CHAPTER XXV.
BADGER CRACKS THE NORMAN'S PATE.
"Those who in quarrels interpose
Must often wipe a bloody nose."
The Mastiffs.
A few miles down the valley from the Norman headquarters at the castle, and following the trend of the river—because there was on its banks to be found a path, or track, very irregular, it is true, but which was made to serve the purposes of pedestrians, and which was little frequented—a Norman runner, or messenger, the bearer of De Montfort's despatch to the Conqueror, was steadily pressing on towards his destination. He had had a sharp walk along a road none of the best, and the springiness was beginning to disappear from his tread. He carried a sword by his side. Over his shoulder there was fastened a wallet containing provisions, and a long bow with a small quiver of arrows. In his right hand he carried a quarterstaff, which he used as a walking-stick. This latter weapon was much affected by the Normans, they having learnt its use from the Saxons, and it was now inseparable from their rough games and amusements, it being singularly adapted to call forth the powers of strength and dexterity of the wielders of it, whilst its vigorous application seldom resulted in anything worse than bruises and ruffled tempers. Ahead of this Norman, and quite unobserved by him, there was patiently lying in wait a remarkable being, who was quietly peering over the top of a knoll which commanded a view of a turning in the road. His dress plainly proclaimed him to be a child of the forest and the chase, his weird and outlandish appearance being simply indescribable. He sprang to his feet with remarkable agility as the form of the Norman runner rounded the corner into view. He fell into the path, and affected to journey as the stranger did, though as yet the Norman had not got a glimpse of him. As he went slowly trudging along, he burst into a merry ditty, trolling it right lustily. The burden of his doggerel ran something like the following:—
"My song is of a palmer bold,
Who footed it o'er the lea.
A monkish buck to him stepp'd up,
'What's the news, my man?' quoth he.
"'Bad news! Why, wine is getting scarce,
And venison, too, I trow.
And this I know the Normans vow;
They are eat and drunk by you.
"'And paunches measuring a cloth-yard's girth,
They tap them with lance or spear;
For good old sack is kept in stock
By such, the Normans swear.'