THE WINNING OF THE
GOLDEN SPURS
[PROLOGUE]
IT was early morning on the 5th day of August, 1303, the Royal City of Winchester. The sun had not yet risen, but a cold grey light filtered in through a narrow window and dimly illumined a small, scantily-furnished room overlooking the city walls.
Seated on a rough wooden stool, his face buried in his hands, was a young fellow of about twenty years of age. His body swayed with uncontrollable grief, and, though dry-eyed, deep sobs of mingled remorse and despair showed the anguish that rent his body and distracted his mind.
In a corner of the room a torch, burnt low in its iron socket, threw a yellow light that was fast being overmastered by the growing dawn, yet the glimmer was sufficient to play upon the naked blade of a sword, the steel of which was discoloured towards its point by a dull, rust-coloured stain.
Suddenly the sound of a heavy footstep was heard on the stairs. The youth started to his feet and gazed wildly around, as if seeking a place of concealment or some means of escape. He was tall, well formed, and, in spite of his haggard looks, comely of face, and his clothes, though rent and covered with chalk and dust, showed that he was of no mean position.
Realising the impossibility of hiding himself, he stood erect and alert, awaiting the arrival of what he took to be his fate; but, instead of a thundering summons of the officers of the law, there came a gentle rap, and the door was slowly pushed ajar.
"Hist! Art there, Master Revyngton? 'Tis I, Nicholas Hobbes!"
"Enter, Nicholas! Certes I thought 'twas the watch."