Every one knows the disagreeable, lurking discomfort that follows a quarrel—a discomfort that imbitters the very taste of life for the time being. Such was the dull distaste that Myles felt that morning after what had passed in the dormitory. Every one in the proximity of such an open quarrel feels a reflected constraint, and in Myles's mind was a disagreeable doubt whether that constraint meant disapproval of him or of his late enemies.
It seemed to him that Gascoyne added the last bitter twang to his unpleasant feelings when, half an hour later, they marched with the others to chapel.
“Why dost thou breed such trouble for thyself, Myles?” said he, recurring to what he had already said. “Is it not foolish for thee to come hither to this place, and then not submit to the ways thereof, as the rest of us do?”
“Thou talkest not like a true friend to chide me thus,” said Myles, sullenly; and he withdrew his arm from his friend's.
“Marry, come up!” said Gascoyne; “an I were not thy friend, I would let thee jog thine own way. It aches not my bones to have thine drubbed.”
Just then they entered the chapel, and words that might have led to a quarrel were brought to a close.
Myles was not slow to see that he had the ill will of the head of their company. That morning in the armory he had occasion to ask some question of Blunt; the head squire stared coldly at him for a moment, gave him a short, gruff answer, and then, turning his back abruptly, began talking with one of the other bachelors. Myles flushed hot at the other's insulting manner, and looked quickly around to see if any of the others had observed what had passed. It was a comfort to him to see that all were too busy arming themselves to think of anything else; nevertheless, his face was very lowering as he turned away.
“Some day I will show him that I am as good a man as he,” he muttered to himself. “An evil-hearted dog to put shame upon me!”
The storm was brewing and ready to break.
That day was exceptionally hot and close, and permission had been asked by and granted to those squires not on duty to go down to the river for a bath after exercise at the pels. But as Myles replaced his arms in the rack, a little page came with a bidding to come to Sir James in his office.
“Look now,” said Myles, “here is just my ill-fortune. Why might he not have waited an hour longer rather than cause me to miss going with ye?”
“Nay,” said Gascoyne, “let not that grieve thee, Myles. Wilkes and I will wait for thee in the dormitory—will we not, Edmund? Make thou haste and go to Sir James.”
Sir James was sitting at the table studying over a scroll of parchment, when Myles entered his office and stood before him at the table.
“Well, boy,” said he, laying aside the parchment and looking up at the lad, “I have tried thee fairly for these few days, and may say that I have found thee worthy to be entered upon the rolls as esquire of the body.”
“I give thee thanks, sir,” said Myles.
The knight nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not at once give the word of dismissal that Myles had expected. “Dost mean to write thee a letter home soon?” said he, suddenly.
“Aye,” said Myles, gaping in great wonderment at the strangeness of the question.
“Then when thou dost so write,” said Sir James, “give thou my deep regards to thy father.” Then he continued, after a brief pause. “Him did I know well in times gone by, and we were right true friends in hearty love, and for his sake I would befriend thee—that is, in so much as is fitting.”
“Sir,” said Myles; but Sir James held up his hand, and he stopped short in his thanks.
“But, boy,” said he, “that which I sent for thee for to tell thee was of more import than these. Dost thou know that thy father is an attainted outlaw?”
“Nay,” cried Myles, his cheeks blazing up as red as fire; “who sayeth that of him lieth in his teeth.”
“Thou dost mistake me,” said Sir James, quietly. “It is sometimes no shame to be outlawed and banned. Had it been so, I would not have told thee thereof, nor have bidden thee send my true love to thy father, as I did but now. But, boy, certes he standest continually in great danger—greater than thou wottest of. Were it known where he lieth hid, it might be to his undoing and utter ruin. Methought that belike thou mightest not know that; and so I sent for thee for to tell thee that it behoovest thee to say not one single word concerning him to any of these new friends of thine, nor who he is, nor what he is.”
“But how came my father to be so banned?” said Myles, in a constrained and husky voice, and after a long time of silence.
“That I may not tell thee just now,” said the old knight, “only this—that I have been bidden to make it known to thee that thy father hath an enemy full as powerful as my Lord the Earl himself, and that through that enemy all his ill-fortune—his blindness and everything—hath come. Moreover, did this enemy know where thy father lieth, he would slay him right speedily.”
“Sir,” cried Myles, violently smiting his open palm upon the table, “tell me who this man is, and I will kill him!”
Sir James smiled grimly. “Thou talkest like a boy,” said he. “Wait until thou art grown to be a man. Mayhap then thou mayst repent thee of these bold words, for one time this enemy of thy father's was reckoned the foremost knight in England, and he is now the King's dear friend and a great lord.”
“But,” said Myles, after another long time of heavy silence, “will not my Lord then befriend me for the sake of my father, who was one time his dear comrade?”
Sir James shook his head. “It may not be,” said he. “Neither thou nor thy father must look for open favor from the Earl. An he befriended Falworth, and it came to be known that he had given him aid or succor, it might belike be to his own undoing. No, boy; thou must not even look to be taken into the household to serve with gentlemen as the other squires do serve, but must even live thine own life here and fight thine own way.”
Myles's eyes blazed. “Then,” cried he, fiercely, “it is shame and attaint upon my Lord the Earl, and cowardice as well, and never will I ask favor of him who is so untrue a friend as to turn his back upon a comrade in trouble as he turneth his back upon my father.”
“Thou art a foolish boy,” said Sir James with a bitter smile, “and knowest naught of the world. An thou wouldst look for man to befriend man to his own danger, thou must look elsewhere than on this earth. Was I not one time Mackworth's dear friend as well as thy father? It could cost him naught to honor me, and here am I fallen to be a teacher of boys. Go to! thou art a fool.”
Then, after a little pause of brooding silence, he went on to say that the Earl was no better or worse than the rest of the world. That men of his position had many jealous enemies, ever seeking their ruin, and that such must look first of all each to himself, or else be certainly ruined, and drag down others in that ruin. Myles was silenced, but the bitterness had entered his heart, and abided with him for many a day afterwards.
Perhaps Sir James read his feelings in his frank face, for he sat looking curiously at him, twirling his grizzled mustache the while. “Thou art like to have hard knocks of it, lad, ere thou hast gotten thee safe through the world,” said he, with more kindness in his harsh voice than was usual. “But get thee not into fights before thy time.” Then he charged the boy very seriously to live at peace with his fellow-squires, and for his father's sake as well as his own to enter into none of the broils that were so frequent in their quarters.
It was with this special admonition against brawling that Myles was dismissed, to enter, before five minutes had passed, into the first really great fight of his life.
Besides Gascoyne and Wilkes, he found gathered in the dormitory six or eight of the company of squires who were to serve that day upon household duty; among others, Walter Blunt and three other bachelors, who were changing their coarse service clothes for others more fit for the household.
“Why didst thou tarry so long, Myles?” said Gascoyne, as he entered. “Methought thou wert never coming.”
“Where goest thou, Falworth?” called Blunt from the other end of the room, where he was lacing his doublet.
Just now Myles had no heart in the swimming or sport of any sort, but he answered, shortly, “I go to the river to swim.”
“Nay,” said Blunt, “thou goest not forth from the castle to-day. Hast thou forgot how thou didst answer me back about fetching the water this morning? This day thou must do penance, so go thou straight to the armory and scour thou up my breastplate.”
From the time he had arisen that morning everything had gone wrong with Myles. He had felt himself already outrated in rendering service to the bachelors, he had quarrelled with the head of the esquires, he had nearly quarrelled with Gascoyne, and then had come the bitterest and worst of all, the knowledge that his father was an outlaw, and that the Earl would not stretch out a hand to aid him or to give him any countenance. Blunt's words brought the last bitter cut to his heart, and they stung him to fury. For a while he could not answer, but stood glaring with a face fairly convulsed with passion at the young man, who continued his toilet, unconscious of the wrath of the new recruit.
Gascoyne and Wilkes, accepting Myles's punishment as a thing of course, were about to leave the dormitory when Myles checked them.
“Stop, Francis!” he cried, hoarsely. “Thinkest thou that I will stay behind to do yon dog's dirty work? No; I go with ye.”
A moment or two of dumb, silent amazement followed his bold words; then Blunt cried, “Art thou mad?”
“Nay,” answered Myles in the same hoarse voice, “I am not mad. I tell thee a better man than thou shouldst not stay me from going an I list to go.
“I will break thy cockerel head for that speech,” said Blunt, furiously. He stooped as he spoke, and picked up a heavy clog that lay at his feet.
It was no insignificant weapon either. The shoes of those days were sometimes made of cloth, and had long pointed toes stuffed with tow or wool. In muddy weather thick heavy clogs or wooden soles were strapped, like a skate, to the bottom of the foot. That clog which Blunt had seized was perhaps eighteen or twenty inches long, two or two and a half inches thick at the heel, tapering to a point at the toe. As the older lad advanced, Gascoyne stepped between him and his victim.
“Do not harm him, Blunt,” he pleaded. “Bear thou in mind how new-come he is among us. He knoweth not our ways as yet.”
“Stand thou back, Gascoyne,” said Blunt, harshly, as he thrust him aside. “I will teach him our ways so that he will not soon forget them.”
Close to Myles's feet was another clog like that one which Blunt held. He snatched it up, and set his back against the wall, with a white face and a heart beating heavily and tumultuously, but with courage steeled to meet the coming encounter. There was a hard, grim look in his blue eyes that, for a moment perhaps, quelled the elder lad. He hesitated. “Tom! Wat! Ned!” he called to the other bachelors, “come hither, and lend me a hand with this knave.”
“An ye come nigh me,” panted Myles, “I will brain the first within reach.”
Then Gascoyne dodged behind the others, and, without being seen, slipped out of the room for help.
The battle that followed was quick, sharp, and short. As Blunt strode forward, Myles struck, and struck with might and main, but he was too excited to deliver his blow with calculation. Blunt parried it with the clog he held, and the next instant, dropping his weapon, gripped Myles tight about the body, pinning his arms to his sides.
Myles also dropped the clog he held, and, wrenching out his right arm with a sudden heave, struck Blunt full in the face, and then with another blow sent him staggering back. It all passed in an instant; the next the three other bachelors were upon him, catching him by the body, the arms, the legs. For a moment or two they swayed and stumbled hither and thither, and then down they fell in a struggling heap.
Myles fought like a wild-cat, kicking, struggling, scratching; striking with elbows and fists. He caught one of the three by his collar, and tore his jacket open from the neck to the waist; he drove his foot into the pit of the stomach of another, and knocked him breathless. The other lads not in the fight stood upon the benches and the beds around, but such was the awe inspired by the prestige of the bachelors that not one of them dared to lend hand to help him, and so Myles fought his fierce battle alone.
But four to one were odds too great, and though Myles struggled as fiercely as ever, by-and-by it was with less and less resistance.
Blunt had picked up the clog he had dropped when he first attacked the lad, and now stood over the struggling heap, white with rage, the blood running from his lip, cut and puffed where Myles had struck him, and murder looking out from his face, if ever it looked out of the face of any mortal being.
“Hold him a little,” said he, fiercely, “and I will still him for you.”
Even yet it was no easy matter for the others to do his bidding, but presently he got his chance and struck a heavy, cruel blow at Myles's head. Myles only partly warded it with his arm. Hitherto he had fought in silence, now he gave a harsh cry.
“Holy Saints!” cried Edmund Wilkes. “They will kill him.”
Blunt struck two more blows, both of them upon the body, and then at last they had the poor boy down, with his face upon the ground and his arms pinned to his sides, and Blunt, bracing himself for the stroke, with a grin of rage raised a heavy clog for one terrible blow that should finish the fight.
“How now, messieurs?” said a harsh voice, that fell upon the turmoil like a thunder-clap, and there stood Sir James Lee. Instantly the struggle ceased, and the combatants scrambled to their feet.
The older lads stood silent before their chief, but Myles was deaf and blind and mad with passion, he knew not where he stood or what he said or did. White as death, he stood for a while glaring about him, catching his breath convulsively. Then he screamed hoarsely.
“Who struck me? Who struck me when I was down? I will have his blood that struck me!” He caught sight of Blunt. “It was he that struck me!” he cried. “Thou foul traitor! thou coward!” and thereupon leaped at his enemy like a wild-cat.
“Stop!” cried Sir James Lee, clutching him by the arm.
Myles was too blinded by his fury to see who it was that held him. “I will not stop!” he cried, struggling and striking at the knight. “Let me go! I will have his life that struck me when I was down!”
The next moment he found himself pinned close against the wall, and then, as though his sight came back, he saw the grim face of the old one-eyed knight looking into his.
“Dost thou know who I am?” said a stern, harsh voice.
Instantly Myles ceased struggling, and his arms fell at his side. “Aye,” he said, in a gasping voice, “I know thee.” He swallowed spasmodically for a moment or two, and then, in the sudden revulsion of feeling, burst out sobbing convulsively.
Sir James marched the two off to his office, he himself walking between them, holding an arm of each, the other lads following behind, awe-struck and silent. Entering the office, Sir James shut the door behind him, leaving the group of squires clustered outside about the stone steps, speculating in whispers as to what would be the outcome of the matter.
After Sir James had seated himself, the two standing facing him, he regarded them for a while in silence. “How now, Walter Blunt,” said he at last, “what is to do?”
“Why, this,” said Blunt, wiping his bleeding lip. “That fellow, Myles Falworth, hath been breeding mutiny and revolt ever sin he came hither among us, and because he was thus mutinous I would punish him therefor.”
“In that thou liest!” burst out Myles. “Never have I been mutinous in my life.”
“Be silent, sir,” said Sir James, sternly. “I will hear thee anon.”
“Nay,” said Myles, with his lips twitching and writhing, “I will not be silent. I am friendless here, and ye are all against me, but I will not be silent, and brook to have lies spoken of me.”
Even Blunt stood aghast at Myles's boldness. Never had he heard any one so speak to Sir James before. He did not dare for the moment even to look up. Second after second of dead stillness passed, while Sir James sat looking at Myles with a stern, terrifying calmness that chilled him in spite of the heat of his passion.
“Sir,” said the old man at last, in a hard, quiet voice, “thou dost know naught of rules and laws of such a place as this. Nevertheless, it is time for thee to learn them. So I will tell thee now that if thou openest thy lips to say only one single word more except at my bidding, I will send thee to the black vault of the donjon to cool thy hot spirits on bread and water for a week.” There was something in the measured quietness of the old knight's tone that quelled Myles utterly and entirely. A little space of silence followed. “Now, then, Blunt,” said Sir James, turning to the bachelor, “tell me all the ins and outs of this business without any more underdealing.”
This time Blunt's story, though naturally prejudiced in his own favor, was fairly true. Then Myles told his side of the case, the old knight listening attentively.
“Why, how now, Blunt,” said Sir James, when Myles had ended, “I myself gave the lads leave to go to the river to bathe. Wherefore shouldst thou forbid one of them?”
“I did it but to punish this fellow for his mutiny,” said the bachelor. “Methought we at their head were to have oversight concerning them.”
“So ye are,” said the knight; “but only to a degree. Ere ye take it upon ye to gainsay any of my orders or permits, come ye first to me. Dost thou understand?”
“Aye,” answered Blunt, sullenly.
“So be it, and now get thee gone,” said the knight; “and let me hear no more of beating out brains with wooden clogs. An ye fight your battles, let there not be murder in them. This is twice that the like hath happed; gin I hear more of such doings—” He did utter his threat, but stopped short, and fixed his one eye sternly upon the head squire. “Now shake hands, and be ye friends,” said he, abruptly.
Blunt made a motion to obey, but Myles put his hand behind him.
“Nay, I shake not hands with any one who struck me while I was down.”
“So be it,” said the knight, grimly. “Now thou mayst go, Blunt. Thou, Falworth, stay; I would bespeak thee further.”
“Tell me,” said he, when the elder lad had left them, “why wilt thou not serve these bachelors as the other squires do? Such is the custom here. Why wilt thou not obey it?”
“Because,” said Myles, “I cannot stomach it, and they shall not make me serve them. An thou bid me do it, sir, I will do it; but not at their command.”
“Nay,” said the knight, “I do not bid thee do them service. That lieth with thee, to render or not, as thou seest fit. But how canst thou hope to fight single-handed against the commands of a dozen lads all older and mightier than thou?”
“I know not,” said Myles; “but were they an hundred, instead of thirteen, they should not make me serve them.”
“Thou art a fool!” said the old knight, smiling faintly, “for that be'st not courage, but folly. When one setteth about righting a wrong, one driveth not full head against it, for in so doing one getteth naught but hard knocks. Nay, go deftly about it, and then, when the time is ripe, strike the blow. Now our beloved King Henry, when he was the Earl of Derby, what could he have gained had he stood so against the old King Richard, brooking the King face to face? I tell thee he would have been knocked on the head as thou wert like to have been this day. Now were I thee, and had to fight a fight against odds, I would first get me friends behind me, and then—” He stopped short, but Myles understood him well enough.
“Sir,” said he, with a gulp, “I do thank thee for thy friendship, and ask thy pardon for doing as I did anon.”
“I grant thee pardon,” said the knight, “but tell thee plainly, an thou dost face me so again, I will truly send thee to the black cell for a week. Now get thee away.”
All the other lads were gone when Myles came forth, save only the faithful Gascoyne, who sacrificed his bath that day to stay with his friend; and perhaps that little act of self-denial moved Myles more than many a great thing might have done.
“It was right kind of thee, Francis,” said he, laying his hand affectionately on his friend's shoulder. “I know not why thou lovest me so.”
“Why, for one thing, this matter,” answered his friend; “because methinks thou art the best fighter and the bravest one of all of us squires.”
Myles laughed. Nevertheless Gascoyne's words were a soothing balm for much that had happened that day. “I will fight me no more just now,” said he; and then he told his friend all that Sir James had advised about biding his time.
Gascoyne blew a long whistle. “Beshrew me!” quoth he, “but methinks old Bruin is on thy side of the quarrel, Myles. An that be so, I am with thee also, and others that I can name as well.”
“So be it,” said Myles. “Then am I content to abide the time when we may become strong enough to stand against them.”
Perhaps there is nothing more delightful in the romance of boyhood than the finding of some secret hiding-place whither a body may creep away from the bustle of the world's life, to nestle in quietness for an hour or two. More especially is such delightful if it happen that, by peeping from out it, one may look down upon the bustling matters of busy every-day life, while one lies snugly hidden away unseen by any, as though one were in some strange invisible world of one's own.
Such a hiding-place as would have filled the heart of almost any boy with sweet delight Myles and Gascoyne found one summer afternoon. They called it their Eyry, and the name suited well for the roosting-place of the young hawks that rested in its windy stillness, looking down upon the shifting castle life in the courts below.
Behind the north stable, a great, long, rambling building, thick-walled, and black with age, lay an older part of the castle than that peopled by the better class of life—a cluster of great thick walls, rudely but strongly built, now the dwelling-place of stable-lads and hinds, swine and poultry. From one part of these ancient walls, and fronting an inner court of the castle, arose a tall, circular, heavy-buttressed tower, considerably higher than the other buildings, and so mantled with a dense growth of aged ivy as to stand a shaft of solid green. Above its crumbling crown circled hundreds of pigeons, white and pied, clapping and clattering in noisy flight through the sunny air. Several windows, some closed with shutters, peeped here and there from out the leaves, and near the top of the pile was a row of arched openings, as though of a balcony or an airy gallery.
Myles had more than once felt an idle curiosity about this tower, and one day, as he and Gascoyne sat together, he pointed his finger and said, “What is yon place?”
“That,” answered Gascoyne, looking over his shoulder—“that they call Brutus Tower, for why they do say that Brutus he built it when he came hither to Britain. I believe not the tale mine own self; ne'theless, it is marvellous ancient, and old Robin-the-Fletcher telleth me that there be stairways built in the wall and passage-ways, and a maze wherein a body may get lost, an he know not the way aright, and never see the blessed light of day again.”
“Marry,” said Myles, “those same be strange sayings. Who liveth there now?”
“No one liveth there,” said Gascoyne, “saving only some of the stable villains, and that half-witted goose-herd who flung stones at us yesterday when we mocked him down in the paddock. He and his wife and those others dwell in the vaults beneath, like rabbits in any warren. No one else hath lived there since Earl Robert's day, which belike was an hundred years agone. The story goeth that Earl Robert's brother—or step-brother—was murdered there, and some men say by the Earl himself. Sin that day it hath been tight shut.”
Myles stared at the tower for a while in silence. “It is a strange-seeming place from without,” said he, at last, “and mayhap it may be even more strange inside. Hast ever been within, Francis?”
“Nay,” said Gascoyne; “said I not it hath been fast locked since Earl Robert's day?”
“By'r Lady,” said Myles, “an I had lived here in this place so long as thou, I wot I would have been within it ere this.”
“Beshrew me,” said Gascoyne, “but I have never thought of such a matter.” He turned and looked at the tall crown rising into the warm sunlight with a new interest, for the thought of entering it smacked pleasantly of adventure. “How wouldst thou set about getting within?” said he, presently.
“Why, look,” said Myles; “seest thou not yon hole in the ivy branches? Methinks there is a window at that place. An I mistake not, it is in reach of the stable eaves. A body might come up by the fagot pile to the roof of the hen-house, and then by the long stable to the north stable, and so to that hole.”
Gascoyne looked thoughtfully at the Brutus Tower, and then suddenly inquired, “Wouldst go there?”
“Aye,” said Myles, briefly.
“So be it. Lead thou the way in the venture, I will follow after thee,” said Gascoyne.
As Myles had said, the climbing from roof to roof was a matter easy enough to an active pair of lads like themselves; but when, by-and-by, they reached the wall of the tower itself, they found the hidden window much higher from the roof than they had judged from below—perhaps ten or twelve feet—and it was, besides, beyond the eaves and out of their reach.
Myles looked up and looked down. Above was the bushy thickness of the ivy, the branches as thick as a woman's wrist, knotted and intertwined; below was the stone pavement of a narrow inner court between two of the stable buildings.
“Methinks I can climb to yon place,” said he.
“Thou'lt break thy neck an thou tryest,” said Gascoyne, hastily.
“Nay,” quoth Myles, “I trust not; but break or make, we get not there without trying. So here goeth for the venture.”
“Thou art a hare-brained knave as ever drew breath of life,” quoth Gascoyne, “and will cause me to come to grief some of these fine days. Ne'theless, an thou be Jack Fool and lead the way, go, and I will be Tom Fool and follow anon. If thy neck is worth so little, mine is worth no more.”
It was indeed a perilous climb, but that special providence which guards reckless lads befriended them, as it has thousands of their kind before and since. So, by climbing from one knotted, clinging stem to another, they were presently seated snugly in the ivied niche in the window. It was barred from within by a crumbling shutter, the rusty fastening of which, after some little effort upon the part of the two, gave way, and entering the narrow opening, they found themselves in a small triangular passage-way, from which a steep flight of stone steps led down through a hollow in the massive wall to the room below.
At the bottom of the steps was a heavy oaken door, which stood ajar, hanging upon a single rusty hinge, and from the room within a dull, gray light glimmered faintly. Myles pushed the door farther open; it creaked and grated horribly on its rusty hinge, and, as in instant answer to the discordant shriek, came a faint piping squeaking, a rustling and a pattering of soft footsteps.
“The ghosts!” cried Gascoyne, in a quavering whisper, and for a moment Myles felt the chill of goose-flesh creep up and down his spine. But the next moment he laughed.
“Nay,” said he, “they be rats. Look at yon fellow, Francis! Be'st as big as Mother Joan's kitten. Give me that stone.” He flung it at the rat, and it flew clattering across the floor. There was another pattering rustle of hundreds of feet, and then a breathless silence.
The boys stood looking around them, and a strange enough sight it was. The room was a perfect circle of about twenty feet across, and was piled high with an indistinguishable mass of lumber—rude tables, ruder chairs, ancient chests, bits and remnants of cloth and sacking and leather, old helmets and pieces of armor of a by-gone time, broken spears and pole-axes, pots and pans and kitchen furniture of all sorts and kinds.
A straight beam of sunlight fell through a broken shutter like a bar of gold, and fell upon the floor in a long streak of dazzling light that illuminated the whole room with a yellow glow.
“By 'r Lady!” said Gascoyne at last, in a hushed voice, “here is Father Time's garret for sure. Didst ever see the like, Myles? Look at yon arbalist; sure Brutus himself used such an one!”
“Nay,” said Myles; “but look at this saddle. Marry, here be'st a rat's nest in it.”
Clouds of dust rose as they rummaged among the mouldering mass, setting them coughing and sneezing. Now and then a great gray rat would shoot out beneath their very feet, and disappear, like a sudden shadow, into some hole or cranny in the wall.
“Come,” said Myles at last, brushing the dust from his jacket, “an we tarry here longer we will have chance to see no other sights; the sun is falling low.”
An arched stair-way upon the opposite side of the room from which they had entered wound upward through the wall, the stone steps being lighted by narrow slits of windows cut through the massive masonry. Above the room they had just left was another of the same shape and size, but with an oak floor, sagging and rising into hollows and hills, where the joist had rotted away beneath. It was bare and empty, and not even a rat was to be seen. Above was another room; above that, another; all the passages and stairways which connected the one story with the other being built in the wall, which was, where solid, perhaps fifteen feet thick.
From the third floor a straight flight of steps led upward to a closed door, from the other side of which shone the dazzling brightness of sunlight, and whence came a strange noise—a soft rustling, a melodious murmur. The boys put their shoulders against the door, which was fastened, and pushed with might and main—once, twice; suddenly the lock gave way, and out they pitched headlong into a blaze of sunlight. A deafening clapping and uproar sounded in their ears, and scores of pigeons, suddenly disturbed, rose in stormy flight.
They sat up and looked around them in silent wonder. They were in a bower of leafy green. It was the top story of the tower, the roof of which had crumbled and toppled in, leaving it open to the sky, with only here and there a slanting beam or two supporting a portion of the tiled roof, affording shelter for the nests of the pigeons crowded closely together. Over everything the ivy had grown in a mantling sheet—a net-work of shimmering green, through which the sunlight fell flickering.
“This passeth wonder,” said Gascoyne, at last breaking the silence.
“Aye,” said Myles, “I did never see the like in all my life.” Then, “Look, yonder is a room beyond; let us see what it is, Francis.”
Entering an arched door-way, the two found themselves in a beautiful little vaulted chapel, about eighteen feet long and twelve or fifteen wide. It comprised the crown of one of the large massive buttresses, and from it opened the row of arched windows which could be seen from below through the green shimmering of the ivy leaves. The boys pushed aside the trailing tendrils and looked out and down. The whole castle lay spread below them, with the busy people unconsciously intent upon the matters of their daily work. They could see the gardener, with bowed back, patiently working among the flowers in the garden, the stable-boys below grooming the horses, a bevy of ladies in the privy garden playing at shuttlecock with battledoors of wood, a group of gentlemen walking up and down in front of the Earl's house. They could see the household servants hurrying hither and thither, two little scullions at fisticuffs, and a kitchen girl standing in the door-way scratching her frowzy head.
It was all like a puppetshow of real life, each acting unconsciously a part in the play. The cool wind came in through the rustling leaves and fanned their cheeks, hot with the climb up the winding stair-way.
“We will call it our Eyry,” said Gascoyne “and we will be the hawks that live here.” And that was how it got its name.
The next day Myles had the armorer make him a score of large spikes, which he and Gascoyne drove between the ivy branches and into the cement of the wall, and so made a safe passageway by which to reach the window niche in the wall.
THE TWO friends kept the secret of the Eyry to themselves for a little while, now and then visiting the old tower to rummage among the lumber stored in the lower room, or to loiter away the afternoon in the windy solitudes of the upper heights. And in that little time, when the ancient keep was to them a small world unknown to any but themselves—a world far away above all the dull matters of every-day life—they talked of many things that might else never have been known to one another. Mostly they spoke the crude romantic thoughts and desires of boyhood's time—chaff thrown to the wind, in which, however, lay a few stray seeds, fated to fall to good earth, and to ripen to fruition in manhood's day.
In the intimate talks of that time Myles imparted something of his honest solidity to Gascoyne's somewhat weathercock nature, and to Myles's ruder and more uncouth character Gascoyne lent a tone of his gentler manners, learned in his pagehood service as attendant upon the Countess and her ladies.
In other things, also, the character and experience of the one lad helped to supply what was lacking in the other. Myles was replete with old Latin gestes, fables, and sermons picked up during his school life, in those intervals of his more serious studies when Prior Edward had permitted him to browse in the greener pastures of the Gesta Romanorum and the Disciplina Clericalis of the monastery library, and Gascoyne was never weary of hearing him tell those marvellous stories culled from the crabbed Latin of the old manuscript volumes.
Upon his part Gascoyne was full of the lore of the waiting-room and the antechamber, and Myles, who in all his life had never known a lady, young or old, excepting his mother, was never tired of lying silently listening to Gascoyne's chatter of the gay doings of the castle gentle-life, in which he had taken part so often in the merry days of his pagehood.
“I do wonder,” said Myles, quaintly, “that thou couldst ever find the courage to bespeak a young maid, Francis. Never did I do so, nor ever could. Rather would I face three strong men than one young damsel.”
Whereupon Gascoyne burst out laughing. “Marry!” quoth he, “they be no such terrible things, but gentle and pleasant spoken, and soft and smooth as any cat.”
“No matter for that,” said Myles; “I would not face one such for worlds.”
It was during the short time when, so to speak, the two owned the solitude of the Brutus Tower, that Myles told his friend of his father's outlawry and of the peril in which the family stood. And thus it was.
“I do marvel,” said Gascoyne one day, as the two lay stretched in the Eyry, looking down into the castle court-yard below—“I do marvel, now that thou art 'stablished here this month and more, that my Lord doth never have thee called to service upon household duty. Canst thou riddle me why it is so, Myles?”
The subject was a very sore one with Myles. Until Sir James had told him of the matter in his office that day he had never known that his father was attainted and outlawed. He had accepted the change from their earlier state and the bald poverty of their life at Crosbey-Holt with the easy carelessness of boyhood, and Sir James's words were the first to awaken him to a realization of the misfortunes of the house of Falworth. His was a brooding nature, and in the three or four weeks that passed he had meditated so much over what had been told him, that by-and-by it almost seemed as if a shadow of shame rested upon his father's fair fame, even though the attaint set upon him was unrighteous and unjust, as Myles knew it must be. He had felt angry and resentful at the Earl's neglect, and as days passed and he was not noticed in any way, his heart was at times very bitter.
So now Gascoyne's innocent question touched a sore spot, and Myles spoke with a sharp, angry pain in his voice that made the other look quickly up. “Sooner would my Lord have yonder swineherd serve him in the household than me,” said he.
“Why may that be, Myles?” said Gascoyne.
“Because,” answered Myles, with the same angry bitterness in his voice, “either the Earl is a coward that feareth to befriend me, or else he is a caitiff, ashamed of his own flesh and blood, and of me, the son of his one-time comrade.”
Gascoyne raised himself upon his elbow, and opened his eyes wide in wonder. “Afeard of thee, Myles!” quoth he. “Why should he be afeared to befriend thee? Who art thou that the Earl should fear thee?”
Myles hesitated for a moment or two; wisdom bade him remain silent upon the dangerous topic, but his heart yearned for sympathy and companionship in his trouble. “I will tell thee,” said he, suddenly, and therewith poured out all of the story, so far as he knew it, to his listening, wondering friend, and his heart felt lighter to be thus eased of its burden. “And now,” said he, as he concluded, “is not this Earl a mean-hearted caitiff to leave me, the son of his one-time friend and kinsman, thus to stand or to fall alone among strangers and in a strange place without once stretching me a helping hand?” He waited, and Gascoyne knew that he expected an answer.
“I know not that he is a mean-hearted caitiff, Myles,” said he at last, hesitatingly. “The Earl hath many enemies, and I have heard that he hath stood more than once in peril, having been accused of dealings with the King's foes. He was cousin to the Earl of Kent, and I do remember hearing that he had a narrow escape at that time from ruin. There be more reasons than thou wottest of why he should not have dealings with thy father.”
“I had not thought,” said Myles, bitterly, after a little pause, “that thou wouldst stand up for him and against me in this quarrel, Gascoyne. Him will I never forgive so long as I may live, and I had thought that thou wouldst have stood by me.”
“So I do,” said Gascoyne, hastily, “and do love thee more than any one in all the world, Myles; but I had thought that it would make thee feel more easy, to think that the Earl was not against thee. And, indeed, from all thou has told me, I do soothly think that he and Sir James mean to befriend thee and hold thee privily in kind regard.”
“Then why doth he not stand forth like a man and befriend me and my father openly, even if it be to his own peril?” said Myles, reverting stubbornly to what he had first spoken.
Gascoyne did not answer, but lay for a long while in silence. “Knowest thou,” he suddenly asked, after a while, “who is this great enemy of whom Sir James speaketh, and who seeketh so to drive thy father to ruin?”
“Nay,” said Myles, “I know not, for my father hath never spoken of these things, and Sir James would not tell me. But this I know,” said he, suddenly, grinding his teeth together, “an I do not hunt him out some day and slay him like a dog—” He stopped abruptly, and Gascoyne, looking askance at him, saw that his eyes were full of tears, whereupon he turned his looks away again quickly, and fell to shooting pebbles out through the open window with his finger and thumb.
“Thou wilt tell no one of these things that I have said?” said Myles, after a while.
“Not I,” said Gascoyne. “Thinkest thou I could do such a thing?”
“Nay,” said Myles, briefly.
Perhaps this talk more than anything else that had ever passed between them knit the two friends the closer together, for, as I have said, Myles felt easier now that he had poured out his bitter thoughts and words; and as for Gascoyne, I think that there is nothing so flattering to one's soul as to be made the confidant of a stronger nature.
But the old tower served another purpose than that of a spot in which to pass away a few idle hours, or in which to indulge the confidences of friendship, for it was there that Myles gathered a backing of strength for resistance against the tyranny of the bachelors, and it is for that more than for any other reason that it has been told how they found the place and of what they did there, feeling secure against interruption.
Myles Falworth was not of a kind that forgets or neglects a thing upon which the mind has once been set. Perhaps his chief objective since the talk with Sir James following his fight in the dormitory had been successful resistance to the exactions of the head of the body of squires. He was now (more than a month had passed) looked upon by nearly if not all of the younger lads as an acknowledged leader in his own class. So one day he broached a matter to Gascoyne that had for some time been digesting in his mind. It was the formation of a secret order, calling themselves the “Knights of the Rose,” their meeting-place to be the chapel of the Brutus Tower, and their object to be the righting of wrongs, “as they,” said Myles, “of Arthur his Round-table did right wrongs.”
“But, prithee, what wrongs are there to right in this place?” quoth Gascoyne, after listening intently to the plan which Myles set forth.
“Why, first of all, this,” said Myles, clinching his fists, as he had a habit of doing when anything stirred him deeply, “that we set those vile bachelors to their right place; and that is, that they be no longer our masters, but our fellows.”
Gascoyne shook his head. He hated clashing and conflict above all things, and was for peace. Why should they thus rush to thrust themselves into trouble? Let matters abide as they were a little longer; surely life was pleasant enough without turning it all topsy-turvy. Then, with a sort of indignation, why should Myles, who had only come among them a month, take such service more to heart than they who had endured it for years? And, finally, with the hopefulness of so many of the rest of us, he advised Myles to let matters alone, and they would right themselves in time.
But Myles's mind was determined; his active spirit could not brook resting passively under a wrong; he would endure no longer, and now or never they must make their stand.
“But look thee, Myles Falworth,” said Gascoyne, “all this is not to be done withouten fighting shrewdly. Wilt thou take that fighting upon thine own self? As for me, I tell thee I love it not.”
“Why, aye,” said Myles; “I ask no man to do what I will not do myself.”
Gascoyne shrugged his shoulders. “So be it,” said he. “An thou hast appetite to run thy head against hard knocks, do it i' mercy's name! I for one will stand thee back while thou art taking thy raps.”
There was a spirit of drollery in Gascoyne's speech that rubbed against Myles's earnestness.
“Out upon it!” cried he, his patience giving way. “Seest not that I am in serious earnest? Why then dost thou still jest like Mad Noll, my Lord's fool? An thou wilt not lend me thine aid in this matter, say so and ha' done with it, and I will bethink me of somewhere else to turn.”
Then Gascoyne yielded at once, as he always did when his friend lost his temper, and having once assented to it, entered into the scheme heart and soul. Three other lads—one of them that tall thin squire Edmund Wilkes, before spoken of—were sounded upon the subject. They also entered into the plan of the secret organization with an enthusiasm which might perhaps not have been quite so glowing had they realized how very soon Myles designed embarking upon active practical operations. One day Myles and Gascoyne showed them the strange things that they had discovered in the old tower—the inner staircases, the winding passage-ways, the queer niches and cupboard, and the black shaft of a well that pierced down into the solid wall, and whence, perhaps, the old castle folk had one time drawn their supply of water in time of siege, and with every new wonder of the marvellous place the enthusiasm of the three recruits rose higher and higher. They rummaged through the lumber pile in the great circular room as Myles and Gascoyne had done, and at last, tired out, they ascended to the airy chapel, and there sat cooling themselves in the rustling freshness of the breeze that came blowing briskly in through the arched windows.
It was then and there that the five discussed and finally determined upon the detailed plans of their organization, canvassing the names of the squirehood, and selecting from it a sufficient number of bold and daring spirits to make up a roll of twenty names in all.
Gascoyne had, as I said, entered into the matter with spirit, and perhaps it was owing more to him than to any other that the project caught its delightful flavor of romance.
“Perchance,” said he, as the five lads lay in the rustling stillness through which sounded the monotonous and ceaseless cooing of the pigeons—“perchance there may be dwarfs and giants and dragons and enchanters and evil knights and what not even nowadays. And who knows but that if we Knights of the Rose hold together we may go forth into the world, and do battle with them, and save beautiful ladies, and have tales and gestes written about us as they are writ about the Seven Champions and Arthur his Round-table.”
Perhaps Myles, who lay silently listening to all that was said, was the only one who looked upon the scheme at all in the light of real utility, but I think that even with him the fun of the matter outweighed the serious part of the business.
So it was that the Sacred Order of the Twenty Knights of the Rose came to be initiated. They appointed a code of secret passwords and countersigns which were very difficult to remember, and which were only used when they might excite the curiosity of the other and uninitiated boys by their mysterious sound. They elected Myles as their Grand High Commander, and held secret meetings in the ancient tower, where many mysteries were soberly enacted.
Of course in a day or two all the body of squires knew nearly everything concerning the Knights of the Rose, and of their secret meetings in the old tower. The lucky twenty were the objects of envy of all not so fortunate as to be included in this number, and there was a marked air of secrecy about everything they did that appealed to every romantic notion of the youngsters looking on. What was the stormy outcome of it all is now presently to be told.
Thus it was that Myles, with an eye to open war with the bachelors, gathered a following to his support. It was some little while before matters were brought to a crisis—a week or ten days. Perhaps even Myles had no great desire to hasten matters. He knew that whenever war was declared, he himself would have to bear the brunt of the battle, and even the bravest man hesitates before deliberately thrusting himself into a fight.
One morning Myles and Gascoyne and Wilkes sat under the shade of two trees, between which was a board nailed to the trunks, making a rude bench—always a favorite lounging-place for the lads in idle moments. Myles was polishing his bascinet with lard and wood-ashes, rubbing the metal with a piece of leather, and wiping it clean with a fustian rag. The other two, who had just been relieved from household duty, lay at length idly looking on.
Just then one of the smaller pages, a boy of twelve or thirteen, by name Robin Ingoldsby, crossed the court. He had been crying; his face was red and blubbered, and his body was still shaken with convulsive sniffs.
Myles looked up. “Come hither, Robin,” he called from where he sat. “What is to do?”
The little fellow came slowly up to where the three rested in the shade. “Mowbray beat me with a strap,” said he, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes, and catching his breath at the recollection.
“Beat thee, didst say?” said Myles, drawing his brows together. “Why did he beat thee?”
“Because,” said Robin, “I tarried overlong in fetching a pot of beer from the buttery for him and Wyatt.” Then, with a boy's sudden and easy quickness in forgetting past troubles, “Tell me, Falworth,” said he, “when wilt thou give me that knife thou promised me—the one thou break the blade of yesterday?”
“I know not,” said Myles, bluntly, vexed that the boy did not take the disgrace of his beating more to heart. “Some time soon, mayhap. Me thinks thou shouldst think more of thy beating than of a broken knife. Now get thee gone to thy business.”
The youngster lingered for a moment or two watching Myles at his work. “What is that on the leather scrap, Falworth?” said he, curiously.
“Lard and ashes,” said Myles, testily. “Get thee gone, I say, or I will crack thy head for thee;” and he picked up a block of wood, with a threatening gesture.
The youngster made a hideous grimace, and then scurried away, ducking his head, lest in spite of Myles's well-known good-nature the block should come whizzing after him.
“Hear ye that now!” cried Myles, flinging down the block again and turning to his two friends. “Beaten with straps because, forsooth, he would not fetch and carry quickly enough to please the haste of these bachelors. Oh, this passeth patience, and I for one will bear it no longer.”
“Nay, Myles,” said Gascoyne, soothingly, “the little imp is as lazy as a dormouse and as mischievous as a monkey. I'll warrant the hiding was his due, and that more of the like would do him good.”
“Why, how dost thou talk, Francis!” said Myles, turning upon him indignantly. “Thou knowest that thou likest to see the boy beaten no more than I.” Then, after a meditative pause, “How many, think ye, we muster of our company of the Rose today?”
Wilkes looked doubtfully at Gascoyne. “There be only seventeen of us here now,” said he at last. “Brinton and Lambourne are away to Roby Castle in Lord George's train, and will not be back till Saturday next. And Watt Newton is in the infirmary.
“Seventeen be'st enou,” said Myles, grimly. “Let us get together this afternoon, such as may, in the Brutus Tower, for I, as I did say, will no longer suffer these vile bachelors.”
Gascoyne and Wilkes exchanged looks, and then the former blew a long whistle.
So that afternoon a gloomy set of young faces were gathered together in the Eyry—fifteen of the Knights of the Rose—and all knew why they were assembled. The talk which followed was conducted mostly by Myles. He addressed the others with a straightforward vim and earnestness, but the response was only half-hearted, and when at last, having heated himself up with his own fire, he sat down, puffing out his red cheeks and glaring round, a space of silence followed, the lads looked doubtfully at one another. Myles felt the chill of their silence strike coldly on his enthusiasm, and it vexed him.
“What wouldst thou do, Falworth?” said one of the knights, at last. “Wouldst have us open a quarrel with the bachelors?”
“Nay,” said Myles, gruffly. “I had thought that ye would all lend me a hand in a pitched battle but now I see that ye ha' no stomach for that. Ne'theless, I tell ye plainly I will not submit longer to the bachelors. So now I will ask ye not to take any venture upon yourselves, but only this: that ye will stand by me when I do my fighting, and not let five or seven of them fall upon me at once.
“There is Walter Blunt; he is parlous strong,” said one of the others, after a time of silence. “Methinks he could conquer any two of us.”
“Nay,” said Myles; “ye do fear him too greatly. I tell ye I fear not to stand up to try battle with him and will do so, too, if the need arise. Only say ye that ye will stand by my back.”
“Marry,” said Gascoyne, quaintly, “an thou wilt dare take the heavy end upon thee, I for one am willing to stand by and see that thou have thy fill of fighting.”
“I too will stand thee by, Myles,” said Edmund Wilkes.
“And I, and I, and I,” said others, chiming in.
Those who would still have held back were carried along by the stream, and so it was settled that if the need should arise for Myles to do a bit of fighting, the others should stand by to see that he had fair play.
“When thinkest thou that thou wilt take thy stand against them, Myles?” asked Wilkes.
Myles hesitated a moment. “To-morrow,” said he, grimly.
Several of the lads whistled softly.
Gascoyne was prepared for an early opening of the war, but perhaps not for such an early opening as this. “By 'r Lady, Myles, thou art hungry for brawling,” said he.
After the first excitement of meeting, discussing, and deciding had passed, Myles began to feel the weight of the load he had so boldly taken upon himself. He began to reckon what a serious thing it was for him to stand as a single champion against the tyranny that had grown so strong through years of custom. Had he let himself do so, he might almost have repented, but it was too late now for repentance. He had laid his hand to the plough, and he must drive the furrow.
Somehow the news of impending battle had leaked out among the rest of the body of squires, and a buzz of suppressed excitement hummed through the dormitory that evening. The bachelors, to whom, no doubt, vague rumors had been blown, looked lowering, and talked together in low voices, standing apart in a group. Some of them made a rather marked show of secreting knives in the straw of their beds, and no doubt it had its effect upon more than one young heart that secretly thrilled at the sight of the shining blades. However, all was undisturbed that evening. The lights were put out, and the lads retired with more than usual quietness, only for the murmur of whispering.
All night Myles's sleep was more or less disturbed by dreams in which he was now conquering, now being conquered, and before the day had fairly broken he was awake. He lay upon his cot, keying himself up for the encounter which he had set upon himself to face, and it would not be the truth to say that the sight of those knives hidden in the straw the night before had made no impression upon him. By-and-by he knew the others were beginning to awake, for he heard them softly stirring, and as the light grew broad and strong, saw them arise, one by one, and begin dressing in the gray morning. Then he himself arose and put on his doublet and hose, strapping his belt tightly about his waist; then he sat down on the side of his cot.
Presently that happened for which he was waiting; two of the younger squires started to bring the bachelors' morning supply of water. As they crossed the room Myles called to them in a loud voice—a little uneven, perhaps: “Stop! We draw no more water for any one in this house, saving only for ourselves. Set ye down those buckets, and go back to your places!”
The two lads stopped, half turned, and then stood still, holding the three buckets undecidedly.
In a moment all was uproar and confusion, for by this time every one of the lads had arisen, some sitting on the edge of their beds, some nearly, others quite dressed. A half-dozen of the Knights of the Rose came over to where Myles stood, gathering in a body behind him and the others followed, one after another.
The bachelors were hardly prepared for such prompt and vigorous action.
“What is to do?” cried one of them, who stood near the two lads with the buckets. “Why fetch ye not the water?”
“Falworth says we shall not fetch it,” answered one of the lads, a boy by the name of Gosse.
“What mean ye by that, Falworth?” the young man called to Myles.
Myles's heart was beating thickly and heavily within him, but nevertheless he spoke up boldly enough. “I mean,” said he, “that from henceforth ye shall fetch and carry for yourselves.”
“Look'ee, Blunt,” called the bachelor; “here is Falworth says they squires will fetch no more water for us.”
The head bachelor had heard all that had passed, and was even then hastily slipping on his doublet and hose. “Now, then, Falworth,” said he at last, striding forward, “what is to do? Ye will fetch no more water, eh? By 'r Lady, I will know the reason why.”
He was still advancing towards Myles, with two or three of the older bachelors at his heels, when Gascoyne spoke.
“Thou hadst best stand back, Blunt,” said he, “else thou mayst be hurt. We will not have ye bang Falworth again as ye once did, so stand thou back!”
Blunt stopped short and looked upon the lads standing behind Myles, some of them with faces a trifle pale perhaps, but all grim and determined looking enough. Then he turned upon his heel suddenly, and walked back to the far end of the dormitory, where the bachelors were presently clustered together. A few words passed between them, and then the thirteen began at once arming themselves, some with wooden clogs, and some with the knives which they had so openly concealed the night before. At the sign of imminent battle, all those not actively interested scuttled away to right and left, climbing up on the benches and cots, and leaving a free field to the combatants. The next moment would have brought bloodshed.
Now Myles, thanks to the training of the Crosbey-Dale smith, felt tolerably sure that in a wrestling bout he was a match—perhaps more than a match—for any one of the body of squires, and he had determined, if possible, to bring the battle to a single-handed encounter upon that footing. Accordingly he suddenly stepped forward before the others.
“Look'ee, fellow,” he called to Blunt, “thou art he who struck me whilst I was down some while since. Wilt thou let this quarrel stand between thee and me, and meet me man to man without weapon? See, I throw me down mine own, and will meet thee with bare hands.” And as he spoke, he tossed the clog he held in his hand back upon the cot.
“So be it,” said Blunt, with great readiness, tossing down a similar weapon which he himself held.
“Do not go, Myles,” cried Gascoyne, “he is a villain and a traitor, and would betray thee to thy death. I saw him when he first gat from bed hide a knife in his doublet.”
“Thou liest!” said Blunt. “I swear, by my faith, I be barehanded as ye see me! Thy friend accuses me, Myles Falworth, because he knoweth thou art afraid of me.”
“There thou liest most vilely!” exclaimed Myles. “Swear that thou hast no knife, and I will meet thee.”
“Hast thou not heard me say that I have no knife?” said Blunt. “What more wouldst thou have?”
“Then I will meet thee halfway,” said Myles.
Gascoyne caught him by the sleeve, and would have withheld him, assuring him that he had seen the bachelor conceal a knife. But Myles, hot for the fight, broke away from his friend without listening to him.
As the two advanced steadily towards one another a breathless silence fell upon the dormitory in sharp contrast to the uproar and confusion that had filled it a moment before. The lads, standing some upon benches, some upon beds, all watched with breathless interest the meeting of the two champions.
As they approached one another they stopped and stood for a moment a little apart, glaring the one upon the other. They seemed ill enough matched; Blunt was fully half a head taller than Myles, and was thick-set and close-knit in young manhood. Nothing but Myles's undaunted pluck could have led him to dare to face an enemy so much older and stouter than himself.
The pause was only for a moment. They who looked saw Blunt slide his hand furtively towards his bosom. Myles saw too, and in the flash of an instant knew what the gesture meant, and sprang upon the other before the hand could grasp what it sought. As he clutched his enemy he felt what he had in that instant expected to feel—the handle of a dagger. The next moment he cried, in a loud voice: “Oh, thou villain! Help, Gascoyne! He hath a knife under his doublet!”
In answer to his cry for help, Myles's friends started to his aid. But the bachelors shouted, “Stand back and let them fight it out alone, else we will knife ye too.” And as they spoke, some of them leaped from the benches whereon they stood, drawing their knives and flourishing them.
For just a few seconds Myles's friends stood cowed, and in those few seconds the fight came to an end with a suddenness unexpected to all.
A struggle fierce and silent followed between the two; Blunt striving to draw his knife, and Myles, with the energy of despair, holding him tightly by the wrist. It was in vain the elder lad writhed and twisted; he was strong enough to overbear Myles, but still was not able to clutch the haft of his knife.
“Thou shalt not draw it!” gasped Myles at last. “Thou shalt not stab me!”
Then again some of his friends started forward to his aid, but they were not needed, for before they came, the fight was over.
Blunt, finding that he was not able to draw the weapon, suddenly ceased his endeavors, and flung his arms around Myles, trying to bear him down upon the ground, and in that moment his battle was lost.
In an instant—so quick, so sudden, so unexpected that no one could see how it happened—his feet were whirled away from under him, he spun with flying arms across Myles's loins, and pitched with a thud upon the stone pavement, where he lay still, motionless, while Myles, his face white with passion and his eyes gleaming, stood glaring around like a young wild-boar beset by the dogs.
The next moment the silence was broken, and the uproar broke forth with redoubled violence. The bachelors, leaping from the benches, came hurrying forward on one side, and Myles's friends from the other.
“Thou shalt smart for this, Falworth,” said one of the older lads. “Belike thou hast slain him!”
Myles turned upon the speaker like a flash, and with such a passion of fury in his face that the other, a fellow nearly a head taller than he, shrank back, cowed in spite of himself. Then Gascoyne came and laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.
“Who touches me?” cried Myles, hoarsely, turning sharply upon him; and then, seeing who it was, “Oh, Francis, they would ha' killed me!”
“Come away, Myles,” said Gascoyne; “thou knowest not what thou doest; thou art mad; come away. What if thou hadst killed him?”
The words called Myles somewhat to himself. “I care not!” said he, but sullenly and not passionately, and then he suffered Gascoyne and Wilkes to lead him away.
Meantime Blunt's friends had turned him over, and, after feeling his temples, his wrist, and his heart, bore him away to a bench at the far end of the room. There they fell to chafing his hands and sprinkling water in his face, a crowd of the others gathering about. Blunt was hidden from Myles by those who stood around, and the lad listened to the broken talk that filled the room with its confusion, his anxiety growing keener as he became cooler. But at last, with a heartfelt joy, he gathered from the confused buzz of words that the other lad had opened his eyes and, after a while, he saw him sit up, leaning his head upon the shoulder of one of his fellow-bachelors, white and faint and sick as death.
“Thank Heaven that thou didst not kill him!” said Edmund Wilkes, who had been standing with the crowd looking on at the efforts of Blunt's friends to revive him, and who had now come and sat down upon the bed not far from Myles.
“Aye,” said Myles, gruffly, “I do thank Heaven for that.”
If Myles fancied that one single victory over his enemy would cure the evil against which he fought, he was grievously mistaken; wrongs are not righted so easily as that. It was only the beginning. Other and far more bitter battles lay before him ere he could look around him and say, “I have won the victory.”
For a day—for two days—the bachelors were demoralized at the fall of their leader, and the Knights of the Rose were proportionately uplifted.
The day that Blunt met his fall, the wooden tank in which the water had been poured every morning was found to have been taken away. The bachelors made a great show of indignation and inquiry. Who was it stole their tank? If they did but know, he should smart for it.
“Ho! ho!” roared Edmund Wilkes, so that the whole dormitory heard him, “smoke ye not their tricks, lads? See ye not that they have stolen their own water-tank, so that they might have no need for another fight over the carrying of the water?”
The bachelors made an obvious show of not having heard what he said, and a general laugh went around. No one doubted that Wilkes had spoken the truth in his taunt, and that the bachelors had indeed stolen their own tank. So no more water was ever carried for the head squires, but it was plain to see that the war for the upperhand was not yet over.
Even if Myles had entertained comforting thoughts to the contrary, he was speedily undeceived. One morning, about a week after the fight, as he and Gascoyne were crossing the armory court, they were hailed by a group of the bachelors standing at the stone steps of the great building.
“Holloa, Falworth!” they cried. “Knowest thou that Blunt is nigh well again?”
“Nay,” said Myles, “I knew it not. But I am right glad to hear it.”
“Thou wilt sing a different song anon,” said one of the bachelors. “I tell thee he is hot against thee, and swears when he cometh again he will carve thee soothly.”
“Aye, marry!” said another. “I would not be in thy skin a week hence for a ducat! Only this morning he told Philip Mowbray that he would have thy blood for the fall thou gavest him. Look to thyself, Falworth; he cometh again Wednesday or Thursday next; thou standest in a parlous state.”
“Myles,” said Gascoyne, as they entered the great quadrangle, “I do indeed fear me that he meaneth to do thee evil.”
“I know not,” said Myles, boldly; “but I fear him not.” Nevertheless his heart was heavy with the weight of impending ill.
One evening the bachelors were more than usually noisy in their end of the dormitory, laughing and talking and shouting to one another.
“Holloa, you sirrah, Falworth!” called one of them along the length of the room. “Blunt cometh again to-morrow day.”
Myles saw Gascoyne direct a sharp glance at him; but he answered nothing either to his enemy's words or his friend's look.
As the bachelor had said, Blunt came the next morning. It was just after chapel, and the whole body of squires was gathered in the armory waiting for the orders of the day and the calling of the roll of those chosen for household duty. Myles was sitting on a bench along the wall, talking and jesting with some who stood by, when of a sudden his heart gave a great leap within him.
It was Walter Blunt. He came walking in at the door as if nothing had passed, and at his unexpected coming the hubbub of talk and laughter was suddenly checked. Even Myles stopped in his speech for a moment, and then continued with a beating heart and a carelessness of manner that was altogether assumed. In his hand Blunt carried the house orders for the day, and without seeming to notice Myles, he opened it and read the list of those called upon for household service.
Myles had risen, and was now standing listening with the others. When Blunt had ended reading the list of names, he rolled up the parchment, and thrust it into his belt; then swinging suddenly on his heel, he strode straight up to Myles, facing him front to front. A moment or two of deep silence followed; not a sound broke the stillness. When Blunt spoke every one in the armory heard his words.
“Sirrah!” said he, “thou didst put foul shame upon me some time sin. Never will I forget or forgive that offence, and will have a reckoning with thee right soon that thou wilt not forget to the last day of thy life.”
When Myles had seen his enemy turn upon him, he did not know at first what to expect; he would not have been surprised had they come to blows there and then, and he held himself prepared for any event. He faced the other pluckily enough and without flinching, and spoke up boldly in answer. “So be it, Walter Blunt; I fear thee not in whatever way thou mayst encounter me.”
“Dost thou not?” said Blunt. “By'r Lady, thou'lt have cause to fear me ere I am through with thee.” He smiled a baleful, lingering smile, and then turned slowly and walked away.
“What thinkest thou, Myles?” said Gascoyne, as the two left the armory together.
“I think naught,” said Myles gruffly. “He will not dare to touch me to harm me. I fear him not.” Nevertheless, he did not speak the full feelings of his heart.
“I know not, Myles,” said Gascoyne, shaking his head doubtfully. “Walter Blunt is a parlous evil-minded knave, and methinks will do whatever evil he promiseth.”
“I fear him not,” said Myles again; but his heart foreboded trouble.
The coming of the head squire made a very great change in the condition of affairs. Even before that coming the bachelors had somewhat recovered from their demoralization, and now again they began to pluck up their confidence and to order the younger squires and pages upon this personal service or upon that.
“See ye not,” said Myles one day, when the Knights of the Rose were gathered in the Brutus Tower—“see ye not that they grow as bad as ever? An we put not a stop to this overmastery now, it will never stop.”
“Best let it be, Myles,” said Wilkes. “They will kill thee an thou cease not troubling them. Thou hast bred mischief enow for thyself already.”
“No matter for that,” said Myles; “it is not to be borne that they order others of us about as they do. I mean to speak to them to-night, and tell them it shall not be.”
He was as good as his word. That night, as the youngsters were shouting and romping and skylarking, as they always did before turning in, he stood upon his cot and shouted: “Silence! List to me a little!” And then, in the hush that followed—“I want those bachelors to hear this: that we squires serve them no longer, and if they would ha' some to wait upon them, they must get them otherwheres than here. There be twenty of us to stand against them and haply more, and we mean that they shall ha' service of us no more.”
Then he jumped down again from his elevated stand, and an uproar of confusion instantly filled the place. What was the effect of his words upon the bachelors he could not see. What was the result he was not slow in discovering.
The next day Myles and Gascoyne were throwing their daggers for a wager at a wooden target against the wall back of the armorer's smithy. Wilkes, Gosse, and one or two others of the squires were sitting on a bench looking on, and now and then applauding a more than usually well-aimed cast of the knife. Suddenly that impish little page spoken of before, Robin Ingoldsby, thrust his shock head around the corner of the smithy, and said: “Ho, Falworth! Blunt is going to serve thee out to-day, and I myself heard him say so. He says he is going to slit thine ears.” And then he was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.
Myles darted after him, caught him midway in the quadrangle, and brought him back by the scuff of the neck, squalling and struggling.
“There!” said he, still panting from the chase and seating the boy by no means gently upon the bench beside Wilkes. “Sit thou there, thou imp of evil! And now tell me what thou didst mean by thy words anon—an thou stop not thine outcry, I will cut thy throat for thee,” and he made a ferocious gesture with his dagger.
It was by no means easy to worm the story from the mischievous little monkey; he knew Myles too well to be in the least afraid of his threats. But at last, by dint of bribing and coaxing, Myles and his friends managed to get at the facts. The youngster had been sent to clean the riding-boots of one of the bachelors, instead of which he had lolled idly on a cot in the dormitory, until he had at last fallen asleep. He had been awakened by the opening of the dormitory door and by the sound of voices—among them was that of his taskmaster. Fearing punishment for his neglected duty, he had slipped out of the cot, and hidden himself beneath it.
Those who had entered were Walter Blunt and three of the older bachelors. Blunt's companions were trying to persuade him against something, but without avail. It was—Myles's heart thrilled and his blood boiled—to lie in wait for him, to overpower him by numbers, and to mutilate him by slitting his ears—a disgraceful punishment administered, as a rule, only for thieving and poaching.
“He would not dare to do such a thing!” cried Myles, with heaving breast and flashing eyes.
“Aye, but he would,” said Gascoyne. “His father, Lord Reginald Blunt, is a great man over Nottingham way, and my Lord would not dare to punish him even for such a matter as that. But tell me, Robin Ingoldsby, dost know aught more of this matter? Prithee tell it me, Robin. Where do they propose to lie in wait for Falworth?”
“In the gate-way of the Buttery Court, so as to catch him when he passes by to the armory,” answered the boy.
“Are they there now?” said Wilkes.
“Aye, nine of them,” said Robin. “I heard Blunt tell Mowbray to go and gather the others. He heard thee tell Gosse, Falworth, that thou wert going thither for thy arbalist this morn to shoot at the rooks withal.”
“That will do, Robin,” said Myles. “Thou mayst go.”
And therewith the little imp scurried off, pulling the lobes of his ears suggestively as he darted around the corner.
The others looked at one another for a while in silence.
“So, comrades,” said Myles at last, “what shall we do now?”
“Go, and tell Sir James,” said Gascoyne, promptly.
“Nay,” said Myles, “I take no such coward's part as that. I say an they hunger to fight, give them their stomachful.”
The others were very reluctant for such extreme measures, but Myles, as usual, carried his way, and so a pitched battle was decided upon. It was Gascoyne who suggested the plan which they afterwards followed.
Then Wilkes started away to gather together those of the Knights of the Rose not upon household duty, and Myles, with the others, went to the armor smith to have him make for them a set of knives with which to meet their enemies—knives with blades a foot long, pointed and double-edged.
The smith, leaning with his hammer upon the anvil, listened to them as they described the weapons.
“Nay, nay, Master Myles,” said he, when Myles had ended by telling the use to which he intended putting them. “Thou art going all wrong in this matter. With such blades, ere this battle is ended, some one would be slain, and so murder done. Then the family of him who was killed would haply have ye cited, and mayhap it might e'en come to the hanging, for some of they boys ha' great folkeys behind them. Go ye to Tom Fletcher, Master Myles, and buy of him good yew staves, such as one might break a head withal, and with them, gin ye keep your wits, ye may hold your own against knives or short swords. I tell thee, e'en though my trade be making of blades, rather would I ha' a good stout cudgel in my hand than the best dagger that ever was forged.”
Myles stood thoughtfully for a moment or two; then, looking up, “Methinks thou speaketh truly, Robin,” said he; “and it were ill done to have blood upon our hands.”
From the long, narrow stone-paved Armory Court, and connecting it with the inner Buttery Court, ran a narrow arched passage-way, in which was a picket-gate, closed at night and locked from within. It was in this arched passage-way that, according to little Robert Ingoldsby's report, the bachelors were lying in wait for Myles. Gascoyne's plan was that Myles should enter the court alone, the Knights of the Rose lying ambushed behind the angle of the armory building until the bachelors should show themselves.
It was not without trepidation that Myles walked alone into the court, which happened then to be silent and empty. His heart beat more quickly than it was wont, and he gripped his cudgel behind his back, looking sharply this way and that, so as not to be taken unawares by a flank movement of his enemies. Midway in the court he stopped and hesitated for a moment; then he turned as though to enter the armory. The next moment he saw the bachelors come pouring out from the archway.
Instantly he turned and rushed back towards where his friends lay hidden, shouting: “To the rescue! To the rescue!”
“Stone him!” roared Blunt. “The villain escapes!”
He stopped and picked up a cobble-stone as he spoke, flinging it after his escaping prey. It narrowly missed Myles's head; had it struck him, there might have been no more of this story to tell.
“To the rescue! To the rescue!” shouted Myles's friends in answer, and the next moment he was surrounded by them. Then he turned, and swinging his cudgel, rushed back upon his foes.
The bachelors stopped short at the unexpected sight of the lads with their cudgels. For a moment they rallied and drew their knives; then they turned and fled towards their former place of hiding.
One of them turned for a moment, and flung his knife at Myles with a deadly aim; but Myles, quick as a cat, ducked his body, and the weapon flew clattering across the stony court. Then he who had flung it turned again to fly, but in his attempt he had delayed one instant too long. Myles reached him with a long-arm stroke of his cudgel just as he entered the passage-way, knocking him over like a bottle, stunned and senseless.
The next moment the picket-gate was banged in their faces and the bolt shot in the staples, and the Knights of the Rose were left shouting and battering with their cudgels against the palings.
By this time the uproar of fight had aroused those in the rooms and offices fronting upon the Armory Court; heads were thrust from many of the windows with the eager interest that a fight always evokes.
“Beware!” shouted Myles. “Here they come again!” He bore back towards the entrance of the alley-way as he spoke, those behind him scattering to right and left, for the bachelors had rallied, and were coming again to the attack, shouting.
They were not a moment too soon in this retreat, either, for the next instant the pickets flew open, and a volley of stones flew after the retreating Knights of the Rose. One smote Wilkes upon the head, knocking him down headlong. Another struck Myles upon his left shoulder, benumbing his arm from the finger-tips to the armpit, so that he thought at first the limb was broken.
“Get ye behind the buttresses!” shouted those who looked down upon the fight from the windows—“get ye behind the buttresses!” And in answer the lads, scattering like a newly-flushed covey of partridges, fled to and crouched in the sheltering angles of masonry to escape from the flying stones.
And now followed a lull in the battle, the bachelors fearing to leave the protection of the arched passage-way lest their retreat should be cut off, and the Knights of the Rose not daring to quit the shelter of the buttresses and angles of the wall lest they should be knocked down by the stones.
The bachelor whom Myles had struck down with his cudgel was sitting up rubbing the back of his head, and Wilkes had gathered his wits enough to crawl to the shelter of the nearest buttress. Myles, peeping around the corner behind which he stood, could see that the bachelors were gathered into a little group consulting together. Suddenly it broke asunder, and Blunt turned around.
“Ho, Falworth!” he cried. “Wilt thou hold truce whiles we parley with ye?”
“Aye,” answered Myles.
“Wilt thou give me thine honor that ye will hold your hands from harming us whiles we talk together?”
“Yea,” said Myles, “I will pledge thee mine honor.”
“I accept thy pledge. See! here we throw aside our stones and lay down our knives. Lay ye by your clubs, and meet us in parley at the horse-block yonder.”
“So be it,” said Myles, and thereupon, standing his cudgel in the angle of the wall, he stepped boldly out into the open court-yard. Those of his party came scatteringly from right and left, gathering about him; and the bachelors advanced in a body, led by the head squire.
“Now what is it thou wouldst have, Walter Blunt?” said Myles, when both parties had met at the horse-block.
“It is to say this to thee, Myles Falworth,” said the other. “One time, not long sin, thou didst challenge me to meet thee hand to hand in the dormitory. Then thou didst put a vile affront upon me, for the which I ha' brought on this battle to-day, for I knew not then that thou wert going to try thy peasant tricks of wrestling, and so, without guarding myself, I met thee as thou didst desire.”
“But thou hadst thy knife, and would have stabbed him couldst thou ha' done so,” said Gascoyne.
“Thou liest!” said Blunt. “I had no knife.” And then, without giving time to answer, “Thou canst not deny that I met thee then at thy bidding, canst thou, Falworth?”
“Nay,” said Myles, “nor haply canst thou deny it either.” And at this covert reminder of his defeat Myles's followers laughed scoffingly and Blunt bit his lip.
“Thou hast said it,” said he. “Then sin. I met thee at thy bidding, I dare to thee to meet me now at mine, and to fight this battle out between our two selves, with sword and buckler and bascinet as gentles should, and not in a wrestling match like two country hodges.”
“Thou art a coward caitiff, Walter Blunt!” burst out Wilkes, who stood by with a swelling lump upon his head, already as big as a walnut. “Well thou knowest that Falworth is no match for thee at broadsword play. Is he not four years younger than thou, and hast thou not had three times the practice in arms that he hath had? I say thou art a coward to seek to fight with cutting weapons.”
Blunt made no answer to Wilkes's speech, but gazed steadfastly at Myles, with a scornful smile curling the corners of his lips. Myles stood looking upon the ground without once lifting his eyes, not knowing what to answer, for he was well aware that he was no match for Blunt with the broadsword.
“Thou art afraid to fight me, Myles Falworth,” said Blunt, tauntingly, and the bachelors gave a jeering laugh in echo.
Then Myles looked up, and I cannot say that his face was not a trifle whiter than usual. “Nay,” said he, “I am not afraid, and I will fight thee, Blunt.”
“So be it,” said Blunt. “Then let us go at it straightway in the armory yonder, for they be at dinner in the Great Hall, and just now there be'st no one by to stay us.”
“Thou shalt not fight him, Myles!” burst out Gascoyne. “He will murther thee! Thou shalt not fight him, I say!”
Myles turned away without answering him.
“What is to do?” called one of those who were still looking out of the windows as the crowd of boys passed beneath.
“Blunt and Falworth are going to fight it out hand to hand in the armory,” answered one of the bachelors, looking up.
The brawling of the squires was a jest to all the adjoining part of the house. So the heads were withdrawn again, some laughing at the “sparring of the cockerels.”
But it was no jesting matter to poor Myles.