Edgar the Ready: A Tale of the Third Edward's Reign - W. P. Shervill

"Now, lad, I will tell thee how it cometh that Sir John Chartris hath sent me down into Devon to seek thee and to bring thee back to his castle of Wolsingham. The road seemeth less rough and wild, and I can tell thee all that befell with the more comfort. I would, though, that I could have brought a spare horse. To have thee riding behind my saddle smacks of a farmer and his dame rather than of man-at-arms and fledgeling warrior."

"No matter, Matthew," replied the soldier's companion, a lad of some fourteen or fifteen summers, "our road will take us along the borders of Exmoor, and I have hopes that we may be able to snare or capture one of the ponies that run wild thereabouts."

"Perchance. Now, as thou hast already heard, 'twas at Sluys that thy father met his death--and a right gallant one it was--but of the fashion of it only rumours have reached thee.

"I must start at the beginning, and thou wilt then understand the more thoroughly. Know, then, that the French fleet mustered two hundred sail and more, many of their ships being of a size unheard of before, while we could gather little more than half their number. Our ships were scraped together from the Five Ports and anywhere along the coast where a stray trader could be found. But I'll warrant thee the sailors of the Five Ports were little loath to lend their ships for the venture, for their rivalry with the mariners of the Norman coast is most exceeding bitter. When all that could be collected had been mustered in array, our good King Edward III filled them with his men-at-arms and archers, and we set sail.

"Not a man of the whole company was more eager to get to grips with the enemy than Edward; and when we spied, over an intervening neck of land, a forest of masts clustering in the harbour of Sluys, he was overjoyed. However, for all his eagerness, he decided to anchor at sea for the night, and 'twas in the afternoon of the following day--the anniversary of Bannockburn, mark ye--that we stood in to fight the foe.

"When they sighted us, the French sailed out a mile or so to meet us, and then anchored in four great lines across the bay and lashed their ships firmly together. We found it was a fourfold floating rampart that we had to assault, but--bah!--little enough shipman or soldier recked of that!

"Full speed we bore down on the foremost line of ships and ground into them, our archers sending a storm of shafts in advance that raked them through and through. Many of their big ships had platforms high up filled with Genoese crossbowmen, and loaded with stones to fling down upon us; but our archers poured in a fire so fierce and fast that those who survived were glad to escape to deck as best they could. Then came the turn of knights and men-at-arms, and like a mountain torrent we poured upon the decks of the Frenchmen's ships. The fighting was hard and fierce--the struggle of men who had long ached to spring at one another's throats.

"But our martial King's gallant example, and the knightly zest of his nobles, gave an eagerness to our men that soon forced the French, though they fought right well, to give back, and presently we had mastered the first line and began to burst through upon the next. 'Twas then that---- Ah! What have we here?"

At the sudden exclamation, and the equally sudden reining in of the steed, the boy, who had been entirely absorbed in his companion's narrative, glanced quickly ahead to see the cause of the interruption.

Two men, followed more leisurely by three others, had sprung into the roadway from behind a pile of rocks where they had been in hiding. They were men of wild and savage appearance, and bore weapons, which added not a little to their threatening looks. One man, whose head seemed a sheer mass of bristling red hair and beard, out of which his eyes gleamed like live coals, carried a heavy club studded with iron spikes, and this he swung to and fro as he awaited the coming of the wayfarers.

"'Tis Red of Ordish!" whispered the lad. "He is known and dreaded for leagues around. Fly for thy life, Matthew--delay not!"

The soldier glanced eagerly to right and left. His face fell: rocks piled in rough confusion, half-hidden by bushes, lined every inch of the way on either side. It was difficult country to traverse on foot, but for horsemen it was quite impossible. There was still, however, the way they had come, and half-turning his horse, the man-at-arms glanced back along the road. Alas, for his hopes! Another group of men had emerged into the roadway a few hundred yards behind, and were moving forward to take the travellers as in a trap!

"Ha, ha, soldier," cried Red, with a hideous laugh, "thou seest thou art outwitted! Fling down thy purse and we harm thee not. 'Tis the lord of the manor, Red of Ordish to wit, who bids thee pay his toll."

"Give me thy purse, Matthew," cried the boy aloud. He then went on in an urgent whisper: "Be quick, and I will jump down and hand it to the robbers whilst thou dost ride slowly past them. They may seek more than thy purse an they find little in it. I like not their looks or the tales I have heard of them."

Slowly and unwillingly the soldier complied, and the lad flung his leg over the saddle to dismount. As he did so, however, with a quick movement he slid the contents of the purse into his hand. His movements were half-hidden by the soldier's back, and that there should be no chink of money to betray him, he held the purse closely while he secured the contents. Then he transferred the coins to his wallet, dropped to the ground, and advanced towards the red robber, purse in hand.

"We are poor wayfarers," he said in a pleading tone, as he fumbled in the purse; "will ye not take toll of two silver pennies and let us hie on our journey?"

"I will take four silver pennies, my young springald," cried Red of Ordish, striding forward and reaching out his great hand for the purse.

The lad retreated as though frightened, and again fumbled as though unable to find the coins he sought.

"Yield me the purse," cried the robber, snatching savagely at it. "Yield it me, boy, or I will clash out thy brains with this club."

Springing lightly out of the angry ruffian's reach, the boy pretended to be quite scared, dropping the purse and running after the soldier as though in a sudden access of terror.

Ignoring the boy, the leader of the robbers and one or two of his men made a mad rush for the purse. Red was first, and snatched it eagerly up; tore it open--and saw that it was empty! With a snarl like a wild beast, he sprang after the fugitive, shouting madly with inarticulate rage.

Abandoning all disguise, the lad now ran with all his speed after the soldier, who had profited by the preoccupation of the robbers and had made his way safely past them.

"On, Matthew, on!" he cried breathlessly as he sprang into the saddle behind him, and with a shout of angry defiance, Matthew put spurs to his horse and galloped furiously away.

The convulsed face and savage cries of Red of Ordish, and the tumultuous shouts of his men as they pursued madly after, flinging stones, knives, and clubs in despairing endeavour to injure the youth who had so neatly tricked them, receded gradually into the distance until a turn of the road shut them altogether out of sight and hearing.

"Why did I listen to thee, lad?" cried Matthew presently in a tone of resentment and vexation. "Why did I not ride at them and try to cut a way through? Why didst press me to yield up my purse without a fight? Hast so soon forgotten that thou art destined to become an esquire and an aspirant to knighthood? 'Tis a bad start to a warrior's career to counsel giving way without a fight to the first coward cut-throat we meet. Coward that I was to listen----"

"Stay, Matthew," interposed the lad; "run not on so, but examine this wallet. Perchance the fledgeling esquire is not quite so base as thou thinkest."

"What?" cried Matthew, taking the wallet and thrusting in his hand. "Did ye--why, yes, 'tis all here--truly thou art quick and bold. 'Twas well done, and I none the wiser. Thou art indeed Sir Richard Wintour's cub, and I can say nae better."

"There was little enough in it, Matthew," returned the lad. "I hope that we may have many such adventures to while away the long journey to my new home. They will keep our wits from getting rusty."

"They will indeed, lad, and I hope that Matthew the man-at-arms may show to better advantage at our next encounter. Now I will continue the story of our struggle at Sluys which the robbers interrupted in so ugly a fashion. We English, then, had overcome all resistance in the first line of the French ships and were attacking the next, when the adventure befell that touches thee so closely. The ships commanded by Sir John Chartris had again closed in and grappled, and once more we were hard at work hacking and thrusting upon the enemy's decks. Sir John had gained a footing upon the poop of the ship he had boarded, and was hewing away with right good will when, of a sudden, a gigantic Genoese dropped down upon his shoulders from the rigging. Sir John was borne to the deck, and would have been rapidly dispatched there had not thy father, Sir Richard Wintour, called upon one or two of us near by and hurried to his rescue. Our attack diverted the attention of those surrounding Sir John, and he was able to struggle to his feet.

"The Genoese still clung to his back, however, and Sir John was unable to use his sword. To our horror, after a few moments' tottering upon the edge, both men, still clinging desperately to one another, pitched headlong over the side of the ship down into the sea in the space betwixt the prows of the grinding ships. Seeing what was coming, and knowing only too well that Sir John, clad in full armour, would sink like a stone, thy father snatched at a rope, and without a moment's hesitation sprang after him. So instant was he that he did not even stay to see that the other end of the rope was secured, and he must have left the ship before ever Sir John had touched the water. 'Twas a rash act, a gallant act, and it all but failed, for the end of the rope was free, and was just disappearing over the side when I pounced upon it.

"The strain upon it was so heavy that I almost followed. Thomelin the archer, however, also seized hold of the rope, and we two pulled and tugged. In a moment or two the strain eased somewhat, and we guessed that the big Genoese had been compelled to leave go. Then we began to draw in hand over hand until two heads appeared above the surface. They belonged to Sir John and thy father.

"Now came the heartrending part of the whole affair. A slight swell was gently heaving, and ever and anon the ships ground and clashed together. Knowing this, and fearing that we might not draw up the knights before one or other of the ships heaved inwards irresistibly, we pulled with all our might and shouted aloud for others to come to our aid. But the rush of fighting men had passed onwards, and the noise was so prodigious that we were unheard or unheeded. So we bent to the work, and soon had Sir John, who was uppermost, on a level with the decks. We had pulled him safe aboard, and were about to draw up Sir Richard, when--lad, it makes me sick to think of it--one of our own ships, falling on the swell, moved inwards and caught him by the legs against the ship on which we stood. He gave a gasp and let go his hold, but we seized him, and, the swell passing onwards, drew him aboard.

"One glance was sufficient to tell us that his hours were numbered. Notwithstanding his armour, his legs and the lower part of his body were badly crushed. He was still conscious, however, and we laid him on the deck of the enemy's ship, now all but won, and Sir John knelt over him.

"'Goodbye, Sir John!' he said faintly. 'I am gone. Leave me and renew the fight.'

"'Nay, Richard, I cannot leave thee thus,' cried Sir John, weeping. 'Dear comrade, thou hast sacrificed thy life for mine. I will stay and do what little I still may towards that debt. The battle is won without another stroke from me.'

"'I rejoice that all goes well. If thou wilt do aught for me, look to my boy Edgar. His mother died a year agone, and he is alone save for me. Place him with thy esquires, if I ask not too much.'

"'Richard, it is done. Right gladly will I.'

"'He will be landless, like his father, as thou know'st, and he must carve his way with his sword. Let him know this. Spoil him not. I think he will do well, though his mother has had his upbringing and not I.'

"'If he is half as gallant as his father he will need little help from me,' responded Sir John. 'Is there naught else I can do? Here is water Matthew hath brought.'

"Sir Richard revived a little when he had drunk, but very soon sank into a stupor from which he never regained consciousness. He seemed quite easy in his mind concerning thee, after Sir John had told him he would send me down into Devon to fetch thee as soon as an opportunity offered. He beckoned me to him and sent thee his dear love, and bade me conjure thee to strive thy hardest to be a true knight, brave in battle and chivalrous towards the weak and helpless. More he said, though his voice grew so faint at last that I could not catch all his words; but he meant thee to give all thy mind to the work of thy squirehood, to learn right well how to bear thyself knightly, and how to live a godly life. Thy father, lad, thou mayest well be proud of."

"I know, Matthew," said Edgar in a low voice. "And I know, too, that if earnest striving of mine can compass it, his memory will not be disgraced by me. It shall be my aim to live as nobly and to die as gallantly."

"Ye say well, lad. I hope thou wilt be as good as thy word. Now I will finish the story.

"Very soon we had broken through the second line of the French ships, and as at that moment more ships arrived under Sir Robert Morley, a great panic fell upon the third line, and many of their men threw themselves into the sea and there perished miserably. The fourth line, however, still remained unbroken, and fought us right gallantly until nightfall, when those that were still able to set sail made good their escape.

"Our losses were trifling; the losses of the French were tremendous. We had only two ships destroyed, while out of all the mighty French fleet but a few stragglers escaped. Their loss in men, too, they say, was no less than thirty thousand slain. 'Twill be years and years, lad, I warrant thee, before the French will again dare to oppose us on the ocean. We are now masters of the sea, and our ships can come and go as they please. Hurrah for our martial King Edward!"

"Hurrah, indeed!" cried Edgar, catching something of his enthusiasm. "But how came our men to gain so great a victory over the French? Did they not fight well?"

"Aye, they fought well enough, but they were outgeneralled. They had two leaders while we had one. And more--though I am a man-at-arms, and think most of my sort, yet can I give a meed of praise where 'tis due--'twas our archers did much to win the day. Aye, our bowmen gave the French a rude awakening--one, too, that will be repeated as roughly yet many a day. Our men shot so hard and fast that the air was streaked with shafts, and Frenchmen and Genoese fell dead on every hand. Even the knights were hard put to it to face so pitiless a hail. I mind me old Thomelin of Pontefract, one of the most famous of our marksmen, said to me as we passed a ship in the first line, where the battle still raged: 'See yon knight in golden armour, Matthew?'

"'Aye,' said I.

"'Watch him well.'

"He drew his bow to the feather and held it motionless for a moment or two. The knight was opposing a party of English who were pouring along the deck of his ship. He swung his axe back and up, and Thomelin's bow twanged. The knight's nearest armpit sprouted feathers, his axe fell with a clang, and he rattled down after it. 'Twas thus that our archers taught even knights in full armour to fear them."

"But are not crossbowmen equally to be feared?" cried Edgar. "I have heard that their heavy bolts can crash through the armour itself."

"Mayhap; but when they have English bowmen to fight against they have little chance to show their powers. Ere ever they can loose a bolt a cloth-yard shaft hath laid them low. Our archers laugh at crossbowmen--and with good reason."

"What befell after the battle, Matthew?"

"We landed, and Edward led us to the city of Tournay. He drew his allies to his standard, and it was with a hundred thousand men that he commenced the siege. All goeth well so far, but Sir John sent me after thee before we had long encamped before its walls. And here I am, Master Edgar."

"Aye, good Matthew," replied Edgar, who appeared to be slightly ill at ease, and had turned in his saddle two or three times during the latter part of the soldier's narrative. "Now, wilt thou rein in thy steed for a moment so that we may listen? Several times I have fancied I heard the sound of horses' hoofs dully in the distance."

"What of that, lad? Red of Ordish and his band had nae horses."

"None that we could see. But in some of the tales I have heard both Red and his band were mounted. Hearken now!"

Dim and distant, but unmistakable, sounded the thud of horses' hoofs.

"Quick, Matthew, we must leave the road and hide. Our horse, carrying a double burden, must soon be overtaken. Dismount and lead thy steed in amongst those rocks and bushes and, if thou canst, compel it to lie down."

Without demur Matthew obeyed his young charge's orders, possibly because he could think of no better line of action. In a minute or two horse and riders were well hidden behind a tangle of rocks and bushes a dozen yards from the edge of the roadway. The clatter of horses' hoofs was now very close, and in a few moments a body of wild-looking horsemen burst into view round a turn of the road.

"'Tis Red," muttered the lad at his first glimpse of the foremost man, as he shrank back yet more closely under cover.

The horsemen clattered noisily by and vanished as quickly as they had come. For the time, at any rate, the fugitives were safe.

"What now, lad?" grumbled Matthew, as he began to realize their sorry plight. "We cannot take to the road again, I trow."

"Nay; we must, I fear, clamber on as best we can across these rocks. See yon hill? The country there is clearer, so mayhap if we struggle on a little we shall find it open out before us."

For an hour the soldier and his companion scrambled along among the rocks, leading the horse between them. Then the way began to get easier until, at the end of some hours, they found themselves in fairly open country. The travelling had been very exhausting, and, well pleased to be quit of it, they mounted again and cantered gaily off until they reached cultivated land, and could see in the distance the lights of a dwelling. On a closer inspection this proved to be a large and straggling farmhouse.

"Darkness falls," quoth Matthew; "I think we will rest the night here if the good man is not unwilling."

Edgar gladly consented, and in a minute or two they were knocking at the farmhouse door. After a considerable delay and some parleying the door was opened, and they were conducted into the farmer's kitchen. Here they were served with plenty of rough but wholesome food, and were soon doing full justice to the viands. Under the influence of the good cheer, and more especially of the good man's home-brewed ale, Matthew waxed communicative, and related to the farmer with great gusto the incidents of their encounter with and escape from the redoubtable Red of Ordish.

The recital seemed to disturb the farmer greatly. He grew pale and nervous, and presently left the room, muttering that if robbers were about it would be well for him to see that his barns and stables were well secured. The action seemed so natural an one that neither Edgar nor Matthew took any notice, although the man had not returned when, an hour or two later, his wife hinted that it was time to retire for the night. Readily enough they agreed, and the woman led them up a flight of crazy stairs to a low room lighted by a single small curtain-screened window which peeped out of the thickness of the thatch. The room contained a rough bed and plenty of skin rugs, and in a very few minutes the two wayfarers had flung themselves down and had fallen into a sound sleep.

CHAPTER II

An Ordeal of the Night

It must have been well after midnight when Edgar awoke. What had awakened him he knew not, but he felt somehow a sense of uneasiness for which he vainly tried to account. All was as still as death within the house, save only for the regular breathing of his companion, who lay close by his side.

For some moments Edgar lay without a movement, listening intently and wondering what it could be that made him feel so uneasy and even--he could not disguise it from himself--even fearful. He could hear absolutely nothing, but yet he felt a conviction steal over him that Matthew and he were not alone in the room. Who would dare to enter their room so stealthily at dead of night? And what might be their purpose?

Softly Edgar pressed his companion in the side. He stirred ever so slightly, and Edgar pressed again as meaningly as he could. He felt the soldier start and stiffen himself as though on the alert.

Waiting for no more, Edgar, who was light of touch and supple as an eel, stole softly from the bed and made for the corner of the room away from the window. He dreaded unspeakably that he might come into contact with something--he knew not what--on the way; but he reached his coign of vantage without mishap. Then he waited motionless for events to develop. Though he still heard no sound, he felt even more convinced than before that the room was occupied by other than themselves--and, by the strange feeling of fear that he could not thrust away from himself, thoroughly as he despised it, occupied by something grim and terrible.

Presently he heard a slight rustling, as though Matthew were leaving his bed, and a moment later the curtain was jerked back, admitting into the room a stream of moonlight.

Simultaneously with the pulling of the curtain three figures became visible to Edgar between him and the light. The upright figure nearest to the window was Matthew, he had no doubt, but the two other figures crouching low upon the floor he could not recognize, though the glint of steel he caught from one showed that their presence boded ill indeed.

Silently, with a bound fierce as a tiger's, one of the men sprang upon Matthew. With a movement as quick the man-at-arms avoided the blow aimed at him and closed with his assailant. Simultaneously the other man stood up and swung a club up into the air and down behind his back as he prepared to strike down Matthew while he grappled with his foe.

With the speed of an arrow Edgar sprang forward. Seizing the club he gave it a quick, wrenching pull and tore it from the man's grasp. Then as quickly he swung it heavily down upon the assassin's head. With a groan the man sank limply to the floor.

Turning to the other combatants, Edgar saw that Matthew was holding his assailant's right hand with his left, and had wrenched his own hand free and grasped his dagger. There was a flash as the moonlight gleamed upon the bright steel, then the stroke fell heavily upon the ruffian's side. But though the blade pierced his clothing it snapped off short against his skin!

"Bewitched! Bewitched!" shrieked Matthew in superstitious terror, as he let go his hold and fell upon his knees. Babbling incoherently and crossing himself convulsively, he seemed oblivious of his fearful danger. Fortunately the suddenness with which he had let go his hold sent the ruffian staggering back into a corner, but like a wild cat he was back again, and in another moment the knife must have been plunged into Matthew's body had not Edgar screamed piercingly as he dashed forward.

"Shirt of mail, Matthew, shirt of mail!"

Matthew heard and understood his meaning just in time. Plunging full length upon the floor, he avoided the murderous stroke, and the man, in the darkness, pitched over him into the wall. Ere he had recovered from the shock Edgar had sprung clean upon his back.

Jabbing behind him with his knife the assassin tried to dislodge the lad, but although he received two or three flesh wounds, Edgar clung on tenaciously, and, by impeding the man's arm with one hand and gripping him by the throat with the other, did his best to hinder him, while he called repeatedly upon Matthew to renew the struggle.

It was some moments before Matthew could respond. He was still unnerved by the grim midnight attack and what he had for the moment taken to be the supernatural character of his assailant. Edgar's warning cry had enabled him to shake off some of his paralysis, but precious moments had slipped away before he was himself again. At last Edgar's cries aroused him, and he rushed in and closed with the man, who was endeavouring with the utmost desperation to rid himself of the burden upon his back. Until then the man had fought in grim silence, but now he snarled and champed like a wild beast. In one of his twists and turns he staggered close to the little window, and for a moment the moonlight played upon his head. Though Edgar, from his position, could not see his face, one glimpse of the tangled mass of hair was sufficient. It was red.

The ruffian fought with extraordinary fierceness and power. Once Matthew succeeded in possessing himself of his knife, but almost immediately lost it, and it was not until the man was almost strangled that his resistance was overcome.

"Get me something wherewith to secure him, Edgar," gasped Matthew. "Strips of clothing--anything, lad."

Edgar sprang to the bed and fumbled among the rugs and skins for something that he could tear into strips. As he did so his ear caught a sound outside the door that could not be mistaken.

"Quick, Matthew--to the window--flee!" he cried, in an undertone that thrilled with desperate urgency. "The stairs creak beneath the tread of a dozen stealthy feet. 'Tis Red's band--away, away, or we are lost!"

At a single bound Matthew sprang halfway through the window. Another moment and he had dropped to the ground.

In his fumbles at the bedclothes Edgar's hand had come into contact with his own or Matthew's sword. The slight indefinable sound or feeling of pressure upon the door attracted his attention, and, like a streak, he drew the sword from its sheath. Then, with a single thrust, he drove it several inches through the centre of the door.

There was a screech, and the pressure instantly ceased. Simultaneously the silent approach changed into a loud and angry clamour, and a rush was made at the door, and it was kicked violently open.

But Edgar was already halfway to the window. Flinging his naked sword through in advance, he sprang lightly up and through, and dropped safely down upon the ground beneath.

Matthew was awaiting him and had already snatched up the sword, and the two, with a single thought, rushed madly round to the front of the farmhouse. Their one aim was to get their horse from the stable before the robbers were upon them.

As he rounded the side of the house, Edgar caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadow of some trees a dozen paces away. He looked again--they were horses!--and with a whoop he called to Matthew and fled to them. The horses were half-wild, and at the sudden approach reared and kicked furiously.

There was no time to sooth and pacify the beasts, for already the shouts from behind showed that the pursuit had begun, so Edgar sprang recklessly at the nearest horse, flung his leg over its back, and grasped it by the mane. Then with his dagger he cut the rope that secured it. The horse reared madly and backed in amongst its fellows, but at every opportunity Edgar cut and slashed with his dagger at the ropes that fastened the other horses to the trees. Matthew had also succeeded in mounting, and seconded his efforts until all were freed. Then with a yell that sent the frightened troop clattering away into the darkness, Edgar and Matthew dug their heels into their horses' sides and galloped headlong after them. In a confused clump, horsemen and riderless horses careered over pasture and farmland until the farmhouse and the shouting robbers had been left far behind.

Gradually Edgar gained some sort of control over his wild mount, which had, until then, tasked all his energies to keep it from flinging him from off its back. Then he guided it to Matthew's side.

"We have covered miles, Matthew, and are safe."

"Nay, let us ride on until our steeds are exhausted. Mine is still as much master as I."

"Then let us ride together, and keep one of yon frightened animals in sight. If I can, I am going to capture a spare steed. 'Twill do to barter and replace the things we left behind in the robbers' hands."

For a couple of hours longer they rode onward. Then their horses of themselves dropped into a walk and at last stopped altogether. Matthew and Edgar had kept close to two of the riderless horses, and Edgar promptly slipped from his seat and approached them. They were too dead-beat to resist, and he was able to lead them into a thick covert close at hand. Here, after some trouble, a light fencing of branches hacked from the trees was built around them, and Matthew and Edgar could begin to think of rest. They were almost as dead-beat as the horses, and, without troubling to make themselves any sort of couch, flung themselves down amongst the bushes and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

CHAPTER III

The Castle of Wolsingham

Very soon after dawn Matthew and Edgar were astir again. Both felt the strain of their exertions during the preceding day and night, but neither felt that they were safe in remaining where they were. They had left behind nearly all their belongings, but in their stead they had four horses which, they hoped, would more than counterbalance the losses they had sustained.

Tearing up part of his clothing into strips, and utilizing their belts, Matthew made shift to secure the two spare horses, and, mounting again, they rode on. For some time they purposely kept away from the high roads, not knowing how far the power of Red and his band might extend. But when they believed that they were too far from his haunts for there to be anything more to fear, they took to the highway again, and made more rapid progress. The spare horses were sold later in the day without difficulty, and provided a goodly sum from which they were able to purchase fresh cloaks and weapons, and enough being left to help them on their way.

The journey was full of incidents, though none was so exciting as their encounter with the dreaded Red and his band of outlaws. In due course they arrived at Wolsingham, and Matthew resigned his charge into the hands of Geoffrey Fletcher, the Lieutenant of the Castle, in the absence of its master, Sir John Chartris. Geoffrey really ranked as an esquire, but he was a man of middle age who had failed through lack of influence and skill with the sword to obtain the honour of knighthood. He possessed little ambition, however, and was well content with his position in command of the retainers of the castle.

After a few enquiries concerning the journey thither, and a sympathetic and kindly reference to his recent bereavement, Geoffrey suggested a visit to Edgar's fellow esquires.

"They have heard that thou wert on the way to join us, and are ready indeed to see thee. The story of thy father's gallant sacrifice has disposed them and all of us greatly in thy favour. From the little Matthew hath told me of the adventures of thy journey, it seemeth that our expectations are not likely to be disappointed."

"Ye are all most kind to me," said Edgar gratefully. "I have already promised in my heart to do all in my power to serve Sir John for the memory of my father's name."

"Ye say well. Come now and I will make thee known to thy comrades. They are four--Philip Soames, Robert Duplessis, Aymery Montacute, and Roland Mortimer. They are all about thine age, for the eldest esquire hath followed his master to the wars. Doubtless thou wilt find them more to thy liking than they are to mine, for they are high-spirited youths, and accustomed to be more than a little reckless in their pranks. But such, I fear, is too often the wont of young men of noble birth and wide estates."

Shaking his head with the air of a man who had suffered much at the hands of the said esquires, Geoffrey Fletcher opened a door and ushered Edgar into a room where the four esquires and some few pages were practising feats of skill and strength, or hacking at one another with blunted swords.

The scene was a really spirited one, and Edgar felt a thrill of enthusiasm as he realized fully that he was now at last to begin in earnest to learn the trade of arms and the usages of chivalry.

"Ha! Geoffrey, doubtless this young springald is our new comrade, Edgar Wintour?" cried Aymery Montacute, a slim, active-looking youth a little older than Edgar. "Come, we are right glad to see him, and right happy to welcome him in our midst."

Edgar bowed his thanks.

"He looketh keen," went on Aymery, speaking more to Geoffrey than to Edgar; "he looketh keen, and if I can cheer him on with a few friendly strokes with sword and buckler, let him don some gear and we will set to without more ado. At last, Geoffrey, I have succeeded in worsting Roland, and I feel so elated I could fight the world."

"But nay, Aymery, scarcely would ye wish to show off thy prowess so soon upon your new comrade? How much can he know of the sword?"

"Dissuade him not, Geoffrey," interposed Edgar hastily. "He meaneth not to be unfriendly, I am sure, and I would gladly receive a lesson at his hands. Come, comrade Aymery, teach me also how to beat friend Roland."

There was a general laugh at the hit at Roland Mortimer; and that worthy, after a momentary frown, joined in the laugh, for Edgar's smile and tone were so frank and pleasant that anger was impossible.

"Don these things and let us set to work," cried Aymery; and without the loss of a moment, Edgar drew on the leather jerkin and steel headpiece and snatched a sword and buckler from the wall. With a slight shrug of his shoulders and a smile of some amusement, Geoffrey turned on his heel and left the room. Though his charge was now left entirely to the tender mercies of his new comrades, he knew that there was no need to be anxious on his behalf, for their welcome, though rough, was not one whit the less sincere.

The instant Edgar threw out his sword with a gesture of readiness, Aymery attacked with a bound like a young deer's. So swift was his attack that, before Edgar quite knew where he was, his head was singing from a hearty blow which fell full upon his steel headpiece. Warming to the work, he did his best to make a smart return, and to pay Aymery back with something to spare. The teaching he had received, however, was in no way equal to that given to the esquires at Wolsingham Castle, and in a few moments Aymery had demonstrated this so clearly that the other's body was smarting in a half-dozen places at once.

Good-naturedly Aymery soon proposed a halt, and explained to Edgar wherein he had failed, and what were the chief faults of his style of defence.

"Ye look quick and active, but make not enough use of your powers, friend Wintour. See how I fought--never still, constantly advancing or retreating. Ye should do the same."

"I see that would be best for a light-armed contest such as this," replied Edgar; "but seeing that knights fight in full armour in battle, with little room or power to advance or retreat, would it not be best for us to learn to stand more to our ground likewise?"

"There is some shrewdness in thy point," responded Aymery with a nod, "but pitched battles are rare, whilst there are many occasions on which a knight fights when not armed cap-à-pie. I am perhaps too prone to rely upon my activity; mayhap it were better if I sometimes fought knee to knee."

"Do you never practise in full armour?" asked Edgar. "I have never had the opportunity, but again it seemeth to me that as we enter a battle or the lists in full armour, we should make it our chiefest aim to become quite accustomed to its weight and hindrance, and to watching our foes through our vizor-slits. Why leave all that to the day of battle, as so many seem to do?"

"Ah! I cannot agree with thee there. Full armour is so irksome that we should never learn the finer strokes of fence. When thou hast felt the weight of it thou wilt the better understand."

Edgar felt unconvinced, but did not care to go on with the discussion, as his knowledge of the subject was so slight that he felt far from sure of his ground. So he turned aside and watched the efforts of some of his other comrades as they engaged in gymnastic exercises or practised with various weapons. It was a sight of absorbing interest to him, and the call to supper when it came found him still reluctant to quit the scene.

"Come, Edgar, put off thy headpiece and jerkin and join us at the board. I warrant thou wilt pronounce the cheer both good and plentiful, for Sir John hath never stinted us of our victuals. Wilt accompany me?"

"Right willingly," cried Edgar, as he threw off his gear and followed the speaker, a sturdy youth named Robert Duplessis, into the next room, where a long table literally groaned beneath the weight of huge rounds of beef and other fare and big jugs of home-brewed ale. Whilst the supper was proceeding, Edgar took an early opportunity of inviting his companion to tell him something of the castle and its inmates.

"Oh, as to the castle, thou art easily enlightened," cried Robert readily enough. "'Twas built in John's reign and, as thou hast seen, is strong enough for anything. It lieth not far from St. Albans and but twenty miles from London town. Sometimes we esquires take horse and ride into the city on pleasure bent, and a right good time we enjoy. Thou shouldst make one of our party the next time we ride thither."

"The exercises I saw just now, and the encounters with sword and axe--are they all the teaching ye get when Sir John is abroad?"

"Nay, nay, we should be sorry esquires were that so. No, twice a week Sir Percy Standish cometh to Wolsingham to give us instruction in the use of our weapons. He doth it out of friendship for Sir John, and lucky indeed are we to have a teacher so able. It is said, however, by some of the pertest of our pages that his visits are less on Sir John's account than because of an attraction amongst his household, but I hold that the report is baseless, seeing that Sir John's elder daughter is but seventeen."

"I saw three ladies on the outer walls as I rode up to the gates of the castle," said Edgar. "Doubtless two were Sir John's daughters? Who was the third?"

"Oh, she is Sir John's ward, Beatrice d'Alençon. She is only fifteen, but is heiress to wide lands in Kent and wider lands in Guienne. She will be greatly in request among the needy nobles when she cometh of age an the prophets mistake not. Even Aymery and Roland dispute one another's claims to wear her gage, and that is why they are so zealous to worst one another in fence. Asses!--when she careth naught for either!"

Edgar smiled at the scorn with which Robert spoke. "At any rate," he said, "neither you nor I are likely to dispute the damsel with the twain. I hold such ideas to be rubbish, and far from befitting esquires aspiring to the honour of knighthood. My aim at least is single, and no maiden shall divide it."

"Ha! ha! Edgar," laughed Robert, "I should love to hear thee make that declaration in the lady's hearing."

Edgar did not care to join in the laugh, and merely shrugged his shoulders and turned the conversation into other channels. He was interested beyond all else in learning the details of his squirehood and how best he might find opportunity to advance himself in it. The other matters that apparently so interested Aymery and Roland had no charms for him.

So earnest to succeed, it did not take Edgar long to learn his duties and to make rapid headway with his knowledge of martial accomplishments. The period of the next year or two was to him a time of continuous development. Applying himself with ardour to learn all that appertained to knightly prowess, in six months he had passed several of his comrades in skill and dexterity with arms, and could compel even Aymery Montacute to put out all his strength to worst him.

It was then that he gave effect to a resolve half formed in his first talk with Aymery. His opinion at that time was that a knight or esquire should practise clothed in full armour if he desired to show himself at his best on the day of trial. As time went on and his knowledge increased, this opinion deepened into a firm conviction. His comrades, however, as Aymery had done at the first, laughed at the idea, and one or two suggested slyly that perhaps he was becoming tired of the hard knocks he was getting, now that he had worked his way into the front rank and none thought of sparing him. But Edgar cared as little for their ridicule and somewhat ungenerous suggestions as he really did for their hard knocks, and presently appeared at their practices clad in as full a suit of gear as he possessed.

The natural result of the change was that his comrades easily worsted him, and from being almost a match for Aymery he passed down the line to Philip Soames, who stood last in order of prowess with the sword. Undismayed, however, by the fall, Edgar set himself to climb back to the position he had lost, and to become once more the equal of Aymery notwithstanding the armour which clogged and weighted his every movement.

The labour was heavy and the task most irksome. Edgar was quite determined about it, however, and slowly, bit by bit, won his way upward. One of the greatest difficulties before him was that of getting used to wearing a helmet with vizor closed, and learning to watch his man as keenly and surely through its narrow slits as with the vizor open. Accomplish the task he did, however, and had the satisfaction of knowing that the fierce shock of battle or the exciting moments of the tourney would find him on as familiar ground as in the contests of the gymnasium or the tilts in the castle courtyard. As a result of the heavy and constant exercise and the good fare, his frame expanded and his muscles thickened, and from a sturdy lad of fifteen he grew to be a stalwart youth, strong as most grown men and as hardy as one of his Viking forefathers.

After a couple of years of the teaching of Sir Percy Standish, their instructor, Edgar began to long for higher instruction, and for other opponents than his four companions and an occasional visitor from a neighbouring castle. He feared that when the time came for him to be cast into the wider circle of a camp of war, his skill, though it seemed considerable among his comrades at Wolsingham, might be dwarfed into insignificance by the higher skill of esquires from other parts of the country.

Casting about for some means of obtaining other and more varied instruction, he made enquiries during one of the visits he and his comrades sometimes paid to the city of London. He then ascertained that there existed two or three schools of arms for the training, chiefly, of the sons of merchants, but oftentimes used by knights and esquires within the city bounds. One of these was pointed out to him as of especial excellence, as it was presided over by a Picard, named Gaspard Verillac, who was much famed for his skill with weapons.

The very next day Edgar rode into London alone and called upon Verillac.

"I wish to gain some skill in arms," he said, opening the conversation with his usual directness.

Gaspard gave his youthful visitor a keen glance. "Thou hast already some skill in arms, if I mistake not," he remarked quietly.

"But a little, I fear. I desire to learn much more."

"Come into yon chamber. Take sword and engage with me for a few moments. I shall then know the more surely how much or how little thou dost know."

Edgar obeyed, and, entering the chamber, eagerly scanned the walls, which were covered with what seemed to be the weapons of all nations. He then selected a sword of nearly the same length and weight as the sharpened weapon he bore strapped to his side. The two fenced together for a minute, and Edgar realized at once how widely his style differed from that of some at least of the world outside his own circle. Gaspard's swordplay was more free and open than he had been used to, and was perhaps rather more adapted for single combat than for pitched encounters. The point was used almost as much as the edge of the blade.

"Thou art an esquire and no burgher's son," said Gaspard as he put up his sword.

Edgar assented.

"Thy skill is already considerable and giveth promise of vastly more. I can make thee a knight of rare skill and address if thou carest to become my pupil."

"I will gladly do so," cried Edgar, who was greatly impressed by his new instructor and by the careless ease and power with which he fenced.

"Thou wilt not only practise with me but with others of my pupils; and as they are of all ranks and hie from many countries, thou wilt learn to be at home with whomsoever the tide of war may bring thee into conflict. Come now, and I will take thee into the School of Arms."

When, some two hours later, Edgar rode back to Wolsingham Castle, he felt well satisfied with the step he had taken. The prospect of adding to his prowess with the sword under the guidance of Gaspard Verillac seemed bright indeed.

CHAPTER IV

The Winning of Peter

Regularly twice a week Edgar rode into London and waged strenuous warfare with Gaspard's most promising pupils. So earnest was his purpose and so able the tuition that he made rapid progress, and presently, as he grew in strength and stature, Gaspard was hard put to it to find pupils either ready or able to oppose him.

Indeed, Gaspard soon learned to turn the visits of the young esquire to good account. Oftentimes knights, and even nobles, desirous of obtaining a little private practice before setting out for the wars, were attracted to the school by the reputation of its founder; and on these occasions, instead of wielding the sword himself, Gaspard preferred to call Edgar in and set his pupil to work, contenting himself with administering instruction and reproof as the combat proceeded. To being made use of in this manner Edgar raised not the smallest objection. The heavier and the more desperate the encounter, the greater, he felt, was his chance of onward progress.

It was some twelve months after his visit to Gaspard's school that an adventure befell which influenced considerably Edgar's after career. It had been his habit, when he had stayed unusually late, to take a short cut to the open country through the poorer quarter at the eastward end of the city. The denizens of its narrow alleys and filthy courts were indeed a fierce and lawless crew, but Edgar, in the reliance born of his hard-won prowess with the sword, cared not one straw whether or no his way might lie through the haunts even of criminals and desperadoes. Certain it is that they never ventured to molest him.

But one day, as he was cantering along an alley just wide enough to give free passage to a mounted man, he heard, as he passed the entrance to a narrow court, a sudden burst of piercing screams. Turning his steed and clattering into the court, Edgar surprised a group of rough-looking men crowding round a lad or young man who was being most cruelly beaten by one of their number. The lad was thin and frail and half-starved looking, and his assailant was a burly ruffian of the most brutal type. The lad's screams so worked upon Edgar that, without a moment's hesitation, he urged his horse right amongst the group of men, and, by causing it to kick and plunge violently, scattered them in all directions. The lad's tormentor he treated to a heavy blow with the flat of his sword, just as he was disappearing, scowling horribly, through an open doorway close by.

Dismounting, Edgar hastily assisted the lad to rise, and then for the first time saw that he was a cripple. One of his legs was apparently somewhat shorter than the other, and the limb itself was partially withered.

"Come, lad, let me take thee to thy home," said Edgar gently. "These brutes shall molest thee no more."

"Thank you, sir," gasped the boy gratefully, as he tried to struggle to his feet. "But I have no home save this court. I fear, too, that I cannot stand."

"Tell me which is thy house. I will carry thee and lay thee on thy bed."

"This is where I live when he will let me," said the lad, indicating the house into which his assailant had disappeared. "But do not tarry here, sir, or thou wilt be attacked. Quick, I hear them calling to one another, and if thou wouldst escape alive, thou must go at once."

"Nay, lad, I cannot leave thee thus. After the rough shaking I have given them I fear the ruffians will illtreat thee worse than before. Come, I will mount and carry thee out of this den before me."

Springing into the saddle, Edgar stooped and lifted the lad, placing him in the saddle before him. Then, sword in hand, he rode down the court straight to the entrance, where he could see men gathering armed with knives, clubs, and stones. A volley of missiles sang through the air as he approached, and, bending before the storm, Edgar charged full into the enemy. The men scattered as he bore down upon them, some dodging into doorways and others throwing themselves down flat against the walls. But as he passed, knives darted out from this side and that, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that Edgar could avoid them. Emerging into the alley he found it thick with men hurrying to the scene. The whole district seemed to have been aroused, and the instant he appeared a howl of execration went up, followed almost instantly by another and heavier volley of stones.

Setting spurs to his horse, Edgar again darted full at the crowd. The men were now too numerous to avoid him, and a dozen were flung headlong to the ground, whilst several more fell back with heads ringing from blows given sharply with the flat of the sword. Though bleeding from several cuts inflicted by the stones, Edgar had almost won through to safety when suddenly, just as he was striking at a man who had tried to hamstring his horse on his right, a ruffian on his left, more determined than his fellows, sprang close up and buried a dagger in the animal's side. The poor beast gave a convulsive spring and then sank to the ground where it lay writhing in agony. As the horse fell beneath him, Edgar took the cripple lad in his arms. It needed but a glance to tell him that his horse was doomed, and his ears told him as surely that his own life was in equal peril did he not make good his escape without an instant's loss of time.

A closed door was by him, and he kicked it open with one foot. Springing in, he closed it after him. The sound of the shrieking horde outside was momentarily deadened, but, as he rushed along the passage to the back of the house, the door flew violently open again, and a wave of sound with a note so fierce and cruel swept in that most men, even in those martial days, would have been completely unnerved.

A door led from the passage into a yard at the back of the house, and through this Edgar sped with his burden as rapidly as he could. The yard was separated from the next by a low wall, and over this he pressed, making for the door at the back of the house opposite to him. This door, however, was fast, and was too strongly made to be readily battered down; so without a moment's hesitation Edgar sprang at the single-shuttered window on the ground floor. Placing the cripple lad down for a moment, he seized a corner of the shutter with both hands, and, exerting all his strength, tore it bodily away. Flinging it to the ground with a clatter, he again lifted the cripple lad, placed him on the sill, and leaped up after him. Not until then did he pause to glance inside the room, but now he saw that it contained four men, who had evidently been drinking and playing at cards when disturbed by the sudden wrenching of the shutter from off its hinges.

They were rough-looking men, and stared fiercely, albeit with some alarm, at the two figures perched upon the window sill.

"Who are ye?" challenged one in a rough and threatening tone. "Speak--what want ye?"

Edgar would have retreated had there been time, but already some of his pursuers were dropping over the low wall behind, shouting in fierce exultation as they saw their prey almost within their grasp. In another moment or two he would have to defend himself in the rear, whilst his front was threatened by these four men, who looked as ripe for mischief as any of the ruffians closing in behind. Desperate measures alone could save him.

Whispering to the cripple to cling to his back and so free both arms, Edgar flung his legs over the sill, sprang into the room, and dashed for the door. Two of the men drew their knives and made as though to stop him, but Edgar, who still carried his sword naked in his hand, instantly attacked them. Two rapid thrusts from his practised hand and the men fell back, shrieking and snarling, leaving him free to pass unmolested through the door and down a passage into another alley on the farther side.

Edgar's exertions in running and climbing, burdened by the cripple lad, had been so great that he felt he must at once find a refuge, even if only a temporary one, or resign himself to selling his life as dearly as he could. Eagerly he glanced up and down the alley. At one end was a blank wall, and at the other were a number of men, who raised a shout the instant they caught sight of him. In front were what appeared to be the backs of a number of solidly-built warehouses, and these, Edgar felt, could and must provide his only refuge.

The lowest windows were too high to be reached, and the doors were unusually strong, doubtless owing to the poverty of the neighbourhood. There was, however, no choice open, so Edgar again put the lad down and turned to the nearest door.

Throughout the flight the cripple lad had not spoken once, but now, noticing perhaps how his rescuer panted, and how their escape seemed as far off as ever, he found his tongue.

"Leave me behind, sir. Thou canst not escape burdened with me. Seek thine own safety. What need for both to perish?"

"I cannot leave thee, lad, once I have taken the task upon me. Fear not; while I still possess a sword I will never lose hope."

As he spoke Edgar drove the blade of his sword through the top panel of the door, tore it out, and again and again drove it back. Then with the hilt he hammered the splintered woodwork inwards with quick sharp blows until a hole gaped the full length and breadth of the panel.

"Now, lad, thine escape at least is assured. Come; I am going to pass thee through this hole." Lifting the lad, Edgar thrust him through the cavity and lowered him gently down. And not one whit too soon, for the advance guard of the men from the end of the alley and those who had followed him through the houses was now upon the scene. Making a sudden rush at the nearest of them, Edgar wounded two and momentarily drove the rest headlong back. Then retreating as suddenly as he had advanced, he sprang to the broken door and swung himself quickly through the gap.

Inside he found himself in a dark passage, between stacks of goods piled to the ceiling. Followed by the cripple, who had awaited his coming, and who could now limp slowly along, he traversed the passage and mounted some steps to what appeared to be the inhabited part of the building. In a minute or two he came to the door of a room, inside which he could hear the sound of laughter and the clink of cups and platters. Here at least seemed hope of succour.

It was indeed high time, for the noise of axes and hammers pounding at the outer door and the yells of the savage mob outside reverberated threateningly along the passage. In a minute or two the remnants of the door must give way and allow them free ingress. Already some of the cut-throats might have ventured singly through the gap and be stealing along in the darkness.

Opening the door without ceremony, Edgar pressed eagerly in, followed by the lad. The sight which met them, fresh from the hurly-burly, seemed strange in its dissimilarity, and almost made them momentarily doubt the reality of what they had gone through. The room was comfortably furnished and brightly lit, and at a large table in its centre sat a merchant, his wife, and several daughters at supper. All rose to their feet, as with a single impulse, as Edgar, panting and blood-streaked, and with a naked and reddened sword in his hand, strode impetuously in.

"Sirrah, what is this?" cried the merchant hastily. "What dost thou in my dwelling?"

"To seek aid. We are fugitives," panted Edgar.

"From the law? Come not to me for succour, but begone!"

"Nay, we flee from bands of thieves and cut-throats. Even now they are doubtless pressing in at thy broken door. Summon aid, for our need is sore."

"What--what is it thou art saying? Bands of cut-throats entering my house! Thou hast led them upon us, and we are ruined. What defence have I against such ruffians?"

Edgar leaned upon his sword and panted. His exertions had been tremendous, but a few moments' breathing space would, he knew, do much to restore him.

"They are stealing along the passage, sir. I hear them," whispered the cripple. "They are fierce and stubborn when once they are roused, and fear the Justice and his men but little. I know them well."

"Come, sir," said Edgar, lifting himself upright. "The cut-throats are even now stealing along yon passage, and----"

Shrill cries of alarm from the merchant's wife and daughters interrupted him, and turning hastily round, Edgar saw that two or three savage-looking figures were even now actually at the door. The merchant snatched a knife from the table, and, though pale and trembling, moved towards the door, as though prepared to defend his womenfolk to the last.

With a sickening shock Edgar realized his responsibility in drawing the ruffians in pursuit of him into the home of a peaceful and innocent merchant. Though he was the one they sought, it was not to be supposed for a moment that the merchant's family would, even though he gave himself up, remain unmolested. Furious with himself, and desperate to defend the innocent from the consequences of his thoughtlessness, Edgar sprang through the doorway upon the ruffians who were gathering there.

His sword rose and fell with the rapidity and unerring precision he had learned in so many hard-fought encounters at Gaspard's school, and in the space of a few seconds three lay wounded upon the ground and the others were in full flight. More men were stealing up behind, but at the screeching of the wounded and the headlong flight of the remainder they too turned and hastily retreated. For some distance Edgar followed them up, and, by sundry thrusts at the hindmost, sent them racing down the stairs to the passage through the warehouse. Here he stopped, for the way was dark, and he could not know but that many might be lurking among the bales, ready to spring out as he passed by, and, by stabbing him in the back, render themselves masters of the merchant's dwelling.

Returning to the door of the room, Edgar beckoned to the merchant, who was engaged in calming the fears of his wife and daughters, to come outside for a moment.

"Canst not fetch aid?"

"How dare I leave my wife and daughters, young sir? At any moment thou mayst be overcome, leaving them at the mercy of these ruffians."

"Nay, if thou wilt give me a lighted lantern fixed upon a short pole, I will, I promise thee, rid thy house of these cut-throats until such time as thou canst bring help. But I cannot fight to advantage in the dark."

"Thou shalt have the lanthorn. See thou keep'st thy promise."

The lantern was brought, and bearing it high up with his left hand, and holding his sword in his right, Edgar returned along the way he had come, searching for any trace of lurking foes. He encountered none until he had nearly reached the broken door, but here he found them gathered in force, and had to make another attack. His determined front and darting sword, however, quickly cowed the men, and after a very short struggle they gave back, and, rushing for the door, fought their way out in absolute panic.

Edgar did not trouble to follow up his advantage, but contented himself with placing his lantern where its light would shine upon the broken door, sitting down himself in a shadow and resting, while he watched and listened.

Half an hour passed away without any change. He could tell his pursuers still lurked outside, but not once did they dare to return to the attack. Then he heard cries of alarm and the sound of rapid footsteps. A moment or two later a face appeared at the broken door, and he recognized the merchant.

"Is all well within?" he called breathlessly.

"All is well," cried Edgar, coming forward.

"God be praised!" cried the merchant in a voice of deep relief. "I have brought an officer and ten men, and at the sight of us the vagabonds made off."

"'Tis well. We are safe from attack now."

"Did the ruffians molest thee?"

"Nay. And now, sir, I must make the best of my way back to my home at Castle Wolsingham without loss of time. But before I go I pray thee forgive me for the alarm I have caused thee and the ladies of thy household. Thou know'st 'twas all done in the heat and extremity of the moment, and wilt excuse my thoughtlessness."

"I cannot regret aught that has gained me the acquaintance of one so gallant," cried the merchant warmly. "Come with me, for I am sure the ladies will desire an opportunity to thank thee for themselves."

The gratitude of the merchant and his wife and daughters, now that their alarm had subsided, was very great, and they united in praising Edgar for what they termed his bravery. But Edgar laughed at them, and would have no such term applied to what he called an afternoon's useful practice with the sword. One destined to the trade of arms, he disclaimed banteringly, must regard such a brush as of no more moment than the merchant's assistants did the measuring of a bale of cloth. But the merchant's daughters would not be denied, and showed their admiration of the young esquire by pressing food and dainties upon him, and by washing and tending the cripple lad, the unhappy cause of all the disturbance.

An offer of the loan of a horse gave Edgar an excuse to be gone and to escape from irksome thanks and embarrassingly bright eyes. So as soon as they had finished tending the cripple lad, whose name they soon found out to be Peter, he bade them all goodbye, and, mounting the steed and taking Peter up behind him, set off for Wolsingham once more.

His strange and exciting adventure had ended in the loss of a horse and the winning of a lad. How the latter was to be provided for, Edgar knew no more than he knew, when he set out in the morning, that he would return saddled with such a dependent. It was all very strange, but his mind was fully made up that he could not readily part with a lad for whom he had risked and ventured so much.

CHAPTER V

The Fracas

It was late when Edgar reached the vicinity of Wolsingham, and, preferring to obtain Geoffrey Fletcher's permission before he brought Peter into the castle, he left him for the night at the farmhouse of one of the tenants on the Wolsingham lands. He then rode on to the castle, and, learning that Geoffrey was still up, made his way to him, and related in detail all that had befallen that eventful afternoon. Geoffrey was concerned at the loss of the horse, but made little of the difficulty of the cripple lad. He could, he said, easily find employment for him among the tenantry if he found it impossible to take him into service within the castle. The latter would depend upon his inspection of the lad on the morrow. He congratulated Edgar warmly upon coming out of so serious a fracas with a whole skin, and strongly advised him, if he were still bent upon continuing his lessons with Gaspard, to choose a more public route until such time as the affair was likely to have been forgotten.

During the homeward journey, Edgar had learned from Peter all that he could tell him of his life and parents. As he had expected, the lad's parents were both dead--his mother but a few months since--and he had only been allowed shelter in the house where his parents had lived by the kindness of one of the women of the place. Her husband, however, was of another mind, and, finding that the boy could give nothing in payment, had turned him out of the house.

Again and again he had stolen back, however, and the man's wrath had increased beyond measure as he found him there time after time, until it ended in the more than usually brutal beating which Edgar was fortunately just in time to prevent becoming something worse. Of relations, Peter had none--that he knew of; and without help, sympathy, or hope he would in all probability, if he had survived and had remained in those evil surroundings, have drifted imperceptibly into evil and vicious courses.

From this Edgar's intervention had saved him, and though as yet he did not realize all that it meant, he was deeply grateful for the timely succour.

On the morrow Edgar took Peter in to Geoffrey, and then and there he was placed in charge of the armourer, who had for some time been wanting a boy to work his bellows. With healthy surroundings, good food, and fair treatment, he soon lost much of his frail and ill-nourished appearance, and but for his infirmity would in time have passed muster with other youths of his rank and station. Indeed, even his infirmity gradually lessened, until at last his limp, though still noticeable, marred his appearance rather than his usefulness.

The recollection of the stirring scenes they had been through together always remained a bond of union between Edgar and Peter the armourer's lad, and the desire to aid and the desire to serve remained with them even after months and years had passed by. If Edgar wanted someone to go on an errand, it was Peter who was only too delighted to go; and if Peter had ever any desire beyond his work, it was always to Edgar that he came for advice or permission. If anything, the bond between them increased with the lapse of time, and it became a recognized thing in the castle that Peter was the special protégé and retainer of Edgar Wintour.

Three or four years passed without any change of note taking place in the affairs of the castle. Then its lord, Sir John Chartris, returned from the wars, and an alteration was made that had a considerable influence in the lives of more than one of its inmates. Sir John had previously paid several visits to his home but had soon departed, for he was constantly campaigning in Flanders, the south of France, or elsewhere. On this occasion he returned alone, for his esquire had recently been knighted, and had left him to take service under another banner.

As soon as the news that the office of personal esquire to Sir John was vacant became known, the excitement and rivalry between Aymery Montacute, Roland Mortimer, Robert Duplessis, Philip Soames, and Edgar became intense. That such a contingency was likely soon to arise had been known for some time, and each of them had nursed within himself the secret hope that he might be the fortunate one and follow his master to the wars. Rivalry had always existed between them, but naturally this increased tenfold at the thought that a selection must soon be made, for Sir John had so far steadily refused to take with him more than one esquire.

In prowess with weapons, both on foot and on horseback, Aymery, Roland, and Edgar were generally considered to be about equal. But this estimate was based on their performances in the castle courtyard and gymnasium, and little account, if any, was taken of the fact that Edgar always wore full armour, and, more even than this, wore his vizor down in those encounters. His comrades, however, had become so used to meeting him in this fashion, and made so little of it beyond a few half good-humoured gibes at his supposed dislike for cuts and bruises, that they overlooked the heavy handicap under which he laboured. Edgar, however, had not forgotten it, and resolved that when a trial was made to qualify one of their number for the coveted position, he would fight unencumbered, in the hopes of being able easily to overcome all his opponents.

The lessons he had learned at Gaspard's, too, would then very largely come into play for the first time. Several of the best strokes he had there learnt and practised he never used at Wolsingham, partly because he did not wish to accentuate the rivalry that already existed by easily worsting his comrades, and partly because he had had from the first a vague idea that a knowledge of new modes of attack or defence, about which they knew nothing, might prove useful to him in the days to come.

Several times the rivalry between him and one or two of his comrades had led perilously near to an open quarrel; but Edgar so far had, by the exercise of tact and a certain amount of forbearance, generally managed to keep the peace. Twice, however, he had had high words with Aymery and Roland over the rough manner in which they had treated Peter when sending him on their errands. Even this had blown over, though it remained an understood thing that if anyone wanted to annoy Edgar it was a safe and sure plan to bully the cripple lad.

A few weeks after Sir John's return home, it leaked out that it was likely that he would take part in an expedition which was being dispatched to Guienne under the leadership of the Earl of Derby. Much was hoped for from this expedition, and it seemed certain that those fortunate ones who took part in it would be in a fair way towards winning much renown. It happened also that the greater part of the lands to which Sir John's ward, Beatrice d'Alençon, was heiress, lay not far from the probable scene of the expedition, and presently the further news transpired that Sir John contemplated taking her with him, accompanied by his elder daughter, Gertrude, with the object of seizing an early opportunity of looking into the condition of her estates.

As has already been explained, both Aymery and Roland had for years past proudly worn the gage of Beatrice, with or without her permission, and not unnaturally this news sent them nearly wild with the desire to follow Sir John as his esquire. To take part in a famous campaign beneath her very eyes would, they felt certain, be a sure means towards gaining her admiration.

From the moment this news leaked out their rivalry was fanned to boiling-point, and the quarrels between them became constant. Only Edgar's tact and self-control kept him from embroilment also; for though they knew he was no rival so far as Beatrice was concerned, for he openly scoffed at all such notions, they both feared his swordsmanship, which might defeat their ambitions to follow Sir John to the wars. All indeed that was needed to drag him within the circle of their strife was something which would rouse his antagonism to the pitch at which theirs normally stood. An explosion would then be inevitable. Unfortunately this spark was presently supplied, and the unhappy cause of the mishap was Peter, the armourer's lad.

It happened that one day Aymery had set Peter to work to burnish up his armour, which he had carelessly left exposed to the rain after he had been going over it and fondly trying it on on the walls of the keep. Peter went to work willingly enough, but the havoc was so great that by the time he should have returned to the armourer it was only half done. Hastily completing it, in a rough-and-ready fashion, he put it back in the esquires' chamber and went on his way to the forge, intending to finish the work as soon as he was again free. Presently two or three of the pages entered the chamber, and Aymery's armour spread out on the table was the first object to attract their attention. Not knowing or caring to whom it belonged, and ripe for any sort of mischief, they proceeded to amuse themselves by kicking and throwing the pieces about the room.

Tiring of the fun, the armour was left lying where it had fallen, and remained there until Aymery and several of the esquires entered.

"He refuses, Aymery," Roland was saying as they entered. "He saith that the responsibility of looking after one esquire is enough for him, and that the others must seek other opportunity of winning their spurs--at the tourney, I think he meant."

"Didst press thy claims to accompany him?" enquired Aymery sourly.

"They need no pressing," responded Roland haughtily. "And 'tis not thy claims I fear."

Aymery was about to make an angry retort when he noticed the pieces of armour he so highly prized lying about the floor in all parts of the room.

"Who hath flung my armour here?" he cried, with a sudden burst of wrath. "I will trounce him finely--upon my sword, I swear it--whoever the varlet may be. Was't any of ye?" he ended fiercely, as he glared at the shamefaced pages.

The boys looked at one another uneasily, and then one more brazen than the rest replied coolly:

"Why dost not look after thy property, Aymery? Where didst leave it? Not with any of us, I'll warrant."

"Ah, I recollect! 'Twas with the armourer's boy I left it. Doubtless he still thinketh 'tis only Edgar's bidding he must do. It seemeth I must teach him another well-merited lesson. Bid him come to me at once, Maurice--be off with thee!"

The page sped off upon his errand, and the others waited, eyeing Aymery expectantly, for they felt that something more than the chastisement of an unruly youth was in the wind. At any moment Edgar Wintour might come in, for it was nigh upon his time, and none thought that he would see Aymery flog Peter without interfering. The angry esquire spent the minute or two which elapsed before the boy's arrival in examining the pieces of armour strewn about the floor, and the inspection apparently did nothing to improve his temper.

Peter had evidently been told what was afoot, for he went straight up to Aymery immediately he entered.

"You want me, sir," he said quietly.

"Aye, varlet," cried Aymery, grasping him roughly by the collar, "dost see my armour strewn about the floor? What dost mean by it? I will break every bone in thy body, dog that thou art!" and he gave emphasis to his savage words by shaking Peter with all his strength.

"I placed them not there," cried Peter, twisting himself free. "I know nothing of it."

"Know nothing of it!" cried Aymery, still more incensed. "The work is only half done--dost know nothing of that? Knave, get thee to work at once and do it over again, or I will beat thee so thou canst not stand."

Peter hesitated a moment, for the armourer was busy, and was, he knew, awaiting his return with some impatience. Misunderstanding his reluctance to do his behest, Aymery's wrath boiled up and over, and, seizing the boy by the shoulders, he flung him across the table.

"Come, Roland, aid me administer a sound thrashing to this obstinate varlet. He thinketh 'tis only Wintour's bidding he must do, and hangeth back when we command."

Roland was only too ready, and grasped and held Peter while Aymery snatched up a couple of armour buckles and belaboured him with all his strength. There could be no doubt that Aymery was almost beside himself with rage, for the buckles tore away Peter's clothing until they reached and began to score deeply into the bare flesh--and still he went on.

At first the lad bore the beating in silence, but as the buckles began to cut into his back he commenced to scream with ever-increasing intensity.

It was in the midst of this that Edgar suddenly entered. The screams and the sight of Peter, face downwards on the table and covered with blood, smote him as a blow, and his face blanched in a way that none had ever seen before.

"Get thee gone, Wintour," cried Aymery recklessly. "This is well-merited punishment, and interfere thou shalt not."

For answer, Edgar sprang at the speaker, seized him round the waist, and flung him heavily against the wall. Then he turned fiercely upon Roland; but that worthy shrank back before his pale face and flashing eyes, and, letting go Peter, fled to the wall and tore down a sword.

Finding himself free, Peter crawled from the table and dragged himself into the inner room, the door of which Edgar flung open while he faced and kept watch upon his furious comrades. He, too, had snatched a sword from the wall, and he now placed himself squarely in the doorway and waited. The moment Aymery had recovered his balance, he felt at his side and grasped the hilt of his sword. But Duplessis laid firm hand upon his arm and whispered an urgent warning, and Aymery was not so mad but that he was able to realize the dangerous folly of attacking Edgar with sharpened and pointed weapon. Abandoning his first impulse, he followed Roland's example, and, possessing himself of one of the blunted, pointless weapons used in their practices, instantly attacked the figure standing in the doorway of the room in which the cripple lad had taken refuge, standing with ready poise as though prepared to dispute with all present their right to pass unchallenged.

The encounter that ensued was so reckless and desperate that none present had seen the like before. Aymery at first seemed too angry to trouble about defending, and hacked at his adversary with a fierce rapidity that gave Edgar little time for other than parrying. In a minute or two, however, he managed to give Aymery so strong a thrust with his pointless weapon against his unjerkined chest that he was compelled to cease pressing in to close quarters and to pay some attention to defence.

"Smite home, Aymery," cried Roland, thinking his friend was giving back. "Smite home, or let me have my fling at the braggart!"

Stung into more reckless activity, Aymery sprang again to the attack, leaving his head for the moment unguarded. Before his own blow had fallen, the flat of Edgar's weapon caught him heavily upon the side of the head, and he fell back against the table, sick and half-fainting. Edgar had scarcely stepped back into position before Roland was savagely attacking him in his turn, secure in the possession of headpiece and jerkin, which he had cautiously donned whilst the fight with Aymery was proceeding.

"Once thou didst gibe at me for fearing the weight of my comrades' blows," laughed Edgar, as their blades ground together. "Why then this jerkin? Why then this headpiece? Methinks 'tis another that most fears the shock of blows upon skull and body."

"Bah!" cried Roland, "if thou thinkest I care for thy blows I will tear them off."

"The result will be the same," retorted Edgar. "I care neither way. Look to thy guard, or I vow thy headpiece will help thee little."

Though fighting keenly, Edgar kept an eye upon the room as well as upon his adversary. Aymery, he could see, was recovering from the blow he had received, and in a moment might be expected to renew the fight with temper little improved by the sharpness of his punishment. Others of his comrades were whispering together, and he fancied they meditated an attack to overcome his resistance and put an end to the conflict.

Thinking it time to rid himself of Roland, for Aymery had given himself a shake and grasped his sword anew, Edgar put into effect a trick he had learned of Gaspard some years before. As their swords grated together he locked his blade in the hilt of his opponent's sword, and, with a sharp wrench, tore the weapon from his grasp. With a shout of pain, for his wrist had been severely twisted, Roland jumped swiftly back out of reach; then, recovering from his surprise, he seized another weapon from the wall and sprang to the attack once more. Aymery was now also attacking, and the two made such an onslaught that Edgar was compelled to fence as he had never fenced before.

Suddenly the door opened and Geoffrey Fletcher entered, followed by a couple of men-at-arms.

"Hold!" he cried. "Hold! Cease this brawling, or ye shall cool your heels in the guardroom."

But neither Aymery nor Roland paid any heed to his words; they were too intent upon beating down Edgar's resistance. Roland had already inflicted a severe blow upon his unprotected head, and, dizzy from the effects, Edgar had retired a pace or two into the doorway, where the two blades could play upon him less easily.

"Men-at-arms, arrest these brawlers!" cried Geoffrey sternly, and striding forward, followed by the two men, he seized Roland roughly by the shoulder and struck down his sword with his own weapon. One of the men-at-arms seized Aymery, and the other approached Edgar, who immediately flung his sword upon the floor, and, folding his arms, looked the man in the face.

"There, Matthew!" he said, as quietly as his heaving chest would allow, "take it--it has done its work so far. Then come with me and help me to take poor Peter to his bed. He is the innocent cause of all this unhappy mischief."

Matthew picked up the weapon and went and looked at Peter, who was supporting himself, half-fainting, against the wall. Then, recalled by the stern voice of Geoffrey, he whispered: "I will return and see to him, or send someone in my place."

"Men-at-arms, march the prisoners to the guard-room, and keep them close till Sir John's pleasure is known," commanded Geoffrey; and the esquires, sobered by the recollection of their folly now that the heat of the conflict was evaporating, marched unresistingly out of the chamber down the stairs to the guardroom adjoining the castle gates.

CHAPTER VI

Sir John's Esquire

The three esquires were kept closely confined the rest of the day and all night in a cell leading out of the guardroom, watched over by a man-at-arms, to see that there was no renewal of hostilities. The interval gave them time for quiet reflection, and doubtless the first conclusion they came to was that such a fracas was hardly likely to commend any one of them to Sir John Chartris as being a suitable candidate for the position of his personal esquire, especially at a time when he was about to start for Guienne and Gascony accompanied by a portion of his household. It was obvious that he would wish for an esquire who possessed prudence as well as fighting capacity, when at any time it might be necessary to leave him in sole charge of his affairs.

To Edgar, at any rate, the thought was torture. Though he could scarcely see how he could have acted otherwise--for the rescue of Peter he never for a moment regretted--he yet felt angry with himself that he had not somehow avoided a collision at a time so critical in his career. However his comrades may have got on, he himself scarcely slept a wink all night.

It was nearly midday when a summons came to the prisoners that they were to prepare themselves for an interview with Sir John. Half an hour later Geoffrey appeared, again accompanied by a guard of men-at-arms, and the three esquires were marched across the courtyard to the council chamber of Sir John, high up in the walls of the keep. Curious eyes watched them pass by, for the news that there had been a serious fracas in the esquires' quarters had spread like wildfire through the castle. Some commiseration was expressed at their ill luck in the affair happening whilst Sir John was at the castle, and, consequently, in their having to appear before him, for he was known to be something of a martinet.

As they approached the door of Sir John's chamber it opened, and a youth stepped out. It was Peter, the armourer's assistant. Aymery and Roland looked at one another gloomily. His presence hardly augured well for them.

The first thing the three young men noticed as they were ushered into the room was that Sir Percy Standish as well as Sir John Chartris was present. Both knights were seated at a table fronting the doorway, and Geoffrey ranged the three esquires facing them, with a man-at-arms on either flank. He then took a seat at Sir Percy's side.

"What am I to think of my esquires," began Sir John in a stern, upbraiding voice, as he fixed his steel-grey eyes upon each of the young men in turn, "what am I to think of the example they set to my men-at-arms and retainers when they brawl thus amongst themselves? How can I entrust to them the command of soldiers when they have no command over themselves and less knowledge of discipline?"

"But, Sir John----" began Aymery hotly.

"Cease, boy!--I will hear no excuses. There can be no excuse for the men I command to fight amongst themselves. Had this breach of discipline occurred in face of the enemy I would surely have sent ye back to your homes--disgraced esquires. Now ye shall spend the rest of the day and night in the guard chamber, to meditate upon my words and your own folly; and for two weeks more the sentinel at the gate will have orders to refuse you exit. Dost understand?"

The three esquires murmured assent.

"Then, Geoffrey, remove the prisoners, and see that my commands are obeyed."