runs between them I, after thought and prayer, speaking in the name of the Church, swore them to this penance—that for a year from yesterday they should not wed nor play the part of lovers.”
“I thank you, priest, for this small grace,” answered Sir John, with a bitter laugh, “and in my turn I swear this, that after the year they shall not wed, since the one of them will be clay and the other the wife of the man whom I have chosen. Now, play no tricks on me, lest I burn this sanctuary of yours about your head and throw your old carcass to roast among the flames.”
Sir Andrew made no reply, only, resting his long sword on the threshold, he leant upon its hilt, and fixed his clear grey eyes upon Clavering’s face. What Sir John saw in those eyes he never told, but it was something which scared him. At least that shortening of the breath of which he had spoken seemed to take a hold of him, for he swayed upon his horse as though he were about to fall, then, recovering, turned and rode straight for Blythburgh.
It was the second night after that day when Sir Andrew had looked John Clavering in the eyes.
Secretly and in darkness those three whom Grey Dick had killed were borne into the nave of Blythburgh church and there laid in the grave which had been made ready for them. Till now their corpses had been kept above ground in the hope that the body of John Clavering the younger might be added to their number. But search as they would upon seashore and river-bank, nothing of him was ever seen again. This funeral was celebrated in the darkness, since neither Sir John nor Acour desired that all men should see three bodies that had been slain by one archer, aided by a merchant’s lad, standing alone against a score, and know, to say naught of the wounded, that there was yet another to be added to the tale. Therefore they interred them by night with no notice of the ceremony.
It was a melancholy scene. The nave of the great church, lighted only with the torches borne by the six monks of the black Augustines from the neighbouring priory of St. Osyth; the candles, little stars of light, burning far away upon the altar; the bearers of the household of the Claverings and the uncoffined corpses lying on their biers by the edge of the yawning graves; the mourners in their mail; the low voice of the celebrating priest, a Frenchman, Father Nicholas, chaplain to Acour, who hurried through the Latin service as though he wished to be done with it; the deep shadows of the groined roof whereon the rain pattered—such were the features of this interment. It was done at last, and the poor dead, but a few days before so full of vigour and of passion, were left to their last sleep in the unremembered grave. Then the mourners marched back to the manor across the Middle Marsh and sought their beds in a sad silence.
Shortly after daybreak they were called from them again by the news that those who had followed Hugh de Cressi had returned. Quickly they rose, thinking that these came back with tidings of accomplished vengeance, to find themselves face to face with seven starved and miserable men who, all their horses being dead, had walked hither from Dunwich.
The wretched story was learned at length, and then followed that violent scene, which has been told already, when Acour cursed his followers as cowards, and Clavering, sobered perhaps by the sadness of the midnight burial or by the memory of Arnold’s words, reproved him. Lastly, stung by the taunts that were heaped upon them, Sir Pierre de la Roche gave Hugh’s message—that if they lifted hand against his love or his House he would kill them like ravening wolves, “which I think he certainly will do, for none can conquer him and his henchman,” he added shortly.
Then Sir John’s rage flared up again like fire when fresh fuel is thrown on ashes. He cursed Hugh and Grey Dick; he cursed his daughter; he even cursed Acour and asked for the second time how it came about that he who had brought all this trouble on him was given the evil name of traitor.
“I know not,” answered Sir Edmund fiercely, and laying his hand upon his sword, “but this I know, that you or any man will do well not to repeat it if you value life.”
“Do you threaten me?” asked Sir John. “Because, if so, you will do well to begone out of this house of shame and woe lest you be borne out feet first. Nay, nay, I forgot,” he added slowly, clasping his head in his hands, “you are my daughter’s affianced, are you not, and will give her high place and many famous titles, and her son shall be called Clavering, that the old name may not die but be great in England, in France, and in Italy. You must bide to marry her, lest that cuckoo, Hugh de Cressi, that cuckoo with the sharp bill, should creep into my nest. I’ll not be worsted by a stripling clad in merchant’s cloth who slew my only son. Take not my words ill, noble Noyon, for I am overdone with grief for the past and fear for the future. You must bide to marry her by fair means or by foul. Draw her from the sanctuary and marry her whether she say you yea or nay. You have my leave, noble Noyon,” and so speaking he swayed and fell prone upon the floor.
At first they thought that he was dead. But the chaplain, Nicholas, who was a leech, bled him, and he came to himself again, although he still wandered in his talk and lay abed.
Then Acour and Nicholas took counsel together.
“What is to be done?” said Sir Edmund, “for I am on fire for this maid, and all her scorn and hate do but fan my flame. Moreover, she is now very rich, for that old hot-head cannot live long. His violent humours will kill him, and, as you know, Father, although I have great possessions, my costs are large and I have still greater debts. Lastly, shall de Noyon and his knights be worsted by a wool-merchant’s younger son, a mere ‘prentice lad, and his henchman, a common archer of the fens? Show me how to get her, Nicholas, and I’ll make an abbot of you yet. This sanctuary, now? will it hold? If we stormed the place and took her, would the Holy Father give us absolution, do you think?”
“No, my lord,” answered the fox-faced Nicholas. “The Church is great because the Church is one, and what the priest does the Pope upholds, especially when that priest is no mean man. This holy monk, Sir Andrew Arnold, has reputation throughout Europe, and, though he seems so humble, because of his wisdom is in the counsel of many great men whose fathers or grandfathers were guided by him long ago. Commit what crime you will, dip yourself to the lips in blood, and you may find forgiveness, but touch not an ancient and acknowledged sanctuary of the Church, since for this offence there will be none.”
“What then, Nicholas? Must I give up the chase and fly? To speak truth, things seem to threaten me. Why has that Hugh twice called me traitor? Have any of my letters fallen into strange hands, think you? I have written several, and you know my mission here.”
“It is possible, lord; all things are possible, but I think not. I think that he only draws the bow at a hazard, which is more than Grey Dick does,” he added with a chuckle. “These brute English hate us French, whom they know to be their masters in all that makes a man, and traitor to their fool king is the least of the words they throw at us.”
“Well, priest, my mother was English, as my wife will be. Therefore stay your tongue on that matter and tell me how I am to make her my wife,” answered Acour haughtily.
The chaplain cringed and bowed, rubbing his thin hands together.
“I thought you wished to speak of the English, my lord, otherwise I should not have ventured—but as to the lady Eve, something comes to me. Why does she stay in sanctuary who herself has committed no crime? Is it not, such is her madness, because she would be out of reach of you and your endearments? Now if she believed you gone far enough away, let us say to France, and knew that her father lay ill, why then——” and he paused.
“You mean that she might come out of sanctuary of her own accord?”
“Yes, lord, and we might set a springe to catch this bird so rare and shy, and though she’d flutter, flutter, flutter, and peck, peck, peck, what could she do when you smoothed her plumage with your loving hand, and a priest was waiting to say the word that should cause her to forget her doubts and that merchant bumpkin?”
“Ah, Nicholas, you have a good wit, and if all goes well you shall certainly be an abbot. But would her father, do you think——”
“Lord, that beef-eating knight is in such a rage that he would do anything. What did he say just before the stroke took him? That you were to marry her by fair means or by foul. Yes, and he told me an hour ago that if only he knew she was your wife, he would die happy. Oh, you have his warrant for anything you do to bring about this end. Still there is no need to tell him too much lest it should cause his good name to be aspersed by the vulgar. Many, it seems, love this Red Eve for her high spirit, and are friends to the de Cressis, an open-handed race who know how to bind folk to them. Listen how it must be done.”
That day it was given out that Sir Edmund Acour, those of his knights who remained alive and all his following were about to leave for London and lay their cause before the King, having learned that Hugh de Cressi had gone thither to prejudice his Grace on his own behalf. It was added, moreover, that they would not return to Suffolk, but proposed when they had found justice or the promise of it, to take ship at Dover for France. Next morning, accordingly, they rode away from Blythburgh Manor and passed through Dunwich with much pomp, where the citizens of that town, who were friends of the de Cressis, stared at them with no kind eyes. Indeed, one of these as they crossed the market-place called to them to be careful not to meet Hugh de Cressi and Grey Dick upon their journey, lest there should be more midnight burials and men-at-arms turned into foot-soldiers, whereat all about him laughed rudely.
But Acour did not laugh. He ground his teeth and said into the ear of Nicholas:
“Register this vow for me, priest, that in payment for that jest I’ll sack and burn Dunwich when our army comes, and give its men and children to the sword and its women to the soldiers.”
“It shall be done, lord,” answered the chaplain, “and should your heart soften at the appointed time I’ll put you in memory of this solemn oath.”
At the great house of the Mayor of Dunwich Sir Edmund drew rein and demanded to see him. Presently this Mayor, a timid, uncertain-looking man, came in his robes of office and asked anxiously what might be the cause of this message and why an armed band halted at his gate.
“For no ill purpose, sir,” answered Acour, “though little of justice have I found at your hands, who, therefore, must seek it at the Court of my liege lord, King Edward. All I ask of you is that you will cause this letter to be delivered safely to the lady Eve Clavering, who lies in sanctuary at the Preceptory of St. Mary and St. John. It is one of farewell, since it seems that this lady who, by her own will and her father’s, was my affianced, wishes to break troth, and I am not a man who needs an unwilling bride. I’d deliver it myself only that old knave, half priest and half knight, but neither good——”
“You’d best speak no ill of Sir Andrew Arnold here,” said a voice in the crowd.
“Only the master of the Preceptory,” went on Acour, changing his tone somewhat, “might take fright and think I wished to violate his sanctuary if I came there with thirty spears at my back.”
“And no fool either,” said the voice, “seeing that they are French spears and his is an English sanctuary.”
“Therefore,” continued Acour, “I pray you, deliver the letter. Perchance when we meet again, Master Mayor,” he added with a venomous glance of his dark eyes, “you will have some boon to ask of me, and be sure I’ll grant it—if I can.”
Then without waiting for an answer, for the mob of sturdy fishermen, many of whom had served in the French wars, looked threatening, he and his following rode away through the Ipswich gate and out on to the moorlands beyond, which some of them knew but too well.
All the rest of that day they rode slowly, but when night came, having halted their horses at a farm and given it out that they meant to push on to Woodbridge, they turned up a by-track on the lonely heath, and, unseen by any, made their through the darkness to a certain empty house in the marshes not far from Beccles town. This house, called Frog Hall, was part of Acour’s estate, and because of the ague prevalent there in autumn, had been long unattended. Nor did any visit it at this season of the year, when no cattle grazed upon these salt marshes.
Here, then, he and his people lay hid, cursing their fortunes, since, notwithstanding the provisions that they had conveyed thither in secret, the place was icy cold in the bitter, easterly winds which tore over it from the sea. So lonely was it, also, that the Frenchmen swore that their comrades slain by Grey Dick haunted them at nights, bidding them prepare to join the number of the dead. Indeed, had not Acour vowed that he would hang the first man who attempted to desert, some of them would have left him to make the best of their way back to France. For always as they crouched by the smoking hearth they dreamed of Grey Dick and his terrible arrows.
Sir Edmund Acour’s letter came safely into the hands of Eve, brought to her by the Mayor himself. It read thus:
Lady,
You will no more of me, so however much you should live to ask it, I will have no more of you. I go hang your merchant lout, and afterward away to France, who wish to have done with your cold Suffolk, where you may buy my lands cheap if you will. Yet, should Master Hugh de Cressi chance to escape me, I counsel you to marry him, for I can wish you no worse fate, seeing what you will be, than to remember what you might have been. Meanwhile it is my duty as a Christian to tell you, in case you should desire to speak to him ere it be too late, that your father lies at the point of death from a sickness brought on by his grief at the slaying of his son and your cruel desertion of him, and calls for you in his ravings. May God forgive you, as I try to do, all the evil that you have wrought, which, perhaps, is not done with yet. Unless Fate should bring us together again, for as aught I know it may, I bid you farewell forever. Would that I had never seen your face, but well are you named Red Eve, who, like the false Helen in a story you have never heard, were born to bring brave men to their deaths. Again farewell,
De Noyon.
“Who is this Helen?” asked Eve of Sir Andrew when the letter had been read.
“A fair Grecian, daughter, over whom nations fought when the world was young, because of her beauty.”
“Ah, well! she did not make herself beautiful, did she? and, perchance, was more sinned against than sinning, since women, having but one life to live, must follow their own hearts. But this Helen has been dead a long while, so let her rest, if rest she may. And now it seems that Acour is away and that my father lies very sick. What shall I do? Return to him?”
“First I will make sure that the Frenchman has gone, and then we will see, daughter.”
So Sir Andrew sent out messengers who reported it to be true that Acour had ridden straight to London to see the King and then sail for Dover. Also they said that no Frenchmen were left at Blythburgh save those who would never leave the place again, and that Sir John Clavering lay sick in his bed at the manor.
“God fights for us!” said Sir Andrew with a little laugh. “This Acour’s greeting at Court may be warmer than he thinks and at the least you and Dunwich are well rid of him. Though I had sooner that you stayed here, to-morrow, daughter, you shall ride to Blythburgh. Should your father die, as I think he will ere long, it might grieve you in the after years to remember that you had bid him no farewell. If he recovers or is harsh with you it will be easy for you to seek sanctuary again.”