Chapter VIII: Part 8

"Not for a few weeks, I fear me. He hath other matters, and this attack on his esquire hath put him out."

"Thou wast wondrous kind to the lad at the tilt. All men marvelled what could be the cause."

"A wish of my daughter's, as thou knowest. The lad was passing gentle to us as we came hither; and he is a good lad, and one of my own house too."

"But he's parlous sweet on Mistress Yolande, and there's them as says she means to marry him, and old Sir William is going to make him his heir."

The knight's face grew black.

"Enough! enough! I would I could get me to France. I hear the Lord Daubigny will be returning shortly. We must join him at Southampton. Dan has got the old boat mended?"

"Ay, ay; she'll do for us as far as Southampton, or, for that matter, we could make shift over to Barfleur in her ourselves."

"That's well; and now leave me, I would think awhile."

The next morning Magdalen was sent back to the cell at Appuldurcombe, much to her discontent. Before she left, however, she had the further dissatisfaction of learning that Master Bowerman was not only in a fair way of recovery, but that he so plausibly accounted for his being in hiding, and having run away from Carisbrooke Castle, that her father not only seemed to believe him quite guiltless of the attack on Ralph Lisle, but even appeared to look upon him with much favour as an injured man, and a sufferer by reason of his inclinations towards the exiled Yorkists.

It was important to make as many friends as possible, and the Bowermans were likely to become more influential in the island by reason of their recent alliances.

The story Bowerman gave was, that being outside the castle on the evening of the first tilt, he had heard of the mysterious assault on Ralph as he came back, and well knowing how he would be suspected, and being also--he could not deny it--disgusted with the favour shown that fortunate young man, he had determined to get away. He had had some previous relations with the other seaman, who had smuggled articles into the castle for him, and had been useful to him in many other ways before; and he had been already sounded on the subject of the late plot to annoy the Government, and had entered into correspondence with the Yorkist secret agents. Although he knew about the fugitives, he did not know where they were in hiding, the knight's two retainers being far too cautious and trusty to betray their secret. He, however, resolved to remain in concealment until he could get away, and for that purpose he had come over to the wildest part of the island, as being the safest place, and also where he was most likely to meet with Dan the fisherman.

The account he gave of his accident was, that having been hard pressed that day by some of the garrison of Carisbrooke who had been sent out to find him, he had climbed down the cliff and remained there until dusk. Hearing fresh steps, he had tried to get further round the face of the cliff, and had slipped on to the ledge where they found him. That he was partially stunned, and seeing the light in that awful place, he had thought they were spirits, and he had fainted away, as a result of physical exhaustion and supernatural dread.

It suited the knight's purpose to listen favourably to this tale, and with an air of belief, and he even went so far as to sympathise with Master Bowerman in his wrongs and grievances, and the accident to Ralph Lisle was never afterwards referred to.

Magdalen, who was allowed very often to see her father, whose secret appeared fully known to the Prioress of the little community, and who belonged to a well-known Yorkist house, was dismayed to find how very intimate Bowerman had become, and was still more embarrassed to discover that he was desirous of ingratiating himself with her. One morning, about a month after the tourney, when she had come over earlier than usual, the girl noticed a decided stir going on in the little cave. Armour was being burnished up, and a couple of stout lances were being critically examined by her father. There was never much effort at keeping matters secret from Magdalen, and the conversation, or rather few remarks which fell from her father, were hardly interrupted by the arrival of the young girl, who brought over a supply of fresh butter and eggs, with a few other necessaries. Magdalen had always to be very careful when she came near the gorge, lest any stray country folk should see her. But this part of the island was thinly populated, and she had never yet met with any one. The Hermit of St Catherine's knew her secret, and she looked upon the good old man as one of her best friends. While she was arranging the contents of her basket, she heard her father say,--

"Thou wilt see that all is ready, and in case of ill befalling, I trust to thy bearing this missive to Sir John Clifford. Dan will go with thee. The boat is all ready."

"In sooth, my lord, I will do thy bidding. But I fear no mischance. I have seen myself thy prowess, and heard more. He cannot stand before thee for one course even."

"Humph! 'Tis a good lance, and there are risks always; but I have my just cause, and I trust in the right."

"Thou wilt have Dan and Simon there also?"

"Ay, ay. They can come, and fully equipped, too; but they must take no part, whate'er betide."

Magdalen noticed a peculiar look in Master Bowerman's eye, and detected a meaning glance exchanged between him and the most sinister-looking of the seamen.

What could they be talking about? she wondered. She always dreaded some terrible fate befalling her father. She knew his stern, fearless disposition, and she also knew that he nursed the most inveterate hatred to the Captain of the Wight. He had never told her why, but if ever his name were mentioned, she noticed that he seemed to lose all control over himself, and would utter the most dreadful maledictions on his name and family.

"There is going to be some fearful fight, I know there is," she murmured. "Oh, if only I could find out when it takes place and where. Perhaps Bowerman would tell me. He seems to wish to please me; why, I don't know."

She little knew that if only the Yorkist party, whose hopes were centred on the imprisoned Earl of Warwick, could upset the present government, her father would be a person of great distinction, and she would be the heiress of the Lisle property. It was well worth Bowerman, or any other aspiring youth, doing all he could to win her favour. Besides these substantial worldly advantages, she was a very sweet girl, with a fair face and noble nature. Entirely unspoilt by luxury, and brought up in the severe school of poverty and hardship, she had often compared herself to the "Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednall Green," and would shyly wonder if her fate would be like that of "pretty Bessie," and whether her adventures would end "with joy and delight," and she should have for a bridegroom "the gentle young knight

"Who lived in great joy and felicitie,
With his fair ladie, dear pretty Bessie."

When she had neatly put all the things away on some ledges of the cave which served for shelves, she went to the entrance and looked out. She noticed that the old boat, which was usually hidden under a deep cleft in the rock, out of reach of the highest tides, was now hauled down, and lying ready for launching, and that there were sundry kegs and bundles in it, looking as if there were preparations for an expedition.

The salt smell of the sea came up fresh and keen from the tumbling waves below, and the girl looked wistfully towards the south.

She felt very lonely, more so now than ever, for her father, always preoccupied before, seemed gloomier of late, and to notice her less than he used. There had been much going to and fro on the part of the seamen, and Magdalen had herself brought a missive from the Hermit only the day before, which had caused a great display of feeling on the part of her father, a flush of fierce joy passing over his countenance, as he muttered, after reading the cartel,--

"At last! Thank the saints! the matter will be settled once for all."

While Magdalen stood looking down the strange water-worn chasms, she was startled by hearing Bowerman say in a scoffing voice, but in an undertone, to Simon,--

"Marry, Simon, we are to take no part in the fray, eh?"

And then he laughed derisively, while the seaman added gruffly,--

"Not us! Well, I never; that be a good 'un. But I'll have some of their fine harness and gew-gaws, if I swing for it."

"Tush, man! thou canst have them easy enough; but 'tis their lives first we must have. He's sure to be there. He makes such a stir about him; all the more since this wound of his. Curse the weak stroke! why couldn't it have gone home?" broke off the esquire bitterly.

"Ay, ay, 'twas a bungling business that. He was but a greenhorn at that sort of work, whoever he was," said the seaman, eyeing Bowerman with a grim twinkle in his bleared eyes, as he went on furbishing up a steel breastpiece. "But he's a fine youth, that I will say," he added.

Magdalen changed her position so as to get a view of the faces of the speakers, but trying to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She noticed a flush pass over Bowerman's face as he bit his lip, but said nothing, only he felt the edge of a sword he had been scouring.

"We'll make better work of it, Simon, this time--eh?"

"Faith we will, or you may call me landlubber for the rest of my days. I owe him a grudge for having had me put in the stocks for nothing at all. 'Tis a chance will never come again. Think of his being such a fool as to trust hisself alone in a fight with our master. But he won't live long to repent it, if I get this knife into him," added the man, with an ugly "job" of the blade into a balk of timber on which he was sitting.

Magdalen shuddered. What were they talking about? She dreaded to think. There was something terrible going to take place. How should she find out? She resolved to ask her father. She stepped past the two men, and entered the cave. She found her father busied with the unusual and difficult operation of writing. He took no notice of her, and she sat still by his side, watching him laboriously forming his awkward letters.

"Father, can't I help you?" she ventured to say at last.

"What, little wench, you here still? I thought you were gone long since. What will the worthy Prioress say?"

"Oh, she won't mind; she bid me stay as long as I could help thee. But Sister Agnes looks most after me."

"Ay, and who is Sister Agnes? But there," seeing the child was going to enter upon a long account of her doings at the nunnery, "I am parlous busy now. Thou canst stay an thou mindest, and in the evening Bowerman can see thee on thy way home."

This was not at all to Magdalen's taste.

"But may I not aid thee now, father? Thou knowest I can write; and I have become a better scribe lately?"

"Hast thou so, my little wench?" said her father, stroking her head. "But these are matters beyond thee." He paused, and then went on. "Magdalen, my child, thou wilt always be a good girl, and do what the worthy Prioress tells thee. If aught taketh me away, thou wilt mind what I have said, and there will be those who will care for thee. Thou must learn to look kindly on Master Bowerman, and thy fortunes may one day be happier than now seemeth likely. But leave me now; I must settle these matters, and the time is not over long."

Magdalen, well knowing the reserved nature of her father, and not caring for the escort of Master Bowerman, especially after what she had overheard, resolved to go back to the nunnery; but she also made up her mind she would see the Hermit of St Catherine's on her way, and tell him of her anxiety.

She therefore took leave of her father, who seemed more affectionate than usual; and declining Bowerman's offer of accompanying her, she climbed the difficult path up the cliff, and disappeared over the brow of the gorge.

*CHAPTER XX.*

*HOW THE CAPTAIN KEPT TRYST.*

It was about a month after the tourney, when Ralph, who had entirely recovered from his wound, was summoned to attend the Captain of the Wight.

On entering the Lord Woodville's room, he found that nobleman standing before the fire in a contemplative attitude, and Ralph stood for a few moments in respectful silence.

Presently Lord Woodville looked up, and, noticing Ralph, resumed at once his usual manner.

"My young esquire," he said, "I have sent for thee because there is no one of my household whom I can trust more than thee."

Ralph coloured up with pleasure; he noticed with pride the change of title. He was no longer a page, but esquire to his lord. But what went to his heart far more than this was being addressed in such affectionate and trusting terms. Lord Woodville had won the boy's heart from the first by his noble bearing, handsome appearance, and lonely life. In the midst of a gay and martial household, always dignified, placid, and reserved, Lord Woodville seemed to him like some hero of romance, some knight-templar who had consecrated his life to God, and, unlike the common herd of monks, who withdrew from the world in timidity or selfish sloth, he remained in it to face the temptations, the pleasures, and the vices, and to face them not merely as an idle spectator, but as a splendid protest against the vanity of the world. Not pledged or bound by any such bonds as those by which weaker mortals sought to guard themselves from the allurements of life; not fleeing for protection to the feeble chains of monastic institutions, or even the semi-monastic life of the great military order which alone survived, but like a stout pinnacle of indestructible granite round which some stream for ever dashes its ceaseless waves, now striving to wear it away with the soft embrace and gentle murmurs of its softly wooing current, then dashing against the calm rock in the wild tumult of its turbid waters, and seeking to topple it from its base with the rage of its fierce turmoil, so stood out the life of the Lord Woodville in its tranquil strength.

Outwardly cold, but inwardly burning with the desire of martial fame; always the first in all warlike enterprise; a strict disciplinarian, but a most kind and gentle knight to all in distress or suffering, the Captain of the Wight was the beau ideal of a _preux chevalier_. In every battle of the fierce civil wars he had shown himself a daring man-at-arms, as well as a prudent chieftain, and, like his accomplished brother, he was devoted to the arts in times of peace. He was a strict observer of the religious life of the times, and although not blind to the many shortcomings of the clergy, yet he did all in his power to promote the influence of religion, and to improve all with whom he came in contact.

A deep sorrow had fallen upon him in his domestic relations. His gallant father, the Earl of Rivers, together with his brother, Sir John Woodville, had been beheaded barbarously by the orders of the great Earl of Warwick. His brilliant brother, the Lord Scales, died under the executioner's sword at the cruel mandate of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, for no other crime than attachment to his nephews and his widowed sister. His two nephews had perished, no man knew how, in the Tower of London; and he himself had been blighted in his affections at an early age. His mother had laboured under the accusation of sorcery and witchcraft--a most dangerous charge in those days. His sister, the lovely Elizabeth Woodville, was mistrusted by the cold and calculating Henry; while his niece, the young and still more beautiful Elizabeth, although consort of the King, was not yet crowned Queen, in spite of having been married more than a year and a half, and having borne an heir to the two rival houses.

To relieve his active mind and vigorous frame from these anxieties, the Captain of the Wight welcomed every chance of wielding his sword or plying his lance in the stern excitement of war.

At this moment there was going on across the water a contest which had peculiar fascinations for a chivalrous mind. The aged and weak Francis, Duke of Brittany, with his young daughter, the celebrated Anne, the future wife of two kings, and mother of one Queen of France, was now being besieged by the whole force of that kingdom. The English King was repeatedly solicited to bring or send over assistance, and he was strongly tempted to interfere in the quarrel, on the urgent grounds of private gratitude and national policy; but, only just secured on his throne by a victorious battle over a desperate enemy, and well aware how many secret foes he had, Henry VII. was unwilling to draw upon himself the active hostility of France, as well as the perpetual machinations of the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy. He therefore listened to the ambassadors of both the contending powers, but publicly refused to interfere by men or money.

Many, however, of Henry's subjects, tired of inaction, and early inured to arms, longed to take part in the struggle, and no one believed that the King would really be sorry if private adventurers undertook what he was prevented from doing ostensibly from reasons of State policy.

The Lord Woodville was well acquainted with the cautious, cold, and calculating disposition of Henry VII. He had known him in exile, when they both fled to the hospitable Court of the Duke of Brittany, where the young Earl of Richmond had given promise of his virtues and his faults, and he had little doubt that, although he would forbid publicly any interference in the wars in Brittany, he would secretly be grateful to any one who would help to save that province from becoming an actual part of France, and thus inflict another blow on England's hereditary enemy. For no one then doubted that whatever weakened a neighbour was a gain to oneself.

The Captain of the Wight had lately pondered deeply over these matters, and he was urged by his inclination, as well as by motives of ambition, to take part in this struggle. He was also influenced by a strong impulse. His life had latterly become well nigh unbearable. Old memories of the lady he had loved so ardently had been strangely stirred. He had been strongly reminded of her by the face of the nun. He knew he was accused by his lost love's husband of having received her when she fled from her home--driven away by her own misery and the cruelty of her husband. Pledged to each other by mutual affection in early youth, Sir Edward Woodville had been separated by the animosities of the time, and his own want of fortune, from the object of his youthful love. Her father, a fierce Lancastrian, had died in the merciless battle of Towton, and the young lady, by the death of her father now become a ward of the Crown, was given, as a reward for his support, to young George Lisle, who had disobeyed his father, and taken part in the civil wars, on the side of the White Rose. The young esquire was knighted by Edward IV. on the battlefield, and from that time forward was first in tilt and fight, and the most devoted of the adherents of the House of York. But as the marriage was the result of compulsion on the one side, and of ambition on the other, no happiness could ensue; and the neglect of the husband, combined with his fierce temper and ungovernable ways, acting upon the passionate disposition of his wife, who fought against her destiny like some imprisoned bird against the bars of its cage, caused such misery to result, that at last, after the birth of an only daughter, the wretched wife fled, no one knew whither; but all men who knew her story suspected to her old love, Sir Edward Woodville, who was in exile. The successful fight of Bosworth Field reversed the situation, and the husband had to become the exile in turn, while Sir Edward Woodville, restored to his rank and position, succeeded his murdered brother in the lordship of the Wight. The two rivals had never met since the marriage, excepting once, about a month after that event. It was at a tournament, and Sir Edward Woodville purposely chose the opposite side to that on which Sir George Lisle was challenger. The shock was fierce, and both knights were unhorsed; but Sir Edward Woodville, in the second encounter, hurled his antagonist from the saddle, and carried off the prize of the tourney. After this, Sir Edward Woodville was employed on affairs of State which kept him away from the Court, and during the whole of the last reign he had resided abroad.

Equally with the rest of the world he was ignorant as to what had become of Lady Lisle; and although he was well aware that he was credited with aiding in her flight, and, indeed, of secretly providing her with a refuge, he was far too haughty to take any steps to contradict this statement, merely contenting himself by remarking that, 'if men wished to believe lies, certes he could not prevent them.'

"Ralph," said Lord Woodville, "I have need of a trusty esquire. I have noticed thy hardihood and devotion to me; wouldst thou wish to be put still more to the proof?"

"My lord, only try me; there is naught I would not do in thy service."

"Then, my fair esquire, as thou art now full strong again, and art in good trim to ride forth in harness, at ten o' the clock this evening thou must be on the road to Gatcombe, armed _cap-a-pie_, and mounted on thy stoutest charger. Thou wilt wait there, at about a mile from the castle, until I meet thee, and wilt go forth with me where I shall lead. It may be a dangerous service; that, I know well, will only make thee all the more wishful to go. But I would not willingly imperil thy young life, and I fain trust there is naught that will do thee hurt. Thou must tell no man, and prepare thee for the coming venture. Go now, therefore, and take rest, eat well, and make all ready against the time appointed."

Full of joyful pride at the thought of his lord's confidence, and delighted at the prospect of the mysterious adventure to be undertaken alone with the Captain of the Wight, Ralph retired.

"Why, Ralph, how joyous thou seemest," said Dicky Cheke, whom he met in the courtyard. "What's come to thee, man?"

But Ralph only gaily twitched his ear in passing, and went out to the stables to look at his horse, his favourite, White Willie. The injury to his other war-horse was so severe that it was still unfit for service, and those learned in horse-flesh gave it as their opinion that it was doubtful whether he could ever be of use again.

Although very careful search had been made for Eustace Bowerman, he had not been seen or heard of since the night of the attempt on Ralph's life. In the inquiry that followed, the fact of Newenhall having given Ralph the message which sent him to the gate told very greatly against that young man. Asked to explain, he said he was told to give the message to Ralph by an unknown man; and when asked to describe the stranger, he said it was so dark he could not make him out. As all this was very unsatisfactory, and as his conduct was totally unsuited to a page or esquire in the service of so martial a chief as the Captain of the Wight, Newenhall had been dismissed, and was now, much to the delight of the other pages, enjoying the tranquillity of his own home. Two new pages had lately come to take the place of Bowerman and Newenhall, who were merry, high-spirited boys, and with whom Dicky Cheke and Maurice Woodville got on very much better. Ralph had so greatly distinguished himself that he was far removed over the heads of the others, and, had it not been for his naturally sweet disposition, might have become spoilt by such rapid advancement.

The rest of the day was passed by Ralph in carefully examining his arms. Humphrey had seen to everything during the time his young master was laid by, and all the parts of his armour, or harness, as it was called, were in first-rate condition. In addition to his sword and lance, Ralph took a beautifully-made and accurately-weighted _martel de fer_, or mace, a most deadly weapon for close combat, where its keen and powerful edges, combined with its weight, told terribly in breaking up an opponent's armour.

As the hour approached, Ralph's impatience became more and more uncontrollable, and in order to hide it, he went for a stroll on the castle battlements.

It was now the second week in November. The weather had been mild for the time of year. As Ralph stepped out into the courtyard, he noticed that the moon, now at its first quarter, was rising over Mountjoy's Tower, projecting the shadow of its well-proportioned battlements across the quadrangle. A yellow haze round the moon gave signs of a change in the weather, and the breeze seemed to come keener over the north-east wall, causing the ivy to rustle and the vane over the chapel belfry to creek and rattle. As the young esquire paused, a melodious boom vibrated on his ear. It was the big bell of Quarr Abbey sounding the curfew.

"The wind is in the east," thought Ralph; "there will be snow anon; but 'tis time Humphrey came to arm me. I marvel he cometh not. Ah, there he is," he added, and joyfully turned to go to his room.

The arming did not take long, and clad in complete steel, wearing a plain tabard, with only the red cross of St George on it, like any other man-at-arms, Ralph strode down to the hall door. He had told no one of his coming expedition, and had carried out his lord's commands as to secrecy implicitly.

Humphrey soon brought round his noble war horse, and the young esquire mounted immediately.

How exciting it seemed to him as the horse's iron shoes clanked over the drawbridge, and he heard the massive chains grating over the wheels as it was drawn up again. He rode out into the misty night, and turned his horse's head southward.

This was the first time in his life he had gone forth on a service of danger fully armed and prepared to face a foe. There was something thrillingly exciting in this night adventure alone with the Captain of the Wight. What could it mean? What danger could there be? And why, if there were any, should he, the lord of the island, go forth attended but by one esquire to affront it alone? The delight of uncertainty and mystery hung round the future, and heightened still more the glory of being the only sharer in his Captain's peril. Ralph felt he could dare anything in the presence and on behalf of such a master.

He had now reached a lonely part of the rough track which had been his road on the night when he was so nearly being dashed to pieces over the edge of that cliff. Ralph had not visited the place since, and the whole adventure seemed more than ever like a dream. As he recalled the circumstances, his thoughts reverted to the tournament, and as he thought, he suddenly recollected the curious episode of the little glove. He had never before dreamt of connecting the wearing of that glove with his success in the tilt. It now all came before him, and he pondered deeply on the strange circumstance. While thus lost in thought, he did not notice the distant sound of a horse's hoofs, and was abruptly recalled to life by seeing a steel-clad figure gleaming in the moonlight coming steadily towards him.

With the prompt action of one well trained in the skill of a man-at-arms, Ralph grasped his lance, which he had hitherto been carrying slung behind him, and placed it in rest, holding his horse in readiness to charge, and wheeling him round so as to face the newcomer, for he could not tell whether he were friend or foe.

But in another moment he brought his lance to its erect position again, and saluted his lord. It was the Captain of the Wight. He was fully armed, and wore a tilting helmet, but perfectly plain, only a little ribbon fluttered in the breeze from the spike on the crown of the helm. He looked a splendid figure of knightly grace and strength, as he sat with perfect seat his powerful horse. Round his gorget was suspended his shield, but there was no blazon on it, and he wore no tabard or surcoat over his magnificent suit of ribbed Milanese armour. The light of the moon gleamed on his steel helmet, his globular corslet, and the taces cuisses, or thigh pieces, and steel jambs which protected his legs. He carried his long lance slung from his right arm, and the butt resting in a socket at his right stirrup.

"Well met, Master Lisle," called out Lord Woodville through his closed helm. "Thou art true to tryst; 'tis a fair promise of thy worth. But haste we onward. I would be loth to be last in the field."

Wheeling his horse round, Ralph rode after his lord, keeping at a respectful distance. In this way they rode for some three miles, when the Lord Woodville called to Ralph to come up.

"My son," he said gravely, "I have sure trust in thee, as I have told thee before; that is why I have brought thee with me. As no man knoweth what may be in store for him, I have left on my table, in a casket of wrought metal, a missive. In case aught should befall me, thou wilt ride back, and have a care to take that casket with the missive to Appuldurcombe Nunnery, and leave it for Sister Agnes. Thou comprehendest perfectly? But whatever befalls, bear in mind that no word of what I have told thee get to other ears."

Ralph promised obedience, and they once more lapsed into silence.

After riding steadily for some two miles more, Lord Woodville left the beaten track, and descending a steep slope in the downs, from which the open sea was visible in all its sparkling beauty, he rode along a secluded dell towards the bold height of St Catherine's down. Having reached an old withered thorn-bush which grew in weird loneliness by the sedgy bank of a little stream, the Captain of the Wight halted.

"Certes, we are on the ground first: I see no signs of aught living."

Ralph scanned the surrounding landscape. There was a haze abroad, hindering the view for any distance. All he could see was a level sward extending towards the sea, and of considerable width, covered with close herbage, and admirably suited for a tilting match, forming a natural list.

Meanwhile the Lord Woodville had dismounted, and was tightening his horse's girths.

"Pace thy horse down the centre of yon lawn, Ralph," said his lord, "and when thou hast ridden some bow-shot length, turn back, but mark well the ground, to see if it be rough or swampy."

Ralph did as he was bid.

"There is not a hole or spongy place anywhere, my lord," he said, as he returned to Lord Woodville.

"Aha! here they come--but," said the Captain of the Wight, "I did not count on more than one."

As he spoke, Ralph looked round and saw four figures approaching. Two were mounted, and two were on foot. The mounted figures were also in complete armour, and Ralph had an impression that he had seen both before.

Lord Woodville mounted the moment he saw the new-comers approaching, and rode slowly forward to meet them, at the same time bringing his lance round, and holding it on his hip in readiness for use. Ralph having no orders, thought it best to imitate his chief, and holding his lance prepared for instant action, he followed the Captain of the Wight. When the two little groups had approached within speaking distance, Lord Woodville reined up, and lowered his lance in courteous salute to the knight opposite him--a courtesy the latter returned with much formality. Ralph noticed that the man-at-arms, who rode a little behind his chief, reined up his horse out of hearing of Lord Woodville, and appeared to be giving some directions to the two foot men, who seemed well-armed, sturdy knaves. He determined to keep a close watch on the movements of these latter, especially as he thought he recognised them as the same men who had attended on the unknown knight, and one of whom seemed intimate with Bowerman.

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*OF THE COMBAT *_*A OUTRANCE*_*.*

After the Captain of the Wight and the stranger knight had gravely saluted each other, there was a pause. The silence was broken by Lord Woodville.

"Sir Knight," he said, "you have challenged me to mortal combat. You have flung charges in my teeth that are false and foul. You have aspersed the name which you, of all men, ought most to reverence, and yet, rebel as you are, you have put yourself in my hands as Captain for the King. I come here as plain Edward Woodville, knight and simple gentleman. The Captain of the Wight has laid aside his authority to give the lie to your words, and to prove on your body the truth of his. But before we try the judgment of battle, for the sake of one who is utterly free from the vile taunts you have flung forth, I would fain tell you that as that moon floats pure and serene in yonder azure sky, so that name is as unsullied, and that life as chaste. If you are still fain to try the hazard of battle, maugre my solemn statement, here am I ready to meet you, as man to man, and may Heaven defend the right. Thou well knowest thou hast done to me the cruellest wrong one man can do to another on this earth. Thou hast blighted two lives, and thou wouldst defame them as well. If any man longed for vengeance, 'twere certes I who ought to pray for it. Yet, Heaven knoweth, I harbour no thoughts of revenge, and I would be well content that thou and I should never meet. Thou hast taken a bold step, and one that doeth credit to my knightly honour more than all thy base aspersions have done to assail it, by coming to my government, and putting thyself in my power, well knowing that for a private wrong no belted knight who deserved the name would use the power of his office to wreak vengeance on a personal foe by means of the authority given him by the King. But in sparing a fugitive from Stoke field, and in not handing him up to the royal power, I may be tried for my life, and lose all worldly renown in a traitor's death. Knowing this, thou hast put it to the hazard, and to wreak vengeance on me hast cared naught that in sparing thee I am running the chance of dying on the block. Trusting to my chivalry, and safe from my authority, because thou knewest I would use no power over thee but such as my own arm and stout lance could give me, thou hast yet dared to jeopardise my life and fame, only to meet me in mortal fight. Sir Knight, thou hast done ill, but no worse than thou hast done in all thy life."

The strange knight listened silently to the Lord Woodville. He waited to hear if he were going to say more; but after a little pause, seeing that the Captain of the Wight had finished his speech, he replied, briefly and bitterly,--

"Sir Edward Woodville--commonly called Lord Woodville,--I am here to fight, not to bandy words. I believe thou art a full worshipful knight, and therefore I did thee the honour of trusting to thy courtesy, and I was not mistaken; but as for what thou sayest, I believe not one word. Well know I that the trained and pretty merlin will return to the hand of him who trained her--while even the lanner will go back at the call of the lure. Say no more. That thou hast left me unmolested, I thank thee; for the ill thou hast done, I hate thee, and mean on thy body to take full vengeance for mine own dishonour. Let us waste no more words, but begin; I scorn thee, hate thee, and thirst to be revenged on thee."

No more words were spoken. The two knights wheeled round their horses, and paced back a sufficient distance. Then turning about, they faced each other.

The scene looked strange and spectral. The moon, blurred by a flitting mist, which flickered over its face, shone down on the ghostly figures of the gleaming horsemen. The two esquires, encased, like their lords, in complete harness, sat motionless on their horses a little behind the chief actors in the coming duel. The dark forms of the two foot men were dimly to be seen to the left of the horsemen; while beyond the silent group, the grey sea stretched away and away until it seemed to rise to the leaden clouds which hung like a livid pall beneath the silvery moon. On either side rose the dim downs, and over all a light mist clung to the shimmering landscape, making the weird figures seem more phantomlike in their faint and misty vagueness. There was nothing human in the scene. The grim forms, the strange-shaped helmets, the utter absence of all external signs of life in those steel-cased horsemen, their powerful chargers weirdly hidden in polished steel, all combined to make them look like huge monsters of a far-gone age returned to visit by the pale moonlight the haunts of their prehistoric life. Only the steam from the nostrils of the warhorses gave the least sign of actual existence to the scene. Around were the everlasting hills; beyond, the ever restless sea; above, the infinite vault of space, with the scarred and blighted face of the vapourless moon looking down on the puny strife of men whose little lives and passions are to the universe but as the indistinguishable pulses of the tiniest of microbes or as the froth of a bubble floating in infinity.

Without waiting for any word, the two knights, as if by a common impulse, clapped spurs to their chargers, and with lance in rest, and bodies well down under their shields, rode fiercely for each other. This was no gentle tilt with blunted lances, but each knight knew his existence was at stake, and that in the keen thrust of the gleaming spear-point lay life or death. They met in a hurtling crash, and the noise of splintering wood and clanging metal rang through the silence of the night. For a moment no one knew what had happened; but as the two horses broke away, it was seen that they trotted off without their riders.

Scarcely waiting to see what had happened, Ralph caught his lord's war-horse, and returned to his place. Eagerly he looked to see what had been the result. One knight had risen from the ground; the other was attempting to do so, but only feebly moved. Ralph rode nearer, and the other three figures advanced also. The excitement in Ralph's heart was intense: what should he do if his dearly loved lord were slain? A fierce thought rose. He would hurl himself on the others, and either avenge his master, or die in the attempt.

But as he drew nearer, his bitter anxiety was changed to joy. It was Lord Woodville who was on his feet, and standing over the writhing body of his antagonist.

"Yield thee, Sir George Lisle!" said the Captain of the Wight, in a stern, but feeble voice.

"I yield to no man!" came back the fierce answer, still more faintly hissed through the closed helm. "Do thy worst!"

For a moment Lord Woodville seemed uncertain what to do. He held his keen poignard in his left hand, and his drawn sword in the other, and held the point of it to the narrow opening in the close-shut helm.

But before he could form a decided resolve, a fierce voice called out,--

"Upon him, and revenge your lord."

And with lowered lance the man-at-arms charged the Captain of the Wight, while the two sturdy varlets sprang at Ralph. But the young esquire, hearing the words and seeing the movement, with a touch of the spur leaped his horse in front of his lord, and received the lance-thrust of the man-at-arms on his shield, dealing his assailant a fierce buffet in return.

"Ah, caitiff!" cried Ralph. "Vile traitor that thou art, thou shall rue thy villainy!"

"Shall I, in sooth, sir upstart?" sneered a well-known voice. "Thou hast escaped me once, but now I have thee. See, thy lord is falling to the ground."

Ralph turned instinctively to look, and at the same moment received a stunning blow on the side of his helmet which nearly knocked him out of the saddle; but he quickly recovered himself, and flinging down his lance, he seized his _martel de fer_, or mace, and reining his horse backwards, he dealt the varlet who was attacking Lord Woodville a terrific blow on the head, instantly felling the man to the ground. But it was true, Lord Woodville had fallen to the ground, and the other footman was upon him. Ralph, without a moment's hesitation, sprang from his horse and struck wildly at the man, who was just wrenching off Lord Woodville's helmet. The blow took only partial effect, but it drew the attention of the man to him, and with an oath he turned savagely upon the young esquire.

The odds were terribly against him.

"Have at the coxcomb, Dan; he's only good for tilting before ladies, and only then when they bribe their lovers to spare his dainty youth," called out the man-at-arms, as he prepared to strike Ralph again with his uplifted sword. But Ralph did not yet lose hope. The love of life was strong in him. He closed with the half-armed varlet, and dealt him a blow with his poignard, which he had now drawn. The man uttered a fearful imprecation, and cut at Ralph with his axe; but the harness of the young esquire was good, and the weapon only glanced aside. Seeing how little use was his axe, the man dropped it, and drew his dagger also, closing with Ralph, and trying to drive the point through the bars of his visor. But the boy had been well taught, and he parried the thrust on his steel gauntlet, dealing his foe a deep stab with his right hand.

"Strike him, youngster, strike him!" shouted the man, in fierce rage. "What art standing there for seeing him murdering me?"

"How can I strike him without doing thee a mischief, old stockfish? Get thyself away, and I'll soon do for him."

But Ralph fully understood his advantage, and wrestled with the man until they both fell to the ground over the prostrate body of Lord Woodville.

The man-at-arms now got off his horse and came to the assistance of the varlet who had fallen upon Ralph, but was severely wounded.

"Drive thy sword through his visor," gasped the man, whose arms were held by Ralph, who was struggling to regain his feet.

The keen point played around the helmet of the esquire, who by twisting and turning his head prevented the thrust from taking effect, but, held as he was by the weight of the varlet above him, he could not hope to avoid the blow much longer.

"Wrench off his helm, man!" cried the impatient man-at-arms.

"How can I? Don't you see he's got hold of my arms?" said the other, in a gruff voice, which was growing fainter. "Stab him! why don't ye? Stab him!"

Ralph made one more desperate effort; he drove his dagger into the caitiff above him, who with a deep groan ceased struggling and rolled over, thus freeing Ralph, who sprang to his feet and turned upon the man-at-arms.

The young esquire still had his mace hanging from the chain slung round his right arm. Seizing it in his gauntleted hand, and transferring his dagger to his left, he struck furiously at the steel-clad figure before him, parrying at the same time with his dagger a dangerous thrust aimed at his visor. The mace crashed on the helmet of his foe, and a smothered exclamation of pain and rage came from out the barred morion.

Cutting wildly at the gorget of the young esquire, the man-at-arms turned and made a dash for his horse.

"Stay, man-at-arms! Turn, caitiff that thou art!" called Ralph after him. "Ah, recreant esquire, get thee gone, then, coward that thou art!" and Ralph, who was thinking more of his lord than of the pursuit of his cowardly assailant, turned back from following him to attend to his prostrate chief.

As he bent over Lord Woodville, he noticed a dark patch on his shining armour. There was a deep dent in the globular breast-plate, and the broken end of a lance head was sticking in it.

Ralph was in despair; the Captain of the Wight lay motionless in his harness; the silence was broken only by the cry of a sea-fowl as it circled over head, and the distant thud of the sea as it rolled on the shore below. Was Ralph the only living thing in that lonely valley among the solemn hills?

He undid the buckle of his lord's helmet, and reverently removed the cumbrous tilting-helm. As he did so he heard a faint sigh from the stricken knight, and as the moonlight fell on his noble features he opened his eyes.

"My lord, my lord, thou art not dead!" cried Ralph in joy. But no answer came back, the eyes had closed again, and despair once more seized on the young esquire.

What could he do? He looked round. What was it that flickered against his face? The air was piercingly cold, and the moon had become obscured by a thickening of the air. Ralph had opened his visor, that he might attend his lord more easily. Again something flickered in his face, cold and feathery. It was snowing.

Here was a fresh cause for anxiety. Alone in that sequestered valley, who could bring them help? And he did not dare to leave his lord alone, for fear that caitiff should return to finish the murderous work. As Ralph looked round in despair at the dreary scene, his heart sank within him. The landscape was fast becoming one grey indistinguishable blot, and the feeble light of the hidden moon was turning to a sickly livid hue. In a short time, too, he knew the moon would set.

A faint noise on the left caused Ralph to look round. The four bodies lay still and stark; but there was something moving out of the grey obscurity of the distance. Ralph closed his visor and handled his sword. The dark object drew nearer, and a yellow spark seemed to be coming with it. Ralph called out,--

"Whoever thou art, hasten thy steps; if foe, that I may handle thee, or if friend, that thou mayest help my lord."

"'Tis a friend, my son, and I come apace as fast as my stiffening joints will let me," cried a deep voice.

"Thank Heaven!" murmured the esquire. "Then my lord will not die."

By this time the dim shadow had come nearer, and Ralph saw that there were two figures--one tall and burly, the other short and slight. Both were draped in long cloaks, partially covered with the fast-falling snow. The taller of the new comers carried a lantern.

Dim and ghostly the figures looked in their peaked hoods and long mantles, entirely concealing face and form.

"Ah! we have come in time: no, no, too late!" and the slighter figure uttered a shrill and bitter cry of pain, as it bent over the lifeless mass of armour which held the unknown knight.

"Look to my lord first," said Ralph shortly.

"My son, 'tis the young child's father; my lord will wait," answered the elder stranger mildly, as he went to help his childish companion.

But Ralph barred the way.

"Whoever thou art, thou shall see to my lord first," he cried, in a resolute tone.

Seeing the fierceness of the youth, the old man quietly answered,--

"As thou wilt, my son; but thou shouldest respect youth, old age, and filial grief. But go thou and help the child, while I attend to thy lord."

Ralph, rebuked, did as he was told, there was such dignity, gentleness, and authority in the voice and manner of the tall stranger.

It was now very difficult to see. The moon had set, and the snow was falling fast, while the wind sighed mournfully through the withered boughs and twigs of the lonely thorn tree.

"May God have mercy on all dying souls!" murmured the dim shadow as it bent over the pale face of Lord Woodville; and Ralph could have sobbed aloud in anguish of heart as he felt his lord was dead.

"Oh, help me! help me! Master Lisle!" cried the agonised voice of the other stranger, shivering with cold and pain of heart. "Undo his helm or he will die, an he be not gone already," and a piteous sob of utter woe broke from the crouching figure.

Ralph, thinking only of his sorrow, did not notice the keen grief of the other, but he hastened up nevertheless, and speedily undid the helm.

"Oh, father! father!" sobbed the shivering voice; "speak, father!"

But no sound came from the set mouth, and the child broke out into piteous distress, sobbing and choking as though her heart would break.

Ralph was touched. Even in his own stony sorrow he felt for the poor child.

"Nay, nay, he may not be dead," he said, trying to comfort her. "See, he moves!" he cried, noticing a quiver of the gauntleted hand.

"Let me look, my son," said the gentle voice of the other stranger. "Go thou, catch yonder horse; thy lord lives, and will recover."

"Will he?" cried Ralph joyously, springing up and going in search of the horses, which, well trained as they were, were standing under the shelter of the thorn-bush out of the fast-driving snow.

When he returned leading the two horses, he was delighted to find Lord Woodville sitting up.

"My fair boy," said the Captain of the Wight, in a faint voice, "thou must help me on to my charger and lead me home. I have been hard stricken, albeit the wound is not mortal. But before thou aidest me, see to the state of Sir George Lisle: I would be loth he should die."

Lord Woodville spoke with difficulty, and paused between his words.

Ralph did as he was told, and found the two shrouded figures still bending over the inanimate knight.

"The Lord Woodville hath sent me to make inquiry of the knight--how fareth he?"

"Make answer that he is sore stricken, and in parlous case; but an we may get him to a place of shelter, he may do well."

Ralph returned and reported the message.

"Is there no other horse but mine? If not, take mine and leave me here," said Lord Woodville simply.

He had drawn his sword, and was holding it by the blade before him. The sword thus held had all the proportions of a Latin cross.

"'Thou shalt love thine enemies. Do good to those who hate thee,'" murmured the wounded Captain of the Wight.

"My lord, there is the knight's own horse, or he can have mine."