Cedric, the Forester

by Bernard Gay Marshall

Then came, hard riding, a messenger from the Lord of Morton. He bore a letter from his lordship to my father; and filled it was with direful news. Old Marvin of Mountjoy had been sorely wounded at Morton in some fray for which Lord Morton blamed no other than his own son, who, it seems, had perished in the fighting. Lord Morton wrote in noble fashion of his grief that our retainer should have come to harm through any of his house, and said that Marvin had the best of care at Morton, and that, so soon as he should be sufficiently recovered, he should be borne to Mountjoy in a litter, and that all of the goods of his brother who had lately died should be honorably bestowed upon him.

The letter was brief withal; and when my father had finished reading it to us we yet remained sore puzzled at this happening. We turned again to the old serving man who had brought the message, and him Lord Mountjoy questioned sharply:

“Know’st thou aught of this affair, my man, save what is set forth in this letter?”

“Aye, my lord,” he answered heavily, “much of this sad work I saw. ’Twas an ill time indeed, for my Lord of Morton is far gone in years, and now this misfortune hath robbed him of his only son and heir.”

“Tell us of it, I pray thee,” said my father, eagerly, “if so be thou canst do so with full loyalty to thy house.”

“Nay. My Lord Morton conceals naught. It was Sir Boris, his son, that was to blame, and he denies it not. Lord Morton is an upright man and a just; but for years he hath tried in vain to curb the wildness of young Sir Boris. Drink and dice have been the young lord’s ruin as of many a better man before. Only a fortnight since, Lord Morton forbade him, on pain of his worst displeasure, to bring any dice, those tools of the Devil, into Morton Hall. More than that, he drove from the very door two of the young bloods from Shrewsbury who had been the young lord’s boon companions in drinking and gaming.”

“But how did this touch our Marvin? He was not lodged in Morton Hall, I trow.”

“Nay, my lord. Marvin came three days ago to the cottage in Morton Wood where his brother, the forester, lay in his last illness. ’Twas none too soon, i’ faith, for hardly more than a day later, Old Gilbert breathed his last. That was toward sundown; and Marvin, who had been joined by some stranger lad, prepared to spend one more night in the cottage to look after his brother’s body, which they planned to bury on the morrow. This I knew, for my Lord Morton had sent me there for word of the forester; and I brought back the news to the Hall.

“A little later I had commands from young Sir Boris to join him in his hunting lodge in the wood, for that he should meet some friends there in the evening, and I should wait on them with food and drink. I well knew that this was but a trick to set at naught the orders of my Lord Morton; and now I have sorrow that I did not instantly acquaint him with it. But Sir Boris was a willful man and very ill to oppose; so I obeyed him, thinking that ’twas better there should be at the lodge one man at least of sober head than that the party should be served by some of our young kitchen knaves who think of naught themselves but drink and lawless living.

“But alas! that night’s revel was far worse than ever I had thought. There was young Damian of Lancaster, Sir Henry Walcott and Guy De Montalvan—roistering and dissolute blades all of them—and two or three more whose names I knew not. I had brought a fair venison pasty to the lodge; but for this they nothing cared. ’Twas the love of drink and gaming that brought them there; and the fires were scarce lighted and the table spread ere they had broached a cask of wine and the dice were rattling on the boards. Their gaming soon was fast and furious; and the stakes grew ever higher. Young Boris at first won nearly every cast, till his pouch was bulging with gold pieces; but by ten o’ the clock his luck had turned and he lost and lost. All his winnings went, then all the gold he had or could borrow. Next he wagered the suit of armor which had been his father’s gift when he was knighted, then the great white horse which bore him in the tourney. In another hour all of these were lost and young Guy de Montalvan was richer far than e’er he had deserved. By now all of them were much the worse for wine; and when Sir Boris wished to continue the play when he had naught more to wager, they disputed him with oaths.