CHAPTER XXX

A Village Festival

“Dickon, take that long body of thine out of the way, and let us pass! Think’st thou, Long-shanks, we have need of a Maypole in September?”

“Stint thy prate, Master Lack-beard. Think’st thou we need a new clapper to our church bell, that thou set’st thy twopenny clapper wagging so?”

“Ha, pretty Gillian! ever sweet and blooming as a rose!”

“As a tuft of marsh-grass, thou mean’st, Gaffer Thickset, else would not a fat goose admire me thus.”

“How now, Hal? What, man, thou art gay as a courtier whose tailor hath given him long credit! With all these bright ribbons and gauds on thee, thou’lt dazzle our eyes!”

“If thine be dazzled, Gaffer Green, it is with looking at thine own foolish face in a duck-pond, or mayhap with a pot of strong ale drained at another man’s cost.”

These and other scraps of rough wit flew thick and fast amid the crowd gathered on the village green of the little hamlet of Deerham, which, as usual, had grown up under the protection of the great feudal castle held by the lord of the manor himself.

A gay and goodly picture was that blithe crowd of merry-makers in the bright autumn sunshine—one of those pictures that half redeemed the gloom of that iron age, and made many who ought to have known better mistake the so-called “good old times” for an age of gold, instead of a riot of useless bloodshed, reckless waste, cruel oppression, brutal ignorance, and grinding misery.

In the centre of the green a dozen “morrice-dancers,” with tiny bells hung to every part of their fantastic garb, were keeping up a constant jangling aptly compared by a local wag to the tongue of Dame Cicely Prate, a noted scold, who looked daggers at him in return. On the right, a juggler was swallowing ribbons by the yard, or breathing out fire and smoke, to the amazement of the gaping clowns who jostled around him. On the left, a strolling minstrel was singing the old comic ballad of “The Felon Sow,” the success of which was shown by the loud laughter that greeted every verse, and the shower of copper coins that clinked ceaselessly into his well-worn green cap.

A little farther off, a quack was vaunting a new and potent medicine, as able to “cure all ills, from a smoky chimney to a scolding wife.” Just beyond him, a pretended pilgrim was selling as relics from the Holy Land some rusty nails and pot-sherds picked up at the next village, while a huge brown dancing-bear, led by a swarthy, gipsy-like man in a slouched hat, was performing some clumsy antics hard by, to the mingled delight and terror of the shock-headed village boys. In the background, a big fire was blazing, and preparations were being made to roast an ox whole, without which, in those days, no English merry-making could go off properly.

Every moment swelled the noise and bustle, as new arrivals joined the throng. Ruddy, stalwart farmers in holiday garb, on horses as broad and sturdy as themselves, with their buxom dames perched behind them; hard-faced, bare-armed workmen in leather jerkins, from the town of Winchester; rosy village lasses in short skirts and broad hats, be-ribboned in all the colours of the rainbow; threadbare students from Oxford and Cambridge, begging their way (according to the strange custom of the age) from one market-town to another; bare-footed friars in their long, dark robes; tanned, round-shouldered peasants in coarse woollen jackets or rough frocks of grey frieze, with the mud of the Hampshire lowlands clinging to their heavy, clouted shoes; and war-worn soldiers in dinted steel caps and frayed buff coats, just home from the French wars, watching the scene with an air of grand, indulgent contempt, like men who had already seen everything worth seeing.

All at once there was a cry that the lords of the castle were coming down to watch the sports, and this news broke up the most popular exhibition of the day—the rescue of Princess Sabra from the dragon by St. George, who, with an iron pan for a helmet, and a spit for a spear, made quite as queer a figure as the monster itself, while the princess, represented by a freckled, red-haired boy of twelve, did small justice to the praises of her beauty in old romances. But at the first glimpse of the two stately forms that came riding slowly down the steep, winding path from Claremont Castle, dragon, princess, and champion were alike forgotten, and all heads turned at once toward Sir Alured and his twin-brother Sir Hugo.

The ten years that had passed over those two handsome faces since that morning on the ramparts of conquered Tormas, had touched both very lightly; and they received with a frank, hearty smile the boisterous welcome of the crowd, which greeted them not only with shouts and throwing-up of caps, but also with a universal and evidently sincere brightening of faces, very pleasant to see.

In truth, the two brave men had well earned it. The lull in the age-long duel between France and England caused by the truce of 1358, and the treaty of Bretigny two years later, had enabled them to make good their vow of dwelling henceforth on their own lands, and caring for their long-neglected tenantry, as they had done, and were still doing, with all their heart and soul.

“God bless ’em both!” cried a sturdy yeoman, warmly. “When my father lay a-dying, Sir Alured was at his bedside as soon as either priest or physician.”

“And when my child was sick,” added a woman’s voice, “scarce could I tell the tale to Sir Hugo as he passed, when lo! away he flew to Winchester town as if riding for his life—ay, he went his own self—and brought back the most skilled leech in the town, who saved my little lass’s life.”

“And when yon great storm tore down our cottage, and left me and mine no place to lay our heads, who came first to our aid?—Why, who but our young lords themselves? They housed us in their own castle, no less; and they sent men to build up our dwelling again, better than before; and all at their own cost, lads! God bless them for it!”

“Amen! for whereas many knights and barons do but wring from their vassals what little they have, to maintain their own state, have not our lords given up all the wealth they won in the French wars, to keep us in peace and comfort? May God repay them a thousand-fold! Would Sir Simon Harcourt, had he lived, have done the like? I trow not! He would have stripped us as bare as a beech in December. Long life to the good lords of Claremont!”

Such speeches came ceaselessly to the ears of the twins, as they took their places on a raised seat at the end of the green; and their noble faces grew radiant with joy.

“Are we not well repaid, Alured, for all the storms and sorrows of former years?”

“That are we indeed, Hugo; and now we lack but one thing to complete our happiness—that our good friend Du Guesclin were here to share it.”

“Right, brother. Truly I owe him much, for, but for him, we two had never met again.”

“And I,” said Alured, “owe him yet more—mine own life, and it may be mine own soul likewise. I would we had some tidings of the good knight; we have heard nought since yon wandering minstrel brought word, two years agone, how he was made prisoner at Auray by old John Chandos, and how, when it was noised abroad that he was taken, every old wife in Brittany spun a double portion daily, that she might in some sort aid to pay his ransom.”

“God keep him, wherever he be. But see, the archery is about to begin.”

It was, and the brothers had seldom seen better practice, even among the Moorish bowmen of Spain; for in those days every English yeoman was a crack shot, and had often to aim at other marks than a harmless target. More than one of those present had seen the glittering chivalry of France fall like autumn leaves before their arrows on the fatal field of Crecy, and King John the Good led captive by English archers amid the heaped-up slain of Poitiers; and the best competitors were so evenly matched, that even the two practised warriors who adjudged the prize took some time to decide.

“May Old England’s grey-goose shafts ever fly as strongly and truly!” said Alured, as he handed the prize to the winner.

“And may they be ever loosed by hands as deft and loyal!” added Hugo.

Next came the leaping, in which two local athletes ran each other so close that the match seemed a drawn one; but in the last trial, one of the two just touched the bar with his toes, and came down on his face with such a whack that Gaffer Green said with an unfeeling chuckle—

“He’ve took after his own pigs, he have; he be a-rooting up the earth with his nose!”

The winner was young Will Wade, who had been one of the loudest in praise of his young lords; and Will made so good a start for the foot-race (which came next) that he seemed likely to win that too. But just when close to the goal, he glanced aside a moment at the pretty face of his betrothed, Gillian Gray, who was watching him breathlessly; and in that moment his foot slipped, and down he came!

He was up again at once, but too late. The next man had reached the goal, and poor Will was but second-best!

“Vex not thyself for that, lad,” said Sir Hugo, kindly; “it was but an ill chance. Hadst thou been chasing the foes of our king and Old England, I warrant thy foot would have been steady enow; and thou hast shown how quickly a true Englishman can start up from a fall.”

“On that matter your worships should be well able to judge,” said the young athlete, bluntly, as he pouched the two gold pieces handed him by way of consolation, “being yourselves as true Englishmen as ever breathed!”

“Hear’st thou that, Hugo?” laughed Alured. “Times are changed, methinks, since our great-grandsire was wont to say, as the worst penalty he could invoke on his own head, ‘May I become an Englishman!’”

In hurling the bar, the best man was the brawny village smith, who received the prize from Alured’s own hand, with a kind word that he valued even more; and now but two “events” remained—the sword-and-buckler play, and the wrestling.

Just then the twins’ keen eyes took note of two tall, sturdy men in half-armour, who had pushed their way forward with small ceremony into the front rank of the crowd.

Both wore the silver spurs of esquires, but their behaviour did not at all befit their rank; for they seemed bent on showing their contempt for the sports and all connected with them as offensively as possible. At first they were content with scornful looks and muttered words of disdain; but when the sword-play commenced, the self-constituted critics began to utter their sneers aloud, so insolently that had not the lords of the manor been present, the sturdy villagers would soon have made these swaggerers change their tune.

“Did I not tell thee so, Gilbert?” cried the taller of the two. “This is what comes of rusting at home, and seeing nought of the world. Belike these yokels think they are very St. Georges; but we could teach them another tale.”

“Thou art right, Humphrey. Cared we to cumber us with such gear, I trow we could give them a wholesome lesson, had the thick-skulled churls but the wit to profit by it!”

This was too much for young Will Wade, who, having just won the sword-and-buckler contest, turned short round, and said hotly—

“With your tongues ye are doughty champions, in truth; but if ye would try other weapons, come on!”

“And I,” cried the stout smith (victor in the wrestling-match), “will gladly try a fall with these big talkers, and let ’em feel how a smith’s vice can pinch!”

Gilbert, with a scornful laugh, threw off his upper garment, and closed with the smith; and Humphrey, furnished with sword and buckler, faced Will Wade.

This time the village champions had met their match. Brave Will stood to it as stoutly as man could do, but he had no chance with one whose sword had been daily in his hand for years, and who added to this long practice the coolness learned in actual battle. The bout ended in his utter defeat; and at the same moment Ned Smith (who, with all his strength, was no match for his opponent’s cool science) was sent sprawling by a dexterous back-trip.

“Now,” cried Humphrey, boastfully, “I will stake the prize I have won, and five gold nobles to boot, if any man here will try a bout with me. Who takes my proffer?”

“With good St. George’s aid, that do I!” said a calm voice behind him; and Sir Alured himself rose and stepped down into the ring.

The downcast faces all brightened at once, and a shout rent the air; for it was the firm belief of all Deerham village that there was no feat at which “the good lords of Claremont” were not a match for any man living; and the villagers were as confident of seeing these bullies humbled, as if both were conquered already.

Even the vaunting Humphrey felt a momentary chill, which (as usual with such base natures) he strove to cover with extra insolence.

“Gramercy for thy condescension, my good lord,” cried he, mockingly; “it is but too much honour for a poor esquire like me!”

“It is too much honour for thee!” said Alured, sternly, “not because thou art a poor esquire, but because thou art a malapert and ill-mannered cub. Look well to thyself, for thou hast deserved no mercy!”

Taking up the sword and buckler used by Wade (who flushed with pleasure at the implied compliment), the knight faced the esquire.

Humphrey was no mean swordsman; but he had to do with one who had overcome the flashing strokes of Moorish scimitars wielded by the best warriors of Grenada. Slash and hew as he might, he could find no opening: some of his blows were wasted on the air, and others parried with a force that made his arm tingle to the shoulder.

Thrice did he dash at his foe, and thrice was he driven back, foiled and panting; and at every repulse the cheers of the lookers-on grew louder and more joyous, till the hot-headed challenger lost his temper outright.

All at once Alured attacked in turn, enveloping the bewildered bully in a whirlwind of blows against which no guard could avail. Two crushing strokes beat down his buckler, and a wrench that seemed almost to twist his sword-arm out of joint sent his blade flying half across the ring, and he stood defenceless, while a roar of delight hailed his discomfiture.

“Holy father,” said Alured, handing the gold he had won to a good priest in the crowd, “take this for thy poor; for, if gotten from an ill source, the more cause is there to apply it to good.”

Just then Sir Hugo said quietly, “Enough, brother; it is now my turn. If this other gallant, who is so keen to instruct us poor ignorant country-folk, will graciously teach me to wrestle a fall, I am ready.”

The general laugh that greeted this well-merited sarcasm swept away what little patience Gilbert had. His comrade’s defeat had somewhat startled him; but, at sight of the challenger’s slender frame, his native insolence revived.

“Loth were I,” he sneered, “to soil your worship’s gay clothes with dust.”

“If thou canst so soil them, I give thee full leave,” retorted Hugo, with a cutting emphasis that drew a fresh laugh from the admiring crowd.

Without a word more on either side the two men grappled.

Gilbert was a strong and skilful wrestler; but he was no match for one who had overthrown the best wrestler in Morocco. Slight as he seemed beside the bulky esquire, Hugo’s sinews had been toughened by a thousand struggles and hardships, and his skill had never met its match.

In vain did Gilbert try every trip and fall he knew; in vain did he compress the light form in his strong arms, as if to crush it by main force; in vain did he swing Hugo off his feet again and again, and put forth his full strength to dash him to the earth. Do what he would, the knight stood firm as ever; and at last Gilbert paused, fairly spent with his own exertions.

Then the scores of watching eyes saw Hugo’s arms tighten suddenly, and his foe’s huge broad back bend slowly in. So quietly was it done, that few guessed what strength was put forth to do it; but all at once (no one could see how) the big man’s feet flew from under him, and down he went on his back with stunning force.

Then broke forth a cheer that shook the air; for, apart from John Bull’s natural pleasure at seeing a bully “taken down,” the chivalrous frankness with which the twin nobles had waived the privileges of their rank to meet such formidable foes was what the roughest peasant could appreciate.

The crestfallen boasters were glad to slink away, not without fears of further rough handling; and, in fact, had either of the Claremont brothers but held up his finger, the crowd would have broken the heads of both swaggerers on the spot, or even (for men did not stick at trifles in those days) pitched them neck-and-crop into the river. But sorrow and suffering had taught the two brave men a lesson of mercy, and the bullies were allowed to sneak off unharmed.

Hardly were they gone, when a trumpet-blast awoke all the echoes of the hills, and a single rider, in the rich livery of the king’s household, came dashing up to the spot, and, putting into Alured’s hand a big, important-looking letter, encircled with a silk thread and sealed with the royal seal, clattered away as quickly as he had come.

“Brother,” said Alured, “my mind misgives me that this means war, of which we have had enow already. God’s will be done!”

He guessed but too truly. It was a summons from “Edward, by the grace of God Prince of Wales and Aquitaine, to his trusty and well-beloved liegemen, Sir Alured and Sir Hugo de Claremont,” to meet him at Bordeaux before Christmas with as many men as they could muster, to join the army he was leading into Spain, to restore to the dethroned king, Pedro of Castile, the crown wrested from him by his half-brother, Henry of Transtamare.

To such a summons there could be but one answer; and, in as few days as sufficed to muster and equip their followers, the twin nobles, with heavy hearts at the thought of how few of the brave fellows around them would ever see their homes again, were on their way to the most shameful and disastrous victory won by England during the whole of the Hundred Years’ War.