CHAPTER I

THE ARCHER, REDWARD BUCKLAND

IT was early morning in the month of August, 1338, so early that the slanting rays of the sun still lit up the north side of the Norman church of St. Andrew, and cast a shadow seven times its height across the dew-soaked meadows.

Betwixt the high ground where stood the church and the narrow creek, known as the Hamble River, clustered the mud-walled and thatched-roof houses of the village of Hamble-le-Rice. Away to the north could be traced the course of the tree-fringed creek till it lost itself behind a range of low hills, while in the other direction lay the estuary of the river, where it mingled itself with the salt waves of Southampton Water, which, in its turn, was backed by the dark, dense masses of trees that formed that tract of country so well known in history and romance--the New Forest.

Peaceful, indeed, was the situation of this quiet little Hampshire village, and peaceful also was the general existence of its inhabitants. Situated on an out-of-the-way angle, far from the old Roman highway that led from Clausentum to Portchester, and at that period, as now, formed the highway between Southampton and Portsmouth, Hamble village was all but cut off from the rest of the world. Save for an occasional visit by the grey-robed monks from the Priory of St. Mary and St. Edward at Netley, a chance journey of a huckster or Chapman from Southampton or Winchester fairs, or the unpreventable arrival of some vessel driven by stress of weather to shelter in the estuary, strangers in the village were few and far between.

Slow in thought, slower in speech, and backward in giving or taking offence, yet terrible when roused to anger, the Hamble folk were typical examples of the mediaeval English peasant whose descendants have made history in all parts of the globe.

For years past the social condition of England had been in a deplorable state. The strife between King Edward II. and De Spenser on the one hand, and Queen Isabella and Mortimer on the other, had encouraged lawlessness in all grades of society. Robbers, thieves, murderers, and criminals of all kinds had multiplied to an enormous degree, and were openly protected by the great barons, as being useful tools in their hands. Guilds, founded for self-protective measures, became instruments of oppression, and, generally speaking, every man looked solely to his own interest.

But in the village of Hamble there was little to ruffle the even tenor of its existence. Little did it matter whether the seamen of Southampton had a feud with the men of the Cinque Ports, or whether the monks of Beaulieu or Netley had a difference with the Bishop of Winchester; but should a strange craft appear in the river, or a band of marauders attempt to swoop down from the leafy fastnesses of Waltham Chase, 'twas only necessary to ring the great bell of St. Andrew's, and instantly the peaceful villagers would be turned into an angry array of armed men, ready to sell their lives dearly in defence of their hearths and homes.

But the time was at hand when Englishmen would have to sink their differences and unite against a common foe. Edward III. had laid claim to the throne of France, and, though the stake was a great one, the enterprise was popular, inasmuch as the possibilities of individual gain in the shape of plunder held out great inducements to all classes of these island warriors.

On this particular morning early a man emerged from one of the houses on the outskirts of the village, which, by reason of being built of stone and being fair-sized, betokened that its owner was a man of position--as far as the place was concerned. The house lay some two hundred yards away from the rest, occupying the summit of an even-crested ridge, and was surrounded by a palisade of stout pointed stakes, that afforded complete protection against the attacks of any ordinary band of adventurers.

The man was a tall, well-made individual, with a bronzed face surmounted by a thick crop of reddish hair, and partially concealed by a heavy beard, that grew high upon his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows helped to further conceal his face, but any one could see from the grey glint of his blue eyes that the profusion of hair covered a comely countenance.

A well-worn leather jerkin, that had once been of a vivid red colour, but was now nearly black with hard usage, failed to conceal the mighty expanse of his chest, while the short sleeves of the garment fitted tightly over the gnarled muscles of his arms. His lower limbs were also covered by leathern hose, which, by reason of exposure to salt water and the rough wear and tear of daily toil, were now colourless and frayed till all semblance of dressed leather was lacking. His legs, however, though of great size, did not betoken an equality with the strength of his arms, and, moreover, he walked with a slight limp.

A crimson scarf, bound tightly round his head, did duty for a head-dress, while from a narrow black belt hung a short dagger on his right side, counterbalanced by a leather purse or pouch on his left.

Over his shoulder he bore a pair of long ash oars, their blades still covered with a deposit of dry mud, while in his left hand he carried a six-foot yew-bow, which, unstrung, was as straight as a lance.

Redward Buckland, for such was his name, was not a Hamble man in the strict sense of the word, yet so good-natured and easy-going was he, so upright in his dealings, and withal a man of such great bodily strength, that he was a popular member of the little community.

Of his past he said little, and was asked but little. He had been master bowman in a company, had served against the Scots at Bannockburn, with the Gascons in their feudal bickerings, and there was hardly a castle in Normandy, Maine, Touraine, Anjou, Poitou, or Limousin that he did not know.

Eleven years prior to the time of this story he suddenly appeared at Hamble, bringing with him his son Raymond, then a child five years of age. Men often talked of their coming; the bowman, in rusty brigandine and dented headpiece, the boy, a lusty, laughing youngster, perched on his shoulder, a wain jogging behind with a heavy load of rich stuff--booty from many a foreign part--the like of which had never before been seen in Hamble.

Thereupon he purchased a farmhouse, and settled down with the intention of passing the rest of his days in comfort. Being a highly religious man--though, like most of his companions in arms, he could swear roundly at times--Redward Buckland acted in accordance with the custom of the times. Four marks and a seven-pound candle of pure wax he gave to the priory at Netley, and a gold-embroidered cloth to the church of St. Andrew at Hamble.

These presents he accounted sufficient atonement and thank-offering alike for delinquencies and deliverances from peril during his sojourn abroad, and thence-forth he meant to live a quiet, well-ordered life, though, unable to resist the call to arms, he had served in short campaigns against the Scots, and had but a year previously crossed the Channel to take part in the Battle of Cadsand. Yet Hamble was his home, and to Hamble he returned as soon as each particular expedition had ended.

Raymond Buckland, now a lad of sixteen, had little in common with his father as far as appearance went. He was tall, slim, yet well-knit, with curly flaxen hair, though the colour had a redeeming tinge of reddish-gold that is necessary to impart a warmth to what would otherwise be a lustreless head of hair. He moved with a grace and ease that contrasted vividly with his father's comparatively awkward gait, but his limbs were not wanting in strength.

A vigorous outdoor life had done much to develop his frame. Mentally Raymond was well educated, according to the standard of the age, having but recently returned from the Cistercian priory at Netley, where for the last seven years he had been a novice. His long intercourse with a monastic life had somewhat deadened his natural inclinations, but since his return to the outside world the active delights of youth seemed sweeter still.

"Hasten, Raymond," said his father, pausing to look back towards the house, where the youth still lingered. "The young flood hath just begun, and tide tarries for no man! And," he added, "fail not to bring my quiver with the black-feathered arrows."

"And can I bring my crossbow?" inquired Raymond.

His father gave a gruff yet good-natured assent, and, resuming his walk, sauntered gently towards the river.

Before he had passed the church Raymond had overtaken him, carrying the quiver in his left hand, while across his back was slung a short yet powerful crossbow, his own quiver with its stock of heavy quarrels hanging from his belt.

"Ha! That crossbow again!" exclaimed Redward, in good-natured contempt. "'Tis strange that an English boy should lean towards a windlac-drawn weapon rather than a sturdy yew-bow. An thou wert a Provençal or Genoese I could have understood it."

"Why, father?"

"Why, forsooth! Thou wert made a sturdy Englishman, with sinews and muscles wherewith to bend an honest longbow--not to have to turn a handle, like a butter-making wench, ere the bolt can be shot. And, moreover, suppose thou wert matched against an archer; before thy weapon were levelled I'll warrant there would be a dozen cloth-yard shafts bristling in thine hide--though one would be enough, I trow!"

"But the Genoese?"

"The Genoese, my son, were ever underhanded fighters, preferring to cause a gaping wound with a quarrel rather than a wholesome hole with an arrow. 'Tis said that on more than one occasion the Pope hath forbidden the use of the crossbow, and that the Second Lateran Council, a hundred years ago, did likewise."

"How, then, do we find the crossbow still in use?"

"I cannot tell, Raymond, save it be the natural perversity of men. But here we are at the shore."

They had passed through the village, between rows of thatched cottages. Smoke was already beginning to issue from the hole in the roof that did duty for a chimney, showing that the inhabitants were early astir. The narrow road plunged sharply down to the mud-fringed shores of the river, for the tide was low, and long flats of treacherous slime extended almost from bank to bank, save for a channel of deep water midway between.

With the air of a man who is thoroughly acquainted with the place, Redward Buckland followed an almost invisible path--termed throughout uncountable ages a Hard--that led across the mud flats to the edge of the water, Raymond treading carefully at his heels. At the end of the Hard lay a large, bluff-bowed boat, and, pulling the craft ashore by a length of rope, the archer tossed the oars into it and beckoned to his son to jump on board.

"Whither are we going, father?" asked Raymond, as his sire pushed off, stepped awkwardly into the boat, and began to haul on board the heavy stone that served as an anchor.

"Up the river to Botley, my son there to see Master Nicholas Hobbes."

"And who is he?" rejoined Raymond with the inquisitiveness of youth.

"Master Hobbes, of the city of Winton, is a fletcher, and his arrows are well known as the very best in the country. Also he brings with him a stock of bows made by Master Ford, whose fame as a bowyer extends well beyond the borders of Hamptonshire."

"But why buy arrows, father; surely thou canst make thine own?"

"Ah, Raymond! Raymond!" replied his father, shaking his head doubtfully, "thou hast yet to learn that though I could fashion mine own weapons, yet custom demands that I get them from a member of the honourable guild of bowyers and fletchers. Didst ever hear of a belted knight welding his own coat of mail?"

The boy, in truth, had yet to learn of the existence of the powerful guilds, or combinations of trades, which, founded for the purpose of self-protection against the rapacity of the barons and the lawlessness of their retainers, became strong enough to be regarded with respect by these turbulent personages. As the guilds grew they obtained charters from their sovereign, till they reached a state that enabled them to deal harshly with those without the pale. Thus, for instance, any man following the occupation of a tanner "not being free"--_i.e._ made a member of a guild--was amerced, or fined, or even subjected to corporal punishment.

Urged by the archer's long, powerful strokes the boat shot up-stream with the tide, passing between steeply rising banks, where the freshly leafed trees cast dark shadows across the verdant fields. Raymond sat on the stern-thwart, looking with silent admiration on the scene, for, as far as he could remember, it was his first experience of a journey by water.

At length they came to a place where on the western side a smaller creek joined the river. Redward rested on his oars and looked towards the mud banks, which were even now nearly covered by the rising water.

"We have hurried apace," he remarked, "and 'tis even too soon to go right up to the town. This is called Badnam Creek, and, by St. George, I'll wager we'll find some waterfowl amongst the reeds. Take thy crossbow, Raymond, and I'll pit my six-foot bow against it."

Eagerly the boy took his weapon and wound the windlac till the highly-drawn string clicked against the catch. Then he fitted a bolt, and, having done so, turned to watch his sire's movements. The archer had already notched the cord, and the bow, with a couple of arrows, lay on the thwart by his side.

"Steady, my son!" exclaimed the archer in alarm. "Be careful where thou pointest that hell-designed toy. 'Tis bad enough to have a foeman's shaft through one leg without having mine own son's bolt through the other. Hold it over the side, I pray thee!"

The boat was run amid a cluster of reeds, and the twain waited silently and eagerly for some sign of feathered life. They were not kept long in suspense, for from a marsh hard by came two wild geese, their necks extended and their wings flapping noisily as they flew.

"Quick, Raymond!" whispered his father, "loose directly they are overhead!"

In his excitement the youth sprang to his feet, and poised his crossbow.

But alas for his inexperience! Unaccustomed to the swaying of the boat he lost his balance and fell backwards across the thwart; his crossbow twanged, and with a deep humming sound the quarrel flew aimlessly into space.

In a moment Raymond raised himself into a sitting position, only to see his father loose his second arrow.

"And thou hast missed also!" he exclaimed in a tone of reproach.

"Peace, lad; wait and see!"

The birds still continued their passage, one gliding with wings outstretched, the other still beating the air with redoubled haste; then, even as they looked, both birds swayed in their flight, and fell into the water within two score paces of each other.

Without further remark Redward pushed the boat clear of the reeds, and rowed towards his spoil. One of the geese was still transfixed by an arrow, the other's neck had a small wound, showing that the shaft had passed completely through it.

"Another groat gone!" exclaimed the archer, ruefully contemplating the bird that had failed to stop the arrow. "But that was a grand shot of thine, Raymond, I trow," he added in a bantering tone; "'twas not learned of the monks of Netley?"

Then, observing a flush of mortification overspread the boy's features, he continued, "Never mind, my son, even the best archer in the kingdom would be at a loss in a small boat at first."

Presently they rounded an abrupt spur of land on their left, and came to a spot where the creek narrowed considerably, being enclosed by lofty hills on either side. A broad white road descended these hills to the water's edge, where it was broken by the flowing tide. A rough wooden hut, with a large open boat close at hand, marked the spot where wayfarers were ferried across to the opposite side, where a horn, chained to a post, was blown as a signal to attract the ferryman.

"This is the road 'twixt Southampton and Portsmouth," said the archer, indicating the dusty streak by a nod of his head. "At Bursledon, on this side, is the fortalice of the Hewitts, though from here 'tis hidden by the trees. On the other side is Swanwick Shore, whence come some of the best mariners who man the cogs of Southampton. But, mark ye! Here comes a great company of armed men; by St. Etienne of Tours, it makes my heart glad to hear the clatter of harness once more! I wonder under whose banners they march?"

And resting on his oars, Redward Buckland shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun, and peered steadfastly up the hill where the white road was now alive with men, a grey cloud of dust hanging over them like a marsh mist in autumn, through which the Cross of St. George blazoned on the white surcoats of the archers stood out bravely against the dark foliage.

When the vanguard reached the foot of the hill, a bowshot from where the watchers sat in their little craft, a tucket sounded and the company halted.

Then Redward's accustomed eyes lighted upon their banner, which bore a golden half-moon on an azure field, and unable to contain himself, he stood upright, waving his cap in boisterous delight.

"By Our Lady, 'tis as I thought--the company of the Governor of Portchester! Haste we to the shore, Raymond, that I may welcome mine old comrades!"