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<h2> XI. IN THE HALL OF THE KNIGHT OF DUPLIN </h2>
<p>The King had come and had gone. Tilford Manor house stood once more dark
and silent, but joy and contentment reigned within its walls. In one night
every trouble had fallen away like some dark curtain which had shut out
the sun. A princely sum of money had come from the King's treasurer, given
in such fashion that there could be no refusal. With a bag of gold pieces
at his saddle-bow Nigel rode once more into Guildford, and not a beggar on
the way who had not cause to bless his name.</p>
<p>There he had gone first to the goldsmith and had bought back cup and
salver and bracelet, mourning with the merchant over the evil chance that
gold and gold-work had for certain reasons which only those in the trade
could fully understand gone up in value during the last week, so that
already fifty gold pieces had to be paid more than the price which Nigel
had received. In vain the faithful Aylward fretted and fumed and muttered
a prayer that the day would come when he might feather a shaft in the
merchant's portly paunch. The money had to be paid.</p>
<p>Thence Nigel hurried to Wat the armorer's and there he bought that very
suit for which he had yearned so short a time before. Then and there he
tried it on in the booth, Wat and his boy walking round him with spanner
and wrench, fixing bolts and twisting rivets.</p>
<p>"How is that, my fair sir?" cried the armorer as he drew the bassinet over
the head and fastened it to the camail which extended to the shoulders. "I
swear by Tubal Cain that it fits you as the shell fits the crab! A finer
suit never came from Italy or Spain."</p>
<p>Nigel stood in front of a burnished shield which served as a mirror, and
he turned this way and that, preening himself like a little shining bird.
His smooth breastplate, his wondrous joints with their deft protection by
the disks at knee and elbow and shoulder, the beautifully flexible
gauntlets and sollerets, the shirt of mail and the close-fitting
greave-plates were all things of joy and of beauty in his eyes. He sprang
about the shop to show his lightness, and then running out he placed his
hand on the pommel and vaulted into Pommers' saddle, while Wat and his boy
applauded in the doorway.</p>
<p>Then springing off and running into the shop again he clanked down upon
his knees before the image of the Virgin upon the smithy wall. There from
his heart he prayed that no shadow or stain should come upon his soul or
his honor whilst these arms incased his body, and that he might be
strengthened to use them for noble and godly ends. A strange turn this to
a religion of peace, and yet for many a century the sword and the faith
had upheld each other and in a darkened world the best ideal of the
soldier had turned in some dim groping fashion toward the light.
"Benedictus dominus deus meus qui docet manus meas ad Praelium et digitos
meos ad bellum!" There spoke the soul of the knightly soldier.</p>
<p>So the armor was trussed upon the armorer's mule and went back with them
to Tilford, where Nigel put it on once more for the pleasure of the Lady
Ermyntrude, who clapped her skinny hands and shed tears of mingled pain
and joy—pain that she should lose him, joy that he should go so
bravely to the wars. As to her own future, it had been made easy for her,
since it was arranged that a steward should look to the Tilford estate
whilst she had at her disposal a suite of rooms in royal Windsor, where
with other venerable dames of her own age and standing she could spend the
twilight of her days discussing long-forgotten scandals and whispering sad
things about the grandfathers and the grandmothers of the young courtiers
all around them. There Nigel might leave her with an easy mind when he
turned his face to France.</p>
<p>But there was one more visit to be paid and one more farewell to be spoken
ere Nigel could leave the moorlands where he had dwelled so long. That
evening he donned his brightest tunic, dark purple velvet of Genoa, with
trimming of miniver, his hat with the snow-white feather curling round the
front, and his belt of embossed silver round his loins. Mounted on lordly
Pommers, with his hawk upon wrist and his sword by his side, never did
fairer young gallant or one more modest in mind set forth upon such an
errand. It was but the old Knight of Duplin to whom he would say farewell;
but the Knight of Duplin had two daughters, Edith and Mary, and Edith was
the fairest maid in all the heather-country.</p>
<p>Sir John Buttesthorn, the Knight of Duplin, was so called because he had
been present at that strange battle, some eighteen years before, when the
full power of Scotland had been for a moment beaten to the ground by a
handful of adventurers and mercenaries, marching under the banner of no
nation, but fighting in their own private quarrel. Their exploit fills no
pages of history, for it is to the interest of no nation to record it, and
yet the rumor and fame of the great fight bulked large in those times, for
it was on that day when the flower of Scotland was left dead upon the
field, that the world first understood that a new force had arisen in war,
and that the English archer, with his robust courage and his skill with
the weapon which he had wielded from his boyhood, was a power with which
even the mailed chivalry of Europe had seriously to reckon.</p>
<p>Sir John after his return from Scotland had become the King's own head
huntsman, famous through all England for his knowledge of venery, until at
last, getting overheavy for his horses, he had settled in modest comfort
into the old house of Cosford upon the eastern slope of the Hindhead hill.
Here, as his face grew redder and his beard more white, he spent the
evening of his days, amid hawks and hounds, a flagon of spiced wine ever
at his elbow, and his swollen foot perched upon a stool before him. There
it was that many an old comrade broke his journey as he passed down the
rude road which led from London to Portsmouth, and thither also came the
young gallants of the country to hear the stout knight's tales of old
wars, or to learn, from him that lore of the forest and the chase which
none could teach so well as he.</p>
<p>But sooth to say, whatever the old knight might think, it was not merely
his old tales and older wine which drew the young men to Cosford, but
rather the fair face of his younger daughter, or the strong soul and wise
counsel of the elder. Never had two more different branches sprung from
the same trunk. Both were tall and of a queenly graceful figure. But there
all resemblance began and ended.</p>
<p>Edith was yellow as the ripe corn, blue-eyed, winning, mischievous, with a
chattering tongue, a merry laugh, and a smile which a dozen of young
gallants, Nigel of Tilford at their head, could share equally amongst
them. Like a young kitten she played with all things that she found in
life, and some there were who thought that already the claws could be felt
amid the patting of her velvet touch.</p>
<p>Mary was dark as night, grave-featured, plain-visaged, with steady brown
eyes looking bravely at the world from under a strong black arch of brows.
None could call her beautiful, and when her fair sister cast her arm round
her and placed her cheek against hers, as was her habit when company was
there, the fairness of the one and the plainness of the other leaped
visibly to the eyes of all, each the clearer for that hard contrast. And
yet, here and there, there was one who, looking at her strange, strong
face, and at the passing gleams far down in her dark eyes, felt that this
silent woman with her proud bearing and her queenly grace had in her
something of strength, of reserve and of mystery which was more to them
than all the dainty glitter of her sister.</p>
<p>Such were the ladies of Cosford toward whom Nigel Loring rode that night
with doublet of Genoan velvet and the new white feather in his cap.</p>
<p>He had ridden over Thursley Ridge past that old stone where in days gone
by at the place of Thor the wild Saxons worshiped their war-god. Nigel
looked at it with a wary eye and spurred Pommers onward as he passed it,
for still it was said that wild fires danced round it on the moonless
nights, and they who had ears for such things could hear the scream and
sob of those whose lives had been ripped from them that the fiend might be
honored. Thor's stone, Thor's jumps, Thor's punch-bowl—the whole
country-side was one grim monument to the God of Battles, though the pious
monks had changed his uncouth name for that of the Devil his father, so
that it was the Devil's jumps and the Devil's punch-bowl of which they
spoke. Nigel glanced back at the old gray boulder, and he felt for an
instant a shudder pass through his stout heart. Was it the chill of the
evening air, or was it that some inner voice had whispered to him of the
day when he also might lie bound on such a rock and have such a
blood-stained pagan crew howling around him.</p>
<p>An instant later the rock and his vague fear and all things else had
passed from his mind, for there, down the yellow sandy path, the setting
sun gleaming on her golden hair, her lithe figure bending and swaying with
every heave of the cantering horse, was none other than the same fair
Edith, whose face had come so often betwixt him and his sleep. His blood
rushed hot to his face at the sight, for fearless of all else, his spirit
was attracted and yet daunted by the delicate mystery of woman. To his
pure and knightly soul not Edith alone, but every woman, sat high and
aloof, enthroned and exalted, with a thousand mystic excellencies and
virtues which raised her far above the rude world of man. There was joy in
contact with them; and yet there was fear, fear lest his own unworthiness,
his untrained tongue or rougher ways should in some way break rudely upon
this delicate and tender thing. Such was his thought as the white horse
cantered toward him; but a moment later his vague doubts were set at rest
by the frank voice of the young girl, who waved her whip in merry
greeting.</p>
<p>"Hail and well met, Nigel!" she cried. "Whither away this evening? Sure I
am that it is not to see your friends of Cosford, for when did you ever
don so brave a doublet for us? Come, Nigel, her name, that I may hate her
for ever."</p>
<p>"Nay, Edith," said the young Squire, laughing back at the laughing girl.
"I was indeed coming to Cosford."</p>
<p>"Then we shall ride back together, for I will go no farther. How think you
that I am looking?"</p>
<p>Nigel's answer was in his eyes as he glanced at the fair flushed face, the
golden hair, the sparkling eyes and the daintily graceful figure set off
in a scarlet-and-black riding-dress. "You are as fair as ever, Edith."</p>
<p>"Oh, cold of speech! Surely you were bred for the cloisters, and not for a
lady's bower, Nigel. Had I asked such a question from young Sir George
Brocas or the Squire of Fernhurst, he would have raved from here to
Cosford. They are both more to my taste than you are, Nigel."</p>
<p>"It is the worse for me, Edith," said Nigel ruefully.</p>
<p>"Nay, but you must not lose heart."</p>
<p>"Have I not already lost it?" said he.</p>
<p>"That is better," she cried, laughing. "You can be quick enough when you
choose, Master Malapert. But you are more fit to speak of high and weary
matters with my sister Mary. She will have none of the prattle and
courtesy of Sir George, and yet I love them well. But tell me, Nigel, why
do you come to Cosford to-night?"</p>
<p>"To bid you farewell."</p>
<p>"Me alone?"</p>
<p>"Nay, Edith, you and your sister Mary and the good knight your father."</p>
<p>"Sir George would have said that he had come for me alone. Indeed you are
but a poor courtier beside him. But is it true, Nigel, that you go to
France?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Edith."</p>
<p>"It was so rumored after the King had been to Tilford. The story goes that
the King goes to France and you in his train. Is that true?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Edith, it is true."</p>
<p>"Tell me, then, to what part you go, and when?"</p>
<p>"That, alas! I may not say."</p>
<p>"Oh, in sooth!" She tossed her fair head and rode onward in silence, with
compressed lips and angry eyes.</p>
<p>Nigel glanced at her in surprise and dismay. "Surely, Edith," said he at
last, "you have overmuch regard for my honor that you should wish me to
break the word that I have given?"</p>
<p>"Your honor belongs to you, and my likings belong to me," said she. "You
hold fast to the one, and I will do the same by the other."</p>
<p>They rode in silence through Thursley village. Then a thought came to her
mind and in an instant her anger was forgotten and she was hot on a new
scent.</p>
<p>"What would you do if I were injured, Nigel? I have heard my father say
that small as you are there is no man in these parts could stand against
you. Would you be my champion if I suffered wrong?"</p>
<p>"Surely I or any man of gentle blood would be the champion of any woman
who had suffered wrong."</p>
<p>"You or any and I or any—what sort of speech is that? Is it a
compliment, think you, to be mixed with a drove in that fashion? My
question was of you and me. If I were wronged would you be my man?"</p>
<p>"Try me and see, Edith!"</p>
<p>"Then I will do so, Nigel. Either Sir George Brocas or the Squire of
Fernhurst would gladly do what I ask, and yet I am of a mind, Nigel, to
turn to you."</p>
<p>"I pray you to tell me what it is."</p>
<p>"You know Paul de la Fosse of Shalford?"</p>
<p>"You mean the small man with the twisted back?"</p>
<p>"He is no smaller than yourself, Nigel, and as to his back there are many
folk that I know who would be glad to have his face."</p>
<p>"Nay, I am no judge of that, and I spoke out of no discourtesy. What of
the man?"</p>
<p>"He has flouted me, Nigel, and I would have revenge."</p>
<p>"What—on that poor twisted creature?"</p>
<p>"I tell you that he has flouted me!"</p>
<p>"But how?"</p>
<p>"I should have thought that a true cavalier would have flown to my aid,
withouten all these questions. But I will tell you, since I needs must.
Know then that he was one of those who came around me and professed to be
my own. Then, merely because he thought that there were others who were as
dear to me as himself he left me, and now he pays court to Maude Twynham,
the little freckle-faced hussy in his village."</p>
<p>"But how has this hurt you, since he was no man of thine?"</p>
<p>"He was one of my men, was he not? And he has made game of me to his
wench. He has told her things about me. He has made me foolish in her
eyes. Yes, yes, I can read it in her saffron face and in her watery eyes
when we meet at the church door on Sundays. She smiles—yes, smiles
at me! Nigel, go to him! Do not slay him, nor even wound him, but lay his
face open with thy riding-whip, and then come back to me and tell me how I
can serve you."</p>
<p>Nigel's face was haggard with the strife within, for desire ran hot in
every vein, and yet reason shrank with horror. "By Saint Paul! Edith," he
cried, "I see no honor nor advancement of any sort in this thing which you
have asked me to do. Is it for me to strike one who is no better than a
cripple? For my manhood I could not do such a deed, and I pray you, dear
lady, that you will set me some other task."</p>
<p>Her eyes flashed at him in contempt. "And you are a man-at-arms!" she
cried, laughing in bitter scorn. "You are afraid of a little man who can
scarce walk. Yes, yes, say what you will, I shall ever believe that you
have heard of his skill at fence and of his great spirit, and that your
heart has failed you! You are right, Nigel. He is indeed a perilous man.
Had you done what I asked he would have slain you, and so you have shown
your wisdom."</p>
<p>Nigel flushed and winced under the words, but he said no more, for his
mind was fighting hard within him, striving to keep that high image of
woman which seemed for a moment to totter on the edge of a fall. Together
in silence, side by side, the little man and the stately woman, the yellow
charger and the white jennet, passed up the sandy winding track with the
gorse and the bracken head-high on either side. Soon a path branched off
through a gateway marked with the boar-heads of the Buttesthorns, and
there was the low widespread house heavily timbered, loud with the barking
of dogs. The ruddy Knight limped forth with outstretched hand and roaring
voice—</p>
<p>"What how, Nigel! Good welcome and all hail! I had thought that you had
given over poor friends like us, now that the King had made so much of
you. The horses, varlets, or my crutch will be across you! Hush, Lydiard!
Down, Pelamon! I can scarce hear my voice for your yelping. Mary, a cup of
wine for young Squire Loring!"</p>
<p>She stood framed in the doorway, tall, mystic, silent, with strange,
wistful face and deep soul shining in her dark, questioning eyes. Nigel
kissed the hand that she held out, and all his faith in woman and his
reverence came back to him as he looked at her. Her sister had slipped
behind her and her fair elfish face smiled her forgiveness of Nigel over
Mary's shoulder.</p>
<p>The Knight of Duplin leaned his weight upon the young man's arm and limped
his way across the great high-roofed hall to his capacious oaken chair.
"Come, come, the stool, Edith!" he cried. "As God is my help, that girl's
mind swarms with gallants as a granary with rats. Well, Nigel, I hear
strange tales of your spear-running at Tilford and of the visit of the
King. How seemed he? And my old friend Chandos—many happy hours in
the woodlands have we had together—and Manny too, he was ever a bold
and a hard rider—what news of them all?"</p>
<p>Nigel told to the old Knight all that had occurred, saying little of his
own success and much of his own failure, yet the eyes of the dark woman
burned the brighter as she sat at her tapestry and listened.</p>
<p>Sir John followed the story with a running fire of oaths, prayers, thumps
with his great fist and flourishes of his crutch. "Well, well, lad, you
could scarce expect to hold your saddle against Manny, and you have
carried yourself well. We are proud of you, Nigel, for you are our own
man, reared in the heather country. But indeed I take shame that you are
not more skilled in the mystery of the woods, seeing that I have had the
teaching of you, and that no one in broad England is my master at the
craft. I pray you to fill your cup again whilst I make use of the little
time that is left to us."</p>
<p>And straightway the old Knight began a long and weary lecture upon the
times of grace and when each beast and bird was seasonable, with many
anecdotes, illustrations, warnings and exceptions, drawn from his own
great experience. He spoke also of the several ranks and grades of the
chase: how the hare, hart and boar must ever take precedence over the
buck, the doe, the fox, the marten and the roe, even as a knight banneret
does over a knight, while these in turn are of a higher class to the
badger, the wildcat or the otter, who are but the common populace of the
world of beasts. Of blood-stains also he spoke—how the skilled
hunter may see at a glance if blood be dark and frothy, which means a
mortal hurt, or thin and clear, which means that the arrow has struck a
bone.</p>
<p>"By such signs," said he, "you will surely know whether to lay on the
hounds and cast down the blinks which hinder the stricken deer in its
flight. But above all I pray you, Nigel, to have a care in the use of the
terms of the craft, lest you should make some blunder at table, so that
those who are wiser may have the laugh of you, and we who love you may be
shamed."</p>
<p>"Nay, Sir John," said Nigel. "I think that after your teaching I can hold
my place with the others."</p>
<p>The old Knight shook his white head doubtfully. "There is so much to be
learned that there is no one who can be said to know all," said he. "For
example, Nigel, it is sooth that for every collection of beasts of the
forest, and for every gathering of birds of the air, there is their own
private name so that none may be confused with another."</p>
<p>"I know it, fair sir."</p>
<p>"You know it, Nigel, but you do not know each separate name, else are you
a wiser man than I had thought you. In truth—none can say that they
know all, though I have myself picked off eighty, and six for a wager at
court, and it is said that the chief huntsman of the Duke of Burgundy has
counted over a hundred—but it is in my mind that he may have found
them as he went, for there was none to say him nay. Answer me now, lad,
how would you say if you saw ten badgers together in the forest?"</p>
<p>"A cete of badgers, fair sir."</p>
<p>"Good, Nigel—good, by my faith! And if you walk in Woolmer Forest
and see a swarm of foxes, how would you call it?"</p>
<p>"A skulk of foxes."</p>
<p>"And if they be lions?"</p>
<p>"Nay, fair sir, I am not like to meet several lions in Woolmer Forest."</p>
<p>"Aye, lad, but there are other forests besides Woolmer, and other lands
besides England, and who can tell how far afield such a knight errant as
Nigel of Tilford may go, when he sees worship to be won? We will say that
you were in the deserts of Nubia, and that afterward at the court of the
great Sultan you wished to say that you had seen several lions, which is
the first beast of the chase, being the king of all animals. How then
would you say it?"</p>
<p>Nigel scratched his head. "Surely, fair sir, I would be content to say
that I had seen a number of lions, if indeed I could say aught after so
wondrous an adventure."</p>
<p>"Nay, Nigel, a huntsman would have said that he had seen a pride of lions,
and so proved that he knew the language of the chase. Now had it been
boars instead of lions?"</p>
<p>"One says a singular of boars."</p>
<p>"And if they be swine?"</p>
<p>"Surely it is a herd of swine."</p>
<p>"Nay, nay, lad, it is indeed sad to see how little you know. Your hands,
Nigel, were always better than your head. No man of gentle birth would
speak of a herd of swine; that is the peasant speech. If you drive them it
is a herd. If you hunt them it is other. What call you them, then, Edith?"</p>
<p>"Nay, I know not," said the girl listlessly. A crumpled note brought in by
a varlet was clinched in her right hand and her blue eyes looked afar into
the deep shadows of the roof.</p>
<p>"But you can tell us, Mary?"</p>
<p>"Surely, sweet sir, one talks of a sounder of swine."</p>
<p>The old Knight laughed exultantly. "Here is a pupil who never brings me
shame!" he cried. "Be it lore—of chivalry or heraldry or woodcraft
or what you will, I can always turn to Mary. Many a man can she put to the
blush."</p>
<p>"Myself among them," said Nigel.</p>
<p>"Ah, lad, you are a Solomon to some of them. Hark ye! only last week that
jack-fool, the young Lord of Brocas, was here talking of having seen a
covey of pheasants in the wood. One such speech would have been the ruin
of a young Squire at the court. How would you have said it, Nigel?"</p>
<p>"Surely, fair sir, it should be a nye of pheasants."</p>
<p>"Good, Nigel—a nye of pheasants, even as it is a gaggle of geese or
a badling of ducks, a fall of woodcock or a wisp of snipe. But a covey of
pheasants! What sort of talk is that? I made him sit even where you are
sitting, Nigel, and I saw the bottom of two pots of Rhenish ere I let him
up. Even then I fear that he had no great profit from his lesson, for he
was casting his foolish eyes at Edith when he should have been turning his
ears to her father. But where is the wench?"</p>
<p>"She hath gone forth, father."</p>
<p>"She ever doth go forth when there is a chance of learning aught that is
useful indoors. But supper will soon be ready, and there is a boar's ham
fresh from the forest with which I would ask your help, Nigel, and a side
of venison from the King's own chase. The tinemen and verderers have not
forgotten me yet, and my larder is ever full. Blow three moots on the
horn, Mary, that the varlets may set the table, for the growing shadow and
my loosening belt warn me that it is time."</p>
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