"Be on your guard."
The besieged watched these preparations with painful anxiety, not daring to give expression to their fears.
Suddenly a cloud of smoke arose, tongues of fire leaped up, and the Indians, using long poles, began pushing the cumbersome vehicle nearer to the house. Then indeed the English knew they were lost. The men turned pale and looked aghast at the awful sight, and the women in their terror cried aloud to God to help them. Their doom was sealed; either they must perish in the flames, or rushing out, be murdered by the savages. Slowly but surely the horrible machine came on, long tongues of fire already licked the front of the house, and the small amount of water the besieged were able to throw upon that great mass of combustible substance was of no avail; besides, the heat would not allow of their opening the windows or ascending to the roof.
"Let us out, let us out!" shrieked the terror-stricken women.
"Nothing but the bursting of the clouds from heaven can save us," exclaimed Stephen in despair.
At that moment, above the cries of the women and children and the yells of the savages, there was heard a distant rumbling.
"What is it? what new horror is coming upon us?" cried several voices at once. Again it came rolling nearer and nearer, and some one said, "It is thunder!" Then an aged woman, raising her wrinkled hands, cried with a loud voice, "The Lord is with us; who shall be against us?"
But the rain, the blessed rain from heaven, would it fall and extinguish the flames, which kept rising higher and higher? The trees of the forest waved, bowing before the coming storm; the wind rose, and the house rocked under the fury of the elements; and the women, falling on their knees, prayed, "Good Lord, deliver us!" and the men, uncovering their heads, prayed also. They were powerless; God alone could save them!
If the rain held off only a little longer, it would be too late! Already a buttress had caught fire, and at the risk of their lives the two Carters, father and son, with the aid of several other men, hewed at it to separate it from the main building. Suddenly a flash of lightning, so lurid that the whole heavens were illumined, followed by a crash of thunder, rolling as it seemed in the nethermost parts of the earth and in the heavens above, struck English and Indians alike with terror. The latter, throwing themselves with their faces on the earth, lay as if stunned. And then the clouds burst, a sheet of water poured down, a perfect deluge! In the space of a few minutes the land was submerged, the fire was extinguished, and the burning mass reduced to smoking embers.
The besieged knew that for the present they were saved, and the Indians knew they were conquered by the "Great Unseen," and so, rising half drowned, they fled to the forest. As suddenly as the storm had risen so suddenly did it abate.
Then another sound reached the ears of the besieged, the tramping of horses' hoofs coming at full speed through the deserted village, and a troop of some fifty or sixty horsemen pursued the Indians, shooting and hewing them down. Many were slain, and those who escaped dispersed. Before sunset all fear was over for that brave little garrison, the house-doors were thrown open, and they came forth to welcome their rescuers.
"Josiah Blackstone? where is Blackstone? We owe our lives to him," said James Carter.
"Ay, verily we do!" shouted a chorus of voices.
"You say truly," responded Colonel Willard. "When he arrived at my camp this morning both he and his horse were dead beat; he could not have ridden back with me. There comes a time when even the strongest man has to give in, and Josh Blackstone had reached that stage. Do you know where he came from?"
"From Mount Hope; he was made prisoner by Philip, and escaped," said Stephen Carter.
"After running the gantlet, and coming out of it alive, which not one man in fifty succeeds in doing," said the colonel; "and it seems to me he has been on the go ever since. No marvel if he dropped from his horse in a dead faint after he had delivered your message. He's a Spartan! A cheer for brave Josh Blackstone!"
And the cheer went up right gladly, whilst the women brushed the tears from their eyes, and the men muttered in their beards, "He's a brave lad! a right brave lad!"
All through that winter and the following spring and summer the war raged; a reign of terror spread over the land.
When Josiah Blackstone reached his home he found the house burnt to the ground, the trees in the orchard felled, only the trodden-down grave of his grandsire left to mark where his inheritance had been.
Father, mother, Rena, were no more! He stood desolate and alone. His father, he was told, had defended himself bravely; more than one Indian had fallen by his hand; but at last overpowered by numbers, he had been slain. Of his mother and Rena's fate he failed to learn anything; they had disappeared. One thing he discovered, namely, that it was not the Wampanoags, Philip's tribe of Indians, who had wrought this destruction, but the squaw Sachem Weetamoo's, and Josh there and then made up his mind that he would follow her up and discover the fate of his mother and sister. The Plymouth Colony had put the conduct of all military affairs into the hands of Colonel Church, a friend of the Blackstones, and straightway Josh offered him his services, which were readily accepted, and he was enrolled in the corps, and rapidly rose to the rank of captain. The knowledge of Indian warfare he had gained from his friend was only equalled by Colonel Churchhimself, and these two men, working together, became an absolute terror to the Indians, for they not only fought them with their own weapons of cunning and ruse, but with the superior arms of the trained soldier.
Gradually but surely the red men felt the weight of the white man's arm; they lost many of their best chiefs and warriors; they could no longer undertake large expeditions, but were reduced to a sort of predatory warfare. Twice in the course of a few weeks Philip was nearly captured; he fled, escaping in disguise, no one knew whither. But even then he would not yield. One of his chiefs venturing to propose that peace should be asked for, Philip ordered him at once to be put to death.
The sorely-tried population of New England would gladly have made peace. The strain of never-ceasing anxiety had whitened the heads of men still in their prime, and young men had even grown to look old. They could bear to die and suffer themselves, if need be; but their hearts ached for the women and children, above all for those who were missing and whose fates were dark mysteries.
"It will never end until that she-devil Weetamoo and her tool Philip are taken or killed, Josh," said Colonel Church, as they paced together in front of their tent, they having during the last few days pitched their camp near Tiverton in the North.
"If you can devise any plan by which this can be accomplished, I am ready," said Josh. "As far as it has been consistent with my duty, I have avoided Philip. I have told you how he saved my life. But for this squaw Sachem I have no such feeling, and I believe she is at the bottom of all this mischief."
Even as he spoke, an Indian came out from amongst a clump of trees and stood before them.
Always on his guard against treachery, Josh raised his musket.
"Stand!" he shouted.
"No fear; I have come to speak with you and tell you what you desire to know," said the Indian, halting at a safe distance.
"Who are you?" asked the colonel.
"I am the brother of the chief whom Philip slew because he spake of peace. I have lost two sons in the war; I have but one left, and he is a babe. I also would dwell at peace, so have I come to you that you may slay the squaw Sachem Weetamoo. She has but a few men left of her three hundred warriors, and when she is conquered I will lead you to Philip's hiding-place."
"How are we to know that you are true, and will not rather lead us unto our death?" said Colonel Church.
"My squaw and my babe are here with me," and he pointed to the clump of trees; "take them and slay them if I lie."
"Let it be so," said Church, with a glance at Josh; "fetch them."
The Indian disappeared.
"He's true; I know the man," said Josh.
Leading a fine boy of five, and followed by a squaw, the savage reappeared.
"It is well," said Church; "let them remain yonder. Now, what have you to tell us? We will reward you, and your wife and child shall be cared for; therefore speak without fear."
"The Sachem Weetamoo is camped on the banks of the Matipoisett; her warriors are dead; she has but a score of men left. I will lead you to her this night."
"Let me go with him, colonel," said Josh eagerly. "This woman laid my home waste, slew my father, and has, may-be, kept my mother and sister in captivity; it is but right that I should capture her. Above all things, I would not run the risk of her being killed, I must question her."
"I am quite willing you should go; I am expecting reinforcements, and cannot move forward myself. Take twenty men, and let the Indian guide you," said the colonel.
In the briefest possible space of time, Josh was on his way with a small but well-armed force, for they reasoned the Indian might be numerically mistaken, and Weetamoo be stronger than he represented. The Indian led them along roads known only to native hunters, creeping through the forest stealthily as the tiger ready to pounce upon his prey; then they worked their way up towards the far-away river, where Weetamoo had taken refuge. The day was dawning when they came in sight of her camp, the outlines of the tents just visible through the river mist resting in white clouds over the marshy land. Quickly, noiselessly, with practised skill, Josh disposed his men along the river front and round the camp, in such a manner as to render escape almost impossible. The orders were,notto kill the savages, but to make them prisoners. This order applied more especially to the squaw Sachem; she of all others was to be taken alive. Then headed by Josh, a rush was made into the midst of the camp.
Aroused from their slumbers, wholly unprepared and unarmed, this last remnant of the three hundred warriors made but a faint resistance, and finding they could save their lives by yielding, they did so. At the first alarm a woman crept out of her tent through the long rushes. Quickly as a serpent she glided down towards the river. "Cowards!" she had hissed when she saw her people yield, and yet in her heart she knew they could not well do otherwise. Favoured by the mist, she had evaded the guard, reached the water's edge, when suddenly she lifted her head and looked back. Josh, feeling sure she would make for the river, was close at hand, and saw the passionate face and angry eyes flash out upon him. He sprangforward; but before he could reach her, with a shout of triumph she leaped into the water and was swimming rapidly down with the current. To throw himself in after her was the work of a second. He saw her disappear, thought she was lost, when lo! she rose again far ahead of him. She had but dived, swimming under the water to scare him. Throwing out all his strength, he was gaining upon her, when to his horror he became aware they were approaching some rapids, where the river fell from a great height into a lake. The noise was terrific. He slackened speed, shouted to her, but either she did not or would not hear. She must have known full well the fate which awaited her; but on she went, swept forward by the strong current, down over the brink into the dark lake below, and the rushing of the waters was the dirge of Weetamoo. It was with much difficulty that Josh succeeded in reaching the bank and walking back to the camp. His men were for giving him up as lost, especially when the Indians told them how and where that river ended; his reappearance was therefore greeted with enthusiastic cheers, though the general disappointment at the escape of the squaw Sachem was great.
It had been agreed between Josh and Colonel Church that the latter should advance as soon as he had received the expected reinforcements, and that together they should go on to where the Indian stated Philip had taken refuge, namely, on a bit of upland at the south end of the swamp at the foot of Mount Hope. The day following the capture of Weetamoo's camp Church arrived, but without the promised reinforcements; they had been delayed.
"I decided to come on all the same," said the colonel; "for if we are to take him at all, it must be done quickly, or he will get wind of our movements and escape us."
"You are right," replied Josh; "we must just do the best we can."
The following day they moved forward, and by night were within a short distance of the swamp. Josh, knowing the ground, went on in front with about twenty men, and stationed them, as far as their numbers would permit, at every outlet; then guided by the Indian, he and Church, with a mere handful of soldiers, crept up the hillside. The Indians were sleeping. They were roused by the firing of a shot; instantly all was confusion. Philip sprang to his feet, seized his gun, and rushed straight down the hillside towards the swamp, to the very spot where the Indian who had betrayed him stood, with an Englishman on guard. They both saw him and fired simultaneously. The Englishman missed the mark, but the Indian's bullet entered Philip's heart. He fell forward dead in the black swamp.
"With a shout of triumph she leaped into the water."
"I am glad I did not do it," said Josh, as he stood with Colonel Church looking down on the dead body of the King.
"And yet," said Church, "through him your house has been made desolate."
"That is our view of the war," answered Josh; "in his eyes we are the intruders. He but fought for what he considered to be his own, and where he could be generous he was. He did not slay my father; it was Weetamoo. I have no personal grudge against Philip; he was my friend. To such a nature as his our yoke was insupportable. It is well his spirit is set free; he could not have brooked captivity." And with a last look at the dead warrior Josh turned away.
So ended this great struggle, known as "King Philip's War." The white man had conquered; the Indian power throughout southern New England was broken; whole tribes and families of Indians had been destroyed; the remnants fled farther west into the unexplored wilds, whither the white man's foot had not yet strayed. The settlers gazed sadly around upon the ruins of their towns and homesteads; but they were brave men and women,and looked the future steadily in the face. They had fought and bled for this New England, even as they would have done for the "old countrie," and they loved it all the better for the sacrifices they had made.
So Josiah Blackstone stood beside old William Blackstone's grave and thought. He was alone. "Should he build a new house, where the old one had stood? Should he replant the orchard with trees, in the hope of seeing them blossom and bear fruit?" It seemed dreary work; but a voice whispered that such as he, with youth and health and strength, were the marrow of the land, to build up and make strong with Christian faith what the heathen had overthrown; and taking up a pickaxe he struck it into the ground, saying in his heart: "So help me, God! I will rebuild my father's house; it is my duty." He set to work and laboured diligently, and a fair new house arose, and young saplings were planted where the old trees had been hewn down; and still men said, "Josiah Blackstone is a sad man!" and truly by day and by night he mourned. "If only my mother, and Rena, my little sister, had been spared to me!" but he could hear nothing of them, and they were to him as dead.
Friends counselled him to take a wife, and he pondered thereon; but no maiden pleased him, and he waited.
The weeks and months passed by, the harvest was gathered in, and it was very plenteous; and when the labourers had gone to their homes, Josh sat smoking in the porch of the new house, because it seemed less lonesome than in the empty rooms; and as he sat the sound of wheels fell on his ear, but he paid no heed thereto, until they stopped at his gate. Then looking up, he saw a covered cart. Out of it sprang a girl, tall and slim; then another. And last of all an older woman laid her hands on those young shoulders; but Josh, pushing them on one side, took her in his arms, crying, "Mother! my mother!" and he carried her over thenewthreshold to the living-room and placed her by the hearth; and she kissed him weeping, with her arms about his neck, and Rena did likewise. But the maiden stood apart gazing wistfully, and Josh saw that it was Thusick, King Philip's daughter! A moment he hesitated; seeing which, his mother arose, and taking Thusick's hand, said: "She is my daughter; but for her we had all perished. Now she has no home among her people, for they are all dead; she must dwell amongst us, our God must be her God, our people her people. Shall it not be so, my son?"
"He fell forward dead in the black swamp."
"It shall," answered Josh, "she is welcome. Philip was my friend, and she is a king's daughter."
And Thusick dwelt with them and was as one of them. When the orchard was white with apple-blossom, Love passed that way, and under the eaves of thenewhomestead was whispered anold, old story!
Just one month after I became squire to Sir Richard de Courci, then of the Castle of Stoke Courci, that lies between Quantock Hills and the sea in our fair Somerset, I met Alan de Govet, about whom my story mostly is.
We had been to Taunton, and were riding homewards across the hills, and valley and river lay straight before us—as fair a view as any in all England is that rich country between Mendips and Quantocks—yet I suppose that Sir Richard thought of it hardly at all, for he, as Queen Matilda's steward, was deep in all the new plans that were to set our exiled queen on her father's throne, and he rode thoughtfully after meeting De Mohun of Dunster that day.
But when we saw a gay little party of men in hunting dress, with hawks and hounds, come up the deep narrow lane to meet us, he roused, and turning to the twenty well-armed men behind us, asked who these were who came now.
None of them knew: but as they came nearer, I saw that the handsome young leader of the party wore the badge of the De Govets—a family from Yeovil, and well-known and loyal followers of King Stephen.
"Why, then," said my knight, "if this is young De Govet, I must have a word or two with him. Bar the road while we speak."
The men grinned, and closed up so that the lane wasfull. There was little love lost, since Matilda's failure of two years ago, between the parties of King and Queen.
"He came heavily to the roadside grass, where he lay stunned."
When we met, therefore, the hunting party must needs rein up, for they could not pass us.
"Pardon me, sir knight, but you bar the road," said the leader, raising his cap courteously.
"Only for the pleasure of speech with you," said my knight, saluting in turn. "I am De Courci, and I believe that I speak to Alan de Govet?"
The young man's face darkened as he answered, "Let me go my way, Sir Richard. I have nought to say to disloyal men."
"There are two sides to every question, young sir," the knight answered. "And since I am a Queen's man, and the De Govets are King's men, we have different views of what loyalty is. However, just now Stephen is king."
"Well, what would you with me?"
"Some time since I had a fair offer to make to your noble father—touching yourself—that is, if you are Alan de Govet. I have as yet had no answer."
The young man's face flushed angrily.
"Stand aside, sir," he said. "This is discourteous."
"Not if you are the man I take you for. Which, by the way, you have not owned as yet."
"I will own nothing, if thus asked," was the answer, and the stranger turned to his men.
But they had gone hastily at the first word about the rival claims of King and Queen, knowing what mostly came of such arguments nowadays.
Seeing which, he turned his horse leisurely, and without sign of fear, to follow them, and Sir Richard laughed, and rode alongside him, laying his hand on the horse's bridle.
"Stay—I must ask you to come to Stoke Courci with me, as your men have left you," he said.
In a moment the young man's sword was out, andat the same instant he seemed to rise from his saddle, lose his balance, and fall away from Sir Richard. His blow was wasted on air, as he came heavily to the roadside grass, where he lay stunned.
"Bring him home carefully," said Sir Richard to his men. "If he is Alan de Govet, we must have had him as a hostage sooner or later. If he is not—well, a De Courci can but apologise."
So we rode on, and I asked Sir Richard, wondering, why so good a rider fell, as did this young man.
"'Tis an old trick," the knight said; "you do but get your foot under his and lift him at the right moment. But I would not advise you to try it with one heavier than yourself."
Now when we reached the castle, our prisoner was brought in after us, seemingly not much the worse for his fall, and the Lady Sybilla, Sir Richard's ward, and mistress of the castle since his wife died, asked me who he might be. And when I told her that he was thought to be Alan de Govet, but that he would not own his name, she flushed a little, and said no more. Next day I had reason to think that she had heard of him before this. Very fair was this young lady, and heiress of many broad acres. She seemed much older than myself, but a boy of sixteen will think anything over twenty a great age.
After breakfast on the next day I fed the hawks, and then came back into the great hall to see if my knight had any commands for me. There I found some sort of council on hand, and, from all appearances, no very peaceful one. Jehan of Stowey, the head man-at-arms, and one of his men guarded the two doors, and our chaplain, Father Gregorius, sat by the hearth, smiling uneasily. Sir Richard sat in his great chair on the daïs, facing his prisoner, and by his side was the Lady Sybilla, who was plainly in a towering rage, for her eyes flashed, and her little hand was clenched as if she was holding herself incheck. And when I looked at De Govet, I saw that he was as angry as the lady. As for Sir Richard, he seemed to be enjoying what was going on immensely, watching his prisoner with something of admiration for his fearlessness. Well built and square he was, though not so bigas our knight, who was almost a giant, as the De Courcis often are, and he looked like a warrior, even in his hunting gear, which was stained with red Quantock mud from his fall when he was taken.
"Sir Richard sat in his great chair on the daïs."
Sir Richard took up the matter where he had broken it off when I entered.
"'Tis a mercy, Alan, that De Mohun of Dunster did not get hold of you. For that humour of yours of last night, when you would not own your name, would surely have landed you in the sachentege he keeps in his castle wherewith to wring answers from the silent. I would fain fit a more pleasant yoke to your neck," he said in a meditative way, watching De Govet's face amusedly.
Now of all the tortures that a Norman can invent, that of the sachentege is the worst; for the engine is made of a great beam of wood, fastened round the man's neck with a rough iron collar. As the beam is too heavy for one man to lift, and too long to be set on end, it is apt to wring confession of anything needed from him who is set therein after a time. Therefore I was surprised to hear the Lady Sybilla say suddenly—
"Borrow De Mohun's sachentege, I pray you."
"Fie, daughter," said Gregorius, shaking his head, but half smiling at the girl's anger. "It were a shame to set so gallant a youth in such bondage."
"Set me in the hateful thing rather," she said. "It were better than to marry me to this man of Stephen's, who would not own whatever name he has—being doubtless ashamed thereof."
At that De Govet started, and his face grew crimson. But Sybilla went on, growing more angry still.
"When Queen Maud comes I will go to her. She will see that I——"
"Hold," said Sir Richard suddenly; "enough of this. Go to your bower, girl, until you can be more patient with your guardian."
"Willingly," she said, with a proud toss of her head, and she swept out of the hall without a glance at us, and her waiting-woman followed her.
Then there was silence, and the knight and his captive looked at one another until a faint smile crossed De Govet's face. The chaplain looked anxious and disturbed, and it flashed of a sudden across my mind that if Queen Matilda was indeed coming to England shortly, it was the last thing that a King's man should have heard as yet.
Sir Richard tried to laugh, but it was uneasy.
"When do King Stephen and Maud his Queen come this way?" he asked Alan de Govet.
"When does Maud the Empress cross from Normandy?" retorted Alan.
Then both laughed. They understood one another by this time.
"Well," said Sir Richard, "shut up you must be, Alan, for a time at least. But if you will take my advice you will do as I wish you, and so find freedom and fortune as well."
"This is a pretty plan," said Alan. "Having caught a loyal King's man, you must needs marry him to your ward, you being Matilda's steward, whereby you save her fortunes when your new plots fail."
"Or yours when they succeed," answered Sir Richard. "Truly this is a pretty plan, as you say, and I am a benefactor to you both. Moreover, I think that you might seek further and fare worse."
"What is the benefit to yourself?" said Alan scornfully.
"Being a De Courci, I look for none, except may-be that to have a damsel in my charge hampers me somewhat; also, it is my duty to provide for her welfare as best I can. This is no new plan of mine, Alan. De Mohun or I were to take you sooner or later as a hostage, to ensure that your good father will bide quietly whenthere is a little fighting on hand presently. I have only caught you by chance rather sooner than I hoped."
"Well," said Alan, "the lady seems to think ill of your plans for her welfare."
"That is because her advice was not asked," laughed Sir Richard. "Now, what say you?"
"It is plain that I have heard too much to be let loose," said Alan, "and I will not be married against my will. Wherefore you have me in your own power."
"The choice is between the bonds of matrimony and the small dungeon I have here, unless you prefer to be sent to Dunster, where De Mohun will take good care of you. I think the first choice is best."
"What sort of dungeon have you here?" asked Alan coolly on this. "I have no mind for Dunster."
"Let him see it," said Sir Richard to Jehan, and Alan turned on his heel and followed the man-at-arms from the hall without a word.
"One would have thought that the looks of the Lady Sybilla would have needed no comparison with those of any dungeon," said our knight with a great laugh, when he had disappeared. "But it is a good youth, and I am glad that De Mohun got him not, else he would have been in the rack by this time. But we may not let him go, now that yon headstrong girl has let out what she has."
Presently Jehan brought Alan back. The former was grinning, but the latter was cool as ever. His gay cordovan boots were wet and muddy, as if he had been over the ankles in water.
"'Tis a good dungeon," he said, "and no chance of escape therefrom. I have no mind to dwell in it, therefore I will offer ransom for myself."
Sir Richard shook his head.
"I took you, Master de Govet, for weightier reasons than those of gain."
"That is to your credit," answered Alan. "It is discourteousto take an unarmed man by force, save for weighty reasons. Then I will pledge my word of honour not to escape if allowed reasonable liberty."
"Ho!" said Sir Richard, "is there no word about the Lady Sybilla?"
"We will not discuss that point further," said Alan loftily. "I do but seek to evade the dungeon."
"It seems that you know your mind, young man," Sir Richard said, "and I am willing to meet you as far as I may. If I take your word, you must promise also to hold no communication with the King's party."
"I will consider myself in the dungeon for that matter. They will not miss my help."
"I am not so sure," said the knight thoughtfully. "If you are my guest you may hear and see much that they would be glad to learn."
"Turn me out, then," said Alan promptly. "I know nothing as yet."
Again Sir Richard shook his head and laughed.
"I must keep my hostage, for I am not alone in this matter, and have to answer to others. Now, do I have your word not to escape, and to be silent?"
Alan stepped forward and held out his hand.
"The word of a De Govet," he said.
Now from that time forward Alan took his captivity in good part, sending by a chapman some message to his father which Sir Richard approved, and which satisfied those at home, for shortly after they sent him all that a guest could need, even to his helm and mail and charger. I do not know what his people thought of his being a guest with so noted a Queen's man as our knight, but at that time the great plans were secret, and none seemed to have any suspicion of them beyond the circle of the leaders of Matilda's party.
I soon learnt, having often to ride with messages to one leader or another, what these plans were, and I canput them into few words. Earl Robert of Gloucester, our Queen's half-brother, was to rise at the head of all the nobles in the west, while King Malcolm of Scotland, her uncle, was to invade England from across the Border. Two years ago he had done the same, but failed for want of well-planned assistance, so that King Stephen was able to make terms with him. This had seemed the death-blow to Matilda's hopes at the time, but now things would surely go better. Stephen would be taken between two fires, and then the Queen would come from Normandy, and all would end in her favour.
So the great plotting went on, and meanwhile Alan de Govet and I grew to be great friends, for he was a good warrior, and took pains to teach me many things. Which pleased Sir Richard well, so that he seemed to forget that Alan was his captive, treating him always as a welcome guest.
The only person in all the castle, and village also, who did not like Alan was the Lady Sybilla, and she made no secret of her dislike. I thought it good of Alan to take the trouble to please her that he did, for we must needs see much of her. However, she was always most pleasant to me, and I liked to serve her in any way that I could. Father Gregorius was another friend of mine, and I learnt many things that a squire should know from him. He, too, liked Alan, and would often pass a sly jest on him about his choice between the dungeon and the lady's hand, at first. But as time went on Alan seemed to grow tired of the old jest, and waxed angry when it came. So Gregorius forgot it.
It was in April, towards the end, that I came to Stoke Courci, and from that time forward messengers came and went in much secrecy. Once Earl Robert came for a day from Dunster, with De Mohun; and once we rode to Wells to meet Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, the Justiciar, from whose help the Queen hoped much.
Now, in the beginning of July, I had been out with Sir Richard, and did not go into the castle when I had led the horses round to the stables, but sought Alan in the tiltyard, some one telling me that he had gone in that direction. And there I saw a thing that puzzled me, for it was unlike what one might have expected.
Two people walked under the trees on the far side of the tilting-ground, and they were the Lady Sybilla and Alan himself in deep converse. Alan seemed to be speaking a great deal and getting short answers; which was not surprising, as the lady was always proud and disdainful with him, so that Alan always seemed discomfited when she appeared. Just at this time, however, he did not seem so.
They did not see that I came, at first; and before they heeded me, I heard a few words.
"I will have nought to say to a man who is ashamed to own his own name," quoth Lady Sybilla.
"It was not shame, but policy," answered Alan.
"Ay—to escape from me."
Alan was silent for a moment, and then said—
"I have learnt to prize what once I had no thought of."
Then Sybilla saw me, and flushed.
"Ay—your name, you mean," she said to Alan, whose face was away from me. "Go to—win your name back by some deeds of arms, and then you may be worth speaking with."
With that she passed him and came towards me, beginning to hum some old tune or other lightly. As for Alan, he bided where she left him, not caring to follow.
"Come away," she said to me; "your comrade is in an evil temper."
"That is the first time I have seen him so," answered I; "needs must that I stay to cheer him; for I am not the cause of his ill-humour," and I laughed.
"Well then, go your way for an unmannerly squire," she retorted, turning away towards the castle.
"Nay, but, lady—" I began. But she went on quickly, with one last remark flung over her shoulder, as it were—
"I know where I am not wanted, at least."
"Now," thought I, "it is plain where the ill-temper lies." So I went to Alan, and asked what was amiss.
"Well," said he—for though he was five years or more older than I, we were close friends by this time—"maybe I am a fool to think twice of the matter; but, on my word, friend Ralph, one would think that I was in love."
I laughed heartily.
"Did you tell her so?" I asked.
"She has set me a task which, as a good squire, I am bound to undertake, whatever I may have said; and what chance a prisoner like myself has to do it, I cannot see."
"Winning a name to wit. I heard that much," I said. "But that we have often talked of. It does not need the words of a sharp-tongued damsel to set your thoughts in that direction."
"Your Saxon wits need sharpening with Norman whetstone," he answered gravely. "Know you not that the word of a fair lady has double weight in the matter of winning renown? So that one must straightway seek for what one might else have left to chance and good fortune."
"My Saxon mother-wit would tell me that all depends on who the lady who speaks the word may be," I answered, being used to a gentle jest of this sort from Alan, and by no means minding it, since I had well beaten him about the Norman pate with our good old Saxon quarter-staff—the one weapon whose use he disdained until I persuaded him to a bout with me. After which he learned to use it, because he said that it belonged to good forestry.
"Above wit comes the law of chivalry," he said then."It matters not if the lady is queen or beggar-maid, so that her words be a spur to great deeds and knightly."
"I know where I am not wanted, at least."
Now, when Alan began in this strain he was apt to wax high-flown, causing Sir Richard to laugh at him at times. So I said—
"This sounds well. But there is nought for you to undertake, that I can see."
After that we sat and looked out to the long line of the blue Quantocks and spoke of foreign wars. But the time for brave deeds was nearer than we thought, for that night came a messenger with stirring news, and after speaking with him Sir Richard sent for us two.
"Alan," he said, "I have strange news for you, and I do not know how you will take what I have to tell you. Nor do I rightly know what to do with you now. The other leaders of our cause will not suffer me to let you go free, as I would willingly, because they do your father the honour of thinking that his hand must be held. As for myself, I have forgotten that you are aught but a guest, and you please me."
Alan smiled, and made a little bow at that, but said nothing.
"Now I must go northwards," said the knight; "and at once. Ralph must see to my arms, and he will go with me, all the better squire for your companionship. There is a campaign on hand, as you may guess."
"Northward," said Alan thoughtfully. "Are the Scots on foot across the Border?"
"Ay; that they are."
"Why, then, let me go with you and help fight them, Sir Richard. That is England's quarrel—whether king or queen has right to the throne."
Sir Richard smiled grimly.
"Mostly that is so. But now Malcolm comes again as ally of his niece, and with his help we mean to set her on the throne. I fear you will not fight on my side."
"I cannot," answered Alan. "I had hoped this was but some new Border raid or public quarrel."
He was silent for a while as my knight told me what I had to prepare for the journey. But presently he spoke again—
"Let me go with you, Sir Richard," he said. "You are most generous in your own wish to let me go free, and it is possible that in the far north, where there will be none to hinder you, you will let me join in one battle for my own king. I would return to you either in victory or defeat, if not slain. And if slain, any further trouble in keeping me is over."
"This is a strange request," said Sir Richard, watching Alan's eager face. "You must be tired of our little castle."
But I thought I knew why Alan was so ready to go north for a mere chance of fighting.
"Alan has a mind to do some mighty deeds or other," I said. "We spoke thereof this afternoon."
"When I came here I denied my name, as it were," said Alan quickly, preferring not to be questioned perhaps, "and I must needs win it back. Let me prove that I am not to be ashamed thereof."
"Nay, Alan. You withheld your name somewhat foolishly, may-be; but you denied it not. None can blame you," said Sir Richard kindly.
"Nevertheless it has been said that I must win it back, and, I pray you, let me have this chance."
"Ralph," said Sir Richard sternly, "is this your foolishness?"
"Not mine," I answered. "'Tis but a poor jest of the Lady Sybilla's."
The knight looked at Alan and began to smile. Alan grew red and then angry, and Sir Richard laughed.
"So!" he said. "If that is the lady's word, there is no help for it. But I knew not that you had used your leisure so well."
Now why Alan had not a word to say for himself atthis I could not tell, but so it was. At last, after shifting from one foot to the other uneasily, he ceased his pretence at anger, and said—
"I am asking much, Sir Richard. But may it be so?"
"Come north at least, and we will see about the rest. If you fight for Stephen, however, you and I may be running tilt against one another unawares in some melee."
"You have unhorsed me once, Sir Richard," said Alan, in high glee, "and out of your way would I keep. Now, I do not know how to thank you."
"Why," said Sir Richard, "I am wont to need two squires, and have but one. If you are not too proud, journey as my second, and if aught is wanting in your gear I will supply it."
"It is honour for any squire to serve the De Courci," said Alan. "Your squire I will be in all good faith, until I must needs ask you to let me have one fight for whom I will."
I was glad enough that Alan was to go with us, as may be supposed, and gaily went to work to set my lord's armour in order, while Jehan of Stowey saw to mine. And presently, while I sat alone in the armoury singing as I polished the heavy, flat-topped, war helm, the Lady Sybilla came in, and sitting in the window-seat, began to talk with me about our journey.
By-and-by I told her that Alan de Govet was to go with us at his own request, and that because of her words this afternoon. She seemed to care little, for she looked out of the window and spoke of somewhat that she saw thence in the meadows by the stream.
Yet presently she said—
"So this Alan must needs blame me for making him eager to run into danger?"
"Your words, he says, are weighty, as being those of a lady. But I do not think that he blames you at all, Lady Sybilla."