Chapter IV: The Jongleur and the Greenwood Men

"Ay, 'tis clerkly done, Hugh," approved Prior Thomas, as he conned the spotless rolls of parchment. "With these at my hand it will go hard an I do not keep your lands in as good order as when you were a witless babe."

He drew his chair closer to the brazier that warmed the room.

"One week more," he mused. "And then you, too, dear lad, will be gone hence, leaving only a memory in our hearts."

"I fear me there will be much for you to do," said Hugh.

"Nay, an the King leave us be--." The Prior shook his head. "Even King John will think twice ere he assails the protection of St. Cuthbert of Crowden."

"Small chance of that," agreed Hugh. "But Robin Fletcher grows old, and he must be watched in little things."

"Brother Henri, the keenest of our clerks, shall follow his affairs. But now, Hugh, tell me--hast planned the journey to Outremer?"

"That have I!" Hugh's voice rang with satisfaction. "Every ell of the way, me seems, Ralph and I have plotted over."

"And where is Ralph?"

"He is gone to London town to fetch back the new harness Master Martin the Armourer in East Cheap hath forged for me."

"You will go bravely as becomes your father's son. That is right. As to funds, Hugh, all that you require shall be sent by trusty hands to Messer Tiepolo Aldobrandini in Venice. He is a right trusty banker who traffics through all the lands of Outremer. You have only to acquaint him as to its disposition. The Venetians are godless people, lacking in respect for the Holy Apostle of Rome, but they are to be trusted in business matters."

"You think of everything, Father Prior," acknowledged Hugh. "An I live through my venturing to return to Chesby, Crowden Priory shall be the richer by a saintly relic."

"'Twill not be declined, Hugh, but I would have you believe I think for you because I love you. Betwixt us and Lord Godwin we shall hold Chesby safe against quarrelling barons and the greenwood men."

Hugh rose with a clang of metal.

"You are armed, fair son?"

Hugh flushed.

"For practice sake," he explained. "Soon I must wear armour by day and night. I accustom myself to it with this light suit of mail beneath my surcoat."

Prior Thomas crossed himself involuntarily.

"Our Lady guard you," he exclaimed. "'Tis sober truth few of those who pass to Outremer come home again."

"With Ralph at my back I may go anywhere and return safe," answered Hugh. "I would I had another as brave and sturdy as he."

"Certes, you will take a foison of men-at-arms!" expostulated the Prior.

"That is not my mind."

"But, fair son, you must needs have a few spears behind you! The dangers----"

"Dangers do not court the traveller who travels simply," asserted Hugh. "Nay, Father Thomas, an I do not change my mind, Ralph and I fare forth alone upon this quest. It were not right to risk my men. The King hath not approved a crusade in England, and the mission is my own."

He spoke quietly, with a strange, suppressed dignity that Prior Thomas noticed with a sigh.

"How much you have aged in the year just past!" said the priest. "I think of the day you rode in with Edith, a twelve-month gone, the sparkle of spring in your eyes and cheeks, youthful, carefree, happy. And to-day--fair son, you are no longer a youth! Hast become a man."

"I pray so," answered Hugh soberly. "An St. James aid me, I shall prove it anon. Give you god-den, holy father. I must ride for Chesby."

In the Priory courtyard he mounted the grey stallion that one of the lay brothers brought forward, and rode slowly through the gateway, past the plantations and Priory farms into the bosky shades of Crowden Wood. His thoughts were busy with old memories, and he gave no heed to the grey stallion's pace. The wise horse tossed his head as he felt the loose rein, peered sideways, then trotted toward the London Road.

In his mind's eye Hugh saw the last ride he had taken with Edith. Every scene stood forth--the wild scamper after the fox, the baying hounds, the dank smell of the mould underfoot, the plunge into the sunlight when the hounds killed--and the sudden meeting with Mocenigo. Since then no word had reached them of Edith, save only a brief scrawl on parchment left at Blancherive by a wandering palmer. She was safe. So much it said; no more. Hugh caught himself wondering if she was as happy as she had been at Blancherive.

The palmer was an uncouth, hairy fellow, not over-clean; but after a hearty meal and a horn of heated ale, he had been induced to recount his travels to a small circle of gentlefolk and a larger ring of men-at-arms, squires and bailiffs. Hugh had listened eagerly to his description of Constantinople.

"Ah, Lords, there is a city! A city, said I? Beshrew me, fair sirs, 'tis an empire in itself. It is set at the very centre of the earth, so they say. The great Emperor Constantine, first of the Roman Cæsars to adopt Christ, by some art-magic, or perchance a vision of the Virgin--he was oft favoured by Our Lady, we are told--was brought to knowledge that here was the precise central spot of mankind. And here he determined to plant a city which should out-do Rome. He commanded that the city should be built. He brought artisans, merchants, nobles, soldiers, masons, all men needful for a great city. So grew Constantinople."

"Is it larger than the Holy City?" had asked Sir Godwin.

"Larger? My lord, Jerusalem would not fill one of the outer wards of Constantinople. 'Tis larger than any other four cities in the world."

"And it is strong?" questioned Hugh.

"Lordling," returned the palmer, "'tis girt about by land and sea with the hugest walls men ever reared. On two sides these walls are washed by the sea. On the third side, which faceth toward Europe, there is a moat as wide and deep as a river and three walls rise one above the other. In a thousand years no enemy hath forced it."

"It is very rich?" pressed Hugh.

"All the wealth of the world, but for what little trickles through their fingers, have the Greeks amassed in Constantinople. Never were there such riches. Gold and gems and silks and spices--everything that men set store by flows to Constantinople from the East and the West, from the North and the South. The heathen of Russia, the Bulgarians, the Hungarians, the Saracens, the Turks, the Moors, the Mongols, the Franks--all these and many more people come to Constantinople to traffic or send thither their wares. Within the walls the Emperor hath two great palaces, each as large as a city, and all of the nobles have palaces builded of stone, each as strong as a fortress and as fair as a dream. It hath churches greater than were builded by the giants of old. Of relics there is a profusion like unto nothing imaginable."

And with the light of fanaticism blazing in his eyes the palmer had launched into a harangue on the priceless contents of the treasure chests of Constantinople's scores of churches. To this phase of the pilgrim's narrative Hugh paid slight attention. What he remembered was the glowing account of riches and magnificence beyond anything he had ever known. In such surroundings, flattered by a brilliant court, made much of by the facile Greek nobles, what chance was there that Edith would remember old friends in far-off, savage England? Already, mayhap, he was become a hazy memory, to be thrust hastily aside as an intruder upon the festivals of the present.

At the thought, Hugh drove his spurs involuntarily into the grey stallion's flanks. The horse bounded forward, and Hugh snatched up the reins, for the first time aware of his surroundings. He was in the ride through which he and Edith had chased the fox that day they blundered upon Mocenigo's company. In the distance the dusty white surface of the London Road gleamed in its setting of greenery.

Hugh stroked the stallion's neck.

"Steady, Beosund," he rebuked. "I meant not the pricks. Nay, lad----"

But the horse reared on his hind-legs, pawing frantically, as a swarm of silent figures rushed from the trees. Hands grasped the bridle, tore at the stirrups. A lithe fellow in woodland green leaped astride the stallion's back behind Hugh, grinding a dagger into his ribs. Hugh struggled to cast the man off, but a sinewy arm bound him helpless. He felt his feet withdrawn from the stirrups, saw hot eyes glistening at him on every side, knives slicing at his surcoat.

"Curse the Norman dog! He's armoured," growled the fellow who had been exploring Hugh's ribs.

He spoke in the Saxon dialect, of which Hugh had a fair understanding.

"Slit his throat, then," ordered a burly ruffian, who seemed to direct operations.

Hugh made a frantic effort, and tore loose one foot, bringing the heavy spur hard against the grey stallion's satin side. Frantic with pain, the great horse plunged and kicked, tossing the attackers right and left. In the confusion Hugh rolled clear, dragging with him the man who clung to his back. Over and over they spun, stabbing and pummelling in the soft forest-mould, and suddenly Hugh found himself stumbling to his feet on the edge of the London Road, the whole pack of the woodland men close on his heels.

Flight was impossible, so Hugh drew his sword and set his shoulders against a tall oak that thrust its roots deep under the Roman embankment.

"How, knaves," he panted, "art balked? Come, try me in the front. My back you have missed."

They circled him warily, a hangdog crew of landless men and wastrels, some minus ears or hands, others with slit noses, several cruelly branded. All were clothed in woodland green, and each wielded a long, sinister knife. There were eight or nine of them, but they seemed none too eager to come to close quarters.

"I say the Norman dog is armoured," repeated the man who had leaped up behind Hugh. "Why waste lives on him? A clothyard shaft will do the trick, and no blood spilled."

"Ay," returned the fellow who had ordered the slitting of Hugh's throat, "and if he dies by the arrow we shall have the Sheriff and the King's Verderers out to take vengeance on us. The greenwood will be too hot for comfort, my word on't. A knife, now--that's another matter. One knife is the same as the next, and there be a-many weasand-slitters are not killers of the King's deer."

"I like it not," objected a third fellow. "I came not here to be killed in a stranger's quarrel."

"We came to earn good ale and bread," returned the leader. "One charge and he falls."

They strung out and advanced cautiously. At a cluck from the lips of their chief they came together in a group, and whilst Hugh's attention was diverted by this manoeuvre, one of them made a quick dash, ducking and aiming to strike under his guard. But Hugh saw the trick and cut downward, severing the man's head from his shoulders. The rest of the band recoiled.

"Hast had enough?" demanded Hugh.

They yelped at him like so many wolves.

"What said I?" howled their leader. "We must all at him together. Every blade, lads. And if some die, why, there will be more ale for the rest."

They answered with a long-drawn yelp of hatred and, stirred to madness by the spouting blood of their comrade, closed around Hugh in a rancid, furry tangle of knotted limbs and shifting knives. In a minute he was down in the dust of the road, and they were falling over him, cutting each other in their fury, snarling and gnashing their teeth, screaming curses and scratching and pounding when their knives were useless.

Hugh fought as best he could, twisting and turning behind their bodies to dodge the knife-thrusts at throat and face, shortening his sword to fend off blows under his hauberk. But the struggle was hopeless. He knew he must weary and falter, and in that moment die. But the realisation steeled him to fresh efforts. He tore loose from a man who grappled his sword-arm, stabbed into the groin of a second, and shook off a third who pinned his legs. He was almost free, and staggered to his feet--only to be overwhelmed again under a wave of sweating, evil faces. Filthy hands groped at his throat; a knife flashed in his eyes.

"Edith," he gasped. "St. James! My soul----"

There was a rattle of hoofs on the roadway, a sharp cry and clang of steel.

"Christ and the Sepulchre! Forward! Out upon you, knaves!"

The greenwood men turned like bayed wolves on the rescuer, but he hacked a path through them and won to Hugh's side. He was a quaint contrast to that ring of forest outlaws, tired in a flaring surcoat of bright colours over silvered mail, his red cap peaked by a trailing feather. He was slim in build, with a dark, hawk-nosed face and eyes that smouldered on far-away visions. But what caught Hugh's eye at once was the sword that he wielded so skilfully, a strange, curved blade, wholly unlike the straight sword of Western Europe. In his left hand, too, the stranger carried a dagger, long and somewhat curved, and this served him as a shield to parry the blows that rained upon him.

As Hugh scrambled to his feet, the leader of the outlaws leaped in to close quarters, endeavouring to strike behind the rescuer's back and catch Hugh unawares. But the stranger warded him off, and in retaliation sliced him down the arm with a peculiar side-long stroke.

"Hast gained your breath, lord?" he asked Hugh casually. "Ay? Then shall we charge this rabble?"

Hugh nodded, and the two sprang forward, side by side, blades whistling. The stouter of the greenwood men stood their ground until the steel bit flesh. Then they scattered and ran.

Hugh paused at the wood's edge.

"No farther?" enquired his rescuer.

"It is not safe," answered Hugh. "These woodland men carry bows, and if they should undertake to loose shafts at us all our armour might not withstand them."

"So? Then why did they not slay you out of hand?"

"That is what I would find out," returned Hugh grimly.

He sought the roadside where lay one of his assailants, bleeding freely from a deep wound in the groin.

"Make haste," advised the stranger. "The rascal will be sped an you tarry."

Hugh nodded and knelt at the man's side.

"Hark to me," he commanded. "I am the Lord of Chesby. Dost know that, fellow?"

"Yes," groaned the man.

"Why would you have slain me? Tell me true and a Mass shall be said for your soul's rest."

"We were paid."

"By whom?"

"I know him not."

"You lie." Hugh frowned down at him. "Tell me the truth."

"It is the truth, lord. He was known to none of us. He rode up from the sea."

"From the sea?" An idea entered Hugh's head. "What manner of man was he?"

"Short--swart--pockmarks on his face." The robber talked with difficulty. "He--was--from--the--sea."

Hugh rose.

"Do you make aught of this gibberish?" enquired the stranger, wiping his sword with a handful of grass.

"Enough to set me thinking, sir knight."

"Ah, an old enemy hath hired them?"

"I am disposed to think so."

"An you seek him out later, I should be pleased to attend you," proffered the stranger eagerly.

"I thank you, sir knight," answered Hugh, "but if he be the man I suspect, he himself is a-many leagues distant from this."

"That is bad," deplored the other. "Quick vengeance is always the best. But I would have you know, lord, that I am no knight, although I wear harness."

Hugh looked his surprise.

"By Our Lady, sir," he returned, "you fight like a paladin from Outremer."

The stranger smiled.

"Sir," said he, "you do me too much honour. It is true that I come from over-sea and that I have served my apprenticeship to battle in the Holy Land, but I am no more than a poor wandering jongleur, going from land to land and from court to court and from castle to castle, wherever gentlefolk love to hear brave tales and stirring songs. And when I may not sing--why, then, I am pleased to fight, and the odds be good enough."

"Is it permitted to enquire your name, Messer Jongleur?" asked Hugh.

The stranger bowed.

"I am known as Matteo of Antioch," he said.

"And I," said Hugh, "am Hugh de Chesby."

"De Chesby? You are of the same stock as the great Sir James?"

"He was my father," replied Hugh proudly.

The jongleur extended his hand.

"That is brave news! A son of the great Sir James! Do you but sit by the roadside a moment, lordling, and I will sing you a romaunt of Sir James that hath pleased the Lords of Toulouse and Provence--ay, and the mighty Lion-Heart, your own King."

Before Hugh could say a word the jongleur crossed the road to a palfrey that browsed on the grass, and from behind the saddle took a bulky package, which contained a stringed instrument called a gittern. He swept his fingers over the strings with practiced ease.

"Now, they say and tell and relate," he began.

But Hugh interrupted.

"I crave your pardon, Messer Matteo," he said, "but the spot is not one I should select for entertainment, in view of the recent diligence hereabouts of my enemies. An I have your leave, I would suggest we delay the romaunt until we reach my castle of Chesby, which is but a short ride hence. There I shall be pleased to have you for my guest, an you will honour me."

The jongleur quickly disposed of his instrument in its wrappings.

"Messer Hugh," he said, "it was indeed thoughtless of me to risk your safety again. But that is a romaunt I am more proud of than any other I have composed, and I am most anxious to have your opinion concerning its presentation of the facts. For, by all the Saints, none should be better qualified than the son of your father to judge if I have done full justice to Sir James's memory."

"His memory!" repeated Hugh. "Sure, you do not deem him dead?"

The jongleur gave him a swift look.

"That is a long story," he answered. "But let us put off this talk until we be safe from the arrows of yon knaves."