CHAPTER VII

THE SACK OF SOUTHAMPTON

TWO months have elapsed since Redward Buckland and his companions made their gallant stand against the foreign raiders; Raymond had developed into a full-fledged archer. Making a rapid recovery from his wound, the lad, with his seven companions, joined the Constable's banner at Southampton, whither Redward, having settled his affairs, had preceded them.

The badly-wounded Bevis made but slow progress; fighting, he vehemently declared, was not in his line, so one morning he limped slowly through the Abbey gateway to make his way back to Hamble, there to rebuild his cottage and again to ply his calling as a fisherman.

Lack of money compelled King Edward III. to remain inactive. A tax on wool was levied and grudgingly paid, for his subjects, finding that no great deed of arms was likely to ensue, lacked the enthusiasm that the glorious victories of later years were bound to create. Thus the greater part of the huge host was dispersed; many of the troops were moved to Rye and Winchelsea, others sent back to their own homes, and, save for a few soldiers, the town of Southampton resumed its normal appearance.

By the King's special command, however, a portion of Sir John Hacket's company was retained at Southampton to man some of the ships that were to be fitted out against the rovers who still lingered in the Channel, and thus Raymond found himself quartered in Saint Barbara's Tower, a small defensive work on the south walls.

Before dealing with the stirring events that happened in this ancient and distinguished town, it would be well to briefly describe the Southampton of the fourteenth century.

Roughly, the town formed an irregular rectangle, with the south-western corner rounded off. On the north side the walls were pierced by the Bargate, and protected by several small towers, with a larger erection, termed the Polymond Tower, at the north-eastern angle. The eastern side was defended by a wall nearly 800 yards in length, further protected by twenty-seven half-round towers, and pierced by the East Gate and two posterns.

On the south the walls were in a somewhat ruinous condition, though it ought to have been clear that these were more open to attack. Here were two entrances--the God's House Tower gate at the south-eastern angle and the Water Gate. Several towers added to the defensive works at this point, the chief being the God's House Tower, the Watch Tower, the Square Tower, St. Barbara's Tower, and the Bugle Tower.

The western face was by far the best protected, the arcaded walls being of great height, terminating at Catchcold Tower near the north-western angle. Two large gates--West Gate and Biddlesgate--gave access to the water-front on the western shore, and in addition were several posterns, one of which, the Water Gate, led to the courtyard of the Castle, whose keep, a large circular Norman tower standing on an artificial mound, dominated the whole town.

Sunday, the 14th of October, 1338, was a black day in the annals of Southampton.

A few days previously more of the troops had been withdrawn, thus leaving practically only the men of Southampton to guard the town. Rumours of a large hostile fleet within the sheltered waters of the Solent caused bodies of men to be hastily dispatched to Lepe, Lymington, and other neighbouring sea-coast towns, while Sir John Hacket, hurriedly summoned to Portsmouth on an urgent matter of defence, had taken the greater part of his company with him.

Redward's sub-division was amongst those left at Southampton, but he himself had crossed to Hythe, where he hired a horse and rode to the town of Lepe to gather tidings of the foemen. Thus there remained of his party some two score archers and men-at-arms, under the command of Richard Wyatt, the grizzled old warrior who had recognised his old comrade Redward at the passage of the Hamble River.

On this particular Sunday a white mist overspread Southampton. So dense was the fog that even the oldest inhabitants could not recall the like. Raymond and his comrades were busily engaged in overhauling their bows and shafts, for on that afternoon a shooting match had been arranged between ten men of the Constable's company and ten of the town guard of Southampton, for displays of archery were then usual at the close of church service.

"A pest take the fog!" grumbled the old man-at-arms. "If it does not lift 'twill be too thick to hold the contest."

"Even this room is full of it," cried an archer, twanging his bow-string with his thumb. "Look, this cord is as dead as the giant Ascupart, whom these Southampton folk brag so much about!"

"At all events, both parties fare alike. If we but win a groat apiece the weather can bide--that is, so long as we can see the butts!"

Just then the bells of St. Michael's and the Maison Dieu struck out to summon the townspeople to Mass, and soon the streets were teeming with gaily dressed folk, all hastening to their respective churches, though to the men in the tower they appeared but ghostly shapes gliding in the misty air.

"Who will come with me on to the top of the tower?" asked one of the archers. "I'd as lief get wet through in the open as perish with cold in this fog-laden room."

"I am with thee," replied Raymond.

"And I--and I," said several voices.

Ascending a narrow spiral flight of stone steps, the comrades gained the summit of St. Barbara's Tower. Rearing itself sixty feet above the ground and thirty feet above the line of battlemented walls, this building was crowned by a low breastwork, and roofed with large slabs of stone sufficiently sloping to carry off the rainwater, but at the same time capable of being walked upon without difficulty.

"Ha! The mist rises a little!" exclaimed one. "Though 'twill be only for a time."

"I can perceive the watch-fire," remarked another, indicating the dull glow of the burning wood in an open brazier that at night or in thick weather was always fired on the summit of the Water Gate.

"Ho! Peterkin--Simon!" shouted a hoarse voice immediately below them. "Out on ye for scurvy knaves! Hasten and bring oars, or I'll lay my staff athwart your backs!"

"'Tis old John Draper, the water-bailiff," remarked one of the archers. "Some vessel hath found her way up the Water, and he's going to board her."

They heard the oars tossed into the boat, and the rasping voice of the water-bailiff as he descended the stone steps of the quay and stepped into the boat. Then the sound of oars straining against the tholepins grew fainter and fainter, till the little craft was lost to sight and sound in the dense fog.

Suddenly a piercing shriek, followed by the dull noise of a heavy splash, fell upon the ears of the archers in the tower.

"What's that?" inquired one, his indifference changed into alert activity.

"Nothing, thick head--except, perhaps, that old Draper hath missed his foothold and received a ducking!"

"I like it not," replied the first archer. "There's black devilment afoot."

"Thou art ever looking for trouble, Hal. Didst ever----"

"Nay, methinks he's right," interrupted Will Lightfoot. "Hearken!"

Leaning over the edge of the parapet the archers strove to ascertain the meaning of a subdued splashing that every moment grew louder.

"Oars, comrades, oars! And not a score not two score, either. The water's _alive_ with them!"

And now through the mist loomed scores of great indistinct shapes that only too soon resolved themselves into the outlines of long galleys, their size magnified by the thick veil of vapour. Before the astonished archers could realise their danger the huge craft ran alongside the quay or beached themselves with a grinding crunch on the gravel of the foreshore abreast the Water Gate, and from them leaped hordes of armed men, shouting and giving orders in half the tongues of Southern Europe.

The surprise was complete. The Water Gate was rushed ere the massive gates could be closed, and the foe, with the quickness of martial experience, wedged the grooves of the double portcullis to prevent the lowering of the heavy iron slides. Into the town they poured, slaying all who crossed their path, and before the startled inhabitants, most of whom were still at Mass, could grasp the situation, close upon five thousand French and Genoese soldiers had gained possession of the greater part of the town.

To add to the tumult, the bell over the watchtower began a dismal tocsin, and continued till a party of soldiers, climbing to the summit, hurled the devoted bellman crashing down upon the stones beneath. But other bells took up the warning note, till the Bar Gate, at the northern end of Southampton, gave a more timely alarm to the dwellers about the upper part of the town.

In the meantime the archers of St. Barbara's Tower, lashed into activity by the orders and example of Dick Wyatt, had closed, barred, and bolted the great oaken door, and hastily arming themselves, ascended the tower, where they crouched, arrow on string, behind the low, battlemented parapet.

"Methinks 'tis all up with Southampton," exclaimed the grizzled warrior. "But lie close, and do not loose string till they find us out."

"But what can we do?"

"Very little till the fog lifts. Then it will be seen, which of the towers still hold out."

"Have they carried the Castle, think you?"

"Not if the garrison have had the least warning, and, thank Heaven, there's enough noise to waken the Seven Sleepers. Hearken!"

Above the noise of the still disembarking foreign soldiery could be heard pitiful screams and cries for mercy, as men, women, and children were cut down indiscriminately by the ruthless foe, while a distant clash of arms showed that in some quarters of the town the invaders were meeting with some amount of resistance.

As if by magic, the mist suddenly rolled away, and the pale October sun streamed down upon a sight that was but too common in those days. Two score and ten galleys lay along the sea-front, their prows touching the shore just as the first high water was beginning to ebb, while in mid-stream fifty-five heavier vessels rode at anchor. From this powerful fleet close on twelve thousand Normans, Picards, Genoese, and Spaniards had landed.

Already the southern portion of the town, with the exception of St. Barbara's and God's House Towers, was in their hands. Robert de la Barre, one of the bailiffs, held the Castle and the West Gate; Walter de Brakkeleye, the other, lay within Catchcold Tower; while through the Bar Gate poured a mob of terrified citizens, some of whom fled hot-foot even as far as Winchester.

Having made sure of the lower part of the town, the invaders began their accustomed excesses, plundering and burning in all directions.

A strong body of Genoese could be seen coming down the road that followed the inner side of the South Wall.

"Stand fast, if ye would see to-morrow's sun!" cried the old man-at-arms warningly. "And do not give any sign till they discover us: then an arrow for each black heart!"

On the opposite side of the street, which, for military reasons, was wider than those away from the walls, was a house of superior quality to its neighbours. It was a two-storeyed, half-timbered building, standing in a large extent of ground. Attracted by its more imposing appearance, three of the marauders stopped and began to batter on the outer gate with their short, heavy axes.

"'Tis the house of Sir Reginald Scarsdale," quoth one of the archers, a Southampton man. "'Tis out of the frying-pan into the fire, I trow, with him."

"What dost thou mean?" asked Raymond.

"Why, this: twice his castle in the county of Yorks hath been burned by the Scots; so, to keep his womenfolk out of harm's way, he sends them down here, while he keeps watch and ward at Berwick."

"His womenfolk?"

"Ay! His wife, the Lady Hilda, and his daughter, the Lady Audrey. Pray Heaven they be not in the house!"

"But they are!" exclaimed another. "I heard from one of their servants but a few hours back that the old lady was seized with an ague. And the younger, a sweet little lass, left to the mercies of those wretches! Alas! And we can do nothing!"

Raymond's only reply was to compress his lips tightly and clutch the hilt of his short sword. Carefully he peered over the edge of the parapet, and looked down on the scene below.

Already the gate was giving way before the lusty blows of the axes. Then, throwing his ponderous body against the shattered woodwork, a burly Genoese burst the remaining fragments with a resounding crash, and, with wild shouts of triumph, the three plunderers rushed across the grounds and attacked the door of the house, while the screams of terrified women rent the air.

Without a moment's hesitation Raymond seized a coil of rope which was used for hauling up materials to the top of the tower, and hastily knotted one end round his body. He looked down. The street was now clear of any wandering soldiers. Taking his bow and quiver, as well as his sword, the youth persuaded his comrades to lower him with all despatch.

Round and round he spun in his hazardous descent, till, with bleeding hands and a swimming sensation in his head, Raymond found himself on the ground. Instantly he unloosed the rope, darted quickly across the road and gained the outer gateway.

By this time the inner door had been wrenched open, and the three Genoese were holding a debate amongst themselves, gesticulating and talking volubly till it seemed as if a quarrel was likely to ensue. Finally two entered the house, the third keeping guard outside, possibly to prevent any fugitive from leaving, or to keep others of their comrades from sharing in what promised to be a rich haul.

Raymond saw and seized his chance. The man's back was turned towards him, yet--the raiders being mere pirates and deserving of no mercy--without hesitation, the youth drew string, and the next instant the soldier was lying on his face, his back pierced by an arrow.

Guided by the redoubled sound of shrieks, the lad sped across the ground, grasping his drawn sword in his hand, and ascended the stairs with quick yet noiseless footsteps.

At the head of the stairs lay the corpse of an old man, evidently a servitor, the blood welling in a crimson flood from a gaping wound in his throat. Without stopping, Raymond sprang over the body and burst into a room whence the shrieks came with terrifying shrillness.

There a sight met his gaze that transformed him into a terrible avenging spirit rather than a human being. On the floor lay an elderly lady, her eyes rolling in semi-stupor, while the two ruffians were maltreating a young and beautiful girl, whose age could not have been more than sixteen. In spite of her furious struggles and piercing cries the two Genoese were dragging her out of the room, and her strength was well-nigh exhausted.

With a loud shout of anger Raymond rushed upon the two men, who were totally unprepared for any onslaught while engaged in their work of cruelty and rapine. A strong sweeping blow with his sword and one of the villains fell lifeless to the ground, but, before the young archer could strike again, the second turned upon him, and in a moment both were struggling on the floor in a deadly embrace, the Genoese, a great lusty fellow, being uppermost. Raymond still retained his sword, though unable to shorten it, while his enemy strove to draw a dagger that he wore at his belt. Seeing this the lad dropped his sword and grasped the other's wrist, while, in turn, Raymond's arm was gripped to prevent him from drawing his own knife.

At length the weight of his foeman's body began to tell, and slowly the breath was forced out of the lad's lungs by the relentless pressure. Raymond thought that the end was near, his face was turning black, red lights flashed across his eyes, and, as in a dream, he saw the Genoese wrench his hand free from the retaining grasp and seize the hilt of his dagger.

"Flee!" gasped Raymond, glancing towards the maiden, and he had steeled himself to receive the expected _coup de grace_, suddenly he felt his enemy's body grow limp and a flood of hot blood rained upon his face.

Struggling to his feet, faint, dazed, and unable for the moment to realise that it was not his own life's blood, Raymond gazed vacantly upon the body of his foeman. Then, as his scattered senses began to return, the youth realised that his miraculous deliverance was due to the prompt action of the girl to whose aid he had flown; for seeing how matters were turning, and desperate for her own and her rescuer's safety, she had possessed herself of the dagger of the slain ruffian and had plunged it up to the hilt in the neck of the other.

For the first time Raymond could take notice of the girl. Looking at her white face, he could see that she was a maiden of quality and unquestionable beauty. As she stood there, with flashing eyes and the reeking dagger in her hand, she seemed in the eyes of the young archer like one of the mythological heroines of whom he had read in the library of the Abbey. But with the sense of safety came the inevitable reaction. She dropped the knife, and, falling beside her mother, burst into tears.

Raymond, in spite of his inexperience, saw only too clearly that the elder lady was beyond pain and suffering.

"Come," he said gently. "We must needs go quickly. Thy mother is--" He was unable to finish the sentence, but the girl understood.

"I am ready," she said, in a far-away voice, "but whither shall we go?"

Pausing to throw a coverlet over the still form of the lady, Raymond gave a final glance at the bodies of his late adversaries; then, taking the girl by the hand, he drew her gently from the room.

The cool, fresh air revived his scattered wits considerably, so that he was able to take the necessary precautions to regain St. Barbara's Tower. Bidding the girl wait behind a thick shrubbery, Raymond looked cautiously out of the gate. The street seemed to be clear, while his comrades were alert and waiting his return.

Calling the girl, he led her quickly across the street; the end of a rope was thrown down, and hastily the lad looped it round her supple form. Then at a signal the little garrison pulled up the rope, and its precious burden was safe within the shelter of St. Barbara's Tower!

"Haste thee, boy!" shouted old Dicky Wyatt, the grizzled man-at-arms. "The French be upon thee!"

There was not a moment to be lost. The lad seized the end of the rope as it descended, and hanging on like a jackanapes, was soon dangling in the air. A party of the enemy were running down the street, and already a few quarrels and arrows were whistling past his ears or splintering themselves against the stonework of the tower. Then a well-directed flight of cloth-yard shafts held the enemy in check, and aided by willing hands, Raymond was helped over the parapet.

"A plucky deed," growled Wyatt, "but thou hast sold us, my lad. See, they have gone to bring reinforcements to carry the tower by escalade!"

"Certes, Raymond," exclaimed an archer, "thou dost look like a butcher What hast thou been about?"

"Never mind that: the tale will keep," interrupted the man-at-arms. "I'll warrant we'll all look worse than that ere long! Here, Lightfoot! Away with Ye to the kitchen, and see that plenty of water is put to boil. And you, Ned, fetch an axe and hew off some of this lead and melt it. Methinks the townsmen of Southampton will not amerce us with the damage, whether we hold the tower or not!"

While the preparations for defence were in progress a loud shout from one of the archers gave warning that the enemy were returning to the attack, and the two score Englishmen from the height of the tower looked down upon ten times their number of Picards, Normans, and Spaniards, to whom the assault on a fortress or the sack of a defenceless town were looked upon as ordinary occurrences.