MEN OF IRON

by Howard Pyle


INTRODUCTION

The year 1400 opened with more than usual peacefulness in England. Only a
few months before, Richard II—weak, wicked, and treacherous—had
been dethroned, and Henry IV declared King in his stead. But it was only a
seeming peacefulness, lasting but for a little while; for though King
Henry proved himself a just and a merciful man—as justice and mercy
went with the men of iron of those days—and though he did not care
to shed blood needlessly, there were many noble families who had been
benefited by King Richard during his reign, and who had lost somewhat of
their power and prestige from the coming in of the new King.

Among these were a number of great lords—the Dukes of Albemarle,
Surrey, and Exeter, the Marquis of Dorset, the Earl of Gloucester, and
others—who had been degraded to their former titles and estates,
from which King Richard had lifted them. These and others brewed a secret
plot to take King Henry’s life, which plot might have succeeded had not
one of their own number betrayed them.

Their plan had been to fall upon the King and his adherents, and to
massacre them during a great tournament, to be held at Oxford. But Henry
did not appear at the lists; whereupon, knowing that he had been lodging
at Windsor with only a few attendants, the conspirators marched thither
against him. In the mean time the King had been warned of the plot, so
that, instead of finding him in the royal castle, they discovered through
their scouts that he had hurried to London, whence he was even then
marching against them at the head of a considerable army. So nothing was
left them but flight. Some betook themselves one way, some another; some
sought sanctuary here, some there; but one and another, they were all of
them caught and killed.

The Earl of Kent—one time Duke of Surrey—and the Earl of
Salisbury were beheaded in the market-place at Cirencester; Lord Le
Despencer—once the Earl of Gloucester—and Lord Lumley met the
same fate at Bristol; the Earl of Huntingdon was taken in the Essex fens,
carried to the castle of the Duke of Gloucester, whom he had betrayed to
his death in King Richard’s time, and was there killed by the castle
people. Those few who found friends faithful and bold enough to afford
them shelter, dragged those friends down in their own ruin.

Just such a case was that of the father of the boy hero of this story, the
blind Lord Gilbert Reginald Falworth, Baron of Falworth and Easterbridge,
who, though having no part in the plot, suffered through it ruin, utter
and complete.

He had been a faithful counsellor and adviser to King Richard, and perhaps
it was this, as much and more than his roundabout connection with the
plot, that brought upon him the punishment he suffered.


CHAPTER 1

Myles Falworth was but eight years of age at that time, and it was only
afterwards, and when he grew old enough to know more of the ins and outs
of the matter, that he could remember by bits and pieces the things that
afterwards happened; how one evening a knight came clattering into the
court-yard upon a horse, red-nostrilled and smeared with the sweat and
foam of a desperate ride—Sir John Dale, a dear friend of the blind
Lord.

Even though so young, Myles knew that something very serious had happened
to make Sir John so pale and haggard, and he dimly remembered leaning
against the knight’s iron-covered knees, looking up into his gloomy face,
and asking him if he was sick to look so strange. Thereupon those who had
been too troubled before to notice him, bethought themselves of him, and
sent him to bed, rebellious at having to go so early.

He remembered how the next morning, looking out of a window high up under
the eaves, he saw a great troop of horsemen come riding into the courtyard
beneath, where a powdering of snow had whitened everything, and of how the
leader, a knight clad in black armor, dismounted and entered the great
hall door-way below, followed by several of the band.

He remembered how some of the castle women were standing in a frightened
group upon the landing of the stairs, talking together in low voices about
a matter he did not understand, excepting that the armed men who had
ridden into the courtyard had come for Sir John Dale. None of the women
paid any attention to him; so, shunning their notice, he ran off down the
winding stairs, expecting every moment to be called back again by some one
of them.

A crowd of castle people, all very serious and quiet, were gathered in the
hall, where a number of strange men-at-arms lounged upon the benches,
while two billmen in steel caps and leathern jacks stood guarding the
great door, the butts of their weapons resting upon the ground, and the
staves crossed, barring the door-way.

In the anteroom was the knight in black armor whom Myles had seen from the
window. He was sitting at the table, his great helmet lying upon the bench
beside him, and a quart beaker of spiced wine at his elbow. A clerk sat at
the other end of the same table, with inkhorn in one hand and pen in the
other, and a parchment spread in front of him.

Master Robert, the castle steward, stood before the knight, who every now
and then put to him a question, which the other would answer, and the
clerk write the answer down upon the parchment.

His father stood with his back to the fireplace, looking down upon the
floor with his blind eyes, his brows drawn moodily together, and the scar
of the great wound that he had received at the tournament at York—the
wound that had made him blind—showing red across his forehead, as it
always did when he was angered or troubled.

There was something about it all that frightened Myles, who crept to his
father’s side, and slid his little hand into the palm that hung limp and
inert. In answer to the touch, his father grasped the hand tightly, but
did not seem otherwise to notice that he was there. Neither did the black
knight pay any attention to him, but continued putting his questions to
Master Robert.

Then, suddenly, there was a commotion in the hall without, loud voices,
and a hurrying here and there. The black knight half arose, grasping a
heavy iron mace that lay upon the bench beside him, and the next moment
Sir John Dale himself, as pale as death, walked into the antechamber. He
stopped in the very middle of the room. “I yield me to my Lord’s grace and
mercy,” said he to the black knight, and they were the last words he ever
uttered in this world.

The black knight shouted out some words of command, and swinging up the
iron mace in his hand, strode forward clanking towards Sir John, who
raised his arm as though to shield himself from the blow. Two or three of
those who stood in the hall without came running into the room with drawn
swords and bills, and little Myles, crying out with terror, hid his face
in his father’s long gown.

The next instant came the sound of a heavy blow and of a groan, then
another blow and the sound of one falling upon the ground. Then the
clashing of steel, and in the midst Lord Falworth crying, in a dreadful
voice, “Thou traitor! thou coward! thou murderer!”

Master Robert snatched Myles away from his father, and bore him out of the
room in spite of his screams and struggles, and he remembered just one
instant’s sight of Sir John lying still and silent upon his face, and of
the black knight standing above him, with the terrible mace in his hand
stained a dreadful red.

It was the next day that Lord and Lady Falworth and little Myles, together
with three of the more faithful of their people, left the castle.

His memory of past things held a picture for Myles of old Diccon Bowman
standing over him in the silence of midnight with a lighted lamp in his
hand, and with it a recollection of being bidden to hush when he would
have spoken, and of being dressed by Diccon and one of the women,
bewildered with sleep, shuddering and chattering with cold.

He remembered being wrapped in the sheepskin that lay at the foot of his
bed, and of being carried in Diccon Bowman’s arms down the silent darkness
of the winding stair-way, with the great black giant shadows swaying and
flickering upon the stone wall as the dull flame of the lamp swayed and
flickered in the cold breathing of the night air.

Below were his father and mother and two or three others. A stranger stood
warming his hands at a newly-made fire, and little Myles, as he peeped
from out the warm sheepskin, saw that he was in riding-boots and was
covered with mud. He did not know till long years afterwards that the
stranger was a messenger sent by a friend at the King’s court, bidding his
father fly for safety.

They who stood there by the red blaze of the fire were all very still,
talking in whispers and walking on tiptoes, and Myles’s mother hugged him
in her arms, sheepskin and all, kissing him, with the tears streaming down
her cheeks, and whispering to him, as though he could understand their
trouble, that they were about to leave their home forever.

Then Diccon Bowman carried him out into the strangeness of the winter
midnight.

Outside, beyond the frozen moat, where the osiers, stood stark and stiff
in their winter nakedness, was a group of dark figures waiting for them
with horses. In the pallid moonlight Myles recognized the well-known face
of Father Edward, the Prior of St. Mary’s.

After that came a long ride through that silent night upon the saddle-bow
in front of Diccon Bowman; then a deep, heavy sleep, that fell upon him in
spite of the galloping of the horses.

When next he woke the sun was shining, and his home and his whole life
were changed.


CHAPTER 2

From the time the family escaped from Falworth Castle that midwinter night
to the time Myles was sixteen years old he knew nothing of the great world
beyond Crosbey-Dale. A fair was held twice in a twelvemonth at the
market-town of Wisebey, and three times in the seven years old Diccon
Bowman took the lad to see the sights at that place. Beyond these three
glimpses of the outer world he lived almost as secluded a life as one of
the neighboring monks of St. Mary’s Priory.

Crosbey-Holt, their new home, was different enough from Falworth or
Easterbridge Castle, the former baronial seats of Lord Falworth. It was a
long, low, straw-thatched farm-house, once, when the church lands were
divided into two holdings, one of the bailiff’s houses. All around were
the fruitful farms of the priory, tilled by well-to-do tenant holders, and
rich with fields of waving grain, and meadow-lands where sheep and cattle
grazed in flocks and herds; for in those days the church lands were under
church rule, and were governed by church laws, and there, when war and
famine and waste and sloth blighted the outside world, harvests flourished
and were gathered, and sheep were sheared and cows were milked in peace
and quietness.

The Prior of St. Mary’s owed much if not all of the church’s prosperity to
the blind Lord Falworth, and now he was paying it back with a haven of
refuge from the ruin that his former patron had brought upon himself by
giving shelter to Sir John Dale.

I fancy that most boys do not love the grinding of school life—the
lessons to be conned, the close application during study hours. It is not
often pleasant to brisk, lively lads to be so cooped up. I wonder what the
boys of to-day would have thought of Myles’s training. With him that
training was not only of the mind, but of the body as well, and for seven
years it was almost unremitting. “Thou hast thine own way to make in the
world, sirrah,” his father said more than once when the boy complained of
the grinding hardness of his life, and to make one’s way in those days
meant a thousand times more than it does now; it meant not only a heart to
feel and a brain to think, but a hand quick and strong to strike in
battle, and a body tough to endure the wounds and blows in return. And so
it was that Myles’s body as well as his mind had to be trained to meet the
needs of the dark age in which he lived.

Every morning, winter or summer, rain or shine he tramped away six long
miles to the priory school, and in the evenings his mother taught him
French.

Myles, being prejudiced in the school of thought of his day, rebelled not
a little at that last branch of his studies. “Why must I learn that vile
tongue?” said he.

“Call it not vile,” said the blind old Lord, grimly; “belike, when thou
art grown a man, thou’lt have to seek thy fortune in France land, for
England is haply no place for such as be of Falworth blood.” And in
after-years, true to his father’s prediction, the “vile tongue” served him
well.

As for his physical training, that pretty well filled up the hours between
his morning studies at the monastery and his evening studies at home. Then
it was that old Diccon Bowman took him in hand, than whom none could be
better fitted to shape his young body to strength and his hands to skill
in arms. The old bowman had served with Lord Falworth’s father under the
Black Prince both in France and Spain, and in long years of war had gained
a practical knowledge of arms that few could surpass. Besides the use of
the broadsword, the short sword, the quarter-staff, and the cudgel, he
taught Myles to shoot so skilfully with the long-bow and the cross-bow
that not a lad in the country-side was his match at the village butts.
Attack and defence with the lance, and throwing the knife and dagger were
also part of his training.

Then, in addition to this more regular part of his physical training,
Myles was taught in another branch not so often included in the military
education of the day—the art of wrestling. It happened that a fellow
lived in Crosbey village, by name Ralph-the-Smith, who was the greatest
wrestler in the country-side, and had worn the champion belt for three
years. Every Sunday afternoon, in fair weather, he came to teach Myles the
art, and being wonderfully adept in bodily feats, he soon grew so quick
and active and firm-footed that he could cast any lad under twenty years
of age living within a range of five miles.

“It is main ungentle armscraft that he learneth,” said Lord Falworth one
day to Prior Edward. “Saving only the broadsword, the dagger, and the
lance, there is but little that a gentleman of his strain may use.
Neth’less, he gaineth quickness and suppleness, and if he hath true blood
in his veins he will acquire knightly arts shrewdly quick when the time
cometh to learn them.”

But hard and grinding as Myles’s life was, it was not entirely without
pleasures. There were many boys living in Crosbey-Dale and the village;
yeomen’s and farmers’ sons, to be sure, but, nevertheless, lads of his own
age, and that, after all, is the main requirement for friendship in
boyhood’s world. Then there was the river to bathe in; there were the
hills and valleys to roam over, and the wold and woodland, with their
wealth of nuts and birds’-nests and what not of boyhood’s treasures.

Once he gained a triumph that for many a day was very sweet under the
tongue of his memory. As was said before, he had been three times to the
market-town at fair-time, and upon the last of these occasions he had
fought a bout of quarterstaff with a young fellow of twenty, and had been
the conqueror. He was then only a little over fourteen years old.

Old Diccon, who had gone with him to the fair, had met some cronies of his
own, with whom he had sat gossiping in the ale-booth, leaving Myles for
the nonce to shift for himself. By-and-by the old man had noticed a crowd
gathered at one part of the fair-ground, and, snuffing a fight, had gone
running, ale-pot in hand. Then, peering over the shoulders of the crowd,
he had seen his young master, stripped to the waist, fighting like a
gladiator with a fellow a head taller than himself. Diccon was about to
force his way through the crowd and drag them asunder, but a second look
had showed his practised eye that Myles was not only holding his own, but
was in the way of winning the victory. So he had stood with the others
looking on, withholding himself from any interference and whatever
upbraiding might be necessary until the fight had been brought to a
triumphant close. Lord Falworth never heard directly of the redoubtable
affair, but old Diccon was not so silent with the common folk of
Crosbey-Dale, and so no doubt the father had some inkling of what had
happened. It was shortly after this notable event that Myles was formally
initiated into squirehood. His father and mother, as was the custom, stood
sponsors for him. By them, each bearing a lighted taper, he was escorted
to the altar. It was at St. Mary’s Priory, and Prior Edward blessed the
sword and girded it to the lad’s side. No one was present but the four,
and when the good Prior had given the benediction and had signed the cross
upon his forehead, Myles’s mother stooped and kissed his brow just where
the priest’s finger had drawn the holy sign. Her eyes brimmed bright with
tears as she did so. Poor lady! perhaps she only then and for the first
time realized how big her fledgling was growing for his nest. Henceforth
Myles had the right to wear a sword.

Myles had ended his fifteenth year. He was a bonny lad, with brown face,
curling hair, a square, strong chin, and a pair of merry laughing blue
eyes; his shoulders were broad; his chest was thick of girth; his muscles
and thews were as tough as oak.

The day upon which he was sixteen years old, as he came whistling home
from the monastery school he was met by Diccon Bowman.

“Master Myles,” said the old man, with a snuffle in his voice—“Master
Myles, thy father would see thee in his chamber, and bade me send thee to
him as soon as thou didst come home. Oh, Master Myles, I fear me that
belike thou art going to leave home to-morrow day.”

Myles stopped short. “To leave home!” he cried.

“Aye,” said old Diccon, “belike thou goest to some grand castle to live
there, and be a page there and what not, and then, haply, a
gentleman-at-arms in some great lord’s pay.”

“What coil is this about castles and lords and gentlemen-at-arms?” said
Myles. “What talkest thou of, Diccon? Art thou jesting?”

“Nay,” said Diccon, “I am not jesting. But go to thy father, and then thou
wilt presently know all. Only this I do say, that it is like thou leavest
us to-morrow day.”

And so it was as Diccon had said; Myles was to leave home the very next
morning. He found his father and mother and Prior Edward together, waiting
for his coming.

“We three have been talking it over this morning,” said his father, “and
so think each one that the time hath come for thee to quit this poor home
of ours. An thou stay here ten years longer, thou’lt be no more fit to go
then than now. To-morrow I will give thee a letter to my kinsman, the Earl
of Mackworth. He has thriven in these days and I have fallen away, but
time was that he and I were true sworn companions, and plighted together
in friendship never to be sundered. Methinks, as I remember him, he will
abide by his plighted troth, and will give thee his aid to rise in the
world. So, as I said, to-morrow morning thou shalt set forth with Diccon
Bowman, and shall go to Castle Devlen, and there deliver this letter which
prayeth him to give thee a place in his household. Thou mayst have this
afternoon to thyself to make read such things as thou shalt take with
thee. And bid me Diccon to take the gray horse to the village and have it
shod.”

Prior Edward had been standing looking out of the window. As Lord Falworth
ended he turned.

“And, Myles,” said he, “thou wilt need some money, so I will give thee as
a loan forty shillings, which some day thou mayst return to me an thou
wilt. For this know, Myles, a man cannot do in the world without money.
Thy father hath it ready for thee in the chest, and will give it thee
to-morrow ere thou goest.”

Lord Falworth had the grim strength of manhood’s hard sense to upbear him
in sending his son into the world, but the poor lady mother had nothing of
that to uphold her. No doubt it was as hard then as it is now for the
mother to see the nestling thrust from the nest to shift for itself. What
tears were shed, what words of love were spoken to the only man-child,
none but the mother and the son ever knew.

The next morning Myles and the old bowman rode away, and no doubt to the
boy himself the dark shadows of leave-taking were lost in the golden light
of hope as he rode out into the great world to seek his fortune.


CHAPTER 3

WHAT MYLES remembered of Falworth loomed great and grand and big, as
things do in the memory of childhood, but even memory could not make
Falworth the equal of Devlen Castle, when, as he and Diccon Bowman rode
out of Devlentown across the great, rude stone bridge that spanned the
river, he first saw, rising above the crowns of the trees, those huge
hoary walls, and the steep roofs and chimneys clustered thickly together,
like the roofs and chimneys of a town.

The castle was built upon a plateau-like rise of ground, which was
enclosed by the outer wall. It was surrounded on three sides by a
loop-like bend of the river, and on the fourth was protected by a deep,
broad, artificial moat, almost as wide as the stream from which it was
fed. The road from the town wound for a little distance along by the edge
of this moat. As Myles and the old bowman galloped by, with the answering
echo of their horses’ hoof-beats rattling back from the smooth stone face
of the walls, the lad looked up, wondering at the height and strength of
the great ancient fortress. In his air-castle building Myles had pictured
the Earl receiving him as the son of his one-time comrade in arms—receiving
him, perhaps, with somewhat of the rustic warmth that he knew at
Crosbey-Dale; but now, as he stared at those massive walls from below, and
realized his own insignificance and the greatness of this great Earl, he
felt the first keen, helpless ache of homesickness shoot through his
breast, and his heart yearned for Crosbey-Holt again.

Then they thundered across the bridge that spanned the moat, and through
the dark shadows of the great gaping gate-way, and Diccon, bidding him
stay for a moment, rode forward to bespeak the gate-keeper.

The gate-keeper gave the two in charge of one of the men-at-arms who were
lounging upon a bench in the archway, who in turn gave them into the care
of one of the house-servants in the outer court-yard. So, having been
passed from one to another, and having answered many questions, Myles in
due time found himself in the outer waiting-room sitting beside Diccon
Bowman upon a wooden bench that stood along the wall under the great arch
of a glazed window.

For a while the poor country lad sat stupidly bewildered. He was aware of
people coming and going; he was aware of talk and laughter sounding around
him; but he thought of nothing but his aching homesickness and the
oppression of his utter littleness in the busy life of this great castle.

Meantime old Diccon Bowman was staring about him with huge interest, every
now and then nudging his young master, calling his attention now to this
and now to that, until at last the lad began to awaken somewhat from his
despondency to the things around. Besides those servants and others who
came and went, and a knot of six or eight men-at-arms with bills and
pole-axes, who stood at the farther door-way talking together in low
tones, now and then broken by a stifled laugh, was a group of four young
squires, who lounged upon a bench beside a door-way hidden by an arras,
and upon them Myles’s eyes lit with a sudden interest. Three of the four
were about his own age, one was a year or two older, and all four were
dressed in the black-and-yellow uniform of the house of Beaumont.

Myles plucked the bowman by the sleeve. “Be they squires, Diccon?” said
he, nodding towards the door.

“Eh?” said Diccon. “Aye; they be squires.”

“And will my station be with them?” asked the boy.

“Aye; an the Earl take thee to service, thou’lt haply be taken as squire.”

Myles stared at them, and then of a sudden was aware that the young men
were talking of him. He knew it by the way they eyed him askance, and
spoke now and then in one another’s ears. One of the four, a gay young
fellow, with long riding-boots laced with green laces, said a few words,
the others gave a laugh, and poor Myles, knowing how ungainly he must seem
to them, felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and shyly turned his head.

Suddenly, as though stirred by an impulse, the same lad who had just
created the laugh arose from the bench, and came directly across the room
to where Myles and the bowman sat.

“Give thee good-den,” said he. “What be’st thy name and whence comest
thou, an I may make bold so to ask?”

“My name is Myles Falworth,” said Myles; “and I come from Crosbey-Dale
bearing a letter to my Lord.”

“Never did I hear of Crosbey-Dale,” said the squire. “But what seekest
here, if so be I may ask that much?”

“I come seeking service,” said Myles, “and would enter as an esquire such
as ye be in my Lord’s household.”

Myles’s new acquaintance grinned. “Thou’lt make a droll squire to wait in
a Lord’s household,” said he. “Hast ever been in such service?”

“Nay,” said Myles, “I have only been at school, and learned Latin and
French and what not. But Diccon Bowman here hath taught me use of arms.”

The young squire laughed outright. “By’r Lady, thy talk doth tickle me,
friend Myles,” said he. “Think’st thou such matters will gain thee footing
here? But stay! Thou didst say anon that thou hadst a letter to my Lord.
From whom is it?”

“It is from my father,” said Myles. “He is of noble blood, but fallen in
estate. He is a kinsman of my Lord’s, and one time his comrade in arms.”

“Sayst so?” said the other. “Then mayhap thy chances are not so ill, after
all.” Then, after a moment, he added: “My name is Francis Gascoyne, and I
will stand thy friend in this matter. Get thy letter ready, for my Lord
and his Grace of York are within and come forth anon. The Archbishop is on
his way to Dalworth, and my Lord escorts him so far as Uppingham. I and
those others are to go along. Dost thou know my Lord by sight?”

“Nay,” said Myles, “I know him not.”

“Then I will tell thee when he cometh. Listen!” said he, as a confused
clattering sounded in the court-yard without. “Yonder are the horses now.
They come presently. Busk thee with thy letter, friend Myles.”

The attendants who passed through the anteroom now came and went more
hurriedly, and Myles knew that the Earl must be about to come forth. He
had hardly time to untie his pouch, take out the letter, and tie the
strings again when the arras at the door-way was thrust suddenly aside,
and a tall thin squire of about twenty came forth, said some words to the
young men upon the bench, and then withdrew again. Instantly the squires
arose and took their station beside the door-way. A sudden hush fell upon
all in the room, and the men-at-arms stood in a line against the wall,
stiff and erect as though all at once transformed to figures of iron. Once
more the arras was drawn back, and in the hush Myles heard voices in the
other room.

“My Lord cometh,” whispered Gascoyne in his ear, and Myles felt his heart
leap in answer.

The next moment two noblemen came into the anteroom followed by a crowd of
gentlemen, squires, and pages. One of the two was a dignitary of the
Church; the other Myles instantly singled out as the Earl of Mackworth.


CHAPTER 4

He was a tall man, taller even than Myles’s father. He had a thin face,
deep-set bushy eyebrows, and a hawk nose. His upper lip was clean shaven,
but from his chin a flowing beard of iron-gray hung nearly to his waist.
He was clad in a riding-gown of black velvet that hung a little lower than
the knee, trimmed with otter fur and embroidered with silver goshawks—the
crest of the family of Beaumont.

A light shirt of link mail showed beneath the gown as he walked, and a
pair of soft undressed leather riding-boots were laced as high as the
knee, protecting his scarlet hose from mud and dirt. Over his shoulders he
wore a collar of enamelled gold, from which hung a magnificent jewelled
pendant, and upon his fist he carried a beautiful Iceland falcon.

As Myles stood staring, he suddenly heard Gascoyne’s voice whisper in his
ear, “Yon is my Lord; go forward and give him thy letter.”

Scarcely knowing what he did, he walked towards the Earl like a machine,
his heart pounding within him and a great humming in his ears. As he drew
near, the nobleman stopped for a moment and stared at him, and Myles, as
in a dream, kneeled, and presented the letter. The Earl took it in his
hand, turned it this way and that, looked first at the bearer, then at the
packet, and then at the bearer again.

“Who art thou?” said he; “and what is the matter thou wouldst have of me?”

“I am Myles Falworth,” said the lad, in a low voice; “and I come seeking
service with you.”

The Earl drew his thick eyebrows quickly together, and shot a keen look at
the lad. “Falworth?” said he, sharply—“Falworth? I know no
Falworth!”

“The letter will tell you,” said Myles. “It is from one once dear to you.”

The Earl took the letter, and handing it to a gentleman who stood near,
bade him break the seal. “Thou mayst stand,” said he to Myles; “needst not
kneel there forever.” Then, taking the opened parchment again, he glanced
first at the face and then at the back, and, seeing its length, looked
vexed. Then he read for an earnest moment or two, skipping from line to
line. Presently he folded the letter and thrust it into the pouch at his
side. “So it is, your Grace,” said he to the lordly prelate, “that we who
have luck to rise in the world must ever suffer by being plagued at all
times and seasons. Here is one I chanced to know a dozen years ago, who
thinks he hath a claim upon me, and saddles me with his son. I must e’en
take the lad, too, for the sake of peace and quietness.” He glanced
around, and seeing Gascoyne, who had drawn near, beckoned to him. “Take me
this fellow,” said he, “to the buttery, and see him fed; and then to Sir
James Lee, and have his name entered in the castle books. And stay,
sirrah,” he added; “bid me Sir James, if it may be so done, to enter him
as a squire-at-arms. Methinks he will be better serving so than in the
household, for he appeareth a soothly rough cub for a page.”

Myles did look rustic enough, standing clad in frieze in the midst of that
gay company, and a murmur of laughter sounded around, though he was too
bewildered to fully understand that he was the cause of the merriment.
Then some hand drew him back—it was Gascoyne’s—there was a
bustle of people passing, and the next minute they were gone, and Myles
and old Diccon Bowman and the young squire were left alone in the
anteroom.

Gascoyne looked very sour and put out. “Murrain upon it!” said he; “here
is good sport spoiled for me to see thee fed. I wish no ill to thee,
friend, but I would thou hadst come this afternoon or to-morrow.”

“Methinks I bring trouble and dole to every one,” said Myles, somewhat
bitterly. “It would have been better had I never come to this place,
methinks.”

His words and tone softened Gascoyne a little. “Ne’er mind,” said the
squire; “it was not thy fault, and is past mending now. So come and fill
thy stomach, in Heaven’s name.”

Perhaps not the least hard part of the whole trying day for Myles was his
parting with Diccon. Gascoyne and he had accompanied the old retainer to
the outer gate, in the archway of which they now stood; for without a
permit they could go no farther. The old bowman led by the bridle-rein the
horse upon which Myles had ridden that morning. His own nag, a vicious
brute, was restive to be gone, but Diccon held him in with tight rein. He
reached down, and took Myles’s sturdy brown hand in his crooked, knotted
grasp.

“Farewell, young master,” he croaked, tremulously, with a watery glimmer
in his pale eyes. “Thou wilt not forget me when I am gone?”

“Nay,” said Myles; “I will not forget thee.”

“Aye, aye,” said the old man, looking down at him, and shaking his head
slowly from side to side; “thou art a great tall sturdy fellow now, yet
have I held thee on my knee many and many’s the time, and dandled thee
when thou wert only a little weeny babe. Be still, thou devil’s limb!” he
suddenly broke off, reining back his restive raw-boned steed, which began
again to caper and prance. Myles was not sorry for the interruption; he
felt awkward and abashed at the parting, and at the old man’s
reminiscences, knowing that Gascoyne’s eyes were resting amusedly upon the
scene, and that the men-at-arms were looking on. Certainly old Diccon did
look droll as he struggled vainly with his vicious high-necked nag. “Nay,
a murrain on thee! an’ thou wilt go, go!” cried he at last, with a savage
dig of his heels into the animal’s ribs, and away they clattered, the
led-horse kicking up its heels as a final parting, setting Gascoyne fairly
alaughing. At the bend of the road the old man turned and nodded his head;
the next moment he had disappeared around the angle of the wall, and it
seemed to Myles, as he stood looking after him, as though the last thread
that bound him to his old life had snapped and broken. As he turned he saw
that Gascoyne was looking at him.

“Dost feel downhearted?” said the young squire, curiously.

“Nay,” said Myles, brusquely. Nevertheless his throat was tight and dry,
and the word came huskily in spite of himself.


CHAPTER 5

THE EARL of Mackworth, as was customary among the great lords in those
days, maintained a small army of knights, gentlemen, men-at-arms, and
retainers, who were expected to serve him upon all occasions of need, and
from whom were supplied his quota of recruits to fill such levies as might
be made upon him by the King in time of war.

The knights and gentlemen of this little army of horse and foot soldiers
were largely recruited from the company of squires and bachelors, as the
young novitiate soldiers of the castle were called.

This company of esquires consisted of from eighty to ninety lads, ranging
in age from eight to twenty years. Those under fourteen years were termed
pages, and served chiefly the Countess and her waiting gentlewomen, in
whose company they acquired the graces and polish of the times, such as
they were. After reaching the age of fourteen the lads were entitled to
the name of esquire or squire.

In most of the great houses of the time the esquires were the especial
attendants upon the Lord and Lady of the house, holding such positions as
body-squires, cup-bearers, carvers, and sometimes the office of
chamberlain. But Devlen, like some other of the princely castles of the
greatest nobles, was more like a military post or a fortress than an
ordinary household. Only comparatively few of the esquires could be used
in personal attendance upon the Earl; the others were trained more
strictly in arms, and served rather in the capacity of a sort of
body-guard than as ordinary squires. For, as the Earl rose in power and
influence, and as it so became well worth while for the lower nobility and
gentry to enter their sons in his family, the body of squires became
almost cumbersomely large. Accordingly, that part which comprised the
squires proper, as separate from the younger pages, was divided into three
classes—first, squires of the body, who were those just past
pagehood, and who waited upon the Earl in personal service; second,
squires of the household, who, having regular hours assigned for exercise
in the manual of arms, were relieved from personal service excepting upon
especial occasions; and thirdly and lastly, at the head of the whole body
of lads, a class called bachelors—young men ranging from eighteen to
twenty years of age. This class was supposed to exercise a sort of
government over the other and younger squires—to keep them in order
as much as possible, to marshal them upon occasions of importance, to see
that their arms and equipments were kept in good order, to call the roll
for chapel in the morning, and to see that those not upon duty in the
house were present at the daily exercise at arms. Orders to the squires
were generally transmitted through the bachelors, and the head of that
body was expected to make weekly reports of affairs in their quarters to
the chief captain of the body.

From this overlordship of the bachelors there had gradually risen a system
of fagging, such as is or was practised in the great English public
schools—enforced services exacted from the younger lads—which
at the time Myles came to Devlen had, in the five or six years it had been
in practice, grown to be an absolute though unwritten law of the body—a
law supported by all the prestige of long-continued usage. At that time
the bachelors numbered but thirteen, yet they exercised over the rest of
the sixty-four squires and pages a rule of iron, and were taskmasters,
hard, exacting, and oftentimes cruel.

The whole company of squires and pages was under the supreme command of a
certain one-eyed knight, by name Sir James Lee; a soldier seasoned by the
fire of a dozen battles, bearing a score of wounds won in fight and
tourney, and withered by hardship and labor to a leather-like toughness.
He had fought upon the King’s side in all the late wars, and had at
Shrewsbury received a wound that unfitted him for active service, so that
now he was fallen to the post of Captain of Esquires at Devlen Castle—a
man disappointed in life, and with a temper imbittered by that failure as
well as by cankering pain.

Yet Perhaps no one could have been better fitted for the place he held
than Sir James Lee. The lads under his charge were a rude, rough, unruly
set, quick, like their elders, to quarrel, and to quarrel fiercely, even
to the drawing of sword or dagger. But there was a cold, iron sternness
about the grim old man that quelled them, as the trainer with a lash of
steel might quell a den of young wolves. The apartments in which he was
lodged, with his clerk, were next in the dormitory of the lads, and even
in the midst of the most excited brawlings the distant sound of his harsh
voice, “Silence, messieurs!” would bring an instant hush to the loudest
uproar.

It was into his grim presence that Myles was introduced by Gascoyne. Sir
James was in his office, a room bare of ornament or adornment or
superfluous comfort of any sort—without even so much as a mat of
rushes upon the cold stone pavement to make it less cheerless. The old
one-eyed knight sat gnawing his bristling mustaches. To anyone who knew
him it would have been apparent that, as the castle phrase went, “the
devil sat astride of his neck,” which meant that some one of his blind
wounds was aching more sorely than usual.

His clerk sat beside him, with account-books and parchment spread upon the
table, and the head squire, Walter Blunt, a lad some three or four years
older than Myles, and half a head taller, black-browed, powerfully built,
and with cheek and chin darkened by the soft budding of his adolescent
beard, stood making his report.

Sir James listened in grim silence while Gascoyne told his errand.

“So, then, pardee, I am bid to take another one of ye, am I?” he snarled.
“As though ye caused me not trouble enow; and this one a cub, looking a
very boor in carriage and breeding. Mayhap the Earl thinketh I am to train
boys to his dilly-dally household service as well as to use of arms.”

“Sir,” said Gascoyne, timidly, “my Lord sayeth he would have this one
entered direct as a squire of the body, so that he need not serve in the
household.”

“Sayest so?” cried Sir James, harshly. “Then take thou my message back
again to thy Lord. Not for Mackworth—no, nor a better man than he—will
I make any changes in my government. An I be set to rule a pack of boys, I
will rule them as I list, and not according to any man’s bidding. Tell
him, sirrah, that I will enter no lad as squire of the body without first
testing an he be fit at arms to hold that place.” He sat for a while
glowering at Myles and gnawing his mustaches, and for the time no one
dared to break the grim silence. “What is thy name?” said he, suddenly.
And then, almost before Myles could answer, he asked the head squire
whether he could find a place to lodge him.

“There is Gillis Whitlock’s cot empty,” said Blunt. “He is in the
infirmary, and belike goeth home again when he cometh thence. The fever
hath gotten into his bones, and—”

“That will do,” said the knight, interrupting him impatiently. “Let him
take that place, or any other that thou hast. And thou, Jerome,” said he
to his clerk, “thou mayst enter him upon the roll, though whether it be as
page or squire or bachelor shall be as I please, and not as Mackworth
biddeth me. Now get ye gone.”

“Old Bruin’s wound smarteth him sore,” Gascoyne observed, as the two lads
walked across the armory court. He had good-naturedly offered to show the
new-comer the many sights of interest around the castle, and in the hour
or so of ramble that followed, the two grew from acquaintances to friends
with a quickness that boyhood alone can bring about. They visited the
armory, the chapel, the stables, the great hall, the Painted Chamber, the
guard-house, the mess-room, and even the scullery and the kitchen, with
its great range of boilers and furnaces and ovens. Last of all Myles’s new
friend introduced him to the armor-smithy.

“My Lord hath sent a piece of Milan armor thither to be repaired,” said
he. “Belike thou would like to see it.”

“Aye,” said Myles, eagerly, “that would I.”

The smith was a gruff, good-natured fellow, and showed the piece of armor
to Myles readily and willingly enough. It was a beautiful bascinet of
inlaid workmanship, and was edged with a rim of gold. Myles scarcely dared
touch it; he gazed at it with an unconcealed delight that warmed the
smith’s honest heart.

“I have another piece of Milan here,” said he. “Did I ever show thee my
dagger, Master Gascoyne?”

“Nay,” said the squire.

The smith unlocked a great oaken chest in the corner of the shop, lifted
the lid, and brought thence a beautiful dagger with the handle of ebony
and silver-gilt, and a sheath of Spanish leather, embossed and gilt. The
keen, well-tempered blade was beautifully engraved and inlaid with
niello-work, representing a group of figures in a then popular subject—the
dance of Death. It was a weapon at once unique and beautiful, and even
Gascoyne showed an admiration scarcely less keen than Myles’s
openly-expressed delight.

“To whom doth it belong?” said he, trying the point upon his thumb nail.

“There,” said the smith, “is the jest of the whole, for it belongeth to
me. Sir William Beauclerk bade me order the weapon through Master
Gildersworthy, of London town, and by the time it came hither, lo! he had
died, and so it fell to my hands. No one here payeth the price for the
trinket, and so I must e’en keep it myself, though I be but a poor man.”

“How much dost thou hold it for?” said Gascoyne.

“Seventeen shillings buyeth it,” said the armorer, carelessly.

“Aye, aye,” said Gascoyne, with a sigh; “so it is to be poor, and not be
able to have such things as one loveth and would fain possess. Seventeen
shillings is nigh as much by half again as all my yearly wage.”

Then a sudden thought came to Myles, and as it came his cheeks glowed as
hot as fire “Master Gascoyne,” said he, with gruff awkwardness, “thou hast
been a very good, true friend to me since I have come to this place, and
hast befriended me in all ways thou mightest do, and I, as well I know,
but a poor rustic clod. Now I have forty shillings by me which I may spend
as I list, and so I do beseech thee that thou wilt take yon dagger of me
as a love-gift, and have and hold it for thy very own.”

Gascoyne stared open-mouthed at Myles. “Dost mean it?” said he, at last.

“Aye,” said Myles, “I do mean it. Master Smith, give him the blade.”

At first the smith grinned, thinking it all a jest; but he soon saw that
Myles was serious enough, and when the seventeen shillings were produced
and counted down upon the anvil, he took off his cap and made Myles a low
bow as he swept them into his pouch. “Now, by my faith and troth,” quoth
he, “that I do call a true lordly gift. Is it not so, Master Gascoyne?”

“Aye,” said Gascoyne, with a gulp, “it is, in soothly earnest.” And
thereupon, to Myles’s great wonderment, he suddenly flung his arms about
his neck, and, giving him a great hug, kissed him upon the cheek. “Dear
Myles,” said he, “I tell thee truly and of a verity I did feel warm
towards thee from the very first time I saw thee sitting like a poor oaf
upon the bench up yonder in the anteroom, and now of a sooth I give thee
assurance that I do love thee as my own brother. Yea, I will take the
dagger, and will stand by thee as a true friend from this time forth.
Mayhap thou mayst need a true friend in this place ere thou livest long
with us, for some of us esquires be soothly rough, and knocks are more
plenty here than broad pennies, so that one new come is like to have a
hard time gaining a footing.”

“I thank thee,” said Myles, “for thy offer of love and friendship, and do
tell thee, upon my part, that I also of all the world would like best to
have thee for my friend.”

Such was the manner In which Myles formed the first great friendship of
his life, a friendship that was destined to last him through many years to
come. As the two walked back across the great quadrangle, upon which
fronted the main buildings of the castle, their arms were wound across one
another’s shoulders, after the manner, as a certain great writer says, of
boys and lovers.


CHAPTER 6

A boy’s life is of a very flexible sort. It takes but a little while for
it to shape itself to any new surroundings in which it may be thrown, to
make itself new friends, to settle itself to new habits; and so it was
that Myles fell directly into the ways of the lads of Devlen. On his first
morning, as he washed his face and hands with the other squires and pages
in a great tank of water in the armory court-yard, he presently found
himself splashing and dashing with the others, laughing and shouting as
loud as any, and calling some by their Christian names as though he had
known them for years instead of overnight. During chapel he watched with
sympathetic delight the covert pranks of the youngsters during the
half-hour that Father Emmanuel droned his Latin, and with his dagger point
he carved his own name among the many cut deep into the back of the bench
before him. When, after breakfast, the squires poured like school-boys
into the great armory to answer to the roll-call for daily exercise, he
came storming in with the rest, beating the lad in front of him with his
cap.

Boys are very keen to feel the influence of a forceful character. A lad
with a strong will is quick to reach his proper level as a greater or
lesser leader among the others, and Myles was of just the masterful nature
to make his individuality felt among the Devlen squires. He was quick
enough to yield obedience upon all occasions to proper authority, but
would never bend an inch to the usurpation of tyranny. In the school at
St. Mary’s Priory at Crosbey-Dale he would submit without a murmur or
offer of resistance to chastisement by old Father Ambrose, the regular
teacher; but once, when the fat old monk was sick, and a great long-legged
strapping young friar, who had temporarily taken his place, undertook to
administer punishment, Myles, with a wrestling trip, flung him sprawling
backward over a bench into the midst of a shoal of small boys amid a
hubbub of riotous confusion. He had been flogged soundly for it under the
supervision of Prior Edward himself; but so soon as his punishment was
over, he assured the prior very seriously that should like occasion again
happen he would act in the same manner, flogging or no flogging.

It was this bold, outspoken spirit that gained him at once friends and
enemies at Devlen, and though it first showed itself in what was but a
little matter, nevertheless it set a mark upon him that singled him out
from the rest, and, although he did not suspect it at the time, called to
him the attention of Sir James Lee himself, who regarded him as a lad of
free and frank spirit.

The first morning after the roll-call in the armory, as Walter Blunt, the
head bachelor, rolled up the slip of parchment, and the temporary silence
burst forth into redoubled noise and confusion, each lad arming himself
from a row of racks that stood along the wall, he beckoned Myles to him.

“My Lord himself hath spoken to Sir James Lee concerning thee,” said he.
“Sir James maintaineth that he will not enter thee into the body till thou
hast first practised for a while at the pels, and shown what thou canst do
at broadsword. Hast ever fought at the pel?”

“Aye,” answered Myles, “and that every day of my life sin I became esquire
four years ago, saving only Sundays and holy days.”

“With shield and broadsword?”

“Sometimes,” said Myles, “and sometimes with the short sword.”

“Sir James would have thee come to the tilt-yard this morn; he himself
will take thee in hand to try what thou canst do. Thou mayst take the arms
upon yonder rack, and use them until otherwise bidden. Thou seest that the
number painted above it on the wall is seventeen; that will be thy number
for the nonce.”

So Myles armed himself from his rack as the others were doing from theirs.
The armor was rude and heavy, used to accustom the body to the weight of
the iron plates rather than for any defence. It consisted of a cuirass, or
breastplate of iron, opening at the side with hinges, and catching with
hooks and eyes; epauliers, or shoulder-plates; arm-plates and leg-pieces;
and a bascinet, or open-faced helmet. A great triangular shield covered
with leather and studded with bosses of iron, and a heavy broadsword,
pointed and dulled at the edges, completed the equipment.

The practice at the pels which Myles was bidden to attend comprised the
chief exercise of the day with the esquires of young cadet soldiers of
that time, and in it they learned not only all the strokes, cuts, and
thrusts of sword-play then in vogue, but also toughness, endurance, and
elastic quickness. The pels themselves consisted of upright posts of ash
or oak, about five feet six inches in height, and in girth somewhat
thicker than a man’s thigh. They were firmly planted in the ground, and
upon them the strokes of the broadsword were directed.

At Devlen the pels stood just back of the open and covered tilting courts
and the archery ranges, and thither those lads not upon household duty
were marched every morning excepting Fridays and Sundays, and were there
exercised under the direction of Sir James Lee and two assistants. The
whole company was divided into two, sometimes into three parties, each of
which took its turn at the exercise, delivering at the word of command the
various strokes, feints, attacks, and retreats as the instructors ordered.

After five minutes of this mock battle the perspiration began to pour down
the faces, and the breath to come thick and short; but it was not until
the lads could absolutely endure no more that the order was given to rest,
and they were allowed to fling themselves panting upon the ground, while
another company took its place at the triple row of posts.

As Myles struck and hacked at the pel assigned to him, Sir James Lee stood
beside him watching him in grim silence. The lad did his best to show the
knight all that he knew of upper cut, under cut, thrust, and back-hand
stroke, but it did not seem to him that Sir James was very well satisfied
with his skill.

“Thou fightest like a clodpole,” said the old man. “Ha, that stroke was
but ill-recovered. Strike me it again, and get thou in guard more
quickly.”

Myles repeated the stroke.

“Pest!” cried Sir James. “Thou art too slow by a week. Here, strike thou
the blow at me.”

Myles hesitated. Sir James held a stout staff in his hand, but otherwise
he was unarmed.

“Strike, I say!” said Sir James. “What stayest thou for? Art afeard?”

It was Myles’s answer that set the seal of individuality upon him. “Nay,”
said he, boldly, “I am not afeard. I fear not thee nor any man!” So
saying, he delivered the stroke at Sir James with might and main. It was
met with a jarring blow that made his wrist and arm tingle, and the next
instant he received a stroke upon the bascinet that caused his ears to
ring and the sparks to dance and fly before his eyes.

“Pardee!” said Sir James, grimly. “An I had had a mace in my hand, I would
have knocked thy cockerel brains out that time. Thou mayst take that blow
for answering me so pertly. And now we are quits. Now strike me the stroke
again an thou art not afeard.”

Myles’s eyes watered in spite of himself, and he shut the lids tight to
wink the dimness away. Nevertheless he spoke up undauntedly as before.
“Aye, marry, will I strike it again,” said he; and this time he was able
to recover guard quickly enough to turn Sir James’s blow with his shield,
instead of receiving it upon his head.

“So!” said Sir James. “Now mind thee of this, that when thou strikest that
lower cut at the legs, recover thyself more quickly. Now, then, strike me
it at the pel.”

Gascoyne and other of the lads who were just then lying stretched out upon
the grass beneath, a tree at the edge of the open court where stood the
pels, were interested spectators of the whole scene. Not one of them in
their memory had heard Sir James so answered face to face as Myles had
answered him, and, after all, perhaps the lad himself would not have done
so had he been longer a resident in the squires’ quarters at Devlen.

“By ‘r Lady! thou art a cool blade, Myles,” said Gascoyne, as they marched
back to the armory again. “Never heard I one bespeak Sir James as thou
hast done this day.”

“And, after all,” said another of the young squires, “old Bruin was not so
ill-pleased, methinks. That was a shrewd blow he fetched thee on the
crown, Falworth. Marry, I would not have had it on my own skull for a
silver penny.”


CHAPTER 7

So little does it take to make a body’s reputation.

That night all the squires’ quarters buzzed with the story of how the new
boy, Falworth, had answered Sir James Lee to his face without fear, and
had exchanged blows with him hand to hand. Walter Blunt himself was moved
to some show of interest.

“What said he to thee, Falworth?” asked he.

“He said naught,” said Myles, brusquely. “He only sought to show me how to
recover from the under cut.”

“It is passing strange that he should take so much notice of thee as to
exchange blows with thee with his own hand. Haply thou art either very
quick or parlous slow at arms.”

“It is quick that he is,” said Gascoyne, speaking up in his friend’s
behalf. “For the second time that Falworth delivered the stroke, Sir James
could not reach him to return; so I saw with mine own eyes.”

But that very sterling independence that had brought Myles so creditably
through this adventure was certain to embroil him with the rude,
half-savage lads about him, some of whom, especially among the bachelors,
were his superiors as well in age as in skill and training. As said
before, the bachelors had enforced from the younger boys a fagging sort of
attendance on their various personal needs, and it was upon this point
that Myles first came to grief. As it chanced, several days passed before
any demand was made upon him for service to the heads of the squirehood,
but when that demand was made, the bachelors were very quick to see that
the boy who was bold enough to speak up to Sir James Lee was not likely to
be a willing fag for them.

“I tell thee, Francis,” he said, as Gascoyne and he talked over the matter
one day—“I tell thee I will never serve them. Prithee, what shame
can be fouler than to do such menial service, saving for one’s rightful
Lord?”

“Marry!” quoth Gascoyne; “I reason not of shame at this or that. All I
know is that others serve them who are haply as good and maybe better than
I be, and that if I do not serve them I get knocked i’ th’ head therefore,
which same goeth soothly against my stomach.”

“I judge not for thee,” said Myles. “Thou art used to these castle ways,
but only I know that I will not serve them, though they be thirty against
me instead of thirteen.”

“Then thou art a fool,” said Gascoyne, dryly.

Now in this matter of service there was one thing above all others that
stirred Myles Falworth’s ill-liking. The winter before he had come to
Devlen, Walter Blunt, who was somewhat of a Sybarite in his way, and who
had a repugnance to bathing in the general tank in the open armory court
in frosty weather, had had Dick Carpenter build a trough in the corner of
the dormitory for the use of the bachelors, and every morning it was the
duty of two of the younger squires to bring three pails of water to fill
this private tank for the use of the head esquires. It was seeing two of
his fellow-esquires fetching and carrying this water that Myles disliked
so heartily, and every morning his bile was stirred anew at the sight.

“Sooner would I die than yield to such vile service,” said he.

He did not know how soon his protestations would be put to the test.

One night—it was a week or two after Myles had come to Devlen—Blunt
was called to attend the Earl at livery. The livery was the last meal of
the day, and was served with great pomp and ceremony about nine o’clock at
night to the head of the house as he lay in bed. Curfew had not yet rung,
and the lads in the squires’ quarters were still wrestling and sparring
and romping boisterously in and out around the long row of rude cots in
the great dormitory as they made ready for the night. Six or eight flaring
links in wrought-iron brackets that stood out from the wall threw a great
ruddy glare through the barrack-like room—a light of all others to
romp by. Myles and Gascoyne were engaged in defending the passage-way
between their two cots against the attack of three other lads, and Myles
held his sheepskin coverlet rolled up into a ball and balanced in his
hand, ready for launching at the head of one of the others so soon as it
should rise from behind the shelter of a cot. Just then Walter Blunt,
dressed with more than usual care, passed by on his way to the Earl’s
house. He stopped for a moment and said, “Mayhaps I will not be in until
late to-night. Thou and Falworth, Gascoyne, may fetch water to-morrow.”

Then he was gone. Myles stood staring after his retreating figure with
eyes open and mouth agape, still holding the ball of sheepskin balanced in
his hand. Gascoyne burst into a helpless laugh at his blank, stupefied
face, but the next moment he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Myles,” he said, “thou wilt not make trouble, wilt thou?”

Myles made no answer. He flung down his sheepskin and sat him gloomily
down upon the side of the cot.

“I said that I would sooner die than fetch water for them,” said he.

“Aye, aye,” said Gascoyne; “but that was spoken in haste.”

Myles said nothing, but shook his head.

But, after all, circumstances shape themselves. The next morning when he
rose up through the dark waters of sleep it was to feel some one shaking
him violently by the shoulder.

“Come!” cried Gascoyne, as Myles opened his eyes—“come, time
passeth, and we are late.”

Myles, bewildered with his sudden awakening, and still fuddled with the
fumes of sleep, huddled into his doublet and hose, hardly knowing what he
was doing; tying a point here and a point there, and slipping his feet
into his shoes. Then he hurried after Gascoyne, frowzy, half-dressed, and
even yet only half-awake. It was not until he was fairly out into the
fresh air and saw Gascoyne filling the three leathern buckets at the tank,
that he fully awakened to the fact that he was actually doing that hateful
service for the bachelors which he had protested he would sooner die than
render.

The sun was just rising, gilding the crown of the donjon-keep with a flame
of ruddy light. Below, among the lesser buildings, the day was still gray
and misty. Only an occasional noise broke the silence of the early
morning: a cough from one of the rooms; the rattle of a pot or a pan,
stirred by some sleepy scullion; the clapping of a door or a shutter, and
now and then the crowing of a cock back of the long row of stables—all
sounding loud and startling in the fresh dewy stillness.

“Thou hast betrayed me,” said Myles, harshly, breaking the silence at
last. “I knew not what I was doing, or else I would never have come
hither. Ne’theless, even though I be come, I will not carry the water for
them.”

“So be it,” said Gascoyne, tartly. “An thou canst not stomach it, let be,
and I will e’en carry all three myself. It will make me two journeys, but,
thank Heaven, I am not so proud as to wish to get me hard knocks for
naught.” So saying, he picked up two of the buckets and started away
across the court for the dormitory.

Then Myles, with a lowering face, snatched up the third, and, hurrying
after, gave him his hand with the extra pail. So it was that he came to do
service, after all.

“Why tarried ye so long?” said one of the older bachelors, roughly, as the
two lads emptied the water into the wooden trough. He sat on the edge of
the cot, blowzed and untrussed, with his long hair tumbled and disordered.

His dictatorial tone stung Myles to fury. “We tarried no longer than need
be,” answered he, savagely. “Have we wings to fly withal at your bidding?”

He spoke so loudly that all in the room heard him; the younger squires who
were dressing stared in blank amazement, and Blunt sat up suddenly in his
cot.

“Why, how now?” he cried. “Answerest thou back thy betters so pertly,
sirrah? By my soul, I have a mind to crack thy head with this clog for thy
unruly talk.”

He glared at Myles as he spoke, and Myles glared back again with right
good-will. Matters might have come to a crisis, only that Gascoyne and
Wilkes dragged their friend away before he had opportunity to answer.

“An ill-conditioned knave as ever I did see,” growled Blunt, glaring after
him.

“Myles, Myles,” said Gascoyne, almost despairingly, “why wilt thou breed
such mischief for thyself? Seest thou not thou hast got thee the ill-will
of every one of the bachelors, from Wat Blunt to Robin de Ramsey?”

“I care not,” said Myles, fiercely, recurring to his grievance. “Heard ye
not how the dogs upbraided me before the whole room? That Blunt called me
an ill-conditioned knave.”

“Marry!” said Gascoyne, laughing, “and so thou art.”

Thus it is that boldness may breed one enemies as well as gain one
friends. My own notion is that one’s enemies are more quick to act than
one’s friends.


CHAPTER 8

Every one knows the disagreeable, lurking discomfort that follows a
quarrel—a discomfort that imbitters the very taste of life for the
time being. Such was the dull distaste that Myles felt that morning after
what had passed in the dormitory. Every one in the proximity of such an
open quarrel feels a reflected constraint, and in Myles’s mind was a
disagreeable doubt whether that constraint meant disapproval of him or of
his late enemies.

It seemed to him that Gascoyne added the last bitter twang to his
unpleasant feelings when, half an hour later, they marched with the others
to chapel.

“Why dost thou breed such trouble for thyself, Myles?” said he, recurring
to what he had already said. “Is it not foolish for thee to come hither to
this place, and then not submit to the ways thereof, as the rest of us
do?”

“Thou talkest not like a true friend to chide me thus,” said Myles,
sullenly; and he withdrew his arm from his friend’s.

“Marry, come up!” said Gascoyne; “an I were not thy friend, I would let
thee jog thine own way. It aches not my bones to have thine drubbed.”

Just then they entered the chapel, and words that might have led to a
quarrel were brought to a close.

Myles was not slow to see that he had the ill will of the head of their
company. That morning in the armory he had occasion to ask some question
of Blunt; the head squire stared coldly at him for a moment, gave him a
short, gruff answer, and then, turning his back abruptly, began talking
with one of the other bachelors. Myles flushed hot at the other’s
insulting manner, and looked quickly around to see if any of the others
had observed what had passed. It was a comfort to him to see that all were
too busy arming themselves to think of anything else; nevertheless, his
face was very lowering as he turned away.

“Some day I will show him that I am as good a man as he,” he muttered to
himself. “An evil-hearted dog to put shame upon me!”

The storm was brewing and ready to break.

That day was exceptionally hot and close, and permission had been asked by
and granted to those squires not on duty to go down to the river for a
bath after exercise at the pels. But as Myles replaced his arms in the
rack, a little page came with a bidding to come to Sir James in his
office.

“Look now,” said Myles, “here is just my ill-fortune. Why might he not
have waited an hour longer rather than cause me to miss going with ye?”

“Nay,” said Gascoyne, “let not that grieve thee, Myles. Wilkes and I will
wait for thee in the dormitory—will we not, Edmund? Make thou haste
and go to Sir James.”

Sir James was sitting at the table studying over a scroll of parchment,
when Myles entered his office and stood before him at the table.

“Well, boy,” said he, laying aside the parchment and looking up at the
lad, “I have tried thee fairly for these few days, and may say that I have
found thee worthy to be entered upon the rolls as esquire of the body.”

“I give thee thanks, sir,” said Myles.

The knight nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not at once give
the word of dismissal that Myles had expected. “Dost mean to write thee a
letter home soon?” said he, suddenly.

“Aye,” said Myles, gaping in great wonderment at the strangeness of the
question.

“Then when thou dost so write,” said Sir James, “give thou my deep regards
to thy father.” Then he continued, after a brief pause. “Him did I know
well in times gone by, and we were right true friends in hearty love, and
for his sake I would befriend thee—that is, in so much as is
fitting.”

“Sir,” said Myles; but Sir James held up his hand, and he stopped short in
his thanks.

“But, boy,” said he, “that which I sent for thee for to tell thee was of
more import than these. Dost thou know that thy father is an attainted
outlaw?”

“Nay,” cried Myles, his cheeks blazing up as red as fire; “who sayeth that
of him lieth in his teeth.”

“Thou dost mistake me,” said Sir James, quietly. “It is sometimes no shame
to be outlawed and banned. Had it been so, I would not have told thee
thereof, nor have bidden thee send my true love to thy father, as I did
but now. But, boy, certes he standest continually in great danger—greater
than thou wottest of. Were it known where he lieth hid, it might be to his
undoing and utter ruin. Methought that belike thou mightest not know that;
and so I sent for thee for to tell thee that it behoovest thee to say not
one single word concerning him to any of these new friends of thine, nor
who he is, nor what he is.”

“But how came my father to be so banned?” said Myles, in a constrained and
husky voice, and after a long time of silence.

“That I may not tell thee just now,” said the old knight, “only this—that
I have been bidden to make it known to thee that thy father hath an enemy
full as powerful as my Lord the Earl himself, and that through that enemy
all his ill-fortune—his blindness and everything—hath come.
Moreover, did this enemy know where thy father lieth, he would slay him
right speedily.”

“Sir,” cried Myles, violently smiting his open palm upon the table, “tell
me who this man is, and I will kill him!”

Sir James smiled grimly. “Thou talkest like a boy,” said he. “Wait until
thou art grown to be a man. Mayhap then thou mayst repent thee of these
bold words, for one time this enemy of thy father’s was reckoned the
foremost knight in England, and he is now the King’s dear friend and a
great lord.”

“But,” said Myles, after another long time of heavy silence, “will not my
Lord then befriend me for the sake of my father, who was one time his dear
comrade?”

Sir James shook his head. “It may not be,” said he. “Neither thou nor thy
father must look for open favor from the Earl. An he befriended Falworth,
and it came to be known that he had given him aid or succor, it might
belike be to his own undoing. No, boy; thou must not even look to be taken
into the household to serve with gentlemen as the other squires do serve,
but must even live thine own life here and fight thine own way.”

Myles’s eyes blazed. “Then,” cried he, fiercely, “it is shame and attaint
upon my Lord the Earl, and cowardice as well, and never will I ask favor
of him who is so untrue a friend as to turn his back upon a comrade in
trouble as he turneth his back upon my father.”

“Thou art a foolish boy,” said Sir James with a bitter smile, “and knowest
naught of the world. An thou wouldst look for man to befriend man to his
own danger, thou must look elsewhere than on this earth. Was I not one
time Mackworth’s dear friend as well as thy father? It could cost him
naught to honor me, and here am I fallen to be a teacher of boys. Go to!
thou art a fool.”

Then, after a little pause of brooding silence, he went on to say that the
Earl was no better or worse than the rest of the world. That men of his
position had many jealous enemies, ever seeking their ruin, and that such
must look first of all each to himself, or else be certainly ruined, and
drag down others in that ruin. Myles was silenced, but the bitterness had
entered his heart, and abided with him for many a day afterwards.

Perhaps Sir James read his feelings in his frank face, for he sat looking
curiously at him, twirling his grizzled mustache the while. “Thou art like
to have hard knocks of it, lad, ere thou hast gotten thee safe through the
world,” said he, with more kindness in his harsh voice than was usual.
“But get thee not into fights before thy time.” Then he charged the boy
very seriously to live at peace with his fellow-squires, and for his
father’s sake as well as his own to enter into none of the broils that
were so frequent in their quarters.

It was with this special admonition against brawling that Myles was
dismissed, to enter, before five minutes had passed, into the first really
great fight of his life.

Besides Gascoyne and Wilkes, he found gathered in the dormitory six or
eight of the company of squires who were to serve that day upon household
duty; among others, Walter Blunt and three other bachelors, who were
changing their coarse service clothes for others more fit for the
household.

“Why didst thou tarry so long, Myles?” said Gascoyne, as he entered.
“Methought thou wert never coming.”

“Where goest thou, Falworth?” called Blunt from the other end of the room,
where he was lacing his doublet.

Just now Myles had no heart in the swimming or sport of any sort, but he
answered, shortly, “I go to the river to swim.”

“Nay,” said Blunt, “thou goest not forth from the castle to-day. Hast thou
forgot how thou didst answer me back about fetching the water this
morning? This day thou must do penance, so go thou straight to the armory
and scour thou up my breastplate.”

From the time he had arisen that morning everything had gone wrong with
Myles. He had felt himself already outrated in rendering service to the
bachelors, he had quarrelled with the head of the esquires, he had nearly
quarrelled with Gascoyne, and then had come the bitterest and worst of
all, the knowledge that his father was an outlaw, and that the Earl would
not stretch out a hand to aid him or to give him any countenance. Blunt’s
words brought the last bitter cut to his heart, and they stung him to
fury. For a while he could not answer, but stood glaring with a face
fairly convulsed with passion at the young man, who continued his toilet,
unconscious of the wrath of the new recruit.

Gascoyne and Wilkes, accepting Myles’s punishment as a thing of course,
were about to leave the dormitory when Myles checked them.

“Stop, Francis!” he cried, hoarsely. “Thinkest thou that I will stay
behind to do yon dog’s dirty work? No; I go with ye.”

A moment or two of dumb, silent amazement followed his bold words; then
Blunt cried, “Art thou mad?”

“Nay,” answered Myles in the same hoarse voice, “I am not mad. I tell thee
a better man than thou shouldst not stay me from going an I list to go.

“I will break thy cockerel head for that speech,” said Blunt, furiously.
He stooped as he spoke, and picked up a heavy clog that lay at his feet.

It was no insignificant weapon either. The shoes of those days were
sometimes made of cloth, and had long pointed toes stuffed with tow or
wool. In muddy weather thick heavy clogs or wooden soles were strapped,
like a skate, to the bottom of the foot. That clog which Blunt had seized
was perhaps eighteen or twenty inches long, two or two and a half inches
thick at the heel, tapering to a point at the toe. As the older lad
advanced, Gascoyne stepped between him and his victim.

“Do not harm him, Blunt,” he pleaded. “Bear thou in mind how new-come he
is among us. He knoweth not our ways as yet.”

“Stand thou back, Gascoyne,” said Blunt, harshly, as he thrust him aside.
“I will teach him our ways so that he will not soon forget them.”

Close to Myles’s feet was another clog like that one which Blunt held. He
snatched it up, and set his back against the wall, with a white face and a
heart beating heavily and tumultuously, but with courage steeled to meet
the coming encounter. There was a hard, grim look in his blue eyes that,
for a moment perhaps, quelled the elder lad. He hesitated. “Tom! Wat!
Ned!” he called to the other bachelors, “come hither, and lend me a hand
with this knave.”

“An ye come nigh me,” panted Myles, “I will brain the first within reach.”

Then Gascoyne dodged behind the others, and, without being seen, slipped
out of the room for help.

The battle that followed was quick, sharp, and short. As Blunt strode
forward, Myles struck, and struck with might and main, but he was too
excited to deliver his blow with calculation. Blunt parried it with the
clog he held, and the next instant, dropping his weapon, gripped Myles
tight about the body, pinning his arms to his sides.

Myles also dropped the clog he held, and, wrenching out his right arm with
a sudden heave, struck Blunt full in the face, and then with another blow
sent him staggering back. It all passed in an instant; the next the three
other bachelors were upon him, catching him by the body, the arms, the
legs. For a moment or two they swayed and stumbled hither and thither, and
then down they fell in a struggling heap.

Myles fought like a wild-cat, kicking, struggling, scratching; striking
with elbows and fists. He caught one of the three by his collar, and tore
his jacket open from the neck to the waist; he drove his foot into the pit
of the stomach of another, and knocked him breathless. The other lads not
in the fight stood upon the benches and the beds around, but such was the
awe inspired by the prestige of the bachelors that not one of them dared
to lend hand to help him, and so Myles fought his fierce battle alone.

But four to one were odds too great, and though Myles struggled as
fiercely as ever, by-and-by it was with less and less resistance.

Blunt had picked up the clog he had dropped when he first attacked the
lad, and now stood over the struggling heap, white with rage, the blood
running from his lip, cut and puffed where Myles had struck him, and
murder looking out from his face, if ever it looked out of the face of any
mortal being.

“Hold him a little,” said he, fiercely, “and I will still him for you.”

Even yet it was no easy matter for the others to do his bidding, but
presently he got his chance and struck a heavy, cruel blow at Myles’s
head. Myles only partly warded it with his arm. Hitherto he had fought in
silence, now he gave a harsh cry.

“Holy Saints!” cried Edmund Wilkes. “They will kill him.”

Blunt struck two more blows, both of them upon the body, and then at last
they had the poor boy down, with his face upon the ground and his arms
pinned to his sides, and Blunt, bracing himself for the stroke, with a
grin of rage raised a heavy clog for one terrible blow that should finish
the fight.


CHAPTER 9

“How now, messieurs?” said a harsh voice, that fell upon the turmoil like
a thunder-clap, and there stood Sir James Lee. Instantly the struggle
ceased, and the combatants scrambled to their feet.

The older lads stood silent before their chief, but Myles was deaf and
blind and mad with passion, he knew not where he stood or what he said or
did. White as death, he stood for a while glaring about him, catching his
breath convulsively. Then he screamed hoarsely.

“Who struck me? Who struck me when I was down? I will have his blood that
struck me!” He caught sight of Blunt. “It was he that struck me!” he
cried. “Thou foul traitor! thou coward!” and thereupon leaped at his enemy
like a wild-cat.

“Stop!” cried Sir James Lee, clutching him by the arm.

Myles was too blinded by his fury to see who it was that held him. “I will
not stop!” he cried, struggling and striking at the knight. “Let me go! I
will have his life that struck me when I was down!”

The next moment he found himself pinned close against the wall, and then,
as though his sight came back, he saw the grim face of the old one-eyed
knight looking into his.

“Dost thou know who I am?” said a stern, harsh voice.

Instantly Myles ceased struggling, and his arms fell at his side. “Aye,”
he said, in a gasping voice, “I know thee.” He swallowed spasmodically for
a moment or two, and then, in the sudden revulsion of feeling, burst out
sobbing convulsively.

Sir James marched the two off to his office, he himself walking between
them, holding an arm of each, the other lads following behind, awe-struck
and silent. Entering the office, Sir James shut the door behind him,
leaving the group of squires clustered outside about the stone steps,
speculating in whispers as to what would be the outcome of the matter.

After Sir James had seated himself, the two standing facing him, he
regarded them for a while in silence. “How now, Walter Blunt,” said he at
last, “what is to do?”

“Why, this,” said Blunt, wiping his bleeding lip. “That fellow, Myles
Falworth, hath been breeding mutiny and revolt ever sin he came hither
among us, and because he was thus mutinous I would punish him therefor.”

“In that thou liest!” burst out Myles. “Never have I been mutinous in my
life.”

“Be silent, sir,” said Sir James, sternly. “I will hear thee anon.”

“Nay,” said Myles, with his lips twitching and writhing, “I will not be
silent. I am friendless here, and ye are all against me, but I will not be
silent, and brook to have lies spoken of me.”

Even Blunt stood aghast at Myles’s boldness. Never had he heard any one so
speak to Sir James before. He did not dare for the moment even to look up.
Second after second of dead stillness passed, while Sir James sat looking
at Myles with a stern, terrifying calmness that chilled him in spite of
the heat of his passion.

“Sir,” said the old man at last, in a hard, quiet voice, “thou dost know
naught of rules and laws of such a place as this. Nevertheless, it is time
for thee to learn them. So I will tell thee now that if thou openest thy
lips to say only one single word more except at my bidding, I will send
thee to the black vault of the donjon to cool thy hot spirits on bread and
water for a week.” There was something in the measured quietness of the
old knight’s tone that quelled Myles utterly and entirely. A little space
of silence followed. “Now, then, Blunt,” said Sir James, turning to the
bachelor, “tell me all the ins and outs of this business without any more
underdealing.”

This time Blunt’s story, though naturally prejudiced in his own favor, was
fairly true. Then Myles told his side of the case, the old knight
listening attentively.

“Why, how now, Blunt,” said Sir James, when Myles had ended, “I myself
gave the lads leave to go to the river to bathe. Wherefore shouldst thou
forbid one of them?”

“I did it but to punish this fellow for his mutiny,” said the bachelor.
“Methought we at their head were to have oversight concerning them.”

“So ye are,” said the knight; “but only to a degree. Ere ye take it upon
ye to gainsay any of my orders or permits, come ye first to me. Dost thou
understand?”

“Aye,” answered Blunt, sullenly.

“So be it, and now get thee gone,” said the knight; “and let me hear no
more of beating out brains with wooden clogs. An ye fight your battles,
let there not be murder in them. This is twice that the like hath happed;
gin I hear more of such doings—” He did utter his threat, but
stopped short, and fixed his one eye sternly upon the head squire. “Now
shake hands, and be ye friends,” said he, abruptly.

Blunt made a motion to obey, but Myles put his hand behind him.

“Nay, I shake not hands with any one who struck me while I was down.”

“So be it,” said the knight, grimly. “Now thou mayst go, Blunt. Thou,
Falworth, stay; I would bespeak thee further.”

“Tell me,” said he, when the elder lad had left them, “why wilt thou not
serve these bachelors as the other squires do? Such is the custom here.
Why wilt thou not obey it?”

“Because,” said Myles, “I cannot stomach it, and they shall not make me
serve them. An thou bid me do it, sir, I will do it; but not at their
command.”

“Nay,” said the knight, “I do not bid thee do them service. That lieth
with thee, to render or not, as thou seest fit. But how canst thou hope to
fight single-handed against the commands of a dozen lads all older and
mightier than thou?”

“I know not,” said Myles; “but were they an hundred, instead of thirteen,
they should not make me serve them.”

“Thou art a fool!” said the old knight, smiling faintly, “for that be’st
not courage, but folly. When one setteth about righting a wrong, one
driveth not full head against it, for in so doing one getteth naught but
hard knocks. Nay, go deftly about it, and then, when the time is ripe,
strike the blow. Now our beloved King Henry, when he was the Earl of
Derby, what could he have gained had he stood so against the old King
Richard, brooking the King face to face? I tell thee he would have been
knocked on the head as thou wert like to have been this day. Now were I
thee, and had to fight a fight against odds, I would first get me friends
behind me, and then—” He stopped short, but Myles understood him
well enough.

“Sir,” said he, with a gulp, “I do thank thee for thy friendship, and ask
thy pardon for doing as I did anon.”

“I grant thee pardon,” said the knight, “but tell thee plainly, an thou
dost face me so again, I will truly send thee to the black cell for a
week. Now get thee away.”

All the other lads were gone when Myles came forth, save only the faithful
Gascoyne, who sacrificed his bath that day to stay with his friend; and
perhaps that little act of self-denial moved Myles more than many a great
thing might have done.

“It was right kind of thee, Francis,” said he, laying his hand
affectionately on his friend’s shoulder. “I know not why thou lovest me
so.”

“Why, for one thing, this matter,” answered his friend; “because methinks
thou art the best fighter and the bravest one of all of us squires.”

Myles laughed. Nevertheless Gascoyne’s words were a soothing balm for much
that had happened that day. “I will fight me no more just now,” said he;
and then he told his friend all that Sir James had advised about biding
his time.

Gascoyne blew a long whistle. “Beshrew me!” quoth he, “but methinks old
Bruin is on thy side of the quarrel, Myles. An that be so, I am with thee
also, and others that I can name as well.”

“So be it,” said Myles. “Then am I content to abide the time when we may
become strong enough to stand against them.”


CHAPTER 10

Perhaps there is nothing more delightful in the romance of boyhood than
the finding of some secret hiding-place whither a body may creep away from
the bustle of the world’s life, to nestle in quietness for an hour or two.
More especially is such delightful if it happen that, by peeping from out
it, one may look down upon the bustling matters of busy every-day life,
while one lies snugly hidden away unseen by any, as though one were in
some strange invisible world of one’s own.

Such a hiding-place as would have filled the heart of almost any boy with
sweet delight Myles and Gascoyne found one summer afternoon. They called
it their Eyry, and the name suited well for the roosting-place of the
young hawks that rested in its windy stillness, looking down upon the
shifting castle life in the courts below.

Behind the north stable, a great, long, rambling building, thick-walled,
and black with age, lay an older part of the castle than that peopled by
the better class of life—a cluster of great thick walls, rudely but
strongly built, now the dwelling-place of stable-lads and hinds, swine and
poultry. From one part of these ancient walls, and fronting an inner court
of the castle, arose a tall, circular, heavy-buttressed tower,
considerably higher than the other buildings, and so mantled with a dense
growth of aged ivy as to stand a shaft of solid green. Above its crumbling
crown circled hundreds of pigeons, white and pied, clapping and clattering
in noisy flight through the sunny air. Several windows, some closed with
shutters, peeped here and there from out the leaves, and near the top of
the pile was a row of arched openings, as though of a balcony or an airy
gallery.

Myles had more than once felt an idle curiosity about this tower, and one
day, as he and Gascoyne sat together, he pointed his finger and said,
“What is yon place?”

“That,” answered Gascoyne, looking over his shoulder—“that they call
Brutus Tower, for why they do say that Brutus he built it when he came
hither to Britain. I believe not the tale mine own self; ne’theless, it is
marvellous ancient, and old Robin-the-Fletcher telleth me that there be
stairways built in the wall and passage-ways, and a maze wherein a body
may get lost, an he know not the way aright, and never see the blessed
light of day again.”

“Marry,” said Myles, “those same be strange sayings. Who liveth there
now?”

“No one liveth there,” said Gascoyne, “saving only some of the stable
villains, and that half-witted goose-herd who flung stones at us yesterday
when we mocked him down in the paddock. He and his wife and those others
dwell in the vaults beneath, like rabbits in any warren. No one else hath
lived there since Earl Robert’s day, which belike was an hundred years
agone. The story goeth that Earl Robert’s brother—or step-brother—was
murdered there, and some men say by the Earl himself. Sin that day it hath
been tight shut.”

Myles stared at the tower for a while in silence. “It is a strange-seeming
place from without,” said he, at last, “and mayhap it may be even more
strange inside. Hast ever been within, Francis?”

“Nay,” said Gascoyne; “said I not it hath been fast locked since Earl
Robert’s day?”

“By’r Lady,” said Myles, “an I had lived here in this place so long as
thou, I wot I would have been within it ere this.”

“Beshrew me,” said Gascoyne, “but I have never thought of such a matter.”
He turned and looked at the tall crown rising into the warm sunlight with
a new interest, for the thought of entering it smacked pleasantly of
adventure. “How wouldst thou set about getting within?” said he,
presently.

“Why, look,” said Myles; “seest thou not yon hole in the ivy branches?
Methinks there is a window at that place. An I mistake not, it is in reach
of the stable eaves. A body might come up by the fagot pile to the roof of
the hen-house, and then by the long stable to the north stable, and so to
that hole.”

Gascoyne looked thoughtfully at the Brutus Tower, and then suddenly
inquired, “Wouldst go there?”

“Aye,” said Myles, briefly.

“So be it. Lead thou the way in the venture, I will follow after thee,”
said Gascoyne.

As Myles had said, the climbing from roof to roof was a matter easy enough
to an active pair of lads like themselves; but when, by-and-by, they
reached the wall of the tower itself, they found the hidden window much
higher from the roof than they had judged from below—perhaps ten or
twelve feet—and it was, besides, beyond the eaves and out of their
reach.

Myles looked up and looked down. Above was the bushy thickness of the ivy,
the branches as thick as a woman’s wrist, knotted and intertwined; below
was the stone pavement of a narrow inner court between two of the stable
buildings.

“Methinks I can climb to yon place,” said he.

“Thou’lt break thy neck an thou tryest,” said Gascoyne, hastily.

“Nay,” quoth Myles, “I trust not; but break or make, we get not there
without trying. So here goeth for the venture.”

“Thou art a hare-brained knave as ever drew breath of life,” quoth
Gascoyne, “and will cause me to come to grief some of these fine days.
Ne’theless, an thou be Jack Fool and lead the way, go, and I will be Tom
Fool and follow anon. If thy neck is worth so little, mine is worth no
more.”

It was indeed a perilous climb, but that special providence which guards
reckless lads befriended them, as it has thousands of their kind before
and since. So, by climbing from one knotted, clinging stem to another,
they were presently seated snugly in the ivied niche in the window. It was
barred from within by a crumbling shutter, the rusty fastening of which,
after some little effort upon the part of the two, gave way, and entering
the narrow opening, they found themselves in a small triangular
passage-way, from which a steep flight of stone steps led down through a
hollow in the massive wall to the room below.

At the bottom of the steps was a heavy oaken door, which stood ajar,
hanging upon a single rusty hinge, and from the room within a dull, gray
light glimmered faintly. Myles pushed the door farther open; it creaked
and grated horribly on its rusty hinge, and, as in instant answer to the
discordant shriek, came a faint piping squeaking, a rustling and a
pattering of soft footsteps.

“The ghosts!” cried Gascoyne, in a quavering whisper, and for a moment
Myles felt the chill of goose-flesh creep up and down his spine. But the
next moment he laughed.

“Nay,” said he, “they be rats. Look at yon fellow, Francis! Be’st as big
as Mother Joan’s kitten. Give me that stone.” He flung it at the rat, and
it flew clattering across the floor. There was another pattering rustle of
hundreds of feet, and then a breathless silence.

The boys stood looking around them, and a strange enough sight it was. The
room was a perfect circle of about twenty feet across, and was piled high
with an indistinguishable mass of lumber—rude tables, ruder chairs,
ancient chests, bits and remnants of cloth and sacking and leather, old
helmets and pieces of armor of a by-gone time, broken spears and
pole-axes, pots and pans and kitchen furniture of all sorts and kinds.

A straight beam of sunlight fell through a broken shutter like a bar of
gold, and fell upon the floor in a long streak of dazzling light that
illuminated the whole room with a yellow glow.

“By ‘r Lady!” said Gascoyne at last, in a hushed voice, “here is Father
Time’s garret for sure. Didst ever see the like, Myles? Look at yon
arbalist; sure Brutus himself used such an one!”

“Nay,” said Myles; “but look at this saddle. Marry, here be’st a rat’s
nest in it.”

Clouds of dust rose as they rummaged among the mouldering mass, setting
them coughing and sneezing. Now and then a great gray rat would shoot out
beneath their very feet, and disappear, like a sudden shadow, into some
hole or cranny in the wall.

“Come,” said Myles at last, brushing the dust from his jacket, “an we
tarry here longer we will have chance to see no other sights; the sun is
falling low.”

An arched stair-way upon the opposite side of the room from which they had
entered wound upward through the wall, the stone steps being lighted by
narrow slits of windows cut through the massive masonry. Above the room
they had just left was another of the same shape and size, but with an oak
floor, sagging and rising into hollows and hills, where the joist had
rotted away beneath. It was bare and empty, and not even a rat was to be
seen. Above was another room; above that, another; all the passages and
stairways which connected the one story with the other being built in the
wall, which was, where solid, perhaps fifteen feet thick.

From the third floor a straight flight of steps led upward to a closed
door, from the other side of which shone the dazzling brightness of
sunlight, and whence came a strange noise—a soft rustling, a
melodious murmur. The boys put their shoulders against the door, which was
fastened, and pushed with might and main—once, twice; suddenly the
lock gave way, and out they pitched headlong into a blaze of sunlight. A
deafening clapping and uproar sounded in their ears, and scores of
pigeons, suddenly disturbed, rose in stormy flight.

They sat up and looked around them in silent wonder. They were in a bower
of leafy green. It was the top story of the tower, the roof of which had
crumbled and toppled in, leaving it open to the sky, with only here and
there a slanting beam or two supporting a portion of the tiled roof,
affording shelter for the nests of the pigeons crowded closely together.
Over everything the ivy had grown in a mantling sheet—a net-work of
shimmering green, through which the sunlight fell flickering.

“This passeth wonder,” said Gascoyne, at last breaking the silence.

“Aye,” said Myles, “I did never see the like in all my life.” Then, “Look,
yonder is a room beyond; let us see what it is, Francis.”

Entering an arched door-way, the two found themselves in a beautiful
little vaulted chapel, about eighteen feet long and twelve or fifteen
wide. It comprised the crown of one of the large massive buttresses, and
from it opened the row of arched windows which could be seen from below
through the green shimmering of the ivy leaves. The boys pushed aside the
trailing tendrils and looked out and down. The whole castle lay spread
below them, with the busy people unconsciously intent upon the matters of
their daily work. They could see the gardener, with bowed back, patiently
working among the flowers in the garden, the stable-boys below grooming
the horses, a bevy of ladies in the privy garden playing at shuttlecock
with battledoors of wood, a group of gentlemen walking up and down in
front of the Earl’s house. They could see the household servants hurrying
hither and thither, two little scullions at fisticuffs, and a kitchen girl
standing in the door-way scratching her frowzy head.

It was all like a puppetshow of real life, each acting unconsciously a
part in the play. The cool wind came in through the rustling leaves and
fanned their cheeks, hot with the climb up the winding stair-way.

“We will call it our Eyry,” said Gascoyne “and we will be the hawks that
live here.” And that was how it got its name.

The next day Myles had the armorer make him a score of large spikes, which
he and Gascoyne drove between the ivy branches and into the cement of the
wall, and so made a safe passageway by which to reach the window niche in
the wall.


CHAPTER 11

THE TWO friends kept the secret of the Eyry to themselves for a little
while, now and then visiting the old tower to rummage among the lumber
stored in the lower room, or to loiter away the afternoon in the windy
solitudes of the upper heights. And in that little time, when the ancient
keep was to them a small world unknown to any but themselves—a world
far away above all the dull matters of every-day life—they talked of
many things that might else never have been known to one another. Mostly
they spoke the crude romantic thoughts and desires of boyhood’s time—chaff
thrown to the wind, in which, however, lay a few stray seeds, fated to
fall to good earth, and to ripen to fruition in manhood’s day.

In the intimate talks of that time Myles imparted something of his honest
solidity to Gascoyne’s somewhat weathercock nature, and to Myles’s ruder
and more uncouth character Gascoyne lent a tone of his gentler manners,
learned in his pagehood service as attendant upon the Countess and her
ladies.

In other things, also, the character and experience of the one lad helped
to supply what was lacking in the other. Myles was replete with old Latin
gestes, fables, and sermons picked up during his school life, in those
intervals of his more serious studies when Prior Edward had permitted him
to browse in the greener pastures of the Gesta Romanorum and the
Disciplina Clericalis of the monastery library, and Gascoyne was never
weary of hearing him tell those marvellous stories culled from the crabbed
Latin of the old manuscript volumes.

Upon his part Gascoyne was full of the lore of the waiting-room and the
antechamber, and Myles, who in all his life had never known a lady, young
or old, excepting his mother, was never tired of lying silently listening
to Gascoyne’s chatter of the gay doings of the castle gentle-life, in
which he had taken part so often in the merry days of his pagehood.

“I do wonder,” said Myles, quaintly, “that thou couldst ever find the
courage to bespeak a young maid, Francis. Never did I do so, nor ever
could. Rather would I face three strong men than one young damsel.”

Whereupon Gascoyne burst out laughing. “Marry!” quoth he, “they be no such
terrible things, but gentle and pleasant spoken, and soft and smooth as
any cat.”

“No matter for that,” said Myles; “I would not face one such for worlds.”

It was during the short time when, so to speak, the two owned the solitude
of the Brutus Tower, that Myles told his friend of his father’s outlawry
and of the peril in which the family stood. And thus it was.

“I do marvel,” said Gascoyne one day, as the two lay stretched in the
Eyry, looking down into the castle court-yard below—“I do marvel,
now that thou art ‘stablished here this month and more, that my Lord doth
never have thee called to service upon household duty. Canst thou riddle
me why it is so, Myles?”

The subject was a very sore one with Myles. Until Sir James had told him
of the matter in his office that day he had never known that his father
was attainted and outlawed. He had accepted the change from their earlier
state and the bald poverty of their life at Crosbey-Holt with the easy
carelessness of boyhood, and Sir James’s words were the first to awaken
him to a realization of the misfortunes of the house of Falworth. His was
a brooding nature, and in the three or four weeks that passed he had
meditated so much over what had been told him, that by-and-by it almost
seemed as if a shadow of shame rested upon his father’s fair fame, even
though the attaint set upon him was unrighteous and unjust, as Myles knew
it must be. He had felt angry and resentful at the Earl’s neglect, and as
days passed and he was not noticed in any way, his heart was at times very
bitter.

So now Gascoyne’s innocent question touched a sore spot, and Myles spoke
with a sharp, angry pain in his voice that made the other look quickly up.
“Sooner would my Lord have yonder swineherd serve him in the household
than me,” said he.

“Why may that be, Myles?” said Gascoyne.

“Because,” answered Myles, with the same angry bitterness in his voice,
“either the Earl is a coward that feareth to befriend me, or else he is a
caitiff, ashamed of his own flesh and blood, and of me, the son of his
one-time comrade.”

Gascoyne raised himself upon his elbow, and opened his eyes wide in
wonder. “Afeard of thee, Myles!” quoth he. “Why should he be afeared to
befriend thee? Who art thou that the Earl should fear thee?”

Myles hesitated for a moment or two; wisdom bade him remain silent upon
the dangerous topic, but his heart yearned for sympathy and companionship
in his trouble. “I will tell thee,” said he, suddenly, and therewith
poured out all of the story, so far as he knew it, to his listening,
wondering friend, and his heart felt lighter to be thus eased of its
burden. “And now,” said he, as he concluded, “is not this Earl a
mean-hearted caitiff to leave me, the son of his one-time friend and
kinsman, thus to stand or to fall alone among strangers and in a strange
place without once stretching me a helping hand?” He waited, and Gascoyne
knew that he expected an answer.

“I know not that he is a mean-hearted caitiff, Myles,” said he at last,
hesitatingly. “The Earl hath many enemies, and I have heard that he hath
stood more than once in peril, having been accused of dealings with the
King’s foes. He was cousin to the Earl of Kent, and I do remember hearing
that he had a narrow escape at that time from ruin. There be more reasons
than thou wottest of why he should not have dealings with thy father.”

“I had not thought,” said Myles, bitterly, after a little pause, “that
thou wouldst stand up for him and against me in this quarrel, Gascoyne.
Him will I never forgive so long as I may live, and I had thought that
thou wouldst have stood by me.”

“So I do,” said Gascoyne, hastily, “and do love thee more than any one in
all the world, Myles; but I had thought that it would make thee feel more
easy, to think that the Earl was not against thee. And, indeed, from all
thou has told me, I do soothly think that he and Sir James mean to
befriend thee and hold thee privily in kind regard.”

“Then why doth he not stand forth like a man and befriend me and my father
openly, even if it be to his own peril?” said Myles, reverting stubbornly
to what he had first spoken.

Gascoyne did not answer, but lay for a long while in silence. “Knowest
thou,” he suddenly asked, after a while, “who is this great enemy of whom
Sir James speaketh, and who seeketh so to drive thy father to ruin?”

“Nay,” said Myles, “I know not, for my father hath never spoken of these
things, and Sir James would not tell me. But this I know,” said he,
suddenly, grinding his teeth together, “an I do not hunt him out some day
and slay him like a dog—” He stopped abruptly, and Gascoyne, looking
askance at him, saw that his eyes were full of tears, whereupon he turned
his looks away again quickly, and fell to shooting pebbles out through the
open window with his finger and thumb.

“Thou wilt tell no one of these things that I have said?” said Myles,
after a while.

“Not I,” said Gascoyne. “Thinkest thou I could do such a thing?”

“Nay,” said Myles, briefly.

Perhaps this talk more than anything else that had ever passed between
them knit the two friends the closer together, for, as I have said, Myles
felt easier now that he had poured out his bitter thoughts and words; and
as for Gascoyne, I think that there is nothing so flattering to one’s soul
as to be made the confidant of a stronger nature.

But the old tower served another purpose than that of a spot in which to
pass away a few idle hours, or in which to indulge the confidences of
friendship, for it was there that Myles gathered a backing of strength for
resistance against the tyranny of the bachelors, and it is for that more
than for any other reason that it has been told how they found the place
and of what they did there, feeling secure against interruption.

Myles Falworth was not of a kind that forgets or neglects a thing upon
which the mind has once been set. Perhaps his chief objective since the
talk with Sir James following his fight in the dormitory had been
successful resistance to the exactions of the head of the body of squires.
He was now (more than a month had passed) looked upon by nearly if not all
of the younger lads as an acknowledged leader in his own class. So one day
he broached a matter to Gascoyne that had for some time been digesting in
his mind. It was the formation of a secret order, calling themselves the
“Knights of the Rose,” their meeting-place to be the chapel of the Brutus
Tower, and their object to be the righting of wrongs, “as they,” said
Myles, “of Arthur his Round-table did right wrongs.”

“But, prithee, what wrongs are there to right in this place?” quoth
Gascoyne, after listening intently to the plan which Myles set forth.

“Why, first of all, this,” said Myles, clinching his fists, as he had a
habit of doing when anything stirred him deeply, “that we set those vile
bachelors to their right place; and that is, that they be no longer our
masters, but our fellows.”

Gascoyne shook his head. He hated clashing and conflict above all things,
and was for peace. Why should they thus rush to thrust themselves into
trouble? Let matters abide as they were a little longer; surely life was
pleasant enough without turning it all topsy-turvy. Then, with a sort of
indignation, why should Myles, who had only come among them a month, take
such service more to heart than they who had endured it for years? And,
finally, with the hopefulness of so many of the rest of us, he advised
Myles to let matters alone, and they would right themselves in time.

But Myles’s mind was determined; his active spirit could not brook resting
passively under a wrong; he would endure no longer, and now or never they
must make their stand.

“But look thee, Myles Falworth,” said Gascoyne, “all this is not to be
done withouten fighting shrewdly. Wilt thou take that fighting upon thine
own self? As for me, I tell thee I love it not.”

“Why, aye,” said Myles; “I ask no man to do what I will not do myself.”

Gascoyne shrugged his shoulders. “So be it,” said he. “An thou hast
appetite to run thy head against hard knocks, do it i’ mercy’s name! I for
one will stand thee back while thou art taking thy raps.”

There was a spirit of drollery in Gascoyne’s speech that rubbed against
Myles’s earnestness.

“Out upon it!” cried he, his patience giving way. “Seest not that I am in
serious earnest? Why then dost thou still jest like Mad Noll, my Lord’s
fool? An thou wilt not lend me thine aid in this matter, say so and ha’
done with it, and I will bethink me of somewhere else to turn.”

Then Gascoyne yielded at once, as he always did when his friend lost his
temper, and having once assented to it, entered into the scheme heart and
soul. Three other lads—one of them that tall thin squire Edmund
Wilkes, before spoken of—were sounded upon the subject. They also
entered into the plan of the secret organization with an enthusiasm which
might perhaps not have been quite so glowing had they realized how very
soon Myles designed embarking upon active practical operations. One day
Myles and Gascoyne showed them the strange things that they had discovered
in the old tower—the inner staircases, the winding passage-ways, the
queer niches and cupboard, and the black shaft of a well that pierced down
into the solid wall, and whence, perhaps, the old castle folk had one time
drawn their supply of water in time of siege, and with every new wonder of
the marvellous place the enthusiasm of the three recruits rose higher and
higher. They rummaged through the lumber pile in the great circular room
as Myles and Gascoyne had done, and at last, tired out, they ascended to
the airy chapel, and there sat cooling themselves in the rustling
freshness of the breeze that came blowing briskly in through the arched
windows.

It was then and there that the five discussed and finally determined upon
the detailed plans of their organization, canvassing the names of the
squirehood, and selecting from it a sufficient number of bold and daring
spirits to make up a roll of twenty names in all.

Gascoyne had, as I said, entered into the matter with spirit, and perhaps
it was owing more to him than to any other that the project caught its
delightful flavor of romance.

“Perchance,” said he, as the five lads lay in the rustling stillness
through which sounded the monotonous and ceaseless cooing of the pigeons—“perchance
there may be dwarfs and giants and dragons and enchanters and evil knights
and what not even nowadays. And who knows but that if we Knights of the
Rose hold together we may go forth into the world, and do battle with
them, and save beautiful ladies, and have tales and gestes written about
us as they are writ about the Seven Champions and Arthur his Round-table.”

Perhaps Myles, who lay silently listening to all that was said, was the
only one who looked upon the scheme at all in the light of real utility,
but I think that even with him the fun of the matter outweighed the
serious part of the business.

So it was that the Sacred Order of the Twenty Knights of the Rose came to
be initiated. They appointed a code of secret passwords and countersigns
which were very difficult to remember, and which were only used when they
might excite the curiosity of the other and uninitiated boys by their
mysterious sound. They elected Myles as their Grand High Commander, and
held secret meetings in the ancient tower, where many mysteries were
soberly enacted.

Of course in a day or two all the body of squires knew nearly everything
concerning the Knights of the Rose, and of their secret meetings in the
old tower. The lucky twenty were the objects of envy of all not so
fortunate as to be included in this number, and there was a marked air of
secrecy about everything they did that appealed to every romantic notion
of the youngsters looking on. What was the stormy outcome of it all is now
presently to be told.


CHAPTER 12

Thus it was that Myles, with an eye to open war with the bachelors,
gathered a following to his support. It was some little while before
matters were brought to a crisis—a week or ten days. Perhaps even
Myles had no great desire to hasten matters. He knew that whenever war was
declared, he himself would have to bear the brunt of the battle, and even
the bravest man hesitates before deliberately thrusting himself into a
fight.

One morning Myles and Gascoyne and Wilkes sat under the shade of two
trees, between which was a board nailed to the trunks, making a rude bench—always
a favorite lounging-place for the lads in idle moments. Myles was
polishing his bascinet with lard and wood-ashes, rubbing the metal with a
piece of leather, and wiping it clean with a fustian rag. The other two,
who had just been relieved from household duty, lay at length idly looking
on.

Just then one of the smaller pages, a boy of twelve or thirteen, by name
Robin Ingoldsby, crossed the court. He had been crying; his face was red
and blubbered, and his body was still shaken with convulsive sniffs.

Myles looked up. “Come hither, Robin,” he called from where he sat. “What
is to do?”

The little fellow came slowly up to where the three rested in the shade.
“Mowbray beat me with a strap,” said he, rubbing his sleeve across his
eyes, and catching his breath at the recollection.

“Beat thee, didst say?” said Myles, drawing his brows together. “Why did
he beat thee?”

“Because,” said Robin, “I tarried overlong in fetching a pot of beer from
the buttery for him and Wyatt.” Then, with a boy’s sudden and easy
quickness in forgetting past troubles, “Tell me, Falworth,” said he, “when
wilt thou give me that knife thou promised me—the one thou break the
blade of yesterday?”

“I know not,” said Myles, bluntly, vexed that the boy did not take the
disgrace of his beating more to heart. “Some time soon, mayhap. Me thinks
thou shouldst think more of thy beating than of a broken knife. Now get
thee gone to thy business.”

The youngster lingered for a moment or two watching Myles at his work.
“What is that on the leather scrap, Falworth?” said he, curiously.

“Lard and ashes,” said Myles, testily. “Get thee gone, I say, or I will
crack thy head for thee;” and he picked up a block of wood, with a
threatening gesture.

The youngster made a hideous grimace, and then scurried away, ducking his
head, lest in spite of Myles’s well-known good-nature the block should
come whizzing after him.

“Hear ye that now!” cried Myles, flinging down the block again and turning
to his two friends. “Beaten with straps because, forsooth, he would not
fetch and carry quickly enough to please the haste of these bachelors. Oh,
this passeth patience, and I for one will bear it no longer.”

“Nay, Myles,” said Gascoyne, soothingly, “the little imp is as lazy as a
dormouse and as mischievous as a monkey. I’ll warrant the hiding was his
due, and that more of the like would do him good.”

“Why, how dost thou talk, Francis!” said Myles, turning upon him
indignantly. “Thou knowest that thou likest to see the boy beaten no more
than I.” Then, after a meditative pause, “How many, think ye, we muster of
our company of the Rose today?”

Wilkes looked doubtfully at Gascoyne. “There be only seventeen of us here
now,” said he at last. “Brinton and Lambourne are away to Roby Castle in
Lord George’s train, and will not be back till Saturday next. And Watt
Newton is in the infirmary.

“Seventeen be’st enou,” said Myles, grimly. “Let us get together this
afternoon, such as may, in the Brutus Tower, for I, as I did say, will no
longer suffer these vile bachelors.”

Gascoyne and Wilkes exchanged looks, and then the former blew a long
whistle.

So that afternoon a gloomy set of young faces were gathered together in
the Eyry—fifteen of the Knights of the Rose—and all knew why
they were assembled. The talk which followed was conducted mostly by
Myles. He addressed the others with a straightforward vim and earnestness,
but the response was only half-hearted, and when at last, having heated
himself up with his own fire, he sat down, puffing out his red cheeks and
glaring round, a space of silence followed, the lads looked doubtfully at
one another. Myles felt the chill of their silence strike coldly on his
enthusiasm, and it vexed him.

“What wouldst thou do, Falworth?” said one of the knights, at last.
“Wouldst have us open a quarrel with the bachelors?”

“Nay,” said Myles, gruffly. “I had thought that ye would all lend me a
hand in a pitched battle but now I see that ye ha’ no stomach for that.
Ne’theless, I tell ye plainly I will not submit longer to the bachelors.
So now I will ask ye not to take any venture upon yourselves, but only
this: that ye will stand by me when I do my fighting, and not let five or
seven of them fall upon me at once.

“There is Walter Blunt; he is parlous strong,” said one of the others,
after a time of silence. “Methinks he could conquer any two of us.”

“Nay,” said Myles; “ye do fear him too greatly. I tell ye I fear not to
stand up to try battle with him and will do so, too, if the need arise.
Only say ye that ye will stand by my back.”

“Marry,” said Gascoyne, quaintly, “an thou wilt dare take the heavy end
upon thee, I for one am willing to stand by and see that thou have thy
fill of fighting.”

“I too will stand thee by, Myles,” said Edmund Wilkes.

“And I, and I, and I,” said others, chiming in.

Those who would still have held back were carried along by the stream, and
so it was settled that if the need should arise for Myles to do a bit of
fighting, the others should stand by to see that he had fair play.

“When thinkest thou that thou wilt take thy stand against them, Myles?”
asked Wilkes.

Myles hesitated a moment. “To-morrow,” said he, grimly.

Several of the lads whistled softly.

Gascoyne was prepared for an early opening of the war, but perhaps not for
such an early opening as this. “By ‘r Lady, Myles, thou art hungry for
brawling,” said he.


CHAPTER 13

After the first excitement of meeting, discussing, and deciding had
passed, Myles began to feel the weight of the load he had so boldly taken
upon himself. He began to reckon what a serious thing it was for him to
stand as a single champion against the tyranny that had grown so strong
through years of custom. Had he let himself do so, he might almost have
repented, but it was too late now for repentance. He had laid his hand to
the plough, and he must drive the furrow.

Somehow the news of impending battle had leaked out among the rest of the
body of squires, and a buzz of suppressed excitement hummed through the
dormitory that evening. The bachelors, to whom, no doubt, vague rumors had
been blown, looked lowering, and talked together in low voices, standing
apart in a group. Some of them made a rather marked show of secreting
knives in the straw of their beds, and no doubt it had its effect upon
more than one young heart that secretly thrilled at the sight of the
shining blades. However, all was undisturbed that evening. The lights were
put out, and the lads retired with more than usual quietness, only for the
murmur of whispering.

All night Myles’s sleep was more or less disturbed by dreams in which he
was now conquering, now being conquered, and before the day had fairly
broken he was awake. He lay upon his cot, keying himself up for the
encounter which he had set upon himself to face, and it would not be the
truth to say that the sight of those knives hidden in the straw the night
before had made no impression upon him. By-and-by he knew the others were
beginning to awake, for he heard them softly stirring, and as the light
grew broad and strong, saw them arise, one by one, and begin dressing in
the gray morning. Then he himself arose and put on his doublet and hose,
strapping his belt tightly about his waist; then he sat down on the side
of his cot.

Presently that happened for which he was waiting; two of the younger
squires started to bring the bachelors’ morning supply of water. As they
crossed the room Myles called to them in a loud voice—a little
uneven, perhaps: “Stop! We draw no more water for any one in this house,
saving only for ourselves. Set ye down those buckets, and go back to your
places!”

The two lads stopped, half turned, and then stood still, holding the three
buckets undecidedly.

In a moment all was uproar and confusion, for by this time every one of
the lads had arisen, some sitting on the edge of their beds, some nearly,
others quite dressed. A half-dozen of the Knights of the Rose came over to
where Myles stood, gathering in a body behind him and the others followed,
one after another.

The bachelors were hardly prepared for such prompt and vigorous action.

“What is to do?” cried one of them, who stood near the two lads with the
buckets. “Why fetch ye not the water?”

“Falworth says we shall not fetch it,” answered one of the lads, a boy by
the name of Gosse.

“What mean ye by that, Falworth?” the young man called to Myles.

Myles’s heart was beating thickly and heavily within him, but nevertheless
he spoke up boldly enough. “I mean,” said he, “that from henceforth ye
shall fetch and carry for yourselves.”

“Look’ee, Blunt,” called the bachelor; “here is Falworth says they squires
will fetch no more water for us.”

The head bachelor had heard all that had passed, and was even then hastily
slipping on his doublet and hose. “Now, then, Falworth,” said he at last,
striding forward, “what is to do? Ye will fetch no more water, eh? By ‘r
Lady, I will know the reason why.”

He was still advancing towards Myles, with two or three of the older
bachelors at his heels, when Gascoyne spoke.

“Thou hadst best stand back, Blunt,” said he, “else thou mayst be hurt. We
will not have ye bang Falworth again as ye once did, so stand thou back!”

Blunt stopped short and looked upon the lads standing behind Myles, some
of them with faces a trifle pale perhaps, but all grim and determined
looking enough. Then he turned upon his heel suddenly, and walked back to
the far end of the dormitory, where the bachelors were presently clustered
together. A few words passed between them, and then the thirteen began at
once arming themselves, some with wooden clogs, and some with the knives
which they had so openly concealed the night before. At the sign of
imminent battle, all those not actively interested scuttled away to right
and left, climbing up on the benches and cots, and leaving a free field to
the combatants. The next moment would have brought bloodshed.

Now Myles, thanks to the training of the Crosbey-Dale smith, felt
tolerably sure that in a wrestling bout he was a match—perhaps more
than a match—for any one of the body of squires, and he had
determined, if possible, to bring the battle to a single-handed encounter
upon that footing. Accordingly he suddenly stepped forward before the
others.

“Look’ee, fellow,” he called to Blunt, “thou art he who struck me whilst I
was down some while since. Wilt thou let this quarrel stand between thee
and me, and meet me man to man without weapon? See, I throw me down mine
own, and will meet thee with bare hands.” And as he spoke, he tossed the
clog he held in his hand back upon the cot.

“So be it,” said Blunt, with great readiness, tossing down a similar
weapon which he himself held.

“Do not go, Myles,” cried Gascoyne, “he is a villain and a traitor, and
would betray thee to thy death. I saw him when he first gat from bed hide
a knife in his doublet.”

“Thou liest!” said Blunt. “I swear, by my faith, I be barehanded as ye see
me! Thy friend accuses me, Myles Falworth, because he knoweth thou art
afraid of me.”

“There thou liest most vilely!” exclaimed Myles. “Swear that thou hast no
knife, and I will meet thee.”

“Hast thou not heard me say that I have no knife?” said Blunt. “What more
wouldst thou have?”

“Then I will meet thee halfway,” said Myles.

Gascoyne caught him by the sleeve, and would have withheld him, assuring
him that he had seen the bachelor conceal a knife. But Myles, hot for the
fight, broke away from his friend without listening to him.

As the two advanced steadily towards one another a breathless silence fell
upon the dormitory in sharp contrast to the uproar and confusion that had
filled it a moment before. The lads, standing some upon benches, some upon
beds, all watched with breathless interest the meeting of the two
champions.

As they approached one another they stopped and stood for a moment a
little apart, glaring the one upon the other. They seemed ill enough
matched; Blunt was fully half a head taller than Myles, and was thick-set
and close-knit in young manhood. Nothing but Myles’s undaunted pluck could
have led him to dare to face an enemy so much older and stouter than
himself.

The pause was only for a moment. They who looked saw Blunt slide his hand
furtively towards his bosom. Myles saw too, and in the flash of an instant
knew what the gesture meant, and sprang upon the other before the hand
could grasp what it sought. As he clutched his enemy he felt what he had
in that instant expected to feel—the handle of a dagger. The next
moment he cried, in a loud voice: “Oh, thou villain! Help, Gascoyne! He
hath a knife under his doublet!”

In answer to his cry for help, Myles’s friends started to his aid. But the
bachelors shouted, “Stand back and let them fight it out alone, else we
will knife ye too.” And as they spoke, some of them leaped from the
benches whereon they stood, drawing their knives and flourishing them.

For just a few seconds Myles’s friends stood cowed, and in those few
seconds the fight came to an end with a suddenness unexpected to all.

A struggle fierce and silent followed between the two; Blunt striving to
draw his knife, and Myles, with the energy of despair, holding him tightly
by the wrist. It was in vain the elder lad writhed and twisted; he was
strong enough to overbear Myles, but still was not able to clutch the haft
of his knife.

“Thou shalt not draw it!” gasped Myles at last. “Thou shalt not stab me!”

Then again some of his friends started forward to his aid, but they were
not needed, for before they came, the fight was over.

Blunt, finding that he was not able to draw the weapon, suddenly ceased
his endeavors, and flung his arms around Myles, trying to bear him down
upon the ground, and in that moment his battle was lost.

In an instant—so quick, so sudden, so unexpected that no one could
see how it happened—his feet were whirled away from under him, he
spun with flying arms across Myles’s loins, and pitched with a thud upon
the stone pavement, where he lay still, motionless, while Myles, his face
white with passion and his eyes gleaming, stood glaring around like a
young wild-boar beset by the dogs.

The next moment the silence was broken, and the uproar broke forth with
redoubled violence. The bachelors, leaping from the benches, came hurrying
forward on one side, and Myles’s friends from the other.

“Thou shalt smart for this, Falworth,” said one of the older lads. “Belike
thou hast slain him!”

Myles turned upon the speaker like a flash, and with such a passion of
fury in his face that the other, a fellow nearly a head taller than he,
shrank back, cowed in spite of himself. Then Gascoyne came and laid his
hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Who touches me?” cried Myles, hoarsely, turning sharply upon him; and
then, seeing who it was, “Oh, Francis, they would ha’ killed me!”

“Come away, Myles,” said Gascoyne; “thou knowest not what thou doest; thou
art mad; come away. What if thou hadst killed him?”

The words called Myles somewhat to himself. “I care not!” said he, but
sullenly and not passionately, and then he suffered Gascoyne and Wilkes to
lead him away.

Meantime Blunt’s friends had turned him over, and, after feeling his
temples, his wrist, and his heart, bore him away to a bench at the far end
of the room. There they fell to chafing his hands and sprinkling water in
his face, a crowd of the others gathering about. Blunt was hidden from
Myles by those who stood around, and the lad listened to the broken talk
that filled the room with its confusion, his anxiety growing keener as he
became cooler. But at last, with a heartfelt joy, he gathered from the
confused buzz of words that the other lad had opened his eyes and, after a
while, he saw him sit up, leaning his head upon the shoulder of one of his
fellow-bachelors, white and faint and sick as death.

“Thank Heaven that thou didst not kill him!” said Edmund Wilkes, who had
been standing with the crowd looking on at the efforts of Blunt’s friends
to revive him, and who had now come and sat down upon the bed not far from
Myles.

“Aye,” said Myles, gruffly, “I do thank Heaven for that.”


CHAPTER 14

If Myles fancied that one single victory over his enemy would cure the
evil against which he fought, he was grievously mistaken; wrongs are not
righted so easily as that. It was only the beginning. Other and far more
bitter battles lay before him ere he could look around him and say, “I
have won the victory.”

For a day—for two days—the bachelors were demoralized at the
fall of their leader, and the Knights of the Rose were proportionately
uplifted.

The day that Blunt met his fall, the wooden tank in which the water had
been poured every morning was found to have been taken away. The bachelors
made a great show of indignation and inquiry. Who was it stole their tank?
If they did but know, he should smart for it.

“Ho! ho!” roared Edmund Wilkes, so that the whole dormitory heard him,
“smoke ye not their tricks, lads? See ye not that they have stolen their
own water-tank, so that they might have no need for another fight over the
carrying of the water?”

The bachelors made an obvious show of not having heard what he said, and a
general laugh went around. No one doubted that Wilkes had spoken the truth
in his taunt, and that the bachelors had indeed stolen their own tank. So
no more water was ever carried for the head squires, but it was plain to
see that the war for the upperhand was not yet over.

Even if Myles had entertained comforting thoughts to the contrary, he was
speedily undeceived. One morning, about a week after the fight, as he and
Gascoyne were crossing the armory court, they were hailed by a group of
the bachelors standing at the stone steps of the great building.

“Holloa, Falworth!” they cried. “Knowest thou that Blunt is nigh well
again?”

“Nay,” said Myles, “I knew it not. But I am right glad to hear it.”

“Thou wilt sing a different song anon,” said one of the bachelors. “I tell
thee he is hot against thee, and swears when he cometh again he will carve
thee soothly.”

“Aye, marry!” said another. “I would not be in thy skin a week hence for a
ducat! Only this morning he told Philip Mowbray that he would have thy
blood for the fall thou gavest him. Look to thyself, Falworth; he cometh
again Wednesday or Thursday next; thou standest in a parlous state.”

“Myles,” said Gascoyne, as they entered the great quadrangle, “I do indeed
fear me that he meaneth to do thee evil.”

“I know not,” said Myles, boldly; “but I fear him not.” Nevertheless his
heart was heavy with the weight of impending ill.

One evening the bachelors were more than usually noisy in their end of the
dormitory, laughing and talking and shouting to one another.

“Holloa, you sirrah, Falworth!” called one of them along the length of the
room. “Blunt cometh again to-morrow day.”

Myles saw Gascoyne direct a sharp glance at him; but he answered nothing
either to his enemy’s words or his friend’s look.

As the bachelor had said, Blunt came the next morning. It was just after
chapel, and the whole body of squires was gathered in the armory waiting
for the orders of the day and the calling of the roll of those chosen for
household duty. Myles was sitting on a bench along the wall, talking and
jesting with some who stood by, when of a sudden his heart gave a great
leap within him.

It was Walter Blunt. He came walking in at the door as if nothing had
passed, and at his unexpected coming the hubbub of talk and laughter was
suddenly checked. Even Myles stopped in his speech for a moment, and then
continued with a beating heart and a carelessness of manner that was
altogether assumed. In his hand Blunt carried the house orders for the
day, and without seeming to notice Myles, he opened it and read the list
of those called upon for household service.

Myles had risen, and was now standing listening with the others. When
Blunt had ended reading the list of names, he rolled up the parchment, and
thrust it into his belt; then swinging suddenly on his heel, he strode
straight up to Myles, facing him front to front. A moment or two of deep
silence followed; not a sound broke the stillness. When Blunt spoke every
one in the armory heard his words.

“Sirrah!” said he, “thou didst put foul shame upon me some time sin. Never
will I forget or forgive that offence, and will have a reckoning with thee
right soon that thou wilt not forget to the last day of thy life.”

When Myles had seen his enemy turn upon him, he did not know at first what
to expect; he would not have been surprised had they come to blows there
and then, and he held himself prepared for any event. He faced the other
pluckily enough and without flinching, and spoke up boldly in answer. “So
be it, Walter Blunt; I fear thee not in whatever way thou mayst encounter
me.”

“Dost thou not?” said Blunt. “By’r Lady, thou’lt have cause to fear me ere
I am through with thee.” He smiled a baleful, lingering smile, and then
turned slowly and walked away.

“What thinkest thou, Myles?” said Gascoyne, as the two left the armory
together.

“I think naught,” said Myles gruffly. “He will not dare to touch me to
harm me. I fear him not.” Nevertheless, he did not speak the full feelings
of his heart.

“I know not, Myles,” said Gascoyne, shaking his head doubtfully. “Walter
Blunt is a parlous evil-minded knave, and methinks will do whatever evil
he promiseth.”

“I fear him not,” said Myles again; but his heart foreboded trouble.

The coming of the head squire made a very great change in the condition of
affairs. Even before that coming the bachelors had somewhat recovered from
their demoralization, and now again they began to pluck up their
confidence and to order the younger squires and pages upon this personal
service or upon that.

“See ye not,” said Myles one day, when the Knights of the Rose were
gathered in the Brutus Tower—“see ye not that they grow as bad as
ever? An we put not a stop to this overmastery now, it will never stop.”

“Best let it be, Myles,” said Wilkes. “They will kill thee an thou cease
not troubling them. Thou hast bred mischief enow for thyself already.”

“No matter for that,” said Myles; “it is not to be borne that they order
others of us about as they do. I mean to speak to them to-night, and tell
them it shall not be.”

He was as good as his word. That night, as the youngsters were shouting
and romping and skylarking, as they always did before turning in, he stood
upon his cot and shouted: “Silence! List to me a little!” And then, in the
hush that followed—“I want those bachelors to hear this: that we
squires serve them no longer, and if they would ha’ some to wait upon
them, they must get them otherwheres than here. There be twenty of us to
stand against them and haply more, and we mean that they shall ha’ service
of us no more.”

Then he jumped down again from his elevated stand, and an uproar of
confusion instantly filled the place. What was the effect of his words
upon the bachelors he could not see. What was the result he was not slow
in discovering.

The next day Myles and Gascoyne were throwing their daggers for a wager at
a wooden target against the wall back of the armorer’s smithy. Wilkes,
Gosse, and one or two others of the squires were sitting on a bench
looking on, and now and then applauding a more than usually well-aimed
cast of the knife. Suddenly that impish little page spoken of before,
Robin Ingoldsby, thrust his shock head around the corner of the smithy,
and said: “Ho, Falworth! Blunt is going to serve thee out to-day, and I
myself heard him say so. He says he is going to slit thine ears.” And then
he was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

Myles darted after him, caught him midway in the quadrangle, and brought
him back by the scuff of the neck, squalling and struggling.

“There!” said he, still panting from the chase and seating the boy by no
means gently upon the bench beside Wilkes. “Sit thou there, thou imp of
evil! And now tell me what thou didst mean by thy words anon—an thou
stop not thine outcry, I will cut thy throat for thee,” and he made a
ferocious gesture with his dagger.

It was by no means easy to worm the story from the mischievous little
monkey; he knew Myles too well to be in the least afraid of his threats.
But at last, by dint of bribing and coaxing, Myles and his friends managed
to get at the facts. The youngster had been sent to clean the riding-boots
of one of the bachelors, instead of which he had lolled idly on a cot in
the dormitory, until he had at last fallen asleep. He had been awakened by
the opening of the dormitory door and by the sound of voices—among
them was that of his taskmaster. Fearing punishment for his neglected
duty, he had slipped out of the cot, and hidden himself beneath it.

Those who had entered were Walter Blunt and three of the older bachelors.
Blunt’s companions were trying to persuade him against something, but
without avail. It was—Myles’s heart thrilled and his blood boiled—to
lie in wait for him, to overpower him by numbers, and to mutilate him by
slitting his ears—a disgraceful punishment administered, as a rule,
only for thieving and poaching.

“He would not dare to do such a thing!” cried Myles, with heaving breast
and flashing eyes.

“Aye, but he would,” said Gascoyne. “His father, Lord Reginald Blunt, is a
great man over Nottingham way, and my Lord would not dare to punish him
even for such a matter as that. But tell me, Robin Ingoldsby, dost know
aught more of this matter? Prithee tell it me, Robin. Where do they
propose to lie in wait for Falworth?”

“In the gate-way of the Buttery Court, so as to catch him when he passes
by to the armory,” answered the boy.

“Are they there now?” said Wilkes.

“Aye, nine of them,” said Robin. “I heard Blunt tell Mowbray to go and
gather the others. He heard thee tell Gosse, Falworth, that thou wert
going thither for thy arbalist this morn to shoot at the rooks withal.”

“That will do, Robin,” said Myles. “Thou mayst go.”

And therewith the little imp scurried off, pulling the lobes of his ears
suggestively as he darted around the corner.

The others looked at one another for a while in silence.

“So, comrades,” said Myles at last, “what shall we do now?”

“Go, and tell Sir James,” said Gascoyne, promptly.

“Nay,” said Myles, “I take no such coward’s part as that. I say an they
hunger to fight, give them their stomachful.”

The others were very reluctant for such extreme measures, but Myles, as
usual, carried his way, and so a pitched battle was decided upon. It was
Gascoyne who suggested the plan which they afterwards followed.

Then Wilkes started away to gather together those of the Knights of the
Rose not upon household duty, and Myles, with the others, went to the
armor smith to have him make for them a set of knives with which to meet
their enemies—knives with blades a foot long, pointed and
double-edged.

The smith, leaning with his hammer upon the anvil, listened to them as
they described the weapons.

“Nay, nay, Master Myles,” said he, when Myles had ended by telling the use
to which he intended putting them. “Thou art going all wrong in this
matter. With such blades, ere this battle is ended, some one would be
slain, and so murder done. Then the family of him who was killed would
haply have ye cited, and mayhap it might e’en come to the hanging, for
some of they boys ha’ great folkeys behind them. Go ye to Tom Fletcher,
Master Myles, and buy of him good yew staves, such as one might break a
head withal, and with them, gin ye keep your wits, ye may hold your own
against knives or short swords. I tell thee, e’en though my trade be
making of blades, rather would I ha’ a good stout cudgel in my hand than
the best dagger that ever was forged.”

Myles stood thoughtfully for a moment or two; then, looking up, “Methinks
thou speaketh truly, Robin,” said he; “and it were ill done to have blood
upon our hands.”


CHAPTER 15

From the long, narrow stone-paved Armory Court, and connecting it with the
inner Buttery Court, ran a narrow arched passage-way, in which was a
picket-gate, closed at night and locked from within. It was in this arched
passage-way that, according to little Robert Ingoldsby’s report, the
bachelors were lying in wait for Myles. Gascoyne’s plan was that Myles
should enter the court alone, the Knights of the Rose lying ambushed
behind the angle of the armory building until the bachelors should show
themselves.

It was not without trepidation that Myles walked alone into the court,
which happened then to be silent and empty. His heart beat more quickly
than it was wont, and he gripped his cudgel behind his back, looking
sharply this way and that, so as not to be taken unawares by a flank
movement of his enemies. Midway in the court he stopped and hesitated for
a moment; then he turned as though to enter the armory. The next moment he
saw the bachelors come pouring out from the archway.

Instantly he turned and rushed back towards where his friends lay hidden,
shouting: “To the rescue! To the rescue!”

“Stone him!” roared Blunt. “The villain escapes!”

He stopped and picked up a cobble-stone as he spoke, flinging it after his
escaping prey. It narrowly missed Myles’s head; had it struck him, there
might have been no more of this story to tell.

“To the rescue! To the rescue!” shouted Myles’s friends in answer, and the
next moment he was surrounded by them. Then he turned, and swinging his
cudgel, rushed back upon his foes.

The bachelors stopped short at the unexpected sight of the lads with their
cudgels. For a moment they rallied and drew their knives; then they turned
and fled towards their former place of hiding.

One of them turned for a moment, and flung his knife at Myles with a
deadly aim; but Myles, quick as a cat, ducked his body, and the weapon
flew clattering across the stony court. Then he who had flung it turned
again to fly, but in his attempt he had delayed one instant too long.
Myles reached him with a long-arm stroke of his cudgel just as he entered
the passage-way, knocking him over like a bottle, stunned and senseless.

The next moment the picket-gate was banged in their faces and the bolt
shot in the staples, and the Knights of the Rose were left shouting and
battering with their cudgels against the palings.

By this time the uproar of fight had aroused those in the rooms and
offices fronting upon the Armory Court; heads were thrust from many of the
windows with the eager interest that a fight always evokes.

“Beware!” shouted Myles. “Here they come again!” He bore back towards the
entrance of the alley-way as he spoke, those behind him scattering to
right and left, for the bachelors had rallied, and were coming again to
the attack, shouting.

They were not a moment too soon in this retreat, either, for the next
instant the pickets flew open, and a volley of stones flew after the
retreating Knights of the Rose. One smote Wilkes upon the head, knocking
him down headlong. Another struck Myles upon his left shoulder, benumbing
his arm from the finger-tips to the armpit, so that he thought at first
the limb was broken.

“Get ye behind the buttresses!” shouted those who looked down upon the
fight from the windows—“get ye behind the buttresses!” And in answer
the lads, scattering like a newly-flushed covey of partridges, fled to and
crouched in the sheltering angles of masonry to escape from the flying
stones.

And now followed a lull in the battle, the bachelors fearing to leave the
protection of the arched passage-way lest their retreat should be cut off,
and the Knights of the Rose not daring to quit the shelter of the
buttresses and angles of the wall lest they should be knocked down by the
stones.

The bachelor whom Myles had struck down with his cudgel was sitting up
rubbing the back of his head, and Wilkes had gathered his wits enough to
crawl to the shelter of the nearest buttress. Myles, peeping around the
corner behind which he stood, could see that the bachelors were gathered
into a little group consulting together. Suddenly it broke asunder, and
Blunt turned around.

“Ho, Falworth!” he cried. “Wilt thou hold truce whiles we parley with ye?”

“Aye,” answered Myles.

“Wilt thou give me thine honor that ye will hold your hands from harming
us whiles we talk together?”

“Yea,” said Myles, “I will pledge thee mine honor.”

“I accept thy pledge. See! here we throw aside our stones and lay down our
knives. Lay ye by your clubs, and meet us in parley at the horse-block
yonder.”

“So be it,” said Myles, and thereupon, standing his cudgel in the angle of
the wall, he stepped boldly out into the open court-yard. Those of his
party came scatteringly from right and left, gathering about him; and the
bachelors advanced in a body, led by the head squire.

“Now what is it thou wouldst have, Walter Blunt?” said Myles, when both
parties had met at the horse-block.

“It is to say this to thee, Myles Falworth,” said the other. “One time,
not long sin, thou didst challenge me to meet thee hand to hand in the
dormitory. Then thou didst put a vile affront upon me, for the which I ha’
brought on this battle to-day, for I knew not then that thou wert going to
try thy peasant tricks of wrestling, and so, without guarding myself, I
met thee as thou didst desire.”

“But thou hadst thy knife, and would have stabbed him couldst thou ha’
done so,” said Gascoyne.

“Thou liest!” said Blunt. “I had no knife.” And then, without giving time
to answer, “Thou canst not deny that I met thee then at thy bidding, canst
thou, Falworth?”

“Nay,” said Myles, “nor haply canst thou deny it either.” And at this
covert reminder of his defeat Myles’s followers laughed scoffingly and
Blunt bit his lip.

“Thou hast said it,” said he. “Then sin. I met thee at thy bidding, I dare
to thee to meet me now at mine, and to fight this battle out between our
two selves, with sword and buckler and bascinet as gentles should, and not
in a wrestling match like two country hodges.”

“Thou art a coward caitiff, Walter Blunt!” burst out Wilkes, who stood by
with a swelling lump upon his head, already as big as a walnut. “Well thou
knowest that Falworth is no match for thee at broadsword play. Is he not
four years younger than thou, and hast thou not had three times the
practice in arms that he hath had? I say thou art a coward to seek to
fight with cutting weapons.”

Blunt made no answer to Wilkes’s speech, but gazed steadfastly at Myles,
with a scornful smile curling the corners of his lips. Myles stood looking
upon the ground without once lifting his eyes, not knowing what to answer,
for he was well aware that he was no match for Blunt with the broadsword.

“Thou art afraid to fight me, Myles Falworth,” said Blunt, tauntingly, and
the bachelors gave a jeering laugh in echo.

Then Myles looked up, and I cannot say that his face was not a trifle
whiter than usual. “Nay,” said he, “I am not afraid, and I will fight
thee, Blunt.”

“So be it,” said Blunt. “Then let us go at it straightway in the armory
yonder, for they be at dinner in the Great Hall, and just now there be’st
no one by to stay us.”

“Thou shalt not fight him, Myles!” burst out Gascoyne. “He will murther
thee! Thou shalt not fight him, I say!”

Myles turned away without answering him.

“What is to do?” called one of those who were still looking out of the
windows as the crowd of boys passed beneath.

“Blunt and Falworth are going to fight it out hand to hand in the armory,”
answered one of the bachelors, looking up.

The brawling of the squires was a jest to all the adjoining part of the
house. So the heads were withdrawn again, some laughing at the “sparring
of the cockerels.”

But it was no jesting matter to poor Myles.


CHAPTER 16

I have no intention to describe the fight between Myles Falworth and
Walter Blunt. Fisticuffs of nowadays are brutal and debasing enough, but a
fight with a sharp-edged broadsword was not only brutal and debasing, but
cruel and bloody as well.

From the very first of the fight Myles Falworth was palpably and obviously
overmatched. After fifteen minutes had passed, Blunt stood hale and sound
as at first; but poor Myles had more than one red stain of warm blood upon
doublet and hose, and more than one bandage had been wrapped by Gascoyne
and Wilkes about sore wounds.

He had received no serious injury as yet, for not only was his body
protected by a buckler, or small oblong shield, which he carried upon his
left arm, and his head by a bascinet, or light helmet of steel, but
perhaps, after all, Blunt was not over-anxious to do him any dangerous
harm. Nevertheless, there could be but one opinion as to how the fight
tended, and Myles’s friends were gloomy and downcast; the bachelors
proportionately exultant, shouting with laughter, and taunting Myles at
every unsuccessful stroke.

Once, as he drew back panting, leaning upon Gascoyne’s shoulder, the
faithful friend whispered, with trembling lips: “Oh, dear Myles, carry it
no further. Thou hurtest him not, and he will slay thee ere he have done
with thee.”

Thereupon Blunt, who caught the drift of the speech, put in a word. “Thou
art sore hurt, Myles Falworth,” said he, “and I would do thee no grievous
harm. Yield thee and own thyself beaten, and I will forgive thee. Thou
hast fought a good fight, and there is no shame in yielding now.”

“Never!” cried Myles, hoarsely—“never will I yield me! Thou mayst
slay me, Walter Blunt, and I reck not if thou dost do so, but never else
wilt thou conquer me.”

There was a tone of desperation in his voice that made all look serious.

“Nay,” said Blunt; “I will fight thee no more, Myles Falworth; thou hast
had enough.”

“By heavens!” cried Myles, grinding his teeth, “thou shalt fight me, thou
coward! Thou hast brought this fight upon us, and either thou or I get our
quittance here. Let go, Gascoyne!” he cried, shaking loose his friend’s
hold; “I tell thee he shall fight me!”

From that moment Blunt began to lose his head. No doubt he had not thought
of such a serious fight as this when he had given his challenge, and there
was a savage bull-dog tenacity about Myles that could not but have had a
somewhat demoralizing effect upon him.

A few blows were given and taken, and then Myles’s friends gave a shout.
Blunt drew back, and placed his hand to his shoulder. When he drew it away
again it was stained with red, and another red stain grew and spread
rapidly down the sleeve of his jacket. He stared at his hand for a moment
with a half-dazed look, and then glanced quickly to right and left.

“I will fight no more,” said he, sullenly.

“Then yield thee!” cried Myles, exultantly.

The triumphant shouts of the Knights of the Rose stung Blunt like a lash,
and the battle began again. Perhaps some of the older lads were of a mind
to interfere at this point, certainly some looked very serious, but before
they interposed, the fight was ended.

Blunt, grinding his teeth, struck one undercut at his opponent—the
same undercut that Myles had that time struck at Sir James Lee at the
knight’s bidding when he first practised at the Devlen pels. Myles met the
blow as Sir James had met the blow that he had given, and then struck in
return as Sir James had struck—full and true. The bascinet that
Blunt wore glanced the blow partly, but not entirely. Myles felt his sword
bite through the light steel cap, and Blunt dropped his own blade
clattering upon the floor. It was all over in an instant, but in that
instant what he saw was stamped upon Myles’s mind with an indelible
imprint. He saw the young man stagger backward; he saw the eyes roll
upward; and a red streak shoot out from under the cap and run down across
the cheek.

Blunt reeled half around, and then fell prostrate upon his face; and Myles
stood staring at him with the delirious turmoil of his battle dissolving
rapidly into a dumb fear at that which he had done.

Once again he had won the victory—but what a victory! “Is he dead?”
he whispered to Gascoyne.

“I know not,” said Gascoyne, with a very pale face. “But come away,
Myles.” And he led his friend out of the room.

Some little while later one of the bachelors came to the dormitory where
Myles, his wounds smarting and aching and throbbing, lay stretched upon
his cot, and with a very serious face bade him to go presently to Sir
James, who had just come from dinner, and was then in his office.

By this time Myles knew that he had not slain his enemy, and his heart was
light in spite of the coming interview. There was no one in the office but
Sir James and himself, and Myles, without concealing anything, told, point
by point, the whole trouble. Sir James sat looking steadily at him for a
while after he had ended.

“Never,” said he, presently, “did I know any one of ye squires, in all the
time that I have been here, get himself into so many broils as thou, Myles
Falworth. Belike thou sought to take this lad’s life.”

“Nay,” said Myles, earnestly; “God forbid!”

“Ne’theless,” said Sir James, “thou fetched him a main shrewd blow; and it
is by good hap, and no fault of thine, that he will live to do more
mischief yet. This is thy second venture at him; the third time, haply,
thou wilt end him for good.” Then suddenly assuming his grimmest and
sternest manner: “Now, sirrah, do I put a stop to this, and no more shall
ye fight with edged tools. Get thee to the dormitory, and abide there a
full week without coming forth. Michael shall bring thee bread and water
twice a day for that time. That is all the food thou shalt have, and we
will see if that fare will not cool thy hot humors withal.”

Myles had expected a punishment so much more severe than that which was
thus meted to him, that in the sudden relief he broke into a convulsive
laugh, and then, with a hasty sweep, wiped a brimming moisture from his
eyes.

Sir James looked keenly at him for a moment. “Thou art white i’ the face,”
said he. “Art thou wounded very sorely?”

“Nay” said Myles, “it is not much; but I be sick in my stomach.”

“Aye, aye,” said Sir James; “I know that feeling well. It is thus that one
always feeleth in coming out from a sore battle when one hath suffered
wounds and lost blood. An thou wouldst keep thyself hale, keep thyself
from needless fighting. Now go thou to the dormitory, and, as I said, come
thou not forth again for a week. Stay, sirrah!” he added; “I will send
Georgebarber to thee to look to thy sores. Green wounds are best drawn and
salved ere they grow cold.”

I wonder what Myles would have thought had he known that so soon as he had
left the office, Sir James had gone straight to the Earl and recounted the
whole matter to him, with a deal of dry gusto, and that the Earl listened
laughing.

“Aye,” said he, when Sir James had done, “the boy hath mettle, sure.
Nevertheless, we must transplant this fellow Blunt to the office of
gentleman-in-waiting. He must be old enough now, and gin he stayeth in his
present place, either he will do the boy a harm, or the boy will do him a
harm.”

So Blunt never came again to trouble the squires’ quarters; and thereafter
the youngsters rendered no more service to the elders.

Myles’s first great fight in life was won.


CHAPTER 17

The summer passed away, and the bleak fall came. Myles had long since
accepted his position as one set apart from the others of his kind, and
had resigned himself to the evident fact that he was never to serve in the
household in waiting upon the Earl. I cannot say that it never troubled
him, but in time there came a compensation of which I shall have presently
to speak.

And then he had so much the more time to himself. The other lads were
sometimes occupied by their household duties when sports were afoot in
which they would liked to have taken part. Myles was always free to enter
into any matter of the kind after his daily exercise had been performed at
the pels, the butts, or the tilting-court.

But even though he was never called to do service in “my Lord’s house,” he
was not long in gaining a sort of second-hand knowledge of all the family.
My Lady, a thin, sallow, faded dame, not yet past middle age, but looking
ten years older. The Lady Anne, the daughter of the house; a tall, thin,
dark-eyed, dark-haired, handsome young dame of twenty or twenty-one years
of age, hawk-nosed like her father, and silent, proud, and haughty, Myles
heard the squires say. Lady Alice, the Earl of Mackworth’s niece and ward,
a great heiress in her own right, a strikingly pretty black-eyed girl of
fourteen or fifteen.

These composed the Earl’s personal family; but besides them was Lord
George Beaumont, his Earl’s brother, and him Myles soon came to know
better than any of the chief people of the castle excepting Sir James Lee.

For since Myles’s great battle in the armory, Lord George had taken a
laughing sort of liking to the lad, encouraging him at times to talk of
his adventures, and of his hopes and aspirations.

Perhaps the Earl’s younger brother—who was himself somewhat a
soldier of fortune, having fought in Spain, France, and Germany—felt
a certain kinship in spirit with the adventurous youngster who had his
unfriended way to make in the world. However that might have been, Lord
George was very kind and friendly to the lad, and the willing service that
Myles rendered him reconciled him not a little to the Earl’s obvious
neglect.

Besides these of the more immediate family of the Earl were a number of
knights, ladies, and gentlemen, some of them cadets, some of them
retainers, of the house of Beaumont, for the princely nobles of those days
lived in state little less royal than royalty itself.

Most of the knights and gentlemen Myles soon came to know by sight,
meeting them in Lord George’s apartments in the south wing of the great
house, and some of them, following the lead of Lord George, singled him
out for friendly notice, giving him a nod or a word in passing.

Every season has its pleasures for boys, and the constant change that they
bring is one of the greatest delights of boyhood’s days.

All of us, as we grow older, have in our memory pictures of by-gone times
that are somehow more than usually vivid, the colors of some not blurring
by time as others do. One of which, in remembering, always filled Myles’s
heart in after-years with an indefinable pleasure, was the recollection of
standing with others of his fellow squires in the crisp brown autumn grass
of the paddock, and shooting with the long-bow at wildfowl, which, when
the east wind was straining, flew low overhead to pitch to the lake in the
forbidden precincts of the deer park beyond the brow of the hill. More
than once a brace or two of these wildfowl, shot in their southward flight
by the lads and cooked by fat, good-natured Mother Joan, graced the rude
mess-table of the squires in the long hall, and even the toughest and
fishiest drake, so the fruit of their skill, had a savor that, somehow or
other, the daintiest fare lacked in after-years.

Then fall passed and winter came, bleak, cold, and dreary—not winter
as we know it nowadays, with warm fires and bright lights to make the long
nights sweet and cheerful with comfort, but winter with all its grimness
and sternness. In the great cold stone-walled castles of those days the
only fire and almost the only light were those from the huge blazing logs
that roared and crackled in the great open stone fireplace, around which
the folks gathered, sheltering their faces as best they could from the
scorching heat, and cloaking their shoulders from the biting cold, for at
the farther end of the room, where giant shadows swayed and bowed and
danced huge and black against the high walls, the white frost glistened in
the moonlight on the stone pavements, and the breath went up like smoke.

In those days were no books to read, but at the best only rude stories and
jests, recited by some strolling mummer or minstrel to the listening
circle, gathered around the blaze and welcoming the coarse, gross jests,
and coarser, grosser songs with roars of boisterous laughter.

Yet bleak and dreary as was the winter in those days, and cold and biting
as was the frost in the cheerless, windy halls and corridors of the
castle, it was not without its joys to the young lads; for then, as now,
boys could find pleasure even in slushy weather, when the sodden snow is
fit for nothing but to make snowballs of.

Thrice that bitter winter the moat was frozen over, and the lads, making
themselves skates of marrow-bones, which they bought from the hall cook at
a groat a pair, went skimming over the smooth surface, red-checked and
shouting, while the crows and the jackdaws looked down at them from the
top of the bleak gray walls.

Then at Yule-tide, which was somewhat of a rude semblance to the Merry
Christmas season of our day, a great feast was held in the hall, and all
the castle folk were fed in the presence of the Earl and the Countess.
Oxen and sheep were roasted whole; huge suet puddings, made of barley meal
sweetened with honey and stuffed with plums, were boiled in great caldrons
in the open courtyard; whole barrels of ale and malmsey were broached, and
all the folk, gentle and simple, were bidden to the feast. Afterwards the
minstrels danced and played a rude play, and in the evening a miracle show
was performed on a raised platform in the north hall.

For a week afterwards the castle was fed upon the remains of the good
things left from that great feast, until everyone grew to loathe fine
victuals, and longed for honest beef and mustard again.

Then at last in that constant change the winter was gone, and even the
lads who had enjoyed its passing were glad when the winds blew warm once
more, and the grass showed green in sunny places, and the leader of the
wild-fowl blew his horn, as they who in the fall had flown to the south
flew, arrow-like, northward again; when the buds swelled and the leaves
burst forth once more, and crocuses and then daffodils gleamed in the
green grass, like sparks and flames of gold.

With the spring came the out-door sports of the season; among others that
of ball—for boys were boys, and played at ball even in those faraway
days—a game called trap-ball. Even yet in some parts of England it
is played just as it was in Myles Falworth’s day, and enjoyed just as
Myles and his friends enjoyed it.

So now that the sun was warm and the weather pleasant the game of
trap-ball was in full swing every afternoon, the play-ground being an open
space between the wall that surrounded the castle grounds and that of the
privy garden—the pleasance in which the ladies of the Earl’s family
took the air every day, and upon which their apartments opened.

Now one fine breezy afternoon, when the lads were shouting and playing at
this, then their favorite game, Myles himself was at the trap barehanded
and barearmed. The wind was blowing from behind him, and, aided perhaps by
it, he had already struck three of four balls nearly the whole length of
the court—an unusual distance—and several of the lads had gone
back almost as far as the wall of the privy garden to catch any ball that
might chance to fly as far as that. Then once more Myles struck, throwing
all his strength into the blow. The ball shot up into the air, and when it
fell, it was to drop within the privy garden.

The shouts of the young players were instantly stilled, and Gascoyne, who
stood nearest Myles, thrust his hands into his belt, giving a long shrill
whistle.

“This time thou hast struck us all out, Myles,” said he. “There be no more
play for us until we get another ball.”

The outfielders came slowly trooping in until they had gathered in a
little circle around Myles.

“I could not help it,” said Myles, in answer to their grumbling. “How knew
I the ball would fly so far? But if I ha’ lost the ball, I can get it
again. I will climb the wall for it.”

“Thou shalt do naught of the kind, Myles,” said Gascoyne, hastily. “Thou
art as mad as a March hare to think of such a venture! Wouldst get thyself
shot with a bolt betwixt the ribs, like poor Diccon Cook?”

Of all places about the castle the privy garden was perhaps the most
sacred. It was a small plot of ground, only a few rods long and wide, and
was kept absolutely private for the use of the Countess and her family.
Only a little while before Myles had first come to Devlen, one of the
cook’s men had been found climbing the wall, whereupon the soldier who saw
him shot him with his cross bow. The poor fellow dropped from the wall
into the garden, and when they found him, he still held a bunch of flowers
in his hand, which he had perhaps been gathering for his sweetheart.

Had Myles seen him carried on a litter to the infirmary as Gascoyne and
some of the others had done, he might have thought twice before venturing
to enter the ladies’ private garden. As it was, he only shook his stubborn
head, and said again, “I will climb the wall and fetch it.”

Now at the lower extremity of the court, and about twelve or fifteen feet
distant from the garden wall, there grew a pear-tree, some of the branches
of which overhung into the garden beyond. So, first making sure that no
one was looking that way, and bidding the others keep a sharp lookout,
Myles shinned up this tree, and choosing one of the thicker limbs, climbed
out upon it for some little distance. Then lowering his body, he hung at
arm’s-length, the branch bending with his weight, and slowly let himself
down hand under hand, until at last he hung directly over the top of the
wall, and perhaps a foot above it. Below him he could see the leafy top of
an arbor covered with a thick growth of clematis, and even as he hung
there he noticed the broad smooth walks, the grassy terrace in front of
the Countess’s apartments in the distance, the quaint flower-beds, the
yew-trees trimmed into odd shapes, and even the deaf old gardener working
bare-armed in the sunlight at a flower-bed in the far corner by the
tool-house.

The top of the wall was pointed like a house roof, and immediately below
him was covered by a thick growth of green moss, and it flashed through
his mind as he hung there that maybe it would offer a very slippery
foothold for one dropping upon the steep slopes of the top. But it was too
late to draw back now.

Bracing himself for a moment, he loosed his hold upon the limb above. The
branch flew back with a rush, and he dropped, striving to grasp the
sloping angle with his feet. Instantly the treacherous slippery moss slid
away from beneath him; he made a vain clutch at the wall, his fingers
sliding over the cold stones, then, with a sharp exclamation, down he
pitched bodily into the garden beneath! A thousand thoughts flew through
his brain like a cloud of flies, and then a leafy greenness seemed to
strike up against him. A splintering crash sounded in his ears as the
lattice top of the arbor broke under him, and with one final clutch at the
empty air he fell heavily upon the ground beneath.

He heard a shrill scream that seemed to find an instant echo; even as he
fell he had a vision of faces and bright colors, and when he sat up, dazed
and bewildered, he found himself face to face with the Lady Anne, the
daughter of the house, and her cousin, the Lady Alice, who clutching one
another tightly, stood staring at him with wide scared eyes.


CHAPTER 18

For a little time there was a pause of deep silence, during which the
fluttering leaves came drifting down from the broken arbor above.

It was the Lady Anne who first spoke. “Who art thou, and whence comest
thou?” said she, tremulously.

Then Myles gathered himself up sheepishly. “My name is Myles Falworth,”
said he, “and I am one of the squires of the body.”

“Oh! aye!” said the Lady Alice, suddenly. “Me thought I knew thy face. Art
thou not the young man that I have seen in Lord George’s train?”

“Yes, lady,” said Myles, wrapping and twining a piece of the broken vine
in and out among his fingers. “Lord George hath often had me of late about
his person.”

“And what dost thou do here, sirrah?” said Lady Anne, angrily. “How darest
thou come so into our garden?”

“I meant not to come as I did,” said Myles, clumsily, and with a face hot
and red. “But I slipped over the top of the wall and fell hastily into the
garden. Truly, lady, I meant ye no harm or fright thereby.”

He looked so drolly abashed as he stood before them, with his clothes torn
and soiled from the fall, his face red, and his eyes downcast, all the
while industriously twisting the piece of clematis in and around his
fingers, that Lady Anne’s half-frightened anger could not last. She and
her cousin exchanged glances, and smiled at one another.

“But,” said she at last, trying to draw her pretty brows together into a
frown, “tell me; why didst thou seek to climb the wall?”

“I came to seek a ball,” said Myles, “which I struck over hither from the
court beyond.”

“And wouldst thou come into our privy garden for no better reason than to
find a ball?” said the young lady.

“Nay,” said Myles; “it was not so much to find the ball, but, in good
sooth, I did truly strike it harder than need be, and so, gin I lost the
ball, I could do no less than come and find it again, else our sport is
done for the day. So it was I came hither.”

The two young ladies had by now recovered from their fright. The Lady Anne
slyly nudged her cousin with her elbow, and the younger could not suppress
a half-nervous laugh. Myles heard it, and felt his face grow hotter and
redder than ever.

“Nay,” said Lady Anne, “I do believe Master Giles—”

“My name be’st Myles,” corrected Myles.

“Very well, then, Master Myles, I say I do believe that thou meanest no
harm in coming hither; ne’theless it was ill of thee so to do. An my
father should find thee here, he would have thee shrewdly punished for
such trespassing. Dost thou not know that no one is permitted to enter
this place—no, not even my uncle George? One fellow who came hither
to steal apples once had his ears shaven close to his head, and not more
than a year ago one of the cook’s men who climbed the wall early one
morning was shot by the watchman.”

“Aye,” said Myles, “I knew of him who was shot, and it did go somewhat
against my stomach to venture, knowing what had happed to him. Ne’theless,
an I gat not the ball, how were we to play more to-day at the trap?”

“Marry, thou art a bold fellow, I do believe me,” said the young lady,
“and sin thou hast come in the face of such peril to get thy ball, thou
shalt not go away empty. Whither didst thou strike it?”

“Over yonder by the cherry-tree,” said Myles, jerking his head in that
direction. “An I may go get it, I will trouble ye no more.” As he spoke he
made a motion to leave them.

“Stay!” said the Lady Anne, hastily; “remain where thou art. An thou cross
the open, some one may haply see thee from the house, and will give the
alarm, and thou wilt be lost. I will go get thy ball.”

And so she left Myles and her cousin, crossing the little plots of grass
and skirting the rosebushes to the cherry-tree.

When Myles found himself alone with Lady Alice, he knew not where to look
or what to do, but twisted the piece of clematis which he still held in
and out more industriously than ever.

Lady Alice watched him with dancing eyes for a little while. “Haply thou
wilt spoil that poor vine,” said she by-and-by, breaking the silence and
laughing, then turning suddenly serious again. “Didst thou hurt thyself by
thy fall?”

“Nay,” said Myles, looking up, “such a fall as that was no great matter.
Many and many a time I have had worse.”

“Hast thou so?” said the Lady Alice. “Thou didst fright me parlously, and
my coz likewise.”

Myles hesitated for a moment, and then blurted out, “Thereat I grieve, for
thee I would not fright for all the world.”

The young lady laughed and blushed. “All the world is a great matter,”
said she.

“Yea,” said he, “it is a great matter; but it is a greater matter to
fright thee, and so I would not do it for that, and more.”

The young lady laughed again, but she did not say anything further, and a
space of silence fell so long that by-and-by she forced herself to say,
“My cousin findeth not the ball presently.”

“Nay,” said Myles, briefly, and then again neither spoke, until by-and-by
the Lady Anne came, bringing the ball. Myles felt a great sense of relief
at that coming, and yet was somehow sorry. Then he took the ball, and knew
enough to bow his acknowledgment in a manner neither ill nor awkward.

“Didst thou hurt thyself?” asked Lady Anne.

“Nay,” said Myles, giving himself a shake; “seest thou not I be whole,
limb and bone? Nay, I have had shrewdly worse falls than that. Once I fell
out of an oak-tree down by the river and upon a root, and bethought me I
did break a rib or more. And then one time when I was a boy in
Crosbey-Dale—that was where I lived before I came hither—I did
catch me hold of the blade of the windmill, thinking it was moving slowly,
and that I would have a ride i’ th’ air, and so was like to have had a
fall ten thousand times worse than this.”

“Oh, tell us more of that!” said the Lady Anne, eagerly. “I did never hear
of such an adventure as that. Come, coz, and sit down here upon the bench,
and let us have him tell us all of that happening.”

Now the lads upon the other side of the wall had been whistling furtively
for some time, not knowing whether Myles had broken his neck or had come
off scot-free from his fall. “I would like right well to stay with ye,”
said he, irresolutely, “and would gladly tell ye that and more an ye would
have me to do so; but hear ye not my friends call me from beyond? Mayhap
they think I break my back, and are calling to see whether I be alive or
no. An I might whistle them answer and toss me this ball to them, all
would then be well, and they would know that I was not hurt, and so,
haply, would go away.”

“Then answer them,” said the Lady Anne, “and tell us of that thing thou
spokest of anon—how thou tookest a ride upon the windmill. We young
ladies do hear little of such matters, not being allowed to talk with
lads. All that we hear of perils are of knights and ladies and jousting,
and such like. It would pleasure us right well to have thee tell of thy
adventures.”

So Myles tossed back the ball, and whistled in answer to his friends.

Then he told the two young ladies not only of his adventure upon the
windmill, but also of other boyish escapades, and told them well, with a
straightforward smack and vigor, for he enjoyed adventure and loved to
talk of it. In a little while he had regained his ease; his shyness and
awkwardness left him, and nothing remained but the delightful fact that he
was really and actually talking to two young ladies, and that with just as
much ease and infinitely more pleasure than could be had in discourse with
his fellow-squires. But at last it was time for him to go. “Marry,” said
he, with a half-sigh, “methinks I did never ha’ so sweet and pleasant a
time in all my life before. Never did I know a real lady to talk with,
saving only my mother, and I do tell ye plain methinks I would rather talk
with ye than with any he in Christendom—saving, perhaps, only my
friend Gascoyne. I would I might come hither again.”

The honest frankness of his speech was irresistible; the two girls
exchanged glances and then began laughing. “Truly,” said Lady Anne, who,
as was said before, was some three or four years older than Myles, “thou
art a bold lad to ask such a thing. How wouldst thou come hither? Wouldst
tumble through our clematis arbor again, as thou didst this day?”

“Nay,” said Myles, “I would not do that again, but if ye will bid me do
so, I will find the means to come hither.”

“Nay,” said Lady Anne, “I dare not bid thee do such a foolhardy thing.
Nevertheless, if thou hast the courage to come—”

“Yea,” said Myles, eagerly, “I have the courage.”

“Then, if thou hast so, we will be here in the garden on Saturday next at
this hour. I would like right well to hear more of thy adventures. But
what didst thou say was thy name? I have forgot it again.”

“It is Myles Falworth.”

“Then we shall yclep thee Sir Myles, for thou art a soothly errant-knight.
And stay! Every knight must have a lady to serve. How wouldst thou like my
Cousin Alice here for thy true lady?”

“Aye,” said Myles, eagerly, “I would like it right well.” And then he
blushed fiery red at his boldness.

“I want no errant-knight to serve me,” said the Lady Alice, blushing, in
answer. “Thou dost ill tease me, coz! An thou art so free in choosing him
a lady to serve, thou mayst choose him thyself for thy pains.”

“Nay,” said the Lady Anne, laughing; “I say thou shalt be his true lady,
and he shall be thy true knight. Who knows? Perchance he may serven thee
in some wondrous adventure, like as Chaucer telleth of. But now, Sir
Errant-Knight, thou must take thy leave of us, and I must e’en let thee
privily out by the postern-wicket. And if thou wilt take the risk upon
thee and come hither again, prithee be wary in that coming, lest in
venturing thou have thine ears clipped in most unknightly fashion.”

That evening, as he and Gascoyne sat together on a bench under the trees
in the great quadrangle, Myles told of his adventure of the afternoon, and
his friend listened with breathless interest.

“But, Myles,” cried Gascoyne, “did the Lady Anne never once seem proud and
unkind?”

“Nay,” said Myles; “only at first, when she chid me for falling through
the roof of their arbor. And to think, Francis! Lady Anne herself bade me
hold the Lady Alice as my true lady, and to serve her in all
knightliness!” Then he told his friend that he was going to the privy
garden again on the next Saturday, and that the Lady Anne had given him
permission so to do.

Gascoyne gave a long, wondering whistle, and then sat quite still, staring
into the sky. By-and-by he turned to his friend and said, “I give thee my
pledge, Myles Falworth, that never in all my life did I hear of any one
that had such marvellous strange happenings befall him as thou.”

Whenever the opportunity occurred for sending a letter to Crosbey-Holt,
Myles wrote one to his mother; and one can guess how they were treasured
by the good lady, and read over and over again to the blind old Lord as he
sat staring into darkness with his sightless eyes.

About the time of this escapade he wrote a letter telling of those doings,
wherein, after speaking of his misadventure of falling from the wall, and
of his acquaintance with the young ladies, he went on to speak of the
matter in which he repeated his visits. The letter was worded in the
English of that day—the quaint and crabbed language in which Chaucer
wrote. Perhaps few boys could read it nowadays, so, modernizing it
somewhat, it ran thus:

“And now to let ye weet that thing that followed that happening that made
me acquaint with they two young Damoiselles. I take me to the south wall
of that garden one day four and twenty great spikes, which Peter Smith did
forge for me and for which I pay him fivepence, and that all the money
that I had left of my half-year’s wage, and wot not where I may get more
at these present, withouten I do betake me to Sir James, who, as I did
tell ye, hath consented to hold those moneys that Prior Edward gave me
till I need them.

“Now these same spikes, I say, I take me them down behind the corner of
the wall, and there drave them betwixt the stones, my very dear comrade
and true friend Gascoyne holping me thereto to do. And so come Saturday, I
climb me over the wall and to the roof of the tool-house below, seeking a
fitting opportunity when I might so do without being in too great
jeopardy.

“Yea; and who should be there but they two ladies, biding my coming, who,
seeing me, made as though they had expected me not, and gave me greatest
rebuke for adventuring so moughtily. Yet, methinks, were they right well
pleasured that I should so aventure, which indeed I might not otherwise
do, seeing as I have telled to thee, that one of them is mine own true
lady for to serven, and so was the only way that I might come to speech
with her.”

Such was Myles’s own quaint way of telling how he accomplished his aim of
visiting the forbidden garden, and no doubt the smack of adventure and the
savor of danger in the undertaking recommended him not a little to the
favor of the young ladies.

After this first acquaintance perhaps a month passed, during which Myles
had climbed the wall some half a dozen times (for the Lady Anne would not
permit of too frequent visits), and during which the first acquaintance of
the three ripened rapidly to an honest, pleasant friendship. More than
once Myles, when in Lord George’s train, caught a covert smile or half nod
from one or both of the girls, not a little delightful in its very secret
friendliness.


CHAPTER 19

As was said, perhaps a month passed; then Myles’s visits came to an abrupt
termination, and with it ended, in a certain sense, a chapter of his life.

One Saturday afternoon he climbed the garden wall, and skirting behind a
long row of rosebushes that screened him from the Countess’s terrace, came
to a little summer-house where the two young ladies had appointed to meet
him that day.

A pleasant half-hour or so was passed, and then it was time for Myles to
go. He lingered for a while before he took his final leave, leaning
against the door-post, and laughingly telling how he and some of his
brother squires had made a figure of straw dressed in men’s clothes, and
had played a trick with it one night upon a watchman against whom they
bore a grudge.

The young ladies were listening with laughing faces, when suddenly, as
Myles looked, he saw the smile vanish from Lady Alice’s eyes and a wide
terror take its place. She gave a half-articulate cry, and rose abruptly
from the bench upon which she was sitting.

Myles turned sharply, and then his very heart seemed to stand still within
him; for there, standing in the broad sunlight without, and glaring in
upon the party with baleful eyes, was the Earl of Mackworth himself.

How long was the breathless silence that followed, Myles could never tell.
He knew that the Lady Anne had also risen, and that she and her cousin
were standing as still as statues. Presently the Earl pointed to the house
with his staff, and Myles noted stupidly how it trembled in his hand.

“Ye wenches,” said he at last, in a hard, harsh voice—“ye wenches,
what meaneth this? Would ye deceive me so, and hold parlance thus secretly
with this fellow? I will settle with him anon. Meantime get ye straightway
to the house and to your rooms, and there abide until I give ye leave to
come forth again. Go, I say!”

“Father,” said Lady Anne, in a breathless voice—she was as white as
death, and moistened her lips with her tongue before she spoke—“father,
thou wilt not do harm to this young man. Spare him, I do beseech thee, for
truly it was I who bade him come hither. I know that he would not have
come but at our bidding.”

The Earl stamped his foot upon the gravel. “Did ye not hear me?” said he,
still pointing towards the house with his trembling staff. “I bade ye go
to your rooms. I will settle with this fellow, I say, as I deem fitting.”

“Father,” began Lady Anne again; but the Earl made such a savage gesture
that poor Lady Alice uttered a faint shriek, and Lady Anne stopped
abruptly, trembling. Then she turned and passed out the farther door of
the summerhouse, poor little Lady Alice following, holding her tight by
the skirts, and trembling and shuddering as though with a fit of the ague.

The Earl stood looking grimly after them from under his shaggy eyebrows,
until they passed away behind the yew-trees, appeared again upon the
terrace behind, entered the open doors of the women’s house, and were
gone. Myles heard their footsteps growing fainter and fainter, but he
never raised his eyes. Upon the ground at his feet were four pebbles, and
he noticed how they almost made a square, and would do so if he pushed one
of them with his toe, and then it seemed strange to him that he should
think of such a little foolish thing at that dreadful time.

He knew that the Earl was looking gloomily at him, and that his face must
be very pale. Suddenly Lord Mackworth spoke. “What hast thou to say?” said
he, harshly.

Then Myles raised his eyes, and the Earl smiled grimly as he looked his
victim over. “I have naught to say,” said the lad, huskily.

“Didst thou not hear what my daughter spake but now?” said the Earl. “She
said that thou came not of thy own free-will; what sayst thou to that,
sirrah—is it true?”

Myles hesitated for a moment or two; his throat was tight and dry. “Nay,”
said he at last, “she belieth herself. It was I who first came into the
garden. I fell by chance from the tree yonder—I was seeking a ball—then
I asked those two if I might not come hither again, and so have done some
several times in all. But as for her—nay; it was not at her bidding
that I came, but through mine own asking.”

The Earl gave a little grunt in his throat. “And how often hast thou been
here?” said he, presently.

Myles thought a moment or two. “This maketh the seventh time,” said he.

Another pause of silence followed, and Myles began to pluck up some heart
that maybe all would yet be well. The Earl’s next speech dashed that hope
into a thousand fragments. “Well thou knowest,” said he, “that it is
forbid for any to come here. Well thou knowest that twice have men been
punished for this thing that thou hast done, and yet thou camest in spite
of all. Now dost thou know what thou wilt suffer?”

Myles picked with nervous fingers at a crack in the oaken post against
which he leaned. “Mayhap thou wilt kill me,” said he at last, in a dull,
choking voice.

Again the Earl smiled a grim smile. “Nay,” said he, “I would not slay
thee, for thou hast gentle blood. But what sayest thou should I shear
thine ears from thine head, or perchance have thee scourged in the great
court?”

The sting of the words sent the blood flying back to Myles’s face again,
and he looked quickly up. “Nay,” said he, with a boldness that surprised
himself; “thou shalt do no such unlordly thing upon me as that. I be thy
peer, sir, in blood; and though thou mayst kill me, thou hast no right to
shame me.”

Lord Mackworth bowed with a mocking courtesy. “Marry!” said he. “Methought
it was one of mine own saucy popinjay squires that I caught sneaking here
and talking to those two foolish young lasses, and lo! it is a young Lord—or
mayhap thou art a young Prince—and commandeth me that I shall not do
this and I shall not do that. I crave your Lordship’s honorable pardon, if
I have said aught that may have galled you.”

The fear Myles had felt was now beginning to dissolve in rising wrath.
“Nay,” said he, stoutly, “I be no Lord and I be no Prince, but I be as
good as thou. For am I not the son of thy onetime very true comrade and
thy kinsman—to wit, the Lord Falworth, whom, as thou knowest, is
poor and broken, and blind, and helpless, and outlawed, and banned? Yet,”
cried he, grinding his teeth, as the thought of it all rushed in upon him,
“I would rather be in his place than in yours; for though he be ruined,
you—”

He had just sense enough to stop there.

The Earl, gripping his staff behind his back, and with his head a little
bent, was looking keenly at the lad from under his shaggy gray brows.
“Well,” said he, as Myles stopped, “thou hast gone too far now to draw
back. Say thy say to the end. Why wouldst thou rather be in thy father’s
stead than in mine?”

Myles did not answer.

“Thou shalt finish thy speech, or else show thyself a coward. Though thy
father is ruined, thou didst say I am—what?”

Myles keyed himself up to the effort, and then blurted out, “Thou art
attainted with shame.”

A long breathless silence followed.

“Myles Falworth,” said the Earl at last (and even in the whirling of his
wits Myles wondered that he had the name so pat)—“Myles Falworth, of
all the bold, mad, hare-brained fools, thou art the most foolish. How dost
thou dare say such words to me? Dost thou not know that thou makest thy
coming punishment ten times more bitter by such a speech?”

“Aye!” cried Myles, desperately; “but what else could I do? An I did not
say the words, thou callest me coward, and coward I am not.”

“By ‘r Lady!” said the Earl, “I do believe thee. Thou art a bold, impudent
varlet as ever lived—to beard me so, forsooth! Hark’ee; thou sayst I
think naught of mine old comrade. I will show thee that thou dost belie
me. I will suffer what thou hast said to me for his sake, and for his sake
will forgive thee thy coming hither—which I would not do in another
case to any other man. Now get thee gone straightway, and come hither no
more. Yonder is the postern-gate; mayhap thou knowest the way. But stay!
How camest thou hither?”

Myles told him of the spikes he had driven in the wall, and the Earl
listened, stroking his beard. When the lad had ended, he fixed a sharp
look upon him. “But thou drove not those spikes alone,” said he; “who
helped thee do it?”

“That I may not tell,” said Myles, firmly.

“So be it,” said the Earl. “I will not ask thee to tell his name. Now get
thee gone! And as for those spikes, thou mayst e’en knock them out of the
wall, sin thou drave them in. Play no more pranks an thou wouldst keep thy
skin whole. And now go, I say!”

Myles needed no further bidding, but turned and left the Earl without
another word. As he went out the postern-gate he looked over his shoulder,
and saw the tall figure, in its long fur-trimmed gown, still standing in
the middle of the path, looking after him from under the shaggy eyebrows.

As he ran across the quadrangle, his heart still fluttering in his breast,
he muttered to himself, “The old grizzle-beard; an I had not faced him a
bold front, mayhap he would have put such shame upon me as he said. I
wonder why he stood so staring after me as I left the garden.”

Then for the time the matter slipped from his mind, saving only that part
that smacked of adventure.


CHAPTER 20

So for a little while Myles was disposed to congratulate himself upon
having come off so well from his adventure with the Earl. But after a day
or two had passed, and he had time for second thought, he began to
misdoubt whether, after all, he might not have carried it with a better
air if he had shown more chivalrous boldness in the presence of his true
lady; whether it would not have redounded more to his credit if he had in
some way asserted his rights as the young dame’s knight-errant and
defender. Was it not ignominious to resign his rights and privileges so
easily and tamely at a signal from the Earl?

“For, in sooth,” said he to Gascoyne, as the two talked the matter over,
“she hath, in a certain way, accepted me for her knight, and yet I stood
me there without saying so much as one single word in her behalf.”

“Nay,” said Gascoyne, “I would not trouble me on that score. Methinks that
thou didst come off wondrous well out of the business. I would not have
thought it possible that my Lord could ha’ been so patient with thee as he
showed himself. Methinks, forsooth, he must hold thee privily in right
high esteem.”

“Truly,” said Myles, after a little pause of meditative silence, “I know
not of any esteem, yet I do think he was passing patient with me in this
matter. But ne’theless, Francis, that changeth not my stand in the case.
Yea, I did shamefully, so to resign my lady without speaking one word; nor
will I so resign her even yet. I have bethought me much of this matter of
late, Francis, and now I come to thee to help me from my evil case. I
would have thee act the part of a true friend to me—like that one I
have told thee of in the story of the Emperor Justinian. I would have
thee, when next thou servest in the house, to so contrive that my Lady
Alice shall get a letter which I shall presently write, and wherein I may
set all that is crooked straight again.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Gascoyne, hastily, “that I should be such a fool as
to burn my fingers in drawing thy nuts from the fire! Deliver thy letter
thyself, good fellow!”

So spoke Gascoyne, yet after all he ended, as he usually did, by yielding
to Myles’s superior will and persistence. So the letter was written and
one day the good-natured Gascoyne carried it with him to the house, and
the opportunity offering, gave it to one of the young ladies attendant
upon the Countess’s family—a lass with whom he had friendly intimacy—to
be delivered to Lady Alice.

But if Myles congratulated himself upon the success of this new adventure,
it was not for long. That night, as the crowd of pages and squires were
making themselves ready for bed, the call came through the uproar for
“Myles Falworth! Myles Falworth!”

“Here I be,” cried Myles, standing up on his cot. “Who calleth me?”

It was the groom of the Earl’s bedchamber, and seeing Myles standing thus
raised above the others, he came walking down the length of the room
towards him, the wonted hubbub gradually silencing as he advanced and the
youngsters turning, staring, and wondering.

“My Lord would speak with thee, Myles Falworth,” said the groom, when he
had come close enough to where Myles stood. “Busk thee and make ready; he
is at livery even now.”

The groom’s words fell upon Myles like a blow. He stood for a while
staring wide-eyed. “My Lord speak with me, sayst thou!” he ejaculated at
last.

“Aye,” said the other, impatiently; “get thee ready quickly. I must return
anon.”

Myles’s head was in a whirl as he hastily changed his clothes for a better
suit, Gascoyne helping him. What could the Earl want with him at this
hour? He knew in his heart what it was; the interview could concern
nothing but the letter that he had sent to Lady Alice that day. As he
followed the groom through the now dark and silent courts, and across the
corner of the great quadrangle, and so to the Earl’s house, he tried to
brace his failing courage to meet the coming interview. Nevertheless, his
heart beat tumultuously as he followed the other down the long corridor,
lit only by a flaring link set in a wrought-iron bracket. Then his
conductor lifted the arras at the door of the bedchamber, whence came the
murmuring sound of many voices, and holding it aside, beckoned him to
enter, and Myles passed within. At the first, he was conscious of nothing
but a crowd of people, and of the brightness of many lighted candles; then
he saw that he stood in a great airy room spread with a woven mat of
rushes. On three sides the walls were hung with tapestry representing
hunting and battle scenes, at the farther end, where the bed stood, the
stone wall of the fourth side was covered with cloth of blue, embroidered
with silver goshawks. Even now, in the ripe springtime of May, the room
was still chilly, and a great fire roared and crackled in the huge gaping
mouth of the stone fireplace. Not far from the blaze were clustered the
greater part of those present, buzzing in talk, now and then swelled by
murmuring laughter. Some of those who knew Myles nodded to him, and two or
three spoke to him as he stood waiting, whilst the groom went forward to
speak to the Earl; though what they said and what he answered, Myles, in
his bewilderment and trepidation, hardly knew.

As was said before, the livery was the last meal of the day, and was taken
in bed. It was a simple repast—a manchette, or small loaf of bread
of pure white flour, a loaf of household bread, sometimes a lump of
cheese, and either a great flagon of ale or of sweet wine, warm and
spiced. The Earl was sitting upright in bed, dressed in a furred
dressing-gown, and propped up by two cylindrical bolsters of crimson
satin. Upon the coverlet, and spread over his knees, was a large wide
napkin of linen fringed with silver thread, and on it rested a silver tray
containing the bread and some cheese. Two pages and three gentlemen were
waiting upon him, and Mad Noll, the jester, stood at the head of the bed,
now and then jingling his bawble and passing some quaint jest upon the
chance of making his master smile. Upon a table near by were some dozen or
so waxen tapers struck upon as many spiked candlesticks of silver-gilt,
and illuminating that end of the room with their bright twinkling flames.
One of the gentlemen was in the act of serving the Earl with a goblet of
wine, poured from a silver ewer by one of the squires, as the groom of the
chamber came forward and spoke. The Earl, taking the goblet, turned his
head, and as Myles looked, their eyes met. Then the Earl turned away again
and raised the cup to his lips, while Myles felt his heart beat more
rapidly than ever.

But at last the meal was ended, and the Earl washed his hands and his
mouth and his beard from a silver basin of scented water held by another
one of the squires. Then, leaning back against the pillows, he beckoned to
Myles.

In answer Myles walked forward the length of the room, conscious that all
eyes were fixed upon him. The Earl said something, and those who stood
near drew back as he came forward. Then Myles found himself standing
beside the bed, looking down upon the quilted counterpane, feeling that
the other was gazing fixedly at him.

“I sent for thee,” said the Earl at last, still looking steadily at him,
“because this afternoon came a letter to my hand which thou hadst written
to my niece, the Lady Alice. I have it here,” said he, thrusting his hand
under the bolster, “and have just now finished reading it.” Then, after a
moment’s pause, whilst he opened the parchment and scanned it again, “I
find no matter of harm in it, but hereafter write no more such.” He spoke
entirely without anger, and Myles looked up in wonder. “Here, take it,”
said the Earl, folding the letter and tossing it to Myles, who
instinctively caught it, “and henceforth trouble thou my niece no more
either by letter or any other way. I thought haply thou wouldst be at some
such saucy trick, and I made Alice promise to let me know when it happed.
Now, I say, let this be an end of the matter. Dost thou not know thou
mayst injure her by such witless folly as that of meeting her privily, and
privily writing to her?”

“I meant no harm,” said Myles.

“I believe thee,” said the Earl. “That will do now; thou mayst go.”

Myles hesitated.

“What wouldst thou say?” said Lord Mackworth.

“Only this,” said Myles, “an I have thy leave so to do, that the Lady
Alice hath chosen me to be her knight, and so, whether I may see her or
speak with her or no, the laws of chivalry give me, who am gentle born,
the right to serve her as a true knight may.”

“As a true fool may,” said the Earl, dryly. “Why, how now, thou art not a
knight yet, nor anything but a raw lump of a boy. What rights do the laws
of chivalry give thee, sirrah? Thou art a fool!”

Had the Earl been ever so angry, his words would have been less bitter to
Myles than his cool, unmoved patience; it mortified his pride and galled
it to the quick.

“I know that thou dost hold me in contempt,” he mumbled.

“Out upon thee!” said the Earl, testily. “Thou dost tease me beyond
patience. I hold thee in contempt, forsooth! Why, look thee, hadst thou
been other than thou art, I would have had thee whipped out of my house
long since. Thinkest thou I would have borne so patiently with another one
of ye squires had such an one held secret meeting with my daughter and
niece, and tampered, as thou hast done, with my household, sending through
one of my people that letter? Go to; thou art a fool, Myles Falworth!”

Myles stood staring at the Earl without making an effort to speak. The
words that he had heard suddenly flashed, as it were, a new light into his
mind. In that flash he fully recognized, and for the first time, the
strange and wonderful forbearance the great Earl had shown to him, a poor
obscure boy. What did it mean? Was Lord Mackworth his secret friend, after
all, as Gascoyne had more than once asserted? So Myles stood silent,
thinking many things.

Meantime the other lay back upon the cylindrical bolsters, looking
thoughtfully at him. “How old art thou?” said he at last.

“Seventeen last April,” answered Myles.

“Then thou art old enough to have some of the thoughts of a man, and to
lay aside those of a boy. Haply thou hast had foolish things in thy head
this short time past; it is time that thou put them away. Harkee, sirrah!
the Lady Alice is a great heiress in her own right, and mayst command the
best alliance in England—an Earl—a Duke. She groweth apace to
a woman, and then her kind lieth in Courts and great houses. As for thee,
thou art but a poor lad, penniless and without friends to aid thee to open
advancement. Thy father is attainted, and one whisper of where he lieth
hid would bring him thence to the Tower, and haply to the block. Besides
that, he hath an enemy, as Sir James Lee hath already told thee—an
enemy perhaps more great and powerful than myself. That enemy watcheth for
thy father and for thee; shouldst thou dare raise thy head or thy fortune
ever so little, he would haply crop them both, and that parlously quick.
Myles Falworth, how dost thou dare to lift thine eyes to the Lady Alice de
Mowbray?”

Poor Myles stood silent and motionless. “Sir,” said he at last, in a dry
choking voice, “thou art right, and I have been a fool. Sir, I will never
raise mine eyes to look upon the Lady Alice more.”

“I say not that either, boy,” said the Earl; “but ere thou dost so dare,
thou must first place thyself and thy family whence ye fell. Till then, as
thou art an honest man, trouble her not. Now get thee gone.”

As Myles crossed the dark and silent courtyards, and looked up at the
clear, still twinkle of the stars, he felt a kind of dull wonder that they
and the night and the world should seem so much the same, and he be so
different.

The first stroke had been given that was to break in pieces his boyhood
life—the second was soon to follow.


CHAPTER 21

There are now and then times in the life of every one when new and strange
things occur with such rapidity that one has hardly time to catch one’s
breath between the happenings. It is as though the old were crumbling away—breaking
in pieces—to give place to the new that is soon to take its place.

So it was with Myles Falworth about this time. The very next day after
this interview in the bed-chamber, word came to him that Sir James Lee
wished to speak with him in the office. He found the lean, grizzled old
knight alone, sitting at the heavy oaken table with a tankard of spiced
ale at his elbow, and a dish of wafers and some fragments of cheese on a
pewter platter before him. He pointed to his clerk’s seat—a joint
stool somewhat like a camp-chair, but made of heavy oaken braces and with
a seat of hog-skin—and bade Myles be seated.

It was the first time that Myles had ever heard of such courtesy being
extended to one of the company of squires, and, much wondering, he obeyed
the invitation, or rather command, and took the seat.

The old knight sat regarding him for a while in silence, his one eye, as
bright and as steady as that of a hawk, looking keenly from under the
penthouse of its bushy brows, the while he slowly twirled and twisted his
bristling wiry mustaches, as was his wont when in meditation. At last he
broke the silence. “How old art thou?” said he, abruptly.

“I be turned seventeen last April,” Myles answered, as he had the evening
before to Lord Mackworth.

“Humph!” said Sir James; “thou be’st big of bone and frame for thine age.
I would that thy heart were more that of a man likewise, and less that of
a giddy, hare-brained boy, thinking continually of naught but mischief.”

Again he fell silent, and Myles sat quite still, wondering if it was on
account of any special one of his latest escapades that he had been
summoned to the office—the breaking of the window in the Long Hall
by the stone he had flung at the rook, or the climbing of the South Tower
for the jackdaw’s nest.

“Thou hast a friend,” said Sir James, suddenly breaking into his
speculations, “of such a kind that few in this world possess. Almost ever
since thou hast been here he hath been watching over thee. Canst thou
guess of whom I speak?”

“Haply it is Lord George Beaumont,” said Myles; “he hath always been
passing kind to me.

“Nay,” said Sir James, “it is not of him that I speak, though methinks he
liketh thee well enow. Canst thou keep a secret, boy?” he asked, suddenly.

“Yea,” answered Myles.

“And wilt thou do so in this case if I tell thee who it is that is thy
best friend here?”

“Yea.”

“Then it is my Lord who is that friend—the Earl himself; but see
that thou breathe not a word of it.”

Myles sat staring at the old knight in utter and profound amazement, and
presently Sir James continued: “Yea, almost ever since thou hast come here
my Lord hath kept oversight upon all thy doings, upon all thy mad pranks
and thy quarrels and thy fights, thy goings out and comings in. What
thinkest thou of that, Myles Falworth?”

Again the old knight stopped and regarded the lad, who sat silent, finding
no words to answer. He seemed to find a grim pleasure in the youngster’s
bewilderment and wonder. Then a sudden thought came to Myles.

“Sir,” said he, “did my Lord know that I went to the privy garden as I
did?”

“Nay,” said Sir James; “of that he knew naught at first until thy father
bade thy mother write and tell him.”

“My father!” ejaculated Myles.

“Aye,” said Sir James, twisting his mustaches more vigorously than ever.
“So soon as thy father heard of that prank, he wrote straightway to my
Lord that he should put a stop to what might in time have bred mischief.”

“Sir,” said Myles, in an almost breathless voice, “I know not how to
believe all these things, or whether I be awake or a-dreaming.”

“Thou be’st surely enough awake,” answered the old man; “but there are
other matters yet to be told. My Lord thinketh, as others of us do—Lord
George and myself—that it is now time for thee to put away thy
boyish follies, and learn those things appertaining to manhood. Thou hast
been here a year now, and hast had freedom to do as thou might list; but,
boy,”—and the old warrior spoke seriously, almost solemnly—“upon
thee doth rest matters of such great import that did I tell them to thee
thou couldst not grasp them. My Lord deems that thou hast, mayhap, promise
beyond the common of men; ne’theless it remaineth yet to be seen an he be
right; it is yet to test whether that promise may be fulfilled. Next
Monday I and Sir Everard Willoughby take thee in hand to begin training
thee in the knowledge and the use of the jousting lance, of arms, and of
horsemanship. Thou art to go to Ralph Smith, and have him fit a suit of
plain armor to thee which he hath been charged to make for thee against
this time. So get thee gone, think well over all these matters, and
prepare thyself by next Monday. But stay, sirrah,” he added, as Myles,
dazed and bewildered, turned to obey; “breathe to no living soul what I
ha’ told thee—that my Lord is thy friend—neither speak of
anything concerning him. Such is his own heavy command laid upon thee.”

Then Myles turned again without a word to leave the room. But as he
reached the door Sir James stopped him a second time.

“Stay!” he called. “I had nigh missed telling thee somewhat else. My Lord
hath made thee a present this morning that thou wottest not of. It is”—then
he stopped for a few moments, perhaps to enjoy the full flavor of what he
had to say—“it is a great Flemish horse of true breed and right
mettle; a horse such as a knight of the noblest strain might be proud to
call his own. Myles Falworth, thou wert born upon a lucky day!”

“Sir,” cried Myles, and then stopped short. Then, “Sir,” he cried again,
“didst thou say it—the horse—was to be mine?”

“Aye, it is to be thine.”

“My very own?”

“Thy very own.”

How Myles Falworth left that place he never knew. He was like one in some
strange, some wonderful dream. He walked upon air, and his heart was so
full of joy and wonder and amazement that it thrilled almost to agony. Of
course his first thought was of Gascoyne. How he ever found him he never
could tell, but find him he did.

“Come, Francis!” he cried, “I have that to tell thee so marvellous that
had it come upon me from paradise it could not be more strange.”

Then he dragged him away to their Eyry—it had been many a long day
since they had been there—and to all his friend’s speeches, to all
his wondering questions, he answered never a word until they had climbed
the stairs, and so come to their old haunt. Then he spoke.

“Sit thee down, Francis,” said he, “till I tell thee that which passeth
wonder.” As Gascoyne obeyed, he himself stood looking about him. “This is
the last time I shall ever come hither,” said he. And thereupon he poured
out his heart to his listening friend in the murmuring solitude of the
airy height. He did not speak of the Earl, but of the wonderful new life
that had thus suddenly opened before him, with its golden future of
limitless hopes, of dazzling possibilities, of heroic ambitions. He told
everything, walking up and down the while—for he could not remain
quiet—his cheeks glowing and his eyes sparkling.

Gascoyne sat quite still, staring straight before him. He knew that his
friend was ruffling eagle pinions for a flight in which he could never
hope to follow, and somehow his heart ached, for he knew that this must be
the beginning of the end of the dear, delightful friendship of the year
past.


CHAPTER 22

And so ended Myles Falworth’s boyhood. Three years followed, during which
he passed through that state which immediately follows boyhood in all
men’s lives—a time when they are neither lads nor grown men, but
youths passing from the one to the other period through what is often an
uncouth and uncomfortable age.

He had fancied, when he talked with Gascoyne in the Eyry that time, that
he was to become a man all at once; he felt just then that he had forever
done with boyish things. But that is not the way it happens in men’s
lives. Changes do not come so suddenly and swiftly as that, but by little
and little. For three or four days, maybe, he went his new way of life big
with the great change that had come upon him, and then, now in this and
now in that, he drifted back very much into his old ways of boyish doings.
As was said, one’s young days do not end all at once, even when they be so
suddenly and sharply shaken, and Myles was not different from others. He
had been stirred to the core by that first wonderful sight of the great
and glorious life of manhood opening before him, but he had yet many a
sport to enjoy, many a game to play, many a boisterous romp to riot in the
dormitory, many an expedition to make to copse and spinney and river on
days when he was off duty, and when permission had been granted.

Nevertheless, there was a great and vital change in his life; a change
which he hardly felt or realized. Even in resuming his old life there was
no longer the same vitality, the same zest, the same enjoyment in all
these things. It seemed as though they were no longer a part of himself.
The savor had gone from them, and by-and-by it was pleasanter to sit
looking on at the sports and the games of the younger lads than to take
active part in them.

These three years of his life that had thus passed had been very full;
full mostly of work, grinding and monotonous; of training dull, dry,
laborious. For Sir James Lee was a taskmaster as hard as iron and
seemingly as cold as a stone. For two, perhaps for three, weeks Myles
entered into his new exercises with all the enthusiasm that novelty
brings; but these exercises hardly varied a tittle from day to day, and
soon became a duty, and finally a hard and grinding task. He used, in the
earlier days of his castle life, to hate the dull monotony of the
tri-weekly hacking at the pels with a heavy broadsword as he hated nothing
else; but now, though he still had that exercise to perform, it was almost
a relief from the heavy dulness of riding, riding, riding in the tilt-yard
with shield and lance—couch—recover—en passant.

But though he had nowadays but little time for boyish plays and escapades,
his life was not altogether without relaxation. Now and then he was
permitted to drive in mock battle with other of the younger knights and
bachelors in the paddock near the outer walls. It was a still more welcome
change in the routine of his life when, occasionally, he would break a
light lance in the tilting-court with Sir Everard Willoughby; Lord George,
perhaps, and maybe one or two others of the Hall folk, looking on.

Then one gilded day, when Lord Dudleigh was visiting at Devlen, Myles ran
a course with a heavier lance in the presence of the Earl, who came down
to the tilt-yard with his guest to see the young novitiate ride against
Sir Everard. He did his best, and did it well. Lord Dudleigh praised his
poise and carriage, and Lord George, who was present, gave him an
approving smile and nod. But the Earl of Mackworth only sat stroking his
beard impassively, as was his custom. Myles would have given much to know
his thoughts.

In all these years Sir James Lee almost never gave any expression either
of approbation or disapproval—excepting when Myles exhibited some
carelessness or oversight. Then his words were sharp and harsh enough.
More than once Myles’s heart failed him, and bitter discouragement took
possession of him; then nothing but his bull-dog tenacity and stubbornness
brought him out from the despondency of the dark hours.

“Sir,” he burst out one day, when his heart was heavy with some failure,
“tell me, I beseech thee, do I get me any of skill at all? Is it in me
ever to make a worthy knight, fit to hold lance and sword with other men,
or am I only soothly a dull heavy block, worth naught of any good?”

“Thou art a fool, sirrah!” answered Sir James, in his grimmest tones.
“Thinkest thou to learn all of knightly prowess in a year and a half? Wait
until thou art ripe, and then I will tell thee if thou art fit to couch a
lance or ride a course with a right knight.”

“Thou art an old bear!” muttered Myles to himself, as the old one-eyed
knight turned on his heel and strode away. “Beshrew me! an I show thee not
that I am as worthy to couch a lance as thou one of these fine days!”

However, during the last of the three years the grinding routine of his
training had not been quite so severe as at first. His exercises took him
more often out into the fields, and it was during this time of his
knightly education that he sometimes rode against some of the castle
knights in friendly battle with sword or lance or wooden mace. In these
encounters he always held his own; and held it more than well, though, in
his boyish simplicity, he was altogether unconscious of his own skill,
address, and strength. Perhaps it was his very honest modesty that made
him so popular and so heartily liked by all.

He had by this time risen to the place of head squire or chief bachelor,
holding the same position that Walter Blunt had occupied when he himself
had first come, a raw country boy, to Devlen. The lesser squires and pages
fairly worshipped him as a hero, albeit imposing upon his good-nature. All
took a pride in his practice in knightly exercises, and fabulous tales
were current among the young fry concerning his strength and skill.

Yet, although Myles was now at the head of his class, he did not, as other
chief bachelors had done, take a leading position among the squires in the
Earl’s household service. Lord Mackworth, for his own good reasons,
relegated him to the position of Lord George’s especial attendant.
Nevertheless, the Earl always distinguished him from the other esquires,
giving him a cool nod whenever they met; and Myles, upon his part—now
that he had learned better to appreciate how much his Lord had done for
him—would have shed the last drop of blood in his veins for the head
of the house of Beaumont.

As for the two young ladies, he often saw them, and sometimes, even in the
presence of the Earl, exchanged a few words with them, and Lord Mackworth
neither forbade it nor seemed to notice it.

Towards the Lady Anne he felt the steady friendly regard of a lad for a
girl older than himself; towards the Lady Alice, now budding into ripe
young womanhood, there lay deep in his heart the resolve to be some day
her true knight in earnest as he had been her knight in pretence in that
time of boyhood when he had so perilously climbed into the privy garden.

In body and form he was now a man, and in thought and heart was quickly
ripening to manhood, for, as was said before, men matured quickly in those
days. He was a right comely youth, for the promise of his boyish body had
been fulfilled in a tall, powerful, well-knit frame. His face was still
round and boyish, but on cheek and chin and lip was the curl of adolescent
beard—soft, yellow, and silky. His eyes were as blue as steel, and
quick and sharp in glance as those of a hawk; and as he walked, his arms
swung from his broad, square shoulders, and his body swayed with pent-up
strength ready for action at any moment.

If little Lady Alice, hearing much talk of his doings and of his promise
in these latter times, thought of him now and then it is a matter not
altogether to be wondered at.

Such were the changes that three years had wrought. And from now the story
of his manhood really begins.

Perhaps in all the history of Devlen Castle, even at this, the high tide
of pride and greatness of the house of Beaumont, the most notable time was
in the early autumn of the year 1411, when for five days King Henry IV was
entertained by the Earl of Mackworth. The King was at that time making a
progress through certain of the midland counties, and with him travelled
the Comte de Vermoise. The Count was the secret emissary of the Dauphin’s
faction in France, at that time in the very bitterest intensity of the
struggle with the Duke of Burgundy, and had come to England seeking aid
for his master in his quarrel.

It was not the first time that royalty had visited Devlen. Once, in Earl
Robert’s day, King Edward II had spent a week at the castle during the
period of the Scottish wars. But at that time it was little else than a
military post, and was used by the King as such. Now the Beaumonts were in
the very flower of their prosperity, and preparations were made for the
coming visit of royalty upon a scale of such magnificence and splendor as
Earl Robert, or perhaps even King Edward himself, had never dreamed.

For weeks the whole castle had been alive with folk hurrying hither and
thither; and with the daily and almost hourly coming of pack-horses, laden
with bales and boxes, from London. From morning to night one heard the
ceaseless chip-chipping of the masons’ hammers, and saw carriers of stones
and mortar ascending and descending the ladders of the scaffolding that
covered the face of the great North Hall. Within, that part of the
building was alive with the scraping of the carpenters’ saws, the
clattering of lumber, and the rapping and banging of hammers.

The North Hall had been assigned as the lodging place for the King and his
court, and St. George’s Hall (as the older building adjoining it was
called) had been set apart as the lodging of the Comte de Vermoise and the
knights and gentlemen attendant upon him.

The great North Hall had been very much altered and changed for the
accommodation of the King and his people; a beautiful gallery of carved
wood-work had been built within and across the south end of the room for
the use of the ladies who were to look down upon the ceremonies below. Two
additional windows had been cut through the wall and glazed, and
passage-ways had been opened connecting with the royal apartments beyond.
In the bedchamber a bed of carved wood and silver had been built into the
wall, and had been draped with hangings of pale blue and silver, and a
magnificent screen of wrought-iron and carved wood had been erected around
the couch; rich and beautiful tapestries brought from Italy and Flanders
were hung upon the walls; cushions of velvets and silks stuffed with down
covered benches and chairs. The floor of the hall was spread with mats of
rushes stained in various colors, woven into curious patterns, and in the
smaller rooms precious carpets of arras were laid on the cold stones.

All of the cadets of the House had been assembled; all of the gentlemen in
waiting, retainers and clients. The castle seemed full to overflowing;
even the dormitory of the squires was used as a lodging place for many of
the lesser gentry.

So at last, in the midst of all this bustle of preparation, came the day
of days when the King was to arrive. The day before a courier had come
bringing the news that he was lodging at Donaster Abbey overnight, and
would make progress the next day to Devlen.

That morning, as Myles was marshalling the pages and squires, and, with
the list of names in his hand, was striving to evolve some order out of
the confusion, assigning the various individuals their special duties—these
to attend in the household, those to ride in the escort—one of the
gentlemen of Lord George’s household came with an order for him to come
immediately to the young nobleman’s apartments. Myles hastily turned over
his duties to Gascoyne and Wilkes, and then hurried after the messenger.
He found Lord George in the antechamber, three gentlemen squires arming
him in a magnificent suit of ribbed Milan.

He greeted Myles with a nod and a smile as the lad entered. “Sirrah,” said
he, “I have had a talk with Mackworth this morn concerning thee, and have
a mind to do thee an honor in my poor way. How wouldst thou like to ride
to-day as my special squire of escort?”

Myles flushed to the roots of his hair. “Oh, sir!” he cried, eagerly, “an
I be not too ungainly for thy purpose, no honor in all the world could be
such joy to me as that!”

Lord George laughed. “A little matter pleases thee hugely,” said he; “but
as to being ungainly, who so sayeth that of thee belieth thee, Myles; thou
art not ungainly, sirrah. But that is not to the point. I have chosen thee
for my equerry to-day; so make thou haste and don thine armor, and then
come hither again, and Hollingwood will fit thee with a wreathed bascinet
I have within, and a juppon embroidered with my arms and colors.”

When Myles had made his bow and left his patron, he flew across the
quadrangle, and burst into the armory upon Gascoyne, whom he found still
lingering there, chatting with one or two of the older bachelors.

“What thinkest thou, Francis?” he cried, wild with excitement. “An honor
hath been done me this day I could never have hoped to enjoy. Out of all
this household, Lord George hath chose me his equerry for the day to ride
to meet the King. Come, hasten to help me to arm! Art thou not glad of
this thing for my sake, Francis?”

“Aye, glad am I indeed!” cried Gascoyne, that generous friend; “rather
almost would I have this befall thee than myself!” And indeed he was
hardly less jubilant than Myles over the honor.

Five minutes later he was busy arming him in the little room at the end of
the dormitory which had been lately set apart for the use of the head
bachelor. “And to think,” he said, looking up as he kneeled, strapping the
thigh-plates to his friend’s legs, “that he should have chosen thee before
all others of the fine knights and lords and gentlemen of quality that are
here!”

“Yea,” said Myles, “it passeth wonder. I know not why he should so single
me out for such an honor. It is strangely marvellous.”

“Nay,” said Gascoyne, “there is no marvel in it, and I know right well why
he chooseth thee. It is because he sees, as we all see, that thou art the
stoutest and the best-skilled in arms, and most easy of carriage of any
man in all this place.”

Myles laughed. “An thou make sport of me,” said he, “I’ll rap thy head
with this dagger hilt. Thou art a silly fellow, Francis, to talk so. But
tell me, hast thou heard who rides with my Lord?”

“Yea, I heard Wilkes say anon that it was Sir James Lee.”

“I am right glad of that,” said Myles; “for then he will show me what to
do and how to bear myself. It frights me to think what would hap should I
make some mistake in my awkwardness. Methinks Lord George would never have
me with him more should I do amiss this day.”

“Never fear,” said Gascoyne; “thou wilt not do amiss.”

And now, at last, the Earl, Lord George, and all their escort were ready;
then the orders were given to horse, the bugle sounded, and away they all
rode, with clashing of iron hoofs and ringing and jingling of armor, out
into the dewy freshness of the early morning, the slant yellow sun of
autumn blazing and flaming upon polished helmets and shields, and
twinkling like sparks of fire upon spear points. Myles’s heart thrilled
within him for pure joy, and he swelled out his sturdy young breast with
great draughts of the sweet fresh air that came singing across the sunny
hill-tops. Sir James Lee, who acted as the Earl’s equerry for the day,
rode at a little distance, and there was an almost pathetic contrast
between the grim, steadfast impassiveness of the tough old warrior and
Myles’s passionate exuberance of youth.

At the head of the party rode the Earl and his brother side by side, each
clad cap-a-pie in a suit of Milan armor, the cuirass of each covered with
a velvet juppon embroidered in silver with the arms and quarterings of the
Beaumonts. The Earl wore around his neck an “S S” collar, with a jewelled
St. George hanging from it, and upon his head a vizored bascinet,
ornamented with a wreath covered with black and yellow velvet and
glistening with jewels.

Lord George, as was said before, was clad in a beautiful suit of ribbed
Milan armor. It was rimmed with a thin thread of gold, and, like his
brother, he wore a bascinet wreathed with black and yellow velvet.

Behind the two brothers and their equerries rode the rest in their proper
order—knights, gentlemen, esquires, men-at-arms—to the number,
perhaps, of two hundred and fifty; spears and lances aslant, and banners,
permons, and pencels of black and yellow fluttering in the warm September
air.

From the castle to the town they rode, and then across the bridge, and
thence clattering up through the stony streets, where the folk looked down
upon them from the windows above, or crowded the fronts of the shops of
the tradesmen. Lusty cheers were shouted for the Earl, but the great Lord
rode staring ever straight before him, as unmoved as a stone. Then out of
the town they clattered, and away in a sweeping cloud of dust across the
country-side.

It was not until they had reached the windy top of Willoughby Croft, ten
miles away, that they met the King and his company. As the two parties
approached to within forty or fifty yards of one another they stopped.

As they came to a halt, Myles observed that a gentleman dressed in a plain
blue-gray riding-habit, and sitting upon a beautiful white gelding, stood
a little in advance of the rest of the party, and he knew that that must
be the King. Then Sir James nodded to Myles, and leaping from his horse,
flung the reins to one of the attendants. Myles did the like; and then,
still following Sir James’s lead as he served Lord Mackworth, went forward
and held Lord George’s stirrup while he dismounted. The two noblemen
quickly removed each his bascinet, and Myles, holding the bridle-rein of
Lord George’s horse with his left hand, took the helmet in his right,
resting it upon his hip.

Then the two brothers walked forward bare-headed, the Earl, a little in
advance. Reaching the King he stopped, and then bent his knee—stiffly
in the armored plates—until it touched the ground. Thereupon the
King reached him his hand, and he, rising again, took it, and set it to
his lips.

Then Lord George, advancing, kneeled as his brother had kneeled, and to
him also the King gave his hand.

Myles could hear nothing, but he could see that a few words of greeting
passed between the three, and then the King, turning, beckoned to a knight
who stood just behind him and a little in advance of the others of the
troop. In answer, the knight rode forward; the King spoke a few words of
introduction, and the stranger, ceremoniously drawing off his right
gauntlet, clasped the hand, first of the Earl, and then of Lord George.
Myles knew that he must be the great Comte de Vermoise, of whom he had
heard so much of late.

A few moments of conversation followed, and then the King bowed slightly.
The French nobleman instantly reined back his horse, an order was given,
and then the whole company moved forward, the two brothers walking upon
either side of the King, the Earl lightly touching the bridle-rein with
his bare hand.

Whilst all this was passing, the Earl of Mackworth’s company had been
drawn up in a double line along the road-side, leaving the way open to the
other party. As the King reached the head of the troop, another halt
followed while he spoke a few courteous words of greeting to some of the
lesser nobles attendant upon the Earl whom he knew.

In that little time he was within a few paces of Myles, who stood
motionless as a statue, holding the bascinet and the bridle-rein of Lord
George’s horse.

What Myles saw was a plain, rather stout man, with a face fat, smooth, and
waxy, with pale-blue eyes, and baggy in the lids; clean shaven, except for
a mustache and tuft covering lips and chin. Somehow he felt a deep
disappointment. He had expected to see something lion-like, something
regal, and, after all, the great King Henry was commonplace, fat,
unwholesome-looking. It came to him with a sort of a shock that, after
all, a King was in nowise different from other men.

Meanwhile the Earl and his brother replaced their bascinets, and presently
the whole party moved forward upon the way to Mackworth.


CHAPTER 23

That same afternoon the squires’ quarters were thrown into such a ferment
of excitement as had, perhaps, never before stirred them. About one
o’clock in the afternoon the Earl himself and Lord George came walking
slowly across the Armory Court wrapped in deep conversation, and entered
Sir James Lee’s office.

All the usual hubbub of noise that surrounded the neighborhood of the
dormitory and the armory was stilled at their coming, and when the two
noblemen had entered Sir James’s office, the lads and young men gathered
in knots discussing with an almost awesome interest what that visit might
portend.

After some time Sir James Lee came to the door at the head of the long
flight of stone steps, and whistling, beckoned one of the smaller pages to
him. He gave a short order that sent the little fellow flying on some
mission. In the course of a few minutes he returned, hurrying across the
stony court with Myles Falworth, who presently entered Sir James’s office.
It was then and at this sight that the intense half-suppressed excitement
reached its height of fever-heat. What did it all mean? The air was filled
with a thousand vague, wild rumors—but the very wildest surmises
fell short of the real truth.

Perhaps Myles was somewhat pale when he entered the office; certainly his
nerves were in a tremor, for his heart told him that something very
portentous was about to befall him. The Earl sat at the table, and in the
seat that Sir James Lee usually occupied; Lord George half sat, half
leaned in the window-place. Sir James stood with his back to the empty
fireplace, and his hands clasped behind him. All three were very serious.

“Give thee good den, Myles Falworth,” said the Earl, as Myles bowed first
to him and then to the others; “and I would have thee prepare thyself for
a great happening.” Then, continuing directly to the point: “Thou knowest,
sirrah, why we have been training thee so closely these three years gone;
it is that thou shouldst be able to hold thine own in the world. Nay, not
only hold thine own, but to show thyself to be a knight of prowess
shouldst it come to a battle between thee and thy father’s enemy; for
there lieth no half-way place for thee, and thou must be either great or
else nothing. Well, sir, the time hath now come for thee to show thy
mettle. I would rather have chosen that thou hadst labored a twelvemonth
longer; but now, as I said, hath come a chance to prove thyself that may
never come again. Sir James tells me that thou art passably ripe in skill.
Thou must now show whether that be so or no. Hast thou ever heard of the
Sieur de la Montaigne?”

“Yea, my Lord. I have heard of him often,” answered Myles. “It was he who
won the prize at the great tourney at Rochelle last year.”

“I see that thou hast his fame pat to thy tongue’s end,” said the Earl;
“he is the chevalier of whom I speak, and he is reckoned the best knight
of Dauphiny. That one of which thou spokest was the third great tourney in
which he was adjudged the victor. I am glad that thou holdest his prowess
highly. Knowest thou that he is in the train of the Comte de Vermoise?”

“Nay,” said Myles, flushing; “I did hear news he was in England, but knew
not that he was in this place.”

“Yea,” said Lord Mackworth; “he is here.” He paused for a moment; then
said, suddenly. “Tell me, Myles Falworth, an thou wert a knight and of
rank fit to run a joust with the Sieur de la Montaigne, wouldst thou dare
encounter him in the lists?”

The Earl’s question fell upon Myles so suddenly and unexpectedly that for
a moment or so he stood staring at the speaker with mouth agape. Meanwhile
the Earl sat looking calmly back at him, slowly stroking his beard the
while.

It was Sir James Lee’s voice that broke the silence. “Thou heardst thy
Lord speak,” said he, harshly. “Hast thou no tongue to answer, sirrah?”

“Be silent, Lee,” said Lord Mackworth, quietly. “Let the lad have time to
think before he speaketh.”

The sound of the words aroused Myles. He advanced to the table, and rested
his hand upon it. “My Lord—my Lord,” said he, “I know not what to
say, I—I am amazed and afeard.”

“How! how!” cried Sir James Lee, harshly. “Afeard, sayst thou? An thou art
afeard, thou knave, thou needst never look upon my face or speak to me
more! I have done with thee forever an thou art afeard even were the
champion a Sir Alisander.”

“Peace, peace, Lee,” said the Earl, holding up his hand. “Thou art too
hasty. The lad shall have his will in this matter, and thou and no one
shall constrain him. Methinks, also, thou dost not understand him. Speak
from thy heart, Myles; why art thou afraid?”

“Because,” said Myles, “I am so young, sir; I am but a raw boy. How should
I dare be so hardy as to venture to set lance against such an one as the
Sieur de la Montaigne? What would I be but a laughing-stock for all the
world who would see me so foolish as to venture me against one of such
prowess and skill?”

“Nay, Myles,” said Lord George, “thou thinkest not well enough of thine
own skill and prowess. Thinkest thou we would undertake to set thee
against him, an we did not think that thou couldst hold thine own fairly
well?”

“Hold mine own?” cried Myles, turning to Lord George. “Sir; thou dost not
mean—thou canst not mean, that I may hope or dream to hold mine own
against the Sieur de la Montaigne.”

“Aye,” said Lord George, “that was what I did mean.”

“Come, Myles,” said the Earl; “now tell me: wilt thou fight the Sieur de
la Montaigne?”

“Yea,” said Myles, drawing himself to his full height and throwing out his
chest. “Yea,” and his cheeks and forehead flushed red; “an thou bid me do
so, I will fight him.”

“There spake my brave lad!” cried Lord George heartily.

“I give thee joy, Myles,” said the Earl, reaching him his hand, which
Myles took and kissed. “And I give thee double joy. I have talked with the
King concerning thee this morning, and he hath consented to knight thee—yea,
to knight thee with all honors of the Bath—provided thou wilt match
thee against the Sieur de la Montaigne for the honor of England and
Mackworth. Just now the King lieth to sleep for a little while after his
dinner; have thyself in readiness when he cometh forth, and I will have
thee presented.”

Then the Earl turned to Sir James Lee, and questioned him as to how the
bachelors were fitted with clothes. Myles listened, only half hearing the
words through the tumbling of his thoughts. He had dreamed in his
day-dreams that some time he might be knighted, but that time always
seemed very, very distant. To be knighted now, in his boyhood, by the
King, with the honors of the Bath, and under the patronage of the Earl of
Mackworth; to joust—to actually joust—with the Sieur de la
Montaigne, one of the most famous chevaliers of France! No wonder he only
half heard the words; half heard the Earl’s questions concerning his
clothes and the discussion which followed; half heard Lord George
volunteer to array him in fitting garments from his own wardrobe.

“Thou mayst go now,” said the Earl, at last turning to him. “But be thou
at George’s apartments by two of the clock to be dressed fittingly for the
occasion.”

Then Myles went out stupefied, dazed, bewildered. He looked around, but he
did not see Gascoyne. He said not a word to any of the others in answer to
the eager questions poured upon him by his fellow-squires, but walked
straight away. He hardly knew where he went, but by-and-by he found
himself in a grassy angle below the end of the south stable; a spot
overlooking the outer wall and the river beyond. He looked around; no one
was near, and he flung himself at length, burying his face in his arms.
How long he lay there he did not know, but suddenly some one touched him
upon the shoulder, and he sprang up quickly. It was Gascoyne.

“What is to do, Myles?” said his friend, anxiously. “What is all this talk
I hear concerning thee up yonder at the armory?”

“Oh, Francis!” cried Myles, with a husky choking voice: “I am to be
knighted—by the King—by the King himself; and I—I am to
fight the Sieur de la Montaigne.”

He reached out his hand, and Gascoyne took it. They stood for a while
quite silent, and when at last the stillness was broken, it was Gascoyne
who spoke, in a choking voice.

“Thou art going to be great, Myles,” said he. “I always knew that it must
be so with thee, and now the time hath come. Yea, thou wilt be great, and
live at court amongst noble folk, and Kings haply. Presently thou wilt not
be with me any more, and wilt forget me by-and-by.”

“Nay, Francis, never will I forget thee!” answered Myles, pressing his
friend’s hand. “I will always love thee better than any one in the world,
saving only my father and my mother.”

Gascoyne shook his head and looked away, swallowing at the dry lump in his
throat. Suddenly he turned to Myles. “Wilt thou grant me a boon?”

“Yea,” answered Myles. “What is it?”

“That thou wilt choose me for thy squire.”

“Nay,” said Myles; “how canst thou think to serve me as squire? Thou wilt
be a knight thyself some day, Francis, and why dost thou wish now to be my
squire?”

“Because,” said Gascoyne, with a short laugh, “I would rather be in thy
company as a squire than in mine own as a knight, even if I might be
banneret.”

Myles flung his arm around his friend’s neck, and kissed him upon the
cheek. “Thou shalt have thy will,” said he; “but whether knight or squire,
thou art ever mine own true friend.”

Then they went slowly back together, hand in hand, to the castle world
again.

At two o’clock Myles went to Lord George’s apartments, and there his
friend and patron dressed him out in a costume better fitted for the
ceremony of presentation—a fur-trimmed jacket of green brocaded
velvet embroidered with golden thread, a black velvet hood-cap rolled like
a turban and with a jewel in the front, a pair of crimson hose, and a pair
of black velvet shoes trimmed and stitched with gold-thread. Myles had
never worn such splendid clothes in his life before, and he could not but
feel that they became him well.

“Sir,” said he, as he looked down at himself, “sure it is not lawful for
me to wear such clothes as these.”

In those days there was a law, known as a sumptuary law, which regulated
by statute the clothes that each class of people were privileged to wear.
It was, as Myles said, against the law for him to wear such garments as
those in which he was clad—either velvet, crimson stuff, fur or
silver or gold embroidery—nevertheless such a solemn ceremony as
presentation to the King excused the temporary overstepping of the law,
and so Lord George told him. As he laid his hand upon the lad’s shoulder
and held him off at arm’s-length, he added, “And I pledge thee my word,
Myles, that thou art as lusty and handsome a lad as ever mine eyes
beheld.”

“Thou art very kind to me, sir,” said Myles, in answer.

Lord George laughed; and then giving him a shake, let go his shoulder.

It was about three o’clock when little Edmond de Montefort, Lord
Mackworth’s favorite page, came with word that the King was then walking
in the Earl’s pleasance.

“Come, Myles,” said Lord George, and then Myles arose from the seat where
he had been sitting, his heart palpitating and throbbing tumultuously.

At the wicket-gate of the pleasance two gentlemen-at-arms stood guard in
half-armor; they saluted Lord George, and permitted him to pass with his
protege. As he laid his hand upon the latch of the wicket he paused for a
moment and turned.

“Myles,” said he, in a low voice, “thou art a thoughtful and cautious lad;
for thy father’s sake be thoughtful and cautious now. Do not speak his
name or betray that thou art his son.” Then he opened the wicket-gate and
entered.

Any lad of Myles’s age, even one far more used to the world than he, would
perhaps have felt all the oppression that he experienced under the weight
of such a presentation. He hardly knew what he was doing as Lord George
led him to where the King stood, a little apart from the attendants, with
the Earl and the Comte de Vermoise. Even in his confusion he knew enough
to kneel, and somehow his honest, modest diffidence became the young
fellow very well. He was not awkward, for one so healthful in mind and
body as he could not bear himself very ill, and he felt the assurance that
in Lord George he had a kind friend at his side, and one well used to
court ceremonies to lend him countenance. Then there is something always
pleasing in frank, modest manliness such as was stamped on Myles’s
handsome, sturdy face. No doubt the King’s heart warmed towards the
fledgling warrior kneeling in the pathway before him. He smiled very
kindly as he gave the lad his hand to kiss, and that ceremony done, held
fast to the hard, brown, sinewy fist of the young man with his soft white
hand, and raised him to his feet.

“By the mass!” said he, looking Myles over with smiling eyes, “thou art a
right champion in good sooth. Such as thou art haply was Sir Galahad when
he came to Arthur’s court. And so they tell me, thou hast stomach to brook
the Sieur de la Montaigne, that tough old boar of Dauphiny. Hast thou in
good sooth the courage to face him? Knowest thou what a great thing it is
that thou hast set upon thyself—to do battle, even in sport, with
him?”

“Yea, your Majesty,” answered Myles, “well I wot it is a task haply beyond
me. But gladly would I take upon me even a greater venture, and one more
dangerous, to do your Majesty’s pleasure!”

The King looked pleased. “Now that was right well said, young man,” said
he, “and I like it better that it came from such young and honest lips.
Dost thou speak French?”

“Yea, your Majesty,” answered Myles. “In some small measure do I so.”

“I am glad of that,” said the King; “for so I may make thee acquainted
with Sieur de la Montaigne.”

He turned as he ended speaking, and beckoned to a heavy, thick-set,
black-browed chevalier who stood with the other gentlemen attendants at a
little distance. He came instantly forward in answer to the summons, and
the King introduced the two to one another. As each took the other
formally by the hand, he measured his opponent hastily, body and limb, and
perhaps each thought that he had never seen a stronger, stouter,
better-knit man than the one upon whom he looked. But nevertheless the
contrast betwixt the two was very great—Myles, young, boyish,
fresh-faced; the other, bronzed, weather beaten, and seamed with a great
white scar that ran across his forehead and cheek; the one a novice, the
other a warrior seasoned in twoscore battles.

A few polite phrases passed between the two, the King listening smiling,
but with an absent and far-away look gradually stealing upon his face. As
they ended speaking, a little pause of silence followed, and then the King
suddenly aroused himself.

“So,” said he, “I am glad that ye two are acquainted. And now we will
leave our youthful champion in thy charge, Beaumont—and in thine,
Mon Sieur, as well—and so soon as the proper ceremonies are ended,
we will dub him knight with our own hands. And now, Mackworth, and thou my
Lord Count, let us walk a little; I have bethought me further concerning
these threescore extra men for Dauphiny.”

Then Myles withdrew, under the charge of Lord George and the Sieur de la
Montaigne and while the King and the two nobles walked slowly up and down
the gravel path between the tall rose-bushes, Myles stood talking with the
gentlemen attendants, finding himself, with a certain triumphant
exultation, the peer of any and the hero of the hour.

That night was the last that Myles and Gascoyne spent lodging in the
dormitory in their squirehood service. The next day they were assigned
apartments in Lord George’s part of the house, and thither they
transported themselves and their belongings, amid the awestruck wonder and
admiration of their fellow-squires.


CHAPTER 24

In Myles Falworth’s day one of the greatest ceremonies of courtly life was
that of the bestowal of knighthood by the King, with the honors of the
Bath. By far the greater number of knights were at that time created by
other knights, or by nobles, or by officers of the crown. To be knighted
by the King in person distinguished the recipient for life. It was this
signal honor that the Earl, for his own purposes, wished Myles to enjoy,
and for this end he had laid not a few plans.

The accolade was the term used for the creation of a knight upon the field
of battle. It was a reward of valor or of meritorious service, and was
generally bestowed in a more or less off-hand way; but the ceremony of the
Bath was an occasion of the greatest courtly moment, and it was thus that
Myles Falworth was to be knighted in addition to the honor of a royal
belting.

A quaint old book treating of knighthood and chivalry gives a full and
detailed account of all the circumstances of the ceremony of a creation of
a Knight of the Bath. It tells us that the candidate was first placed
under the care of two squires of honor, “grave and well seen in courtship
and nurture, and also in feats of chivalry,” which same were likewise to
be governors in all things relating to the coming honors.

First of all, the barber shaved him, and cut his hair in a certain
peculiar fashion ordained for the occasion, the squires of honor
supervising the operation. This being concluded, the candidate was
solemnly conducted to the chamber where the bath of tepid water was
prepared, “hung within and without with linen, and likewise covered with
rich cloths and embroidered linen.” While in the bath two “ancient, grave,
and reverend knights” attended the bachelor, giving him “meet instructions
in the order and feats of chivalry.” The candidate was then examined as to
his knowledge and acquirements, and then, all questions being answered to
the satisfaction of his examiners, the elder of the two dipped a handful
of water out from the bath, and poured it upon his head, at the same time
signing his left shoulder with the sign of the cross.

As soon as this ceremony was concluded, the two squires of honor helped
their charge from the bath, and conducted him to a plain bed without
hangings, where they let him rest until his body was warm and dry. Then
they clad him in a white linen shirt, and over it a plain robe of russet,
“girdled about the loins with a rope, and having a hood like unto a
hermit.”

As soon as the candidate had arisen, the two “ancient knights” returned,
and all being in readiness he was escorted to the chapel, the two walking,
one upon either side of him, his squires of honor marching before, and the
whole party preceded by “sundry minstrels making a loud noise of music.”

When they came to the chapel, the two knights who escorted him took leave
of the candidate, each saluting him with a kiss upon the cheek. No one
remained with him but his squires of honor, the priest, and the chandler.

In the mean time the novitiate’s armor, sword, lance, and helmet had been
laid in readiness before the altar. These he watched and guarded while the
others slept, keeping vigil until sunrise, during which time “he shall,”
says the ancient authority, “pass the night in orisons, prayers, and
meditation.” At daylight he confessed to the priest, heard matins, and
communicated in mass, and then presented a lighted candle at the altar,
with a piece of money stuck in it as close to the flame as could be done,
the candle being offered to the honor of God, and the money to the honor
of that person who was to make him a knight.

So concluded the sacred ceremony, which being ended his squires conducted
the candidate to his chamber, and there made him comfortable, and left him
to repose for a while before the second and final part of the ordinance.

Such is a shortened account of the preparatory stages of the ceremonies
through which Myles Falworth passed.

Matters had come upon him so suddenly one after the other, and had come
with such bewildering rapidity that all that week was to him like some
strange, wonderful, mysterious vision. He went through it all like one in
a dream. Lord George Beaumont was one of his squires of honor; the other,
by way of a fitting complement to the courage of the chivalrous lad, was
the Sieur de la Montaigne, his opponent soon to be. They were well versed
in everything relating to knightcraft, and Myles followed all their
directions with passive obedience. Then Sir James Lee and the Comte de
Vermoise administered the ceremony of the Bath, the old knight examining
him in the laws of chivalry.

It occurs perhaps once or twice in one’s lifetime that one passes through
great happenings—sometimes of joy, sometimes of dreadful bitterness—in
just such a dazed state as Myles passed through this. It is only
afterwards that all comes back to one so sharply and keenly that the heart
thrills almost in agony in living it over again. But perhaps of all the
memory of that time, when it afterwards came back piece by piece, none was
so clear to Myles’s back-turned vision as the long night spent in the
chapel, watching his armor, thinking such wonderful thoughts, and dreaming
such wonderful wide-eyed dreams. At such times Myles saw again the dark
mystery of the castle chapel; he saw again the half-moon gleaming white
and silvery through the tall, narrow window, and throwing a broad form of
still whiteness across stone floor, empty seats, and still, motionless
figures of stone effigies. At such times he stood again in front of the
twinkling tapers that lit the altar where his armor lay piled in a heap,
heard again the deep breathing of his companions of the watch sleeping in
some empty stall, wrapped each in his cloak, and saw the old chandler
bestir himself, and rise and come forward to snuff the candles. At such
times he saw again the day growing clearer and clearer through the tall,
glazed windows, saw it change to a rosy pink, and then to a broad, ruddy
glow that threw a halo of light around Father Thomas’s bald head bowed in
sleep, and lit up the banners and trophies hanging motionless against the
stony face of the west wall; heard again the stirring of life without and
the sound of his companions arousing themselves; saw them come forward,
and heard them wish him joy that his long watch was ended.

It was nearly noon when Myles was awakened from a fitful sleep by Gascoyne
bringing in his dinner, but, as might be supposed, he had but little
hunger, and ate sparingly. He had hardly ended his frugal meal before his
two squires of honor came in, followed by a servant carrying the garments
for the coming ceremony. He saluted them gravely, and then arising, washed
his face and hands in a basin which Gascoyne held; then kneeled in prayer,
the others standing silent at a little distance. As he arose, Lord George
came forward.

“The King and the company come presently to the Great Hall, Myles,” said
he; “it is needful for thee to make all the haste that thou art able.”

Perhaps never had Devlen Castle seen a more brilliant and goodly company
gathered in the great hall than that which came to witness King Henry
create Myles Falworth a knight bachelor.

At the upper end of the hall was a raised dais, upon which stood a throne
covered with crimson satin and embroidered with lions and flower-deluces;
it was the King’s seat. He and his personal attendants had not yet come,
but the rest of the company were gathered. The day being warm and sultry,
the balcony was all aflutter with the feather fans of the ladies of the
family and their attendants, who from this high place looked down upon the
hall below. Up the centre of the hall was laid a carpet of arras, and the
passage was protected by wooden railings. Upon the one side were tiers of
seats for the castle gentlefolks and the guests. Upon the other stood the
burghers from the town, clad in sober dun and russet, and yeomanry in
green and brown. The whole of the great vaulted hall was full of the dull
hum of many people waiting, and a ceaseless restlessness stirred the
crowded throng. But at last a whisper went around that the King was
coming. A momentary hush fell, and through it was heard the noisy clatter
of horses’ feet coming nearer and nearer, and then stopping before the
door. The sudden blare of trumpets broke through the hush; another pause,
and then in through the great door-way of the hall came the royal
procession.

First of all marched, in the order of their rank, and to the number of a
score or more, certain gentlemen, esquires and knights, chosen mostly from
the King’s attendants. Behind these came two pursuivants-at-arms in
tabards, and following them a party of a dozen more bannerets and barons.
Behind these again, a little space intervening, came two heralds, also in
tabards, a group of the greater nobles attendant upon the King following
in the order of their rank. Next came the King-at-arms and, at a little
distance and walking with sober slowness, the King himself, with the Earl
and the Count directly attendant upon him—the one marching upon the
right hand and the other upon the left. A breathless silence filled the
whole space as the royal procession advanced slowly up the hall. Through
the stillness could be heard the muffled sound of the footsteps on the
carpet, the dry rustling of silk and satin garments, and the clear clink
and jingle of chains and jewelled ornaments, but not the sound of a single
voice.

After the moment or two of bustle and confusion of the King taking his
place had passed, another little space of expectant silence fell. At last
there suddenly came the noise of acclamation of those who stood without
the door—cheering and the clapping of hands—sounds heralding
the immediate advent of Myles and his attendants. The next moment the
little party entered the hall.

First of all, Gascoyne, bearing Myles’s sword in both hands, the hilt
resting against his breast, the point elevated at an angle of forty-five
degrees. It was sheathed in a crimson scabbard, and the belt of Spanish
leather studded with silver bosses was wound crosswise around it. From the
hilt of the sword dangled the gilt spurs of his coming knighthood. At a
little distance behind his squire followed Myles, the centre of all
observation. He was clad in a novitiate dress, arranged under Lord
George’s personal supervision. It had been made somewhat differently from
the fashion usual at such times, and was intended to indicate in a manner
the candidate’s extreme youthfulness and virginity in arms. The outer
garment was a tabard robe of white wool, embroidered at the hem with fine
lines of silver, and gathered loosely at the waist with a belt of lavender
leather stitched with thread of silver. Beneath he was clad in armor (a
present from the Earl), new and polished till it shone with dazzling
brightness, the breastplate covered with a juppon of white satin,
embroidered with silver. Behind Myles, and upon either hand, came his
squires of honor, sponsors, and friends—a little company of some
half-dozen in all. As they advanced slowly up the great, dim, high-vaulted
room, the whole multitude broke forth into a humming buzz of applause.
Then a sudden clapping of hands began near the door-way, ran down through
the length of the room, and was taken up by all with noisy clatter.

“Saw I never youth so comely,” whispered one of the Lady Anne’s attendant
gentlewomen. “Sure he looketh as Sir Galahad looked when he came first to
King Arthur’s court.”

Myles knew that he was very pale; he felt rather than saw the restless
crowd of faces upon either side, for his eyes were fixed directly before
him, upon the dais whereon sat the King, with the Earl of Mackworth
standing at his right hand, the Comte de Vermoise upon the left, and the
others ranged around and behind the throne. It was with the same tense
feeling of dreamy unreality that Myles walked slowly up the length of the
hall, measuring his steps by those of Gascoyne. Suddenly he felt Lord
George Beaumont touch him lightly upon the arm, and almost instinctively
he stopped short—he was standing just before the covered steps of
the throne.

He saw Gascoyne mount to the third step, stop short, kneel, and offer the
sword and the spurs he carried to the King, who took the weapon and laid
it across his knees. Then the squire bowed low, and walking backward
withdrew to one side, leaving Myles standing alone facing the throne. The
King unlocked the spur chains from the sword-hilt, and then, holding the
gilt spurs in his hand for a moment, he looked Myles straight in the eyes
and smiled. Then he turned, and gave one of the spurs to the Earl of
Mackworth.

The Earl took it with a low bow, turned, and came slowly down the steps to
where Myles stood. Kneeling upon one knee, and placing Myles’s foot upon
the other, Lord Mackworth set the spur in its place and latched the chain
over the instep. He drew the sign of the cross upon Myles’s bended knee,
set the foot back upon the ground, rose with slow dignity, and bowing to
the King, drew a little to one side.

As soon as the Earl had fulfilled his office the King gave the second spur
to the Comte de Vermoise, who set it to Myles’s other foot with the same
ceremony that the Earl had observed, withdrawing as he had done to one
side.

An instant pause of motionless silence followed, and then the King slowly
arose, and began deliberately to unwind the belt from around the scabbard
of the sword he held. As soon as he stood, the Earl and the Count
advanced, and taking Myles by either hand, led him forward and up the
steps of the dais to the platform above. As they drew a little to one
side, the King stooped and buckled the sword-belt around Myles’s waist,
then, rising again, lifted his hand and struck him upon the shoulder,
crying, in a loud voice.

“Be thou a good knight!”

Instantly a loud sound of applause and the clapping of hands filled the
whole hall, in the midst of which the King laid both hands upon Myles’s
shoulders and kissed him upon the right cheek. So the ceremony ended;
Myles was no longer Myles Falworth, but Sir Myles Falworth, Knight by
Order of the Bath and by grace of the King!


CHAPTER 25

It was the custom to conclude the ceremonies of the bestowal of knighthood
by a grand feast given in honor of the newly-created knight. But in
Myles’s instance the feast was dispensed with. The Earl of Mackworth had
planned that Myles might be created a Knight of the Bath with all possible
pomp and ceremony; that his personality might be most favorably impressed
upon the King; that he might be so honorably knighted as to make him the
peer of any who wore spurs in all England; and, finally, that he might
celebrate his new honors by jousting with some knight of high fame and
approved valor. All these desiderata chance had fulfilled in the visit of
the King to Devlen.

As the Earl had said to Myles, he would rather have waited a little while
longer until the lad was riper in years and experience, but the
opportunity was not to be lost. Young as he was, Myles must take his
chances against the years and grim experience of the Sieur de la
Montaigne. But it was also a part of the Earl’s purpose that the King and
Myles should not be brought too intimately together just at that time.
Though every particular of circumstance should be fulfilled in the
ceremony, it would have been ruination to the Earl’s plans to have the
knowledge come prematurely to the King that Myles was the son of the
attainted Lord Falworth. The Earl knew that Myles was a shrewd, coolheaded
lad; but the King had already hinted that the name was familiar to his
ears, and a single hasty answer or unguarded speech upon the young
knight’s part might awaken him to a full knowledge. Such a mishap was, of
all things, to be avoided just then, for, thanks to the machinations of
that enemy of his father of whom Myles had heard so much, and was soon to
hear more, the King had always retained and still held a bitter and
rancorous enmity against the unfortunate nobleman.

It was no very difficult matter for the Earl to divert the King’s
attention from the matter of the feast. His Majesty was very intent just
then upon supplying a quota of troops to the Dauphin, and the chief object
of his visit to Devlen was to open negotiations with the Earl looking to
that end. He was interested—much interested in Myles and in the
coming jousting in which the young warrior was to prove himself, but he
was interested in it by way of a relaxation from the other and more
engrossing matter. So, though he made some passing and half preoccupied
inquiry about the feast he was easily satisfied with the Earl’s reasons
for not holding it: which were that he had arranged a consultation for
that morning in regard to the troops for the Dauphin, to which meeting he
had summoned a number of his own more important dependent nobles, that the
King himself needed repose and the hour or so of rest that his
barber-surgeon had ordered him to take after his mid-day meal; that Father
Thomas had laid upon Myles a petty penance—that for the first three
days of his knighthood he should eat his meals without meat and in his own
apartment—and various other reasons equally good and sufficient. So
the King was satisfied, and the feast was dispensed with.

The next morning had been set for the jousting, and all that day the
workmen were busy erecting the lists in the great quadrangle upon which,
as was said before, looked the main buildings of the castle. The windows
of Myles’s apartment opened directly upon the bustling scene—the
carpenters hammering and sawing, the upholsterers snipping, cutting, and
tacking. Myles and Gascoyne stood gazing out from the open casement, with
their arms lying across one another’s shoulders in the old boyhood
fashion, and Myles felt his heart shrink with a sudden tight pang as the
realization came sharply and vividly upon him that all these preparations
were being made for him, and that the next day he should, with almost the
certainty of death, meet either glory or failure under the eyes not only
of all the greater and lesser castle folk, but of the King himself and
noble strangers critically used to deeds of chivalry and prowess. Perhaps
he had never fully realized the magnitude of the reality before. In that
tight pang at his heart he drew a deep breath, almost a sigh. Gascoyne
turned his head abruptly, and looked at his friend, but he did not ask the
cause of the sigh. No doubt the same thoughts that were in Myles’s mind
were in his also.

It was towards the latter part of the afternoon that a message came from
the Earl, bidding Myles attend him in his private closet. After Myles had
bowed and kissed his lordship’s hand, the Earl motioned him to take a
seat, telling him that he had some final words to say that might occupy a
considerable time. He talked to the young man for about half an hour in
his quiet, measured voice, only now and then showing a little agitation by
rising and walking up and down the room for a turn or two. Very many
things were disclosed in that talk that had caused Myles long hours of
brooding thought, for the Earl spoke freely, and without concealment to
him concerning his father and the fortunes of the house of Falworth.

Myles had surmised many things, but it was not until then that he knew for
a certainty who was his father’s malignant and powerful enemy—that
it was the great Earl of Alban, the rival and bitter enemy of the Earl of
Mackworth. It was not until then that he knew that the present Earl of
Alban was the Lord Brookhurst, who had killed Sir John Dale in the
anteroom at Falworth Castle that morning so long ago in his early
childhood. It was not until then that he knew all the circumstances of his
father’s blindness; that he had been overthrown in the melee at the great
tournament at York, and that that same Lord Brookhurst had ridden his
iron-shod war-horse twice over his enemy’s prostrate body before his
squire could draw him from the press, and had then and there given him the
wound from which he afterwards went blind. The Earl swore to Myles that
Lord Brookhurst had done what he did wilfully, and had afterwards boasted
of it. Then, with some hesitation, he told Myles the reason of Lord
Brookhurst’s enmity, and that it had arisen on account of Lady Falworth,
whom he had one time sought in marriage, and that he had sworn vengeance
against the man who had won her.

Piece by piece the Earl of Mackworth recounted every circumstance and
detail of the revenge that the blind man’s enemy had afterwards wreaked
upon him. He told Myles how, when his father was attainted of
high-treason, and his estates forfeited to the crown, the King had granted
the barony of Easterbridge to the then newly-created Earl of Alban in
spite of all the efforts of Lord Falworth’s friends to the contrary; that
when he himself had come out from an audience with the King, with others
of his father’s friends, the Earl of Alban had boasted in the anteroom, in
a loud voice, evidently intended for them all to hear, that now that he
had Falworth’s fat lands, he would never rest till he had hunted the blind
man out from his hiding, and brought his head to the block.

“Ever since then,” said the Earl of Mackworth “he hath been striving by
every means to discover thy father’s place of concealment. Some time,
haply, he may find it, and then—”

Myles had felt for a long time that he was being moulded and shaped, and
that the Earl of Mackworth’s was the hand that was making him what he was
growing to be; but he had never realized how great were the things
expected of him should he pass the first great test, and show himself what
his friends hoped to see him. Now he knew that all were looking upon him
to act, sometime, as his father’s champion, and when that time should
come, to challenge the Earl of Alban to the ordeal of single combat, to
purge his father’s name of treason, to restore him to his rank, and to set
the house of Falworth where it stood before misfortune fell upon it.

But it was not alone concerning his and his father’s affairs that the Earl
of Mackworth talked to Myles. He told him that the Earl of Alban was the
Earl of Mackworth’s enemy also; that in his younger days he had helped
Lord Falworth, who was his kinsman, to win his wife, and that then, Lord
Brookhurst had sworn to compass his ruin as he had sworn to compass the
ruin of his friend. He told Myles how, now that Lord Brookhurst was grown
to be Earl of Alban, and great and powerful, he was forever plotting
against him, and showed Myles how, if Lord Falworth were discovered and
arrested for treason, he also would be likely to suffer for aiding and
abetting him. Then it dawned upon Myles that the Earl looked to him to
champion the house of Beaumont as well as that of Falworth.

“Mayhap,” said the Earl, “thou didst think that it was all for the
pleasant sport of the matter that I have taken upon me this toil and
endeavor to have thee knighted with honor that thou mightst fight the
Dauphiny knight. Nay, nay, Myles Falworth, I have not labored so hard for
such a small matter as that. I have had the King, unknown to himself, so
knight thee that thou mayst be the peer of Alban himself, and now I would
have thee to hold thine own with the Sieur de la Montaigne, to try whether
thou be’st Alban’s match, and to approve thyself worthy of the honor of
thy knighthood. I am sorry, ne’theless,” he added, after a moment’s pause,
“that this could not have been put off for a while longer, for my plans
for bringing thee to battle with that vile Alban are not yet ripe. But
such a chance of the King coming hither haps not often. And then I am glad
of this much—that a good occasion offers to get thee presently away
from England. I would have thee out of the King’s sight so soon as may be
after this jousting. He taketh a liking to thee, and I fear me lest he
should inquire more nearly concerning thee and so all be discovered and
spoiled. My brother George goeth upon the first of next month to France to
take service with the Dauphin, having under his command a company of
tenscore men—knights and archers; thou shalt go with him, and there
stay till I send for thee to return.”

With this, the protracted interview concluded, the Earl charging Myles to
say nothing further about the French expedition for the present—even
to his friend—for it was as yet a matter of secrecy, known only to
the King and a few nobles closely concerned in the venture.

Then Myles arose to take his leave. He asked and obtained permission for
Gascoyne to accompany him to France. Then he paused for a moment or two,
for it was strongly upon him to speak of a matter that had been lying in
his mind all day—a matter that he had dreamed of much with open eyes
during the long vigil of the night before.

The Earl looked up inquiringly. “What is it thou wouldst ask?” said he.

Myles’s heart was beating quickly within him at the thought of his own
boldness, and as he spoke his cheeks burned like fire. “Sir,” said he,
mustering his courage at last, “haply thou hast forgot it, but I have not;
ne’theless, a long time since when I spoke of serving the—the Lady
Alice as her true knight, thou didst wisely laugh at my words, and bade me
wait first till I had earned my spurs. But now, sir, I have gotten my
spurs, and—and do now crave thy gracious leave that I may serve that
lady as her true knight.”

A space of dead silence fell, in which Myles’s heart beat tumultuously
within him.

“I know not what thou meanest,” said the Earl at last, in a somewhat
constrained voice. “How wouldst thou serve her? What wouldst thou have?”

“I would have only a little matter just now,” answered Myles. “I would but
crave of her a favor for to wear in the morrow’s battle, so that she may
know that I hold her for my own true lady, and that I may have the courage
to fight more boldly, having that favor to defend.”

The Earl sat looking at him for a while in brooding silence, stroking his
beard the while. Suddenly his brow cleared. “So be it,” said he. “I grant
thee my leave to ask the Lady Alice for a favor, and if she is pleased to
give it to thee, I shall not say thee nay. But I set this upon thee as a
provision: that thou shalt not see her without the Lady Anne be present.
Thus it was, as I remember, thou saw her first, and with it thou must now
be satisfied. Go thou to the Long Gallery, and thither they will come anon
if naught hinder them.”

Myles waited in the Long Gallery perhaps some fifteen or twenty minutes.
No one was there but himself. It was a part of the castle connecting the
Earl’s and the Countess’s apartments, and was used but little. During that
time he stood looking absently out of the open casement into the stony
court-yard beyond, trying to put into words that which he had to say;
wondering, with anxiety, how soon the young ladies would come; wondering
whether they would come at all. At last the door at the farther end of the
gallery opened, and turning sharply at the sound, he saw the two young
ladies enter, Lady Alice leaning upon Lady Anne’s arm. It was the first
time that he had seen them since the ceremony of the morning, and as he
advanced to meet them, the Lady Anne came frankly forward, and gave him
her hand, which Myles raised to his lips.

“I give thee joy of thy knighthood, Sir Myles,” said she, “and do believe,
in good sooth, that if any one deserveth such an honor, thou art he.”

At first little Lady Alice hung back behind her cousin, saying nothing
until the Lady Anne, turning suddenly, said: “Come, coz, has thou naught
to say to our new-made knight? Canst thou not also wish him joy of his
knighthood?”

Lady Alice hesitated a minute, then gave Myles a timid hand, which he,
with a strange mixture of joy and confusion, took as timidly as it was
offered. He raised the hand, and set it lightly and for an instant to his
lips, as he had done with the Lady Anne’s hand, but with very different
emotions.

“I give you joy of your knighthood, sir,” said Lady Alice, in a voice so
low that Myles could hardly hear it.

Both flushed red, and as he raised his head again, Myles saw that the Lady
Anne had withdrawn to one side. Then he knew that it was to give him the
opportunity to proffer his request.

A little space of silence followed, the while he strove to key his courage
to the saying of that which lay at his mind. “Lady,” said he at last, and
then again—“Lady, I—have a favor for to ask thee.”

“What is it thou wouldst have, Sir Myles?” she murmured, in reply.

“Lady,” said he, “ever sin I first saw thee I have thought that if I might
choose of all the world, thou only wouldst I choose for—for my true
lady, to serve as a right knight should.” Here he stopped, frightened at
his own boldness. Lady Alice stood quite still, with her face turned away.
“Thou—thou art not angered at what I say?” he said.

She shook her head.

“I have longed and longed for the time,” said he, “to ask a boon of thee,
and now hath that time come. Lady, to-morrow I go to meet a right good
knight, and one skilled in arms and in jousting, as thou dost know. Yea,
he is famous in arms, and I be nobody. Ne’theless, I fight for the honor
of England and Mackworth—and—and for thy sake. I—Thou
art not angered at what I say?”

Again the Lady Alice shook her head.

“I would that thou—I would that thou would give me some favor for to
wear—thy veil or thy necklace.”

He waited anxiously for a little while, but Lady Alice did not answer
immediately.

“I fear me,” said Myles, presently, “that I have in sooth offended thee in
asking this thing. I know that it is a parlous bold matter for one so raw
in chivalry and in courtliness as I am, and one so poor in rank, to ask
thee for thy favor. An I ha’ offended, I prithee let it be as though I had
not asked it.”

Perhaps it was the young man’s timidity that brought a sudden courage to
Lady Alice; perhaps it was the graciousness of her gentle breeding that
urged her to relieve Myles’s somewhat awkward humility, perhaps it was
something more than either that lent her bravery to speak, even knowing
that the Lady Anne heard all. She turned quickly to him: “Nay, Sir Myles,”
she said, “I am foolish, and do wrong thee by my foolishness and silence,
for, truly, I am proud to have thee wear my favor.” She unclasped, as she
spoke, the thin gold chain from about her neck. “I give thee this chain,”
said she, “and it will bring me joy to have it honored by thy true
knightliness, and, giving it, I do wish thee all success.” Then she bowed
her head, and, turning, left him holding the necklace in his hand.

Her cousin left the window to meet her, bowing her head with a smile to
Myles as she took her cousin’s arm again and led her away. He stood
looking after them as they left the room, and when they were gone, he
raised the necklace to his lips with a heart beating tumultuously with a
triumphant joy it had never felt before.


CHAPTER 26

And now, at last, had come the day of days for Myles Falworth; the day
when he was to put to the test all that he had acquired in the three years
of his training, the day that was to disclose what promise of future
greatness there was in his strong young body. And it was a noble day; one
of those of late September, when the air seems sweeter and fresher than at
other times; the sun bright and as yellow as gold, the wind lusty and
strong, before which the great white clouds go sailing majestically across
the bright blueness of the sky above, while their dusky shadows skim
across the brown face of the rusty earth beneath.

As was said before, the lists had been set up in the great quadrangle of
the castle, than which, level and smooth as a floor, no more fitting place
could be chosen. The course was of the usual size—sixty paces long—and
separated along its whole length by a barrier about five feet high. Upon
the west side of the course and about twenty paces distant from it, a
scaffolding had been built facing towards the east so as to avoid the
glare of the afternoon sun. In the centre was a raised dais, hung round
with cloth of blue embroidered with lions rampant. Upon the dais stood a
cushioned throne for the King, and upon the steps below, ranged in the
order of their dignity, were seats for the Earl, his guests, the family,
the ladies, knights, and gentlemen of the castle. In front, the
scaffolding was covered with the gayest tapestries and brightest-colored
hangings that the castle could afford. And above, parti-colored pennants
and streamers, surmounted by the royal ensign of England, waved and
fluttered in the brisk wind.

At either end of the lists stood the pavilions of the knights. That of
Myles was at the southern extremity and was hung, by the Earl’s desire,
with cloth of the Beaumont colors (black and yellow), while a wooden
shield bearing three goshawks spread (the crest of the house) was nailed
to the roof, and a long streamer of black and yellow trailed out in the
wind from the staff above. Myles, partly armed, stood at the door-way of
the pavilion, watching the folk gathering at the scaffolding. The ladies
of the house were already seated, and the ushers were bustling hither and
thither, assigning the others their places. A considerable crowd of common
folk and burghers from the town had already gathered at the barriers
opposite, and as he looked at the restless and growing multitude he felt
his heart beat quickly and his flesh grow cold with a nervous trepidation—just
such as the lad of to-day feels when he sees the auditorium filling with
friends and strangers who are to listen by-and-by to the reading of his
prize poem.

Suddenly there came a loud blast of trumpets. A great gate at the farther
extremity of the lists was thrown open, and the King appeared, riding upon
a white horse, preceded by the King-at-arms and the heralds, attended by
the Earl and the Comte de Vermoise, and followed by a crowd of attendants.
Just then Gascoyne, who, with Wilkes, was busied lacing some of the armor
plates with new thongs, called Myles, and he turned and entered the
pavilion.

As the two squires were adjusting these last pieces, strapping them in
place and tying the thongs, Lord George and Sir James Lee entered the
pavilion. Lord George took the young man by the hand, and with a pleasant
smile wished him success in the coming encounter.

Sir James seemed anxious and disturbed. He said nothing, and after
Gascoyne had placed the open bascinet that supports the tilting helm in
its place, he came forward and examined the armor piece by piece,
carefully and critically, testing the various straps and leather points
and thongs to make sure of their strength.

“Sir,” said Gascoyne, who stood by watching him anxiously, “I do trust
that I have done all meetly and well.”

“I see nothing amiss, sirrah,” said the old knight, half grudgingly. “So
far as I may know, he is ready to mount.”

Just then a messenger entered, saying that the King was seated, and Lord
George bade Myles make haste to meet the challenger.

“Francis,” said Myles, “prithee give me my pouch yonder.”

Gascoyne handed him the velvet bag, and he opened it, and took out the
necklace that the Lady Alice had given him the day before.

“Tie me this around my arm,” said he. He looked down, keeping his eyes
studiously fixed on Gascoyne’s fingers, as they twined the thin golden
chain around the iron plates of his right arm, knowing that Lord George’s
eyes were upon him, and blushing fiery red at the knowledge.

Sir James was at that moment examining the great tilting helm, and Lord
George watched him, smiling amusedly. “And hast thou then already chosen
thee a lady?” he said, presently.

“Aye, my Lord,” answered Myles, simply.

“Marry, I trust we be so honored that she is one of our castle folk,” said
the Earl’s brother.

For a moment Myles did not reply; then he looked up. “My Lord,” said he,
“the favor was given to me by the Lady Alice.”

Lord George looked grave for the moment; then he laughed. “Marry, thou art
a bold archer to shoot for such high game.”

Myles did not answer, and at that moment two grooms led his horse up to
the door of the pavilion. Gascoyne and Wilkes helped him to his saddle,
and then, Gascoyne holding his horse by the bridle-rein, he rode slowly
across the lists to the little open space in front of the scaffolding and
the King’s seat just as the Sieur de la Montaigne approached from the
opposite direction.

As soon as the two knights champion had reached each his appointed station
in front of the scaffolding, the Marshal bade the speaker read the
challenge, which, unrolling the parchment, he began to do in a loud, clear
voice, so that all might hear. It was a quaint document, wrapped up in the
tangled heraldic verbiage of the time.

The pith of the matter was that the Sieur Brian Philip Francis de la
Montaigne proclaimed before all men the greater chivalry and skill at arms
of the knights of France and of Dauphiny, and likewise the greater
fairness of the ladies of France and Dauphiny, and would there defend
those sayings with his body without fear or attaint as to the truth of the
same. As soon as the speaker had ended, the Marshal bade him call the
defendant of the other side.

Then Myles spoke his part, with a voice trembling somewhat with the
excitement of the moment, but loudly and clearly enough: “I, Myles Edward
Falworth, knight, so created by the hand and by the grace of his Majesty
King Henry IV of England, do take upon me the gage of this battle, and
will defend with my body the chivalry of the knights of England and the
fairness of the ladies thereof!”

Then, after the speaker ended his proclamation and had retired to his
place, the ceremony of claiming and redeeming the helmet, to which all
young knights were subjected upon first entering the lists, was performed.

One of the heralds cried in a loud voice, “I, Gilles Hamerton, herald to
the most noble Clarencieux King-at-arms, do claim the helm of Sir Myles
Edward Falworth by this reason, that he hath never yet entered joust or
tourney.”

To which Myles answered, “I do acknowledge the right of that claim, and
herewith proffer thee in ransom for the same this purse of one hundred
marks in gold.”

As he spoke, Gascoyne stepped forward and delivered the purse, with the
money, to the Herald. It was a more than usually considerable ransom, and
had been made up by the Earl and Lord George that morning.

“Right nobly hast thou redeemed thy helm,” said the Herald, “and hereafter
be thou free to enter any jousting whatsoever, and in whatever place.”

So, all being ended, both knights bowed to the King, and then, escorted
each by his squire, returned to his pavilion, saluted by the spectators
with a loud clapping of hands.

Sir James Lee met Myles in front of his tent. Coming up to the side of the
horse, the old man laid his hand upon the saddle, looking up into the
young man’s face.

“Thou wilt not fail in this venture and bring shame upon me?” said he.

“Nay, my dear master,” said Myles; “I will do my best.”

“I doubt it not,” said the old man; “and I believe me thou wilt come off
right well. From what he did say this morning, methinks the Sieur de la
Montaigne meaneth only to break three lances with thee, and will content
himself therewith, without seeking to unhorse thee. Ne’theless, be thou
bold and watchful, and if thou find that he endeavor to cast thee, do thy
best to unhorse him. Remember also those things which I have told thee ten
thousand times before: hold thy toes well down and grip the stirrup hard,
more especially at the moment of meeting; bend thy body forward, and keep
thine elbow close to thy side. Bear thy lance point one foot above thine
adversary’s helm until within two lengths of meeting, and strike thou in
the very middle of his shield. So, Myles, thou mayst hold thine own, and
come off with glory.”

As he ended speaking he drew back, and Gascoyne, mounting upon a stool,
covered his friend’s head and bascinet with the great jousting helm,
making fast the leathern points that held it to the iron collar.

As he was tying the last thong a messenger came from the Herald, saying
that the challenger was ready, and then Myles knew the time had come, and
reaching down and giving Sir James a grip of the hand, he drew on his
gauntlet, took the jousting lance that Wilkes handed him, and turned his
horse’s head towards his end of the lists.


CHAPTER 27

As Myles took his place at the south end of the lists, he found the Sieur
de la Montaigne already at his station. Through the peep-hole in the face
of the huge helmet, a transverse slit known as the occularium, he could
see, like a strange narrow picture, the farther end of the lists, the
spectators upon either side moving and shifting with ceaseless
restlessness, and in the centre of all, his opponent, sitting with spear
point directed upward, erect, motionless as a statue of iron, the sunlight
gleaming and flashing upon his polished plates of steel, and the trappings
of his horse swaying and fluttering in the rushing of the fresh breeze.

Upon that motionless figure his sight gradually centred with every faculty
of mind and soul. He knew the next moment the signal would be given that
was to bring him either glory or shame from that iron statue. He ground
his teeth together with stern resolve to do his best in the coming
encounter, and murmured a brief prayer in the hallow darkness of his huge
helm. Then with a shake he settled himself more firmly in his saddle,
slowly raised his spear point until the shaft reached the exact angle, and
there suffered it to rest motionless. There was a moment of dead, tense,
breathless pause, then he rather felt than saw the Marshal raise his
baton. He gathered himself together, and the next moment a bugle sounded
loud and clear. In one blinding rush he drove his spurs into the sides of
his horse, and in instant answer felt the noble steed spring forward with
a bound.

Through all the clashing of his armor reverberating in the hollow depths
of his helmet, he saw the mail-clad figure from the other end of the lists
rushing towards him, looming larger and larger as they came together. He
gripped his saddle with his knees, clutched the stirrup with the soles of
his feet, and bent his body still more forward. In the instant of meeting,
with almost the blindness of instinct, he dropped the point of his spear
against the single red flower-de-luce in the middle of the on-coming
shield. There was a thunderous crash that seemed to rack every joint, he
heard the crackle of splintered wood, he felt the momentary trembling
recoil of the horse beneath him, and in the next instant had passed by. As
he checked the onward rush of his horse at the far end of the course, he
heard faintly in the dim hollow recess of the helm the loud shout and the
clapping of hands of those who looked on, and found himself gripping with
nervous intensity the butt of a broken spear, his mouth clammy with
excitement, and his heart thumping in his throat.

Then he realized that he had met his opponent, and had borne the meeting
well. As he turned his horse’s head towards his own end of the lists, he
saw the other trotting slowly back towards his station, also holding a
broken spear shaft in his hand.

As he passed the iron figure a voice issued from the helmet, “Well done,
Sir Myles, nobly done!” and his heart bounded in answer to the words of
praise. When he had reached his own end of the lists, he flung away his
broken spear, and Gascoyne came forward with another.

“Oh, Myles!” he said, with sob in his voice, “it was nobly done. Never did
I see a better ridden course in all my life. I did not believe that thou
couldst do half so well. Oh, Myles, prithee knock him out of his saddle an
thou lovest me!”

Myles, in his high-keyed nervousness, could not forbear a short hysterical
laugh at his friend’s warmth of enthusiasm. He took the fresh lance in his
hand, and then, seeing that his opponent was walking his horse slowly up
and down at his end of the lists, did the same during the little time of
rest before the next encounter.

When, in answer to the command of the Marshal, he took his place a second
time, he found himself calmer and more collected than before, but every
faculty no less intensely fixed than it had been at first. Once more the
Marshal raised his baton, once more the horn sounded, and once more the
two rushed together with the same thunderous crash, the same splinter of
broken spears, the same momentary trembling recoil of the horse, and the
same onward rush past one another. Once more the spectators applauded and
shouted as the two knights turned their horses and rode back towards their
station.

This time as they met midway the Sieur de la Montaigne reined in his
horse. “Sir Myles,” said his muffled voice, “I swear to thee, by my faith,
I had not thought to meet in thee such an opponent as thou dost prove
thyself to be. I had thought to find in thee a raw boy, but find instead a
Paladin. Hitherto I have given thee grace as I would give grace to any
mere lad, and thought of nothing but to give thee opportunity to break thy
lance. Now I shall do my endeavor to unhorse thee as I would an
acknowledged peer in arms. Nevertheless, on account of thy youth, I give
thee this warning, so that thou mayst hold thyself in readiness.”

“I give thee gramercy for thy courtesy, my Lord,” answered Myles, speaking
in French; “and I will strive to encounter thee as best I may, and pardon
me if I seem forward in so saying, but were I in thy place, my Lord, I
would change me yon breast-piece and over-girth of my saddle; they are
sprung in the stitches.”

“Nay,” said the Sieur de la Montaigne, laughing, “breast-piece and
over-girth have carried me through more tilts than one, and shall through
this. An thou give me a blow so true as to burst breast-piece and
over-girth, I will own myself fairly conquered by thee.” So saying, he
saluted Myles with the butt of the spear he still held, and passed by to
his end of the lists.

Myles, with Gascoyne running beside him, rode across to his pavilion, and
called to Edmund Wilkes to bring him a cup of spiced wine. After Gascoyne
had taken off his helmet, and as he sat wiping the perspiration from his
face Sir James came up and took him by the hand.

“My dear boy,” said he, gripping the hand he held, “never could I hope to
be so overjoyed in mine old age as I am this day. Thou dost bring honor to
me, for I tell thee truly thou dost ride like a knight seasoned in twenty
tourneys.”

“It doth give me tenfold courage to hear thee so say, dear master,”
answered Myles. “And truly,” he added, “I shall need all my courage this
bout, for the Sieur de la Montaigne telleth me that he will ride to
unhorse me this time.”

“Did he indeed so say?” said Sir James. “Then belike he meaneth to strike
at thy helm. Thy best chance is to strike also at his. Doth thy hand
tremble?”

“Not now,” answered Myles.

“Then keep thy head cool and thine eye true. Set thy trust in God, and
haply thou wilt come out of this bout honorably in spite of the rawness of
thy youth.”

Just then Edmund Wilkes presented the cup of wine to Myles, who drank it
off at a draught, and thereupon Gascoyne replaced the helm and tied the
thongs.

The charge that Sir James Lee had given to Myles to strike at his
adversary’s helm was a piece of advice he probably would not have given to
so young a knight, excepting as a last resort. A blow perfectly delivered
upon the helm was of all others the most difficult for the recipient to
recover from, but then a blow upon the helm was not one time in fifty
perfectly given. The huge cylindrical tilting helm was so constructed in
front as to slope at an angle in all directions to one point. That point
was the centre of a cross formed by two iron bands welded to the
steel-face plates of the helm where it was weakened by the opening slit of
the occularium, or peephole. In the very centre of this cross was a little
flattened surface where the bands were riveted together, and it was upon
that minute point that the blow must be given to be perfect, and that
stroke Myles determined to attempt.

As he took his station Edmund Wilkes came running across from the pavilion
with a lance that Sir James had chosen, and Myles, returning the one that
Gascoyne had just given him, took it in his hand. It was of seasoned oak,
somewhat thicker than the other, a tough weapon, not easily to be broken
even in such an encounter as he was like to have. He balanced the weapon,
and found that it fitted perfectly to his grasp. As he raised the point to
rest, his opponent took his station at the farther extremity of the lists,
and again there was a little space of breathless pause. Myles was
surprised at his own coolness; every nervous tremor was gone. Before, he
had been conscious of the critical multitude looking down upon him; now it
was a conflict of man to man, and such a conflict had no terrors for his
young heart of iron.

The spectators had somehow come to the knowledge that this was to be a
more serious encounter than the two which had preceded it, and a
breathless silence fell for the moment or two that the knights stood in
place.

Once more he breathed a short prayer, “Holy Mary, guard me!”

Then again, for the third time, the Marshal raised his baton, and the horn
sounded, and for the third time Myles drove his spurs into his horse’s
flanks. Again he saw the iron figure of his opponent rushing nearer,
nearer, nearer. He centred, with a straining intensity, every faculty of
soul, mind, and body upon one point—the cross of the occularium, the
mark he was to strike. He braced himself for the tremendous shock which he
knew must meet him, and then in a flash dropped lance point straight and
true. The next instant there was a deafening stunning crash—a crash
like the stroke of a thunder-bolt. There was a dazzling blaze of blinding
light, and a myriad sparks danced and flickered and sparkled before his
eyes. He felt his horse stagger under him with the recoil, and hardly
knowing what he did, he drove his spurs deep into its sides with a shout.
At the same moment there resounded in his ears a crashing rattle and
clatter, he knew not of what, and then, as his horse recovered and sprang
forward, and as the stunning bewilderment passed, he found that his helmet
had been struck off. He heard a great shout arise from all, and thought,
with a sickening, bitter disappointment, that it was because he had lost.
At the farther end of the course he turned his horse, and then his heart
gave a leap and a bound as though it would burst, the blood leaped to his
cheeks tingling, and his bosom thrilled with an almost agonizing pang of
triumph, of wonder, of amazement.

There, in a tangle of his horse’s harness and of embroidered trappings,
the Sieur de la Montaigne lay stretched upon the ground, with his saddle
near by, and his riderless horse was trotting aimlessly about at the
farther end of the lists.

Myles saw the two squires of the fallen knight run across to where their
master lay, he saw the ladies waving their kerchiefs and veils, and the
castle people swinging their hats and shouting in an ecstasy of delight.
Then he rode slowly back to where the squires were now aiding the fallen
knight to arise. The senior squire drew his dagger, cut the leather
points, and drew off the helm, disclosing the knight’s face—a face
white as death, and convulsed with rage, mortification, and bitter
humiliation.

“I was not rightly unhorsed!” he cried, hoarsely and with livid lips, to
the Marshal and his attendants, who had ridden up. “I unhelmed him fairly
enough, but my over-girth and breast-strap burst, and my saddle slipped. I
was not unhorsed, I say, and I lay claim that I unhelmed him.”

“Sir,” said the Marshal calmly, and speaking in French, “surely thou
knowest that the loss of helmet does not decide an encounter. I need not
remind thee, my Lord, that it was so awarded by John of Gaunt, Duke of
Lancaster, when in the jousting match between Reynand de Roye and John de
Holland, the Sieur Reynand left every point of his helm loosened, so that
the helm was beaten off at each stroke. If he then was justified in doing
so of his own choice, and wilfully suffering to be unhelmed, how then can
this knight be accused of evil who suffered it by chance?”

“Nevertheless,” said the Sieur de la Montaigne, in the same hoarse,
breathless voice, “I do affirm, and will make my affirmation good with my
body, that I fell only by the breaking of my girth. Who says otherwise
lies!”

“It is the truth he speaketh,” said Myles. “I myself saw the stitches were
some little what burst, and warned him thereof before we ran this course.

“Sir,” said the Marshal to the Sieur de la Montaigne, “how can you now
complain of that thing which your own enemy advised you of and warned you
against? Was it not right knightly for him so to do?”

The Sieur de la Montaigne stood quite still for a little while, leaning on
the shoulder of his chief squire, looking moodily upon the ground; then,
without making answer, he turned, and walked slowly away to his pavilion,
still leaning on his squire’s shoulder, whilst the other attendant
followed behind, bearing his shield and helmet.

Gascoyne had picked up Myles’s fallen helmet as the Sieur de la Montaigne
moved away, and Lord George and Sir James Lee came walking across the
lists to where Myles still sat. Then, the one taking his horse by the
bridle-rein, and the other walking beside the saddle, they led him before
the raised dais where the King sat.

Even the Comte de Vermoise, mortified and amazed as he must have been at
the overthrow of his best knight, joined in the praise and congratulation
that poured upon the young conqueror. Myles, his heart swelling with a
passion of triumphant delight, looked up and met the gaze of Lady Alice
fixed intently upon him. A red spot of excitement still burned in either
cheek, and it flamed to a rosier red as he bowed his head to her before
turning away.

Gascoyne had just removed Myles’s breastplate and gorget, when Sir James
Lee burst into the pavilion. All his grim coldness was gone, and he flung
his arms around the young man’s neck, hugging him heartily, and kissing
him upon either cheek.

Ere he let him go, “Mine own dear boy,” he said, holding him off at
arm’s-length, and winking his one keen eye rapidly, as though to wink away
a dampness of which he was ashamed—“mine own dear boy, I do tell
thee truly this is as sweet to me as though thou wert mine own son;
sweeter to me than when I first broke mine own lance in triumph, and felt
myself to be a right knight.”

“Sir,” answered Myles, “what thou sayest doth rejoice my very heart.
Ne’theless, it is but just to say that both his breast-piece and
over-girth were burst in the stitches before he ran his course, for so I
saw with mine own eyes.”

“Burst in the stitches!” snorted Sir James. “Thinkest thou he did not know
in what condition was his horse’s gearing? I tell thee he went down
because thou didst strike fair and true, and he did not so strike thee.
Had he been Guy of Warwick he had gone down all the same under such a
stroke and in such case.”


CHAPTER 28

It was not until more than three weeks after the King had left Devlen
Castle that Lord George and his company of knights and archers were ready
for the expedition to France. Two weeks of that time Myles spent at
Crosbey-Dale with his father and mother. It was the first time that he had
seen them since, four years ago, he had quitted the low, narrow,
white-walled farmhouse for the castle of the great Earl of Mackworth. He
had never appreciated before how low and narrow and poor the farm-house
was. Now, with his eyes trained to the bigness of Devlen Castle, he looked
around him with wonder and pity at his father’s humble surroundings. He
realized as he never else could have realized how great was the fall in
fortune that had cast the house of Falworth down from its rightful station
to such a level as that upon which it now rested. And at the same time
that he thus recognized how poor was their lot, how dependent upon the
charity of others, he also recognized how generous was the friendship of
Prior Edward, who perilled his own safety so greatly in affording the
family of the attainted Lord an asylum in its bitter hour of need and
peril.

Myles paid many visits to the gentle old priest during those two weeks’
visit, and had many long and serious talks with him. One warm bright
afternoon, as he and the old man walked together in the priory garden,
after a game or two of draughts, the young knight talked more freely and
openly of his plans, his hopes, his ambitions, than perhaps he had ever
done. He told the old man all that the Earl had disclosed to him
concerning the fallen fortunes of his father’s house, and of how all who
knew those circumstances looked to him to set the family in its old place
once more. Prior Edward added many things to those which Myles already
knew—things of which the Earl either did not know, or did not choose
to speak. He told the young man, among other matters, the reason of the
bitter and lasting enmity that the King felt for the blind nobleman: that
Lord Falworth had been one of King Richard’s council in times past; that
it was not a little owing to him that King Henry, when Earl of Derby, had
been banished from England, and that though he was then living in the
retirement of private life, he bitterly and steadfastly opposed King
Richard’s abdication. He told Myles that at the time when Sir John Dale
found shelter at Falworth Castle, vengeance was ready to fall upon his
father at any moment, and it needed only such a pretext as that of
sheltering so prominent a conspirator as Sir John to complete his ruin.

Myles, as he listened intently, could not but confess in his own mind that
the King had many rational, perhaps just, grounds for grievance against
such an ardent opponent as the blind Lord had shown himself to be. “But,
sir,” said he, after a little space of silence, when Prior Edward had
ended, “to hold enmity and to breed treason are very different matters.
Haply my father was Bolingbroke’s enemy, but, sure, thou dost not believe
he is justly and rightfully tainted with treason?”

“Nay,” answered the priest, “how canst thou ask me such a thing? Did I
believe thy father a traitor, thinkest thou I would thus tell his son
thereof? Nay, Myles, I do know thy father well, and have known him for
many years, and this of him, that few men are so honorable in heart and
soul as he. But I have told thee all these things to show that the King is
not without some reason to be thy father’s unfriend. Neither, haply, is
the Earl of Alban without cause of enmity against him. So thou, upon thy
part, shouldst not feel bitter rancor against the King for what hath
happed to thy house, nor even against William Brookhurst—I mean the
Earl of Alban—for, I tell thee, the worst of our enemies and the
worst of men believe themselves always to have right and justice upon
their side, even when they most wish evil to others.”

So spoke the gentle old priest, who looked from his peaceful haven with
dreamy eyes upon the sweat and tussle of the world’s battle. Had he
instead been in the thick of the fight, it might have been harder for him
to believe that his enemies ever had right upon their side.

“But tell me this,” said Myles, presently, “dost thou, then, think that I
do evil in seeking to do a battle of life or death with this wicked Earl
of Alban, who hath so ruined my father in body and fortune?”

“Nay,” said Prior Edward, thoughtfully, “I say not that thou doest evil.
War and bloodshed seem hard and cruel matters to me; but God hath given
that they be in the world, and may He forbid that such a poor worm as I
should say that they be all wrong and evil. Meseems even an evil thing is
sometimes passing good when rightfully used.”

Myles did not fully understand what the old man meant, but this much he
gathered, that his spiritual father did not think ill of his fighting the
Earl of Alban for his temporal father’s sake.

So Myles went to France in Lord George’s company, a soldier of fortune, as
his Captain was. He was there for only six months, but those six months
wrought a great change in his life. In the fierce factional battles that
raged around the walls of Paris; in the evil life which he saw at the
Burgundian court in Paris itself after the truce—a court brilliant
and wicked, witty and cruel—the wonderful liquor of youth had
evaporated rapidly, and his character had crystallized as rapidly into the
hardness of manhood. The warfare, the blood, the evil pleasures which he
had seen had been a fiery, crucible test to his soul, and I love my hero
that he should have come forth from it so well. He was no longer the
innocent Sir Galahad who had walked in pure white up the Long Hall to be
knighted by the King, but his soul was of that grim, sterling, rugged sort
that looked out calmly from his gray eyes upon the wickedness and
debauchery around him, and loved it not.

Then one day a courier came, bringing a packet. It was a letter from the
Earl, bidding Myles return straightway to England and to Mackworth House
upon the Strand, nigh to London, without delay, and Myles knew that his
time had come.

It was a bright day in April when he and Gascoyne rode clattering out
through Temple Bar, leaving behind them quaint old London town, its blank
stone wall, its crooked, dirty streets, its high-gabled wooden houses,
over which rose the sharp spire of St. Paul’s, towering high into the
golden air. Before them stretched the straight, broad highway of the
Strand, on one side the great houses and palaces of princely priests and
powerful nobles; on the other the Covent Garden, (or the Convent Garden,
as it was then called), and the rolling country, where great stone
windmills swung their slow-moving arms in the damp, soft April breeze, and
away in the distance the Scottish Palace, the White Hall, and Westminster.

It was the first time that Myles had seen famous London town. In that dim
and distant time of his boyhood, six months before, he would have been
wild with delight and enthusiasm. Now he jogged along with Gascoyne,
gazing about him with calm interest at open shops and booths and tall,
gabled houses; at the busy throng of merchants and craftsmen, jostling and
elbowing one another; at townsfolk—men and dames—picking their
way along the muddy kennel of a sidewalk. He had seen so much of the world
that he had lost somewhat of interest in new things. So he did not care to
tarry, but rode, with a mind heavy with graver matters, through the
streets and out through the Temple Bar direct for Mackworth House, near
the Savoy Palace.

It was with a great deal of interest that Myles and his patron regarded
one another when they met for the first time after that half-year which
the young soldier had spent in France. To Myles it seemed somehow very
strange that his Lordship’s familiar face and figure should look so
exactly the same. To Lord Mackworth, perhaps, it seemed even more strange
that six short months should have wrought so great a change in the young
man. The rugged exposure in camp and field during the hard winter that had
passed had roughened the smooth bloom of his boyish complexion and bronzed
his fair skin almost as much as a midsummer’s sun could have done. His
beard and mustache had grown again, (now heavier and more mannish from
having been shaved), and the white seam of a scar over the right temple
gave, if not a stern, at least a determined look to the strong,
square-jawed young face. So the two stood for a while regarding one
another. Myles was the first to break the silence.

“My Lord,” said he, “thou didst send for me to come back to England;
behold, here am I.”

“When didst thou land, Sir Myles?” said the Earl.

“I and my squire landed at Dover upon Tuesday last,” answered the young
man.

The Earl of Mackworth stroked his beard softly. “Thou art marvellous
changed,” said he. “I would not have thought it possible.”

Myles smiled somewhat grimly. “I have seen such things, my Lord, in France
and in Paris,” said he, quietly, “as, mayhap, may make a lad a man before
his time.”

“From which I gather,” said the Earl, “that many adventures have befallen
thee. Methought thou wouldst find troublesome times in the Dauphin’s camp,
else I would not have sent thee to France.”

A little space of silence followed, during which the Earl sat musingly,
half absently, regarding the tall, erect, powerful young figure standing
before him, awaiting his pleasure in motionless, patient, almost dogged
silence. The strong, sinewy hands were clasped and rested upon the long
heavy sword, around the scabbard of which the belt was loosely wrapped,
and the plates of mail caught and reflected in flashing, broken pieces,
the bright sunlight from the window behind.

“Sir Myles,” said the Earl, suddenly, breaking the silence at last, “dost
thou know why I sent for thee hither?”

“Aye,” said Myles, calmly, “how can I else? Thou wouldst not have called
me from Paris but for one thing. Methinks thou hast sent for me to fight
the Earl of Alban, and lo! I am here.”

“Thou speakest very boldly,” said the Earl. “I do hope that thy deeds be
as bold as thy words.”

“That,” said Myles, “thou must ask other men. Methinks no one may justly
call me coward.”

“By my troth!” said the Earl, smiling, “looking upon thee—limbs and
girth, bone and sinew—I would not like to be the he that would dare
accuse thee of such a thing. As for thy surmise, I may tell thee plain
that thou art right, and that it was to fight the Earl of Alban I sent for
thee hither. The time is now nearly ripe, and I will straightway send for
thy father to come to London. Meantime it would not be safe either for
thee or for me to keep thee in my service. I have spoken to his Highness
the Prince of Wales, who, with other of the Princes, is upon our side in
this quarrel. He hath promised to take thee into his service until the
fitting time comes to bring thee and thine enemy together, and to-morrow I
shall take thee to Scotland Yard, where his Highness is now lodging.”

As the Earl ended his speech, Myles bowed, but did not speak. The Earl
waited for a little while, as though to give him the opportunity to
answer.

“Well, sirrah,” said he at last, with a shade of impatience, “hast thou
naught to say? Meseems thou takest all this with marvellous coolness.”

“Have I then my Lord’s permission to speak my mind?”

“Aye,” said the Earl, “say thy say.”

“Sir,” said Myles, “I have thought and pondered this matter much while
abroad, and would now ask thee a plain question in all honest an I ha’ thy
leave.”

The Earl nodded his head.

“Sir, am I not right in believing that thou hast certain weighty purposes
and aims of thine own to gain an I win this battle against the Earl of
Alban?”

“Has my brother George been telling thee aught to such a purpose?” said
the Earl, after a moment or two of silence.

Myles did not answer.

“No matter,” added Lord Mackworth. “I will not ask thee who told thee such
a thing. As for thy question—well, sin thou ask it frankly, I will
be frank with thee. Yea, I have certain ends to gain in having the Earl of
Alban overthrown.”

Myles bowed. “Sir,” said he, “haply thine ends are as much beyond aught
that I can comprehend as though I were a little child; only this I know,
that they must be very great. Thou knowest well that in any case I would
fight me this battle for my father’s sake and for the honor of my house;
nevertheless, in return for all that it will so greatly advantage thee,
wilt thou not grant me a boon in return should I overcome mine enemy?”

“What is thy boon, Sir Myles?”

“That thou wilt grant me thy favor to seek the Lady Alice de Mowbray for
my wife.”

The Earl of Mackworth started up from his seat. “Sir Myles Falworth”—he
began, violently, and then stopped short, drawing his bushy eyebrows
together into a frown stern, if not sinister.

Myles withstood his look calmly and impassively, and presently the Earl
turned on his heel, and strode to the open window. A long time passed in
silence while he stood there, gazing out of the window into the garden
beyond with his back to the young man.

Suddenly he swung around again. “Sir Myles,” said he, “the family of
Falworth is as good as any in Derbyshire. Just now it is poor and fallen
in estate, but if it is again placed in credit and honor, thou, who art
the son of the house, shalt have thy suit weighed with as much respect and
consideration as though thou wert my peer in all things, Such is my
answer. Art thou satisfied?”

“I could ask no more,” answered Myles.


CHAPTER 29

That night Myles lodged at Mackworth House. The next morning, as soon as
he had broken his fast, which he did in the privacy of his own apartments,
the Earl bade him and Gascoyne to make ready for the barge, which was then
waiting at the river stairs to take them to Scotland Yard.

The Earl himself accompanied them, and as the heavy snub-nosed boat, rowed
by the six oarsmen in Mackworth livery, slid slowly and heavily up against
the stream, the Earl, leaning back in his cushioned seat, pointed out the
various inns of the great priests or nobles; palatial town residences
standing mostly a little distance back from the water behind terraced
high-walled gardens and lawns. Yon was the Bishop of Exeter’s Close; yon
was the Bishop of Bath’s; that was York House; and that Chester Inn. So
passing by gardens and lawns and palaces, they came at last to Scotland
Yard stairs, a broad flight of marble steps that led upward to a stone
platform above, upon which opened the gate-way of the garden beyond.

The Scotland Yard of Myles Falworth’s day was one of the more pretentious
and commodious of the palaces of the Strand. It took its name from having
been from ancient times the London inn which the tributary Kings of
Scotland occupied when on their periodical visits of homage to England.
Now, during this time of Scotland’s independence, the Prince of Wales had
taken up his lodging in the old palace, and made it noisy with the mad,
boisterous mirth of his court.

As the watermen drew the barge close to the landing-place of the stairs,
the Earl stepped ashore, and followed by Myles and Gascoyne, ascended to
the broad gate-way of the river wall of the garden. Three men-at-arms who
lounged upon a bench under the shade of the little pent roof of a
guard-house beside the wall, arose and saluted as the well-known figure of
the Earl mounted the steps. The Earl nodded a cool answer, and passing
unchallenged through the gate, led the way up a pleached walk, beyond
which, as Myles could see, there stretched a little grassy lawn and a
stone-paved terrace. As the Earl and the two young men approached the end
of the walk, they were met by the sound of voices and laughter, the
clinking of glasses and the rattle of dishes. Turning a corner, they came
suddenly upon a party of young gentlemen, who sat at a late breakfast
under the shade of a wide-spreading lime-tree. They had evidently just
left the tilt-yard, for two of the guests—sturdy, thick-set young
knights—yet wore a part of their tilting armor.

Behind the merry scene stood the gray, hoary old palace, a steep flight of
stone steps, and a long, open, stone-arched gallery, which evidently led
to the kitchen beyond, for along it hurried serving-men, running up and
down the tall flight of steps, and bearing trays and dishes and cups and
flagons. It was a merry sight and a pleasant one. The day was warm and
balmy, and the yellow sunlight fell in waving uncertain patches of light,
dappling the table-cloth, and twinkling and sparkling upon the dishes,
cups, and flagons.

At the head of the table sat a young man some three or four years older
than Myles, dressed in a full suit of rich blue brocaded velvet,
embroidered with gold-thread and trimmed with black fur. His face, which
was turned towards them as they mounted from the lawn to the little
stone-flagged terrace, was frank and open; the cheeks smooth and fair; the
eyes dark and blue. He was tall and rather slight, and wore his thick
yellow hair hanging to his shoulders, where it was cut square across,
after the manner of the times. Myles did not need to be told that it was
the Prince of Wales.

“Ho, Gaffer Fox!” he cried, as soon as he caught sight of the Earl of
Mackworth, “what wind blows thee hither among us wild mallard drakes? I
warrant it is not for love of us, but only to fill thine own larder after
the manner of Sir Fox among the drakes. Whom hast thou with thee? Some
gosling thou art about to pluck?”

A sudden hush fell upon the company, and all faces were turned towards the
visitors.

The Earl bowed with a soft smile. “Your Highness,” said he, smoothly, “is
pleased to be pleasant. Sir, I bring you the young knight of whom I spoke
to you some time since—Sir Myles Falworth. You may be pleased to
bring to mind that you so condescended as to promise to take him into your
train until the fitting time arrived for that certain matter of which we
spoke.”

“Sir Myles,” said the Prince of Wales, with a frank, pleasant smile, “I
have heard great reports of thy skill and prowess in France, both from
Mackworth and from others. It will pleasure me greatly to have thee in my
household; more especially,” he added, “as it will get thee, callow as
thou art, out of my Lord Fox’s clutches. Our faction cannot do without the
Earl of Mackworth’s cunning wits, Sir Myles; ne’theless I would not like
to put all my fate and fortune into his hands without bond. I hope that
thou dost not rest thy fortunes entirely upon his aid and countenance.”

All who were present felt the discomfort of the Prince’s speech, It was
evident that one of his mad, wild humors was upon him. In another case the
hare-brained young courtiers around might have taken their cue from him,
but the Earl of Mackworth was no subject for their gibes and witticisms. A
constrained silence fell, in which the Earl alone maintained a perfect
ease of manner.

Myles bowed to hide his own embarrassment. “Your Highness,” said he,
evasively, “I rest my fortune, first of all, upon God, His strength and
justice.”

“Thou wilt find safer dependence there than upon the Lord of Mackworth,”
said the Prince, dryly. “But come,” he added, with a sudden change of
voice and manner, “these be jests that border too closely upon bitter
earnest for a merry breakfast. It is ill to idle with edged tools. Wilt
thou not stay and break thy fast with us, my Lord?”

“Pardon me, your Highness,” said the Earl, bowing, and smiling the same
smooth smile his lips had worn from the first—such a smile as Myles
had never thought to have seen upon his haughty face; “I crave your good
leave to decline. I must return home presently, for even now, haply, your
uncle, his Grace of Winchester, is awaiting my coming upon the business
you wot of. Haply your Highness will find more joyance in a lusty young
knight like Sir Myles than in an old fox like myself. So I leave him with
you, in your good care.”

Such was Myles’s introduction to the wild young madcap Prince of Wales,
afterwards the famous Henry V, the conqueror of France.

For a month or more thereafter he was a member of the princely household,
and, after a little while, a trusted and honored member. Perhaps it was
the calm sturdy strength, the courage of the young knight, that first
appealed to the Prince’s royal heart; perhaps afterwards it was the more
sterling qualities that underlaid that courage that drew him to the young
man; certain it was that in two weeks Myles was the acknowledged favorite.
He made no protestation of virtue; he always accompanied the Prince in
those madcap ventures to London, where he beheld all manner of wild
revelry; he never held himself aloof from his gay comrades, but he looked
upon all their mad sports with the same calm gaze that had carried him
without taint through the courts of Burgundy and the Dauphin. The gay,
roistering young lords and gentlemen dubbed him Saint Myles, and jested
with him about hair-cloth shirts and flagellations, but witticism and jest
alike failed to move Myles’s patient virtue; he went his own gait in the
habits of his life, and in so going knew as little as the others of the
mad court that the Prince’s growing liking for him was, perhaps, more than
all else, on account of that very temperance.

Then, by-and-by, the Prince began to confide in him as he did in none of
the others. There was no great love betwixt the King and his son; it has
happened very often that the Kings of England have felt bitter jealousy
towards the heirs-apparent as they have grown in power, and such was the
case with the great King Henry IV. The Prince often spoke to Myles of the
clashing and jarring between himself and his father, and the thought began
to come to Myles’s mind by degrees that maybe the King’s jealousy
accounted not a little for the Prince’s reckless intemperance.

Once, for instance, as the Prince leaned upon, his shoulder waiting,
whilst the attendants made ready the barge that was to carry them down the
river to the city, he said, abruptly: “Myles, what thinkest thou of us
all? Doth not thy honesty hold us in contempt?”

“Nay, Highness,” said Myles. “How could I hold contempt?”

“Marry,” said the Prince, “I myself hold contempt, and am not as honest a
man as thou. But, prithee, have patience with me, Myles. Some day,
perhaps, I too will live a clean life. Now, an I live seriously, the King
will be more jealous of me than ever, and that is not a little. Maybe I
live thus so that he may not know what I really am in soothly earnest.”

The Prince also often talked to Myles concerning his own affairs; of the
battle he was to fight for his father’s honor, of how the Earl of
Mackworth had plotted and planned to bring him face to face with the Earl
of Alban. He spoke to Myles more than once of the many great changes of
state and party that hung upon the downfall of the enemy of the house of
Falworth, and showed him how no hand but his own could strike that enemy
down; if he fell, it must be through the son of Falworth. Sometimes it
seemed to Myles as though he and his blind father were the centre of a
great web of plot and intrigue, stretching far and wide, that included not
only the greatest houses of England, but royalty and the political balance
of the country as well, and even before the greatness of it all he did not
flinch.

Then, at last, came the beginning of the time for action. It was in the
early part of May, and Myles had been a member of the Prince’s household
for a little over a month. One morning he was ordered to attend the Prince
in his privy cabinet, and, obeying the summons, he found the Prince, his
younger brother, the Duke of Bedford, and his uncle, the Bishop of
Winchester, seated at a table, where they had just been refreshing
themselves with a flagon of wine and a plate of wafers.

“My poor Myles,” said the Prince, smiling, as the young knight bowed to
the three, and then stood erect, as though on duty. “It shames my heart,
brother—and thou, uncle—it shames my heart to be one privy to
this thing which we are set upon to do. Here be we, the greatest Lords of
England, making a cat’s-paw of this lad—for he is only yet a boy—and
of his blind father, for to achieve our ends against Alban’s faction. It
seemeth not over-honorable to my mind.”

“Pardon me, your Highness,” said Myles, blushing to the roots of his hair;
“but, an I may be so bold as to speak, I reck nothing of what your aims
may be; I only look to restoring my father’s honor and the honor of our
house.”

“Truly,” said the Prince, smiling, “that is the only matter that maketh me
willing to lay my hands to this business. Dost thou know why I have sent
for thee? It is because this day thou must challenge the Duke of Alban
before the King. The Earl of Mackworth has laid all his plans and the time
is now ripe. Knowest that thy father is at Mackworth House?”

“Nay,” said Myles; “I knew it not.”

“He hath been there for nearly two days,” said the Prince. “Just now the
Earl hath sent for us to come first to Mackworth House. Then to go to the
palace, for he hath gained audience with the King, and hath so arranged it
that the Earl of Alban is to be there as well. We all go straightway; so
get thyself ready as soon as may be.”

Perhaps Myles’s heart began beating more quickly within him at the
nearness of that great happening which he had looked forward to for so
long. If it did, he made no sign of his emotion, but only asked, “How must
I clothe myself, your Highness?”

“Wear thy light armor,” said the Prince, “but no helmet, a juppon bearing
the arms and colors that the Earl gave thee when thou wert knighted, and
carry thy right-hand gauntlet under thy belt for thy challenge. Now make
haste, for time passes.”


CHAPTER 30

Adjoining the ancient palace of Westminster, where King Henry IV was then
holding his court, was a no less ancient stone building known as the
Painted Room. Upon the walls were depicted a series of battle scenes in
long bands reaching around this room, one above another. Some of these
pictures had been painted as far back as the days of Henry III, others had
been added since his time. They chronicled the various wars of the King of
England, and it was from them that the little hall took its name of the
Painted Room.

This ancient wing, or offshoot, of the main buildings was more retired
from the hurly-burly of outer life than other parts of the palace, and
thither the sick King was very fond of retiring from the business of
State, which ever rested more and more heavily upon his shoulders,
sometimes to squander in quietness a spare hour or two; sometimes to idle
over a favorite book; sometimes to play a game of chess with a favorite
courtier. The cold painted walls had been hung with tapestry, and its
floor had been spread with arras carpet. These and the cushioned couches
and chairs that stood around gave its gloomy antiquity an air of comfort—an
air even of luxury.

It was to this favorite retreat of the King’s that Myles was brought that
morning with his father to face the great Earl of Alban.

In the anteroom the little party of Princes and nobles who escorted the
father and son had held a brief consultation. Then the others had entered,
leaving Myles and his blind father in charge of Lord Lumley and two
knights of the court, Sir Reginald Hallowell and Sir Piers Averell.

Myles, as he stood patiently waiting, with his father’s arm resting in
his, could hear the muffled sound of voices from beyond the arras. Among
others, he recognized the well-remembered tones of the King. He fancied
that he heard his own name mentioned more than once, and then the sound of
talking ceased. The next moment the arras was drawn aside, and the Earl
entered the antechamber again.

“All is ready, cousin,” said he to Lord Falworth, in a suppressed voice.
“Essex hath done as he promised, and Alban is within there now.” Then,
turning to Myles, speaking in the same low voice, and betraying more
agitation than Myles had thought it possible for him to show, “Sir Myles,”
said he, “remember all that hath been told thee. Thou knowest what thou
hast to say and do.” Then, without further word, he took Lord Falworth by
the hand, and led the way into the room, Myles following close behind.

The King half sat, half inclined, upon a cushioned seat close to which
stood the two Princes. There were some dozen others present, mostly
priests and noblemen of high quality who clustered in a group at a little
distance. Myles knew most of them at a glance having seen them come and go
at Scotland Yard. But among them all, he singled out only one—the
Earl of Alban. He had not seen that face since he was a little child eight
years old, but now that he beheld it again, it fitted instantly and
vividly into the remembrance of the time of that terrible scene at
Falworth Castle, when he had beheld the then Lord Brookhurst standing
above the dead body of Sir John Dale, with the bloody mace clinched in his
hand. There were the same heavy black brows, sinister and gloomy, the same
hooked nose, the same swarthy cheeks. He even remembered the deep dent in
the forehead, where the brows met in perpetual frown. So it was that upon
that face his looks centred and rested.

The Earl of Alban had just been speaking to some Lord who stood beside
him, and a half-smile still hung about the corners of his lips. At first,
as he looked up at the entrance of the newcomers, there was no other
expression; then suddenly came a flash of recognition, a look of wide-eyed
amazement; then the blood left the cheeks and the lips, and the face grew
very pale. No doubt he saw at a flash that some great danger overhung him
in this sudden coming of his old enemy, for he was as keen and as astute a
politician as he was a famous warrior. At least he knew that the eyes of
most of those present were fixed keenly and searchingly upon him. After
the first start of recognition, his left hand, hanging at his side,
gradually closed around the scabbard of his sword, clutching it in a
vice-like grip.

Meantime the Earl of Mackworth had led the blind Lord to the King, where
both kneeled.

“Why, how now, my Lord?” said the King. “Methought it was our young
Paladin whom we knighted at Devlen that was to be presented, and here thou
bringest this old man. A blind man, ha! What is the meaning of this?”

“Majesty,” said the Earl, “I have taken this chance to bring to thy
merciful consideration one who hath most wofully and unjustly suffered
from thine anger. Yonder stands the young knight of whom we spake; this is
his father, Gilbert Reginald, whilom Lord Falworth, who craves mercy and
justice at thy hands.”

“Falworth,” said the King, placing his hand to his head. “The name is not
strange to mine ears, but I cannot place it. My head hath troubled me
sorely to-day, and I cannot remember.”

At this point the Earl of Alban came quietly and deliberately forward.
“Sire,” said he, “pardon my boldness in so venturing to address you, but
haply I may bring the name more clearly to your mind. He is, as my Lord of
Mackworth said, the whilom Baron Falworth, the outlawed, attainted
traitor; so declared for the harboring of Sir John Dale, who was one of
those who sought your Majesty’s life at Windsor eleven years ago. Sire, he
is mine enemy as well, and is brought hither by my proclaimed enemies.
Should aught occur to my harm, I rest my case in your gracious hands.”

The dusty red flamed into the King’s pale, sickly face in answer, and he
rose hastily from his seat.

“Aye,” said he, “I remember me now—I remember me the man and the
name! Who hath dared bring him here before us?” All the dull heaviness of
sickness was gone for the moment, and King Henry was the King Henry of ten
years ago as he rolled his eyes balefully from one to another of the
courtiers who stood silently around.

The Earl of Mackworth shot a covert glance at the Bishop of Winchester,
who came forward in answer.

“Your Majesty,” said he, “here am I, your brother, who beseech you as your
brother not to judge over-hastily in this matter. It is true that this man
has been adjudged a traitor, but he has been so adjudged without a
hearing. I beseech thee to listen patiently to whatsoever he may have to
say.”

The King fixed the Bishop with a look of the bitterest, deepest anger,
holding his nether lip tightly under his teeth—a trick he had when
strongly moved with anger—and the Bishop’s eyes fell under the look.
Meantime the Earl of Alban stood calm and silent. No doubt he saw that the
King’s anger was likely to befriend him more than any words that he
himself could say, and he perilled his case with no more speech which
could only prove superfluous.

At last the King turned a face red and swollen with anger to the blind
Lord, who still kneeled before him.

“What hast thou to say?” he said, in a deep and sullen voice.

“Gracious and merciful Lord,” said the blind nobleman, “I come to thee,
the fountain-head of justice, craving justice. Sire, I do now and here
deny my treason, which denial I could not before make, being blind and
helpless, and mine enemies strong and malignant. But now, sire, Heaven
hath sent me help, and therefore I do acclaim before thee that my accuser,
William Bushy Brookhurst, Earl of Alban, is a foul and an attainted liar
in all that he hath accused me of. To uphold which allegation, and to
defend me, who am blinded by his unknightliness, I do offer a champion to
prove all that I say with his body in combat.”

The Earl of Mackworth darted a quick look at Myles, who came forward the
moment his father had ended, and kneeled beside him. The King offered no
interruption to his speech, but he bent a look heavy with anger upon the
young man.

“My gracious Lord and King,” said Myles, “I, the son of the accused, do
offer myself as his champion in this cause, beseeching thee of thy grace
leave to prove the truth of the same, being a belted knight by thy grace
and of thy creation and the peer of any who weareth spurs.” Thereupon,
rising, he drew his iron gauntlet from his girdle, and flung it clashing
down upon the floor, and with his heart swelling within him with anger and
indignation and pity of his blind father, he cried, in a loud voice, “I do
accuse thee, William of Alban, that thou liest vilely as aforesaid, and
here cast down my gage, daring thee to take it up.”

The Earl of Alban made as though he would accept the challenge, but the
King stopped him hastily.

“Stop!” he cried, harshly. “Touch not the gage! Let it lie—let it
lie, I tell thee, my Lord! Now then,” said he, turning to the others,
“tell me what meaneth all this coil? Who brought this man hither?”

He looked from one to another of those who stood silently around, but no
one answered.

“I see,” said he, “ye all have had to do with it. It is as my Lord of
Alban sayeth; ye are his enemies, and ye are my enemies as well. In this I
do smell a vile plot. I cannot undo what I have done, and since I have
made this young man a knight with mine own hands, I cannot deny that he is
fit to challenge my Lord of Alban. Ne’theless, the High Court of Chivalry
shall adjudge this case. Meantime,” said he, turning to the Earl Marshal,
who was present, “I give thee this attainted Lord in charge. Convey him
presently to the Tower, and let him abide our pleasure there. Also, thou
mayst take up yon gage, and keep it till it is redeemed according to our
pleasure.”

He stood thoughtfully for a moment, and then raising his eyes, looked
fixedly at the Earl of Mackworth. “I know,” he said, “that I be a right
sick man, and there be some who are already plotting to overthrow those
who have held up my hand with their own strength for all these years.”
Then speaking more directly: “My Lord Earl of Mackworth, I see your hand
in this before all others. It was thou who so played upon me as to get me
to knight this young man, and thus make him worthy to challenge my Lord of
Alban. It was thy doings that brought him here to-day, backed by mine own
sons and my brother and by these noblemen.” Then turning suddenly to the
Earl of Alban: “Come, my Lord,” said he; “I am aweary with all this coil.
Lend me thine arm to leave this place.” So it was that he left the room,
leaning upon the Earl of Alban’s arm, and followed by the two or three of
the Alban faction who were present.

“Your Royal Highness,” said the Earl Marshal, “I must e’en do the King’s
bidding, and take this gentleman into arrest.”

“Do thy duty,” said the Prince. “We knew it must come to this. Meanwhile
he is to be a prisoner of honor, and see that he be well lodged and cared
for. Thou wilt find my barge at the stairs to convey him down the river,
and I myself will come this afternoon to visit him.”


CHAPTER 31

It was not until the end of July that the High Court of Chivalry rendered
its judgment. There were many unusual points in the case, some of which
bore heavily against Lord Falworth, some of which were in his favor. He
was very ably defended by the lawyers whom the Earl of Mackworth had
engaged upon his side; nevertheless, under ordinary circumstances, the
judgment, no doubt, would have been quickly rendered against him. As it
was, however, the circumstances were not ordinary, and it was rendered in
his favor. The Court besought the King to grant the ordeal by battle, to
accept Lord Falworth’s champion, and to appoint the time and place for the
meeting.

The decision must have been a most bitter, galling one for the sick King.
He was naturally of a generous, forgiving nature, but Lord Falworth in his
time of power had been an unrelenting and fearless opponent, and his
Majesty who, like most generous men, could on occasions be very cruel and
intolerant, had never forgiven him. He had steadily thrown the might of
his influence with the Court against the Falworths’ case, but that
influence was no longer all-powerful for good or ill. He was failing in
health, and it could only be a matter of a few years, probably of only a
few months, before his successor sat upon the throne.

Upon the other hand, the Prince of Wales’s faction had been steadily, and
of late rapidly, increasing in power, and in the Earl of Mackworth, its
virtual head, it possessed one of the most capable politicians and astute
intriguers in Europe. So, as the outcome of all the plotting and
counter-plotting, scheming and counter-scheming, the case was decided in
Lord Falworth’s favor. The knowledge of the ultimate result was known to
the Prince of Wales’s circle almost a week before it was finally decided.
Indeed, the Earl of Mackworth had made pretty sure of that result before
he had summoned Myles from France, but upon the King it fell like the
shock of a sudden blow. All that day he kept himself in moody seclusion,
nursing his silent, bitter anger, and making only one outbreak, in which
he swore by the Holy Rood that should Myles be worsted in the encounter,
he would not take the battle into his own hands, but would suffer him to
be slain, and furthermore, that should the Earl show signs of failing at
any time, he would do all in his power to save him. One of the courtiers
who had been present, and who was secretly inclined to the Prince of
Wales’s faction, had repeated this speech at Scotland Yard, and the Prince
had said, “That meaneth, Myles, that thou must either win or die.”

“And so I would have it to be, my Lord,” Myles had answered.

It was not until nearly a fortnight after the decision of the Court of
Chivalry had been rendered that the King announced the time and place of
battle—the time to be the 3d of September, the place to be
Smithfield—a spot much used for such encounters.

During the three weeks or so that intervened between this announcement and
the time of combat, Myles went nearly every day to visit the lists in
course of erection. Often the Prince went with him; always two or three of
his friends of the Scotland Yard court accompanied him.

The lists were laid out in the usual form. The true or principal list in
which the combatants were to engage was sixty yards long and forty yards
wide; this rectangular space being surrounded by a fence about six feet
high, painted vermilion. Between the fence and the stand where the King
and the spectators sat, and surrounding the central space, was the outer
or false list, also surrounded by a fence. In the false list the Constable
and the Marshal and their followers and attendants were to be stationed at
the time of battle to preserve the general peace during the contest
between the principals.

One day as Myles, his princely patron, and his friends entered the
barriers, leaving their horses at the outer gate, they met the Earl of
Alban and his followers, who were just quitting the lists, which they also
were in the habit of visiting nearly every day. As the two parties passed
one another, the Earl spoke to a gentleman walking beside him and in a
voice loud enough to be clearly overheard by the others: “Yonder is the
young sprig of Falworth,” said he. “His father, my Lords, is not content
with forfeiting his own life for his treason, but must, forsooth, throw
away his son’s also. I have faced and overthrown many a better knight than
that boy.”

Myles heard the speech, and knew that it was intended for him to hear it;
but he paid no attention to it, walking composedly at the Prince’s side.
The Prince had also overheard it, and after a little space of silence
asked, “Dost thou not feel anxiety for thy coming battle, Myles?”

“Yea, my Lord,” said Myles; “sometimes I do feel anxiety, but not such as
my Lord of Alban would have me feel in uttering the speech that he spake
anon. It is anxiety for my father’s sake and my mother’s sake that I feel,
for truly there are great matters for them pending upon this fight.
Ne’theless, I do know that God will not desert me in my cause, for verily
my father is no traitor.”

“But the Earl of Alban,” said the Prince, gravely, “is reputed one of the
best-skilled knights in all England; moreover, he is merciless and without
generosity, so that an he gain aught advantage over thee, he will surely
slay thee.”

“I am not afraid, my Lord,” said Myles, still calmly and composedly.

“Nor am I afraid for thee, Myles,” said the Prince, heartily, putting his
arm, as he spoke, around the young man’s shoulder; “for truly, wert thou a
knight of forty years, instead of one of twenty, thou couldst not bear
thyself with more courage.”

As the time for the duel approached, the days seemed to drag themselves
along upon leaden feet; nevertheless, the days came and went, as all days
do, bringing with them, at last, the fateful 3d of September.

Early in the morning, while the sun was still level and red, the Prince
himself, unattended, came to Myles’s apartment, in the outer room of which
Gascoyne was bustling busily about arranging the armor piece by piece;
renewing straps and thongs, but not whistling over his work as he usually
did. The Prince nodded to him, and then passed silently through to the
inner chamber. Myles was upon his knees, and Father Ambrose, the Prince’s
chaplain, was beside him. The Prince stood silently at the door, until
Myles, having told his last bead, rose and turned towards him.

“My dear Lord,” said the young knight, “I give you gramercy for the great
honor you do me in coming so early for to visit me.”

“Nay, Myles, give me no thanks,” said the Prince, frankly reaching him his
hand, which Myles took and set to his lips. “I lay bethinking me of thee
this morning, while yet in bed, and so, as I could not sleep any more, I
was moved to come hither to see thee.”

Quite a number of the Prince’s faction were at the breakfast at Scotland
Yard that morning; among others, the Earl of Mackworth. All were more or
less oppressed with anxiety, for nearly all of them had staked much upon
the coming battle. If Alban conquered, he would be more powerful to harm
them and to revenge himself upon them than ever, and Myles was a very
young champion upon whom to depend. Myles himself, perhaps, showed as
little anxiety as any; he certainly ate more heartily of his breakfast
that morning than many of the others.

After the meal was ended, the Prince rose. “The boat is ready at the
stairs,” said he; “if thou wouldst go to the Tower to visit thy father,
Myles, before hearing mass, I and Cholmondeley and Vere and Poins will go
with thee, if ye, Lords and gentlemen, will grant me your pardon for
leaving you. Are there any others that thou wouldst have accompany thee?”

“I would have Sir James Lee and my squire, Master Gascoyne, if thou art so
pleased to give them leave to go,” answered Myles.

“So be it,” said the Prince. “We will stop at Mackworth stairs for the
knight.”

The barge landed at the west stairs of the Tower wharf, and the whole
party were received with more than usual civilities by the Governor, who
conducted them at once to the Tower where Lord Falworth was lodged. Lady
Falworth met them at the head of the stairs; her eyes were very red and
her face pale, and as Myles raised her hand and set a long kiss upon it,
her lips trembled, and she turned her face quickly away, pressing her
handkerchief for one moment to her eyes. Poor lady! What agony of anxiety
and dread did she not suffer for her boy’s sake that day! Myles had not
hidden both from her and his father that he must either win or die.

As Myles turned from his mother, Prior Edward came out from the inner
chamber, and was greeted warmly by him. The old priest had arrived in
London only the day before, having come down from Crosbey Priory to be
with his friend’s family during this their time of terrible anxiety.

After a little while of general talk, the Prince and his attendants
retired, leaving the family together, only Sir James Lee and Gascoyne
remaining behind.

Many matters that had been discussed before were now finally settled, the
chief of which was the disposition of Lady Falworth in case the battle
should go against them. Then Myles took his leave, kissing his mother, who
began crying, and comforting her with brave assurances. Prior Edward
accompanied him as far as the head of the Tower stairs, where Myles
kneeled upon the stone steps, while the good priest blessed him and signed
the cross upon his forehead. The Prince was waiting in the walled garden
adjoining, and as they rowed back again up the river to Scotland Yard, all
were thoughtful and serious, even Poins’ and Vere’s merry tongues being
stilled from their usual quips and jesting.

It was about the quarter of the hour before eleven o’clock when Myles,
with Gascoyne, set forth for the lists. The Prince of Wales, together with
most of his court, had already gone on to Smithfield, leaving behind him
six young knights of his household to act as escort to the young champion.
Then at last the order to horse was given; the great gate swung open, and
out they rode, clattering and jingling, the sunlight gleaming and flaming
and flashing upon their polished armor. They drew rein to the right, and
so rode in a little cloud of dust along the Strand Street towards London
town, with the breeze blowing merrily, and the sunlight shining as sweetly
and blithesomely as though they were riding to a wedding rather than to a
grim and dreadful ordeal that meant either victory or death.


CHAPTER 32

In the days of King Edward III a code of laws relating to trial by battle
had been compiled for one of his sons, Thomas of Woodstock. In this work
each and every detail, to the most minute, had been arranged and fixed,
and from that time judicial combats had been regulated in accordance with
its mandates.

It was in obedience to this code that Myles Falworth appeared at the east
gate of the lists (the east gate being assigned by law to the challenger),
clad in full armor of proof, attended by Gascoyne, and accompanied by two
of the young knights who had acted as his escort from Scotland Yard.

At the barriers he was met by the attorney Willingwood, the chief lawyer
who had conducted the Falworth case before the High Court of Chivalry, and
who was to attend him during the administration of the oaths before the
King.

As Myles presented himself at the gate he was met by the Constable, the
Marshal, and their immediate attendants. The Constable, laying his hand
upon the bridle-rein, said, in a loud voice: “Stand, Sir Knight, and tell
me why thou art come thus armed to the gates of the lists. What is thy
name? Wherefore art thou come?”

Myles answered, “I am Myles Falworth, a Knight of the Bath by grace of his
Majesty King Henry IV and by his creation, and do come hither to defend my
challenge upon the body of William Bushy Brookhurst, Earl of Alban,
proclaiming him an unknightly knight and a false and perjured liar, in
that he hath accused Gilbert Reginald, Lord Falworth, of treason against
our beloved Lord, his Majesty the King, and may God defend the right!”

As he ended speaking, the Constable advanced close to his side, and
formally raising the umbril of the helmet, looked him in the face.
Thereupon, having approved his identity, he ordered the gates to be
opened, and bade Myles enter the lists with his squire and his friends.

At the south side of the lists a raised scaffolding had been built for the
King and those who looked on. It was not unlike that which had been
erected at Devlen Castle when Myles had first jousted as belted knight—here
were the same raised seat for the King, the tapestries, the hangings, the
fluttering pennons, and the royal standard floating above; only here were
no fair-faced ladies looking down upon him, but instead, stern-browed
Lords and knights in armor and squires, and here were no merry laughing
and buzz of talk and flutter of fans and kerchiefs, but all was very quiet
and serious.

Myles riding upon his horse, with Gascoyne holding the bridle-rein, and
his attorney walking beside him with his hand upon the stirrups, followed
the Constable across the lists to an open space in front of the seat where
the King sat. Then, having reached his appointed station, he stopped, and
the Constable, advancing to the foot of the stair-way that led to the dais
above, announced in a loud voice that the challenger had entered the
lists.

“Then called the defendant straightway,” said the King, “for noon draweth
nigh.”

The day was very warm, and the sun, bright and unclouded, shone fiercely
down upon the open lists. Perhaps few men nowadays could bear the
scorching heat of iron plates such as Myles wore, from which the body was
only protected by a leathern jacket and hose. But men’s bodies in those
days were tougher and more seasoned to hardships of weather than they are
in these our times. Myles thought no more of the burning iron plates that
incased him than a modern soldier thinks of his dress uniform in warm
weather. Nevertheless, he raised the umbril of his helmet to cool his face
as he waited the coming of his opponent. He turned his eyes upward to the
row of seats on the scaffolding above, and even in the restless,
bewildering multitude of strange faces turned towards him recognized those
that he knew: the Prince of Wales, his companions of the Scotland Yard
household, the Duke of Clarence, the Bishop of Winchester, and some of the
noblemen of the Earl of Mackworth’s party, who had been buzzing about the
Prince for the past month or so. But his glance swept over all these,
rather perceiving than seeing them, and then rested upon a square box-like
compartment not unlike a prisoner’s dock in the courtroom of our day, for
in the box sat his father, with the Earl of Mackworth upon one side and
Sir James Lee upon the other. The blind man’s face was very pale, but
still wore its usual expression of calm serenity—the calm serenity
of a blind face. The Earl was also very pale, and he kept his eyes fixed
steadfastly upon Myles with a keen and searching look, as though to pierce
to the very bottom of the young man’s heart, and discover if indeed not
one little fragment of dryrot of fear or uncertainty tainted the solid
courage of his knighthood.

Then he heard the criers calling the defendant at the four corners of the
list: “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! William Bushy Brookhurst, Earl of Alban, come to
this combat, in which you be enterprised this day to discharge your
sureties before the King, the Constable, and the Marshal, and to encounter
in your defence Myles Falworth, knight, the accepted champion upon behalf
of Gilbert Reginald Falworth, the challenger! Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Let the
defendant come!”

So they continued calling, until, by the sudden turning of all faces,
Myles knew that his enemy was at hand.

Then presently he saw the Earl and his attendants enter the outer gate at
the west end of the barrier; he saw the Constable and Marshal meet him; he
saw the formal words of greeting pass; he saw the Constable raise the
umbril of the helmet. Then the gate opened, and the Earl of Alban entered,
clad cap-a-pie in a full suit of magnificent Milan armor without juppon or
adornment of any kind. As he approached across the lists, Myles closed the
umbril of his helmet, and then sat quite still and motionless, for the
time was come.

So he sat, erect and motionless as a statue of iron, half hearing the
reading of the long intricately-worded bills, absorbed in many thoughts of
past and present things. At last the reading ended, and then he calmly and
composedly obeyed, under the direction of his attorney, the several forms
and ceremonies that followed; answered the various official questions,
took the various oaths. Then Gascoyne, leading the horse by the
bridle-rein, conducted him back to his station at the east end of the
lists.

As the faithful friend and squire made one last and searching examination
of arms and armor, the Marshal and the clerk came to the young champion
and administered the final oath by which he swore that he carried no
concealed weapons.

The weapons allowed by the High Court were then measured and attested.
They consisted of the long sword, the short sword, the dagger, the mace,
and a weapon known as the hand-gisarm, or glave-lot—a heavy
swordlike blade eight palms long, a palm in breadth, and riveted to a
stout handle of wood three feet long.

The usual lance had not been included in the list of arms, the hand-gisarm
being substituted in its place. It was a fearful and murderous weapon,
though cumbersome, Unhandy, and ill adapted for quick or dexterous stroke;
nevertheless, the Earl of Alban had petitioned the King to have it
included in the list, and in answer to the King’s expressed desire the
Court had adopted it in the stead of the lance, yielding thus much to the
royal wishes. Nor was it a small concession. The hand-gisarm had been a
weapon very much in vogue in King Richard’s day, and was now nearly if not
entirely out of fashion with the younger generation of warriors. The Earl
of Alban was, of course, well used to the blade; with Myles it was strange
and new, either for attack or in defence.

With the administration of the final oath and the examination of the
weapons, the preliminary ceremonies came to an end, and presently Myles
heard the criers calling to clear the lists. As those around him moved to
withdraw, the young knight drew off his mailed gauntlet, and gave
Gascoyne’s hand one last final clasp, strong, earnest, and intense with
the close friendship of young manhood, and poor Gascoyne looked up at him
with a face ghastly white.

Then all were gone; the gates of the principal list and that of the false
list were closed clashing, and Myles was alone, face to face, with his
mortal enemy.


CHAPTER 33

There was a little while of restless, rustling silence, during which the
Constable took his place in the seat appointed for him directly in front
of and below the King’s throne. A moment or two when even the restlessness
and the rustling were quieted, and then the King leaned forward and spoke
to the Constable, who immediately called out, in a loud, clear voice.

“Let them go!” Then again, “Let them go!” Then, for the third and last
time, “Let them go and do their endeavor, in God’s name!”

At this third command the combatants, each of whom had till that moment
been sitting as motionless as a statue of iron, tightened rein, and rode
slowly and deliberately forward without haste, yet without hesitation,
until they met in the very middle of the lists.

In the battle which followed, Myles fought with the long sword, the Earl
with the hand-gisarm for which he had asked. The moment they met, the
combat was opened, and for a time nothing was heard but the thunderous
clashing and clamor of blows, now and then beating intermittently, now and
then pausing. Occasionally, as the combatants spurred together, checked,
wheeled, and recovered, they would be hidden for a moment in a misty veil
of dust, which, again drifting down the wind, perhaps revealed them drawn
a little apart, resting their panting horses. Then, again, they would spur
together, striking as they passed, wheeling and striking again.

Upon the scaffolding all was still, only now and then for the buzz of
muffled exclamations or applause of those who looked on. Mostly the
applause was from Myles’s friends, for from the very first he showed and
steadily maintained his advantage over the older man. “Hah! well struck!
well recovered!” “Look ye! the sword bit that time!” “Nay, look, saw ye
him pass the point of the gisarm?” Then, “Falworth! Falworth!” as some
more than usually skilful stroke or parry occurred.

Meantime Myles’s father sat straining his sightless eyeballs, as though to
pierce his body’s darkness with one ray of light that would show him how
his boy held his own in the fight, and Lord Mackworth, leaning with his
lips close to the blind man’s ear, told him point by point how the battle
stood.

“Fear not, Gilbert,” said he at each pause in the fight. “He holdeth his
own right well.” Then, after a while: “God is with us, Gilbert. Alban is
twice wounded and his horse faileth. One little while longer and the
victory is ours!”

A longer and more continuous interval of combat followed this last
assurance, during which Myles drove the assault fiercely and unrelentingly
as though to overbear his enemy by the very power and violence of the
blows he delivered. The Earl defended himself desperately, but was borne
back, back, back, farther and farther. Every nerve of those who looked on
was stretched to breathless tensity, when, almost as his enemy was against
the barriers, Myles paused and rested.

“Out upon it!” exclaimed the Earl of Mackworth, almost shrilly in his
excitement, as the sudden lull followed the crashing of blows. “Why doth
the boy spare him? That is thrice he hath given him grace to recover; an
he had pushed the battle that time he had driven him back against the
barriers.”

It was as the Earl had said; Myles had three times given his enemy grace
when victory was almost in his very grasp. He had three times spared him,
in spite of all he and those dear to him must suffer should his cruel and
merciless enemy gain the victory. It was a false and foolish generosity,
partly the fault of his impulsive youth—more largely of his romantic
training in the artificial code of French chivalry. He felt that the
battle was his, and so he gave his enemy these three chances to recover,
as some chevalier or knight-errant of romance might have done, instead of
pushing the combat to a mercifully speedy end—and his foolish
generosity cost him dear.

In the momentary pause that had thus stirred the Earl of Mackworth to a
sudden outbreak, the Earl of Alban sat upon his panting, sweating
war-horse, facing his powerful young enemy at about twelve paces distant.
He sat as still as a rock, holding his gisarm poised in front of him. He
had, as the Earl of Mackworth had said, been wounded twice, and each time
with the point of the sword, so much more dangerous than a direct cut with
the weapon. One wound was beneath his armor, and no one but he knew how
serious it might be; the other was under the overlapping of the epauhere,
and from it a finger’s-breadth of blood ran straight down his side and
over the housings of his horse. From without, the still motionless iron
figure appeared calm and expressionless; within, who knows what consuming
blasts of hate, rage, and despair swept his heart as with a fiery
whirlwind.

As Myles looked at the motionless, bleeding figure, his breast swelled
with pity. “My Lord,” said he, “thou art sore wounded and the fight is
against thee; wilt thou not yield thee?”

No one but that other heard the speech, and no one but Myles heard the
answer that came back, hollow, cavernous, “Never, thou dog! Never!”

Then in an instant, as quick as a flash, his enemy spurred straight upon
Myles, and as he spurred he struck a last desperate, swinging blow, in
which he threw in one final effort all the strength of hate, of fury, and
of despair. Myles whirled his horse backward, warding the blow with his
shield as he did so. The blade glanced from the smooth face of the shield,
and, whether by mistake or not, fell straight and true, and with almost
undiminished force, upon the neck of Myles’s war-horse, and just behind
the ears. The animal staggered forward, and then fell upon its knees, and
at the same instant the other, as though by the impetus of the rush,
dashed full upon it with all the momentum lent by the weight of iron it
carried. The shock was irresistible, and the stunned and wounded horse was
flung upon the ground, rolling over and over. As his horse fell, Myles
wrenched one of his feet out of the stirrup; the other caught for an
instant, and he was flung headlong with stunning violence, his armor
crashing as he fell. In the cloud of dust that arose no one could see just
what happened, but that what was done was done deliberately no one
doubted. The earl, at once checking and spurring his foaming charger,
drove the iron-shod war-horse directly over Myles’s prostrate body. Then,
checking him fiercely with the curb, reined him back, the hoofs clashing
and crashing, over the figure beneath. So he had ridden over the father at
York, and so he rode over the son at Smithfield.

Myles, as he lay prostrate and half stunned by his fall, had seen his
enemy thus driving his rearing horse down upon him, but was not able to
defend himself. A fallen knight in full armor was utterly powerless to
rise without assistance; Myles lay helpless in the clutch of the very iron
that was his defence. He closed his eyes involuntarily, and then horse and
rider were upon him. There was a deafening, sparkling crash, a glimmering
faintness, then another crash as the horse was reined furiously back
again, and then a humming stillness.

In a moment, upon the scaffolding all was a tumult of uproar and
confusion, shouting and gesticulation; only the King sat calm, sullen,
impassive. The Earl wheeled his horse and sat for a moment or two as
though to make quite sure that he knew the King’s mind. The blow that had
been given was foul, unknightly, but the King gave no sign either of
acquiescence or rebuke; he had willed that Myles was to die.

Then the Earl turned again, and rode deliberately up to his prostrate
enemy.

When Myles opened his eyes after that moment of stunning silence, it was
to see the other looming above him on his war-horse, swinging his gisarm
for one last mortal blow—pitiless, merciless.

The sight of that looming peril brought back Myles’s wandering senses like
a flash of lightning. He flung up his shield, and met the blow even as it
descended, turning it aside. It only protracted the end.

Once more the Earl of Alban raised the gisarm, swinging it twice around
his head before he struck. This time, though the shield glanced it, the
blow fell upon the shoulder-piece, biting through the steel plate and
leathern jack beneath even to the bone. Then Myles covered his head with
his shield as a last protecting chance for life.

For the third time the Earl swung the blade flashing, and then it fell,
straight and true, upon the defenceless body, just below the left arm,
biting deep through the armor plates. For an instant the blade stuck fast,
and that instant was Myles’s salvation. Under the agony of the blow he
gave a muffled cry, and almost instinctively grasped the shaft of the
weapon with both hands. Had the Earl let go his end of the weapon, he
would have won the battle at his leisure and most easily; as it was, he
struggled violently to wrench the gisarm away from Myles. In that short,
fierce struggle Myles was dragged to his knees, and then, still holding
the weapon with one hand, he clutched the trappings of the Earl’s horse
with the other. The next moment he was upon his feet. The other struggled
to thrust him away, but Myles, letting go the gisarm, which he held with
his left hand, clutched him tightly by the sword-belt in the intense,
vise-like grip of despair. In vain the Earl strove to beat him loose with
the shaft of the gisarm, in vain he spurred and reared his horse to shake
him off; Myles held him tight, in spite of all his struggles.

He felt neither the streaming blood nor the throbbing agony of his wounds;
every faculty of soul, mind, body, every power of life, was centered in
one intense, burning effort. He neither felt, thought, nor reasoned, but
clutching, with the blindness of instinct, the heavy, spiked, iron-headed
mace that hung at the Earl’s saddle-bow, he gave it one tremendous wrench
that snapped the plaited leathern thongs that held it as though they were
skeins of thread. Then, grinding his teeth as with a spasm, he struck as
he had never struck before—once, twice, thrice full upon the front
of the helmet. Crash! crash! And then, even as the Earl toppled sidelong,
crash! And the iron plates split and crackled under the third blow. Myles
had one flashing glimpse of an awful face, and then the saddle was empty.

Then, as he held tight to the horse, panting, dizzy, sick to death, he
felt the hot blood gushing from his side, filling his body armor, and
staining the ground upon which he stood. Still he held tightly to the
saddle-bow of the fallen man’s horse until, through his glimmering sight,
he saw the Marshal, the Lieutenant, and the attendants gather around him.
He heard the Marshal ask him, in a voice that sounded faint and distant,
if he was dangerously wounded. He did not answer, and one of the
attendants, leaping from his horse, opened the umbril of his helmet,
disclosing the dull, hollow eyes, the ashy, colorless lips, and the waxy
forehead, upon which stood great beads of sweat.

“Water! water!” he cried, hoarsely; “give me to drink!” Then, quitting his
hold upon the horse, he started blindly across the lists towards the gate
of the barrier. A shadow that chilled his heart seemed to fall upon him.
“It is death,” he muttered; then he stopped, then swayed for an instant,
and then toppled headlong, crashing as he fell.


CONCLUSION

But Myles was not dead. Those who had seen his face when the umbril of the
helmet was raised, and then saw him fall as he tottered across the lists,
had at first thought so. But his faintness was more from loss of blood and
the sudden unstringing of nerve and sense from the intense furious strain
of the last few moments of battle than from the vital nature of the wound.
Indeed, after Myles had been carried out of the lists and laid upon the
ground in the shade between the barriers, Master Thomas, the Prince’s
barber-surgeon, having examined the wounds, declared that he might be even
carried on a covered litter to Scotland Yard without serious danger. The
Prince was extremely desirous of having him under his care, and so the
venture was tried. Myles was carried to Scotland Yard, and perhaps was
none the worse therefore. The Prince, the Earl of Mackworth, and two or
three others stood silently watching as the worthy shaver and leecher,
assisted by his apprentice and Gascoyne, washed and bathed the great
gaping wound in the side, and bound it with linen bandages. Myles lay with
closed eyelids, still, pallid, weak as a little child. Presently he opened
his eyes and turned them, dull and languid, to the Prince.

“What hath happed my father, my Lord?” said he, in a faint, whispering
voice.

“Thou hath saved his life and honor, Myles,” the Prince answered. “He is
here now, and thy mother hath been sent for, and cometh anon with the
priest who was with them this morn.”

Myles dropped his eyelids again; his lips moved, but he made no sound, and
then two bright tears trickled across his white cheek.

“He maketh a woman of me,” the Prince muttered through his teeth, and
then, swinging on his heel, he stood for a long time looking out of the
window into the garden beneath.

“May I see my father?” said Myles, presently, without opening his eyes.

The Prince turned around and looked inquiringly at the surgeon.

The good man shook his head. “Not to-day,” said he; “haply to-morrow he
may see him and his mother. The bleeding is but new stanched, and such
matters as seeing his father and mother may make the heart to swell, and
so maybe the wound burst afresh and he die. An he would hope to live, he
must rest quiet until to-morrow day.”

But though Myles’s wound was not mortal, it was very serious. The fever
which followed lingered longer than common—perhaps because of the
hot weather—and the days stretched to weeks, and the weeks to
months, and still he lay there, nursed by his mother and Gascoyne and
Prior Edward, and now and again by Sir James Lee.

One day, a little before the good priest returned to Saint Mary’s Priory,
as he sat by Myles’s bedside, his hands folded, and his sight turned
inward, the young man suddenly said, “Tell me, holy father, is it always
wrong for man to slay man?”

The good priest sat silent for so long a time that Myles began to think he
had not heard the question. But by-and-by he answered, almost with a sigh,
“It is a hard question, my son, but I must in truth say, meseems it is not
always wrong.”

“Sir,” said Myles, “I have been in battle when men were slain, but never
did I think thereon as I have upon this matter. Did I sin in so slaying my
father’s enemy?”

“Nay,” said Prior Edward, quietly, “thou didst not sin. It was for others
thou didst fight, my son, and for others it is pardonable to do battle.
Had it been thine own quarrel, it might haply have been more hard to have
answered thee.”

Who can gainsay, even in these days of light, the truth of this that the
good priest said to the sick lad so far away in the past?

One day the Earl of Mackworth came to visit Myles. At that time the young
knight was mending, and was sitting propped up with pillows, and was
wrapped in Sir James Lee’s cloak, for the day was chilly. After a little
time of talk, a pause of silence fell.

“My Lord,” said Myles, suddenly, “dost thou remember one part of a matter
we spoke of when I first came from France?”

The Earl made no pretence of ignorance. “I remember,” said he, quietly,
looking straight into the young man’s thin white face.

“And have I yet won the right to ask for the Lady Alice de Mowbray to
wife?” said Myles, the red rising faintly to his cheeks.

“Thou hast won it,” said the Earl, with a smile.

Myles’s eyes shone and his lips trembled with the pang of sudden joy and
triumph, for he was still very weak. “My Lord,” said he, presently “belike
thou camest here to see me for this very matter?”

The Earl smiled again without answering, and Myles knew that he had
guessed aright. He reached out one of his weak, pallid hands from beneath
the cloak. The Earl of Mackworth took it with a firm pressure, then
instantly quitting it again, rose, as if ashamed of his emotion, stamped
his feet, as though in pretence of being chilled, and then crossed the
room to where the fire crackled brightly in the great stone fireplace.

Little else remains to be told; only a few loose strands to tie, and the
story is complete.

Though Lord Falworth was saved from death at the block, though his honor
was cleansed from stain, he was yet as poor and needy as ever. The King,
in spite of all the pressure brought to bear upon him, refused to restore
the estates of Falworth and Easterbridge—the latter of which had
again reverted to the crown upon the death of the Earl of Alban without
issue—upon the grounds that they had been forfeited not because of
the attaint of treason, but because of Lord Falworth having refused to
respond to the citation of the courts. So the business dragged along for
month after month, until in January the King died suddenly in the
Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster. Then matters went smoothly enough, and
Falworth and Mackworth swam upon the flood-tide of fortune.

So Myles was married, for how else should the story end? And one day he
brought his beautiful young wife home to Falworth Castle, which his father
had given him for his own, and at the gateway of which he was met by Sir
James Lee and by the newly-knighted Sir Francis Gascoyne.

One day, soon after this home-coming, as he stood with her at an open
window into which came blowing the pleasant May-time breeze, he suddenly
said, “What didst thou think of me when I first fell almost into thy lap,
like an apple from heaven?”

“I thought thou wert a great, good-hearted boy, as I think thou art now,”
said she, twisting his strong, sinewy fingers in and out.

“If thou thoughtst me so then, what a very fool I must have looked to thee
when I so clumsily besought thee for thy favor for my jousting at Devlen.
Did I not so?”

“Thou didst look to me the most noble, handsome young knight that did ever
live; thou didst look to me Sir Galahad, as they did call thee, withouten
taint or stain.”

Myles did not even smile in answer, but looked at his wife with such a
look that she blushed a rosy red. Then, laughing, she slipped from his
hold, and before he could catch her again was gone.

I am glad that he was to be rich and happy and honored and beloved after
all his hard and noble fighting.

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