The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 8
Page 5
CHAPTER II
IN THE FEN
It was near six in the May morning when Dick began to ride down into thefen upon his homeward way. The sky was all blue; the jolly wind blewloud and steady; the windmill-sails were spinning; and the willows overall the fen rippling and whitening like a field of corn. He had been allnight in the saddle, but his heart was good and his body sound, and herode right merrily.
The path went down and down into the marsh, till he lost sight of allthe neighbouring landmarks, but Kettley windmill on the knoll behindhim, and the extreme top of Tunstall Forest far before. On either handthere were great fields of blowing reeds and willows, pools of watershaking in the wind, and treacherous bogs, as green as emerald, to temptand to betray the traveller. The path lay almost straight through themorass. It was already very ancient; its foundation had been laid byRoman soldiery; in the lapse of ages much of it had sunk, and every hereand there, for a few hundred yards, it lay submerged below the stagnantwaters of the fen.
About a mile from Kettley, Dick came to one such break in the plain lineof causeway, where the reeds and willows grew dispersedly like littleislands and confused the eye. The gap, besides, was more than usuallylong; it was a place where any stranger might come readily to mischief;and Dick bethought him, with something like a pang, of the lad whom hehad so imperfectly directed. As for himself, one look backward to wherethe windmill-sails were turning black against the blue of heaven--onelook forward to the high ground of Tunstall Forest, and he wassufficiently directed, and held straight on, the water washing to hishorse's knees, as safe as on a highway.
Half-way across, and when he had already sighted the path rising highand dry upon the farther side, he was aware of a great splashing on hisright, and saw a grey horse, sunk to its belly in the mud, and stillspasmodically struggling. Instantly, as though it had divined theneighbourhood of help, the poor beast began to neigh most piercingly. Itrolled, meanwhile, a bloodshot eye, insane with terror; and as itsprawled wallowing in the quag, clouds of stinging insects rose andbuzzed about it in the air.
"Alack!" thought Dick, "can the poor lad have perished? There is hishorse, for certain--a brave grey! Nay, comrade, if thou criest to me sopiteously, I will do all man can to help thee. Shalt not lie there todrown by inches!"
And he made ready his crossbow, and put a quarrel through the creature'shead.
Dick rode on after this act of rugged mercy, somewhat sobered in spirit,and looking closely about him for any sign of his less happy predecessorin the way.
"I would I had dared to tell him further," he thought; "for I fear hehas miscarried in the slough."
And just as he was so thinking, a voice cried upon his name from thecauseway side, and looking over his shoulder, he saw the lad's facepeering from a clump of reeds.
"Are ye there?" he said, reining in. "Ye lay so close among the reedsthat I had passed you by. I saw your horse bemired, and put him from hisagony! which, by my sooth! an ye had been a more merciful rider, ye haddone yourself. But come forth out of your hiding. Here be none totrouble you."
"Nay, good boy, I have no arms, nor skill to use them if I had," repliedthe other, stepping forth upon the pathway.
"Why call me 'boy'?" cried Dick. "Y' are not, I trow, the elder of ustwain."
"Good Master Shelton," said the other, "prithee forgive me. I have nonethe least intention to offend. Rather I would in every way beseech yourgentleness and favour, for I am now worse bestead than ever, having lostmy way, my cloak, and my poor horse. To have a riding-rod and spurs, andnever a horse to sit upon! And before all," he added, looking ruefullyupon his clothes--"before all, to be so sorrily besmirched!"
"Tut!" cried Dick. "Would ye mind a ducking? Blood of wound or dust oftravel--that's a man's adornment."
"Nay, then, I like him better plain," observed the lad. "But, prithee,how shall I do? Prithee, good Master Richard, help me with your goodcounsel. If I come not safe to Holywood, I am undone."
"Nay," said Dick, dismounting, "I will give more than counsel. Take myhorse, and I will run awhile, and when I am weary we shall change again,that so, riding and running, both may go the speedier."
So the change was made, and they went forward as briskly as they durston the uneven causeway, Dick with his hand upon the other's knee.
"How call ye your name?" asked Dick.
"Call me John Matcham," replied the lad.
"And what make ye to Holywood?" Dick continued.
"I seek sanctuary from a man that would oppress me," was the answer."The good Abbot of Holywood is a strong pillar to the weak."
"And how came ye with Sir Daniel, Master Matcham?" pursued Dick.
"Nay," cried the other, "by the abuse of force! He hath taken me byviolence from my own place; dressed me in these weeds; ridden with metill my heart was sick; gibed me till I could 'a' wept; and when certainof my friends pursued, thinking to have me back, claps me in the rearto stand their shot! I was even grazed in the right foot, and walk butlamely. Nay, there shall come a day between us; he shall smart for all!"
"Would ye shoot at the moon with a hand-gun?" said Dick. "'Tis a valiantknight, and hath a hand of iron. An he guessed I had made or meddledwith your flight, it would go sore with me."
"Ay, poor boy," returned the other, "y' are his ward, I know it. By thesame token, so am I, or so he saith; or else he hath bought mymarriage--I wot not rightly which; but it is some handle to oppress meby."
"Boy again!" said Dick.
"Nay, then, shall I call you girl, good Richard?" asked Matcham.
"Never a girl for me," returned Dick. "I do abjure the crew of them!"
"Ye speak boyishly," said the other. "Ye think more of them than yepretend."
"Not I," said Dick stoutly. "They come not in my mind. A plague of them,say I! Give me to hunt and to fight and to feast, and to live with jollyforesters. I never heard of a maid yet that was for any service, saveone only; and she, poor shrew, was burned for a witch and the wearing ofmen's clothes in spite of nature."
Master Matcham crossed himself with fervour, and appeared to pray.
"What make ye?" Dick inquired.
"I pray for her spirit," answered the other, with a somewhat troubledvoice.
"For a witch's spirit?" Dick cried. "But pray for her and ye list; shewas the best wench in Europe, was this Joan of Arc. Old Appleyard thearcher ran from her, he said, as if she had been Mahoun. Nay, she was abrave wench."
"Well, but, good Master Richard," resumed Matcham, "an ye like maids solittle, y' are no true natural man; for God made them twain byintention, and brought true love into the world, to be man's hope andwoman's comfort."
"Faugh!" said Dick. "Y' are a milk-sopping baby, so to harp on women. Anye think I be no true man, get down upon the path, and whether at fists,backsword, or bow and arrow, I will prove my manhood on your body."
"Nay, I am no fighter," replied Matcham eagerly. "I mean no tittle ofoffence. I meant but pleasantry. And if I talk of women, it is because Iheard ye were to marry."
"I to marry!" Dick exclaimed. "Well, it is the first I hear of it. Andwith whom was I to marry?"
"One Joan Sedley," replied Matcham, colouring. "It was Sir Daniel'sdoing; he hath money to gain upon both sides; and, indeed, I have heardthe poor wench bemoaning herself pitifully of the match. It seems she isof your mind, or else distasted to the bridegroom."
"Well! marriage is like death, it comes to all," said Dick, withresignation. "And she bemoaned herself? I pray ye now, see there howshuttle-witted are these girls: to bemoan herself before that she hadseen me! Do I bemoan myself? Not I. An I be to marry, I will marrydry-eyed! But if ye know her, prithee, of what favour is she? fair orfoul? And is she shrewish or pleasant?"
"Nay, what matters it?" said Matcham. "An y' are to marry, ye can butmarry. What matters foul or fair? These be but toys. Y' are no milksop,Master Richard; ye will wed with dry eyes anyhow."
"It is well said," replied Shelton. "Little I reck."
"Your lady wi
fe is like to have a pleasant lord," said Matcham.
"She shall have the lord Heaven made for her," returned Dick. "I trowthere be worse as well as better."
"Ah, the poor wench!" cried the other.
"And why so poor?" asked Dick.
"To wed a man of wood," replied his companion. "O me, for a woodenhusband!"
"I think I be a man of wood, indeed," said Dick, "to trudge afoot thewhile you ride my horse; but it is good wood, I trow."
"Good Dick, forgive me," cried the other. "Nay, y' are the best heart inEngland; I but laughed. Forgive me now, sweet Dick."
"Nay, no fool words," returned Dick, a little embarrassed by hiscompanion's warmth. "No harm is done. I am not touchy, praise thesaints."
And at that moment the wind, which was blowing straight behind them asthey went, brought them the rough flourish of Sir Daniel's trumpeter.
"Hark!" said Dick, "the tucket soundeth."
"Ay," said Matcham, "they have found my flight, and now I am unhorsed!"and he became pale as death.
"Nay, what cheer!" returned Dick. "Y' have a long start, and we are nearthe ferry. And it is I, methinks, that am unhorsed."
"Alack, I shall be taken!" cried the fugitive. "Dick, kind Dick, beseechye help me but a little!"
"Why, now, what aileth thee?" said Dick. "Methinks I help you verypatently. But my heart is sorry for so spiritless a fellow! And see yehere, John Matcham--sith John Matcham is your name--I, Richard Shelton,tide what betideth, come what may, will see you safe in Holywood. Thesaints so do to me again if I default you. Come, pick me up a goodheart, Sir White-face. The way betters here; spur me the horse. Gofaster! faster! Nay, mind not for me; I can run like a deer."
So, with the horse trotting hard, and Dick running easily alongside,they crossed the remainder of the fen, and came out upon the banks ofthe river by the ferryman's hut.