CHAPTER III—ST. BRIDE’S CROSS
PROLOGUE—JOHN AMEND-ALL
On
a certain afternoon, in the late springtime, the bell upon Tunstall
Moat House was heard ringing at an unaccustomed hour. Far and
near, in the forest and in the fields along the river, people began
to desert their labours and hurry towards the sound; and in Tunstall
hamlet a group of poor country-folk stood wondering at the summons.Tunstall
hamlet at that period, in the reign of old King Henry VI., wore much
the same appearance as it wears today. A score or so of
houses, heavily framed with oak, stood scattered in a long green
valley ascending from the river. At the foot, the road crossed
a bridge, and mounting on the other side, disappeared into the
fringes of the forest on its way to the Moat House, and further forth
to Holywood Abbey. Half-way up the village, the church stood
among yews. On every side the slopes were crowned and the view
bounded by the green elms and greening oak-trees of the forest.Hard
by the bridge, there was a stone cross upon a knoll, and here the
group had collected—half a dozen women and one tall fellow in a
russet smock—discussing what the bell betided. An express had
gone through the hamlet half an hour before, and drunk a pot of ale
in the saddle, not daring to dismount for the hurry of his errand;
but he had been ignorant himself of what was forward, and only bore
sealed letters from Sir Daniel Brackley to Sir Oliver Oates, the
parson, who kept the Moat House in the master’s absence.But
now there was the noise of a horse; and soon, out of the edge of the
wood and over the echoing bridge, there rode up young Master Richard
Shelton, Sir Daniel’s ward. He, at the least, would know, and
they hailed him and begged him to explain. He drew bridle
willingly enough—a young fellow not yet eighteen, sun-browned and
grey-eyed, in a jacket of deer’s leather, with a black velvet
collar, a green hood upon his head, and a steel cross-bow at his
back. The express, it appeared, had brought great news. A
battle was impending. Sir Daniel had sent for every man that
could draw a bow or carry a bill to go post-haste to Kettley, under
pain of his severe displeasure; but for whom they were to fight, or
of where the battle was expected, Dick knew nothing. Sir Oliver
would come shortly himself, and Bennet Hatch was arming at that
moment, for he it was who should lead the party.
“It
is the ruin of this kind land,” a woman said. “If the
barons live at war, ploughfolk must eat roots.”
“Nay,”
said Dick, “every man that follows shall have sixpence a day, and
archers twelve.”
“If
they live,” returned the woman, “that may very well be; but how
if they die, my master?”
“They
cannot better die than for their natural lord,” said Dick.
“No
natural lord of mine,” said the man in the smock. “I
followed the Walsinghams; so we all did down Brierly way, till two
years ago, come Candlemas. And now I must side with Brackley!
It was the law that did it; call ye that natural? But now, what
with Sir Daniel and what with Sir Oliver—that knows more of law
than honesty—I have no natural lord but poor King Harry the Sixt,
God bless him!—the poor innocent that cannot tell his right hand
from his left.”
“Ye
speak with an ill tongue, friend,” answered Dick, “to miscall
your good master and my lord the king in the same libel. But
King Harry—praised be the saints!—has come again into his right
mind, and will have all things peaceably ordained. And as for
Sir Daniel, y’ are very brave behind his back. But I will be
no tale-bearer; and let that suffice.”
“I
say no harm of you, Master Richard,” returned the peasant.
“Y’ are a lad; but when ye come to a man’s inches, ye will find
ye have an empty pocket. I say no more: the saints help Sir
Daniel’s neighbours, and the Blessed Maid protect his wards!”
“Clipsby,”
said Richard, “you speak what I cannot hear with honour. Sir
Daniel is my good master, and my guardian.”
“Come,
now, will ye read me a riddle?” returned Clipsby. “On whose
side is Sir Daniel?”
“I
know not,” said Dick, colouring a little; for his guardian had
changed sides continually in the troubles of that period, and every
change had brought him some increase of fortune.
“Ay,”
returned Clipsby, “you, nor no man. For, indeed, he is one
that goes to bed Lancaster and gets up York.”Just
then the bridge rang under horse-shoe iron, and the party turned and
saw Bennet Hatch come galloping—a brown-faced, grizzled fellow,
heavy of hand and grim of mien, armed with sword and spear, a steel
salet on his head, a leather jack upon his body. He was a great
man in these parts; Sir Daniel’s right hand in peace and war, and
at that time, by his master’s interest, bailiff of the hundred.
“Clipsby,”
he shouted, “off to the Moat House, and send all other laggards the
same gate. Bowyer will give you jack and salet. We must
ride before curfew. Look to it: he that is last at the
lych-gate Sir Daniel shall reward. Look to it right well!
I know you for a man of naught. Nance,” he added, to one of
the women, “is old Appleyard up town?”
“I’ll
warrant you,” replied the woman. “In his field, for sure.”So
the group dispersed, and while Clipsby walked leisurely over the
bridge, Bennet and young Shelton rode up the road together, through
the village and past the church.
“Ye
will see the old shrew,” said Bennet. “He will waste more
time grumbling and prating of Harry the Fift than would serve a man
to shoe a horse. And all because he has been to the French
wars!”The
house to which they were bound was the last in the village, standing
alone among lilacs; and beyond it, on three sides, there was open
meadow rising towards the borders of the wood.Hatch
dismounted, threw his rein over the fence, and walked down the field,
Dick keeping close at his elbow, to where the old soldier was
digging, knee-deep in his cabbages, and now and again, in a cracked
voice, singing a snatch of song. He was all dressed in leather,
only his hood and tippet were of black frieze, and tied with scarlet;
his face was like a walnut-shell, both for colour and wrinkles; but
his old grey eye was still clear enough, and his sight unabated.
Perhaps he was deaf; perhaps he thought it unworthy of an old archer
of Agincourt to pay any heed to such disturbances; but neither the
surly notes of the alarm bell, nor the near approach of Bennet and
the lad, appeared at all to move him; and he continued obstinately
digging, and piped up, very thin and shaky:
“Now,
dear lady, if thy will be,I
pray you that you will rue on me.”
“Nick
Appleyard,” said Hatch, “Sir Oliver commends him to you, and bids
that ye shall come within this hour to the Moat House, there to take
command.”The
old fellow looked up.
“Save
you, my masters!” he said, grinning. “And where goeth
Master Hatch?”
“Master
Hatch is off to Kettley, with every man that we can horse,”
returned Bennet. “There is a fight toward, it seems, and my
lord stays a reinforcement.”
“Ay,
verily,” returned Appleyard. “And what will ye leave me to
garrison withal?”
“I
leave you six good men, and Sir Oliver to boot,” answered Hatch.
“It’ll
not hold the place,” said Appleyard; “the number sufficeth not.
It would take two score to make it good.”
“Why,
it’s for that we came to you, old shrew!” replied the other.
“Who else is there but you that could do aught in such a house with
such a garrison?”
“Ay!
when the pinch comes, ye remember the old shoe,” returned Nick.
“There is not a man of you can back a horse or hold a bill; and as
for archery—St. Michael! if old Harry the Fift were back again, he
would stand and let ye shoot at him for a farthen a shoot!”
“Nay,
Nick, there’s some can draw a good bow yet,” said Bennet.
“Draw
a good bow!” cried Appleyard. “Yes! But who’ll
shoot me a good shoot? It’s there the eye comes in, and the
head between your shoulders. Now, what might you call a long
shoot, Bennet Hatch?”
“Well,”
said Bennet, looking about him, “it would be a long shoot from here
into the forest.”
“Ay,
it would be a longish shoot,” said the old fellow, turning to look
over his shoulder; and then he put up his hand over his eyes, and
stood staring.
“Why,
what are you looking at?” asked Bennet, with a chuckle. “Do,
you see Harry the Fift?”The
veteran continued looking up the hill in silence. The sun shone
broadly over the shelving meadows; a few white sheep wandered
browsing; all was still but the distant jangle of the bell.
“What
is it, Appleyard?” asked Dick.
“Why,
the birds,” said Appleyard.And,
sure enough, over the top of the forest, where it ran down in a
tongue among the meadows, and ended in a pair of goodly green elms,
about a bowshot from the field where they were standing, a flight of
birds was skimming to and fro, in evident disorder.
“What
of the birds?” said Bennet.
“Ay!”
returned Appleyard, “y’ are a wise man to go to war, Master
Bennet. Birds are a good sentry; in forest places they be the
first line of battle. Look you, now, if we lay here in camp,
there might be archers skulking down to get the wind of us; and here
would you be, none the wiser!”
“Why,
old shrew,” said Hatch, “there be no men nearer us than Sir
Daniel’s, at Kettley; y’ are as safe as in London Tower; and ye
raise scares upon a man for a few chaffinches and sparrows!”
“Hear
him!” grinned Appleyard. “How many a rogue would give his
two crop ears to have a shoot at either of us? Saint Michael,
man! they hate us like two polecats!”
“Well,
sooth it is, they hate Sir Daniel,” answered Hatch, a little
sobered.
“Ay,
they hate Sir Daniel, and they hate every man that serves with him,”
said Appleyard; “and in the first order of hating, they hate Bennet
Hatch and old Nicholas the bowman. See ye here: if there was a
stout fellow yonder in the wood-edge, and you and I stood fair for
him—as, by Saint George, we stand!—which, think ye, would he
choose?”
“You,
for a good wager,” answered Hatch.
“My
surcoat to a leather belt, it would be you!” cried the old archer.
“Ye burned Grimstone, Bennet—they’ll ne’er forgive you that,
my master. And as for me, I’ll soon be in a good place, God
grant, and out of bow-shoot—ay, and cannon-shoot—of all their
malices. I am an old man, and draw fast to homeward, where the
bed is ready. But for you, Bennet, y’ are to remain behind
here at your own peril, and if ye come to my years unhanged, the old
true-blue English spirit will be dead.”
“Y’
are the shrewishest old dolt in Tunstall Forest,” returned Hatch,
visibly ruffled by these threats. “Get ye to your arms before
Sir Oliver come, and leave prating for one good while. An ye
had talked so much with Harry the Fift, his ears would ha’ been
richer than his pocket.”An
arrow sang in the air, like a huge hornet; it struck old Appleyard
between the shoulder-blades, and pierced him clean through, and he
fell forward on his face among the cabbages. Hatch, with a
broken cry, leapt into the air; then, stooping double, he ran for the
cover of the house. And in the meanwhile Dick Shelton had
dropped behind a lilac, and had his crossbow bent and shouldered,
covering the point of the forest.Not
a leaf stirred. The sheep were patiently browsing; the birds
had settled. But there lay the old man, with a cloth-yard arrow
standing in his back; and there were Hatch holding to the gable, and
Dick crouching and ready behind the lilac bush.
“D’ye
see aught?” cried Hatch.
“Not
a twig stirs,” said Dick.
“I
think shame to leave him lying,” said Bennet, coming forward once
more with hesitating steps and a very pale countenance. “Keep
a good eye on the wood, Master Shelton—keep a clear eye on the
wood. The saints assoil us! here was a good shoot!”Bennet
raised the old archer on his knee. He was not yet dead; his
face worked, and his eyes shut and opened like machinery, and he had
a most horrible, ugly look of one in pain.
“Can
ye hear, old Nick?” asked Hatch. “Have ye a last wish
before ye wend, old brother?”
“Pluck
out the shaft, and let me pass, a’ Mary’s name!” gasped
Appleyard. “I be done with Old England. Pluck it out!”
“Master
Dick,” said Bennet, “come hither, and pull me a good pull upon
the arrow. He would fain pass, the poor sinner.”Dick
laid down his cross-bow, and pulling hard upon the arrow, drew it
forth. A gush of blood followed; the old archer scrambled half
upon his feet, called once upon the name of God, and then fell dead.
Hatch, upon his knees among the cabbages, prayed fervently for the
welfare of the passing spirit. But even as he prayed, it was
plain that his mind was still divided, and he kept ever an eye upon
the corner of the wood from which the shot had come. When he
had done, he got to his feet again, drew off one of his mailed
gauntlets, and wiped his pale face, which was all wet with terror.
“Ay,”
he said, “it’ll be my turn next.”
“Who
hath done this, Bennet?” Richard asked, still holding the arrow in
his hand.
“Nay,
the saints know,” said Hatch. “Here are a good two score
Christian souls that we have hunted out of house and holding, he and
I. He has paid his shot, poor shrew, nor will it be long,
mayhap, ere I pay mine. Sir Daniel driveth over-hard.”
“This
is a strange shaft,” said the lad, looking at the arrow in his
hand.
“Ay,
by my faith!” cried Bennet. “Black, and black-feathered.
Here is an ill-favoured shaft, by my sooth! for black, they say,
bodes burial. And here be words written. Wipe the blood
away. What read ye?”
“‘Appulyaird
fro Jon Amend-All,’”
read Shelton. “What should this betoken?”
“Nay,
I like it not,” returned the retainer, shaking his head.
“John Amend-All! Here is a rogue’s name for those that be
up in the world! But why stand we here to make a mark?
Take him by the knees, good Master Shelton, while I lift him by the
shoulders, and let us lay him in his house. This will be a rare
shog to poor Sir Oliver; he will turn paper colour; he will pray like
a windmill.”They
took up the old archer, and carried him between them into his house,
where he had dwelt alone. And there they laid him on the floor,
out of regard for the mattress, and sought, as best they might, to
straighten and compose his limbs.Appleyard’s
house was clean and bare. There was a bed, with a blue cover, a
cupboard, a great chest, a pair of joint-stools, a hinged table in
the chimney corner, and hung upon the wall the old soldier’s
armoury of bows and defensive armour. Hatch began to look about
him curiously.
“Nick
had money,” he said. “He may have had three score pounds
put by. I would I could light upon’t! When ye lose an
old friend, Master Richard, the best consolation is to heir him.
See, now, this chest. I would go a mighty wager there is a
bushel of gold therein. He had a strong hand to get, and a hard
hand to keep withal, had Appleyard the archer. Now may God rest
his spirit! Near eighty year he was afoot and about, and ever
getting; but now he’s on the broad of his back, poor shrew, and no
more lacketh; and if his chattels came to a good friend, he would be
merrier, methinks, in heaven.”
“Come,
Hatch,” said Dick, “respect his stone-blind eyes. Would ye
rob the man before his body? Nay, he would walk!”Hatch
made several signs of the cross; but by this time his natural
complexion had returned, and he was not easily to be dashed from any
purpose. It would have gone hard with the chest had not the
gate sounded, and presently after the door of the house opened and
admitted a tall, portly, ruddy, black-eyed man of near fifty, in a
surplice and black robe.
“Appleyard”—the
newcomer was saying, as he entered; but he stopped dead. “Ave
Maria!” he cried. “Saints be our shield! What cheer
is this?”
“Cold
cheer with Appleyard, sir parson,” answered Hatch, with perfect
cheerfulness. “Shot at his own door, and alighteth even now
at purgatory gates. Ay! there, if tales be true, he shall lack
neither coal nor candle.”Sir
Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down upon it, sick
and white.
“This
is a judgment! O, a great stroke!” he sobbed, and rattled off
a leash of prayers.Hatch
meanwhile reverently doffed his salet and knelt down.
“Ay,
Bennet,” said the priest, somewhat recovering, “and what may this
be? What enemy hath done this?”
“Here,
Sir Oliver, is the arrow. See, it is written upon with words,”
said Dick.
“Nay,”
cried the priest, “this is a foul hearing! John Amend-All!
A right Lollardy word. And black of hue, as for an omen!
Sirs, this knave arrow likes me not. But it importeth rather to
take counsel. Who should this be? Bethink you, Bennet.
Of so many black ill-willers, which should he be that doth so hardily
outface us? Simnel? I do much question it. The
Walsinghams? Nay, they are not yet so broken; they still think
to have the law over us, when times change. There was Simon
Malmesbury, too. How think ye, Bennet?”
“What
think ye, sir,” returned Hatch, “of Ellis Duckworth?”
“Nay,
Bennet, never. Nay, not he,” said the priest. “There
cometh never any rising, Bennet, from below—so all judicious
chroniclers concord in their opinion; but rebellion travelleth ever
downward from above; and when Dick, Tom, and Harry take them to their
bills, look ever narrowly to see what lord is profited thereby.
Now, Sir Daniel, having once more joined him to the Queen’s party,
is in ill odour with the Yorkist lords. Thence, Bennet, comes
the blow—by what procuring, I yet seek; but therein lies the nerve
of this discomfiture.”
“An’t
please you, Sir Oliver,” said Bennet, “the axles are so hot in
this country that I have long been smelling fire. So did this
poor sinner, Appleyard. And, by your leave, men’s spirits are
so foully inclined to all of us, that it needs neither York nor
Lancaster to spur them on. Hear my plain thoughts: You, that
are a clerk, and Sir Daniel, that sails on any wind, ye have taken
many men’s goods, and beaten and hanged not a few. Y’ are
called to count for this; in the end, I wot not how, ye have ever the
uppermost at law, and ye think all patched. But give me leave,
Sir Oliver: the man that ye have dispossessed and beaten is but the
angrier, and some day, when the black devil is by, he will up with
his bow and clout me a yard of arrow through your inwards.”
“Nay,
Bennet, y’ are in the wrong. Bennet, ye should be glad to be
corrected,” said Sir Oliver. “Y’ are a prater, Bennet, a
talker, a babbler; your mouth is wider than your two ears. Mend
it, Bennet, mend it.”
“Nay,
I say no more. Have it as ye list,” said the retainer.The
priest now rose from the stool, and from the writing-case that hung
about his neck took forth wax and a taper, and a flint and steel.
With these he sealed up the chest and the cupboard with Sir Daniel’s
arms, Hatch looking on disconsolate; and then the whole party
proceeded, somewhat timorously, to sally from the house and get to
horse.
“’Tis
time we were on the road, Sir Oliver,” said Hatch, as he held the
priest’s stirrup while he mounted.
“Ay;
but, Bennet, things are changed,” returned the parson. “There
is now no Appleyard—rest his soul!—to keep the garrison. I
shall keep you, Bennet. I must have a good man to rest me on in
this day of black arrows. ‘The arrow that flieth by day,’
saith the evangel; I have no mind of the context; nay, I am a
sluggard priest, I am too deep in men’s affairs. Well, let us
ride forth, Master Hatch. The jackmen should be at the church
by now.”So
they rode forward down the road, with the wind after them, blowing
the tails of the parson’s cloak; and behind them, as they went,
clouds began to arise and blot out the sinking sun. They had
passed three of the scattered houses that make up Tunstall hamlet,
when, coming to a turn, they saw the church before them. Ten or
a dozen houses clustered immediately round it; but to the back the
churchyard was next the meadows. At the lych-gate, near a score
of men were gathered, some in the saddle, some standing by their
horses’ heads. They were variously armed and mounted; some
with spears, some with bills, some with bows, and some bestriding
plough-horses, still splashed with the mire of the furrow; for these
were the very dregs of the country, and all the better men and the
fair equipments were already with Sir Daniel in the field.
“We
have not done amiss, praised be the cross of Holywood! Sir
Daniel will be right well content,” observed the priest, inwardly
numbering the troop.
“Who
goes? Stand! if ye be true!” shouted Bennet. A man was
seen slipping through the churchyard among the yews; and at the sound
of this summons he discarded all concealment, and fairly took to his
heels for the forest. The men at the gate, who had been
hitherto unaware of the stranger’s presence, woke and scattered.
Those who had dismounted began scrambling into the saddle; the rest
rode in pursuit; but they had to make the circuit of the consecrated
ground, and it was plain their quarry would escape them. Hatch,
roaring an oath, put his horse at the hedge, to head him off; but the
beast refused, and sent his rider sprawling in the dust. And
though he was up again in a moment, and had caught the bridle, the
time had gone by, and the fugitive had gained too great a lead for
any hope of capture.The
wisest of all had been Dick Shelton. Instead of starting in a
vain pursuit, he had whipped his crossbow from his back, bent it, and
set a quarrel to the string; and now, when the others had desisted,
he turned to Bennet and asked if he should shoot.
“Shoot!
shoot!” cried the priest, with sanguinary violence.
“Cover
him, Master Dick,” said Bennet. “Bring me him down like a
ripe apple.”The
fugitive was now within but a few leaps of safety; but this last part
of the meadow ran very steeply uphill; and the man ran slower in
proportion. What with the greyness of the falling night, and
the uneven movements of the runner, it was no easy aim; and as Dick
levelled his bow, he felt a kind of pity, and a half desire that he
might miss. The quarrel sped.The
man stumbled and fell, and a great cheer arose from Hatch and the
pursuers. But they were counting their corn before the
harvest. The man fell lightly; he was lightly afoot again,
turned and waved his cap in a bravado, and was out of sight next
moment in the margin of the wood.
“And
the plague go with him!” cried Bennet. “He has thieves’
heels; he can run, by St Banbury! But you touched him, Master
Shelton; he has stolen your quarrel, may he never have good I grudge
him less!”
“Nay,
but what made he by the church?” asked Sir Oliver. “I am
shrewdly afeared there has been mischief here. Clipsby, good
fellow, get ye down from your horse, and search thoroughly among the
yews.”Clipsby
was gone but a little while ere he returned carrying a paper.
“This
writing was pinned to the church door,” he said, handing it to the
parson. “I found naught else, sir parson.”
“Now,
by the power of Mother Church,” cried Sir Oliver, “but this runs
hard on sacrilege! For the king’s good pleasure, or the lord
of the manor—well! But that every run-the-hedge in a green
jerkin should fasten papers to the chancel door—nay, it runs hard
on sacrilege, hard; and men have burned for matters of less weight.
But what have we here? The light falls apace. Good Master
Richard, y’ have young eyes. Read me, I pray, this libel.”Dick
Shelton took the paper in his hand and read it aloud. It
contained some lines of very rugged doggerel, hardly even rhyming,
written in a gross character, and most uncouthly spelt. With
the spelling somewhat bettered, this is how they ran:
“I
had four blak arrows under my belt,Four
for the greefs that I have felt,Four
for the nomber of ill menneThat
have opressid me now and then.One
is gone; one is wele sped;Old
Apulyaird is ded.One
is for Maister Bennet Hatch,That
burned Grimstone, walls and thatch.One
for Sir Oliver Oates,That
cut Sir Harry Shelton’s throat.Sir
Daniel, ye shull have the fourt;We
shall think it fair sport.Ye
shull each have your own part,A
blak arrow in each blak heart.Get
ye to your knees for to pray:Ye
are ded theeves, by yea and nay!
“Jon
Amend-Allof the
Green Wood,And his
jolly fellaweship.
“Item,
we have mo arrowes and goode hempen cord for otheres of your
following.”
“Now,
well-a-day for charity and the Christian graces!” cried Sir Oliver,
lamentably. “Sirs, this is an ill world, and groweth daily
worse. I will swear upon the cross of Holywood I am as innocent
of that good knight’s hurt, whether in act or purpose, as the babe
unchristened. Neither was his throat cut; for therein they are
again in error, as there still live credible witnesses to show.”
“It
boots not, sir parson,” said Bennet. “Here is unseasonable
talk.”
“Nay,
Master Bennet, not so. Keep ye in your due place, good Bennet,”
answered the priest. “I shall make mine innocence appear.
I will, upon no consideration, lose my poor life in error. I
take all men to witness that I am clear of this matter. I was
not even in the Moat House. I was sent of an errand before nine
upon the clock”—
“Sir
Oliver,” said Hatch, interrupting, “since it please you not to
stop this sermon, I will take other means. Goffe, sound to
horse.”And
while the tucket was sounding, Bennet moved close to the bewildered
parson, and whispered violently in his ear.Dick
Shelton saw the priest’s eye turned upon him for an instant in a
startled glance. He had some cause for thought; for this Sir
Harry Shelton was his own natural father. But he said never a
word, and kept his countenance unmoved.Hatch
and Sir Oliver discussed together for a while their altered
situation; ten men, it was decided between them, should be reserved,
not only to garrison the Moat House, but to escort the priest across
the wood. In the meantime, as Bennet was to remain behind, the
command of the reinforcement was given to Master Shelton.
Indeed, there was no choice; the men were loutish fellows, dull and
unskilled in war, while Dick was not only popular, but resolute and
grave beyond his age. Although his youth had been spent in
these rough, country places, the lad had been well taught in letters
by Sir Oliver, and Hatch himself had shown him the management of arms
and the first principles of command. Bennet had always been
kind and helpful; he was one of those who are cruel as the grave to
those they call their enemies, but ruggedly faithful and well willing
to their friends; and now, while Sir Oliver entered the next house to
write, in his swift, exquisite penmanship, a memorandum of the last
occurrences to his master, Sir Daniel Brackley, Bennet came up to his
pupil to wish him God-speed upon his enterprise.
“Ye
must go the long way about, Master Shelton,” he said; “round by
the bridge, for your life! Keep a sure man fifty paces afore
you, to draw shots; and go softly till y’ are past the wood.
If the rogues fall upon you, ride for ’t; ye will do naught by
standing. And keep ever forward, Master Shelton; turn me not
back again, an ye love your life; there is no help in Tunstall, mind
ye that. And now, since ye go to the great wars about the king,
and I continue to dwell here in extreme jeopardy of my life, and the
saints alone can certify if we shall meet again below, I give you my
last counsels now at your riding. Keep an eye on Sir Daniel; he
is unsure. Put not your trust in the jack-priest; he intendeth
not amiss, but doth the will of others; it is a hand-gun for Sir
Daniel! Get your good lordship where ye go; make you strong
friends; look to it. And think ever a pater-noster-while on
Bennet Hatch. There are worse rogues afoot than Bennet.
So, God-speed!”
“And
Heaven be with you, Bennet!” returned Dick. “Ye were a good
friend to me-ward, and so I shall say ever.”
“And,
look ye, master,” added Hatch, with a certain embarrassment, “if
this Amend-All should get a shaft into me, ye might, mayhap, lay out
a gold mark or mayhap a pound for my poor soul; for it is like to go
stiff with me in purgatory.”
“Ye
shall have your will of it, Bennet,” answered Dick. “But,
what cheer, man! we shall meet again, where ye shall have more need
of ale than masses.”
“The
saints so grant it, Master Dick!” returned the other. “But
here comes Sir Oliver. An he were as quick with the long-bow as
with the pen, he would be a brave man-at-arms.”Sir
Oliver gave Dick a sealed packet, with this superscription: “To my
ryght worchypful master, Sir Daniel Brackley, knyght, be thys
delyvered in haste.”And
Dick, putting it in the bosom of his jacket, gave the word and set
forth westward up the village.