The Winning of the Golden Spurs

by Percy F. Westerman

  CHAPTER I

  THE ARCHER, REDWARD BUCKLAND

  IT was early morning in the month of August, 1338, so early that theslanting rays of the sun still lit up the north side of the Normanchurch of St. Andrew, and cast a shadow seven times its height acrossthe dew-soaked meadows.

  Betwixt the high ground where stood the church and the narrow creek,known as the Hamble River, clustered the mud-walled and thatched-roofhouses of the village of Hamble-le-Rice. Away to the north could betraced the course of the tree-fringed creek till it lost itselfbehind a range of low hills, while in the other direction lay theestuary of the river, where it mingled itself with the salt waves ofSouthampton Water, which, in its turn, was backed by the dark, densemasses of trees that formed that tract of country so well known inhistory and romance--the New Forest.

  Peaceful, indeed, was the situation of this quiet little Hampshirevillage, and peaceful also was the general existence of itsinhabitants. Situated on an out-of-the-way angle, far from the oldRoman highway that led from Clausentum to Portchester, and at thatperiod, as now, formed the highway between Southampton andPortsmouth, Hamble village was all but cut off from the rest of theworld. Save for an occasional visit by the grey-robed monks from thePriory of St. Mary and St. Edward at Netley, a chance journey of ahuckster or Chapman from Southampton or Winchester fairs, or theunpreventable arrival of some vessel driven by stress of weather toshelter in the estuary, strangers in the village were few and farbetween.

  Slow in thought, slower in speech, and backward in giving or takingoffence, yet terrible when roused to anger, the Hamble folk weretypical examples of the mediaeval English peasant whose descendantshave made history in all parts of the globe.

  For years past the social condition of England had been in adeplorable state. The strife between King Edward II. and De Spenseron the one hand, and Queen Isabella and Mortimer on the other, hadencouraged lawlessness in all grades of society. Robbers, thieves,murderers, and criminals of all kinds had multiplied to an enormousdegree, and were openly protected by the great barons, as beinguseful tools in their hands. Guilds, founded for self-protectivemeasures, became instruments of oppression, and, generally speaking,every man looked solely to his own interest.

  But in the village of Hamble there was little to ruffle the eventenor of its existence. Little did it matter whether the seamen ofSouthampton had a feud with the men of the Cinque Ports, or whetherthe monks of Beaulieu or Netley had a difference with the Bishop ofWinchester; but should a strange craft appear in the river, or a bandof marauders attempt to swoop down from the leafy fastnesses ofWaltham Chase, 'twas only necessary to ring the great bell of St.Andrew's, and instantly the peaceful villagers would be turned intoan angry array of armed men, ready to sell their lives dearly indefence of their hearths and homes.

  But the time was at hand when Englishmen would have to sink theirdifferences and unite against a common foe. Edward III. had laidclaim to the throne of France, and, though the stake was a great one,the enterprise was popular, inasmuch as the possibilities ofindividual gain in the shape of plunder held out great inducements toall classes of these island warriors.

  On this particular morning early a man emerged from one of the houseson the outskirts of the village, which, by reason of being built ofstone and being fair-sized, betokened that its owner was a man ofposition--as far as the place was concerned. The house lay some twohundred yards away from the rest, occupying the summit of aneven-crested ridge, and was surrounded by a palisade of stout pointedstakes, that afforded complete protection against the attacks of anyordinary band of adventurers.

  The man was a tall, well-made individual, with a bronzed facesurmounted by a thick crop of reddish hair, and partially concealedby a heavy beard, that grew high upon his cheeks. Bushy eyebrowshelped to further conceal his face, but any one could see from thegrey glint of his blue eyes that the profusion of hair covered acomely countenance.

  A well-worn leather jerkin, that had once been of a vivid red colour,but was now nearly black with hard usage, failed to conceal themighty expanse of his chest, while the short sleeves of the garmentfitted tightly over the gnarled muscles of his arms. His lower limbswere also covered by leathern hose, which, by reason of exposure tosalt water and the rough wear and tear of daily toil, were nowcolourless and frayed till all semblance of dressed leather waslacking. His legs, however, though of great size, did not betoken anequality with the strength of his arms, and, moreover, he walked witha slight limp.

  A crimson scarf, bound tightly round his head, did duty for ahead-dress, while from a narrow black belt hung a short dagger on hisright side, counterbalanced by a leather purse or pouch on his left.

  Over his shoulder he bore a pair of long ash oars, their blades stillcovered with a deposit of dry mud, while in his left hand he carrieda six-foot yew-bow, which, unstrung, was as straight as a lance.

  Redward Buckland, for such was his name, was not a Hamble man in thestrict sense of the word, yet so good-natured and easy-going was he,so upright in his dealings, and withal a man of such great bodilystrength, that he was a popular member of the little community.

  Of his past he said little, and was asked but little. He had beenmaster bowman in a company, had served against the Scots atBannockburn, with the Gascons in their feudal bickerings, and therewas hardly a castle in Normandy, Maine, Touraine, Anjou, Poitou, orLimousin that he did not know.

  Eleven years prior to the time of this story he suddenly appeared atHamble, bringing with him his son Raymond, then a child five years ofage. Men often talked of their coming; the bowman, in rustybrigandine and dented headpiece, the boy, a lusty, laughingyoungster, perched on his shoulder, a wain jogging behind with aheavy load of rich stuff--booty from many a foreign part--the like ofwhich had never before been seen in Hamble.

  Thereupon he purchased a farmhouse, and settled down with theintention of passing the rest of his days in comfort. Being a highlyreligious man--though, like most of his companions in arms, he couldswear roundly at times--Redward Buckland acted in accordance with thecustom of the times. Four marks and a seven-pound candle of pure waxhe gave to the priory at Netley, and a gold-embroidered cloth to thechurch of St. Andrew at Hamble.

  These presents he accounted sufficient atonement and thankofferingalike for delinquencies and deliverances from peril during hissojourn abroad, and thence-forth he meant to live a quiet,well-ordered life, though, unable to resist the call to arms, he hadserved in short campaigns against the Scots, and had but a yearpreviously crossed the Channel to take part in the Battle of Cadsand.Yet Hamble was his home, and to Hamble he returned as soon as eachparticular expedition had ended.

  Raymond Buckland, now a lad of sixteen, had little in common with hisfather as far as appearance went. He was tall, slim, yet well-knit,with curly flaxen hair, though the colour had a redeeming tinge ofreddish-gold that is necessary to impart a warmth to what wouldotherwise be a lustreless head of hair. He moved with a grace andease that contrasted vividly with his father's comparatively awkwardgait, but his limbs were not wanting in strength.

  A vigorous outdoor life had done much to develop his frame. MentallyRaymond was well educated, according to the standard of the age,having but recently returned from the Cistercian priory at Netley,where for the last seven years he had been a novice. His longintercourse with a monastic life had somewhat deadened his naturalinclinations, but since his return to the outside world the activedelights of youth seemed sweeter still.

  "Hasten, Raymond," said his father, pausing to look back towards thehouse, where the youth still lingered. "The young flood hath justbegun, and tide tarries for no man! And," he added, "fail not tobring my quiver with the black-feathered arrows."

  "And can I bring my crossbow?" inquired Raymond.

  His father gave a gruff yet good-natured assent, and, resuming hiswalk, sauntered gently towards the river.

  Before he had passed the church Raymond had overtaken him, carryingthe quiver in his left hand, while across his back was slung
a shortyet powerful crossbow, his own quiver with its stock of heavyquarrels hanging from his belt.

  "Ha! That crossbow again!" exclaimed Redward, in good-naturedcontempt. "'Tis strange that an English boy should lean towards awindlac-drawn weapon rather than a sturdy yew-bow. An thou wert aProvencal or Genoese I could have understood it."

  "Why, father?"

  "Why, forsooth! Thou wert made a sturdy Englishman, with sinews andmuscles wherewith to bend an honest longbow--not to have to turn ahandle, like a butter-making wench, ere the bolt can be shot. And,moreover, suppose thou wert matched against an archer; before thyweapon were levelled I'll warrant there would be a dozen cloth-yardshafts bristling in thine hide--though one would be enough, I trow!"

  "But the Genoese?"

  "The Genoese, my son, were ever underhanded fighters, preferring tocause a gaping wound with a quarrel rather than a wholesome hole withan arrow. 'Tis said that on more than one occasion the Pope hathforbidden the use of the crossbow, and that the Second LateranCouncil, a hundred years ago, did likewise."

  "How, then, do we find the crossbow still in use?"

  "I cannot tell, Raymond, save it be the natural perversity of men.But here we are at the shore."

  They had passed through the village, between rows of thatchedcottages. Smoke was already beginning to issue from the hole in theroof that did duty for a chimney, showing that the inhabitants wereearly astir. The narrow road plunged sharply down to the mud-fringedshores of the river, for the tide was low, and long flats oftreacherous slime extended almost from bank to bank, save for achannel of deep water midway between.

  With the air of a man who is thoroughly acquainted with the place,Redward Buckland followed an almost invisible path--termed throughoutuncountable ages a Hard--that led across the mud flats to the edge ofthe water, Raymond treading carefully at his heels. At the end of theHard lay a large, bluff-bowed boat, and, pulling the craft ashore bya length of rope, the archer tossed the oars into it and beckoned tohis son to jump on board.

  "Whither are we going, father?" asked Raymond, as his sire pushedoff, stepped awkwardly into the boat, and began to haul on board theheavy stone that served as an anchor.

  "Up the river to Botley, my son there to see Master Nicholas Hobbes."

  "And who is he?" rejoined Raymond with the inquisitiveness of youth.

  "Master Hobbes, of the city of Winton, is a fletcher, and his arrowsare well known as the very best in the country. Also he brings withhim a stock of bows made by Master Ford, whose fame as a bowyerextends well beyond the borders of Hamptonshire."

  "But why buy arrows, father; surely thou canst make thine own?"

  "Ah, Raymond! Raymond!" replied his father, shaking his headdoubtfully, "thou hast yet to learn that though I could fashion mineown weapons, yet custom demands that I get them from a member of thehonourable guild of bowyers and fletchers. Didst ever hear of abelted knight welding his own coat of mail?"

  The boy, in truth, had yet to learn of the existence of the powerfulguilds, or combinations of trades, which, founded for the purpose ofself-protection against the rapacity of the barons and thelawlessness of their retainers, became strong enough to be regardedwith respect by these turbulent personages. As the guilds grew theyobtained charters from their sovereign, till they reached a statethat enabled them to deal harshly with those without the pale. Thus,for instance, any man following the occupation of a tanner "not beingfree"--_i.e._ made a member of a guild--was amerced, or fined, oreven subjected to corporal punishment.

  Urged by the archer's long, powerful strokes the boat shot up-streamwith the tide, passing between steeply rising banks, where thefreshly leafed trees cast dark shadows across the verdant fields.Raymond sat on the stern-thwart, looking with silent admiration onthe scene, for, as far as he could remember, it was his firstexperience of a journey by water.

  At length they came to a place where on the western side a smallercreek joined the river. Redward rested on his oars and looked towardsthe mud banks, which were even now nearly covered by the risingwater.

  "We have hurried apace," he remarked, "and 'tis even too soon to goright up to the town. This is called Badnam Creek, and, by St.George, I'll wager we'll find some waterfowl amongst the reeds. Takethy crossbow, Raymond, and I'll pit my six-foot bow against it."

  Eagerly the boy took his weapon and wound the windlac till thehighly-drawn string clicked against the catch. Then he fitted a bolt,and, having done so, turned to watch his sire's movements. The archerhad already notched the cord, and the bow, with a couple of arrows,lay on the thwart by his side.

  "Steady, my son!" exclaimed the archer in alarm. "Be careful wherethou pointest that hell-designed toy. 'Tis bad enough to have afoeman's shaft through one leg without having mine own son's boltthrough the other. Hold it over the side, I pray thee!"

  The boat was run amid a cluster of reeds, and the twain waitedsilently and eagerly for some sign of feathered life. They were notkept long in suspense, for from a marsh hard by came two wild geese,their necks extended and their wings flapping noisily as they flew.

  "Quick, Raymond!" whispered his father, "loose directly they areoverhead!"

  In his excitement the youth sprang to his feet, and poised hiscrossbow.

  But alas for his inexperience! Unaccustomed to the swaying of theboat he lost his balance and fell backwards across the thwart; hiscrossbow twanged, and with a deep humming sound the quarrel flewaimlessly into space.

  In a moment Raymond raised himself into a sitting position, only tosee his father loose his second arrow.

  "And thou hast missed also!" he exclaimed in a tone of reproach.

  "Peace, lad; wait and see!"

  The birds still continued their passage, one gliding with wingsoutstretched, the other still beating the air with redoubled haste;then, even as they looked, both birds swayed in their flight, andfell into the water within two score paces of each other.

  Without further remark Redward pushed the boat clear of the reeds,and rowed towards his spoil. One of the geese was still transfixed byan arrow, the other's neck had a small wound, showing that the shafthad passed completely through it.

  "Another groat gone!" exclaimed the archer, ruefully contemplatingthe bird that had failed to stop the arrow. "But that was a grandshot of thine, Raymond, I trow," he added in a bantering tone;"'twas not learned of the monks of Netley?"

  Then, observing a flush of mortification overspread the boy'sfeatures, he continued, "Never mind, my son, even the best archer inthe kingdom would be at a loss in a small boat at first."

  Presently they rounded an abrupt spur of land on their left, and cameto a spot where the creek narrowed considerably, being enclosed bylofty hills on either side. A broad white road descended these hillsto the water's edge, where it was broken by the flowing tide. A roughwooden hut, with a large open boat close at hand, marked the spotwhere wayfarers were ferried across to the opposite side, where ahorn, chained to a post, was blown as a signal to attract theferryman.

  "This is the road 'twixt Southampton and Portsmouth," said thearcher, indicating the dusty streak by a nod of his head. "AtBursledon, on this side, is the fortalice of the Hewitts, though fromhere 'tis hidden by the trees. On the other side is Swanwick Shore,whence come some of the best mariners who man the cogs ofSouthampton. But, mark ye! Here comes a great company of armed men;by St. Etienne of Tours, it makes my heart glad to hear the clatterof harness once more! I wonder under whose banners they march?"

  And resting on his oars, Redward Buckland shaded his eyes from theglare of the sun, and peered steadfastly up the hill where the whiteroad was now alive with men, a grey cloud of dust hanging over themlike a marsh mist in autumn, through which the Cross of St. Georgeblazoned on the white surcoats of the archers stood out bravelyagainst the dark foliage.

  When the vanguard reached the foot of the hill, a bowshot from wherethe watchers sat in their little craft, a tucket sounded and thecompany halted.

  Then Redward's accustomed eyes lighted upon
their banner, which borea golden half-moon on an azure field, and unable to contain himself,he stood upright, waving his cap in boisterous delight.

  "By Our Lady, 'tis as I thought--the company of the Governor ofPortchester! Haste we to the shore, Raymond, that I may welcome mineold comrades!"