But the time was at hand when Englishmen would have to sink their differences and unite against a common foe. Edward III. had laid claim to the throne of France, and, though the stake was a great one, the enterprise was popular, inasmuch as the possibilities of individual gain in the shape of plunder held out great inducements to all classes of these island warriors.
On this particular morning early a man emerged from one of the houses on the outskirts of the village, which, by reason of being built of stone and being fair-sized, betokened that its owner was a man of position—as far as the place was concerned. The house lay some two hundred yards away from the rest, occupying the summit of an even-crested ridge, and was surrounded by a palisade of stout pointed stakes, that afforded complete protection against the attacks of any ordinary band of adventurers.
The man was a tall, well-made individual, with a bronzed face surmounted by a thick crop of reddish hair, and partially concealed by a heavy beard, that grew high upon his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows helped to further conceal his face, but any one could see from the grey glint of his blue eyes that the profusion of hair covered a comely countenance.
A well-worn leather jerkin, that had once been of a vivid red colour, but was now nearly black with hard usage, failed to conceal the mighty expanse of his chest, while the short sleeves of the garment fitted tightly over the gnarled muscles of his arms. His lower limbs were also covered by leathern hose, which, by reason of exposure to salt water and the rough wear and tear of daily toil, were now colourless and frayed till all semblance of dressed leather was lacking. His legs, however, though of great size, did not betoken an equality with the strength of his arms, and, moreover, he walked with a slight limp.
A crimson scarf, bound tightly round his head, did duty for a head-dress, while from a narrow black belt hung a short dagger on his right side, counterbalanced by a leather purse or pouch on his left.
Over his shoulder he bore a pair of long ash oars, their blades still covered with a deposit of dry mud, while in his left hand he carried a six-foot yew-bow, which, unstrung, was as straight as a lance.
Redward Buckland, for such was his name, was not a Hamble man in the strict sense of the word, yet so good-natured and easy-going was he, so upright in his dealings, and withal a man of such great bodily strength, that he was a popular member of the little community.
Of his past he said little, and was asked but little. He had been master bowman in a company, had served against the Scots at Bannockburn, with the Gascons in their feudal bickerings, and there was hardly a castle in Normandy, Maine, Touraine, Anjou, Poitou, or Limousin that he did not know.
Eleven years prior to the time of this story he suddenly appeared at Hamble, bringing with him his son Raymond, then a child five years of age. Men often talked of their coming; the bowman, in rusty brigandine and dented headpiece, the boy, a lusty, laughing youngster, perched on his shoulder, a wain jogging behind with a heavy load of rich stuff—booty from many a foreign part—the like of which had never before been seen in Hamble.
Thereupon he purchased a farmhouse, and settled down with the intention of passing the rest of his days in comfort. Being a highly religious man—though, like most of his companions in arms, he could swear roundly at times—Redward Buckland acted in accordance with the custom of the times. Four marks and a seven-pound candle of pure wax he gave to the priory at Netley, and a gold-embroidered cloth to the church of St. Andrew at Hamble.