The G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  “I naturally replied that I was grateful for his lordship’s intercession; and that, outside monkish offices, there was nothing I would not do to merit his kindness. He told me that I was to report myself to your nephew, who would inform me of the nature of the service upon which I was, at first, to be employed.”

  “It is to undertake a journey with me,” Oswald said. “I am going on a mission for our lord, to Dunbar. The object of my mission is one that concerns me only, but it is one of some importance; and as the roads are lonely, since March and Douglas quarrelled, and order is but badly kept on the other side of the border, he thought that I should be all the better for a companion. Assuredly, I could wish for none better than yourself, for in the first place you have proved a true friend to me; in the second, you have so much knowledge, that we shall not lack subjects for conversation upon the journey; and lastly, should I get into any trouble, I could reckon upon you as a match for two or three border robbers.”

  “Nothing could be more to my taste,” the monk said joyfully. “I did not feel quite sure, before, whether I was glad or sorry that my expulsion was put off, for I always thought that it would come to that some day; but now that I learn for what service Hotspur intends me, I feel as if I could shout for joy.

  “Get me a flagon of beer, good Alwyn. I have drunk but water for the last twenty-four hours, and was in too great haste, to learn what was before me, even to pay a visit to brother Anselm, the cellarer, who is a stanch friend of mine.

  “And do I go as a man-at-arms, Master Oswald? For, as your mission is clearly of a private character, disguise may be needful.”

  “No, Roger, you will go in your own capacity, as a monk, journeying on a mission from the abbot to the head of some religious community, near Dunbar. I doubt not that Lord Percy will obtain a letter from the abbot, and though it may be that there will be no need to deliver it, still it may help us on the way. As you are going with me, I shall attire myself as a young lay servitor of the convent.”

  “I would that it had been otherwise,” the monk said, with a sigh. “I should have travelled far more lightly, in the heaviest mail harness, than in this monk’s robe. Besides, how can I carry arms, for use in case of necessity?”

  “You can carry a staff,” Oswald said, laughing; “and being so big a man, you will assuredly require a long and heavy one; and, even if it is heavily shod with iron, no one need object.”

  “That is not so bad, Master Oswald. A seven-foot staff, of the thickness of my wrist; with an iron shoe, weighing a pound or two, is a carnal weapon not to be despised. As you doubtless know, our bishops, when they ride in the field, always carry a mace instead of a sword, so that they may not shed blood; though I say not that the cracking of a man’s skull is to be accomplished, without some loss thereof. However, if a bishop may lawfully crack a man’s head, as an eggshell, I see not that blame can attach to me, a humble and most unworthy son of the church, if some slight harm should come to any man, from the use of so peaceful an instrument as a staff. And how about yourself, young master?”

  “I can carry a sword,” Oswald replied. “In times like these, no man travels unarmed; and as I go as a servitor, and an assistant to your reverence, there will be nothing unseemly in my carrying a weapon, to defend you from the attack of foes.”

  “You can surely take a dagger, too. A dagger is a meet companion to a sword, and is sometimes mighty useful, in a close fight. And, mark me, take a smaller dagger also, that can be concealed under your coat. I myself will assuredly do the same. There are many instances in which a trifle of that kind might come in useful, such as for shooting the lock of a door, or working out iron bars.”

  “I will do so,” Oswald said, “though I hope there will be no occasion, such as you say, for its use.”

  “When do we start, Master Oswald?”

  “Tomorrow, at daybreak. We shall ride as far as Roxburgh. I shall go on my own horse, which, though as good an animal as was ever saddled, has but a poor appearance. You had best purchase a palfrey, as fat and sleek as may be found, but with strength enough to carry your weight. I shall be amply provided with money; and if you find a bargain, let me know, and I will give you the means. Mind, buy nothing that looks like a warhorse, but something in keeping with your appearance.”

  That evening, Oswald had another interview with Percy, and received his final instructions, and a bag of money.

  “Be careful with it, lad,” he said; “not so much because of the use that it may be to you, but because, were you seized and searched by robbers, and others, the sight of the gold might awake suspicions that you were not what you seemed, and might lead to a long detention. Keep your eye on Brother Roger, and see that he does not indulge too much in the wine cups, and that he comports himself rather in keeping with his attire, than with his natural disposition; and if you have any difficulty in restraining him, or if he does not obey your orders, send him back, at once. Will you see him again this evening?”

  “He is waiting for me in my apartment, now, my lord, having come for the money for the purchase of a palfrey, which I bade him get.”

  “Send him to me, when you get there.”

  When the monk appeared before Hotspur, the latter said, “See here, monk, I have saved you from punishment, and become, as it were, your surety. See that you do not discredit me. You will remember that, although my young esquire may ask your advice, and benefit by your experience, he is your leader; and his orders, when he gives them, are to be obeyed as promptly as if it were I myself who spoke, to one of my men-at-arms. He is my representative in the matter, and is obeying my orders, as you will obey his. The mission is one of importance, and if it fails from any fault of yours, you had better drown yourself in the first river you come to, than return to Northumberland.”

  “I think that you can trust me, my lord,” the monk said, calmly. “I am a very poor monk, but methinks that I am not a bad soldier; and although I go in the dress of the one, I shall really go as the other. I know that my duty, as a soldier, will be to obey. Even as regards my potations, which I own are sometimes deeper than they should be, methinks that, as a soldier, I shall be much less thirsty than I was as a monk. If the enterprise should fail from any default of mine, your lordship may be sure that I shall bear your advice in mind.”

  “I doubt not that you will do well, Roger. I should not have sent you with my esquire, on such a business, had I not believed that you would prove yourself worthy of my confidence. I know that a man may be a good soldier, and even a wise counsellor, though he may be a very bad monk.”

  The next morning the pair rode out from the castle, at daybreak. Roger was dressed in the usual monkish attire of the time, a long loose gown with a cape, and a head covering resembling a small turban. He rode a compactly built little horse, which seemed scarce capable of carrying his weight, but ambled along with him as if it scarcely felt it. Oswald was dressed as a lay servitor, in tightly-fitting high hose, short jerkin girt in by a band at the waist, and going half-way down to the knee. He rode his own moorland horse, and carried on his arm a basket with provisions for a day’s march. He wore a small cloth cap, which fell down to his neck behind. His uncle accompanied him to the gate, which was, by his orders, opened to give them egress.

  “Goodbye, lad,” he said. “I know not, and do not wish to know, the object of your journey. It is enough for me that it is a confidential mission for Hotspur, and I am proud that you should have been chosen for it, and I feel convinced that you will prove you have merited our lord’s confidence.

  “Goodbye, friend Roger! Don’t let your love of fisticuffs and hard knocks carry you away, but try and bear yourself as if you were still in the monastery, with the abbot keeping his eye upon you.”

  Brother Roger laughed.

  “You make a cold shiver run down my back, Alwyn. I was feeling as if I had just got out of a cold cellar, into the sunshine, and could shout with very lightness of heart. I am not in the least disposed to quarrel with anyone, so
let your mind be easy as to my doings. I shall be discretion itself; and even if I am called upon to strike, will do so as gently as may be, putting only such strength into the blow as will prevent an opponent from troubling us further.”

  So, with a wave of the hand, they rode on.

  “I had better strap that staff beside your saddle, and under your knee,” Oswald said, when they had ridden a short distance. “You carry it as if it were a spear, and I have seen already three or four people smile, as we passed them.”

  Roger reluctantly allowed Oswald to fasten the staff beside him.

  “One wants something in one’s hands,” he said. “On foot it does not matter so much, but now I am on horseback again, I feel that I ought to have a spear in hand, and a sword dangling at my side.”

  “You must remember that you are still a monk, Roger, although enlarged for a season. Some day, perhaps, you will be able to gratify your desires in that way. You had best moderate the speed of your horse, for although he ambles along merrily, at present, he can never carry that great carcase of yours, at this pace, through our journey.”

  “I should like one good gallop,” Roger sighed, as he pulled at the rein, and the horse proceeded at a pace better suited to the appearance of its rider.

  “A nice figure you would look, with your robes streaming behind you,” Oswald laughed. “There would soon be a story going through the country, of a mad monk.

  “Now, we take this turning to the right, and here leave the main north road, for we are bound, in the first place, to Roxburgh.”

  “I thought that it must be that, or Berwick, though I asked no questions.”

  “We shall not travel like this beyond Roxburgh, but shall journey forward on foot.”

  “I supposed that we should come to that, Master Oswald, for otherwise you would not have told me to provide myself with a staff.”

  * * * *

  They journeyed pleasantly along. Whenever they approached any town or large village, Oswald reined back his horse a little, so that its head was on a level with Roger’s stirrup. They slept that night at Kirknewton, where they put up at a small hostelry. Oswald had intended going to the monastery there, but Roger begged so earnestly that they should put up elsewhere, that he yielded to him.

  “I should have no end of questions asked, as to our journey across the border, and its object,” Roger said; “and it always goes against my conscience to have to lie, unless upon pressing occasions.”

  “And, moreover,” Oswald said, with a laugh, “you might be expected to get up to join the community at prayers, at midnight; and they might give you a monk’s bed, instead of a more comfortable one in the guest chambers.”

  “There may be something in that,” Roger admitted, “and I have so often to sleep on a stone bench, for the punishment of my offences, that I own to a weakness for a soft bed, when I can get one.”

  However, Oswald was pleased to see that his follower behaved, at their resting place, with more discretion than he could have hoped for; although he somewhat surprised his host, by the heartiness of his appetite; but, on the other hand, he was moderate in his potations, and talked but little, retiring to a bed of thick rushes, at curfew.

  “In truth, I was afraid to trust myself,” he said to Oswald, as they lay down side by side. “Never have I felt so free, since Otterburn—never, indeed, since that unfortunate day when I was wounded, and conceived the fatal idea of becoming a monk. Two or three times, the impulse to troll out a trooper’s song was so strong in me, that I had to clap my hand over my mouth, to keep it in.”

  “’Tis well you did, Roger, for assuredly if you had so committed yourself, on the first day of starting, I must have sent you back to Alnwick, feeling that it would not be safe for you to proceed with me farther. When we get upon the Cheviots, tomorrow, you may lift your voice as you choose; but it were best that you confined yourself to a Latin canticle, even there, for the habit of breaking into songs of the other kind might grow upon you.”

  “I will do so,” Roger said, seriously. “Some of the canticles have plenty of ring and go, and the words matter not, seeing that I do not understand them.”

  The next morning they resumed their journey, crossed the Cheviots, which were here comparatively low hills; and, after four hours’ riding, arrived at Roxburgh.

  “Why do we come here?” Roger asked. “It would surely have been much shorter had we travelled through Berwick, and along the coast road.”

  “Much shorter, Roger; but Sir Henry thought it better that we should go inland to Haddington, and thence east to Dunbar; as, thus entering the town, it would seem that we came from Edinburgh, or from some western monastery; whereas, did we journey by the coast road, it might be guessed that we had come from England.”

  As before, they put up at a hostelry; and Oswald then proceeded, on foot, to the governor’s house. Some soldiers were loitering at the door.

  “What do you want, lad?” one of them asked, as he came up.

  “I have a letter, which I am charged to deliver into the governor’s own hands.”

  “A complaint, I suppose, from some worthy prior, who has lost some of his beeves?”

  “Maybe the governor will inform you, if you ask him,” Oswald replied.

  “I shall pull your ear for you, when you come out, young jackanapes,” the soldier said, hotly.

  “That danger I must even risk. Business first, and pleasure afterwards.”

  And while the other soldiers burst into a fit of laughter, at the astonishment of their comrade at what he deemed the insolence of this young servitor of a monastery, he quietly entered. The guard at the door, who had heard the colloquy, led him into the governor’s room.

  “A messenger with a letter desires speech with you, Sir Philip,” he said.

  “Bid him enter,” the knight said, briefly.

  Oswald entered, and bowed deeply. He waited until the door closed behind the attendant, and then said:

  “I am the bearer of a letter, sir, from Lord Percy to you.”

  The knight looked at him in surprise.

  “Hotspur has chosen a strange messenger,” he muttered to himself, as he took the missive Oswald held out to him, cut the silk that bound it with a dagger, and read its contents. As he laid it down, he rose to his feet.

  “Excuse my want of courtesy,” he said. “Lord Percy tells me that you are one of his esquires—no slight recommendation—and that you are intrusted with somewhat important a mission, on his part, to Dunbar, a still higher recommendation—for assuredly he would not have selected you for such a purpose, had you not stood high in his regard. But, indeed, at first I took you for what you seemed, as the bearer of a complaint from some abbot; for in truth, such complaints are not uncommon, for whenever a bullock is lost, they put it down to my men.

  “Where are your horses that Percy speaks of? You will, I hope, take up your abode here, as long as you stay in the town.”

  “Thank you, Sir Philip; but I shall go forward in the morning. I have already put up at the Golden Rose. It would attract attention, were I to come here, and it were best that I remain as I am; and indeed, I have brought no clothes with me, save those I stand in.”

  “Well, perhaps, as you do not wish to attract attention, it were best so; and I pray you inform Lord Percy of the reason why you declined my entertainment.”

  “I shall be glad, Sir Philip, if you will send down a couple of your men to fetch the horses up to your stables; as I shall start, as soon as the gates are open, tomorrow morning.”

  “I will do so, at once.”

  And the governor rang a handbell on the table.

  “Send two of the men up here,” he said, as an attendant entered.

  A minute later a door opened, and two soldiers came in, and saluted. One of them, to Oswald’s amusement, was the man with whom he had exchanged words, below.

  “You will accompany this gentleman to the Golden Rose, and bring back two horses, which he will hand over to you, and place
them in the stables with mine.

  “Are you sure, Master Forster, that there is nothing more that I can do for you?”

  “Nothing, whatever, I thank you, sir; and I am greatly obliged by your courtesy, and with your permission I will take my leave. I hope to return here in the course of a week, or ten days.”

  So saying, Oswald shook hands with the governor and went downstairs, followed by the soldiers, who had not yet recovered from their surprise at seeing Oswald seated, and evidently on familiar terms with their lord. Oswald said nothing to them, until he arrived at the Golden Rose. Then he led the way to the stables, and handed the horses over to them.

  “I suppose that that pulling of the ear will be deferred, for a time?” he said, with a smile, to the soldier who had made the remark.

  The man sheepishly took hold of the bridle.

  “I could not tell, sir—” he began.

  “Of course you could not,” Oswald interrupted. “Still, it may be a lesson, to you, that it is just as well not to make fun of people, until you are quite sure who they are. There, I bear no malice; get yourselves a stoup of wine, in payment for your services.”

  “I thought that there was something out of the way about him,” the other man said, as they walked up the street with the two horses; “or he would never have turned upon you, as he did. It is evident that he is someone of consequence, and is here on some secret business or other, with Sir Philip. It is well that he did not bear malice, for you would have got it hot, from the governor, had he reported what you said to him.”

  CHAPTER 6

  At Dunbar

  The journey passed without any incident of importance, but Oswald had reason to congratulate himself on having taken the monk with him. On one occasion, as they were passing over a wild heath, a party of eight or ten men, on rough ponies, rode up. They were armed with spears and swords. They reined up with exclamations of disappointment as Roger, who had rolled up his robe round his waist, for convenience of walking, let it fall round him.