The Story of Francis Cludde

by Stanley John Weyman

"The servants!" Sir Anthony answered in an awful tone.

Indeed it was not the wisest thing she could have said; but the consequences were averted by a sudden alarm and shouting outside. Half a dozen voices, shrill or threatening, seemed to rise at once. The knight strode to the window, but the noise appeared to come, not from the Chase upon which it looked, but from the courtyard or the rear of the house. Sir Anthony caught up his stick, and, followed by the girl, ran down the steps. He pushed aside half a dozen women who had likewise been attracted by the noise, and hastened through the narrow passage which led to the wooden bridge in the rear of the buildings.

Here, in the close on the far side of the moat, a strange scene was passing. A dozen horsemen were grouped in the middle of the field about a couple of prisoners, while round the gate by which they had entered stood as many stout men on foot, headed by Baldwin and armed with pikes and staves. These seemed to be taunting the cavaliers and daring them to come on. On the wooden bridge by which the knight stood were half a dozen of the servants, also armed. Sir Anthony recognized in the leading horseman Sir Philip Clopton, and in the prisoners Father Carey and one of the woodmen; and in a moment he comprehended what had happened.

The sheriff, in the most unneighborly manner, instead of challenging his front door, had stolen up to the rear of the house, and, without saying with your leave or by your leave, had snapped up the poor priest, who happened to be wandering in that direction. Probably he had intended to force an entrance; but he had laid aside the plan when he saw his only retreat menaced by the watchful Baldwin, who was not to be caught napping. The knight took all this in at a glance, and his gorge rose as much at the Clopton men's trick as at the danger in which Father Carey stood. So he lost his head, and made matters worse. "Who are these villains," he cried in a rage, his face aflame, "who come attacking men's houses in time of peace? Begone, or I will have at ye!"

"Sir Anthony!" Clopton cried, interrupting him, "in Heaven's name do not carry the thing farther! Give me way in the Queen's name, and I will----"

What he would do was never known, for at that last word, away at the house, behind Sir Anthony, there was a puff of smoke, and down went the sheriff headlong, horse and man, while the report of an arquebuse rang dully round the buildings. The knight gazed horrified; but the damage was done and could not be undone. Nay, more, the Coton men took the sound for a signal. With a shout, before Sir Anthony could interfere, they made a dash for the group of horsemen. The latter, uncertain and hampered by the fall of their leader, who was not hit, but was stunned beyond giving orders, did the best they could. They let their prisoners go with a curse, and then, raising Sir Philip and forming a rough line, they charged toward the gate by which they had entered.

The footmen stood the brunt gallantly, and for a moment the sharp ringing of quarter-staves and the shivering of steel told of as pretty a combat as ever took place on level sward in full view of an English home. The spectators could see Baldwin doing wonders. His men backed him up bravely. But in the end the impetus of the horses told, the footmen gave way and fled aside, and the strangers passed them. A little more skirmishing took place at the gateway, Sir Anthony's men being deaf to all his attempts to call them off; and then the Clopton horse got clear, and, shaking their fists and vowing vengeance, rode off toward the forest. They left two of their men on the field, however, one with a broken arm and one with a shattered knee-cap; while the house party, on their side, beside sundry knocks and bruises, could show one deep sword-cut, a broken wrist, and half a dozen nasty wounds.

"My poor little girl!" Sir Anthony whispered to himself, as he gazed with scared eyes at the prostrate men and the dead horse, and comprehended what had happened. "This is a hanging business! In arms against the Queen! What am I to do?" And as he went back to the house in a kind of stupor, he muttered again, "My little girl! my poor little girl!"

I fancy that in this terrible crisis he looked to get support and comfort from his brother--that old campaigner, who had seen so many vicissitudes and knew by heart so many shifts. But Ferdinand, though he thought the event unlucky, had little to say and less to suggest; and seemed, indeed, to have become on a sudden flaccid and lukewarm. Sir Anthony felt himself thrown on his own resources. "Who fired the shot?" he asked, looking about the room in a dazed fashion. "It was that which did the mischief," he continued, forgetting his own hasty challenge.

"I think it must have been Martin Luther," Ferdinand answered.