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OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.
IT was a bright July morning four months after that fatal fight in the
Spanish batranca. A blue heaven stretched above, a green rolling plain
undulated below, intersected with hedge-rows and flecked with grazing sheep.
The sun was yet low in the heaven, and the red cows stood in the long
shadow of the elms, chewing the cud and gazing with great vacant eyes at two
horsemen who were spurring it down the long white road which dipped and curved
away back to where the towers and pinnacles beneath the flat- topped hill marked
the old town of Winchester.
Of the riders one was young, graceful, and fair, clad in plain doublet
and hosen of blue Brussels cloth, which served to show his active and well-knit
figure. A flat velvet cap was drawn
forward to keep the glare from his eyes, and he rode with lips compressed and
anxious face, as one who has much care upon his mind.
Young as he was, and peaceful as was his dress, the dainty golden spurs
which twinkled upon his heels proclaimed his knighthood, while a long seam upon
his brow and a scar upon his temple gave a manly grace to his refined and
delicate countenance. His comrade
was a large, red-headed man upon a great black horse, with a huge canvas bag
slung from his saddle- bow, which jingled and clinked with every movement of his
steed. His broad, brown face was lighted up by a continual smile, and he looked
slowly from side to side with eyes which twinkled and shone with delight.
Well might John rejoice, for was he not back in his native Hampshire, had
he not Don Diego's five thousand crowns rasping against his knee, and above all
was he not himself squire now to Sir Alleyne Edricson, the young Socman of
Minstead lately knighted by the sword of the Black Prince himself, and esteemed
by the whole army as one of the most rising of the soldiers of England.
For the last stand of the Company had been told throughout Christendom
wherever a brave deed of arms was loved, and honors had flowed in upon the few
who had survived it. For two months Alleyne had wavered betwixt death and life,
with a broken rib and a shattered head; yet youth and strength and a cleanly
life were all upon his side, and he awoke from his long delirium to find that
the war was over, that the Spaniards and their allies had been crushed at
Navaretta, and that the prince had himself heard the tale of his ride for succor
and had come in person to his bedside to touch his shoulder with his sword and
to insure that so brave and true a man should die, if he could not live, within
the order of chivalry. The instant
that he could set foot to ground Alleyne had started in search of his lord, but
no word could he hear of him, dead or alive, and he had come home now
sad-hearted, in the hope of raising money upon his estates and so starting upon
his quest once more. Landing at London, he had hurried on with a mind full of
care, for he had heard no word from Hampshire since the short note which had
announced his brother's death.
"By the rood!" cried John, looking around him exultantly,
"where have we seen since we left such noble cows, such fleecy sheep, grass
so green, or a man so drunk as yonder rogue who lies in the gap of the
"Ah, John," Alleyne answered wearily, "it is well for you,
but I never thought that my home-coming would be so sad a one.
My heart is heavy for my dear lord and for Aylward, and I know not how I
may break the news to the Lady Mary and to the Lady Maude, if they have not yet
had tidings of it."
John gave a groan which made the horses shy.
"It is indeed a black business," said he.
"But be not sad, for I shall give half these crowns to my old
mother, and half will I add to the money which you may have, and so we shall buy
that yellow cog wherein we sailed to Bordeaux, and in it we shall go forth and
seek Sir Nigel."
Alleyne smiled, but shook his head.
"Were he alive we should have had word of him ere now," said
he. "But what is this town
"Why, it is Romsey!" cried John.
"See the tower of the old gray church, and the long stretch of the
nunnery. But here sits a very holy man, and I shall give him a crown
for his prayers."
Three large stones formed a rough cot by the roadside, and beside it,
basking in the sun, sat the hermit, with clay-colored face, dull eyes, and long
withered hands. With crossed ankles
and sunken head. he sat as though
all his life had passed out of him, with the beads slipping slowly through his
thin, yellow fingers. Behind him lay the narrow cell, clay-floored and damp,
comfortless, profitless and sordid. Beyond
it there lay amid the trees the wattle-and-daub hut of a laborer, the door open,
and the single room exposed to the view. The
man ruddy and yellow- haired, stood leaning upon the spade wherewith he had been
at work upon the garden patch. From
behind him came the ripple of a happy woman's laughter, and two young urchins
darted forth from the hut, bare-legged and towsy, while the mother, stepping
out, laid her hand upon her husband's arm and watched the gambols of the
children. The hermit frowned at the
untoward noise which broke upon his prayers, but his brow relaxed as he looked
upon the broad silver piece which John held out to him.
"There lies the image of our past and of our future," cried
Alleyne, as they rode on upon their way. "Now,
which is better, to till God's earth, to have happy faces round one's knee, and
to love and be loved, or to sit forever moaning over one's own soul, like a
mother over a sick babe?"
"I know not about that," said John, "for it casts a great
cloud over me when I think of such matters.
But I know that my crown was well spent, for the man had the look of a
very holy person. As to the other, there was nought holy about him that I could
see, and it would be cheaper for me to pray for myself than to give a crown to
one who spent his days in digging for lettuces."
Ere Alleyne could answer there swung round the curve of the road a lady's
carriage drawn by three horses abreast with a postilion upon the outer one.
Very fine and rich it was, with beams painted and gilt, wheels and spokes
carved in strange figures, and over all an arched cover of red and white
tapestry. Beneath its shade there
sat a stout and elderly lady in a pink cote- hardie, leaning back among a pile
of cushions, and plucking out her eyebrows with a small pair of silver tweezers.
None could seem more safe and secure and at her ease than this lady, yet
here also was a symbol of human life, for in an instant, even as Alleyne reined
aside to let the carriage pass, a wheel flew out from among its fellows, and
over it all toppled--carving, tapestry and gilt--in one wild heap, with the
horses plunging, the postilion shouting, and the lady screaming from within.
In an instant Alleyne and John were on foot, and had lifted her forth all
in a shake with fear, but little the worse for her mischance.
"Now woe worth me!" she cried, "and ill fall on Michael
Easover of Romsey! for I told him that the pin was loose, and yet he must needs
gainsay me, like the foolish daffe that he is."
"I trust that you have taken no hurt, my fair lady," said
Alleyne, conducting her to the bank, upon which John had already placed a
"Nay, I have had no scath, though I have lost my silver tweezers.
Now, lack-a-day! did God ever put breath into such a fool as Michael Easover of
Romsey? But I am much beholden to
you, gentle sirs. Soldiers ye are, as one may readily see.
I am myself a soldier's daughter," she added, casting a somewhat
languishing glance at John, "and my heart ever goes out to a brave
"We are indeed fresh from Spain," quoth Alleyne.
"From Spain, say you? Ah!
it was an ill and sorry thing that so many should throw away the lives that
Heaven gave them. In sooth, it is
bad for those who fall, but worse for those who bide behind.
I have but now bid farewell to one who hath lost all in this cruel
"And how that, lady?"
"She is a young damsel of these parts, and she goes now into a
nunnery. Alack! it is not a year
since she was the fairest maid from Avon to Itchen, and now it was more than I
could abide to wait at Rumsey Nunnery to see her put the white veil upon her
face, for she was made for a wife and not for the cloister.
Did you ever, gentle sir, hear of a body of men called 'The White
Company' over yonder?"
"Surely so," cried both the comrades.
"Her father was the leader of it, and her lover served under him as
squire. News hath come that not one
of the Company was left alive, and so, poor lamb, she hath----"
"Lady!" cried Alleyne, with catching breath, "is it the
Lady Maude Loring of whom you speak?"
"It is, in sooth."
"Maude! And in a nunnery! Did,
then, the thought of her father's death so move her?"
"Her father!" cried the lady, smiling.
"Nay; Maude is a good daughter, but I think it was this young
golden-haired squire of whom I have heard who has made her turn her back upon
"And I stand talking here!" cried Alleyne wildly.
"Come, John, come!"
Rushing to his horse, he swung himself into the saddle, and was off down
the road in a rolling cloud of dust as fast as his good steed could bear him.
Great had been the rejoicing amid the Romsey nuns when the Lady Maude
Loring had craved admission into their order--for was she not sole child and
heiress of the old knight, with farms and fiefs which she could bring to the
great nunnery? Long and earnest had
been the talks of the gaunt lady abbess, in which she had conjured the young
novice to turn forever from the world, and to rest her bruised heart under the
broad and peaceful shelter of the church. And
now, when all was settled, and when abbess and lady superior had had their will,
it was but fitting that some pomp and show should mark the glad occasion.
Hence was it that the good burghers of Romsey were all in the streets,
that gay flags and flowers brightened the path from the nunnery to the church,
and that a long procession wound up to the old arched door leading up the bride
to these spiritual nuptials. There
was lay-sister Agatha with the high gold crucifix, and the three
incense-bearers, and the two-and-twenty garbed in white, who cast flowers upon
either side of them and sang sweetly the while. Then, with four attendants, came
the novice, her drooping head wreathed with white blossoms, and, behind, the
abbess and her council of older nuns, who were already counting in their minds
whether their own bailiff could manage the farms of Twynham, or whether a reve
would be needed beneath him, to draw the utmost from these new possessions which
this young novice was about to bring them.
But alas! for plots and plans when love and youth and nature, and above
all, fortune are arrayed against them. Who
is this travel- stained youth who dares to ride so madly through the lines of
staring burghers? Why does he fling
himself from his horae and stare so strangely about him?
See how he has rushed through the incense-bearers, thrust aside
lay-sister Agatha, scattered the two-and-twenty damosels who sang so
sweetly--and he stands before the novice with his hands out-stretched, and his
face shining, and the light of love in his gray eyes.
Her foot is on the very lintel of the church, and yet he bars the
way--and she, she thinks no more of the wise words and holy rede of the lady
abbess, but she hath given a sobbing cry and hath fallen forward with his arms
around her drooping body and her wet cheek upon his breast.
A sorry sight this for the gaunt abbess, an ill lesson too for the
stainless two-and-twenty who have ever been taught that the way of nature is the
way of sin. But Maude and Alleyne
care little for this. A dank, cold
air comes out from the black arch before them. Without, the sun shines bright
and the birds are singing amid the ivy on the drooping beeches. Their choice is made, and they turn away hand-in-hand, with
their backs to the darkness and their faces to the light.
Very quiet was the wedding in the old priory church at Christchurch,
where Father Christopher read the service, and there were few to see save the
Lady Loring and John, and a dozen bowmen from the castle.
The Lady of Twynham had drooped and pined for weary months, so that her
face was harsher and less comely than before, yet she still hoped on, for her
lord had come through so many dangers that she could scarce believe that he
might be stricken down at last. It
had been her wish to start for Spain and to search for him, but Alleyne had
persuaded her to let him go in her place. There
was much to look after, now that the lands of Minstead were joined to those of
Twynham, and Alleyne had promised her that if she would but bide with his wife
he would never come back to Hampshire again until he had gained some news, good
or ill, of her lord and lover.
The yellow cog had been engaged, with Goodwin Hawtayne in command, and a
month after the wedding Alleyne rode down to Bucklershard to see if she had come
round yet from Southampton. On the way he passed the fishing village of Pitt's
Deep, and marked that a little creyer or brig was tacking off the land, as
though about to anchor there. On
his way back, as he rode towards the village, he saw that she had indeed
anchored, and that many boats were round her, bearing cargo to the shore.
A bow-shot from Pitt's Deep there was an inn a little back from the road,
very large and wide-spread, with a great green bush hung upon a pole from one of
the upper windows. At this window he marked, as he rode up, that a man was
seated who appeared to be craning his neck in his direction. Alleyne was still looking up at him, when a woman came
rushing from the open door of the inn, and made as though she would climb a
tree, looking back the while with a laughing face.
Wondering what these doings might mean, Alleyne tied his horse to a tree,
and was walking amid the trunks towards the inn, when there shot from the
entrance a second woman who made also for the trees. Close at her heels came a burly, brown-faced man, who leaned
against the door-post and laughed loudly with his hand to his side, "Ah,
mes belles!" he cried, "and is it thus you treat me?
Ah, mes petites! I swear by these finger-bones that I would not hurt a hair of
your pretty heads; but I have been among the black paynim, and, by my hilt! it
does me good to look at your English cheeks.
Come, drink a stoup of muscadine with me, mes anges, for my heart is warm
to be among ye again."
At the sight of the man Alleyne had stood staring, but at the sound of
his voice such a thrill of joy bubbled up in his heart that he had to bite his
lip to keep himself from shouting outright.
But a deeper pleasure yet was in store.
Even as he looked, the window above was pushed outwards, and the voice of
the man whom he had seen there came out from it.
"Aylward," cried the voice, "I have seen just now a very
worthy person come down the road, though my eyes could scarce discern whether he
carried coat-armor. I pray you to
wait upon him and tell him that a very humble knight of England abides here, so
that if he be in need of advancement, or have any small vow upon his soul, or
desire to exalt his lady, I may help him to accomplish it."
Aylward at this order came shuffling forward amid the trees, and in an
instant the two men were clinging in each other's arms, laughing and shouting
and patting each other in their delight; while old Sir Nigel came running with
his sword, under the impression that some small bickering had broken out, only
to embrace and be embraced himself, until all three were hoarse with their
questions and outcries and congratulations.
On their journey home through the woods Alleyne learnt their wondrous
story: how, when Sir Nigel came to his senses, he with his fellow-captive had
been hurried to the coast, and conveyed by sea to their captor's castle; how
upon the way they had been taken by a Barbary rover, and how they exchanged
their light captivity for a seat on a galley bench and hard labor at the
pirate's oars; how, in the port at Barbary, Sir Nigel had slain the Moorish
captain, and had swum with Aylward to a small coaster which they had taken, and
so made their way to England with a rich cargo to reward them for their toils.
All this Alleyne listened to, until the dark keep of Twynham towered
above them in the gloaming, and they saw the red sun lying athwart the rippling
Avon. No need to speak of the glad
hearts at Twynham Castle that night, nor of the rich offerings from out that
Moorish cargo which found their way to the chapel of Father Christopher.
Sir Nigel Loring lived for many years, full of honor and laden with every
blessing. He rode no more to the
wars, but he found his way to every jousting within thirty miles; and the
Hampshire youth treasured it as the highest honor when a word of praise fell
from him as to their management of their horses, or their breaking of their
lances. So he lived and so he died,
the most revered and the happiest man in all his native shire.
For Sir Alleyne Edricson and for his beautiful bride the future had also
naught but what was good. Twice he
fought in France, and came back each time laden with honors.
A high place at court was given to him, and he spent many years at
Windsor under the second Richard and the fourth Henry--where he received the
honor of the Garter, and won the name of being a brave soldier, a true- hearted
gentleman, and a great lover and patron of every art and science which refines
or ennobles life.
As to John, he took unto himself a village maid, and settled in Lyndhurst, where his five thousand crowns made him the richest franklin for many miles around. For many years he drank his ale every night at the "Pied Merlin," which was now kept by his friend Aylward, who had wedded the good widow to whom he had committed his plunder. The strong men and the bowmen of the country round used to drop in there of an evening to wrestle a fall with John or to shoot a round with Aylward; but, though a silver shilling was to be the prize of the victory, it has never been reported that any man earned much money in that fashion. So they lived, these men, in their own lusty, cheery fashion--rude and rough, but honest, kindly and true. Let us thank God if we have outgrown their vices. Let us pray to God that we may ever hold their virtues. The sky may darken, and the clouds may gather, and again the day may come when Britain may have sore need of her children, on whatever shore of the sea they be found. Shall they not muster at her call?