Cedric, the Forester

by Bernard Gay Marshall

So, an hour past the noonday, we made camp by a fair stream, set a fire alight to roast the bird, and feasted right merrily. As we sat about the embers, filled with the comfort of hunger well sated, I lifted up my voice in a ballad of which I had many times of late made secret practice. It went right merrily and clear; and when I had once sung it through Cedric and old William both urged me on to repeat it. When I sang again Cedric surprised me much, seeing the untaught forester that he was, by joining me with a sweet, high contra-melody that wondrously enhanced the music; and old William too, after a few gruff trials, did bravely swell the chorus.

Thus pleasantly occupied, and with our carol ringing through the vale, we heard no sound of hoofbeats, and I looked up with a start to see, passing along the path, fifty paces from our camp fire, three armed and mounted travelers.

There were two stout men-at-arms, wearing the braced and quilted jackets that, against arrows or javelins, so well replace breastplates of steel, and armed with great two-handed broadswords and poniards. Between them, and a little to the fore, on a proudly stepping little gelding, rode a youth of somewhat less than our own years, wearing an embroidered tunic of white and rose and a sword which hung in a scabbard rich with gold and gems.

William snatched at the cross-bow which lay on the grass beside him; but the strangers paid little heed to us, the men-at-arms but glancing surlily in our direction. In a moment they had passed from sight, and the forest was quiet again. For a little we talked of who they might be and what their errand was in these parts; but none of us could name any of their party. We were now some eight leagues from Castle Mountjoy and mayhap three from Mannerley Lodge. It seemed not unlikely that the stranger youth might be of some party that visited the good lady of Mannerley, and that he was now riding abroad under the escort of two of her stout retainers.

The passing of the strangers, and the sour looks of the two men had driven the carol from our minds; and we loosed our horses from the saplings to which they had been tied, and soberly remounted to resume our journey. It had been ten of the morning ere we left Mountjoy, and we had come but slowly along the narrow forest paths. Now the sun was well down in the West, and clouds were gathering darkly overhead. William urged us to make haste lest we be caught in the cold rain that he prophesied would be falling ere night. So we took the road again, and, after all our good cheer and merry chorusing, with our spirits strangely adroop.

We rode but slowly, for we had no wish to overtake the travelers. On our woodland roads, ’tis well to beware of strangers, especially when night approaches and one is not yet in sight of friendly castle walls. If they too made for Coventry, ’twas well, and we might follow them into the town without exchanging words; and if their way lay elsewhere, we could willingly spare their company.

A mile or so we rode in quietness. Then, coming to the top of a rise where the path emerged from the woods and half a mile of open moor lay before us, we beheld a sight which caused us to draw rein full suddenly and to gaze again, under sheltering hands, at the place where the road again made into the forest. There were our three strangers in desperate fight with half a dozen men. The outlaws—for such they seemed—were roughly clad in gray homespun and Lincoln green, and armed with bows and quarterstaves. They did swiftly run and dodge from behind one tree-trunk to another, evading the sword strokes of the horsemen and sending shaft after shaft against them. Even as we gazed, an arrow pierced the quilted jacket of one of the men-at-arms, or found a spot uncovered at the throat, and brought him heavily to the ground.

For one quick-throbbing moment I looked at Cedric, to spell, if I might, his thoughts at this juncture. Should we turn back ere the outlaws spied us, and make good our ’scape in the forest? The band might be far larger than it seemed; often a hundred or more of these robbers consorted under the banner of some famous outlaw chief. If we went forward, we might but add to the number of their victims.

Then came the voice of old William, cracked and broken with his fear for our safety, and striving hard to stay us from an emprise which seemed certain death:

“Turn, Masters! Turn ere they sight us. We are too few and too lightly armed to face such numbers. An we go forward, they’ll spit us with their shafts like a roast at the fire. Come, Sir Dickon! Come, I pray thee. My Lord Mountjoy leans upon me to bring thee safe through. Back to the greenwood while yet there’s time.”