CHAPTER VII--THE OUTLAWS OF BLACKPOOL
'Twas a fortnight after the fray with the outlaws on the borders ofBlackpool Forest, where, all unknowing, we had saved the life of youngSir Geoffrey of Carleton, heir of the house that for so long had beenour bitterest enemy, that my father and I rode with Cedric, my comradeand squire, and six stout men-at-arms over the hill road to Mannerley.There our new-made friend, Sir Geoffrey, lay recovering from his wound.
Lord Mountjoy wore helmet and cuirass; and his good two-handedbroadsword swung by his side, while both Cedric and I wore shirts oflinked mail and our followers each a quilted, shaft-proof leathernjacket. Cedric carried the cross-bow which he had often used to suchgood purpose, and I the sword of Damascus steel which my father hadriven from a Saracen noble in the Holy Land. Withal we made a bravearray on the woodland roads and one of which the boldest band of outlawswith their bows and bills and coats of Lincoln green might well beware.
But no enemy gainsaid us on the road; and at two o' the clock we rodeacross the drawbridge of our good friend and neighbor, the Lady ofMannerley. She bade us welcome in the courtly manner to which she wasbred, and ushered us to the great hall. Geoffrey was reclining in agreat chair before the fire, and rose to greet us with most joyous face.His wound was healing fast, as we had known from the messengers who hadpassed almost daily to and fro; but the young Lord of Carleton was stillpale with the bloodletting, and could leave his chair no longer than thecourtesy of a host demanded. As he shook hands with my father, the Lordof Mountjoy, his words of heartfelt welcome and the smile on his winsomeface made amends for the weakness of his clasp; and I was filled withjoy to see that my father warmed to him at once and for his sakewillingly forgot the deeds of the old Gray Wolf, who had been Lord ofCarleton.
When Geoffrey was again seated and we had found places on the benchesaround him, the Lady of Mannerley brought to us some most dainty cakesand cups of hot mulled wine, serving us with her own hands, as is thecustom when guests of quality are welcomed. There ensued an hour ofgoodly talk, Geoffrey of Carleton plying my father with questions ofthat of which he loves best to speak,--the wars for the Holy Sepulcher'srecovery--and Cedric and I listening or putting in our words as occasionoffered. Geoffrey heard from me the tale of our archer festival and ofold Marvin's and Cedric's wondrous prowess with the cross-bow. Then bydegrees we came to the story of the day whereon Cedric and I and poorold William came upon the outlaw band in Blackpool that sought to killhis two retainers and make him prisoner; and we lived over again in joythe battle at the forest's edge and the bloody and desperate chase thatfollowed.
When that tale had been fully told by us three youths, speakingsometimes in turn and sometimes, at the most perilous passages, cryingout all together what had chanced, Geoffrey turned to me to say:
"But, Sir Richard,--in the forest where I first saw thee and Cedric atthe fire,--that was a most sweet ballad you did sing. Can you not raiseit again? I have a great mind to hear it."
At this, nothing loath, I turned my eyes to the rafters and began thelay. Cedric, joining in with his sweet harmonizing, did give it a gracewhich else it had sadly lacked; and the hall of Mannerley rang with iteven as had the little glade in the wood. Lady Mannerley came again tothe door of the hall, and behind her a half dozen of her maids andserving men. Geoffrey and the others loudly cried "Encore"; and thesecond time my father took up the lay with us, so it went rousingly andto the delight of the whole company. When at last we ceased Geoffreydeclared that the song and the gay and heartening talk withal had donefor him more good than all the herbs and poultices of the leech, andthat with one more day like to this he verily believed he could rideabroad whole and sound.
Our audience departed with the end of the singing; and then LordMountjoy spoke most seriously:
"What thou say'st, Sir Geoffrey, puts me in mind that in these roughtimes there is other work for us who are verily whole and sound thanthis chaffering and singing at a bonny fireside, most pleasant though itbe. I must bestir myself to punish these greedy rascals of the greenwoodthat set upon to rob and murder all those that go the forest roads notarmed to the teeth and in strong company. 'Tis said that this unhungvarlet that so sorely beset thee hath now no less than seven scorebowmen at his back. To-morrow I ride to enlist the aid of my lord ofPelham with his twenty archers, and as soon thereafter as may be toDunwoodie of Grimsby. The good lady who is now our hostess willdoubtless send some men-at-arms and foresters. We shall make up acompany that can take Blackpool Wood from all its sides at once; and itshall go hard but we send a half hundred of the rogues to theirreckoning."
During this speech the eyes of the young Lord of Carleton had grownbright as with a fever; and he could hardly wait for my father to cometo an end before crying out:
"Oh, good Mountjoy! My friend--if thou art my friend indeed, stay thisgoodly enterprise but a few short months--or weeks mayhap--and let mejoin with thee. This outlaw chief, whom now I learn is called theMonkslayer from certain of his bloody deeds, hath offered both injuryand insult to the House of Carleton. Two of my faithful men he slew, andme he took prisoner, and would have held for high ransom, if indeed hespared my life, had it not been for Sir Richard and Cedric here and thatworthy old archer of Mountjoy who met his death fighting in my behalf.Give me but two short months--I ask no more--to heal me of my wound andmake some practice of arms; and I will ride with thee to the hunting ofthis outlaw and his band with forty men-at-arms and eight score archersfrom Carleton and Teramore. So shall we make short and sure work of it."
My father gazed at the glowing face of our new-made friend; and plain itwas to me that the liking he had at first conceived for the lad sufferednothing from this headlong eagerness to be up and doing with arms in hishands. Turning to Cedric and me, with a broad and happy smile, LordMountjoy said:
"Well, lads, 'twas your quarrel and Sir Geoffrey's at the first. Whatsay you? Shall we risk the scattering and 'scaping of these rogues bywaiting till the fall for him? For I plainly see that, with all goodwill, he cannot rightly ride and fight before that time in such a roughcampaign as this will be."
"Oh, let us wait, Father!" I cried, "Sir Geoffrey hath the right insaying 'tis especially the Carleton's quarrel; and 'twill be a finesight for all the countryside to see the banners of Mountjoy and ofCarleton waving together in so good a cause after all these years ofenmity. Mayhap Sir Geoffrey will return with usury the arrow-shot he hadfrom those scurvy knaves. If so, 'twill not be an ill beginning for hiscareer in arms."
Cedric, who was ever of few words, nodded his head at this speech ofmine; and so 'twas settled among us. Through the summer months we wouldstrike no blow at the outlaws save in defense, but at the fall of theleaf, when the woods made not so close a cover, we would fall upon themin their fastnesses with all our forces at once, and so destroy andscatter them that the woodland roads of the whole county would be freeof their kind for years to come.
A week later Sir Geoffrey took his way to his great castle at Teramoreunder a strong escort of Carleton men-at-arms. Ten days thereafterCedric and I rode thither to pay a promised visit and to talk of theoutlaw hunt and our great plans for the days to follow. Sir Geoffreyshowed himself a most gracious host; and we passed some goodly hours inthe Carleton hall and in the courtyard where Cedric did try mostmanfully to impart to Geoffrey and me some measure of his cross-bowskill.
For my own handling of this weapon, I fear that all Cedric's and oldMarvin's teachings are bootless, and that never shall I shoot with anycertainty; but, to Cedric's huge delight, Sir Geoffrey took to theexercise like one born in a forester's cottage. In half an hour he wasstriking marks at fifty paces that were small enough for Cedric's ownaim at twice that distance, and his instructor was prophesying he wouldbe a bonny archer long before he could well handle a broadsword. This Ithought likely enough, for Geoffrey, though his age lacked but half ayear of Cedric's and mine, was somewhat lightly built and had not yetthe reach and the forearm muscles that make a swordsman. 'Twas plainthat among us t
hree I should long remain the master with this best ofweapons; and with this thought to console me, I took it not too ill thatI should prove such a poor third at the archery.
That night, as Cedric and I sat at board with my father and mother, wewere full of talk of the day's doings; and I was already planningfestival days and nights when the Carletons and the Mountjoys and allour friends of Pelham and of Mannerley should fore-gather at Mountjoy orat Teramore for feasts and dancing in such ways as had been in days ofyore.
Suddenly my mother interrupted all this talk and planning with a soberquestion:
"And the Lady of Carleton--Geoffrey's mother--did she greet thee fullcourteously to-day, Dickon?"
At once I felt as one who treads in icy water where he had thought tomeet firm ground.
"Nay, mother. We saw her not at all--save for a glimpse at chamberwindow as we rode toward the drawbridge."
"Ah! then she was not abroad, it seems."
"Nay, she kept her chamber. Mayhap she was not well."
"Did Sir Geoffrey make for her her excuse?"
My face, as I could feel, grew burning red as I made answer:
"Nay, he said no word of her."
Then Lady Mountjoy turned to my father, who had been closely listening:
"It seems, my lord, that we shall not soon ride toward Teramore."
My father sadly shook his head, and gazed at the board before him. Hehad been glad at heart at the thought of the healed breach between thetwo houses; and now it seemed that all such thoughts were vain.
"Mayhap Lady Carleton will ride over with Sir Geoffrey when next week hecomes to Mountjoy as he promised," I offered.
My father again shook his head.
"Mayhap she will, Dickon. If so be, she shall have the right hand ofwelcome; but much I misdoubt her coming to Mountjoy. When all is said,'tis but natural she cannot bring herself to call us friends. It was weof Mountjoy that did to death her husband and her eldest son; and thoughwe know well, and have maintained it by oath and by arms, that 'twas infair battle, on our part at least, and that they brought their deathsupon themselves, yet perhaps 'tis too much to expect her to credit ourwords and deeds that give the lie to those of her own house. Nay, I seeit now. She will never be a friend of Mountjoy."
He sighed deeply and turned again to his carving. None of us had morewords; and it seemed that a cold fog, like those that come from theWestern Sea in springtime, had settled on our spirits.
Four days later Sir Geoffrey came to Mountjoy, attended by a well-armedretinue; but his lady mother was not with him; and again he said no wordof her. We made the young heir of Carleton full welcome to Mountjoy, andspent the day with meat and drink and the practice of arms. With thecross-bow he did even better than before, and showed himself not toodull a learner at the foils. But the gayety we had had at Teramore wasnot with us at Mountjoy. 'Twas as if some shriveled witch had envied usour merriment and put a spell upon us to destroy it. Something of thisSir Geoffrey seemed to feel at last; and the sun was yet three hourshigh when he took horse for his return.
So passed the summer. We did not ride again to Teramore, nor did SirGeoffrey come to Mountjoy. Once I learned that he visited the Lady ofMannerley; and Cedric and I took the same day to pay our own respects.We had much good talk of the outlaw band and of the great day that wasnow fast approaching, but of Lady Carleton and the new peace thatreigned between Mountjoy and Carleton no word was spoken.
Came a day in fair October that minded me full sharply of that one ayear agone whereon I had met Lionel of Carleton in the woods ofTeramore. The men of Mountjoy were early astir, and four score strong,counting the men-at-arms, the cross-bow men and the foresters with theirlong-bows and cloth-yard shafts, were making toward their post on thehither side of Blackpool Wood. On our left, two furlongs off, were LordPelham and his archers; to the right the score or so of Mannerlyretainers and Squire Dunwoodie with half a hundred yeomen. On the farside of the forest, three leagues away, we knew that young Sir Geoffreywith dour-faced old Hubert led nigh two hundred Carleton men-at-arms andbowmen, and Lionel of Montmorency a hundred more. We were to march inopen line, converging toward the center of the wood at grim Blackpool.Any of the robbers found in hiding were to be captured or slain; andwhichever leader first encountered the outlaws in force was to givethree long notes on his hunting horn. Then half the forces of all theothers were immediately to join him, leaving the remainder to guard alllines of possible escape. Our plans had been well kept secret amongstthe leaders; not one of our own men knew them until that very morning.Withal it promised to be a most unlucky day for those cut-throat knaveswho had so long cheated the gallows.
Our march was slow, as well might be in all those brakes and rockyglens. Now and again a lurking knave in Lincoln green was found andquickly made prisoner--or, if he made resistance, even more quicklydisposed of. Some, however, were too fleet of foot for capture by ourmore heavily burdened men; and, after sending a shaft or two at the lineof skirmishers, made good their escape into the wood before us.
'Twas ten by the sun when we heard, from Dunwoodie, far on our right,the three long blasts of the horn. Instantly my father and I took halfour men, and leaving the rest under old Marvin, the archer, ran throughthe forest toward the fray. Afterward we learned to our cost that someof our leaders took not so careful thought of the places of their forcesin the skirmish line, but rushed off at once to the alarm, followed bywell nigh their whole companies, leaving in places gaps of a mile ormore in what should have been our close-drawn cordon.
Be that as it might, ten minutes had not passed before Dunwoodie withhis half hundred archers was reinforced by a gallant array of bowmen andmen-at-arms. The outlaws, a hundred or more in number, and led by theMonkslayer himself, had been pressing Dunwoodie hard. The robber chief,carrying a sword and wearing the steel cap and breast-plate of a knight,stood forth from all shelter, commanding and exhorting his followers,apparently with no fear at all of flying shafts and quarrels. The men ofDunwoodie Manor fought from behind trees and rocks; and most of them hadquilted, leathern jackets; but they were no match in archery, for theoutlaws, many of whom, by virtue of their skill with the long-bow, hadlived for years in the forest and never lacked for venison or greatlyfeared the sheriff and his men. Half a dozen Dunwoodie archers alreadylay weltering on the leaves, struck through throat or face withcloth-yard shafts; and only one or two of the robber knaves had beenlikewise served. Our coming, however, changed all in a twinkling.Mountjoy struck the outlaws on one flank just as Lionel of Montmorencycame down upon the other. In the time a man would need to run afurlong's length, a score or more of the varlets were slain by shaftsand cross-bow quarrels or by the swords of our men-at-arms, fifty morehad clasped their hands above their heads in token of surrender, and theMonkslayer and the remainder of his crew had taken flight toward thecenter of the forest.
My father, who had been chosen leader by the other nobles, now called ahalt and sent out a half dozen messengers to right and left to see andreport to him the state of our cordon. Some of these returned in half anhour with their news, while others made the entire circuit of theforest, bearing Lord Mountjoy's commands for the reforming andtightening of the skirmish line and for the delaying of further advancetill he should give the word. Since the scattering of the main body ofthe robbers a number of the fugitives had been creeping back with theirhands tightly clasped over their heads and begging for quarter. It wasmy father's thought that, in a day's time, these desertions from theoutlaw band would be so many that the task of surrounding and taking theremainder and the Monkslayer himself would be a light one.
At two o'clock Sir Geoffrey joined us with thirty of his men. The mainbody he had left under old Hubert on the other side of Blackpool. He wasaching for a sight of the outlaws, and deemed our chances ofencountering them again better than those along the line he had beenguarding. Sir Geoffrey had grown brown and sturdy in the summer justpast, and had added near an inch to his stature. Now he handled hiscross-bow like a skilled archer,
and was soon in eager talk with Cedricover the practice at moving marks.
Our camp was made in a fair and pleasant glen, some two or three milesfrom Blackpool. We had eaten of the bread and meat in our pouches, andsat at ease about our camp fires, my father having well seen to it thatsentinels were posted against any sortie of the enemy. Suddenly one ofthese, half a furlong away in the wood, called out to us and pointeddown a pathway to where it crossed a stream a bowshot below our camp.There were approaching two men in the Lincoln green, and bearing a clothof white which had been tied to a rough pole standard.
"Ha!" cried Squire Dunwoodie, "here come two of the varlets with amessage. We will hear it; and if we like it not, will hang them up toyonder limb."
"Nay!" cried my father, angrily, "we shall do no violence to bearers ofa flag of truce, be they honest men or thieves. 'Tis like the Monkslayerbegs for mercy; but whate'er his message, the bearers of it shall returnto him unscathed."
The envoys now approached and, bowing low before Lord Mountjoy,delivered to him a folded parchment. My father bent his brows upon thisfor a moment, then exclaiming in wrath, bade me read it to the assembledcompany. These were the words of the scroll:
"To Robert, Lord of Mountjoy, Geoffrey, Heir of Carleton and other worshipful lords and gentlemen:
"Know that my men have this day taken prisoner, and now securely hold for ransom Elizabeth, Lady of Carleton with two of her attendants. Some three score of my greenwood rangers are now held captive by you, if indeed you have not already done violence upon them. These friends and followers of mine I now ask that you freely release, without injury or mutilation, and that they go free before the sunrise of to-morrow. Also that you then withdraw all your armed forces from Blackpool Forest. Then shall the Lady and her attendants likewise depart without harm from me or mine. If so be you refuse my terms, then when the sun is one hour high you shall receive a messenger from me who will bear with him the left hand of the aforesaid Lady of Carleton. If by sunset of to-morrow my men have not been suffered to freely return, another messenger shall bring you the lady's right hand.
"My fastness you shall never take. If you attempt it, at the first alarm the prisoners shall die. Enough is said to make plain my will. Those who have had dealings with me will tell you that my word for good or for ill I always keep.
"_William of Tyndale_, Called by some the Monkslayer."
"Oh, the murderous varlets!" cried Sir Geoffrey; and I thought it noshame to him that tears streamed down his face, "they will cut off herhands. 'Twere better far that they slew her outright. Oh! to have thatbloody villain for a moment within sure aim I would willingly die theinstant after."
"How could she have been taken?" asked Lord Mountjoy.
"I mind me now," replied Geoffrey, wringing his hands in misery, "sheever went on Saturdays to tend my brother's grave at Lanton, two milesfrom our gates and on the forest's edge. She was used to take an ampleguard; but to-day I have taken nearly all our men-of-arms for thisexpedition. She liked it not that I should come; and now she hasventured forth without escort and to my everlasting sorrow. Oh, that_bloody_ villain!"
"Hush, Sir Geoffrey," said my father quickly, his face working insympathy with the lad's sore distress, "they shall not harm thy ladymother. If need be, and no other way will serve, we will e'en releaseour prisoners and thus pay her ransom."
A mutter of discontent from some of the other leaders followed this, andDunwoodie spoke full surlily:
"Seven of my good yeomen have already been slain in this quarrel; diversof our friends have lost men also, and Lord Pelham hath been bornehomewards with an arrow wound that came near to being mortal. Shall wehave nothing for all this but the freeing of these varlets?"
"What would'st thou do then, Dunwoodie,--leave the Lady of Carleton inthe hands of the outlaws?"
Dunwoodie only growled in reply; and soon my father spoke again, thistime to the outlaw messengers:
"Go to your chief," he said, "and say that we consider his offer, butthat if the Lady of Carleton or her attendants be harmed one whit, wewill hunt him and all his followers to the death e'en if that huntingtakes a thousand men and a year's campaigning. Let him look to it."
The messengers bowed again and made their way into the deeps of theforest. My father and the nobles that were there gathered about the campfire in deep discussion of this sore dilemma.
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