CHAPTER XXIISIR RAYMOND
SIR JOHN HACKET, having formally announced his rank and that of his companion, as well as the nature of their business, to the herald, removed his velvet cap, though he held his bascinet in his left hand, and at the same time removed his right-hand gauntlet. His squire did likewise, and, breathing a fervent prayer for courage, he prepared to follow his master into the royal presence.
The heavy damask curtains were drawn aside by two knights in waiting, and Raymond heard the sonorous voice of the herald repeating the title and style of the Constable and his squire. Another moment and Raymond stood before, but at a respectful distance from, the royal daïs.
King Edward, who still wore the mailed coat in which he rode along the ranks earlier in the day, was attended by a number of earls and barons, while by his side stood the young Prince of Wales, who regarded the squire with an encouraging smile.
At the foot of the daïs, a little distance to the left, stood Raymond's uncle, Sir Maurice Revyngton, and his late father's former enemy, Sir Reginald Scarsdale, who, though still weak and suffering from his wounds, had, at Sir John's desire, appeared on the young squire's behalf.
"Ah, squire," quoth the King, fixing his dark, keen eyes upon the young man's face, "when we summoned thee to appear before us we looked for an explanation from thine own lips. But thou hast been forestalled, for these two knights have already told us of thy condition. Now, what hast thou to say why thou shouldst not be driven from the camp, being the son of an outlaw?"
"Nothing, sire; 'tis but the law."
"Thou couldst not have said much less," remarked the King, with a grim laugh. "How sayest thou, Sir Reginald Scarsdale. Hast thou a desire to press thy claims?"
"Nay, sire," replied the knight stoutly. "For his father, knowingly and willingly, came to my aid in the thickest of the fight, and but for his courage I should have been worsted."
"But thine oath of vengeance?"
"Sire, my desire for revenge departed the moment I heard from this squire the name of his father, who, in truth, slew my only brother. Furthermore, 'tis my intention to repair, as soon as this war is over, to the shrine of St. Swithin of Winchester and to seek absolution from mine oath."
"And thou hast no wish to harm this squire?"
"None, sire. On the contrary I wish him good——"
"Hold, Sir Knight," interrupted the King sharply. "We asked thee a plain question, to be answered by 'Yea' or 'Nay,' not by suggestions."
"And thou, Sir John," continued Edward, addressing the Constable. "Hast thou aught to add in favour of thy squire, beyond what thou didst tell us but a short time back?"
"Nothing more, sire."
"'Tis well. And now, squire, we have carefully considered thy case, and we are favourably disposed towards thee." Then, turning to his barons, he added, with a sly reference to the growing power of Parliament, "We take it, fair lords, that we shall not offend our faithful commoners assembled at Westminster by assuming a right to revoke a decree of outlawry?"
A low murmur of assent was the reply.
"Then, Raymond Revyngton, we hereby pardon thee for an offence that thou hast not committed—to wit, thou art no longer the son of an outlaw. Sir William de Saye, our scrivener, will draw up the deed of revocation, and a copy for the Lord Bishop of Winchester. Art content?"
"Sire, I thank thee," replied Raymond, bending low before his sovereign.
"There is yet another matter. Of thy valour there has been no question. We have in mind the affair with the Count of Tancarville, and, going farther back, thy journey to Hennebon. But more especially thy conduct in yesterday's fight, when our dear son, the Prince of Wales, was succoured by thine aid. We have a mind to inspect thy cloven shield, which, we do perceive, thou hast brought in case our memory were in need of a reminder."
The squire, still kneeling, handed his buckler to an attendant, who in turn presented it to the King.
"A lusty stroke," commented Edward, carefully examining the clean cut in the metal plate. "Our cousin of France hath men of sinew who in open fight would be worthy and gallant opponents. Had their peasants been as good bowmen as our gallant archers but few of us would be here. Squire," he added, "arise and hand over thy sword."
With martial alertness, Raymond drew the fragment of steel, and a look of surprise o'erspread the King's face.
"Thine equipment seems at fault," he remarked, smiling a little grimly. "Nay, we know 'twas done in a gallant fight. Advance, squire, and kneel before us."
This time Raymond did not refuse, for was he not a man free from the fatal taint that had threatened to mar everything in his career? With rapid stride and uplifted head he advanced to the steps of the daïs, his armour clanking as he moved. Presenting the hilt of his weapon to the King, the squire sank on his knees.
As in a dream he felt the flat of the broken blade touch his right shoulder, and the King's voice, in bold and decisive tones, saying, "Arise, Sir Raymond Revyngton!"
When at length Raymond found himself without the royal pavilion, he was overwhelmed by the congratulations of his friends, including Sir Reginald Scarsdale.
"'Twould ill become a belted knight if I did not make amends for the past," quoth the latter. "And to that end all I can do for thee I'll do willingly."
"Then on thy knightly honour I hold thee to thy promise," replied Raymond, catching at the opportunity with new-born courage, "for I have a matter of much weight of which I would speak."
"Then say on."
Sir John and Sir Maurice, having an inkling of what was coming, exchanged a knowing smile, and Raymond continued, though his voice faltered a little.
"Sir Reginald, I love thy daughter Audrey, and would ask thy consent to win her hand in marriage."
For a while the old knight was too much astonished to reply, then, holding out his hand, he replied, "Then thou art the youth who rendered her service at that little affair with the French at Hampton? Out on me for a thickhead for not linking thee with that bold feat before. Certes! I will not be less good than my word. Take the maid, if she be willing to wed thee!" Thus it was that the newly-made knight found that success begets success, though in his heart he had not expected to win Sir Reginald's consent so readily. Yet in the midst of his good fortune the one dark shadow was the haunting thought of the loss of his father, and he grieved in his heart that death had deprived his sire of life just as his son was on the threshold of fame and honour.
Slowly the four knights, Sir Reginald being stiff with his hurts, proceeded towards the lines of the Hampshire companies, where Sir John had invited the others to partake of refreshment. Already the news of Raymond's advancement had preceded them, and the soldiers, with loud shouts, welcomed the new knight; for the master-bowman's son was ever popular in the ranks of the men of Portsmouth and Southampton.
"What are thy plans for the future," asked the Constable later in the day, "for as heir to Sir Maurice it is fitting that thou shouldst join him with the men of Devon."
"Nay, by the rood," answered Raymond warmly. "Thou hast ever been a good master to me, Sir John, and with thee I'll abide till the end of the war."
"I thank thee for thine appreciation, Raymond, for ever since thou wert my squire I have loved thee as a son. But now concerning the maid, the Lady Audrey?"
"Until Sir Reginald returns home I will not press my suit, but should he do so I hope I may be permitted to withdraw from the camp for a few weeks to accompany him. Even then, how can I tell that the Lady Audrey will deal favourably with me?"
"I know that she loves thee, Raymond."
"How so, Sir John, seeing that I know not myself?"
"Raymond, I am afraid thou art more forward with the art of war than with the affairs of the heart. Would a maid have sent a messenger to me every week whilst thou wert in Hennebon to know if there were tidings of thee, if she did not love thee?"
"But how knew she that I was in Brittany?" was the amazed question.
"How? Didst thou not give me a letter to send to her?"
"Only in case I did not return."
"Didst thou? Didst thou? Certes now I remember! But now I think on the matter, I must have forgotten that, for I did send it," replied Sir John, with pardonable deceit and well-feigned dismay. "But mind it not, Raymond, 'twas after all for the best, and, mark my words, she'll have thee—sure enough."
On the morrow the march was resumed, the King having decided to lay siege to Calais, and slowly the long lines of English troops, every man heavily laden with booty, proceeded from the field of Crécy.
Edward had long looked with covetous eyes upon the port of Calais, for owing to the death of his Flemish ally, Jacques d'Artevelde, at the hands of fellow-countrymen, and the consequent estrangement with the Flemings, the King was in need of a continental port for the distribution of English wool, and, once Calais were taken, the nest of pirates who made their headquarters there, to the great annoyance of English ships, would be dispersed. Also an entry for his troops would be secured within easy distance from the English coast. So, with these strong incentives, Edward hastened to reduce the town.
Within a week of Crécy, the English lay in a triple ring around the land side of the town, while a strong fleet cruised constantly between Grisnez and Gravelines to prevent any succour being sent by sea, and, without attempting to carry the defences by assault, Edward relied upon famine to bring about the downfall of Calais.
Throughout the long winter of 1346-47 the blockade was maintained, and the works of the besiegers resembled the outer walls of a city rather than temporary trenches, so that the English were in a position both to keep the citizens of Calais within their walls and to repel any attempt on the part of the French to raise the siege.
Early in the spring dysentery broke out in the ranks of the English, and amongst those who were attacked was Sir Raymond. In spite of the rough yet devoted attention of his men, the skill of the harassed physicians, and the solicitude of his friends, the young knight was, for a time, in great danger, and even when the crisis was passed his progress towards recovery was slow and tedious.
One day as he lay alone in his tent, weak and worn, Raymond heard the well-known sound of troops marching hurriedly out of camp, and the blare of trumpets denoted that something untoward was afoot.
Feebly he called the names of the men who usually waited on him, but in vain; there was no response to his summons, and at length the tramp of feet died away, leaving the camp as silent as the grave, save for the flapping of the canvas as the keen wind whistled around the tents.