The G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  “By Saint Andrew! Monk, I have seen no finer figure, for many a day. A pity that a monk’s gown should clothe such limbs as yours.”

  “That has always been mine own opinion,” Roger said, with a heartiness that raised a smile on the hard faces of the men standing round.

  “You look as if you had carried arms.”

  “I did so, in my wild youth,” Roger said, “and had no thought of ever donning monk’s hood; but I was grievously wounded, in a foray in Northumberland, and when I reached my home at Lauder, I well nigh died of the fever of the wound; and I swore that, if my life was saved, I would become a monk. I got well, and I kept my vow; but methinks, had I but known how dull the life was, I would rather have died of the fever.”

  As this story was perfectly true, save the name of his birthplace, Roger spoke so heartily that no one doubted his story.

  “And your monastery is at Dunbar?

  “You have been at Dunbar, Rotherglen. Ask him where the convent stood.”

  As Roger had stayed there, when with Oswald he was at Dunbar, he was able to answer this, and other questions, satisfactorily. The party then took their places at table, the priest and Roger sitting at the bottom of it. The conversation at the upper end naturally turned on the foray, and a general disbelief was expressed, as to the chance of the Armstrongs retaliating.

  “’Tis out of the question,” one of the Bairds said, “they could not raise fifty men. Doubtless they will send a complaint to Douglas, but he has his hands well full; and is not likely to quarrel with us about such a trifle, when he may want our aid, at any moment, either against Albany or against the English.”

  “What do you intend to do with the girls?”

  “I have not settled yet,” William Baird said, shortly. “At any rate, for the present I shall hold them as hostages. I don’t think that anything is likely to come of the affair; but if we should hear of any force approaching, likely to give us trouble, we could send word to them that, if an arrow is loosened at our walls, we will hang the girls out as marks for their archers. I fancy that will send them trooping off again, at once.”

  As soon as the meal was over, and the carousal began, the priest rose and, accompanied by Roger, retired to his chamber.

  CHAPTER 13

  Escape

  Oswald, who was thoroughly fatigued with the events of the last thirty-six hours, slept soundly, on an armful of rushes that his host threw down in a corner of the room for him. At eight o’clock, the man who had spoken to him on the previous evening came in.

  “I have spoken to William Baird,” he said. “I told him that you seemed a likely fellow. He called down the monk, and asked him several questions about you; and he told me, at last, that I could bring you up to see him. So come along, at once.”

  “Thanks, comrade,” Oswald said, as he slung his long two-handed sword from his shoulder.

  “A likely-looking young fellow, indeed,” Baird said to Rotherglen, whom he had sent for to be present; “over six feet and, I should fancy, has not attained his full width.

  “So you would fain take service with me?” he said.

  “I want a master,” Oswald replied, “and from what I hear, I am more likely to see fighting, under you, than under any other on the border.”

  “And you were with George Dunbar?”

  “I was,” Oswald replied. “But indeed, the service was not altogether to my taste, for we were always pent up in Dunbar; and, save in a street broil, there was no need to draw a sword. I was glad enough to leave his service, though in truth, I have fared but badly, since.”

  “Now do you question him, Rotherglen.”

  A number of questions were put to Oswald, concerning the names of the streets, the direction, the name of the principal inns, and the approaches to the castle. All these were satisfactorily replied to.

  “He knows Dunbar, there is no question about that.

  “And you can use your arms?”

  “I think so.”

  “We will have a trial,” Baird said. “A man is no use to me, who cannot use his weapon. Send Robert here.”

  In a minute, one of the young Bairds entered. He was a man of about twenty-five, tall and sinewy, and was accounted the best swordsman of his family.

  “Cousin Robert,” William Baird said, “this young fellow would enter our service; but before I take him, I must see that he knows his business. Do you take a turn with the sword with him.

  “No, no, not a two-handed sword; I don’t want him to be slain. Take a couple of swords from the wall. Give him another steel cap, and full body armour. That of his own would not keep out a good, downright stroke.”

  By the time that Oswald was armed, a number of the Bairds and their friends had assembled in the hall, hearing of what was going to take place.

  “A fine young fellow, truly,” Rotherglen said. “In height and width, he matches Robert well, though of course your cousin must be the more powerful, seeing that he is some four or five years older than this young fellow; who, when he reaches his age, bids fair to be well-nigh as strong a man as that monk.”

  Roger had just entered, with the priest.

  “Well, monk,” Baird said, “we are going to try the mettle of your companion of yesterday.”

  “I answer not for his mettle,” Roger said; “but if he fights as well as he talks, he will not do discredit to himself.”

  As they took their places, facing each other, the lookers on, men well qualified to judge of strength and sinew, murmured to each other that it would be difficult to find a better-matched pair. They were about the same height, both stood lightly on their feet, and their figures seemed full of life and activity. Both were smiling, Robert Baird with a smile of confidence, and of assurance in his skill; while Oswald’s face expressed only good temper and, as the others took it, a belief that he would, at any rate, be able to make such a defence as would assure his being taken into the Bairds’ service.

  The first rally, indeed, proved more than this. Robert Baird had at once taken the offensive, and showered his blows heavily down, while springing backwards and forwards with wonderful quickness and activity; but Oswald’s blade ever met his, and he did not give way an inch, even when Baird most fiercely attacked him. Then suddenly he adopted the same tactics as his opponent, and pressed him so hotly that he was, several times, obliged to give ground. Oswald could twice have got in a heavy blow, but he abstained from doing so. He could see that his antagonist was a favourite among his kinsmen, and felt that, were he to discomfit him, he would excite a feeling of hostility against himself. Both, panting from their exertions, drew a step backwards and lowered their swords.

  “Enough!” William Baird said, “The matter need be pushed no further. ’Tis long since I have seen so good a bout of swordplay. This young fellow has learned his business, and if, in other respects, he does as well, he will make a good recruit, indeed.

  “What say you, lad? Will you join us for a month, till you see whether you like our service, and we can judge how your service will suit us? For that time you will have your living here, and drink money. After that, if we agree, you can either be a retainer here, or we will give you a holding on the moor, build you a shelter, give you a horse, and, after our next foray, a clump of cattle.”

  “That will suit me well,” Oswald said; “and I like well the month of trial you propose.”

  “I will take him, if you will let me, Uncle, as my own man,” Robert Baird said. “If, at the end of the month, he chooses service with us, and likes better to follow a master, with half a dozen men, than to live alone on the moors. Methinks he would make a cheery companion, and one I could take to, heartily; and indeed, during the long winters, ’tis no slight thing to have one merry fellow, who can keep one alive, and of whose mettle and skill you are well assured.”

  “So let it be, then, Robert. You have tried him, and yours should be the advantage. But for the month he shall remain here, under Malcolm’s eye.”

  Oswald went dow
n with the man, who was Baird’s right hand in the hold.

  “What will be my duties?” he asked.

  “To keep your arms and armour ready for service.”

  “That will be an easy task, methinks; for I see that instead of being polished and bright, as were ours at Dunbar, the others keep their steel caps and back pieces painted a sombre colour.”

  The other nodded.

  “Yes, our arms are for use and not for show; and when we ride by moonlight, we care not to have our presence shown, miles away, by the glint of the moon on our armour.

  “You will do your turn of keeping watch and ward. Just at present there will be a good deal of that, for we have been stirring up a wasps’ nest, and mayhap they may come and try to sting. When you are off duty, you will be your own master, save that you had best be within sound of the warder’s horn.

  “I will hand over a horse to you. For the present, it is at that croft on the opposite hill. Each of the tenants keeps two or three at our service. We have only the Bairds’ own horses kept in the hold. It would be too much trouble to gather forage for those of the twenty men who always live here, and indeed, we have no room for such number.

  “Mind that you drink not too much, over in the village there; for though the Bairds care not, on feast days, if the whole garrison gets drunk, so that there are enough sober to keep watch and ward, they set their faces against it at other times, seeing that it leads to broils and quarrels.”

  “I will take care. I like my cup, occasionally; and can drink with others, without my head getting addled, but as a rule I care not overmuch for it.”

  After being roughly introduced to several of the retainers as a new comrade, Oswald was left to follow his own devices. Presently, Roger came out into the courtyard.

  “So you have got service, comrade,” he said, in a voice that could be heard by any of those standing near. “You had better fortune than I had expected.”

  “That have I,” he replied. “Still, I thought that it would be hard, if one who could use his sword indifferently well, and puts no great value on his life, could not find service on the border. How long do you stay here?”

  This was a question that had been arranged, for had they been seen speaking privately together, it might have aroused suspicion.

  “Methinks I shall stay here two days, to get rid of my leg weariness. I am not so accustomed to long marching as you are.”

  The real meaning of the question, as arranged, was, “Have you found out where the prisoners are kept?”

  The answer meant “Yes, and it will not be difficult to get at them.”

  The evening before, indeed, when he returned with the priest to his chamber, they had broached a bottle together. The priest, on his part, had asked many questions as to the state of things in Edinburgh, and Dunbar; what were the opinions of people with regard to the Duke of Albany, and the Prince; and what would probably come of the coldness that was said to exist between them.

  Roger was able to conceal his ignorance of these matters by saying that he knew little of what was passing, for that he had been the cellarer in the convent, and went out but little. Nevertheless, he had kept his ears open; as they rode north to Jedburgh, he had heard a good deal of talk and speculation, and was able to give various pieces of news that had not before reached the ears of the priest. He was not long in discovering that the latter was ill satisfied with his present position, and was ambitious to take part in more important affairs, and he presently said:

  “I wonder, father, that a man of your ability should be content to remain as chaplain in a border hold, when there are so many opportunities beyond, for one like you, to make his way in the church.”

  “In truth,” the priest said, “I have had such thoughts myself; and hope, some day, to see a little more of the world.

  “By the way, can you read and write, brother?” he asked suddenly.

  “Assuredly,” Roger replied.

  He guessed, at once, that the question had been put at the instigation of William Baird; who perhaps still had some doubts whether he was really a monk, and an affirmative answer would be an almost conclusive proof that he was so, for very few outside the walls of the convents, even among the nobles and knights, possessed any knowledge of letters.

  “I have a missal here,” the priest said carelessly, “that has somewhat troubled me, being written in a cramped hand. Perhaps you could read it for me,” and, getting up, he took a roll from a closet.

  Roger smiled quietly, as he turned it over. By a private mark upon it, he knew that it had been written at Alnwick, and was doubtless the proceed of some foray upon a monastery across the border. He ran his eye over it; and then, in a sonorous voice, proceeded to read it aloud.

  “I thank you,” the priest said, when he had finished. “Truly you are an admirable reader, and well skilled in deciphering. I wonder that you held not some more important post than that of cellarer.”

  Roger laughed.

  “I might have done so,” he said, “but in truth, I am not strict enough in matters of discipline to suit our prior, and am somewhat over fond of the wine cup. More than once, when it seemed that I might have been chosen as reader to the monastery, I fell into disgrace, and lost my chance; and indeed, I was far better pleased with my post, there, than if they had appointed me sub-prior.”

  Any vestige of doubt there might have been in the priest’s mind had vanished, as Roger read; for he was conscious that he, himself, could not have picked up a manuscript and have deciphered it so easily and fluently.

  “It must be trying to you, good father,” Roger went on, “to be among men who, if reports speak truly, are somewhat lawless, and hold even the church in but slight respect. Surely, among them there can be but little scope for your abilities?”

  “’Tis true, brother; but they are, you know, kinsmen of mine. They have many foes across the border, and some on this side, and are forced to hold their own as they may. It was but two days ago that they were obliged to punish a family that have long been at feud with them, and who might well have fallen upon their holds, if they marched into England with Douglas. However, they have brought off two hostages for the good behaviour of these people.”

  “Yes, I heard a chance word, in the village, that a party had just returned from a foray, and had brought back a number of prisoners.”

  “Not a number, brother, but two girls.”

  “I have seen no women in the castle,” Roger said.

  “No. William Baird lost his wife years ago, and cares not to have women in the hold. There is not a married man among the garrison. If a man takes him a wife, he must go and settle on the lands.

  “The women are in a safe place of keeping. They are overhead. There are wild young fellows among the Bairds, and the girls are good looking; therefore he thought it best to place them in my charge, and that is why you see two sentries marching on the battlements, one on each side of this turret. He himself keeps the key of their chamber, handing it over to me every morning, and receiving it again at night—a precaution wholly unnecessary, methinks.”

  “Surely, surely,” Roger said. “I wonder that you are not offended.”

  “I told him that it was strange he could not trust me, a priest, with the charge of them; but he laughed and said, ‘As a priest you are well enough, Father Kenelm, but remember also that you are a Baird. Though a priest, I would trust you to ride with me on a foray across the border; but as a Baird, I would not entrust you with the custody of women. You may take it as a compliment that I have trusted you as far as I do.’”

  Roger’s answer to Oswald had been eminently satisfactory to the latter. Still more pleased was he when, later on in the day, Roger repeated, as he passed him, “They are lodged in the turret, over my chamber.”

  Oswald was scarcely surprised, for he had noticed that two sentries were on the wall on that side, although it was the one farthest removed from the direction in which any foes were likely to appear. He had, moreover, just
before dinner, observed one of the kitchen men go up, with two dishes in his hand, by the steps leading to the top of the wall, on that side. There was no hindrance to the men going freely in and out of the hold, and as no duty had been assigned to him that evening, he strolled out of the gate when it became dusk, soon after six o’clock, for it was now the beginning of April, 1401, and walked down through the village; and then, taking off his armour and steel cap, and laying them down under a bush by the roadside, set off at the top of his speed in the direction of Parton. He did the ten miles in under an hour, and nearly ran against a man who was standing in the middle of the road, a short distance from the little town.

  “Is that you, Fergus?”

  “No, I am John, master. Fergus will take the watch tomorrow evening.”

  “Good. Keep the horses saddled at this time, every evening; and hold them in readiness all night. Things are going on well, and I may be here any night. Which is the house?”

  “That is it, master, where you see the light, a quarter of a mile farther up the hill.”

  “Where are you sleeping?”

  “In the stables, with the horses. It is some ten yards off the right of the house.”

  “Then you must keep watch through the night, by turns, and get your sleep in the daytime. I hope we shall get them away without waiting for a force to come. The hold is a very strong one, and a strict watch is kept at night; and, before we could carry it, we should have all the Bairds on the countryside down upon us.

  “Can you get me a rope? I want a long and a strong one.”

  “There are some ropes in the stable, master, but they are in use, and would be missed.”

  “Then run, at the top of your speed, down to the town; and buy a rope strong enough to hold the weight of half a dozen men. I shall want a hundred feet of it. Here is money.”