Chapter VI: Part 6

Following the priest's lead, Edgar and Peter bore Sir John back within the shelter of the woods. A comfortable litter was then constructed from two of the rugs stretched across young saplings, and the march began towards the secret place where the horses had been sent. After an hour's slow travelling the party came to a steep cliff in a spur of the mountains where a landslip appeared to have hollowed out a shallow cave. The dying embers of a fire still glowed in the entrance, and as the party approached, a man sprang to his feet, knife in hand.

"Peace, brother!" said the priest quietly. "Where hast stabled the horses?"

"Yonder," replied the man, pointing to another similar cave a few yards away.

"'Tis well," responded the priest. Then turning to Edgar he explained: "This place is often used as a refuge by the villagers when they fear interference. It is fairly close at hand, and provides a temporary shelter for man and beast."

"It will serve us well until we can obtain a wagon in which to carry Sir John to Bordeaux," replied Edgar. "If he can be moved, I am most anxious to start at once. Doubtless thou wilt know someone who has a horse and cart to lend or sell?"

"Yes, I can obtain you what you want. But sit ye down by the fire and sup. Jules here will give us of his store so far as it will go, and meanwhile I will attend to your sick knight. I have some knowledge of herbs and simples, and often have to tend the sick in body as well as the diseased in mind."

Fresh wood was thrown upon the fire, and by its light the party made themselves and Sir John comfortable. Barely half an hour had elapsed since they reached the cave when the man Jules held up a warning finger.

"Hark!" he said.

All stopped and listened intently. In the distance, borne clearly on the still air, could be heard a noise as of shouts and cries. It came from the direction of the village.

"My people!" cried the priest in a voice of anguish. "My people again being harried by the hirelings of the castle! I must go to them. Scant respect do they give me indeed, but what I can do I must do. Farewell, young sir!"

With hasty tread he strode off into the woods, leaving Edgar most uncomfortable and perplexed, and sorely tempted to follow him. It was clear that the raid upon the village was due to his escape from the castle, and the thought that innocent men and women were suffering for his success was most distressing. The priest, too, in his eagerness to protect his flock and in his hatred of the tyrants might well be betrayed into a zeal that would bring down upon him the more active hostility of the garrison. Edgar shuddered to think what might then happen.

For some time the cries continued unabated, and then they gradually died away until all was still once more. Feeling the tension somewhat relaxed, Edgar and Peter, after seeing that Sir John was as comfortable as it was possible to make him, threw themselves down and slept until daybreak.

Soon after they had risen and had made a few preparations for breakfast, the priest strode quickly up. Edgar could see that something was wrong by his quick irregular tread and by the way in which his hood was drawn well forward over his face. He came to a pause as he reached the cave, and after replying with a gesture of the hand to Edgar's salutations, remained standing for some minutes in silence, as though in deep and anxious thought.

"I hope there hath been no bloodshed," said Edgar earnestly, when the silence of the priest had become almost insupportable.

"There hath been little actual bloodshed," replied the priest in a hollow voice; "merely a repetition of the scenes of violence and cruelty that I have had to witness for years past, but which I was hoping were gone for good. I am in doubt. I know not whether to raise the banner of revolt without delay or to wait, as ye counselled, until our forces have some sort of organization. I now incline to begin the fight at once, for I fear that the spirit of my people will be broken beyond redemption if such cruelties are allowed to go on much longer unchecked."

Wearily he seated himself on the ground, unconsciously throwing back his hood and revealing a livid weal which ran across his face from one side to the other.

"They have ill-used thee," cried Edgar, with a burst of indignation. "The cowards have struck thee with their whips--and I am to blame. 'Tis on my account that they have ridden into the village and done violence to thy poor folk."

"My hurt is nothing," replied the priest, contemptuously waving his hand as though to thrust the idea aside. "'Tis true it is the first time I have received actual violence at their hands, but I care nothing for that. But my poor people have not, I fear, my hope in the future, and upon them the stripes fall with a deadly sting that toucheth me not. You say you fear 'tis on your account that these things have been done. Regard it not. Perchance 'tis the spark that setteth alight the fire to make us free. I would though, Sir Squire, that thou wouldst throw in thy lot with us, for 'tis a heavy thing for a priest, untutored in the art of war, to lead the people he loveth to what may be defeat and destruction. If thou dost feel thy responsibility for the night's violence--fling thy sword into the balance, and thou wilt have paid back thy debt in full."

"My hands are tied," replied Edgar, shaking his head. "My master there hath first claim upon my services, and until he hath been put in a place of safety I dare think of naught else."

"I will see to his welfare in a place of safety," exclaimed the priest. "Higher up the mountains I know several such places, and, tended by one or two of our folk, he will mend rapidly and well."

"Nay, I must take him back to his kinsfolk," replied Edgar decidedly. "Even then 'tis doubtful whether he will give me permission to ride back hither to engage in a private war on the side of a people at war with my countrymen. With all my heart I desire thy success and the deliverance of thy people, good father, but my duty is elsewhere. Press me not, I beg, but let me on."

The priest inclined his head. "Be it so," he said sadly. "Thou art still a friend though thou canst not, or wilt not, stand shoulder to shoulder with me in the conflict. Thou shall return as quickly as my help can compass it. We will not talk more of this matter; but let me see to thy master. A happy man is he to have won such unswerving loyalty."

With a touch as light and gentle as that of a woman, the priest tended the sick knight. His mind yet wandered, but he seemed to be easier than when Edgar and Peter had first entered his chamber in the donjon of Ruthenes. By some subtle means he seemed to know that he was now in friendly hands, and had grown more restful and contented.

For two days Edgar remained at the cave watching over Sir John. At the end of that time the priest pronounced the knight well enough to travel, and within a few hours a horse and cart were ready waiting in the road at the point nearest to the mountain refuge.

Sir John was placed upon the litter, gently carried to the cart, and there comfortably ensconced on a thick bed of dry leaves covered with a rug. Then with a most cordial farewell to Father Armand, Edgar mounted the cart and drove away. Peter rode alongside on one of their chargers, their second having been left behind as payment for the horse and cart. After six days' travelling by slow and easy stages they entered the gates of the city of Bordeaux.

During the first two days of the return journey, Sir John's mind still wandered. On the third day, however, to Edgar's great delight, he awoke with his mind clear and lucid, although he was still very weak and feeble. He said nothing more than a bare half-dozen words of greeting all that day, but seemed content to lie there and let his eyes wander from the lads' faces to cart and tree and sky, as though well satisfied to be where he was. The following day he showed more animation, and talked about the villages and scenery through which they passed. He said no word of Ruthenes, however, and appeared to wish to avoid the subject as if it were a painful one that he was anxious to put away from him as long as possible.

The day before the party reached Bordeaux, on Edgar mentioning that he hoped they would arrive in time to join the ladies just before they sat down to their midday meal, Sir John seemed to come to a sudden decision within himself. Struggling into a half-sitting posture upon his bed of leaves and rugs, he said in a firm and steady voice: "Edgar, I wish you now to tell me all--how you came to be at Ruthenes and how I came to be released. I have some fears that the story will bring me no credit, but I desire thee to tell me everything."

Although Edgar did not quite know what Sir John meant by his last remark, he took no notice, but told the whole story from the time of his setting out with Peter up to the last desperate dash to safety through the underground passage.

When he had finished, Sir John gave so deep a sigh of relief that Edgar could not help looking at him with some astonishment.

"Thou art surprised at my relief, lad," observed Sir John, with a faint smile. "Well, then, thou shalt know how it is my mind feels so relieved that I could almost shout for joy. Ever since I was able to think connectedly, I have had at the back of my mind the fear that away there in Ruthenes I had given way to the tortures and threats of De Maupas and Eustace de Brin--given way, and passed my knightly word to further their base schemes at the expense of my successors or of the lady Beatrice. How else could I account for my freedom save by supposing that I had played the dastard, and had been handed over to thee in payment of the debt and to complete the bond? Now ye tell me that I have been rescued and that my honour is still my own. Canst now understand my relief, Edgar? 'Tis more difficult for me to understand how thou couldst have rescued me. It seems marvellous to one who for days tramped frantically up and down his cell like a caged beast, impotent to find a way of escape."

"Talk not nor think of that, Sir John, or thou wilt retard thy recovery. We, too, felt the dread spell of those fearful dungeons, but we were two, and could support one another's drooping spirits."

There was a pause for a few minutes, and then Sir John said suddenly: "What of the tournament, Edgar? What thought they of me when I appeared not? Did they think I blenched from the combat?"

"Nay, nay, Sir John--not one," evasively replied Edgar, who rather shrank from the recital of his masquerade as Sir John. It seemed so likely that the knight might resent the liberty, undertaken in his interest though it had been.

"He will have gained nothing by the trick," said Sir John, half to himself, in a despondent tone. "I will see to it that the earl doth know of his baseness, and I doubt if he will dare again to cross my path. Better will it be for him to stay at Ruthenes, where he is in safety among companions as base as himself."

"I could wish that thou wouldst tell me how they made thee prisoner, Sir John," said Edgar, anxious to change the subject. "Thou wert wounded, I know, for when the priest tended thee he found that great gash in thy thigh."

"Aye. Nicely was I tricked. I was riding at my ease along a narrow lane when an old woman stopped me and asked an alms. As I stooped, two men, with swords drawn, sprang out upon me from the shelter of some bushes near by. I was quick enough to be ready for their onslaught, but as I slashed at them, my horse sank suddenly to the ground--hamstrung by a third man whose approach I had not seen. As I fell, I received a swordthrust in the thigh, and before I could rise I was seized by so many hands that all resistance was futile. I was bound hand and foot, conveyed to a farmer's wagon in waiting close by, and flung unceremoniously into it. Two men mounted, and we drove on for days, whither I knew not, until we reached yon gloomy castle. Then came De Maupas's offer and my refusal. What befell after that thou know'st better than I, for what with my wound, my rage against De Maupas, and the dreadful gloom and dampness of my cell, I fell sick and my senses left me. It all seems like an evil dream. Were it not for my weakness and this cart, I should look to wake up at Wolsingham or Bordeaux once again."

In due course the wagon and its occupants arrived at the inn where the ladies Gertrude and Beatrice had made their temporary home. Gaily Edgar hailed the good man, for their troubles seemed to be at an end. Sir John was back again and, though still weak and feeble, had been rapidly on the mend ever since he had been taken from the castle.

"The ladies Chartris and D'Alencon, landlord! Tell them the knight Sir John is back," cried Edgar, springing down from his seat on the wagon and aiding Peter to lift Sir John down and carry him into the inn.

"Ah! sir----" cried the landlord. Then he stopped and stared uncomfortably from Edgar to Sir John and back again.

"What is it, man?" cried Sir John, with sudden apprehension. "Doth aught ail them? Which is it? Speak!"

"Oh, my lord, 'tis not the lady Gertrude--she is above. 'Tis the lady Beatrice."

"Ah! But what has chanced? Canst not speak? Is she dead?"

"Nay, nay--she is not dead. She hath been carried off by robbers or outlaws--none knoweth by whom. The lady Gertrude is in despair. We have done all we could to find where she hath been taken, but without avail."

"Woe, woe!" cried the knight, sinking back on the couch on which he had been placed. "Enemies seem to encompass me and mine. She was placed in my charge and I have failed in my duty. Why didst leave the ladies all unguarded, Edgar, to come to my aid? That was not well thought of. I cannot value my rescue if it hath been obtained at the expense of my ward's life and honour."

"I gave the ladies into Matthew's charge, Sir John," replied Edgar brokenly. "How could I think aught would befall? Reproach me not, I beg of thee, for I feel I cannot forgive myself--and yet, could I let thee perish without a blow struck?"

"Let it pass, Edgar. 'Twas in my despair that I reproached thee. It was not just. 'Tis Matthew who shall feel the weight of my displeasure. Landlord, fetch down the lady Gertrude, for we must know all and see if there be aught that can still be done."

In a minute or two Gertrude appeared, wild with joy at hearing that her father had at last returned. "Father, Father, how glad I am that thou hast come back!" she cried, throwing herself on her knees and winding her arms about him in joyous rapture. Then, seeing how thin and weak and ill he looked, her gladness gave place to anxiety and concern. "Thou must come back with me to England," she said persuasively, "and let me nurse thee back to health and strength. Thou hast done enough for a little while. How I wish poor Beatrice were here to welcome thee and share my gladness!"

"Tell us of the dreadful event," said Sir John, after the first greetings were over. "We must consider what is best to be done. Tell us everything."

The story was short enough. It appeared that the day after Edgar's departure, Beatrice, knowing that he could not be back for a week or more, suddenly determined that she would pay the expected visit to her castle home at Faucigny. Her maid accompanied her, and, at Gertrude's desire, she took Matthew and another of the Wolsingham men-at-arms as an escort, the forward move of the English forces not having yet begun. Three leagues beyond Bordeaux, whilst passing through a small wood, the party was suddenly ambushed by four men.

The man-at-arms was struck down before he could lift a hand in his defence, and on Matthew fell the whole brunt of the attack. He made a splendid defence but was eventually overcome and, covered with wounds, left for dead upon the field. What then happened to the lady Beatrice and her maid no one knew. Fortunately, Matthew was discovered by passing peasants a few hours later and was carried to a hovel a mile or two away. Here he was tended until the arrival of a search party which had been sent out the instant the riderless horse of the man-at-arms galloped back into the camp with blood upon saddle and flank.

As soon as he could speak Matthew was eagerly questioned, but was able to tell them little. He could not say what had become of the lady Beatrice. He only knew that one of the ruffians had held her horse by the bridle whilst the other three occupied themselves in overpowering all resistance. Of their assailants all he could tell was that he was certain that he had seen one of them before. This man, too, appeared to be their leader, and he fancied that he must be a man he had once or twice seen lurking about the camp.

At this piece of news Edgar and Peter exchanged glances full of anxious significance.

"Did he ever describe the man, Mistress Gertrude?" asked Edgar.

"Yes. He said he was a tall and sparely built man with an evil-looking face. Nobody else about the camp, however, seemeth to know the man, and although we have made enquiries far and wide, we have found no clue save at a village many miles away to the south-east. Here an old man and a boy said that, while working in the fields, four men and two women, all on horseback, rode past them across country, as though purposely avoiding the roads. That hath been all that we could discover, and it is little enough, even if the two women with the band were indeed those we sought."

"The missing clues I think we can supply, Sir John," said Edgar, "though I greatly fear they will in no wise lessen our apprehensions."

"Ye know, then, this man that Matthew had seen before?"

"Yes, he is a man we believe to be in league with thine enemy, Sir Gervaise de Maupas."

"Ah!--that man again!" cried Sir John, starting to his feet in indignation. His strength, however, was unequal to the effort, and he sank back again immediately with his hand pressed against his thigh.

"What is it, Father, what is it?" cried Gertrude anxiously.

"Only my wound, child. It is far from healed, and I must put no strain upon it for a while. But go on, Edgar. We must think out what is to be done. We must act quickly if we are to act at all."

"I told thee, sir, the offer De Maupas made to me in exchange for thy life and mine? It was, thou wilt remember, my support in persuading thee to agree to his marriage with thy ward--her lands being taken in exchange for his claims to thine. The capture of the lady Beatrice is, I see clearly, but one more link in the infamous plan. With her safely in his clutches, he doubtless thought he would be in a still stronger position to dictate his terms. Moreover, if we consented, he could make certain that we should never be able to repudiate the promise as having been made under compulsion, by calling in a priest and having the ceremony performed offhand. A right deadly plan it hath been, and it hath all but succeeded--even now it may succeed, for with the lady Beatrice in his hands he is almost as strong as with us all."

"Then ye think Beatrice hath been taken to Ruthenes?" said Sir John, after a long and painful pause.

"Yes, I am sure of it. She must have arrived there soon after we escaped."

"'Tis dire news. How dreadful that place is none of us would like to admit to any but ourselves! What, then, will it be to a maid? Edgar, thou didst accomplish the impossible in rescuing me--canst do anything to rescue the maid? Be sure that they will be doubly on the alert this time."

"I am ready and more than ready to try, Sir John."

"I would send to the earl and implore his aid, did I think it likely that he would help me. But he hath his hands full and would not care to send a force into a spot so remote as Ruthenes. No, I fear 'tis on ourselves alone that we must depend."

"I will go, Sir John. I will take Peter and fresh horses. Where we have penetrated once we can penetrate again. Besides, this time we know the secret way into the castle, and may avoid the untimely capture into which we blundered so badly last time."

"Be cautious and not too sanguine. The guards will be doubled, thou mayst be sure. When canst start? Forgive me for sending thee away so soon after bringing me into safety, but it is dreadful to me to think of Beatrice immured in some lonely chamber of yon blood-stained fortalice."

"I can start at once, Sir John. All I want is a little money, some food for the journey, and another mount."

"Thou shalt have all thou canst want. Gertrude, give the lad money from my own purse. Food and another horse thou canst get, Edgar, as thou art passing through the camp. Delay not, lad, for I am on fire with impatience to know that something is being done. I would that I were strong enough to go."

"Farewell then, Sir John! I hope that when we return thou wilt be well and strong again, and ready to join in the earl's advance."

Edgar hurriedly withdrew, and leaving Peter to dispose of the horse and cart and to follow as soon as he could, he mounted their one charger and rode out of the city into the camp to the lines of the Wolsingham contingent. Calling one of the men-at-arms, he instructed him to saddle and make ready another of Sir John's chargers and to prepare a store of food while he occupied himself in selecting his best weapons and a spare suit of mail. This suit he did not wear, but had it packed up with a few pieces of mail for Peter in two portions, one of which was to be borne on either horse. By the time his preparations were complete, Peter had joined him, and without any further delay the two mounted and rode out of the camp upon the road to Ruthenes once more.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*A New Quest*

"Now, dear Father," cried Gertrude, as soon as Edgar had left, "now that thou art in my charge I must bid thee to bed. All is done that can be done, and thou canst rest content."

"All is done for the moment, and I will indeed obey thee, my Gertrude. But I have yet to make my peace with the earl. I must dispatch a missive to Sir James d'Arcy, one of the marshals of the tournament. To him I can explain how 'twas I failed, like a poltroon, to answer to the challenge of Sir Gervaise de Maupas. When he seeth my condition and heareth my tale, I have hopes that he will believe me."

"Hath not Edgar then----?" began Gertrude, opening her eyes in amaze.

"Hath not Edgar what; maiden? Is anything wrong?" cried Sir John, a sudden look of apprehension coming into his face. "Surely the earl hath not made proclamation of my disgrace because of my non-appearance in the lists? Tell me quickly!"

"Nay, nay, Father, 'tis far from that. Indeed there is no need to trouble Sir James or the earl. Thine honour is safe. Edgar should have told thee all and not left it to me."

"Gertrude," cried Sir John, with a touch of sternness, "there is some mystery here. Tell me what it may mean. Delay not, girl."

Without more ado Gertrude related to her father the events that followed the first discovery of his disappearance--how, as the hours passed by, they had grown convinced that De Maupas in some way had had him removed with the object of disgracing him by his failure to appear in the lists, and how at last Edgar, to save his honour, had determined to personate him.

"What!" interrupted Sir John at this point. "Personate me! But surely not in the combat in the lists?"

"Yes, yes, in the lists. 'Twas to save thine honour, and to punish Sir Gervaise."

"'Twas a bold thought," murmured Sir John in wonderment. "But how could he hope for aught but defeat against such a lance as De Maupas? And yet he seemeth to have come to no great harm."

"He did not, Father. The first onset was terrific, but neither gained much advantage, though Sir Gervaise's steed lost its balance and rolled over. But in the encounter on foot Edgar handled Sir Gervaise most roughly, and with a single axe-blow felled him senseless to the ground."

"What! He won?" cried Sir John in utter astonishment. "You tell me he won? Truly never have I heard the like since the days of the paladins of old. Ah, it must be to his extraordinary earnestness to learn that he oweth so great a victory. His hard schooling at Gaspard's and his constant practice elsewhere--ho! ho! De Maupas was well repaid, and that right quickly, for his black treachery."

"None know the truth but ourselves," Gertrude went on. "Everyone believed that Sir John Chartris left the camp immediately after the encounter to pay the visit to Faucigny for which he had a few days before obtained the earl's permission. All is well, Father, and thou canst take up the threads where they fell when thou wert stolen away."

"Not so, my child," said Sir John thoughtfully. "I cannot allow laurels undeserved to be bestowed upon me so freely. I must let the earl know the truth. Think not that I am the less indebted to Edgar for his daring and successful championing of my cause. Had De Maupas been allowed to win his bloodless victory, a dark cloud of disgrace and suspicion would have gathered about my poor name, and hard to disperse should I have found it. A few might have believed my tale, but the greater part would have continued to shake their heads dubiously whenever my name was mentioned. As it is, I can tell the earl the story of my capture at the same time that I tell him 'twas not I that appeared in the lists. All will thus be well. Scarce a soul but will then believe the tale."

"Edgar will surely be sorry. He will think thou art flinging away the fruits of his victory."

"Nay, he will understand, for 'twould be what he would do himself were he in my place. Sorrow not for him, for he will be the gainer. The earl will love the tale, even though 'twill make him pull a wry face to think how he and they all were fooled. My hopes rise, Gertrude. Urged on by such daring and energy as this, truly we may well look to Edgar to bring back our Beatrice. May God speed him!"

"May God keep him out of the hands of De Maupas!" replied Gertrude feelingly; and Sir John echoed her words with deepest emphasis.

* * * * *

Riding to the limit of the endurance of their horses, Edgar and Peter made rapid progress, and were soon back again in the neighbourhood of Ruthenes. This time they did not ride directly into the village, but, when within a mile or so, led their horses into a thick covert and tied them to a tree. They then set off on foot for the castle, keeping well away from the village.

"Tread silently, Peter, and keep a vigilant watch. I would not that any saw us, especially of those belonging to the castle."

As soon as they came within sight of the castle Edgar gave the signal to stop, and, keeping well out of sight of watchers on the wall, the two young men reconnoitred it eagerly.

"There are more sentinels than ever," said Edgar, after a long and earnest scrutiny. "I feared as much. Well, let us now work round to the tree which masks the entrance to the underground passage. If that way is still open to us, all is well."

"But surely they will have found the keys we left behind in the last scramble up the steps cut within the tree trunk?" asked Peter. "They will have locked the doors, and we shall be barred out."

"Doubtless, but I care not for that so long as there is no watcher posted at the doors. With patience we can win a way through the stoutest barriers. But if a sentinel is there, our hope of a silent entry is gone."

Presently Edgar stopped and looked about him in some perplexity. "'Twas near here, was it not, Peter, that the great tree spread its branches? Nevertheless, I can see nothing of it."

"Yes, 'twas certainly near here, Master Edgar. Yon clump of undergrowth--was it not through that we made our way out of sight and reach of Black Eustace and De Maupas?"

"I fear they have cut down the tree and carried it away," said Edgar forebodingly. "Search for the scar in the ground--ah, here 'tis, carefully covered with leaves and twigs, to show no sign."

The two young men gazed down at the smooth patch of loose earth in silent consternation. It was on the continued existence of the secret passage that they had built most of their hopes, for in all their discussions they had agreed that it would be almost an impossibility for them to make their way over the walls and into the castle a second time. Their first attempt had ended in capture, and it was not likely that a second, with the garrison on the alert, would be any more successful.

"They have filled up the passage," cried Peter despondently. "What hope is there now to find a way into the castle? Would that we had wings!"

"This is a heavy blow," said Edgar slowly. "I can think of no way in at present. But we have always one thing to fall back on, so lose not hope so soon, lad."

Peter looked up quickly. "Mean you to----"

"Yes, to throw in our lot with the priest. If we cannot win our way in by strategy we must fall back on force of arms. But before the die is cast for an assault upon the castle, let me think if there is no other means possible."

For half an hour Edgar paced up and down the tiny glade formed by the removal of the great tree whose hollow trunk had been so cunningly made use of by the builders of the castle. From every point of view he conned over in his mind the defences of the castle, and wrestled with the problem of circumventing them. But he could think of no way that offered any real hope of success, save by waiting and watching for some special opportunity. This, however, was out of the question, for the thought of the delicate and high-spirited Beatrice d'Alencon confined in a castle whose gloom had weighed heavily upon the spirits even of men inured to war and hardship was simply intolerable.

"Come, Peter," Edgar cried at last in the brisk voice of one who has made up his mind, "come; I see no way in but by the sword, and while that castle holdeth Sir Gervaise de Maupas little do I regret it. Let us now seek Father Armand, and place ourselves by his side."

Peter gave a suppressed cheer, and followed with an eagerness that showed that the prospect of an assault upon the castle appealed to him not one whit less than it did to his master.

As soon as they had found their horses the two young men mounted and rode quietly into the village. At the house which served as an inn they stopped, and, calling the landlord, enquired for Father Armand.

"He is away from the village," replied the man, eyeing them narrowly. "What want ye the good father for?"

"We desire a few words with him," replied Edgar. "It is most important. Canst not fetch him or take us to him?"

The man shook his head.

"Perchance he is at the cave," suggested Edgar quietly. "If so, we will go ourselves, for he hath told us the way."

The man's attitude changed at once. "Yes, sir, he is at the cave. I did not know he had told thee all. I will go with thee and lead thy horses. It will not be well to leave them in the village--thou know'st why," he added, again eyeing Edgar narrowly.

Edgar nodded and accepted the man's offer to accompany them, though he guessed it was made more with a view to keeping them under observation than to assisting them. The man's attitude indicated plainly that the priest had been as good as his word, and that the banner of revolt, if it had not already been raised, was at least being nailed ready to the staff.

At the cave they came upon a scene of animation. Yards of bush had been cleared away, and in the open space scores of men were at work drilling or furbishing up their arms. The drilling was of a most crude and primitive nature, and would have appeared ludicrous to Edgar under other circumstances. But he was too well aware of the cruelty and oppression under which these men had groaned for so many years to smile at the poor figure they cut in a soldier's eyes.

Moreover, he knew that nothing but the determination born of despair could have brought them to the pitch of assaulting a strong and well-garrisoned castle, unequipped as they were with any of the engines of war. For a moment or two he could not see Father Armand, but presently he espied him, with hood flung back and gown tucked up, explaining and demonstrating to some of the more stupid of his levies what they were expected to do when he gave certain orders. The moment he saw Edgar and Peter he left his work and ran quickly forward to meet them.

"Sir Squire," he cried eagerly, "doth thy return mean that thou art----?"

"Yes, yes, Father," cried Edgar, grasping the hands which the priest extended to him, and pressing them warmly. The sight of the kindly face, with its lines that told of care and sorrow, stirred him strangely. How gallant was the old man thus to take up the sword in what must have seemed almost a forlorn hope to one unused to any sort of warfare but that of the spirit! "Yes, Father, we have come to throw in our lot with you. For weal or woe, we are members of your band."

"Not members--leaders," cried the priest impetuously. "We sadly lack skill and knowledge, and of these I know ye possess as much as, if not more than, our ancient enemy. Come, let me tell my people the brave news. It will cheer their hearts, for, though they have answered to my call willingly and eagerly, it is more the willingness of men to go to death rather than remain in soul-destroying bondage than that of men marching forward with the expectation of victory."

Calling to the assembled bands, the priest bade them form in two lines in something approaching military formation. Then he told them the story of Edgar's and Peter's first coming, and how they had, single-handed, made entry into the castle and, in spite of capture and alarums, succeeded in bringing away him whom they had set out to rescue.

Though Edgar could not follow the whole of the priest's patois, he could see that the story was well and graphically told, and that it made a deep impression on the listeners. Then the priest went on to tell of how he had made request to the two strangers to stop and assist them in their undertakings, and how, in loyalty to their sick master, they had reluctantly refused. Finally he told them that they had now returned and placed themselves at his disposal in their righteous war for freedom.

A roar of applause rose as the priest paused for a moment and placed his hand on Edgar's shoulder.

"They have knowledge of war, and must lead us," he went on. "This man I appoint to lead us in the field. He shall be co-equal with me. I shall command, except when we move forward to battle, when Sir Squire will take the lead, and I shall fight by his side."

There was another roar of enthusiastic applause, and the men broke ranks and crowded eagerly about the newcomers. Seeing that something seemed to be expected of him, Edgar sprang upon the back of his horse and held up his hand. The spirit of the priest and his men and their just cause had so stirred him that he forgot for the moment that he was a simple esquire with little experience of warfare and small claims to ability to lead an attack upon a powerful castle. He only knew that he was ready to do whatever was asked of him--to lead or to follow, he cared not which, so that he might aid a plucky people struggling to be free.

In a few words, simple and slow, from his imperfect knowledge of the local dialect, he told them that victory could never be theirs unless all were ready to give prompt obedience to their leaders, to work hard, to fight to the death, and to think, not of plunder, but only of victory and justice. The speech was well received, and Edgar dropped back to the ground with the feeling that, though he and his men might be beaten, it would be from lack of skill rather than from lack of courage and determination.

"Shall we move to the attack at once?" cried the priest, his eyes flashing with eagerness. "Our numbers are almost complete--one hundred and fifty all told."

"Nay, good Father, let us hold council of war. Nothing will be lost by waiting an hour or so."

"Come, then, let us to the cave and hold council forthwith. Our men are full of eagerness now, and I would that thou couldst see thy way to an attack at once."

Moving to the entrance of the cave the priest, Edgar, and Peter took counsel together.

"What food have ye collected to feed this great host of thy people, Father Armand?" asked Edgar quietly. He could see that the priest was over-excited, and wished to bring him back to cooler thoughts as well as to find out exactly how matters lay with his new command.

"But little, I fear," replied the priest. "We are so poor that food and money can only be gathered in the smallest quantities. Any man that hath more than his starving fellows is soon relieved of his surplus by the arch-robbers of the castle."

"Men cannot fight well with half-starved bodies," responded Edgar, shaking his head. "Nevertheless we must do the best we can with the means at our disposal. How are the enemy off for food? How often do they receive fresh supplies? I should dearly love to begin the campaign by capturing the wagons bringing to them their ill-gotten stores."

"I know not when the next falls due, but always of late they have sent mounted men-at-arms to escort the wagons to the castle. Several armed guards, too, accompany their cattle when they are driven forth and back to pasture every morning."

"Ha! Where pasture they the cattle?"

"At a field a short way along the road in the opposite direction to the village."

"Those cattle must be captured, Father. 'Twill be a blow to the enemy, and at the same time provide us with food for our starving levies."

Many more questions Edgar asked, until he had a full grasp of the situation and could help to plan for the great attack. Presently from their discussions a plan emerged and took shape, and when the council of war broke up a definite course of action, which seemed to give the priest, at any rate, full satisfaction, had been decided upon.

The drilling was resumed, this time under Edgar's direction, and arms were again inspected under the experienced eye of the armourer's assistant. It soon became generally understood that the morrow was to witness the opening of the attack, and the men went about their tasks with a zest and eagerness that had been absent an hour or two before. With scarce a moment's intermission the preparations continued till night came and a semblance of peace fell upon the warlike scene.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*The Opening of the Attack*

"Let every man understand that silence is of far more importance than speed," said Edgar to the priest the following morning, as the latter put himself at the head of a body of forty men carrying spades in addition to their weapons. "If you do your work thoroughly and silently Peter and I will see that you are not disturbed."

"The work shall be done, and done well," responded the priest cheerfully. "See thou, Sir Squire, to thy part. To thee the conflict--and let it be victory, for defeat at the outset will be hard indeed to bear."

"Father," responded Edgar quietly, "I have told thee why I have come again and why I must enter yon castle. With such responsibility resting on my shoulders, am I likely to submit to failure while there is a chance of victory? Can I return to my master alive and unsuccessful?"

The priest grasped Edgar by the hand and wrung it warmly. "For thee as well as for me it is victory or the grave," he said simply. Then he gave the word to his men and the band marched steadily away.

Peter's band followed next. It numbered only about thirty strong, but was composed of the younger and more alert-looking men. Lastly came the largest body, commanded by Edgar. This was clearly composed of the toughest fighting material among the peasantry, and appeared to be intended to bear the brunt of any fighting that might ensue.

While the men were on the move, spies came and reported that the cattle belonging to the castle had, as usual, been driven to their pasture, escorted by a body of ten mounted men-at-arms.

"The guard waxes stronger every day," said the priest meaningly. "They must, I fear, have an inkling of what is afoot."

Edgar nodded. "It may only be an inkling," he said.

The three bodies of men presently arrived at the road which led from the castle gates through the thick woods for about four hundred yards before it branched in two, the one track leading to the village and the other to the fields in which the castle cattle grazed. A few paces from the point where the roads separated a halt was made, and the priest's contingent flung down their weapons and grasped their spades. A section of the roadway was pointed out to them, and, using the utmost caution, that no sound might penetrate to the castle, the men began to dig with a suppressed energy which told how much their hearts were in their work.

Satisfied that they understood the need for silence and could be relied upon, Edgar dispatched Peter and his band along the road for a hundred yards or so in the direction of the castle. Their office was to intercept and capture all who came that way, and, at all costs, to prevent their return to the castle with news of what was proceeding.

Edgar then gave the word to his own men and marched them off upon the road taken by the cattle and their escort. A few hundred yards from the field in which the animals were pastured he called a halt, and posted the men in the woods on either side of the track, ready to ambush the men-at-arms on their return to the castle.

Free for the moment, he made his way to the edge of the woods overlooking the field, and stood for some time watching the escort of men-at-arms. In the ordinary way one of their number would have been set to watch while the others flung themselves down to rest or to dice away their time. Instead of that, however, they had gathered together in a group, and appeared to be eagerly discussing some matter of absorbing interest. It seemed only too clear that by some means the castle had gained an inkling of what was going on, and equally clear that the difficulties and dangers of the peasants' task had been increased fourfold.

The morning wore on until the time for the return of the cattle arrived. They were collected and, preceded by two men, were driven back along the road by which they had come, the rest of the guard following behind.

Suddenly and without warning a shrill whistle sounded. A rush of men from the undergrowth on each side of the road instantly followed. The men-at-arms forming the escort were not unready, but they were spread out two deep, and the attackers were among them before they could gather thickly in defence. A wild and confused struggle ensued. Edgar's own dash forward brought him into contact with two soldiers, the farther one of whom instantly snatched a horn from his belt and placed it to his lips. Guessing that the man was about to signal for assistance, Edgar charged impetuously, cut down the man nearest to him, and sprang upon the one sounding the alarm.

The action, swift as it was, came too late, and for some moments the note of the horn resounded unchecked high above the din of the conflict. Without pausing in his attack Edgar listened eagerly for a reply, and in a few seconds caught the answering note of a horn wound long and full. The sound came from the direction of the castle, and, as it ceased, in its place he seemed to hear the deeper note of a loud cheer of encouragement.

The encouragement came too late, however, for by that time all resistance was at an end. Seven of the men-at-arms had been cut down, and the remainder overwhelmed and forced to surrender.

"Re-form into rank, men--onward!" cried Edgar, and without waiting to count the cost of the victory, the band was rapidly marched back the way it had come, six men being left behind to guard the prisoners and to take charge of the captured cattle.

"Hark!" suddenly cried one of the men, raising his hand in the air.

The harsh, unmistakable rattle of the chains of the castle drawbridge could plainly be heard, followed in a few seconds by the hollow, distant beat of horses' hoofs upon the planking, as though a troop of horsemen was spurring vigorously across.

"Follow me," cried Edgar, breaking into a run, and at top speed the men sped down the track towards the place where a few hours before they had left the band commanded by the priest hard at work.

Rounding a bend they came in full sight of the spot, but before them the roadway stretched, to all appearances, as firm and unbroken as ever. Could their comrades have failed them? Not a soul was in sight until, in the distance, a strong body of men-at-arms, headed by two knights clad in full armour, appeared galloping rapidly towards them. At the sight of the loose body of armed peasantry in front of them the knights and their following sent up a savage cheer of exultation, and, setting spurs to their horses, thundered furiously down upon the others.

At the grim, heart-shaking spectacle, Edgar felt his men involuntarily check their speed.

"Rally, men, and charge the tyrants!" he cried loudly, and, echoing his words, his men recovered their nerve and pressed along after him.

Rapidly the two forces closed in upon one another until but a few yards of the roadway separated them. Sir Eustace, who, with De Maupas, headed the castle garrison, had even levelled his lance full at Edgar's breast, when all of a sudden the very ground seemed to open beneath his feet! There was a rending crash as a framework of branches, covered with straw and earth, concealing a pit dug in the roadway, gave beneath his weight and sent him crashing headlong into the chasm. De Maupas and many of the men-at-arms behind, unable to stop their furious advance, fell headlong after him until the yawning pit was choked with a mass of struggling men and horses.

"Charge home!" cried Edgar, and with a wild cheer he and his men sprang upon the struggling mass and towards the files spurring to their aid. Another and more desperate combat began. From both sides and the rear sprang the men of the priest's and Peter's bands, as they issued forth from their leafy screens and attacked the astounded garrison.

Edgar's first object was to keep the men-at-arms still in the saddle from rescuing the two knights struggling in the pit. Desperately he fought, but the men-at-arms as desperately charged forward, and with all their weight and impetus swept him and his men violently back. The two knights, clad in full armour, were little hurt by their heavy fall, and in a few minutes they were successfully extricated from the struggling mass and helped upon spare horses. Then with loud cries of encouragement to one another, the men-at-arms re-formed in a solid body and began to forge their way slowly and irresistibly back to the castle.

Time after time Edgar flung himself into their ranks, attended by such of his men as dared to follow, and strove to break up their formation and keep them from winning their way back to shelter. But though his vastly superior swordplay enabled him easily to vanquish individuals, a surge forward of several men each time flung him roughly backwards, and at last the survivors of the garrison reached the edge of the wood, and were able to gallop unchecked across the sward to the castle drawbridge. The bridge was still down, and the battered remnant filed sullenly and silently back into the castle courtyard. The gates crashed to behind them, and with many jolts and jars the drawbridge was drawn up, interposing the still waters of the moat between them and their exulting foes.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*The Plight of Beatrice*

It was known that the garrison of the castle numbered some fifty men all told, exclusive of the two knights. In the attack on the cattle guard ten men had been accounted for, and in the battle about the pit seventeen had been killed outright or had fallen into the hands of their enemies. The garrison was thus reduced to less than half its former strength. Confident that there was now no likelihood of a sally of a body of mounted men which might prove disastrous on the open ground about the castle, Edgar re-formed his men and led them in a solid body out of the woods towards the castle gates. After so decisive a victory it seemed well to try to overawe the garrison by a demonstration of strength, in the hope that some of their number might sue for terms.

Horns were blown, and, after a few minutes' interval, two figures appeared on the outer walls above the gates. They were Sir Eustace de Brin and Sir Gervaise de Maupas.

Sir Eustace appeared almost beside himself with rage and humiliation. Shaking his mailed fist at the men ranged in rank upon the green sward below, he shouted furiously:

"Brood of vipers--who commands?"

Edgar looked at the priest, who motioned him to reply.

"Father Armand and I, Edgar Wintour, esquire of Wolsingham, command."