"Nay," said Dick, dismounting, "I will give more than counsel.  Take my
horse, and I will run awhile, and when I am weary we shall change again,
that so, riding and running, both may go the speedier."

So the change was made, and they went forward as briskly as they durst on
the uneven causeway, Dick with his hand upon the other's knee.

"How call ye your name?" asked Dick.

"Call me John Matcham," replied the lad.

"And what make ye to Holywood?" Dick continued.

"I seek sanctuary from a man that would oppress me," was the answer.
"The good Abbot of Holywood is a strong pillar to the weak."

"And how came ye with Sir Daniel, Master Matcham?" pursued Dick.

"Nay," cried the other, "by the abuse of force!  He hath taken me by
violence from my own place; dressed me in these weeds; ridden with me
till my heart was sick; gibed me till I could 'a' wept; and when certain
of my friends pursued, thinking to have me back, claps me in the rear to
stand their shot!  I was even grazed in the right foot, and walk but
lamely.  Nay, there shall come a day between us; he shall smart for all!"

"Would ye shoot at the moon with a hand-gun?" said Dick.  "'Tis a valiant
knight, and hath a hand of iron.  An he guessed I had made or meddled
with your flight, it would go sore with me."

"Ay, poor boy," returned the other, "y' are his ward, I know it.  By the
same token, so am I, or so he saith; or else he hath bought my
marriage--I wot not rightly which; but it is some handle to oppress me
by."

"Boy again!" said Dick.

"Nay, then, shall I call you girl, good Richard?" asked Matcham.

"Never a girl for me," returned Dick.  "I do abjure the crew of them!"

"Ye speak boyishly," said the other.  "Ye think more of them than ye
pretend."

"Not I," said Dick, stoutly.  "They come not in my mind.  A plague of
them, say I!  Give me to hunt and to fight and to feast, and to live with
jolly foresters.  I never heard of a maid yet that was for any service,
save one only; and she, poor shrew, was burned for a witch and the
wearing of men's clothes in spite of nature."

Master Matcham crossed himself with fervour, and appeared to pray.

"What make ye?" Dick inquired.

"I pray for her spirit," answered the other, with a somewhat troubled
voice.

"For a witch's spirit?" Dick cried.  "But pray for her, an ye list; she
was the best wench in Europe, was this Joan of Arc.  Old Appleyard the
archer ran from her, he said, as if she had been Mahoun.  Nay, she was a
brave wench."

"Well, but, good Master Richard," resumed Matcham, "an ye like maids so
little, y' are no true natural man; for God made them twain by intention,
and brought true love into the world, to be man's hope and woman's
comfort."

"Faugh!" said Dick.  "Y' are a milk-sopping baby, so to harp on women.
An ye think I be no true man, get down upon the path, and whether at
fists, back-sword, or bow and arrow, I will prove my manhood on your
body."

"Nay, I am no fighter," said Matcham, eagerly.  "I mean no tittle of
offence.  I meant but pleasantry.  And if I talk of women, it is because
I heard ye were to marry."

"I to marry!" Dick exclaimed.  "Well, it is the first I hear of it.  And
with whom was I to marry?"

"One Joan Sedley," replied Matcham, colouring.  "It was Sir Daniel's
doing; he hath money to gain upon both sides; and, indeed, I have heard
the poor wench bemoaning herself pitifully of the match.  It seems she is
of your mind, or else distasted to the bridegroom."

"Well! marriage is like death, it comes to all," said Dick, with
resignation.  "And she bemoaned herself?  I pray ye now, see there how
shuttle-witted are these girls: to bemoan herself before that she had
seen me!  Do I bemoan myself?  Not I.  An I be to marry, I will marry
dry-eyed!  But if ye know her, prithee, of what favour is she? fair or
foul?  And is she shrewish or pleasant?"

"Nay, what matters it?" said Matcham.  "An y' are to marry, ye can but
marry.  What matters foul or fair?  These be but toys.  Y' are no
milksop, Master Richard; ye will wed with dry eyes, anyhow."

"It is well said," replied Shelton.  "Little I reck."

"Your lady wife is like to have a pleasant lord," said Matcham.

"She shall have the lord Heaven made her for," returned Dick.  "It trow
there be worse as well as better."

"Ah, the poor wench!" cried the other.

"And why so poor?" asked Dick.

"To wed a man of wood," replied his companion.  "O me, for a wooden
husband!"

"I think I be a man of wood, indeed," said Dick, "to trudge afoot the
while you ride my horse; but it is good wood, I trow."

"Good Dick, forgive me," cried the other.  "Nay, y' are the best heart in
England; I but laughed.  Forgive me now, sweet Dick."

"Nay, no fool words," returned Dick, a little embarrassed by his
companion's warmth.  "No harm is done.  I am not touchy, praise the
saints."

And at that moment the wind, which was blowing straight behind them as
they went, brought them the rough flourish of Sir Daniel's trumpeter.

"Hark!" said Dick, "the tucket soundeth."

"Ay," said Matcham, "they have found my flight, and now I am unhorsed!"
and he became pale as death.

"Nay, what cheer!" returned Dick.  "Y' have a long start, and we are near
the ferry.  And it is I, methinks, that am unhorsed."

"Alack, I shall be taken!" cried the fugitive.  "Dick, kind Dick, beseech
ye help me but a little!"

"Why, now, what aileth thee?" said Dick.  "Methinks I help you very
patently.  But my heart is sorry for so spiritless a fellow!  And see ye
here, John Matcham--sith John Matcham is your name--I, Richard Shelton,
tide what betideth, come what may, will see you safe in Holywood.  The
saints so do to me again if I default you.  Come, pick me up a good
heart, Sir White-face.  The way betters here; spur me the horse.  Go
faster! faster!  Nay, mind not for me; I can run like a deer."

So, with the horse trotting hard, and Dick running easily alongside, they
crossed the remainder of the fen, and came out upon the banks of the
river by the ferryman's hut.



CHAPTER III--THE FEN FERRY


The river Till was a wide, sluggish, clayey water, oozing out of fens,
and in this part of its course it strained among some score of
willow-covered, marshy islets.

It was a dingy stream; but upon this bright, spirited morning everything
was become beautiful.  The wind and the martens broke it up into
innumerable dimples; and the reflection of the sky was scattered over all
the surface in crumbs of smiling blue.

A creek ran up to meet the path, and close under the bank the ferryman's
hut lay snugly.  It was of wattle and clay, and the grass grew green upon
the roof.

Dick went to the door and opened it.  Within, upon a foul old russet
cloak, the ferryman lay stretched and shivering; a great hulk of a man,
but lean and shaken by the country fever.

"Hey, Master Shelton," he said, "be ye for the ferry?  Ill times, ill
times!  Look to yourself.  There is a fellowship abroad.  Ye were better
turn round on your two heels and try the bridge."

"Nay; time's in the saddle," answered Dick.  "Time will ride, Hugh
Ferryman.  I am hot in haste."

"A wilful man!" returned the ferryman, rising.  "An ye win safe to the
Moat House, y' have done lucky; but I say no more."  And then catching
sight of Matcham, "Who be this?" he asked, as he paused, blinking, on the
threshold of his cabin.

"It is my kinsman, Master Matcham," answered Dick.

"Give ye good day, good ferryman," said Matcham, who had dismounted, and
now came forward, leading the horse.  "Launch me your boat, I prithee; we
are sore in haste."

The gaunt ferryman continued staring.

"By the mass!" he cried at length, and laughed with open throat.

Matcham coloured to his neck and winced; and Dick, with an angry
countenance, put his hand on the lout's shoulder.

"How now, churl!" he cried.  "Fall to thy business, and leave mocking thy
betters."

Hugh Ferryman grumblingly undid his boat, and shoved it a little forth
into the deep water.  Then Dick led in the horse, and Matcham followed.

"Ye be mortal small made, master," said Hugh, with a wide grin;
"something o' the wrong model, belike.  Nay, Master Shelton, I am for
you," he added, getting to his oars.  "A cat may look at a king.  I did
but take a shot of the eye at Master Matcham."

"Sirrah, no more words," said Dick.  "Bend me your back."

They were by that time at the mouth of the creek, and the view opened up
and down the river.  Everywhere it was enclosed with islands.  Clay banks
were falling in, willows nodding, reeds waving, martens dipping and
piping.  There was no sign of man in the labyrinth of waters.

"My master," said the ferryman, keeping the boat steady with one oar, "I
have a shrew guess that John-a-Fenne is on the island.  He bears me a
black grudge to all Sir Daniel's.  How if I turned me up stream and
landed you an arrow-flight above the path?  Ye were best not meddle with
John Fenne."

"How, then? is he of this company?" asked Dick.

"Nay, mum is the word," said Hugh.  "But I would go up water, Dick.  How
if Master Matcham came by an arrow?" and he laughed again.

"Be it so, Hugh," answered Dick.

"Look ye, then," pursued Hugh.  "Sith it shall so be, unsling me your
cross-bow--so: now make it ready--good; place me a quarrel.  Ay, keep it
so, and look upon me grimly."

"What meaneth this?" asked Dick.

"Why, my master, if I steal you across, it must be under force or fear,"
replied the ferryman; "for else, if John Fenne got wind of it, he were
like to prove my most distressful neighbour."

"Do these churls ride so roughly?" Dick inquired.  "Do they command Sir
Daniel's own ferry?"

"Nay," whispered the ferryman, winking.  "Mark me!  Sir Daniel shall
down.  His time is out.  He shall down.  Mum!"  And he bent over his
oars.

They pulled a long way up the river, turned the tail of an island, and
came softly down a narrow channel next the opposite bank.  Then Hugh held
water in midstream.

"I must land you here among the willows," he said.

"Here is no path but willow swamps and quagmires," answered Dick.

"Master Shelton," replied Hugh, "I dare not take ye nearer down, for your
own sake now.  He watcheth me the ferry, lying on his bow.  All that go
by and owe Sir Daniel goodwill, he shooteth down like rabbits.  I heard
him swear it by the rood.  An I had not known you of old days--ay, and
from so high upward--I would 'a' let you go on; but for old days'
remembrance, and because ye had this toy with you that's not fit for
wounds or warfare, I did risk my two poor ears to have you over whole.
Content you; I can no more, on my salvation!"

Hugh was still speaking, lying on his oars, when there came a great shout
from among the willows on the island, and sounds followed as of a strong
man breasting roughly through the wood.

"A murrain!" cried Hugh.  "He was on the upper island all the while!"  He
pulled straight for shore.  "Threat me with your bow, good Dick; threat
me with it plain," he added.  "I have tried to save your skins, save you
mine!"

The boat ran into a tough thicket of willows with a crash.  Matcham,
pale, but steady and alert, at a sign from Dick, ran along the thwarts
and leaped ashore; Dick, taking the horse by the bridle, sought to
follow, but what with the animal's bulk, and what with the closeness of
the thicket, both stuck fast.  The horse neighed and trampled; and the
boat, which was swinging in an eddy, came on and off and pitched with
violence.

"It may not be, Hugh; here is no landing," cried Dick; but he still
struggled valiantly with the obstinate thicket and the startled animal.

A tall man appeared upon the shore of the island, a long-bow in his hand.
Dick saw him for an instant, with the corner of his eye, bending the bow
with a great effort, his face crimson with hurry.

"Who goes?" he shouted.  "Hugh, who goes?"

"'Tis Master Shelton, John," replied the ferryman.

"Stand, Dick Shelton!" bawled the man upon the island.  "Ye shall have no
hurt, upon the rood!  Stand!  Back out, Hugh Ferryman."

Dick cried a taunting answer.

"Nay, then, ye shall go afoot," returned the man; and he let drive an
arrow.

The horse, struck by the shaft, lashed out in agony and terror; the boat
capsized, and the next moment all were struggling in the eddies of the
river.

When Dick came up, he was within a yard of the bank; and before his eyes
were clear, his hand had closed on something firm and strong that
instantly began to drag him forward.  It was the riding-rod, that
Matcham, crawling forth upon an overhanging willow, had opportunely
thrust into his grasp.

"By the mass!" cried Dick, as he was helped ashore, "that makes a life I
owe you.  I swim like a cannon-ball."  And he turned instantly towards
the island.

Midway over, Hugh Ferryman was swimming with his upturned boat, while
John-a-Fenne, furious at the ill-fortune of his shot, bawled to him to
hurry.

"Come, Jack," said Shelton, "run for it!  Ere Hugh can hale his barge
across, or the pair of 'em can get it righted, we may be out of cry."

And adding example to his words, he began to run, dodging among the
willows, and in marshy places leaping from tussock to tussock.  He had no
time to look for his direction; all he could do was to turn his back upon
the river, and put all his heart to running.

Presently, however, the ground began to rise, which showed him he was
still in the right way, and soon after they came forth upon a slope of
solid turf, where elms began to mingle with the willows.

But here Matcham, who had been dragging far into the rear, threw himself
fairly down.

"Leave me, Dick!" he cried, pantingly; "I can no more."

Dick turned, and came back to where his companion lay.

"Nay, Jack, leave thee!" he cried.  "That were a knave's trick, to be
sure, when ye risked a shot and a ducking, ay, and a drowning too, to
save my life.  Drowning, in sooth; for why I did not pull you in along
with me, the saints alone can tell!"

"Nay," said Matcham, "I would 'a' saved us both, good Dick, for I can
swim."

"Can ye so?" cried Dick, with open eyes.  It was the one manly
accomplishment of which he was himself incapable.  In the order of the
things that he admired, next to having killed a man in single fight came
swimming.  "Well," he said, "here is a lesson to despise no man.  I
promised to care for you as far as Holywood, and, by the rood, Jack, y'
are more capable to care for me."

"Well, Dick, we're friends now," said Matcham.

"Nay, I never was unfriends," answered Dick.  "Y' are a brave lad in your
way, albeit something of a milksop, too.  I never met your like before
this day.  But, prithee, fetch back your breath, and let us on.  Here is
no place for chatter."

"My foot hurts shrewdly," said Matcham.

"Nay, I had forgot your foot," returned Dick.  "Well, we must go the
gentlier.  I would I knew rightly where we were.  I have clean lost the
path; yet that may be for the better, too.  An they watch the ferry, they
watch the path, belike, as well.  I would Sir Daniel were back with two
score men; he would sweep me these rascals as the wind sweeps leaves.
Come, Jack, lean ye on my shoulder, ye poor shrew.  Nay, y' are not tall
enough.  What age are ye, for a wager?--twelve?"

"Nay, I am sixteen," said Matcham.

"Y' are poorly grown to height, then," answered Dick.  "But take my hand.
We shall go softly, never fear.  I owe you a life; I am a good repayer,
Jack, of good or evil."

They began to go forward up the slope.

"We must hit the road, early or late," continued Dick; "and then for a
fresh start.  By the mass! but y' 'ave a rickety hand, Jack.  If I had a
hand like that, I would think shame.  I tell you," he went on, with a
sudden chuckle, "I swear by the mass I believe Hugh Ferryman took you for
a maid."

"Nay, never!" cried the other, colouring high.

"A' did, though, for a wager!" Dick exclaimed.  "Small blame to him.  Ye
look liker maid than man; and I tell you more--y' are a strange-looking
rogue for a boy; but for a hussy, Jack, ye would be right fair--ye would.
Ye would be well favoured for a wench."

"Well," said Matcham, "ye know right well that I am none."

"Nay, I know that; I do but jest," said Dick.  "Ye'll be a man before
your mother, Jack.  What cheer, my bully!  Ye shall strike shrewd
strokes.  Now, which, I marvel, of you or me, shall be first knighted,
Jack? for knighted I shall be, or die for 't.  'Sir Richard Shelton,
Knight': it soundeth bravely.  But 'Sir John Matcham' soundeth not
amiss."

"Prithee, Dick, stop till I drink," said the other, pausing where a
little clear spring welled out of the slope into a gravelled basin no
bigger than a pocket.  "And O, Dick, if I might come by anything to
eat!--my very heart aches with hunger."

"Why, fool, did ye not eat at Kettley?" asked Dick.

"I had made a vow--it was a sin I had been led into," stammered Matcham;
"but now, if it were but dry bread, I would eat it greedily."

"Sit ye, then, and eat," said Dick, "while that I scout a little forward
for the road."  And he took a wallet from his girdle, wherein were bread
and pieces of dry bacon, and, while Matcham fell heartily to, struck
farther forth among the trees.

A little beyond there was a dip in the ground, where a streamlet soaked
among dead leaves; and beyond that, again, the trees were better grown
and stood wider, and oak and beech began to take the place of willow and
elm.  The continued tossing and pouring of the wind among the leaves
sufficiently concealed the sounds of his footsteps on the mast; it was
for the ear what a moonless night is to the eye; but for all that Dick
went cautiously, slipping from one big trunk to another, and looking
sharply about him as he went.  Suddenly a doe passed like a shadow
through the underwood in front of him, and he paused, disgusted at the
chance.  This part of the wood had been certainly deserted, but now that
the poor deer had run, she was like a messenger he should have sent
before him to announce his coming; and instead of pushing farther, he
turned him to the nearest well-grown tree, and rapidly began to climb.

Luck had served him well.  The oak on which he had mounted was one of the
tallest in that quarter of the wood, and easily out-topped its neighbours
by a fathom and a half; and when Dick had clambered into the topmost fork
and clung there, swinging dizzily in the great wind, he saw behind him
the whole fenny plain as far as Kettley, and the Till wandering among
woody islets, and in front of him, the white line of high-road winding
through the forest.  The boat had been righted--it was even now midway on
the ferry.  Beyond that there was no sign of man, nor aught moving but
the wind.  He was about to descend, when, taking a last view, his eye lit
upon a string of moving points about the middle of the fen.  Plainly a
small troop was threading the causeway, and that at a good pace; and this
gave him some concern as he shinned vigorously down the trunk and
returned across the wood for his companion.



CHAPTER IV--A GREENWOOD COMPANY


Matcham was well rested and revived; and the two lads, winged by what
Dick had seen, hurried through the remainder of the outwood, crossed the
road in safety, and began to mount into the high ground of Tunstall
Forest.  The trees grew more and more in groves, with heathy places in
between, sandy, gorsy, and dotted with old yews.  The ground became more
and more uneven, full of pits and hillocks.  And with every step of the
ascent the wind still blew the shriller, and the trees bent before the
gusts like fishing-rods.

They had just entered one of the clearings, when Dick suddenly clapped
down upon his face among the brambles, and began to crawl slowly backward
towards the shelter of the grove.  Matcham, in great bewilderment, for he
could see no reason for this flight, still imitated his companion's
course; and it was not until they had gained the harbour of a thicket
that he turned and begged him to explain.

For all reply, Dick pointed with his finger.

At the far end of the clearing, a fir grew high above the neighbouring
wood, and planted its black shock of foliage clear against the sky.  For
about fifty feet above the ground the trunk grew straight and solid like
a column.  At that level, it split into two massive boughs; and in the
fork, like a mast-headed seaman, there stood a man in a green tabard,
spying far and wide.  The sun glistened upon his hair; with one hand he
shaded his eyes to look abroad, and he kept slowly rolling his head from
side to side, with the regularity of a machine.

The lads exchanged glances.

"Let us try to the left," said Dick.  "We had near fallen foully, Jack."

Ten minutes afterwards they struck into a beaten path.

"Here is a piece of forest that I know not," Dick remarked.  "Where goeth
me this track?"

"Let us even try," said Matcham.

A few yards further, the path came to the top of a ridge and began to go
down abruptly into a cup-shaped hollow.  At the foot, out of a thick wood
of flowering hawthorn, two or three roofless gables, blackened as if by
fire, and a single tall chimney marked the ruins of a house.

"What may this be?" whispered Matcham.

"Nay, by the mass, I know not," answered Dick.  "I am all at sea.  Let us
go warily."

With beating hearts, they descended through the hawthorns.  Here and
there, they passed signs of recent cultivation; fruit trees and pot herbs
ran wild among the thicket; a sun-dial had fallen in the grass; it seemed
they were treading what once had been a garden.  Yet a little farther and
they came forth before the ruins of the house.

It had been a pleasant mansion and a strong.  A dry ditch was dug deep
about it; but it was now choked with masonry, and bridged by a fallen
rafter.  The two farther walls still stood, the sun shining through their
empty windows; but the remainder of the building had collapsed, and now
lay in a great cairn of ruin, grimed with fire.  Already in the interior
a few plants were springing green among the chinks.

"Now I bethink me," whispered Dick, "this must be Grimstone.  It was a
hold of one Simon Malmesbury; Sir Daniel was his bane!  'Twas Bennet
Hatch that burned it, now five years agone.  In sooth, 'twas pity, for it
was a fair house."

Down in the hollow, where no wind blew, it was both warm and still; and
Matcham, laying one hand upon Dick's arm, held up a warning finger.

"Hist!" he said.

Then came a strange sound, breaking on the quiet.  It was twice repeated
ere they recognised its nature.  It was the sound of a big man clearing
his throat; and just then a hoarse, untuneful voice broke into singing.

    "Then up and spake the master, the king of the outlaws:
    'What make ye here, my merry men, among the greenwood shaws?'
    And Gamelyn made answer--he looked never adown:
    'O, they must need to walk in wood that may not walk in town!'"

The singer paused, a faint clink of iron followed, and then silence.

The two lads stood looking at each other.  Whoever he might be, their
invisible neighbour was just beyond the ruin.  And suddenly the colour
came into Matcham's face, and next moment he had crossed the fallen
rafter, and was climbing cautiously on the huge pile of lumber that
filled the interior of the roofless house.  Dick would have withheld him,
had he been in time; as it was, he was fain to follow.

Right in the corner of the ruin, two rafters had fallen crosswise, and
protected a clear space no larger than a pew in church.  Into this the
lads silently lowered themselves.  There they were perfectly concealed,
and through an arrow-loophole commanded a view upon the farther side.

Peering through this, they were struck stiff with terror at their
predicament.  To retreat was impossible; they scarce dared to breathe.
Upon the very margin of the ditch, not thirty feet from where they
crouched, an iron caldron bubbled and steamed above a glowing fire; and
close by, in an attitude of listening, as though he had caught some sound
of their clambering among the ruins, a tall, red-faced, battered-looking
man stood poised, an iron spoon in his right hand, a horn and a
formidable dagger at his belt.  Plainly this was the singer; plainly he
had been stirring the caldron, when some incautious step among the lumber
had fallen upon his ear.  A little further off, another man lay
slumbering, rolled in a brown cloak, with a butterfly hovering above his
face.  All this was in a clearing white with daisies; and at the extreme
verge, a bow, a sheaf of arrows, and part of a deer's carcase, hung upon
a flowering hawthorn.

Presently the fellow relaxed from his attitude of attention, raised the
spoon to his mouth, tasted its contents, nodded, and then fell again to
stirring and singing.

"'O, they must need to walk in wood that may not walk in town,'" he
croaked, taking up his song where he had left it.

    "O, sir, we walk not here at all an evil thing to do.
    But if we meet with the good king's deer to shoot a shaft into."

Still as he sang, he took from time to time, another spoonful of the
broth, blew upon it, and tasted it, with all the airs of an experienced
cook.  At length, apparently, he judged the mess was ready; for taking
the horn from his girdle, he blew three modulated calls.

The other fellow awoke, rolled over, brushed away the butterfly, and
looked about him.

"How now, brother?" he said.  "Dinner?"

"Ay, sot," replied the cook, "dinner it is, and a dry dinner, too, with
neither ale nor bread.  But there is little pleasure in the greenwood
now; time was when a good fellow could live here like a mitred abbot, set
aside the rain and the white frosts; he had his heart's desire both of
ale and wine.  But now are men's spirits dead; and this John Amend-All,
save us and guard us! but a stuffed booby to scare crows withal."

"Nay," returned the other, "y' are too set on meat and drinking, Lawless.
Bide ye a bit; the good time cometh."

"Look ye," returned the cook, "I have even waited for this good time sith
that I was so high.  I have been a grey friar; I have been a king's
archer; I have been a shipman, and sailed the salt seas; and I have been
in greenwood before this, forsooth! and shot the king's deer.  What
cometh of it?  Naught!  I were better to have bided in the cloister.
John Abbot availeth more than John Amend-All.  By 'r Lady! here they
come."

One after another, tall, likely fellows began to stroll into the lawn.
Each as he came produced a knife and a horn cup, helped himself from the
caldron, and sat down upon the grass to eat.  They were very variously
equipped and armed; some in rusty smocks, and with nothing but a knife
and an old bow; others in the height of forest gallantry, all in Lincoln
green, both hood and jerkin, with dainty peacock arrows in their belts, a
horn upon a baldrick, and a sword and dagger at their sides.  They came
in the silence of hunger, and scarce growled a salutation, but fell
instantly to meat.

There were, perhaps, a score of them already gathered, when a sound of
suppressed cheering arose close by among the hawthorns, and immediately
after five or six woodmen carrying a stretcher debauched upon the lawn.
A tall, lusty fellow, somewhat grizzled, and as brown as a smoked ham,
walked before them with an air of some authority, his bow at his back, a
bright boar-spear in his hand.

"Lads!" he cried, "good fellows all, and my right merry friends, y' have
sung this while on a dry whistle and lived at little ease.  But what said
I ever?  Abide Fortune constantly; she turneth, turneth swift.  And lo!
here is her little firstling--even that good creature, ale!"

There was a murmur of applause as the bearers set down the stretcher and
displayed a goodly cask.

"And now haste ye, boys," the man continued.  "There is work toward.  A
handful of archers are but now come to the ferry; murrey and blue is
their wear; they are our butts--they shall all taste arrows--no man of
them shall struggle through this wood.  For, lads, we are here some fifty
strong, each man of us most foully wronged; for some they have lost
lands, and some friends; and some they have been outlawed--all oppressed!
Who, then, hath done this evil?  Sir Daniel, by the rood!  Shall he then
profit? shall he sit snug in our houses? shall he till our fields? shall
he suck the bone he robbed us of?  I trow not.  He getteth him strength
at law; he gaineth cases; nay, there is one case he shall not gain--I
have a writ here at my belt that, please the saints, shall conquer him."

Lawless the cook was by this time already at his second horn of ale.  He
raised it, as if to pledge the speaker.

"Master Ellis," he said, "y' are for vengeance--well it becometh
you!--but your poor brother o' the greenwood, that had never lands to
lose nor friends to think upon, looketh rather, for his poor part, to the
profit of the thing.  He had liever a gold noble and a pottle of canary
wine than all the vengeances in purgatory."

"Lawless," replied the other, "to reach the Moat House, Sir Daniel must
pass the forest.  We shall make that passage dearer, pardy, than any
battle.  Then, when he hath got to earth with such ragged handful as
escapeth us--all his great friends fallen and fled away, and none to give
him aid--we shall beleaguer that old fox about, and great shall be the
fall of him.  'Tis a fat buck; he will make a dinner for us all."

"Ay," returned Lawless, "I have eaten many of these dinners beforehand;
but the cooking of them is hot work, good Master Ellis.  And meanwhile
what do we?  We make black arrows, we write rhymes, and we drink fair
cold water, that discomfortable drink."

"Y' are untrue, Will Lawless.  Ye still smell of the Grey Friars'
buttery; greed is your undoing," answered Ellis.  "We took twenty pounds
from Appleyard.  We took seven marks from the messenger last night.  A
day ago we had fifty from the merchant."

"And to-day," said one of the men, "I stopped a fat pardoner riding apace
for Holywood.  Here is his purse."

Ellis counted the contents.

"Five score shillings!" he grumbled.  "Fool, he had more in his sandal,
or stitched into his tippet.  Y' are but a child, Tom Cuckow; ye have
lost the fish."

But, for all that, Ellis pocketed the purse with nonchalance.  He stood
leaning on his boar-spear, and looked round upon the rest.  They, in
various attitudes, took greedily of the venison pottage, and liberally
washed it down with ale.  This was a good day; they were in luck; but
business pressed, and they were speedy in their eating.  The first-comers
had by this time even despatched their dinner.  Some lay down upon the
grass and fell instantly asleep, like boa-constrictors; others talked
together, or overhauled their weapons: and one, whose humour was
particularly gay, holding forth an ale-horn, began to sing:

    "Here is no law in good green shaw,
       Here is no lack of meat;
    'Tis merry and quiet, with deer for our diet,
       In summer, when all is sweet.

    Come winter again, with wind and rain--
       Come winter, with snow and sleet,
    Get home to your places, with hoods on your faces,
       And sit by the fire and eat."

All this while the two lads had listened and lain close; only Richard had
unslung his cross-bow, and held ready in one hand the windac, or
grappling-iron that he used to bend it.  Otherwise they had not dared to
stir; and this scene of forest life had gone on before their eyes like a
scene upon a theatre.  But now there came a strange interruption.  The
tall chimney which over-topped the remainder of the ruins rose right
above their hiding-place.  There came a whistle in the air, and then a
sounding smack, and the fragments of a broken arrow fell about their
ears.  Some one from the upper quarters of the wood, perhaps the very
sentinel they saw posted in the fir, had shot an arrow at the
chimney-top.

Matcham could not restrain a little cry, which he instantly stifled, and
even Dick started with surprise, and dropped the windac from his fingers.
But to the fellows on the lawn, this shaft was an expected signal.  They
were all afoot together, tightening their belts, testing their
bow-strings, loosening sword and dagger in the sheath.  Ellis held up his
hand; his face had suddenly assumed a look of savage energy; the white of
his eyes shone in his sun-brown face.

"Lads," he said, "ye know your places.  Let not one man's soul escape
you.  Appleyard was a whet before a meal; but now we go to table.  I have
three men whom I will bitterly avenge--Harry Shelton, Simon Malmesbury,
and"--striking his broad bosom--"and Ellis Duckworth, by the mass!"

Another man came, red with hurry, through the thorns.

"'Tis not Sir Daniel!" he panted.  "They are but seven.  Is the arrow
gone?"

"It struck but now," replied Ellis.

"A murrain!" cried the messenger.  "Methought I heard it whistle.  And I
go dinnerless!"

In the space of a minute, some running, some walking sharply, according
as their stations were nearer or farther away, the men of the Black Arrow
had all disappeared from the neighbourhood of the ruined house; and the
caldron, and the fire, which was now burning low, and the dead deer's
carcase on the hawthorn, remained alone to testify they had been there.



CHAPTER V--"BLOODY AS THE HUNTER"


The lads lay quiet till the last footstep had melted on the wind.  Then
they arose, and with many an ache, for they were weary with constraint,
clambered through the ruins, and recrossed the ditch upon the rafter.
Matcham had picked up the windac and went first, Dick following stiffly,
with his cross-bow on his arm.

"And now," said Matcham, "forth to Holywood."

"To Holywood!" cried Dick, "when good fellows stand shot?  Not I!  I
would see you hanged first, Jack!"

"Ye would leave me, would ye?" Matcham asked.

"Ay, by my sooth!" returned Dick.  "An I be not in time to warn these
lads, I will go die with them.  What! would ye have me leave my own men
that I have lived among.  I trow not!  Give me my windac."

But there was nothing further from Matcham's mind.

"Dick," he said, "ye sware before the saints that ye would see me safe to
Holywood.  Would ye be forsworn?  Would you desert me--a perjurer?"

"Nay, I sware for the best," returned Dick.  "I meant it too; but now!
But look ye, Jack, turn again with me.  Let me but warn these men, and,
if needs must, stand shot with them; then shall all be clear, and I will
on again to Holywood and purge mine oath."

"Ye but deride me," answered Matcham.  "These men ye go to succour are
the I same that hunt me to my ruin."

Dick scratched his head.

"I cannot help it, Jack," he said.  "Here is no remedy.  What would ye?
Ye run no great peril, man; and these are in the way of death.  Death!"
he added.  "Think of it!  What a murrain do ye keep me here for?  Give me
the windac.  Saint George! shall they all die?"

"Richard Shelton," said Matcham, looking him squarely in the face, "would
ye, then, join party with Sir Daniel?  Have ye not ears?  Heard ye not
this Ellis, what he said? or have ye no heart for your own kindly blood
and the father that men slew?  'Harry Shelton,' he said; and Sir Harry
Shelton was your father, as the sun shines in heaven."

"What would ye?" Dick cried again.  "Would ye have me credit thieves?"

"Nay, I have heard it before now," returned Matcham.  "The fame goeth
currently, it was Sir Daniel slew him.  He slew him under oath; in his
own house he shed the innocent blood.  Heaven wearies for the avenging
on't; and you--the man's son--ye go about to comfort and defend the
murderer!"

"Jack," cried the lad "I know not.  It may be; what know I?  But, see
here: This man hath bred me up and fostered me, and his men I have hunted
with and played among; and to leave them in the hour of peril--O, man, if
I did that, I were stark dead to honour!  Nay, Jack, ye would not ask it;
ye would not wish me to be base."

"But your father, Dick?" said Matcham, somewhat wavering.  "Your father?
and your oath to me?  Ye took the saints to witness."

"My father?" cried Shelton.  "Nay, he would have me go!  If Sir Daniel
slew him, when the hour comes this hand shall slay Sir Daniel; but
neither him nor his will I desert in peril.  And for mine oath, good
Jack, ye shall absolve me of it here.  For the lives' sake of many men
that hurt you not, and for mine honour, ye shall set me free."

"I, Dick?  Never!" returned Matcham.  "An ye leave me, y' are forsworn,
and so I shall declare it."

"My blood heats," said Dick.  "Give me the windac!  Give it me!"

"I'll not," said Matcham.  "I'll save you in your teeth."

"Not?" cried Dick.  "I'll make you!"

"Try it," said the other.

They stood, looking in each other's eyes, each ready for a spring.  Then
Dick leaped; and though Matcham turned instantly and fled, in two bounds
he was over-taken, the windac was twisted from his grasp, he was thrown
roughly to the ground, and Dick stood across him, flushed and menacing,
with doubled fist.  Matcham lay where he had fallen, with his face in the
grass, not thinking of resistance.

Dick bent his bow.

"I'll teach you!" he cried, fiercely.  "Oath or no oath, ye may go hang
for me!"

And he turned and began to run.  Matcham was on his feet at once, and
began running after him.

"What d'ye want?" cried Dick, stopping.  "What make ye after me?  Stand
off!"

"Will follow an I please," said Matcham.  "This wood is free to me."

"Stand back, by 'r Lady!" returned Dick, raising his bow.

"Ah, y' are a brave boy!" retorted Matcham.  "Shoot!"

Dick lowered his weapon in some confusion.

"See here," he said.  "Y' have done me ill enough.  Go, then.  Go your
way in fair wise; or, whether I will or not, I must even drive you to
it."

"Well," said Matcham, doggedly, "y' are the stronger.  Do your worst.  I
shall not leave to follow thee, Dick, unless thou makest me," he added.

Dick was almost beside himself.  It went against his heart to beat a
creature so defenceless; and, for the life of him, he knew no other way
to rid himself of this unwelcome and, as he began to think, perhaps
untrue companion.

"Y' are mad, I think," he cried.  "Fool-fellow, I am hasting to your
foes; as fast as foot can carry me, go I thither."

"I care not, Dick," replied the lad.  "If y' are bound to die, Dick, I'll
die too.  I would liever go with you to prison than to go free without
you."

"Well," returned the other, "I may stand no longer prating.  Follow me,
if ye must; but if ye play me false, it shall but little advance you,
mark ye that.  Shalt have a quarrel in thine inwards, boy."

So saying, Dick took once more to his heels, keeping in the margin of the
thicket and looking briskly about him as he went.  At a good pace he
rattled out of the dell, and came again into the more open quarters of
the wood.  To the left a little eminence appeared, spotted with golden
gorse, and crowned with a black tuft of firs.

"I shall see from there," he thought, and struck for it across a heathy
clearing.

He had gone but a few yards, when Matcham touched him on the arm, and
pointed.  To the eastward of the summit there was a dip, and, as it were,
a valley passing to the other side; the heath was not yet out; all the
ground was rusty, like an unscoured buckler, and dotted sparingly with
yews; and there, one following another, Dick saw half a score green
jerkins mounting the ascent, and marching at their head, conspicuous by
his boar-spear, Ellis Duckworth in person.  One after another gained the
top, showed for a moment against the sky, and then dipped upon the
further side, until the last was gone.

Dick looked at Matcham with a kindlier eye.

"So y' are to be true to me, Jack?" he asked.  "I thought ye were of the
other party."

Matcham began to sob.

"What cheer!" cried Dick.  "Now the saints behold us! would ye snivel for
a word?"

"Ye hurt me," sobbed Matcham.  "Ye hurt me when ye threw me down.  Y' are
a coward to abuse your strength."

"Nay, that is fool's talk," said Dick, roughly.  "Y' had no title to my
windac, Master John.  I would 'a' done right to have well basted you.  If
ye go with me, ye must obey me; and so, come."

Matcham had half a thought to stay behind; but, seeing that Dick
continued to scour full-tilt towards the eminence and not so much as
looked across his shoulder, he soon thought better of that, and began to
run in turn.  But the ground was very difficult and steep; Dick had
already a long start, and had, at any rate, the lighter heels, and he had
long since come to the summit, crawled forward through the firs, and
ensconced himself in a thick tuft of gorse, before Matcham, panting like
a deer, rejoined him, and lay down in silence by his side.

Below, in the bottom of a considerable valley, the short cut from
Tunstall hamlet wound downwards to the ferry.  It was well beaten, and
the eye followed it easily from point to point.  Here it was bordered by
open glades; there the forest closed upon it; every hundred yards it ran
beside an ambush.  Far down the path, the sun shone on seven steel
salets, and from time to time, as the trees opened, Selden and his men
could be seen riding briskly, still bent upon Sir Daniel's mission.  The
wind had somewhat fallen, but still tussled merrily with the trees, and,
perhaps, had Appleyard been there, he would have drawn a warning from the
troubled conduct of the birds.

"Now, mark," Dick whispered.  "They be already well advanced into the
wood; their safety lieth rather in continuing forward.  But see ye where
this wide glade runneth down before us, and in the midst of it, these two
score trees make like an island?  There were their safety.  An they but
come sound as far as that, I will make shift to warn them.  But my heart
misgiveth me; they are but seven against so many, and they but carry
cross-bows.  The long-bow, Jack, will have the uppermost ever."

Meanwhile, Selden and his men still wound up the path, ignorant of their
danger, and momently drew nearer hand.  Once, indeed, they paused, drew
into a group, and seemed to point and listen.  But it was something from
far away across the plain that had arrested their attention--a hollow
growl of cannon that came, from time to time, upon the wind, and told of
the great battle.  It was worth a thought, to be sure; for if the voice
of the big guns were thus become audible in Tunstall Forest, the fight
must have rolled ever eastward, and the day, by consequence, gone sore
against Sir Daniel and the lords of the dark rose.

But presently the little troop began again to move forward, and came next
to a very open, heathy portion of the way, where but a single tongue of
forest ran down to join the road.  They were but just abreast of this,
when an arrow shone flying.  One of the men threw up his arms, his horse
reared, and both fell and struggled together in a mass.  Even from where
the boys lay they could hear the rumour of the men's voices crying out;
they could see the startled horses prancing, and, presently, as the troop
began to recover from their first surprise, one fellow beginning to
dismount.  A second arrow from somewhat farther off glanced in a wide
arch; a second rider bit the dust.  The man who was dismounting lost hold
upon the rein, and his horse fled galloping, and dragged him by the foot
along the road, bumping from stone to stone, and battered by the fleeing
hoofs.  The four who still kept the saddle instantly broke and scattered;
one wheeled and rode, shrieking, towards the ferry; the other three, with
loose rein and flying raiment, came galloping up the road from Tunstall.
From every clump they passed an arrow sped.  Soon a horse fell, but the
rider found his feet and continued to pursue his comrades till a second
shot despatched him.  Another man fell; then another horse; out of the
whole troop there was but one fellow left, and he on foot; only, in
different directions, the noise of the galloping of three riderless
horses was dying fast into the distance.

All this time not one of the assailants had for a moment shown himself.
Here and there along the path, horse or man rolled, undespatched, in his
agony; but no merciful enemy broke cover to put them from their pain.

The solitary survivor stood bewildered in the road beside his fallen
charger.  He had come the length of that broad glade, with the island of
timber, pointed out by Dick.  He was not, perhaps, five hundred yards
from where the boys lay hidden; and they could see him plainly, looking
to and fro in deadly expectation.  But nothing came; and the man began to
pluck up his courage, and suddenly unslung and bent his bow.  At the same
time, by something in his action, Dick recognised Selden.

At this offer of resistance, from all about him in the covert of the
woods there went up the sound of laughter.  A score of men, at least, for
this was the very thickest of the ambush, joined in this cruel and
untimely mirth.  Then an arrow glanced over Selden's shoulder; and he
leaped and ran a little back.  Another dart struck quivering at his heel.
He made for the cover.  A third shaft leaped out right in his face, and
fell short in front of him.  And then the laughter was repeated loudly,
rising and reechoing from different thickets.

It was plain that his assailants were but baiting him, as men, in those
days, baited the poor bull, or as the cat still trifles with the mouse.
The skirmish was well over; farther down the road, a fellow in green was
already calmly gathering the arrows; and now, in the evil pleasure of
their hearts, they gave themselves the spectacle of their poor
fellow-sinner in his torture.

Selden began to understand; he uttered a roar of anger, shouldered his
cross-bow, and sent a quarrel at a venture into the wood.  Chance
favoured him, for a slight cry responded.  Then, throwing down his
weapon, Selden began to run before him up the glade, and almost in a
straight line for Dick and Matcham.

The companions of the Black Arrow now began to shoot in earnest.  But
they were properly served; their chance had past; most of them had now to
shoot against the sun; and Selden, as he ran, bounded from side to side
to baffle and deceive their aim.  Best of all, by turning up the glade he
had defeated their preparations; there were no marksmen posted higher up
than the one whom he had just killed or wounded; and the confusion of the
foresters' counsels soon became apparent.  A whistle sounded thrice, and
then again twice.  It was repeated from another quarter.  The woods on
either side became full of the sound of people bursting through the
underwood; and a bewildered deer ran out into the open, stood for a
second on three feet, with nose in air, and then plunged again into the
thicket.

Selden still ran, bounding; ever and again an arrow followed him, but
still would miss.  It began to appear as if he might escape.  Dick had
his bow armed, ready to support him; even Matcham, forgetful of his
interest, took sides at heart for the poor fugitive; and both lads glowed
and trembled in the ardour of their hearts.

He was within fifty yards of them, when an arrow struck him and he fell.
He was up again, indeed, upon the instant; but now he ran staggering,
and, like a blind man, turned aside from his direction.

Dick leaped to his feet and waved to him.

"Here!" he cried.  "This way! here is help!  Nay, run, fellow--run!"

But just then a second arrow struck Selden in the shoulder, between the
plates of his brigandine, and, piercing through his jack, brought him,
like a stone, to earth.

"O, the poor heart!" cried Matcham, with clasped hands.

And Dick stood petrified upon the hill, a mark for archery.

Ten to one he had speedily been shot--for the foresters were furious with
themselves, and taken unawares by Dick's appearance in the rear of their
position--but instantly, out of a quarter of the wood surprisingly near
to the two lads, a stentorian voice arose, the voice of Ellis Duckworth.

"Hold!" it roared.  "Shoot not!  Take him alive!  It is young
Shelton--Harry's son."

And immediately after a shrill whistle sounded several times, and was
again taken up and repeated farther off.  The whistle, it appeared, was
John Amend-All's battle trumpet, by which he published his directions.

"Ah, foul fortune!" cried Dick.  "We are undone.  Swiftly, Jack, come
swiftly!"

And the pair turned and ran back through the open pine clump that covered
the summit of the hill.



CHAPTER VI--TO THE DAY'S END


It was, indeed, high time for them to run.  On every side the company of
the Black Arrow was making for the hill.  Some, being better runners, or
having open ground to run upon, had far outstripped the others, and were
already close upon the goal; some, following valleys, had spread out to
right and left, and outflanked the lads on either side.

Dick plunged into the nearest cover.  It was a tall grove of oaks, firm
under foot and clear of underbrush, and as it lay down hill, they made
good speed.  There followed next a piece of open, which Dick avoided,
holding to his left.  Two minutes after, and the same obstacle arising,
the lads followed the same course.  Thus it followed that, while the
lads, bending continually to the left, drew nearer and nearer to the high
road and the river which they had crossed an hour or two before, the
great bulk of their pursuers were leaning to the other hand, and running
towards Tunstall.

The lads paused to breathe.  There was no sound of pursuit.  Dick put his
ear to the ground, and still there was nothing; but the wind, to be sure,
still made a turmoil in the trees, and it was hard to make certain.

"On again," said Dick; and, tired as they were, and Matcham limping with
his injured foot, they pulled themselves together, and once more pelted
down the hill.

Three minutes later, they were breasting through a low thicket of
evergreen.  High overhead, the tall trees made a continuous roof of
foliage.  It was a pillared grove, as high as a cathedral, and except for
the hollies among which the lads were struggling, open and smoothly
swarded.

On the other side, pushing through the last fringe of evergreen, they
blundered forth again into the open twilight of the grove.