In the centre of the green a dozen “morrice-dancers,” with tiny bells hung to every part of their fantastic garb, were keeping up a constant jangling aptly compared by a local wag to the tongue of Dame Cicely Prate, a noted scold, who looked daggers at him in return. On the right, a juggler was swallowing ribbons by the yard, or breathing out fire and smoke, to the amazement of the gaping clowns who jostled around him. On the left, a strolling minstrel was singing the old comic ballad of “The Felon Sow,” the success of which was shown by the loud laughter that greeted every verse, and the shower of copper coins that clinked ceaselessly into his well-worn green cap.
A little farther off, a quack was vaunting a new and potent medicine, as able to “cure all ills, from a smoky chimney to a scolding wife.” Just beyond him, a pretended pilgrim was selling as relics from the Holy Land some rusty nails and pot-sherds picked up at the next village, while a huge brown dancing-bear, led by a swarthy, gipsy-like man in a slouched hat, was performing some clumsy antics hard by, to the mingled delight and terror of the shock-headed village boys. In the background, a big fire was blazing, and preparations were being made to roast an ox whole, without which, in those days, no English merry-making could go off properly.
Every moment swelled the noise and bustle, as new arrivals joined the throng. Ruddy, stalwart farmers in holiday garb, on horses as broad and sturdy as themselves, with their buxom dames perched behind them; hard-faced, bare-armed workmen in leather jerkins, from the town of Winchester; rosy village lasses in short skirts and broad hats, be-ribboned in all the colours of the rainbow; threadbare students from Oxford and Cambridge, begging their way (according to the strange custom of the age) from one market-town to another; bare-footed friars in their long, dark robes; tanned, round-shouldered peasants in coarse woollen jackets or rough frocks of grey frieze, with the mud of the Hampshire lowlands clinging to their heavy, clouted shoes; and war-worn soldiers in dinted steel caps and frayed buff coats, just home from the French wars, watching the scene with an air of grand, indulgent contempt, like men who had already seen everything worth seeing.
All at once there was a cry that the lords of the castle were coming down to watch the sports, and this news broke up the most popular exhibition of the day—the rescue of Princess Sabra from the dragon by St. George, who, with an iron pan for a helmet, and a spit for a spear, made quite as queer a figure as the monster itself, while the princess, represented by a freckled, red-haired boy of twelve, did small justice to the praises of her beauty in old romances. But at the first glimpse of the two stately forms that came riding slowly down the steep, winding path from Claremont Castle, dragon, princess, and champion were alike forgotten, and all heads turned at once toward Sir Alured and his twin-brother Sir Hugo.
The ten years that had passed over those two handsome faces since that morning on the ramparts of conquered Tormas, had touched both very lightly; and they received with a frank, hearty smile the boisterous welcome of the crowd, which greeted them not only with shouts and throwing-up of caps, but also with a universal and evidently sincere brightening of faces, very pleasant to see.
In truth, the two brave men had well earned it. The lull in the age-long duel between France and England caused by the truce of 1358, and the treaty of Bretigny two years later, had enabled them to make good their vow of dwelling henceforth on their own lands, and caring for their long-neglected tenantry, as they had done, and were still doing, with all their heart and soul.
“God bless ’em both!” cried a sturdy yeoman, warmly. “When my father lay a-dying, Sir Alured was at his bedside as soon as either priest or physician.”
“And when my child was sick,” added a woman’s voice, “scarce could I tell the tale to Sir Hugo as he passed, when lo! away he flew to Winchester town as if riding for his life—ay, he went his own self—and brought back the most skilled leech in the town, who saved my little lass’s life.”
“And when yon great storm tore down our cottage, and left me and mine no place to lay our heads, who came first to our aid?—Why, who but our young lords themselves? They housed us in their own castle, no less; and they sent men to build up our dwelling again, better than before; and all at their own cost, lads! God bless them for it!”
“Amen! for whereas many knights and barons do but wring from their vassals what little they have, to maintain their own state, have not our lords given up all the wealth they won in the French wars, to keep us in peace and comfort? May God repay them a thousand-fold! Would Sir Simon Harcourt, had he lived, have done the like? I trow not! He would have stripped us as bare as a beech in December. Long life to the good lords of Claremont!”