Edgar the Ready: A Tale of the Third Edward's Reign

by W. P. Shervill

With hasty tread he strode off into the woods, leaving Edgar most uncomfortable and perplexed, and sorely tempted to follow him. It was clear that the raid upon the village was due to his escape from the castle, and the thought that innocent men and women were suffering for his success was most distressing. The priest, too, in his eagerness to protect his flock and in his hatred of the tyrants might well be betrayed into a zeal that would bring down upon him the more active hostility of the garrison. Edgar shuddered to think what might then happen.

For some time the cries continued unabated, and then they gradually died away until all was still once more. Feeling the tension somewhat relaxed, Edgar and Peter, after seeing that Sir John was as comfortable as it was possible to make him, threw themselves down and slept until daybreak.

Soon after they had risen and had made a few preparations for breakfast, the priest strode quickly up. Edgar could see that something was wrong by his quick irregular tread and by the way in which his hood was drawn well forward over his face. He came to a pause as he reached the cave, and after replying with a gesture of the hand to Edgar's salutations, remained standing for some minutes in silence, as though in deep and anxious thought.

"I hope there hath been no bloodshed," said Edgar earnestly, when the silence of the priest had become almost insupportable.

"There hath been little actual bloodshed," replied the priest in a hollow voice; "merely a repetition of the scenes of violence and cruelty that I have had to witness for years past, but which I was hoping were gone for good. I am in doubt. I know not whether to raise the banner of revolt without delay or to wait, as ye counselled, until our forces have some sort of organization. I now incline to begin the fight at once, for I fear that the spirit of my people will be broken beyond redemption if such cruelties are allowed to go on much longer unchecked."

Wearily he seated himself on the ground, unconsciously throwing back his hood and revealing a livid weal which ran across his face from one side to the other.

"They have ill-used thee," cried Edgar, with a burst of indignation. "The cowards have struck thee with their whips--and I am to blame. 'Tis on my account that they have ridden into the village and done violence to thy poor folk."

"My hurt is nothing," replied the priest, contemptuously waving his hand as though to thrust the idea aside. "'Tis true it is the first time I have received actual violence at their hands, but I care nothing for that. But my poor people have not, I fear, my hope in the future, and upon them the stripes fall with a deadly sting that toucheth me not. You say you fear 'tis on your account that these things have been done. Regard it not. Perchance 'tis the spark that setteth alight the fire to make us free. I would though, Sir Squire, that thou wouldst throw in thy lot with us, for 'tis a heavy thing for a priest, untutored in the art of war, to lead the people he loveth to what may be defeat and destruction. If thou dost feel thy responsibility for the night's violence--fling thy sword into the balance, and thou wilt have paid back thy debt in full."

"My hands are tied," replied Edgar, shaking his head. "My master there hath first claim upon my services, and until he hath been put in a place of safety I dare think of naught else."

"I will see to his welfare in a place of safety," exclaimed the priest. "Higher up the mountains I know several such places, and, tended by one or two of our folk, he will mend rapidly and well."