Sir Nigel

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  IV. HOW THE SUMMONER CAME TO THE MANOR HOUSE OF TILFORD

  By the date of this chronicle the ascetic sternness of the old Normancastles had been humanized and refined so that the new dwellings of thenobility, if less imposing in appearance, were much more comfortableas places of residence. A gentle race had built their houses rather forpeace than for war. He who compares the savage bareness of Pevensey orGuildford with the piled grandeur of Bodmin or Windsor cannot fail tounderstand the change in manners which they represent.

  The earlier castles had a set purpose, for they were built that theinvaders might hold down the country; but when the Conquest was oncefirmly established a castle had lost its meaning save as a refuge fromjustice or as a center for civil strife. On the marches of Wales and ofScotland the castle might continue to be a bulwark to the kingdom,and there still grew and flourished; but in all other places they wererather a menace to the King's majesty, and as such were discouraged anddestroyed. By the reign of the third Edward the greater part of the oldfighting castles had been converted into dwelling-houses or had beenruined in the civil wars, and left where their grim gray bones are stilllittered upon the brows of our hills. The new buildings were eithergreat country-houses, capable of defense, but mainly residential, orthey were manor-houses with no military significance at all.

  Such was the Tilford Manor-house where the last survivors of the old andmagnificent house of Loring still struggled hard to keep a footing andto hold off the monks and the lawyers from the few acres which were leftto them. The mansion was a two-storied one, framed in heavy beams ofwood, the interstices filled with rude blocks of stone. An outsidestaircase led up to several sleeping-rooms above. Below there were onlytwo apartments, the smaller of which was the bower of the aged LadyErmyntrude. The other was the hall, a very large room, which servedas the living room of the family and as the common dining-room ofthemselves and of their little group of servants and retainers. Thedwellings of these servants, the kitchens, the offices and the stableswere all represented by a row of penthouses and sheds behind the mainbuilding. Here lived Charles the page, Peter the old falconer, Red Swirewho had followed Nigel's grandfather to the Scottish wars, Weathercotethe broken minstrel, John the cook, and other survivors of moreprosperous days, who still clung to the old house as the barnacles tosome wrecked and stranded vessel.

  One evening about a week after the breaking of the yellow horse, Nigeland his grandmother sat on either side of the large empty fireplace inthis spacious apartment. The supper had been removed, and so had thetrestle tables upon which it had been served, so that the room seemedbare and empty. The stone floor was strewed with a thick layer of greenrushes, which was swept out every Saturday and carried with it all thedirt and debris of the week. Several dogs were now crouched among theserushes, gnawing and cracking the bones which had been thrown from thetable. A long wooden buffet loaded with plates and dishes filled oneend of the room, but there was little other furniture save some benchesagainst the walls, two dorseret chairs, one small table littered withchessmen, and a great iron coffer. In one corner was a high wickerworkstand, and on it two stately falcons were perched, silent andmotionless, save for an occasional twinkle of their fierce yellow eyes.

  But if the actual fittings of the room would have appeared scanty to onewho had lived in a more luxurious age, he would have been surprised onlooking up to see the multitude of objects which were suspended abovehis head. Over the fireplace were the coats-of-arms of a numberof houses allied by blood or by marriage to the Lorings. The twocresset-lights which flared upon each side gleamed upon the blue lion ofthe Percies, the red birds of de Valence, the black engrailed cross ofde Mohun, the silver star of de Vere, and the ruddy bars of FitzAlan,all grouped round the famous red roses on the silver shield which theLorings had borne to glory upon many a bloody field. Then from side toside the room was spanned by heavy oaken beams from which a great numberof objects were hanging. There were mail-shirts of obsolete pattern,several shields, one or two rusted and battered helmets, bowstaves,lances, otter-spears, harness, fishing-rods, and other implements of waror of the chase, while higher still amid the black shadows of the peakedroof could be seen rows of hams, flitches of bacon, salted geese, andthose other forms of preserved meat which played so great a part in thehousekeeping of the Middle Ages.

  Dame Ermyntrude Loring, daughter, wife, and mother of warriors, washerself a formidable figure. Tall and gaunt, with hard craggy featuresand intolerant dark eyes, even her snow-white hair and stooping backcould not entirely remove the sense of fear which she inspired in thosearound her. Her thoughts and memories went back to harsher times, andshe looked upon the England around her as a degenerate and effeminateland which had fallen away from the old standard of knightly courtesyand valor.

  The rising power of the people, the growing wealth of the Church, theincreasing luxury in life and manners, and the gentler tone of the agewere all equally abhorrent to her, so that the dread of her fierce face,and even of the heavy oak staff with which she supported her failinglimbs, was widespread through all the country round.

  Yet if she was feared she was also respected, for in days when bookswere few and readers scarce, a long memory and a ready tongue were ofthe more value; and where, save from Dame Ermyntrude, could the youngunlettered Squires of Surrey and Hampshire hear of their grandfathersand their battles, or learn that lore of heraldry and chivalry which shehanded down from a ruder but a more martial age? Poor as she was, therewas no one in Surrey whose guidance would be more readily sought upon aquestion of precedence or of conduct than the Dame Ermyntrude Loring.

  She sat now with bowed back by the empty fireplace, and looked acrossat Nigel with all the harsh lines of her old ruddled face softening intolove and pride. The young Squire was busy cutting bird-bolts for hiscrossbow, and whistling softly as he worked. Suddenly he looked up andcaught the dark eyes which were fixed upon him. He leaned forward andpatted the bony hand.

  "What hath pleased you, dear dame? I read pleasure in your eyes."

  "I have heard to-day, Nigel, how you came to win that great war-horsewhich stamps in our stable."

  "Nay, dame; I had told you that the monks had given it to me."

  "You said so, fair son, but never a word more. Yet the horse which youbrought home was a very different horse I wot, to that which was givenyou. Why did you not tell me?"

  "I should think it shame to talk of such a thing."

  "So would your father before you, and his father no less. They would sitsilent among the knights when the wine went round and listen to everyman's deeds; but if perchance there was anyone who spoke louder than therest and seemed to be eager for honor, then afterwards your father wouldpluck him softly by the sleeve and whisper in his ear to learn if therewas any small vow of which he could relieve him, or if he would deign toperform some noble deed of arms upon his person. And if the man were abraggart and would go no further, your father would be silent and nonewould know it. But if he bore himself well, your father would spread hisfame far and wide, but never make mention of himself."

  Nigel looked at the old woman with shining eyes. "I love to hear youspeak of him," said he. "I pray you to tell me once more of the mannerof his death."

  "He died as he had lived, a very courtly gentleman. It was at the greatsea-battle upon the Norman coast, and your father was in command of theafter-guard in the King's own ship. Now the French had taken a greatEnglish ship the year before when they came over and held the narrowseas and burned the town of Southampton.

  "This ship was the Christopher, and they placed it in the front of theirbattle; but the English closed upon it and stormed over its side, andslew all who were upon it.

  "But your father and Sir Lorredan of Genoa, who commanded theChristopher, fought upon the high poop, so that all the fleet stoppedto watch it, and the King himself cried aloud at the sight, for SirLorredan was a famous man-at-arms and bore himself very stoutly thatday, and many a knight envied your father that he should have chancedupon so excell
ent a person. But your father bore him back and struckhim such a blow with a mace that he turned the helmet half round onhis head, so that he could no longer see through the eye holes, andSir Lorredan threw down his sword and gave himself to ransom. But yourfather took him by the helmet and twisted it until he had it straightupon his head. Then, when he could see once again, he handed him hissword, and prayed him that he would rest himself and then continue, forit was great profit and joy to see any gentleman carry himself so well.So they sat together and rested by the rail of the poop; but even asthey raised their hands again your father was struck by a stone from amangonel and so died."

  "And this Sir Lorredan," cried Nigel, "he died also, as I understand?"

  "I fear that he was slain by the archers, for they loved your father,and they do not see these things with our eyes."

  "It was a pity," said Nigel; "for it is clear that he was a good knightand bore himself very bravely."

  "Time was, when I was young, when commoners dared not have laid theirgrimy hands upon such a man. Men of gentle blood and coat-armor madewar upon each other, and the others, spearmen or archers, could scrambleamongst themselves. But now all are of a level, and only here and thereone like yourself, fair son, who reminds me of the men who are gone."

  Nigel leaned forward and took her hands in his. "What I am you have mademe," said he.

  "It is true, Nigel. I have indeed watched over you as the gardenerwatches his most precious blossom, for in you alone are all the hopes ofour ancient house, and soon--very soon--you will be alone."

  "Nay, dear lady, say not that."

  "I am very old, Nigel, and I feel the shadow closing in upon me. Myheart yearns to go, for all whom I have known and loved have gone beforeme. And you--it will be a blessed day for you, since I have held youback from that world into which your brave spirit longs to plunge."

  "Nay, nay, I have been happy here with you at Tilford."

  "We are very poor, Nigel. I do not know where we may find the moneyto fit you for the wars. Yet we have good friends. There is Sir JohnChandos, who has won such credit in the French wars and who rides everby the King's bridle-arm. He was your father's friend and they wereSquires together. If I sent you to court with a message to him he woulddo what he could."

  Nigel's fair face flushed. "Nay, Dame Ermyntrude, I must find my owngear, even as I have found my own horse, for I had rather ride intobattle in this tunic than owe my suit to another."

  "I feared that you would say so, Nigel; but indeed I know not how elsewe may get the money," said the old woman sadly. "It was different inthe days of my father. I can remember that a suit of mail was but asmall matter in those days, for in every English town such things couldbe made. But year by year since men have come to take more care of theirbodies, there have been added a plate of proof here and a cunning jointthere, and all must be from Toledo or Milan, so that a knight must havemuch metal in his purse ere he puts any on his limbs."

  Nigel looked up wistfully at the old armor which was slung on the beamsabove him. "The ash spear is good," said he, "and so is the oaken shieldwith facings of steel. Sir Roger FitzAlan handled them and said that hehad never seen better. But the armor--"

  Lady Ermyntrude shook her old head and laughed. "You have your father'sgreat soul, Nigel, but you have not his mighty breadth of shoulder andlength of limb. There was not in all the King's great host a taller ora stronger man. His harness would be little use to you. No, fair son, Irede you that when the time comes you sell this crumbling house and thefew acres which are still left, and so go forth to the wars in the hopethat with your own right hand you will plant the fortunes of a new houseof Loring."

  A shadow of anger passed over Nigel's fresh young face. "I know not ifwe may hold off these monks and their lawyers much longer. This veryday there came a man from Guildford with claims from the Abbey extendingback before my father's death."

  "Where are they, fair son?"

  "They are flapping on the furze-bushes of Hankley, for I sent his papersand parchments down wind as fast as ever falcon flew."

  "Nay! you were mad to do that, Nigel. And the man, where is he?"

  "Red Swire and old George the archer threw him into the Thursley bog."

  "Alas! I fear me such things cannot be done in these days, thoughmy father or my husband would have sent the rascal back to Guildfordwithout his ears. But the Church and the Law are too strong now for uswho are of gentler blood. Trouble will come of it, Nigel, for the Abbotof Waverley is not one who will hold back the shield of the Church fromthose who are her servants."

  "The Abbot would not hurt us. It is that gray lean wolf of a sacrist whohungers for our land. Let him do his worst. I fear him not."

  "He has such an engine at his back, Nigel, that even the bravest mustfear him. The ban which blasts a man's soul is in the keeping of hischurch, and what have we to place against it? I pray you to speak himfair, Nigel."

  "Nay, dear lady, it is both my duty and my pleasure to do what you bidme; but I would die ere I ask as a favor that which we can claim as aright. Never can I cast my eyes from yonder window that I do not see theswelling down-lands and the rich meadows, glade and dingle, copse andwood, which have been ours since Norman-William gave them to that Loringwho bore his shield at Senlac. Now, by trick and fraud, they have passedaway from us, and many a franklin is a richer man than I; but nevershall it be said that I saved the rest by bending my neck to their yoke.Let them do their worst, and let me endure it or fight it as best Imay."

  The old lady sighed and shook her head. "You speak as a Loring should,and yet I fear that some great trouble will befall us. But let ustalk no more of such matters, since we cannot mend them. Where is yourcitole, Nigel? Will you not play and sing to me?"

  The gentleman of those days could scarce read and write; but he spokein two languages, played at least one musical instrument as a matter ofcourse, and possessed a number of other accomplishments, from the impingof hawk's feathers, to the mystery of venery, with knowledge of everybeast and bird, its time of grace and when it was seasonable. As far asphysical feats went, to vault barebacked upon a horse, to hit a runninghare with a crossbow-bolt, or to climb the angle of a castle courtyard,were feats which had come by nature to the young Squire; but it was verydifferent with music, which had called for many a weary hour of irksomework. Now at last he could master the strings, but both his ear and hisvoice were not of the best, so that it was well perhaps that there wasso small and so unprejudiced an audience to the Norman-French chanson,which he sang in a high reedy voice with great earnestness of feeling,but with many a slip and quaver, waving his yellow head in cadence tothe music:

  A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword! For the world is all to win. Though the way be hard and the door be barred, The strong man enters in. If Chance and Fate still hold the gate, Give me the iron key, And turret high my plume shall fly, Or you may weep for me!

  A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse! To bear me out afar, Where blackest need and grimmest deed And sweetest perils are. Hold thou my ways from glutted days Where poisoned leisure lies, And point the path of tears and wrath Which mounts to high emprise!

  A heart! A heart! Ah, give me a heart To rise to circumstance! Serene and high and bold to try The hazard of the chance, With strength to wait, but fixed as fate To plan and dare and do, The peer of all, and only thrall, Sweet lady mine, to you!

  It may have been that the sentiment went for more than the music, or itmay have been the nicety of her own ears had been dulled by age, but oldDame Ermyntrude clapped her lean hands together and cried out in shrillapplause.

  "Weathercote has indeed had an apt pupil!" she said. "I pray you thatyou will sing again."

  "Nay, dear dame, it is turn and turn betwixt you and me. I beg that youwill recite a romance, you who know them
all. For all the years that Ihave listened I have never yet come to the end of them, and I dare swearthat there are more in your head than in all the great books which theyshowed me at Guildford Castle. I would fain hear 'Doon of Mayence,' or'The Song of Roland,' or 'Sir Isumbras.'"

  So the old dame broke into a long poem, slow and dull in the inception,but quickening as the interest grew, until with darting hands andglowing face she poured forth the verses which told of the emptiness ofsordid life, the beauty of heroic death, the high sacredness of love andthe bondage of honor. Nigel, with set, still features and brooding eyes,drank in the fiery words, until at last they died upon the old woman'slips and she sank back weary in her chair.

  Nigel stooped over her and kissed her brow. "Your words will ever be asa star upon my path," said he. Then, carrying over the small table andthe chessmen, he proposed that they should play their usual game beforethey sought their rooms for the night.

  But a sudden and rude interruption broke in upon their gentle contest.A dog pricked its ears and barked. The others ran growling to the door.And then there came a sharp clash of arms, a dull heavy blow as froma club or sword-pommel, and a deep voice from without summoned them toopen in the King's name. The old dame and Nigel had both sprung to theirfeet, their table overturned and their chessmen scattered among therushes. Nigel's hand had sought his crossbow, but the Lady Ermyntrudegrasped his arm.

  "Nay, fair son! Have you not heard that it is in the King's name?" saidshe. "Down, Talbot! Down, Bayard! Open the door and let his messengerin!"

  Nigel undid the bolt, and the heavy wooden door swung outward upon itshinges. The light from the flaring cressets beat upon steel caps andfierce bearded faces, with the glimmer of drawn swords and the yellowgleam of bowstaves. A dozen armed archers forced their way into theroom. At their head were the gaunt sacrist of Waverley and a stoutelderly man clad in a red velvet doublet and breeches much stained andmottled with mud and clay. He bore a great sheet of parchment with afringe of dangling seals, which he held aloft as he entered.

  "I call on Nigel Loring!" he cried. "I, the officer of the King's lawand the lay summoner of Waverley, call upon the man named Nigel Loring!"

  "I am he."

  "Yes, it is he!" cried the sacrist. "Archers, do as you were ordered!"

  In an instant the band threw themselves upon him like the hounds on astag. Desperately Nigel strove to gain his sword which lay upon the ironcoffer. With the convulsive strength which comes from the spirit ratherthan from the body, he bore them all in that direction, but the sacristsnatched the weapon from its place, and the rest dragged the writhingSquire to the ground and swathed him in a cord.

  "Hold him fast, good archers! Keep a stout grip on him!" cried thesummoner. "I pray you, one of you, prick off these great dogs whichsnarl at my heels. Stand off, I say, in the name of the King! Watkin,come betwixt me and these creatures who have as little regard for thelaw as their master."

  One of the archers kicked off the faithful dogs. But there were othersof the household who were equally ready to show their teeth in defenseof the old house of Loring. From the door which led to their quartersthere emerged the pitiful muster of Nigel's threadbare retainers. Therewas a time when ten knights, forty men-at-arms and two hundred archerswould march behind the scarlet roses. Now at this last rally when theyoung head of the house lay bound in his own hall, there mustered athis call the page Charles with a cudgel, John the cook with his longestspit, Red Swire the aged man-at-arms with a formidable ax swung overhis snowy head, and Weathercote the minstrel with a boar-spear. Yet thismotley array was fired with the spirit of the house, and under the leadof the fierce old soldier they would certainly have flung themselvesupon the ready swords of the archers, had the Lady Ermyntrude not sweptbetween them:

  "Stand back, Swire!" she cried. "Back, Weathercote Charles, put aleash on Talbot, and hold Bayard back!" Her black eyes blazed upon theinvaders until they shrank from that baleful gaze. "Who are you, yourascal robbers, who dare to misuse the King's name and to lay hands uponone whose smallest drop of blood has more worth than all your thrall andcaitiff bodies?"

  "Nay, not so fast, dame, not so fast, I pray you!" cried the stoutsummoner, whose face had resumed its natural color, now that he had awoman to deal with. "There is a law of England, mark you, and there arethose who serve and uphold it, who are the true men and the King's ownlieges. Such a one am I. Then again, there are those who take such asme and transfer, carry or convey us into a bog or morass. Such a one isthis graceless old man with the ax, whom I have seen already this day.There are also those who tear, destroy or scatter the papers of the law,of which this young man is the chief. Therefore, I would rede you, dame,not to rail against us, but to understand that we are the King's men onthe King's own service."

  "What then is your errand in this house at this hour of the night?"

  The summoner cleared his throat pompously, and turning his parchment tothe light of the cressets he read out a long document in Norman-French,couched in such a style and such a language that the most involved andfoolish of our forms were simplicity itself compared to those by whichthe men of the long gown made a mystery of that which of all things onearth should be the plainest and the most simple. Despair fell cold uponNigel's heart and blanched the face of the old dame as they listened tothe dread catalogue of claims and suits and issues, questions of peccaryand turbary, of house-bote and fire-bote, which ended by a demand forall the lands, hereditaments, tenements, messuages and curtilages, whichmade up their worldly all.

  Nigel, still bound, had been placed with his back against the ironcoffer, whence he heard with dry lips and moist brow this doom of hishouse. Now he broke in on the recital with a vehemence which made thesummoner jump:

  "You shall rue what you have done this night!" he cried. "Poor as weare, we have our friends who will not see us wronged, and I will pleadmy cause before the King's own majesty at Windsor, that he, who saw thefather die, may know what things are done in his royal name against theson. But these matters are to be settled in course of law in the King'scourts, and how will you excuse yourself for this assault upon my houseand person?"

  "Nay, that is another matter," said the sacrist. "The question of debtmay indeed be an affair of a civil court. But it is a crime against thelaw and an act of the Devil, which comes within the jurisdiction of theAbbey Court of Waverley when you dare to lay hands upon the summoner orhis papers."

  "Indeed, he speaks truth," cried the official. "I know no blacker sin."

  "Therefore," said the stern monk, "it is the order of the holy fatherAbbot that you sleep this night in the Abbey cell, and that to-morrowyou be brought before him at the court held in the chapter-house so thatyou receive the fit punishment for this and the many other violent andfroward deeds which you have wrought upon the servants of Holy Church.Enough is now said, worthy master summoner. Archers, remove yourprisoner!"

  As Nigel was lifted up by four stout archers, the Dame Ermyntrude wouldhave rushed to his aid, but the sacrist thrust her back.

  "Stand off, proud woman! Let the law take its course, and learn tohumble your heart before the power of Holy Church. Has your life nottaught its lesson, you, whose horn was exalted among the highest andwill soon not have a roof above your gray hairs? Stand back, I say, lestI lay a curse upon you!"

  The old dame flamed suddenly into white wrath as she stood before theangry monk: "Listen to me while I lay a curse upon you and yours!"she cried as she raised her shriveled arms and blighted him with herflashing eyes--

  "As you have done to the house of Loring, so may God do to you, untilyour power is swept from the land of England, and of your great Abbeyof Waverley there is nothing left but a pile of gray stones in a greenmeadow! I see it! I see it! With my old eyes I see it! From scullion toAbbot and from cellar to tower, may Waverley and all within it droop andwither from this night on!"

  The monk, hard as he was, quailed before the frantic figure and thebitter, burning words. Already the summoner and the archers with th
eirprisoner were clear of the house. He turned and with a clang he shut theheavy door behind him.