The Winning of the Golden Spurs Part 1

The Winning of the Golden Spurs.

by Percy F. Westerman.

PROLOGUE

IT was early morning on the 5th day of August, 1303, the Royal City of Winchester. The sun had not yet risen, but a cold grey light filtered in through a narrow window and dimly illumined a small, scantily-furnished room overlooking the city walls.

Seated on a rough wooden stool, his face buried in his hands, was a young fellow of about twenty years of age. His body swayed with uncontrollable grief, and, though dry-eyed, deep sobs of mingled remorse and despair showed the anguish that rent his body and distracted his mind.

In a corner of the room a torch, burnt low in its iron socket, threw a yellow light that was fast being overmastered by the growing dawn, yet the glimmer was sufficient to play upon the naked blade of a sword, the steel of which was discoloured towards its point by a dull, rust-coloured stain.

Suddenly the sound of a heavy footstep was heard on the stairs. The youth started to his feet and gazed wildly around, as if seeking a place of concealment or some means of escape. He was tall, well formed, and, in spite of his haggard looks, comely of face, and his clothes, though rent and covered with chalk and dust, showed that he was of no mean position.

Realising the impossibility of hiding himself, he stood erect and alert, awaiting the arrival of what he took to be his fate; but, instead of a thundering summons of the officers of the law, there came a gentle rap, and the door was slowly pushed ajar.

"Hist! Art there, Master Revyngton? 'Tis I, Nicholas Hobbes!"

"Enter, Nicholas! Certes I thought 'twas the watch."

The new arrival was a man some few years older than the fugitive. He was clad in a rough leather suit, frayed at elbows and knees, and to which shavings and feathers still clung--a silent witness to his trade of fletcher.

"'Tis a sorry pa.s.s, Master Revyngton. How came it about?"

"Ay, that I will say right willingly; but first tell me--how knowest thou that I am here?"

"Easily said! d.i.c.k Ford told me that thou wert a fugitive in his house, and asked me to use my scatterbrain wits to find a way to smuggle thee out of the city. That being so, 'twere best I saw thee, and to that purpose I am here. But, again, how came it to pa.s.s?"

"Faith! I can scarce say. 'Twas in the meads, yestereven. Young Stephen Scarsdale and Reginald, his brother, were on this side of the stream, I on the nether bank, with Wulf, my favourite hound. 'Ho there!' cried Stephen. 'What meanst thou by trespa.s.sing on the ground of my Lord Bishop?' 'I do not trespa.s.s,' I replied. 'The Mead hath ever been free to the men of this city, and no one hath yet said me nay.' 'I'll warrant thou art after my Lord Bishop's trout. By the rood, I'll send a bolt through the head of thy lurcher.' 'Thy aim must be more sure than when I beat thee at the b.u.t.ts,' I replied, little thinking but that he spoke in jest, but in answer he levelled his crossbow, and ere I was aware of it poor Wulf was lying transfixed on the ground."

"Then I was seized by a thousand devils, and sprang across the narrow plank bridge to hurl the slayer of my hound into the river, but Stephen, whipping out his blade, bade me do likewise. In less time than it takes to tell our swords crossed, though, mark ye, I meant not to harm him; yet, like a fool, he ran in upon my blade, and 'twas all over in an instant."

"And then?"

"The younger Scarsdale, who is a worthy gentleman compared with his witless brother, tried to stop me as I fled. There was no help for it, so he, too, went down, though I trow he is not much hurt. Hast heard aught of Stephen?"

"Naught save that he is as dead as a door-nail. But, Master Revyngton, 'tis, as I said, a sorry pa.s.s. What wilt thou do?"

"Do? Give myself into the hands of the law. What else wouldst thou have me do?"

"Anything but that. Consider! Thou art young and full of life. Why shouldst thou grace a halter if it can be avoided, for, mark well, the Scarsdales are a powerful family, and moreover Stephen was of the Bishop's household. How thinkst thou to make good thy case before thy peers when the weight of t.i.tle and position is set against thee? Be sober, young master, and think on't."

"Ay, 'tis hard to die thus."

"No need to die at all--at any rate, just yet. Flee the country.

France or the States of the Rhine ever offer an attraction for a roving blade, and peradventure in a few years the affair will have blown over."

"But how can I escape?"

"There thou hast me. Where is d.i.c.k Ford?"

"Gone to gather tidings. He will be here anon."

Both men relapsed into silence, staring moodily at the narrow window, through which could be seen the battlements of the city gilded by the rising sun, while ever and again came the sweet strains of a lark as it soared heavenwards from the dew-sodden meadows without the walls.

Again came the sound of footsteps, and d.i.c.k Ford, the bowyer, entered. He was a short, red-complexioned man, with a cheerful countenance, as if nothing could upset his good nature, though at times his looks belied him, and the worthy citizens of Winchester oft had cause to remember his tongue when it ran riot. Like the fletcher, his appearance betrayed him, for the sharp wittle that hung from his girdle, the daubs of beeswax, and the faint reek of varnish marked his calling as a maker of the famous English longbows.

"A pretty hornet's nest thou hast raised, Master Revyngton," he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Yesternight the city crier called thee at the marketcross, and on the Soke Bridge. The Bishop's Court hath claimed thee, and in default of thy appearance thou wilt be declared outlaw. Furthermore, the gates are doubly guarded, and men are even now in ambush on the road to the sanctuary at St. Cross if so be thou seekest refuge therein. By the saintly Swithun, I trow thou art the most sought-for man in Winton."

"He hath made up his mind, d.i.c.k," exclaimed Hobbes. "Better an outlaw with a heavy conscience than a corpse with none at all."

"Ay, let me but get once clear of the city and I'll reck not what I become."

"Bravely spoken, Master Revyngton! And now, how canst thou make good thine escape? Thou canst count on us to a surety, for 'twould ill requite thy father's kindness to us in times past if we let thee fall into the hands of the Bishop's men. Where is thine arrow-wain, d.i.c.k?"

"Below, in the barn."

"And laden?"

"Nay, but it soon could be. Wherefore?"

"Place Master Revyngton in the cart and cover him with arrows. 'Tis the day thou journeyest to Bishopstoke and Botley. He would then be well on his way to the abbey at Netley."

"Steady, d.i.c.k, steady! Should the guard at Kingsgate search the wain my neck is as good as if fitted with a halter. Yet I'll take the risk; but see to it, young master, if the plan goeth amiss, thou'lt bear me witness that I wot not of thy presence?"

"Ay, good Nicholas. But if they question thee and search the cart I must make a bid for freedom, so stand in the way, and I'll warrant I'll knock thee down just to give colour to the deceit."

"But strike not too hard, Master Revyngton, neither on the face, for I am in no mind to go home to my good wife with my nose awry or mine eyes closed up. A gentle tap, I pray thee--like this--and I'll warrant I'll fall as surely as if I were smitten with the club of the Southampton giant Ascupart."

"After all's said and done," remarked the fletcher, "there may be no need to smite thee, Nick, for 'tis unlikely that they will search thy cart. But the day groweth apace. If it is to be done, the sooner the better, say I."

"Then make a good meal, Master Revyngton," said Hobbes, setting a loaf of brown bread, some cheese, and a jack of ale, "for if not thou'lt feel the want of it ere long. Now set to like a good trencherman, though, being but plain men, our fare is likewise plain.

Thou knowest the road?"

"Pa.s.sably well, save the latter part."

"Then keep close, but not on it if perchance thou art pursued, for it is to Southampton that they'll think thou art bound. Take the by-road to Botley, whence the abbey lies but a league or so away."

While the fletcher and the bowyer were giving advice the younger man did justice to the food; then, at a sign from Ford, his companion stole softly down the rough ladder that did duty as a staircase, and peered cautiously up and down the street. Another moment, and the three men had darted across the narrow road to a small barn, the mutual property of several of the inhabitants of that quarter, and shortly afterwards a rough cart, laden with bundles of newly-feathered arrows, was jolting over the rough stones towards Kingsgate, Nicholas Hobbes leading the sorry nag and whistling a lively air as well as the antic.i.p.ation of being floored would permit.

"Thou art early abroad, Nick," quoth one of the guards, as he made ready to throw open the heavy door. "There's naught but arrows in thy wain, I take it?"

"What meanest thou?"

"Why, hast heard naught of the slaying of Master Scarsdale, that tall youth belonging to the Bishop's household? Surely thou hast him in mind?"

"Ay, I knew him; is he dead?"