In a moment we were at the cavern’s mouth; and found a score of the robbers on their feet to meet us. Arrows whizzed among us and one or two men fell, mortally hurt. Geoffrey let fly his bolt at a tall villain that stood in his path, and shot him fair between the eyes. Then I saw no more for I was face to face with the outlaw chief, and our swords flashed fire.
He still wore his steel breastplate, which I believe he had not laid aside that night; and this well matched the shirt of woven mail that had stayed two or three arrows which had otherwise laid me low. I felt taller and stronger at that moment than e’er before in my life; and my sword seemed a very plaything in my hands, like that of the Frenchman, De Latiere, who had so nearly done to death my father at the court at Shrewsbury. The outlaw was no novice with the sword, as I who had once before crossed weapons with him, could well testify. But almost at the outset I brought to bear the play that, with my father’s help, I had all that summer been perfecting. A swinging feint at the forearm turned itself in mid-air to a flashing thrust straight at his unguarded throat. I pierced him through and through, and he fell and died at my feet.
Looking about me, I saw most of the outlaws dead or dying and the remainder being fast bound as prisoners. Young Sir Geoffrey of Carleton had dropped his cross-bow on the ground and stood with his mother’s arms firmly clasped about his neck the while he whispered somewhat in her ear. At her side her two handmaids stood unharmed and loudly weeping for joy.
As I stood looking, well content, at this spectacle, the Lady of Carleton suddenly loosed her son and ran toward me. In an instant I too was clasped in a warm embrace.
“Richard of Mountjoy,” she cried, “thou and thine were my son’s friends and rescuers, and now mine also. This day’s deeds bespeak thee far better than any words. Heaven is my witness, I believe thou art a true man and hast spoken the truth as to thy dealings. All that we can do to serve thee shall be done. From this day forth and forever there shall be peace and love betwixt our house and thine.”
[CHAPTER IX—CHURL AND OVERLORD]
’Twas a year and more after the overthrow of the Monkslayer in Blackpool Forest and the killing or scattering of most of his band that my father, the Lord of Mountjoy, with my lady mother and myself and Cedric the Forester, now my accredited squire, sat one day in the hall of Mountjoy talking of the news that had that day come in. There had been, it seemed, a most desperate and bloody revolt of the churls on the lands of Sir Hugh DeLancey, some ten leagues to the south of us. A hundred or more of the peasantry with some apprentices and hangers-on at the village, armed with axes, clubs and scythes, had taken the manor by surprise in the night, killed Sir Hugh and half a dozen of his men in the hall, driven out the lady, then sacked the place and burnt it to the ground.
We were fair horror-struck at such lawless and brutal doings; and for a time we vied with one another in calling vengeance down on the leaders of that guilty crew and in plans for assisting in their punishment. But in the midst of this an archer came from the courtyard with the word that one of Sir Hugh’s men-at-arms, who had been wounded in the onslaught, had managed to get him to horse and away after the death of his master, and was even now at the gate asking the hospitality of Mountjoy. My father at once gave orders for his welcome; and soon the man, who, after all, had escaped with wounds of no great moment, was sitting at our board with meat and drink before him. When his hunger and thirst were abated, he told us the tale of the churls’ revolt in a somewhat different seeming.
Sir Hugh DeLancey, though a loyal follower of the King, a resolute punisher of outlawry, and oft a comrade of my father’s at the jousts and in the battle line, had been a hard master to all his men in kitchen and hall and a heavy-handed overlord to the peasantry about him. Many a one had muttered curses after him when his back was turned; but he was ever quick with riding whip, or oaken cudgel at need, so that almost none dared gainsay him. Now it seemed that but the day before he had sent his steward to the cottage of Oswald, a farmer of his demesne, to say that Oswald was to make ready to receive for the night two of the grooms of Lord Westerby who were to accompany their master on a two-days’ deer hunt in Sir Hugh’s forests. By ill hap it chanced that Dame Margery, Oswald’s wife, was ill-a-bed at the time, and appeared to be nigh unto her death; and Oswald sent back the word to his master that on this account he could not receive the two men that were to be quartered on him. The steward, however, held an old grudge against Oswald; and so, returning to his master, spoke but the half of Oswald’s answer, saying only that the farmer refused to have the grooms in his cottage.
When Sir Hugh heard this, he flew into a rage, called for his horse and rode to Oswald’s door, followed at a little distance by this retainer who now told us the tale. Arrived before the cottage door, he drew his sword, and, taking it by the blade, pounded with might and main with the butt on the panel. Oswald came forth, and, angered by this unseemly noise at the door of what would soon be a house of mourning, spoke roughly to his liege lord, requesting him to withdraw and leave the dying in peace.