"None other than myself, good Thomelin," answered I laughingly, "and flesh, and blood, and bone to boot; you may take my word for it. But now tell me, for I long to learn, how fares my grandsire, and how fares my mother?"
"By St. Thomas!" replied he gravely, "not so well as they are wont to do, for they have heard that you had fallen in the wars, and are sadly grieved to think of it."
"And yet," said I half-laughing, "here you see me with a whole skin, and hardly a scar to bear witness to the perils I have passed."
"And you have come home, young man," interrupted the squire, speaking with a burr which sufficiently indicated his Northumbrian birth, and possibly his Danish origin—"you have come home at a time when so many are flocking to Calais to join the king and fight for his honour?"
"Even so, worthy squire," replied I, not without a spice of temper in my voice. "It is the fortune of war, and, certes, it is with no good will of mine own that I am in London and not before Calais. As ill-luck would have it, I was taken prisoner on the evening of the day of Cressy, and I only regained my liberty on condition of forthwith returning to England, and not again drawing my sword against Philip of Valois for a year and a day. What could I do?"
"Nothing but make the best of a bad bargain," answered the Northumbrian. "But assuredly you have reached England at a good time for a stripling who is afraid of his sword rusting in the scabbard; for seldom has England had greater need of stout hearts and strong hands than now."
"What mean you?" asked I, my curiosity as to the news of the day reviving.
"What!" exclaimed Thomelin, excitedly grasping my arm, "have you not heard that David Bruce, whom the Scots call king, has come over the Border with all his men of war and wild Galwegians, and that he is ravaging the West Marches with fire and sword?"
"Not a word of it," replied I, much amazed.